He shook his head vigorously. “No. Because by the time they realize we’re on to them, maybe half an hour from now, we’ll already have turned around and driven back past the Mercedes.” The boy was bouncing up and down in his seat with excitement now. “So if they try to make a third trip in time to go back to the beginning of this road and trap us there, they can’t do it, because we’ll already have driven back that way and out, we’ll already be safe. Paradox! See, they got to play by the rules, Mom. They’re not magical. They got to play by the rules, and they can be beat!”
In thirty-three years she had never had a headache that had gone from a mild throb to a pounding skull-splitter as quickly as this one. The more she tried to puzzle out the difficulties of avoiding a pack of time-traveling hitmen, the deeper rooted the pain became. Finally she said, ”] give up. J guess 1 should’ve been watching Star Trek and reading Robert Heinlein all these years instead of being a serious adult, because I’m just not able to cope with this. So I’ll tell you what: I’m going to rely on you to outsmart them. You’ll have to try to keep one step ahead of them. They want us dead. So how can they try to kill us without creating one of these paradoxes? Where will they show up next . . . and next? Right now, we’re going to go back the way we came, past the Mercedes, and if you’re right, no one will be waiting there for us. So where will they show up after that? Will we see them again tonight? Think about those things, and when you have any ideas, let me know what they are.”
“I will, Mom.” He slumped down in his seat, grinning broadly for a moment, then chewing on his lip as he settled deeper into the game.
Except it was not a game, of course. Their lives were really at stake. They had to elude killers with nearly superhuman abilities, and they were pinning their hopes of survival on nothing more than the richness of an eight-year-old boy’s imagination.
Laura started the Jeep, put it in reverse, and backed up a couple of hundred yards until she found a place in the road wide enough to turn around. Then they headed back the way they had come, toward the Mercedes in the ditch, toward Big Bear.
She was beyond terror. Their situation contained such a large element of the unknown—and unknowable—that terror could not be sustained. Terror was not like happiness or depression; it was an acute condition that by its very nature had to be of a short term. Terror wilted fast. Or it escalated until you passed out or until you died of it, frightened to death; you screamed until a blood vessel burst in your brain. She wasn’t screaming, and in spite of her headache she didn’t think any vessels were going to burst. She settled into a low-key, chronic fear, hardly more than anxiety.
What a day this had been. What a year. What a life.
Exotic news.
They passed the stranded Mercedes and drove all the way to the north end of the ridge road without encountering men with submachine guns. At the intersection with the lakeside highway, Laura stopped and looked at Chris. “Well?”
“As long as we’re driving around,” he said, “and as long as we go to a place where we’ve never been and don’t usually go, we’re pretty safe. They can’t find us if they don’t have any idea where we might be. Just like your regular-type scumbags.”
Scumbags? she thought. What is this—H. G. Wells meets Hill Street Blues’?
He said, “See, now that we’ve given them the slip, these guys are going to go back to the future and look over the records they’ve got about you, Mom, your history, and they’re going to see where you show up next—like when you want to go five in the house again. Or if you hid out for a year and wrote another book and then went on a tour for it, they’d show up at a store where you’re signing books because, see, there’d be a record of that in the future; they’d know you could be found in that store at a certain time on a certain day.”