by Linda Howard
At last the numbers showed that five minutes had elapsed. She buckled her seat belt, looked over the dials and controls one more time, then carefully put the gear in the “drive” position and pressed the pedal that fed gasoline to the engine. The car moved smoothly forward.
She didn’t let herself hurry. She didn’t see any other traffic, either motorized or pedestrian, in the parking lot. There were a surprising number of vehicles parked there, but then nights were always busy in the law enforcement fields.
She reached the parking lot entrance, and turned left. All the way to the store she checked her rearview mirrors for any cars that might be following her, but there was literally no one behind her for the entire three blocks.
As soon as she turned in to the convenience store parking lot, she saw Knox in her rental car. He gave one brief nod, then pulled back out into the street, and she sedately followed him.
Pekesville wasn’t a large town, but it sprawled in the valleys between a jumble of mountains, seeking all the geographical cuts and crevices like water in a lake. It was a long, narrow town, with only two main roads and a warren of secondary streets running in all directions from and across them. That meant there was a traffic light at every corner, slowing their progress, so that it took them fifteen minutes to go about four miles. At last they were outside the city limits, though, and traffic thinned considerably. Streetlights faded behind them, and only their headlights illuminated the road.
Nikita fiercely concentrated on her driving, keeping a steady speed, not getting so close to Knox as to be unsafe, not letting him get so far ahead she might lose sight of him. That was how she had conducted her entire life: safely, staying within certain boundaries, finding expression in other things such as her work, where she not only was allowed to risk her life but in special circumstances was even expected to do so.
Not that she wanted to risk her life, she thought in muted agony. She simply wanted to be free to make mistakes, to maybe yell in public, to lose her temper without people wondering if some glitch had made her uncontrollable. She wanted to do silly things that had no reason other than she simply felt like doing them. She didn’t want to live in fear of what might happen if she made someone uncomfortable.
Maybe being destroyed was better than the way she’d lived her entire life. Maybe the rebellious ones had the right idea, that it was better to live a short, real life than a long one in a prison of her own making.
By the time Knox turned off the highway onto a secondary road, she felt as if she could barely breathe, as if the air were too thick to pull into her lungs. She was drowning, had been drowning all her life, and only now had she realized it.
Are you a robot?
Why, yes, evidently I am. Thank you for pointing that out.
Knox’s taillights loomed in her vision and she slammed on the brakes, shaking. He had let his speed drop, but she hadn’t been paying attention, and she had almost collided with the back of the rental car. Damn him, why had he said that? And why did he have to be so observant and curious about everything?
He put on his brakes, slowing even more, then turned left onto a long driveway that curved up a small hill, where a one-story house sat among some tall shade trees. Several lights were on inside. Knox didn’t stop at the house, but she heard him give one tap on his horn as they went past. Behind the house was a fence, and to one side was a barn. Knox drove directly into the barn. Nikita stopped and put the gear in “park,” her headlights shining inside the barn.
An older man approached from her right—Knox’s father, from the looks of him. They both shared that tall, broad-shouldered, slightly lanky build; even their heads were shaped the same. He turned on a light inside the barn, a single bulb that dangled from a rafter. Together he and Knox pulled a large tarp over the rental car so that even its tires were covered; then he turned out the light and they closed the double doors to the barn. Knox’s father pulled a chain through the handles and secured the chain with a padlock.
Mr. Davis glanced at her, and though she knew he couldn’t see her with the headlights shining at him the way they were, she felt his curiosity. Impulse seized her and she turned off the engine, then fumbled until she found the switch that turned off the headlights. Getting out of the car, careful not to stumble in the darkness, she walked up to the two men.
She didn’t need to see his face to know Knox wasn’t happy about his father meeting her, but sometime in the past half hour she’d stopped giving a damn about whether or not Knox was happy.
“Well, hello,” Mr. Davis said. “I thought one of the deputies was driving Knox’s car.”
“You were supposed to stay in the car,” Knox said, his tone cool.
“You told me to stay in the car,” Nikita corrected just as coolly. “You called me a robot because I wouldn’t have sex with you, so why would I do what you tell me?”
Knox made a choked sound, one echoed by his father. She couldn’t believe what had come out of her mouth in front of his father, but she just didn’t care. Nothing and no one had ever hurt her as much as Knox Davis had, and he hadn’t even been trying. It wasn’t even his fault; he couldn’t have known that his choice of words would slam her into a wall of reality and leave her battered. She turned to Mr. Davis and held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Nikita Stover.”
His father took her hand. “Kelvin Davis. Pleased to meet you.” He sounded distracted, a tone that instantly vanished when he turned to his son. “Knox!”
“I didn’t— I mean, I did ask you if you were a robot,” Knox said to her, “but it wasn’t—”
“Why would you say something like that?” his father demanded.
“It was a bunch of other things,” he finished raggedly.
“Oh, yes, I remember now. I don’t get angry, I don’t laugh, and I don’t get turned on. Two out of three is really good, I suppose, but guess which one you’re wrong about!”
Mr. Davis shoved his hand through his hair, uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He obviously wished he weren’t in the middle of this. “Uh—are you two dating, or something?”
“No,” Nikita said.
“Then how would he—?” The older man faltered to a halt.
Borne along on the flood tide of despairing rage, Nikita finished the sentence for him. “How would he know whether or not I get turned on?”
“Nikita, stop,” Knox said.
“Don’t tell me to stop!” She whirled to face him. “I’ve been stopped my whole life, afraid to do this, afraid to do that, afraid someone will think I’m too much trouble.” To her horror, her voice clogged and tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t cry,” she said fiercely. “I’m afraid to even cry.”
“I can see that.” His voice was gentle now. “You don’t need to cry. If you’re mad at me, hit me. Come on, double up your fist and plant your best shot on my chin.”
“Knox!” Mr. Davis protested.
“Don’t patronize me,” she said with muffled fury, her hands already curling into fists.
“If it’ll make you feel better, go ahead and hit me.”
It would, so she did. He didn’t know what he was asking for. Nikita didn’t telegraph her punch; she tightened the muscles in her arm and back the way she’d been taught and shot her arm straight out from her shoulder in a lightning fast, twisting motion. The punch landed solidly on Knox’s left jaw and he staggered back, then abruptly fell on his ass.
“Holy shit,” he said, holding his jaw.
15
“Damn,” said Kelvin Davis, staring at his son sitting on the ground. “You pack a punch, Miss Stover. Or should I say Ms.?”
She had read about the twentieth-century forms of address, preserved in business etiquette books that hadn’t been digitalized, so she knew what he was talking about. “Call me Nikita.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the heels of her palms, then said to Knox, “Are you going to get up, or just sit there all night?”
“Depends on whether or not you’re
planning on hitting me again,” he replied. “If you are, I’ll just stay down here, thank you.”
“Don’t be such a large baby,” she snapped. “You’ve been pushing me around all day and I’ve been telling you and telling you—”
“That you’ve been letting me do it, yeah, I remember. And it’s ‘big baby,’ not ‘large baby.’ ” Warily he climbed to his feet, making certain he kept out of striking distance.
“Big, large, it all means the same.” She was too upset to care if she’d made another language error. Events had unraveled; she had unraveled, to the point that it didn’t make a difference to her now.
“You should probably come in and put some ice on your jaw,” Kelvin said to Knox.
“Thanks, I will. I can just hear the guys tomorrow if I go to work with a big bruise on my face.”
Kelvin turned politely to Nikita, extending his hand toward the house. “After you.”
Nikita strode ahead of the two men, her thoughts and emotions still in turmoil. She could tell that on some level she didn’t understand, both Knox and his father thought it was funny that she’d actually hit him. The violence hadn’t relieved any of the pent-up emotion inside her; she wanted to hit him again, she wanted to cry, she wanted to scream her frustration to the skies.
The back porch light was on, and when they reached the house, she was able to tell it was a one-level redbrick home, far from new, with orderly bushes surrounding the foundation. The porch seemed to have been added on later, because it was made of wood and painted white. Kelvin opened a creaky screened door and ushered them onto the porch, then opened a wooden door that led, like in Knox’s house, into the kitchen.
“Lynnette!” he called. “Company!”
“Is it Knox?” The voice preceded the woman who hurried in from another room. She stopped when she saw Nikita, immediately looking at her husband for an introduction or explanation, whichever seemed necessary.
“This is Nikita Stover, Knox’s—uh—friend. Nikita, my wife, Lynnette.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” both Nikita and Lynnette said at the same time. Lynnette was a comfortable fifty-something, attractively plump, with short red hair. She had a kind face, and an air of competence.
“Knox needs some ice for his jaw,” said Kelvin.
“What happened?” Even as she asked, Lynnette was already going to the refrigeration unit, opening the side door and pulling out a package of something blue.
“Nikita knocked me on my ass,” replied Knox.
Lynnette took a thin kitchen towel from a drawer and wrapped it around the blue pack, then gave it to Knox, who placed it against his left jaw. “On purpose?” she asked.
“Oh yeah.” Knox pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. “I asked her to hit me.”
“You were probably expecting a girl-slap,” Lynnette said shrewdly.
“Probably,” he agreed.
“That wasn’t what you got.”
He chuckled. “I’ll know better next time. She packs a Mike Tyson wallop.”
He was laughing, Nikita thought. Laughing. Her insides were quivering and she thought she might be sick. Not because she’d hit him; he’d both asked for it and deserved it. In fact, she wanted to hit him again for laughing. Instead she stood frozen, staring out the kitchen window even though she couldn’t see a thing outside.
“Sit down,” Kelvin said to her, pulling out a chair and gently guiding her into it. “Would you like something to drink? Water? Milk? Maybe coffee?”
“Nothing, thank you,” she said.
Knox swiveled in his chair and leaned toward her, blue gaze searching her face. She didn’t know what he was looking for; some metal poking through her skin, maybe. He’d look in vain; metal hadn’t been used in robot construction in over a hundred years.
“Let me see your hand.”
He didn’t give her time to comply, already reaching for her right hand and cradling it in his as he examined it. Her knuckles were red and already swelling, and there was a tiny split on one. “Ouch,” he said. “Your hand is going to be worse than my jaw. Lynnette, do you have another ice pack?”
“No, but I can make do. I have some frozen peas.” His stepmother again retrieved a bag from the refrigeration unit, and wrapped it in a towel. “Let’s see,” she said, taking Nikita’s hand from his and carefully placing the cold pack over her knuckles, then tying the ends of the towel in a knot at her palm.
Nikita inhaled sharply at the biting cold, which seemed to intensify the throbbing in her hand. Stupid. She had been so stupid, injuring her hand when she knew she had to be in top shape for the investigation. She couldn’t let herself forget why she was here, or that the mission was far more important than her feelings.
“What’s this about?” Lynnette asked, sitting down. “I know I shouldn’t ask, but I’m curious, and you are both sitting in my kitchen holding ice packs to various parts.”
Kelvin snorted. “According to Nikita, she wouldn’t sleep with Knox and he called her a robot.”
“Slug him again,” Lynnette promptly advised Nikita.
Nikita struggled against tears again. She had to stop being so emotional; she had to control herself until she was alone, at least. “I regret my inappropriate action,” she said, her throat tight.
“If he called you a robot, the action wasn’t inappropriate. I’d say it was downright restrained.” Lynnette narrowed her gaze at Knox. “Did you?”
“In a way. Not exactly. There was another discussion going on at the time.”
“And you aren’t going to say what the other discussion was.”
“No, I’m not.” His tone was mild, but final. “And for the record, you don’t know anything about Nikita. You haven’t met her, never heard of her. She was supposed to stay in the car so you two wouldn’t see her, but that didn’t happen. She’s incognito, because her life depends on it. If you see her in the street, I’ll introduce you using a different name for her, but don’t act as if you recognize her, okay?”
Both Kelvin and Lynnette nodded. It was obvious that questions were bubbling on Lynnette’s tongue, but she held them back. Instead she brought out the age-old mother’s question: “Have y’all had supper yet? Let me warm up something real quick for you.”
“Thanks, but we’ve already eaten,” said Knox, smiling with genuine affection at her. “And we need to be going.”
“But you just got here.”
“We’re on a case together, and we still have a lot of legwork to do tonight.”
“Depends on your definition of ‘legwork,’ ” Kelvin muttered under his breath, earning an admonishing look from his wife and making Knox grin.
“The official kind,” he told his father. He stood and put the ice pack on the table. “Thanks for the first aid.”
“Take it with you,” said Lynnette. “You have an automatic transmission; you can drive with your right hand and hold the ice pack with your left. Keep it on there for fifteen minutes, then off for fifteen, then on again. Keep doing that and you might not even have a bruise. And definitely take that pack of peas with you, because her hand will be in worse shape than your jaw.”
Knox nodded and picked up the ice pack again. Going to Lynnette, he bent and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks again. You’re an acceptable stepmother.”
She grinned and patted his arm. “I guess you’re an acceptable stepson.”
Nikita stood and added her thank-yous, then followed Knox out the door. Kelvin and Lynnette stood in the doorway and watched them walk to the car; when they reached it, Kelvin turned off the porch light and closed the door.
In the sudden dark privacy, Nikita felt even more disconnected than before. She got in the passenger seat, while Knox slid behind the wheel. He tried to, anyway, banging his knees on the steering column and swearing under his breath as he moved the seat back enough to accommodate his long legs.
“That went well,” he remarked. “Now they know about you, and they think I’m a jerk.”
She wanted to say something along the lines of “The truth will come out” or “If the shoe fits,” but clichés didn’t appeal to her at the moment. She just sat silently as he started the car and reversed into the yard, making a three-point turn.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked when they reached the road and he turned the car toward town.
She paused, gathering her thoughts. “When we get to your house, I’m going to sit down and draw up another time-line chart, list everything I know about Taylor Allen’s murder—”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Oh, you want to talk about personal issues? All right. Don’t kiss me again. How’s that?”
He sighed. “Short, and to the point. I figured you’d feel that way. Look, I was just thinking about how calmly you take everything, and the technology that must exist in your time, and I thought it might be possible.” A few seconds ticked by. “Is it?”
“Whoever killed Allen is a stranger to this time. He has to be living somewhere, eating somewhere. This is a small town; he shouldn’t be difficult to find.”
For a moment she didn’t think he’d accept her change of subject, but then he said, “If he’s staying here. He could be in the next county, or the next state.”
“We won’t know unless we look.” Her tone didn’t invite further conversation, and they sat in silence for the rest of the trip.
He had just unlocked the back door to his house when his radio squawked to life. He listened to the codes, his expression going cold. “There’s been another murder,” he said briefly, pushing the door open for her. “Same drill: keep the door locked, and don’t answer the phone unless it’s my cell number. Got it?”
“Yes, of course. This is probably connected, isn’t it?”
“We don’t have many murders in Pekesville,” he said as he turned away. “What are the odds?”
16
The old former mayor, Harlan Forbes, was in his eighties and deserved a more dignified death than being choked as he sat in his battered favorite easy chair watching the game-show channel on television. His bladder and bowels had released, and his kicking feet were probably what had knocked the lamp over. Choking was a violent death, with the victim struggling for long minutes before the brain finally died. It also took a tremendous amount of strength, or the knowledge to substitute technique for the needed strength.