current state, the girl’s first name escaped him.
“Josie’d think I was prankin’ on her,” Robbie said. “A story like that, any girl’d think I was prankin’ on her.” He was still studying the Kindle’s screen. “Want to know something? The woman who caused the accident—who will cause it—hardly gets hurt at all. I’ll bet you next semester’s tuition she was just as drunk as a goddam skunk.”
Wesley hardly heard this. “Tell Josie that Ellen has to take my call. Have her say it’s not about us. Tell her to say it’s an emer—”
“Dude,” Robbie said. “Slow down and listen. Are you listening?”
Wesley nodded, but what he heard most clearly was his own pounding heart.
“Point one, Josie would still think I was prankin’ on her. Point two, she might think we both were. Point three, I don’t think she’d go to Coach Silverman anyway, given the mood that Coach has been in latelycand she gets even worse on game trips, Josie says.” Robbie sighed. “You have to understand about Josie. She’s sweet, she’s smart, she’s sexy as hell, but she’s also a timid little mousie. It’s sort of what I like about her.”
“That probably says heaps of good things about your character, Robbie, but you’ll pardon me if right now I don’t give a tomcat’s ass. You’ve told me what won’t work; do you have any idea what might?”
“That’s point four. With a little luck, we won’t have to tell anybody about this. Which is good, since they wouldn’t believe it.”
“Elucidate.”
“First, we need to use another one of your Echo downloads.” Robbie punched in November 25 th , 2009. Another girl, a cheerleader who had been horribly burned in the explosion, had died, raising the death-toll to eleven. Although the Echo didn’t come right out and say so, more were likely to die before the week was out.
Robbie only gave this story a quick scan. What he was looking for was a boxed story on the lower half of page one:
CANDACE RYMER CHARGED WITH MULTIPLE
COUNTS OF VEHICULAR HOMICIDE
There was a gray square in the middle of the story—her picture, Wesley assumed, only the pink Kindle didn’t seem able to reprint news photographs. But it didn’t matter, because now he got it. It wasn’t the bus they had to stop; it was the woman who was going to hit the bus.
She was point four.
VI—Candy Rymer
At five o’clock on a gray Sunday afternoon—as the Lady Meerkats were cutting down basketball nets in a not-too-distant part of the state—Wesley Smith and Robbie Henderson were sitting in Wesley’s modest Chevy Malibu, watching the door of a roadhouse in Eddyville, twenty miles north of Cadiz. The parking lot was oiled dirt and mostly empty. There was almost certainly a TV inside The Broken Windmill, but Wesley guessed discriminating tipplers would rather do their drinking and NFL-watching at home. You didn’t have to go inside the joint to know it was a hole. Candy Rymer’s first stop had been bad, but this second one was worse.
Parked slightly crooked (and blocking what appeared to be the fire exit) was a filthy, dinged-up Ford Explorer with two bumper stickers on the back. MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT THE STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY, one read. The other was even more succinct: I BRAKE FOR JACK DANIELS.
“Maybe we oughtta do it right here,” Robbie said. “While she’s inside slopping it up and watching the Titans.”
It was a tempting idea, but Wesley shook his head. “We’ll wait. She’s got one more stop to make. Hopson, remember?”
“That’s miles from here.”
“Right,” Wesley said. “But we’ve got time to kill, and we’re going to kill it.”
“Why?”
“Because what we’re up to is changing the future. Or trying to, at least. We have no idea how tough that is. Waiting as long as possible improves our chances.”
“Wesley, that is one drunk chick. She was drunk when she got out of that first juke-joint in Central City, and
“Josie’d think I was prankin’ on her,” Robbie said. “A story like that, any girl’d think I was prankin’ on her.” He was still studying the Kindle’s screen. “Want to know something? The woman who caused the accident—who will cause it—hardly gets hurt at all. I’ll bet you next semester’s tuition she was just as drunk as a goddam skunk.”
Wesley hardly heard this. “Tell Josie that Ellen has to take my call. Have her say it’s not about us. Tell her to say it’s an emer—”
“Dude,” Robbie said. “Slow down and listen. Are you listening?”
Wesley nodded, but what he heard most clearly was his own pounding heart.
“Point one, Josie would still think I was prankin’ on her. Point two, she might think we both were. Point three, I don’t think she’d go to Coach Silverman anyway, given the mood that Coach has been in latelycand she gets even worse on game trips, Josie says.” Robbie sighed. “You have to understand about Josie. She’s sweet, she’s smart, she’s sexy as hell, but she’s also a timid little mousie. It’s sort of what I like about her.”
“That probably says heaps of good things about your character, Robbie, but you’ll pardon me if right now I don’t give a tomcat’s ass. You’ve told me what won’t work; do you have any idea what might?”
“That’s point four. With a little luck, we won’t have to tell anybody about this. Which is good, since they wouldn’t believe it.”
“Elucidate.”
“First, we need to use another one of your Echo downloads.” Robbie punched in November 25 th , 2009. Another girl, a cheerleader who had been horribly burned in the explosion, had died, raising the death-toll to eleven. Although the Echo didn’t come right out and say so, more were likely to die before the week was out.
Robbie only gave this story a quick scan. What he was looking for was a boxed story on the lower half of page one:
CANDACE RYMER CHARGED WITH MULTIPLE
COUNTS OF VEHICULAR HOMICIDE
There was a gray square in the middle of the story—her picture, Wesley assumed, only the pink Kindle didn’t seem able to reprint news photographs. But it didn’t matter, because now he got it. It wasn’t the bus they had to stop; it was the woman who was going to hit the bus.
She was point four.
VI—Candy Rymer
At five o’clock on a gray Sunday afternoon—as the Lady Meerkats were cutting down basketball nets in a not-too-distant part of the state—Wesley Smith and Robbie Henderson were sitting in Wesley’s modest Chevy Malibu, watching the door of a roadhouse in Eddyville, twenty miles north of Cadiz. The parking lot was oiled dirt and mostly empty. There was almost certainly a TV inside The Broken Windmill, but Wesley guessed discriminating tipplers would rather do their drinking and NFL-watching at home. You didn’t have to go inside the joint to know it was a hole. Candy Rymer’s first stop had been bad, but this second one was worse.
Parked slightly crooked (and blocking what appeared to be the fire exit) was a filthy, dinged-up Ford Explorer with two bumper stickers on the back. MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT THE STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY, one read. The other was even more succinct: I BRAKE FOR JACK DANIELS.
“Maybe we oughtta do it right here,” Robbie said. “While she’s inside slopping it up and watching the Titans.”
It was a tempting idea, but Wesley shook his head. “We’ll wait. She’s got one more stop to make. Hopson, remember?”
“That’s miles from here.”
“Right,” Wesley said. “But we’ve got time to kill, and we’re going to kill it.”
“Why?”
“Because what we’re up to is changing the future. Or trying to, at least. We have no idea how tough that is. Waiting as long as possible improves our chances.”
“Wesley, that is one drunk chick. She was drunk when she got out of that first juke-joint in Central City, and
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