And then—

Bad dreams.

There were ways of gauging how long he had—of measuring the remaining days, weeks, months. He had become an expert at predicting the storm surge.

Daniel folded up his cardboard sign and waved across the intersection at Florinda. “I’m done for the day,” he called.

“Why quit now?” Florinda asked. “Lunch crowd from the U.”

“You want it?” Daniel’s spot was prime—left side of the off-ramp, driver’s-side windows.

“Not if you’re just going to bust my chops when you get back.”

“I’ll be gone the rest of the day. Back tomorrow morning. Don’t give it up to some other bastard for a smoke.”

“I’ll hold it,” Florinda said, with a surprisingly sound grin. She still had all her teeth. Daniel missed having good teeth.

He wrapped his sign in a plastic garbage bag and hid it in the bushes, then walked up Forty-fifth, passing Asian restaurants, video stores, gaming parlors—he paused before a used bookstore, but it sold only best-selling paperbacks—hung a left on Stone Way, passing apartments, a fancy grocery store…more apartments, condos, plumbing fixtures, hardware.

He descended the long, gentle slope to Lake Union.

Daniel had begun his search three days ago by taking a bus to the downtown library—not the old library he was familiar with but a huge, shiny metal rhomboid—scary. Differences were at once frightening and reassuring. He had come such a long way—that was a good thing. It was also a sad thing. He had left so much behind.

The downtown library did not carry the book he was looking for, and none were available through interlibrary loan.

Despite an excessive amount of wear and tear, with less liquor and better food Charles Granger’s body had regained some strength. It took Daniel less than thirty-five minutes—joints aching, heart pounding, hands trembling—to reach Seattle Book Center.

A block and a half from the Ship Canal, on the east side of the broad street, three bookstores shared a single-story brown and gray building. In Daniel’s previous world, there had also been bookstores here—a confluence he didn’t give much thought to, considering the greater changes he had witnessed. He paced beside the storefront, darting glances through the half-silvered windows. Art books stood in uneven ranks, spines facing inward, anonymous when viewed from the street. He set the glass door’s bell a-jingle. The owner was instantly on alert—street person walking—but not alarmed. Seeing someone like Daniel—as he now appeared—had to be a common occurrence across the freeway from the university, where so many homeless youngsters and street people hung out…Down and out.

Common folk.

Daniel swallowed, sized up the owner: a stocky man in his late fifties, of medium height, with a slight stoop, long hair, and experienced, quiet eyes—calm, slightly bored, self-assured. “Can I help you?”

Daniel worked to keep his voice from shaking. Like everything else subject to corruption, libraries and bookstores scared him—but that wasn’t what gave him the shakes. He had only recently weaned this body off its daily medicine, a liter of Night Train and sixty-four fluid ounces of Colt 45.

“I’m looking for a book on cryptids,” he said. “Unusual animals, long thought extinct, or never known to exist. New species. Monsters. I have a title in mind…”

“Shoot,” the owner said with a wary smile.

Daniel blinked. He wasn’t used to being received with familiarity, on such short notice. He studied the owner—too perceptive. Scouts, collectors, could be anywhere.

Or, the owner was simply responding to a customer who knew about books. The community of book people was used to eccentrics.

“Signs,” Daniel continued, trying to subdue a twitch in his left eye. “Portentous signs hidden in strange animals. Lost in time or place.”

“A title would help—that’s not a title, I take it?”

“I don’t know what the title will be…here. The author is always Bandle, David Bandle.”

“B-A-N-D-L-E?”

“Correct.” Daniel’s throat bobbed. His forehead was damp from the strain of this extended interaction. The owner did not seem fazed. “I remember a book on cryptozoology by someone with a name like that… Travels in Search of Hidden Beasts, I think,” the owner said.

“Could be,” Daniel said.

“Don’t have it. I can do a search online.”

“That would be kind. Most recent edition. How much…would it cost? I’m not wealthy.” This body was not used to smiling—bad teeth, worse breath. He succeeded in drawing parenthetical creases around his lips.

“Oh, thirty bucks. Good reading copy. It’s not very old, is it?”

“Perhaps not. I wouldn’t know,” Daniel said.

“Down payment of ten dollars. The rest when I get the book in. Probably take a week or two. Address?”

Daniel shook his head. “I’ll come back.” He removed two smudged fives from his pocket and placed them in neat parallel on the counter. There goes dinner.

The owner smoothed out the money and wrote up a receipt. “I always liked those sorts of books,” he said. “Adventure in faraway places, hunting down creatures that time forgot. Wonderful stories.”

“Wonderful,” Daniel agreed, and pocketed the receipt.

“We have a good collection of deep-sea books, just in. Beebe, Piccard, that sort of thing.”

“No, thank you.” Daniel backed out of the store with a half bow and a short wave of his right hand. Very good, he assured his new body. A good beginning.

He had come to trust Bandle. Bandle’s report on cryptids had given him essential clues years ago, in another strand, another lifetime. Bandle cataloged sightings of animals that could not exist—sea serpents, half-human beasts, earwigs bigger than rats. Any of those could be indicators. Variations, permutations—warnings—all collected into one authoritative text.

But as he walked along, Daniel suspected he would not be coming back. Something about the way the owner had examined him. It was probably dangerous at this late date to even inquire after Bandle. Ten bucks—wasted.

Daniel stood on a steel-edged curb, blinking at the bright clouds and the low autumn sun. Such a lovely world.

You are what you leave behind.

His grandfather had once said, visiting him in prison, Where are you going, young man? Is there anything you will not do to get there? Eventually, you leave so much behind, you show up before God and you’re as empty as your damned puzzle box—you’re so empty it’s not even you anymore, and heaven doesn’t matter.

Daniel began to cry.

FOURTEEN ZEROS

CHAPTER 23

The Tiers

The passage had been made for someone smaller than either Jebrassy or Tiadba. Once, green circles spaced every few yards must have provided illumination, but they no longer gave even the feeblest light. Crouched over, then down on hands and knees, they crawled in darkness through the dank tunnel, nothing visible ahead and only a shrinking spot of dimness behind. After a longer time than Jebrassy cared to think about, they still had not reached the vertical shaft. Tiadba said, “Don’t you hate the way time changes? One day, it’s short—the next day, it’s long. Makes me feel like we’ve been crawling since we were born. Even here. You’d think at the Diurns—”

“How long was it for you, the last time?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a small chuff. “Wait. I think it’s just ahead.” She shuffled forward quickly, and then he could see an outline of her legs and feet as she stood. “Come on. The steps begin here.”

The light was weak—dropping from far above, he guessed. “This takes us up to the—what did you call it?”

“The Valeria,” she said. “I don’t know where any of the names come from. They don’t sound like breed speech, do they? The steps are tiny. It’s best to curl up and crawl around—wrap your arms and legs around the center of the spiral. Then…just hump and slither.”