The Curiosity Killers

by K W Taylor

  “I don’t know why,” Violet admitted. She smiled and smoothed the napkin on her lap. “Why do you like this place, Dad? The service is terrible.”

  “Where’d you go, anyhow?”

  “A spa,” she replied, but her eyes seemed to lose focus and her voice came out robotic, almost an echo. “A spa in Maine. In the woods. There was a hiking path. I had a nutritional profile done.”

  “Yeah?” Michael studied her. “You think I should do that?” He patted his ample waistline. “Been thinking I should shed a few pounds. I don’t seem to be getting as many dates as I used to.”

  Violet brightened. “That’s because I came along.” She giggled. “The kind of guys you said you used to date before you adopted me probably weren’t into instant parenthood.”

  Yeah, the guy I used to date is who dropped you off on my doorstep. What was that old song about irony?

  “I’ve been wondering something, Pop.” Violet swept her long blond hair around to cover one shoulder and then twisted it into a coil, a nervous habit she’d been doing ever since childhood.

  “Yeah?” Michael took a sip of his water. The waiter dropped off an endive salad in front of Violet and a plate of sausage and potatoes in front of Michael. “See, told you I could use that nutritional—”

  “I want to find my birth parents,” Violet interrupted. She closed her eyes and sat back, exhaling. “Hoo, boy, I thought I was going to die waiting to say those words.” She fanned herself with one hand. “Okay, we survived it. It’s out there and nobody exploded.”

  “Nobody’s gonna explode, baby, but…what brought this on?” Michael gripped his knife so hard he felt his fingernails dig into his palm.

  Violet tugged at her hair again. “I don’t know. I got back from my vacation feeling kind of like…there were things…I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she repeated.

  She’s not acting right.

  He relaxed his grip on his knife and let go of it, reaching across the table for her hand. “Do you feel okay?”

  Violet let go of her hair and gave Michael’s hand a squeeze. “I’m okay, Poppy. It’s my job, you know, digging for information. But I’ve just never dug into the most personal information of all, and I guess now it’s time.” She let go of Michael and picked up her fork. “But I want your blessing. If you don’t want me to, I won’t. You know you’re my dad. You’ll always be my dad. You’re the only parent I’ve ever known, and that won’t change. But it’s important to me. I want to know…more roots, you know?”

  Oh, you don’t know the half of it.

  “I don’t know that you’ll find much,” Michael said.

  Ambrose. I’ll find Ambrose and see if it’s safe to tell her or not.

  “Why not?” She stopped her fork in midair. “You always told me you didn’t know. But you do know, don’t you?”

  He looked at her delicate features, her small frame looking vulnerable and young, even in her crisp, professional suit.

  But she’s not a little girl. Under that jacket, she’s got a gun. I can’t lie anymore. I can’t keep protecting her.

  He felt a vibration beneath his jacket. Just five words showed up on the screen, caller unknown, but he raised his head and looked around the restaurant.

  “We have to go,” Michael said. He nodded to a door across the room. “We have to go, and we have to go with that man over there. Right now.”

  Violet dropped her fork, her right hand fluttering over the left side of her jacket where Michael now noticed a subtle bulge. “Why? What’s going on?”

  Michael stood up and took her arm. “You wanna find out where you come from?” he asked. “You’re about to find out.”

  Violet stood and followed Michael to where a man with silver hair stood.

  “What’s happened?” Michael asked.

  “Told you this day might come,” the man replied. “We gotta get ’er into hidin’ an’ fast.”

  “Where?”

  “I know a place,” the man answered. He looked at Violet. “You won’t remember it, love, but you’ve been there before. An’ not too long ago, in fact.”

  “Who are you? I’m not going anywhere with you,” Violet said. She took a phone from her pocket. “Pop, I’m calling this in. This man is trying to kidnap us.”

  “No, I know him, baby.”

  “Then I need answers or this place’ll be swarming with agents.”

  “Miss Lessep,” the man said, “please accompany your father an’ me to a lovely little shop not a five minute walk from ’ere. As I said, I think you know the place. Jonson’s Exotic Travel.”

  At the mention of the name, Michael saw Violet’s face harden even as her eyes brightened with an instant of recognition.

  “That’s…what? Why there?”

  “That’s where the answers are,” the man replied.

  Violet quieted and allowed herself to be led outside to the sidewalk. Michael patted her on the shoulder once they were under the midday sun.

  “Pop,” she whispered to him, “who is this guy?”

  “I don’t know what’s safe to tell you yet,” Michael replied.

  “’S all right, Mike,” the man said. “I’m on the run now m’self. Name’s Ambrose. Your dear old dad here’s not your first guardian. I’ve known ’em all.”

  “All?” Violet asked. “Wait, so my parents didn’t give me up for adoption and then…”

  “You weren’t half wrong about me kidnapping you,” Ambrose continued, “only it didn’t happen just now. It happened thirty years ago.”

  ~

  Violet recognized the house. “This is my travel agency,” she said. “Why are you taking me here? Are we going on a kinda-boring vacation together?”

  Ambrose shook his head and laughed. “God, those bloody stupid false memories. I have no idea what good they think they’re doin’, but one wrong twist o’ the dial and you’re o’ block of Swiss cheese.” He climbed the front stoop and turned the antique key that activated the doorbell inside.

  “False memories?” Violet climbed to the top of the stoop. “Wait, what are you talking about?” She looked from him to her father. “What the hell? Is anything I think real?”

  Ambrose nodded at the building. “What do you remember about this place?”

  Violent glared at him. “I remember a guy at work recommending it. I remember coming here to consult with the owner about a vacation package. I’d be going to…” She paused. “The owner. I know I met him, but it’s…” She shook her head. “I don’t know. It must not have been important.”

  “You borrowed money from me,” Michael said. “Just how expensive was this trip? You said you went to Maine? To a spa?”

  Ambrose turned back to Violet. “How much did it run you? All told?”

  Violet rattled off a figure.

  “Oh, baby, no,” Michael said. “God, no, no. You only borrowed half that.”

  Violet could feel herself blush. “I only needed half. It really was that much, Pop.”

  The door opened, and a young woman with glossy dark hair stood in the entryway. “I’m sorry, we’re not open to new clients on Friday afternoons,” she said. “Can I help—oh. Oh! Agent Lessep. Did you have a special appointment?”

  “How much is a real trip to Maine, Miss Moto?” Ambrose asked. He swept past her, despite the young woman’s protests, and made his way deeper into the house. “Vere, get out ’ere, and bring young moneybags, too.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Violet said to the receptionist, scrambling inside after Ambrose. “Mister Richards, what did you mean a real trip to Maine?”

  “I meant,” Ambrose said, “that you were never in Maine. You were never at a spa. You were somewhere else entirely. And this young lady an’ ’er employers did some…” He gestured at his head. “They scrambled up your brains right good to make you forget what you learned on your trip.”

  “Oh, my God.” Miss Moto scurried past the group to her desk and dialed the telephone. “Ben, you gotta ge
t up here yesterday. There’s this guy here and this other guy, and Agent Lessep, and I have no idea but—yes…” She listened and nodded and then hung up. “You people can’t just barge in here, and—”

  A door opened and shut from somewhere deeper in the house. Ambrose took a step back closer to the foyer.

  The man who entered was only a little older than Ambrose and Michael, but his air was far graver, far more intimidating. “Did you call Benoy, Kris?” His voice was all gravel and smoke.

  “Yes, he’s coming.”

  “Good.” He turned to Ambrose. “So why were you calling my name? Should I know you?”

  “You know my employer,” Ambrose replied. “You know of me by reputation, I suppose. Least a little.” His shoulders sagged. “But I’m done with ’im, doctor. I threw in with the wrong sort, and I can’t get out of it.” He sank into the nearest chair and pointed at Violet. “You have to protect her. From him.”

  Doctor Vere looked from Violet to Michael. “I have to protect a client from…I don’t even know this gentleman.” He peered down at Ambrose. “And I don’t know you, no matter that you think I ought to.”

  Ambrose looked up at Vere through tears. “You helped someone else look for her once.” He took a wrinkled sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and held it out. “Recognize that?”

  Vere took the paper. “Woodcut. Native Americans at Roanoke.”

  “But you know that woman.”

  Vere raised a bushy gray eyebrow. “That isn’t Agent Lessep,” he said.

  “No, it’s one of my associates.”

  Vere was quiet for a moment. “You work for Florence,” he finally said.

  His tone was so cold that Violet felt her heart quicken.

  “Florence?” she asked. “Not Governor Florence, from the RAA?”

  Another man entered the room. “Miss Lessep, it’s good to—”

  “Benoy,” Vere interrupted. “I know we’ve met with Agent Lessep before, when she booked a trip with us, but have you ever noticed her appearance?”

  Ben rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, what now? Eddy, I don’t…” He exhaled a nervous laugh.

  Vere tossed the woodcut back to Ambrose. “Oh, no one cares if you have a crush on the poor girl, you idiot. Just literally her appearance. Anything interesting about it.”

  Ben stammered again.

  “Beyond its obvious appeal. Stop, boy, and just think for me for a moment,” Vere said. “You’re the historian. Tell me what you see.”

  Violet felt as if she might sink into a hole in the floor as the younger man scrutinized her. “Stop it! I’m a person,” she said. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Lessep,” Ben said. “I’m not trying to make you feel awkward here…” He looked back at Vere. “I see a lot of people, Eddy,” he admitted. “I’m not really getting it.”

  “I think she’s been pulled out of time,” Vere said. He pointed across the room at Ambrose. “Isn’t that so? Your employer’s been behind the appropriation of one of our clients, hasn’t he? He’s gotten some of my designs.”

  Ambrose shrugged. “I swiped ’em for ’im. Back when you were developin’ the whole thing.”

  “Security was too lax in those days,” Vere said.

  “Yeah, well, I was right good at lockpickin’ in me youth, and—”

  “I’m still not seeing who she’s supposed to look—”

  “Hey!”

  Violet’s shriek made all the men’s chatter stop. She climbed on top of the coffee table in the center of the room and pulled her sidearm from its holster. The room quieted.

  “My name is Agent Violet Lessep of the North American branch of the New British Empire Federal Bureau of Investigations. I am not coming down until someone tells me what the fuck is going on.” She held her gun in the air, pointed at the ceiling. “First person who says something that doesn’t give me an answer is getting…” She realized now that everyone looked wide-eyed and terrified.

  Defuse. Get a grip.

  “Is, ah, getting plaster in their hair,” she finished. She took a deep breath. “But start talking.” She clicked the safety off her gun.

  It was Michael who finally spoke. “Baby, I never lied to you,” he said. “But I never told you how you came into my life, either.” He held out his hands. “Please come down.”

  Violet put the safety back on the gun and lowered her arm to her side. “I’ll put this away, but, Pop, for God’s sake, I’m a foot off the floor.”

  “It’s my fault, Violet,” Ambrose said.

  “Eleanor Dare.”

  “What?” Violet turned to Ben, who was now running across the room to a bookshelf. He pulled a volume down and paged through it.

  “Eddy, we had that client a while back who—here we are.” He found the page he sought and held it up to Violet’s face. “You look like Eleanor White Dare, daughter of the governor of the lost colony at Roanoke.” He turned to Vere. “You know, we never did find out what happened to the colony, since that woman left before she—”

  “She’s not Eleanor Dare,” Ambrose called out. “She’s not. Don’t make any sense, that, unless I’d arranged to ’ave ’er whole life’s worth o’ memories wiped.” He looked up at Violet. “You remember your childhood growin’ up with old Mike ’ere and all?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does it seem fake, the way your little Maine holiday does?”

  “My Maine holiday doesn’t…” Except, no, it did seem fake. She remembered some basic things, but it was fuzzy, dreamlike, and bland.

  “Where was she really then, doctor?” Ambrose asked Vere.

  Vere looked at Ben. “We should restore her,” he said.

  “What? No. Remember what happened…” Ben shook his head. “No.”

  “Not even for the patron saint of the Rénartians, Virginia Dare?” Ambrose asked.

  Violet tucked her gun back into its holster when the words registered. “Wait, who, me?” she asked. She laughed. “How does that work? I look really good for being, what, five hundred?”

  “You were just a baby when I took you,” Ambrose said. “Florence wanted you, but I found out what he really was doing, so I went instead and kidnapped you, brought you to Michael.”

  “What was he really doing?” Vere asked.

  “Claudio Florence is…” Ambrose paused and closed his eyes. “He’s a murderer. I’m done working for ’im. Got to tell you lot what ’e’s up to. He’s been time traveling for thirty years, all based on your tech.”

  Violet climbed down from the coffee table. “Time travel is real?”

  “You should know,” Vere said. “You’ve done it apparently on multiple occasions.” He turned to Ben. “I’m reversing it, Benoy. At least temporarily. She ought to know everything.”

  “But—”

  “She didn’t do anything, boy. For God’s sake, the woman can’t accept all this unless we give her proof!” Vere shouted. “It isn’t as if she went back to witness the birth of Christ. She solved a relatively minor theft case.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ben countered. “We don’t let them keep the memory. Even if she’s not a risk, it’s how we’ve always operated.”

  “Sometimes one has to adjust to new methods,” Vere said. He moved toward Violet. “This is unrelated to your identity issue, Miss Lessep, but it’ll prove to you that all this is even possible.” He took a small box from his pocket and aimed it at her like a remote control.

  “Wait, what’re you—”

  Vere pushed a button.

  Violet sank to the carpet as a swell of memories flooded her. She gripped the patterned fibers of the rug between her fingers and clung to it as the waves swelled and crashed. Nausea threatened, but she swallowed hard, and soon the feeling passed.

  Violet saw herself in the same room but on the other side of Kris’s desk. She was wearing overalls with grease smeared down the front, and there was a man, Ben’s age but not Ben, gaping at her. He was wearing a dark s
uit, and a hint of a beard peppered his cheeks.

  “Damn, my office clearly needs a new IT department if I can hire folks who look like you,” the man said.

  “Excuse me?” Violet’s perspective shifted, and now she was in her own body, but her body from several weeks earlier. She took in the man’s smile, his faint scent of soap and something oaky. Whiskey?

  The man shook his head. “Sorry, sorry, I just…you, ah, you work here? I’m looking for the head. The…ah, that sounded gross. The restroom. You an employee?”

  Violet laughed. He was cute. Not her usual type, which was, truth be told, more like the agency’s owner, more trim and mature but perhaps equally nervous. “No, I’m a…oh! Are you a client?” She laughed again and remarked that they probably shouldn’t be talking to each other. “It was in the manual, wasn’t it?”

  The man agreed that it was against protocol. Violet scurried to the conference room, where her own clothes were waiting for her. Kris held out a cup of tea. “Get changed and come out to the lobby,” she told Violet. “Almost time for debriefing.”

  Debriefing. Yes. Of her trip. The false memories of the time spent at the spa shifted and fell away, thin as gossamer and half as substantial. How could she have ever thought that was real? How could she have been fooled, when she was trained to observe and investigate?

  “I was on a plane,” she said. “I followed a man onto a plane and watched him jump.” The enormity of what her real trip involved sunk in. “Oh, my God, I was in 1971.” She scanned the faces in the room. “You!” She leapt at Vere. “You sent me back to 1971. And you.” She whirled around to Ben and Kris. “You heard my story. You had me tell you what I did there but…” Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she didn’t weep, her voice didn’t crack. “I had the most amazing experience of my life and solved a century-old mystery and you took it from me.”

  “We had to,” Ben said, bowing his head. “Security. It’s dangerous.”

  “Then why do it at all?” Violet demanded. “Why send people back in time if they don’t get to remember?” She was shaking now.

  “That’s what you’re bloody vexed ’bout?” Ambrose asked. “You find out I kidnapped you, that you’re a relic of another age, and what you care about is a bleedin’ crime you solved?”