Vincent nodded. “I would say that’s probably a true statement.”
They were quiet once again, sitting in the silence listening to the sounds of the night. Wilson thought Vincent had gone to sleep in his chair but when he looked over at him he saw that Vincent’s eyes were open. In the night light, he could make out the glint of cold anger in Vincent’s eyes. Wilson wondered how Vincent would react if he told Vincent he knew who had murdered his wife.
He was about to start a conversation on the beautiful late fall nights in Washington, D.C. when Vincent looked at him and told him, “Good night, I’m going to bed. Thanks for the coffee.”
Wilson wished Vincent good night as well and sat on the front porch long after Vincent had gone to bed.
Four hours later, Vincent heard an argument from downstairs though the door to his room. Curious, he quietly rose and opened the door and walked downstairs. In the foyer was a man talking with Wilson whom Vincent had not seen before but something about the man was familiar. The men were in heated conversation.
The stranger noticed Vincent over Wilson’s shoulder. “What’s he doing here?” he exclaimed.
Wilson turned and saw Vincent.
Vincent watched Wilson’s face wrestle with a thought for a moment and then saw his face gave way to an expression of resolution. Wilson looked back at the stranger and then to Vincent once again. “Vincent, I’d like to introduce you to Jack. He’s the man who murdered your wife.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Washington, D.C. – November 1921
Vincent thought Wilson was joking. The joke wasn’t funny.
Vincent was still on the stairs coming down but his sudden rage brought him to the bottom and in front of Wilson without self-recollection of doing so. “Who the hell do think you are?” Vincent snarled in Wilson’s face. He was not spitting yet but the spit would soon come. He was angry and he wanted Wilson to know it. He didn’t care about Wilson’s other guest or how he would perceive his anger. He was furious with Wilson for pretending to care and then exposing his pain. “You invite me into your home and pretend to be a friend. And once in front of an audience, you turn on me and make a mockery of my wife’s death.”
“Vincent, you don’t understand.” Wilson raised his hands in a sign of peace.
Vincent knocked Wilson’s hands away. “I could very well choke the cynicism from your body but I won’t. I’ll take what little bit of life I have left and I’ll leave you to yours.”
Vincent wasn’t sure he could stop himself. He wanted to wrap his hands around Wilson’s neck and squeeze. He struggled to keep his hands at his side. Finally, he managed to turn to go back upstairs but as he was turning, he caught Wilson’s eyes. Wilson should have shown fear or remorse but his eyes only showed compassion – and truth.
Vincent paused.
He thought for a moment and made the decision to trust his instinct. Wilson was telling the truth. “You’re telling me this man killed my wife?” Vincent asked.
Wilson nodded.
“If that’s true, why is he here at your house? And how do you know him?”
Wilson looked at Vincent seriously. “He’s here for the same reason you are.”
Vincent looked at Jack. Jack’s eyes did show both fear and remorse. “What reason is that?” he asked Wilson.
“You’re here because you are lost.”
“And you know the way? Or perhaps your friend here does.”
“I’ll explain later,” Wilson answered. “But first we need to deal with what is before us.”
Vincent narrowed his eyes and looked at Jack. “You mean him.” It was a statement not a question.
“Yes, I mean him,” Wilson replied. “What do you intend to do with him now that you know the truth?”
Vincent thought about this briefly. And then before anyone could react, Vincent broke off the thoughts and struck Jack in the chin with an uppercut. Jack’s head snapped back and without hesitation Vincent grabbed Jack’s head with both hands and threw him backwards to the floor.
Wilson made no attempt to interfere.
Neither did Jack. His instinct was still there; he had killed countless people and knew how to turn a situation into his advantage – but he chose not to at that moment. He knew he deserved anything that might happen to him.
Vincent began driving his fists into Jack’s face. On the fifth strike, he noticed that Jack was not defending himself. The lack of fight in Jack caused Vincent to hesitate and his rage lessened slightly. “Why don’t you fight back you coward?” Vincent yelled into Jack’s face. “You were so powerful when you slaughtered my wife but you won’t raise a fist against me.” The word slaughtered ignited his memory and his rage flared back up.
Vincent grabbed Jack’s head in a position that would allow him to snap Jack’s neck. He knew how and he would do it. But at that moment, something happened. Vincent wanted to twist his arms but found he couldn’t move them. He struggled against what seemed impossible but found that even with the extra effort he could not move.
“What’s going on?” Vincent yelled out in rage. He turned that rage on Jack and tried again to move his hands forward but they would not move. He finally let go.
“It’s the causality paradox,” Wilson said calmly.
“What are you talking about?” Vincent snarled. The hatred in his eyes reached out to Jack.
“The causality paradox,” Wilson said again. “It’s how time travel protects itself.”
Vincent wrenched his gaze from Jack and looked at Wilson. “What are you talking about? How can something that is not actually something protect itself?”
“I can’t explain it. I can only tell you it exists,” Wilson answered.
“What is it?”
“It is the
