MirrorWorld

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you cared for her.”


Part of me wants to linger, to mourn for Winters’s death. She did mean a lot to me. But there is still a chance that I can save Maya, and when all of this is done, kick Lyons’s teeth in. His war might be justified, but this kind of violent paranoia is uncalled for. There will be a reckoning for Winters’s death. “Do you know her CIA contact?”

My aunt nods. “He’s a good man. She’s already been in touch with him. Understands the situation and our part in stopping it. Help me up.” I lift her by her good arm. Ignoring the still-bleeding wound in her shoulder, she digs into her pocket and takes out her phone. She snaps a photo of Winters and the men who killed her. I nearly ask why, but then realize Winters’s contact is going to want confirmation that she’s dead.

When she looks up at me, I must look a little shell-shocked. She pockets the phone and puts her hand on my face. “There is more strength in you than you know, Josef. You just need to remember.”

Her eyes drift downward. She reaches out and takes hold of the chain beneath my shirt. She tugs it, and the strange melted pendant that is my security blanket falls out. She lifts the rough, circular, color-swirled mystery up so I can see it. “Remember.”

I’m about to tell her that’s not how it works, that the memories come back randomly, but then, with quick breath, I realize that I already remember this. It came in a cluster of information, hidden until now, freed and brought to the forefront of my thoughts.

*

Something’s burning, I think, and stand from my home-office chair. The chemical scent in the air is subtle, but so out of place in my home that I react immediately. There are several things in this world that produce similar odors, none of them good, and I wonder for a moment if one of the CIA’s enemies has figured out who I am. Recovering and unlocking the handgun hidden in my desk drawer, I hurry through the house, following the scent toward the kitchen.

I pause at the open doorway, no danger in sight, but with Simon home I’m not going to take any chances. Right now it’s just the two of us. Maya is out shopping. Moving slowly, I lean into the room and quickly spot my target—a panicking six-year-old boy who has melted two action figures on the stove top. A cookie sheet covered with chicken nuggets and french fries lays next to the mess.

I tuck the gun behind my back and hurry into the room. Simon turns toward me, eyes wide and overflowing with tears. He’s waving his hands at the rising toxic smoke. “I was trying to make lunch for us! I turned on the wrong one!”

The action figures are now a puddle of colorful swirling plastic sitting atop the smooth-topped stove.

“I’m sorry,” he says, now blubbering and snotty. His abject despair breaks my heart.

I quickly turn off the burner. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.” It’s really not okay, but I’m pretty sure he’s learned that on his own.

“I melted my guys,” he says, revealing the true source of his sadness.

I kiss his forehead and stand up. It’s an ungodly mess. And nothing I do now is going to change that. I get two knives from a drawer and return to the cooling stove top. Using, and ruining, the two blades, I carve the liquid, still-fuming plastic into two gooey mounds. Then I form them into thick, colorful masses. I open two windows, letting the cross-breeze clean the air, and we spend the next ten minutes it takes for the burner and plastic to cool in silence. When everything is cool to the touch, I wedge a metal spatula beneath the two circles of plastic and chip them off.

Simon is no longer sad. He’s curious. I lead him down to the basement, set up two spots at the workbench, and take out some tools. After drilling holes in both plastic circles, I set to work with a wood burner, melting words into the back of both chunks. The air fills, once again, with the stench of melting plastic, but the work doesn’t take long. When I’m done, I turn them around so Simon can see my handiwork.

“What do they say?” he asks.

“It says, ‘evidence,’” I tell him, and then slide old neck chains through each. I put the first over his head and the second over mine. “This way we’ll never forget what happened … and your mom will never know.”

That gets a smile out of him.

And me.

Until I return from the memory, lift the plastic pendant, and turn it around. The word is still there. “Evidence.” So neither of us will ever forget. I nearly start crying, in part because of the sweet memory, but also because I chose to forget it. It’s unforgivable. Then I hear footsteps. Rushing. Whispered commands. More soldiers moving down the hallway, no doubt rushing to inspect their dead.

I recover the Vector assault rifle I’d failed to remember before.