Looking Backward from the Tricentennial

Chapter Seventeen

That night, after recording the day's highlights in his journal, Julian dreamed of the reparations rally.

He moved through the crowd, looking for Edith. Gun-toting white men were everywhere, and he had to warn her. His search became more and more frantic until he finally saw the hand-lettered sign proclaiming Power concedes nothing without a demand. But however he approached her, she refused to look at him. He called her name, but she turned her back to him.

The gunmen were getting closer, moving in like moths to a flame. He pleaded with Edith to come with him, only to be rebuffed. Finally, Julian sank to his knees on the grass, beating his hands against his head in frustration and begging her to listen.

Another figure marched through the crowd, old and thin, with hands held high. It was Reverend Shaver, and he gave Julian a deliberate wink. Behind him, driving him forward with the barrel of an AR-15, was the red-bearded gunman. He looked down on Julian with angry blue eyes.

Then Edith was kneeling with him. As young and beautiful as when he'd first seen her, she leaned forward to kiss him. The quick brushing of the lips hinted at more, and all thought of escaping the crowd flew from his mind. When she pulled back, her hands clutched the sides of his head as she stared intently into his eyes. "Is he robbing him?" Edith asked.

Julian leaned in to kiss her again, reaching out to hold her. They moaned as the kiss became more passionate, and he opened his mouth to hers. A warm fluid began to flow past his teeth, and he realized with horror that it was blood. He tried to pull away, but Edith held his head tightly, pressing her lips tightly to his. The thick, warm liquid filled his mouth, spilling down his throat as he struggled to breathe. He was choking, gagging, as Edith kissed him harder.

Gasping, Julian sat straight up in bed. His heart raced as he swallowed air greedily, but there was no impediment, and he fell back against the pillow with the dream already fading. He smacked his lips together and unconsciously repeated Edith's question to himself, the words slurring together as he slipped back down into sleep.

In the morning, he remembered none of it except the piercing blue eyes, prodding his memory from within. Julian lay in bed, letting his brain examine the idea. Where had he seen blue eyes like that recently?

His mind produced a terrible suggestion. It was like ice; freezing him in place, stopping his breath. The stalker, the old white man who'd approached him after Idabee's hearing, muttering about unfinished business, must have been a young white man in 2026. Had he been one of the gunmen from the reparations rally?

A search on his tablet revealed that two of the attackers had survived. Before long, he uncovered their mug shots. The red-bearded ringleader, Connor Sullivan, stared up from the screen, blue eyes boiling with hate, glowering at the camera with a look of annoyance that Julian thought he recognized as the same one the old man had given him in the virtual meeting room. Without conscious thought, his hand crept to his side, tracing the hard knots of scar tissue.

Within a few minutes, he found a more recent picture showing the killer clean-shaven, and then Julian knew with certainty.

Connor Sullivan was stalking him.