Then came a high-pitched twanging. Out of the corner of her eye, Hazel caught McCullen and Miss Sanchez exchanging a confused glance.
“My violin,” she whispered. She would know its sound anywhere. It made a painful twooong, as the person who held it plucked hard on the lowest string, making it vibrate too hard. Oh, that was too much. To steal her ship was despicable but understandable. It was valuable, rare and beautiful to boot. But to mistreat a musical instrument was monstrous. She fought the urge to leap on board, snatch the violin from its abuser and smash in his face. She wouldn’t do it with the violin, as that would damage it. But her fist or foot might work well.
Neil must have noticed her distress, for he touched her arm. “He’s trying to goad you,” he whispered.
But why do that? There was no purpose in it aside from sheer spite. Did Mr. March hate Neil so much that he would torment his friends just for the fun of it? Or was he jealous of Neil’s affection for her? Perhaps he wanted to anger her, and maybe the others. An angry enemy made mistakes.
The gangplank was down, and it rubbed rhythmically against the dock as the ship rose and fell with the waves. The sound of the violin being plucked came from the prow of the ship, but as the tide was high, they couldn’t see on board.
The Professor whispered something to Miss Sanchez and then he put his mouth to Hazel’s ear. “Stay behind us and run if anything happens. It’s clearly a trap, but it’s our only chance at finding him. We won’t get another.”
Hazel couldn’t agree more. The whole situation stank of a setup. But before anyone could form and discuss any plan, Santiago rushed down the dock, leapt up the gangplank, silent and graceful. He hopped on deck, gun drawn and fired off a shot. Hazel couldn’t see if it hit its mark.
Before she could recover from the surprise, Neil was already up the gangplank with McCullen and the Professor following. Hazel came up behind them while Miss Sanchez waited on the dock, rightly concerned with being in the center of any gunfire. Hazel crouched at the top of the gangplank and scanned the empty ship, but the only living thing was Mr. March and two monkeys. March sat on the deck leaning back against the prow holding the violin by the neck, his pink-lidded eyes closed. He opened them lazily and twisted one of the tuning pins far too hard, and though the violin made no sound, she could feel the strain on the string. She jumped on board.
The Professor, to his credit, did not hesitate, but raised his gun and shot at Mr. March. An instant later, the Professor gasped and touched his ear, which dripped fresh blood. A tiny piece had been shot out of the edge of it.
“Don’t,” said Neil, holding up a hand. “He must have made a small warren to take in the bullet and then redirect it toward you. That was a warning. Since the warren was so small, he can most likely make more.”
“Very good, Neil,” said Mr. March.
Tiny warrens that could make pathways for bullets? Hazel had never considered the idea before. It meant that weapons were useless against the man.
And then, two thoughts came together and she understood something that had not made sense before. The McCullen engines, the machines that were based upon the Professor’s stolen peroxide engine designs, were able to produce far more energy than they should have. According to McCullen, Mr. March had assisted him in creating them. The engines required a catalyst to operate, and the Professor had used silver. But McCullen had added a second catalyst, matter from another universe. Specifically, air from another world coming through tiny pinpricks between worlds. Mr. March must have provided the technology to do it. Or the magic. Hazel was not sure where the difference between the two lay, but the Professor had never fully understood the use of the tiny vial of bluish liquid inside each McCullen engine.
Mr. March plunked another violin string and looked at Neil. “Are you here to come back to work with me or not?” He stood up and set the violin down on the deck carelessly, causing it to make a painful bonging sound.
“I won’t,” said Neil. “I’d rather die.”
“Such sacrifice. But I would not kill you, not unless I truly had no choice. And right now, I do still have a choice. Neil, pick up this monkey.” He pointed to one of the two monkeys beside him.
To Hazel’s astonishment, Neil picked him up.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, but held the monkey, one of the younger ones whose name was Jemmo. Hazel remembered that Jemmo liked mangoes and dancing, and that he liked sleeping curled up in a group with others. The little monkey looked uncertainly from Mr. March to Neil and back again, but because he knew and trusted Neil, he did not try to escape.
“Miss Dubois,” said Mr. March. “I understand that you are quite attached to your crew. If I order it, Neil will kill this animal.”
“Are you mad? Of course he won’t.”
“Yes, I will,” said Neil. He was still and relaxed. He didn’t look troubled or unhappy, just … nothing. Almost blank. It chilled Hazel’s blood, for this was Neil, but altered. Neil didn’t look at her when he spoke again. “If he says it, I’ll kill Jemmo.”
Hazel held her hand up to stop Santiago, the Professor or McCullen, if any of them were thinking of stepping in. Something was terribly wrong, and she wouldn’t allow one of her crew to die for the sake of an impetuous mistake.
“Good boy,” said Mr. March. “Now, tell me if you will come back to me.”
“I won’t. I won’t kill any more innocents.”
“And that is where you are wrong. Because you have one right there, do you not? And you will kill him if I say it.”
“Neil? What is going on?” Hazel said, but he did not look at her.
“We’re talking right now, Miss Dubois,” said Mr. March. “But on second thought, you may be able to assist me in making my wayward child understand the error of his ways. You see, Neil, you care for Miss Dubois. And yet, with one bullet, I can remove her from your life.”
“Oh, don’t you dare touch a hair on her head,” said the Professor.
“Neil, silence Mr. Doyle.”
Neil walked over to the Professor, transferred the monkey to the other arm and before the Professor could react, punched him hard in the mouth. Neil stepped back and the Professor touched his fingers to his mouth. When he pulled them away, Hazel saw the blood.
“Oh, is that it, Mr. Grey?” said the Professor, aiming his gun at Neil’s chest. “Have you been working with Mr. March all this time? Is that it?”
“No, Professor!” said Hazel. “It’s not his fault! March is doing something to him.”
“You see, Neil?” said Mr. March. “You can obey me willingly, and we can be father and son. Or you can refuse, and we’ll do things by the old-fashioned rules. So be a good boy, and you won’t have to do the same to your lady friend here. Or worse.”
“How are you doing this to him?” Hazel cried. “What is he?”
“He is mine, that’s what he is. He belongs to me.”
“One person can’t own another,” she said. “Each man is his own.”
“That’s very sweet, Miss Dubois. Very admirable to believe that all men are equal, especially in this country at this time. But I have seen the eugenics experiments and the duplicate hoards of the centuries to come, when men are truly equal. And there are new and horrific ways people find to divide themselves and kill each other. Men are indeed unequal, and it is best they remain that way. Listen, Miss Dubois, I recommend you do nothing, or I will order Neil to kill Jemmo and then do the same to you.” Then he turned toward the prow of the ship. “Now, Mr. Escobar!”
A rush of monkeys swarmed up from below decks. They circled Santiago’s ankles, and he immediately pointed the gun at one of them, then another and another.
“No!” screamed Hazel. “No! Don’t hurt them!”
To her relief, Santiago seemed to be reconsi
dering it. The monkeys did not touch him, but circled in tight, looking up at him with their somber little faces. Their nostrils twitched, and they spoke to each other in a language not Spanish or English, but their own native tongue. They were agitated, she knew that much, and under the circumstances, she didn’t fault them.
Other monkeys circled McCullen, the Professor and herself. Miss Sanchez had remained on the dock, which was for the best. Hazel wondered if she was still there, or if she had fled. The monkeys pressed forward until each of the humans were ringed with five or six monkeys, each group easily capable of pulling them to the ground and holding them there.
“Stop,” Hazel said to the monkeys. “I order you to back away.”
A few of them looked at her, with flickering, ashamed glances, and then looked to Mr. March. More monkeys emerged, until the entire crew stood on deck. Mr. Escobar waited to one side, and he did not look away from Hazel when she tried to catch his eye. Instead, he placed his hand on his chest, over his heart and lowered his head for a moment. Hazel understood him. He was bound to the ship, at least for the duration of his contract, and had to obey the captain.
“Take their weapons,” said Mr. March, and the monkeys leapt, quick and strong, tearing their guns from their holsters. Hazel allowed them to do it, not wanting to hurt any of them. They did not take Neil’s weapon, but if he was under Mr. March’s control, there was no need.
“Don’t you hurt them,” she yelled to McCullen, who looked like he was ready to start kicking at the little creatures. “Or you either,” she called to the Professor.
Santiago folded his arms and let the monkeys take his weapon. The Professor and McCullen tried to pry the monkeys off, but though they managed to toss a few away, they jumped right back at them. There were too many of them and they were strong. Eventually, the monkeys managed to snatch their guns away also. The monkeys collected the weapons and placed them in a pile beside Mr. March.
“Now restrain them,” said Mr. March. At that, McCullen and the Professor did fight, but when Mr. March rose lazily, pulled the pistol from Neil’s holster and pointed it at Hazel’s head, the Professor and McCullen went still. Hazel never would have thought that McCullen cared enough for her to do so. Santiago looked like he was doing some sort of internal math as he looked from Hazel to Mr. March, but he eventually quit struggling and allowed the monkeys to take him to the mast, where he crossed his arms and leaned back. He looked utterly comfortable and at ease. Perhaps he was trying to deny Mr. March the pleasure of intimidating him. She wished she could do the same, but she knew there was no disguising her fear.
Other monkeys came with rope and tied their wrists together. Each crew member was an expert sailor and they tied knots so well and so tightly that Hazel knew none of them could ever get free of them. Mr. Escobar himself tied Hazel’s hands, and when he was finished, she felt him pat her arm gently. McCullen and the Professor had their wrists tied behind them, while Santiago was tied to the mast. Hazel wondered why he was singled out for such restraint.
Once everyone was secured, Mr. March slipped the gun back into Neil’s holster. He sighed, picked up the violin and looked it up and down. “I have no idea how to play this thing,” he said. “But seeing as it’s mine now—”
“It’s not yours. It’s mine,” said Hazel.
“It was on the ship, and now I own it, along with the crew and that lovely machine in the trunk below deck. All mine.”
“Saying something doesn’t make it so,” she said. Mrs. Washington had said that so many times as Hazel was growing up. Hazel almost told Mr. March that he didn’t own the crew, but then stopped herself. Let him think it. They were bound to obey him by duty, but not by ownership. Her only advantage in all this was their affection and potential loyalty to her.
“I can’t say I’m happy to see you again, Coyote,” Mr. March said to Santiago. “It’s fascinating that you are assisting my siblings. I must admit I am a little surprised that you are here to kill me. The penalty would be steep.”
“I’ve searched for you for many years.”
“Ah yes, the Coyote hunting the Hare. But in half the stories, you know, the Hare wins.”
Santiago grinned, but it was a grin full of malice and hunger, as if he wanted to tear Mr. March’s throat out.
“And Mr. Doyle,” said Mr. March. “You are like a magpie, always wanting to play with shiny things. And the time machine must have been the shiniest thing of all. You just had to play with it, didn’t you? Speaking of which,” he turned to McCullen, “where is Felicia Sanchez?”
“Not here,” said McCullen.
Mr. March cocked his head to one side. “Now how is that going to work?”
“I kept my end up. Now it’s your turn.” McCullen pulled his hands from behind his back. No rope hung from his wrists or lay on the ground. How could that be? Hazel gasped. The monkeys had never tied him up.
The look Hazel saw the Professor give his former friend would have frightened her if she wasn’t already scared out of her wits. It was a look of pure hatred, but Hazel knew him well enough to see pain and betrayal there too. He must have hoped that his old friend had changed. Or at the least, robbed of his former power and wealth, that he could behave in a way resembling that of a decent man. Perhaps men like McCullen didn’t change. Perhaps they couldn’t.
If he hadn’t been tied up, she knew the Professor would have been on McCullen in an instant. Both she and the Professor knew that McCullen was a snake, and though they had never trusted him completely, they had been fooled into thinking he had been defanged. They had believed that he hated Mr. March, and perhaps he did. But since when did McCullen’s feelings toward a person interfere with him using them to get when he wanted? They had been played for fools.
Santiago laughed. It was a hearty, happy sound, and Hazel looked at him in shock. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, even if he was tied to a mast. He noticed her disapproving look.
“What? It was so well done. You must admit that it was exceptionally well done.”
“Yes, Santiago,” said Mr. March. “You of all people would enjoy a good double cross.” He turned back to McCullen. “Here it is, per our agreement,” he said and handed him a slip of paper from his jacket pocket.
McCullen unfolded it, read it, then tore it to pieces and tossed them over the starboard side of the ship, the side farthest from the dock. Hazel watched as the scraps floated down like confetti onto the water, rested there and then began to sink. McCullen looked back at Mr. March, and the two of them regarded one another. Out of the corner of her eye, Hazel saw Mr. Escobar climb up the dragon’s neck and speak into her ear. The dragon’s wooden head remained immobile, and Mr. Escobar swung from her lower jaw, landed lightly on the gunwale and dropped to the deck where he took up his former position near Hazel’s feet.
“It is finished,” said Mr. March. “What you do with the information is your concern.”
The paper must have contained coordinates to another time or world, most likely McCullen’s own. Perhaps having missed the synchronicity, McCullen had made a bargain with Mr. March to deliver the Professor and the machine to him in exchange for the coordinates. But that made no sense. Why had McCullen waited at all? He should have left when the earthquake synchronicity occurred.
Then the answer came to her: Miss Sanchez. McCullen had always been obsessed with her, wanting to spend time with her years ago in New Orleans, making her Mardi Gras queen, even taking her along in his monstrous machine to destroy the city of New Orleans. And now, after acting like a decent man for months, he had waited for her in Los Angeles. Hazel had known that the Professor loved Miss Sanchez, but McCullen had been more reserved about showing his feelings. Or perhaps they weren’t truly feelings, but maybe a desire to possess and control, to take what was the Professor’s, or might have been his, and make it his own.
The Profe
ssor glared at McCullen. “Don’t you even dare speak to her, you animal.”
“Now Seamus, I have never, ever asked Miss Sanchez to do what she did not want to do.” He called out over the port side of the ship, “Have I, Miss Sanchez?”
He looked out over the port side, and Mr. March did the same. Hazel couldn’t see anything from her vantage point, but Miss Sanchez must not have been there, because Mr. March said, “You brought me Mr. Doyle, but didn’t bring your own prize?”
The Professor moved over to the side of the ship, and the monkeys allowed it, perhaps as curious as he was. Hazel felt small hands touch hers, and then a piece of rope was pushed into her palm. A moment later, Mr. Escobar was beside her, just where he had been before. She felt along the rope and then began working at it as best she could while Mr. Escobar looked dutifully at Mr. March.
“I’ll find her,” said McCullen. “But first, I’ll be taking the machine that you have.”
“I thought you already possessed a machine,” said Mr. March.
“I do. But the one down there is a later model.”
Mr. March considered. Hazel wondered why he would allow McCullen to have a machine if he would not allow the Professor to have one. Perhaps McCullen could not create any more machines, while the Professor could. After all, the Professor had made a machine that could travel through time within his own world. McCullen had only contributed a stronger power system. It made her proud that her Professor surpassed the wicked McCullen in his abilities.
“So long as Mr. Doyle doesn’t have one,” said Mr. March. “And that won’t be a worry in a few minutes.”
Mr. March was going to kill the Professor. Hazel worked hard at the rope, wiggling it and trying to push the untied end through to loosen it. The rope was prickly and hard and her skin was raw from the friction, but she kept at it. McCullen headed to the stern of the ship, pulling a small book from his inner jacket pocket. It was the book of coordinates that had come with the machine with Miss Sanchez from 1961. He now had a newer machine and all the information contained within the book’s pages. He went below deck and Hazel saw the flare of light from the dark hole as he lit a lantern.
The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series) Page 54