by Al Macy
“Heist? No. They are investigating a robbery of a Ms. Marla Davis’s hotel room. While she was performing at the Fillmore West.”
La naiba! And how did Samuel always know so much? I squinted and cocked my head. “You’re not a normal human being, are you, Samuel?”
“Go now, Viviana. Leave Andrei here with me. The mob knows about him. We are going to disappear. I will take care of him as if he were my own son.”
As if commanded—almost like a zombie—I gave Andrei a goodbye hug. Tears tickled my eyes. I hugged Samuel, kissed him on the cheek, and left.
* * *
Samuel was right. The police were close on my heels. I hadn’t appreciated how close. I’d figured they wanted more evidence before pulling the trigger. I was wrong.
Of course, the mob was also after me. They’d want revenge, and Bolton or Gregor had probably told others that I had the Portensia diamond. I didn’t have it any longer, but there was no way for them to know that. I’d mailed it back to Ms. Gautier’s condo in Saint-Tropez. Part of my kleptomania recovery program.
True to his word, Samuel and Andrei had disappeared. I went by his office, but it wasn’t there. Instead, the space held a well-established nail salon, with Since 1975 on the window. Strange.
I was alone. No Zaharia. No Samuel. No Andrei. I would jump ahead in time. Meet up with Uncle Zaza.
One Thursday evening, I got that familiar feeling of being watched. I’d learned to trust it. It hit when I was driving to a high-rise, about to evaluate how easy it would be to climb—just out of curiosity, of course. I changed course and went instead to Zaharia’s lab. I had no sooner entered the door, when bright lights lit all the windows.
A standard request—command—reverberated into the house. “This is the police. You’re surrounded. Come out with your hands up.” Not very original, but it gave me the kick I needed. I’d been putting it off. Even death in the time machine tube was preferable to a long stretch in a women’s prison. So …
Showtime.
I ran into the lab, which was as warm as ever. I’d helped Zaza send countless animals off to their future selves, so I knew what I was doing. Pretty much. I’d written down the ten steps needed. Everything went perfectly except step four. I could not get the voltage on the field regulator to stabilize between 300 and 400 volts. La naiba! Zaharia had been clear. If that voltage went too high—or too low—the whole lab could—would—go up in flames.
The police repeated their warning. It was more insistent than ever.
Fuck it. No choice. I hurried through steps three, two, and one. A klaxon alarm sounded with Zaharia’s recorded voice overlaid: “Abort! Abort!”
“Cannot abort!” I yelled.
The countdown timer showed ten seconds remaining. I rushed over to the long, narrow tube and squeezed myself in feetfirst. I waddled my butt and pulled with my heels to get my whole body in. Any parts outside the tube would be left behind. Nu e bine. Not good.
My arms were stretched above my head, as if doing a back dive. Once my feet hit the end I’d be okay. The tube was long enough. I twisted my head to see the countdown timer. Three seconds. My feet hit the end. Two. I took a deep breath. One. I tightened every muscle in my body.
Oh, Doamne! Oh, God.
For a split second, the roar of a sports crowd filled my ears. An intense pain radiated from my pinky finger.
Then everything went black.
THE FIRST SENTENCE OF YESTERDAY’S THIEF
The naked woman materialized behind the umpire during the first game of the playoffs.
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Also by Al Macy
Becoming a Great Sight-Reader—or Not! Learn from my Quest for Piano Sight-Reading Nirvana
Drive, Ride, Repeat: The Mostly True Account of a Cross-Country Car and Bicycle Adventure
Contact Us: A Jake Corby Sci-Fi Thriller
The Antiterrorist: A Jake Corby Sci-Fi Thriller
The Universe Next Door: A Jake Corby Sci-Fi Thriller
Yesterday’s Thief: An Eric Beckman Paranormal Sci-Fi Thriller
Sanity’s Thief: An Eric Beckman Paranormal Thriller
Democracy’s Thief: An Eric Beckman Paranormal Thriller
A Mind Reader’s Christmas: An Eric Beckman Mystery
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It takes a virtual village to write a book.
Special thanks to Mylius Fox, author of Bandit, for correcting the Romanian phrases, and Netty and Steve Lord for help with the Chinese.
I had a great beta-reader crew, as usual. Thanks to my wonderful wife, Lena, who is always the first reader for my books. Thanks as well to Manie Kilian, Gail Summerville, Walter Scott, Bernard Spilsbury, Teri Miller, Linda Collins, Maryann Witters, Linda Johnson, and others.
My proofreader, Julie MacKenzie from FreeRangeEditorial.com always does a consistently wonderful job. She’s a pleasure to work with. It would be more of a pleasure if she didn’t find so many errors!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Al Macy writes because he has stories to tell. In school, he was the class clown and always the first to volunteer for show and tell. His teachers would say, “Al has a lot of imagination.” Then they'd roll their eyes.
But he put his storytelling on the back burner until he retired and wrote a blog about his efforts to improve his piano sight-reading. That's when his love of storytelling burbled up to the surface, along with quirky words like “burble.”
He had even more fun writing his second book, Drive, Ride, Repeat, but was bummed by nonfiction's need to stick to “the truth” (yucko). From then on it was fiction all the way, with a good dose of his science background burbling to the surface.
Macy's top priority is compelling storylines with satisfying plot twists, but he never neglects character development. No, wait … his top priority is quirkiness, then compelling storylines, then character development. No, wait …