Time Search (The Time Counselor Chronicles Book 3)

by Danele J Rotharmel

  She’d been having such a wonderful night. She didn’t know how it’d been destroyed. At Nicole’s, when she saw her unexpected beauty, she’d allowed herself to hope that Marc would see her in a new way. Maybe, he’d actually be attracted to her. Maybe, eventually, he’d start caring about her. Maybe, in time, he’d even kiss her. In her happy daydream, Marc’s kiss had been gentle and loving. His kiss tonight had been neither. His kiss had been scary, and it hurt.

  Putting a shaking hand to her mouth, Crystal realized that her lip was bleeding.

  Her mother always told her she was a klutzy, social misfit—and it was true. A girl with more social sense would have seen trouble brewing with Marc and avoided it. A girl with more romantic sense would have enjoyed his passionate kiss and returned it. A girl with any type of common sense could have stopped things in a more dignified way than biting him, slapping him, and jumping off a balcony. She could try to pretend she wasn’t a misfit. She could even try to pretend she was Grace Kelly. But that was pretending. The truth was that she was Klutzy Crystal the campus punch line, and she’d made a fool of herself again. Marc was right. Her mother was right. The boys in high school were right. As she hugged her knees to her chest, all she could think of was that she was a zero and always would be.

  As water cascaded around her, an old memory rose up to haunt her. Julian Blintson, the quarterback. Julian, the cutest guy in her high school. Crystal tried to fight the memory, but it couldn’t be stopped…

  She’d been so pleased when Julian started paying her attention. She was a sophomore. He was a senior. She couldn’t believe her luck. One day, he took her into the empty Home Economics room and kissed her. It was her first kiss—and she was enjoying it—when suddenly, she heard snickering behind her. Turning, she saw five of Julian’s football buddies hiding behind a counter. They were laughing. She looked back at Julian, and he was laughing, too.

  “So, Julian, how does she kiss?” one of them asked.

  Julian grimaced. “Her kisses are a zero just like her.”

  She tried to run from the room, but the boys surrounded her.

  “I bet I can get her up to a one,” one boy said, grabbing her and kissing her. She struggled against him, but he was too strong. When he was done, he groaned. “Nope. Still a zero.”

  Then the other boys had taken turns kissing her. They formed a tight circle and tossed her back and forth between them, crushing their lips to hers and then saying how awful the experience was. She tried to get away, but she couldn’t. They kept kissing her, and ridiculing her, until the bell rang. All they had done was kiss her but that had been enough.

  Afterward, she went and hid in a bathroom stall, crying in a crumpled heap until school let out. The rest of the year, whenever one of the boys saw her, they made kissing noises followed by gagging sounds…

  Covering her ears, Crystal rocked her forehead against her knee and shuddered. I was a zero then, and I’m a zero now. I’ll always be a zero.

  She began crying hopelessly. She’d been ridiculed all of her life. She tried to avoid remembering old hurts, but as she sat in the bottom of the tub, all the jokes at her expense flooded her memory. She could remember exactly what had been said and how she’d felt at the time. One by one, the hurtful memories paraded themselves before her, filling her with renewed humiliation and torment.

  She had no idea how long she sat in the shower reliving her old hurts, she only knew that the hot water was turning cold. Shutting it off, she tried standing to her feet. Her body felt like heavy stone. Wrapping a towel around herself, she walked drunkenly toward her bedroom.

  Gradually, it registered that the phone was ringing. Numbly, she realized that it had been ringing sporadically most of the time while she was in the shower. Out of force of habit, she answered it.

  “Cris!” Marc’s frantic voice said. “Are you OK? Cris, I’m so—”

  Crystal didn’t say a word. Hanging up the phone, she unplugged its cord. She stumbled to her bedroom and didn’t bother drying herself or changing out of the wet towel. She simply crawled into bed and pulled the blankets over her head. The way she figured, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She was a zero. She always had been, and she always would be. Why pretend anything else? She was still crying. She didn’t know if she would ever stop. She didn’t just feel hopeless—she felt completely dead inside.

  Turning off the lamp, she let the darkness hide her shame.

  ~*~

  Agent Ruthford watched the writhing flames lighting up the sky. Suddenly, someone shouted his name. Turning, he spotted a man weaving his way through the crowd of spectators.

  Ruthford blinked. “I’m Scott Ruthford,” he said, walking toward the man. “What do you need?”

  The man shoved a clipboard at him. “Sign for delivery, please.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I have a delivery for Scott Ruthford.”

  Brows snapping together, he scrawled his name and accepted a bouquet of orange, red, purple, and black flowers. He scanned the card. My deepest condolences. Did you forget to turn off your stove?

  Ruthford grabbed the deliveryman’s arm. “Who sent these?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know,” the deliveryman stuttered. “A man came in this afternoon and paid for the flowers with cash. He said he’d call later with the delivery details.” The man tugged against Ruthford’s hand. “Look, I just go where they tell me. If you don’t like the flowers, take it up with my boss.”

  Forcing himself to release the deliveryman, Ruthford asked, “Which florist?”

  “Granger’s Flowers downtown.” Backing away, the deliveryman melted into the crowd.

  Ruthford inspected the flowers carefully. Other than being a hideous color combination, nothing seemed wrong with them. Opening his car door, he placed the bouquet on the backseat and tucked the card into an evidence bag.

  Suddenly, he felt a prickling on the back of his neck. He was sure that he was being watched. Swinging around, he scanned the street, which was glowing orange in the fading flames of the fire. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His gaze traveled to the apartment building across the road. He studied each window—each balcony. Eventually, his eyes traveled up to the roof. There, pinned against the sky, stood Drake.

  Ruthford’s heart pounded in his chest. Rage pulsed through his veins as he sprinted across the street.

  ~*~

  Marc stood outside Crystal’s home with his phone in his hand. After his time of prayer, he’d driven to her apartment to make sure she was home safe. Her landlord said he’d seen her entering the building. He’d also said she’d looked awful.

  Knowing she was home, Marc tried to call and apologize, but she wouldn’t pick up. He let the phone ring, and the more it rang, the more concerned he became. He was afraid she was hurt. He was afraid she’d run into Drake.

  Not knowing if trying to enter her apartment would make things worse, he kept calling. When she finally answered her phone, he felt a flood of relief. She’d hung up on him, but at least he knew she was OK.

  He climbed into his car to go home, and he prayed for her while he drove.

  Stopping at a red light, he shuddered. What harm is there in a kiss in the moonlight? I’m afraid much more than I’d realized.

  ~*~

  Drake was enjoying the spectacle of Ruthford with his flowers, at least, he was until the stupid agent looked up. Knowing he’d been spotted, Drake sprinted across the roof and barreled down the stairs.

  Hearing Ruthford’s footsteps pounding up the staircase, Drake yanked open the door to the second-floor landing. Grabbing the knife from his pocket, he flattened himself against the wall.

  Ruthford’s galloping footsteps drew near.

  Drake braced himself for confrontation.

  Without stopping, Ruthford sprinted past the door.

  “Moron,” Drake muttered as the agent continued up to the roof. Stowing his knife in his pocket, Drake made his way to the fire escape at the other end of the build
ing. When he reached the street, he disappeared into the crowd.

  19

  June 12, 7:16 AM

  Nicole Cunning’s Residence, Washington, D.C.

  The unveiling of Nicole’s paintings had gone flawlessly, and Zeke couldn’t remember ever feeling so proud. The next morning, he woke up and smiled when he saw his maroon necktie on the coffee table. Not bothering to change out of his pajamas, he went to the kitchen to cook breakfast. Nicole was already there, and while they cooked, they began cracking jokes and taking an occasional twenty-second hug break.

  “Do you have any chocolate chips?” Zeke asked, flipping pancakes with an expert flick of his wrist.

  “Sure,” Nicole said. “Why?”

  “I want to make you a Mickey Mouse pancake complete with a chocolate grin.”

  “That would be awesome,” she crowed. She opened a cupboard and handed him a bag of chocolate chips. “I can’t wait to see you do some avant-garde pancake art.”

  With an exaggerated pose of concentration, Zeke poured batter to make Mickey Mouse. As he was placing the chocolate chips, the phone rang.

  Nicole stopped scrambling eggs and reached for it. “Cris,” she said happily. “How did it go?... I’ll tell him… Bye.”

  As Nicole hung up the phone, Zeke could sense her unease. “That was Cris?” he asked, placing another chocolate chip. “Did she enjoy herself?”

  Nicole nodded slowly. “She said she did, but she didn’t sound right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her voice was heavy and slurred, and she couldn’t get off the phone fast enough. She said to tell you that she’d be late this morning.” Nicole chewed her lip. “Could she be hungover? She didn’t sound like herself.”

  Zeke wiped his hands on a tea towel. “Cris doesn’t drink. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever had an alcoholic beverage in her life.” He paused. “Actually, I take that back, she did have a drink by accident last Christmas. The staff was invited to Jake Phillips’s house, and his wife served eggnog. June asked each of us if we wanted amaretto in our beverage, and Cris said yes. She took a sip of her amaretto eggnog and got a funny look on her face. Later, she pulled me aside and asked if amaretto was liquor. She thought amaretto was a type of coffee.”

  Nicole smiled. “That sounds like Cris, all right.”

  “You may be on to something,” he said, feeling a tinge of worry. “She could have had alcohol by accident. Marc promised to look after her, but I didn’t tell him to make sure she knew what she was drinking.”

  Nicole spooned the eggs onto plates. “A hangover would explain the funny way she sounded.”

  ~*~

  Hunched over a notebook, Dan scribbled away, plugging numbers into formulas. As early-morning light flooded the room, he turned off the lamp by his elbow. He hadn’t been to bed, and Gil wasn’t happy about it. She’d come down to the basement at midnight and again at 3:00 AM. He’d brushed her concerns aside, not because they weren’t valid but because he didn’t know what to do about them. The truth was that he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he envisioned Drake attacking a member of his D.C. team. Guilt was ripping him apart.

  Equations blurred in front of his eyes. Dropping his head in his hands, he groaned.

  “You’re being a total idiot, you know,” a voice said behind him.

  Gasping, Dan turned and saw Poppa walking toward him with a Wave Trapper.

  He jumped to his feet. “Is there a problem in D.C.?”

  Poppa fixed him with a heavy glare. “The only problem around here is you.” Pushing him back into his chair, Poppa poked a boney finger at his chest. “Do you want a heart attack?”

  Dan blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re at a crossroads, my boy,” Poppa said. “Your line of work is inherently stressful, and you’re either going to learn how to deal with that stress, or you’re going to die young.”

  Dan’s mouth fell open. “I can’t die young. You’re me, and you’re alive.”

  “That’s because when I came to this crossroads, I made the right choice. Now, it’s your turn. Learn how to lay your stress aside, or you’ll die of a heart attack when you’re forty-eight.”

  Dan groaned. “I don’t know how to relax.”

  “Then you’d better learn fast, and not only for your sake but also for the sake of Gil and Laura. Both of them have heart issues, too, and they’ll take their cue from you.” Poppa glared. “Lighten up, and show them how to lighten up, or Drake won’t have to kill you. You’ll kill yourselves.”

  ~*~

  Enveloped in a thick, white robe, Andrew sat in his formal dining room nursing a cup of extremely black coffee. He unfolded the morning newspaper. On the front page was a picture of him and Liz at the charity ball. Liz was mashed up against his side, holding his hand and giving him a gooey grin. There wasn’t an inch of space between them. The sight turned his stomach.

  Sighing, Andrew perused the article. It was full of hints about his “hot romance.” Groaning, he ran a hand over his stubbly chin. He was reading a reputable paper. He hated to think what the scandal rags were reporting. Refolding the paper, he tossed it aside.

  As he took another sip of coffee, his cell phone rang. Looking at the caller ID, he saw that it was Paul.

  “Good work, Andy.” Paul’s voice boomed. “Did you see the paper? The article about you and Charlene was fabulous.”

  Feeling confused, Andrew said, “Charlene? The article was about me and Liz.”

  Paul whooped. “We must be looking at different papers. This is going wonderfully well. Which lady are you taking out today?”

  Andrew shifted uneasily. “Neither. I have a full schedule, and—”

  “Nonsense. You can manage to squeeze an hour out of your day. Which one are you calling—Charlene or Liz?”

  Andrew sighed. “Neither. I think I should try a different woman.”

  “That’s the spirit. Play the field and give them all a rush. No need to have the papers pairing you off with just one lady. I’ll look forward to reading about your exploits in the daily news.”

  Hanging up, Andrew rubbed his temples. His headache was pounding again.

  ~*~

  In Montana, Laura leaned impatiently against the wall outside Peter’s bedroom. Behind his closed door, she heard the buzz of an electric razor. She waited edgily, tugging at her thumbnail. After what seemed like an eternity, Peter walked into the hall. She knew by the concern in his eyes that he could tell she was upset.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, drawing her close.

  She nuzzled his chest. “What’s wrong is that I didn’t sleep at all. I just stared at the ceiling and thought about you. I’m sick of waiting to be your wife, and I don’t want the bother of planning a wedding. I just want to get married. Today, if possible.”

  Peter gave a shout of laughter. “I second your sentiment, but what about your family?”

  “They can meet you later, and if they get upset, they can lump it.”

  “What about Gil?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  “I love her, but she can lump it, too. I want to get married, and I want to get married now.”

  Wrapping one of her curls around his finger, he grinned. “But don’t you want to enjoy some time as an engaged couple?”

  “What for?” she demanded. “Why should we string things along? We’ve been friends since college, and we know we’re meant to be together. We understand each other better than most engaged couples. Why on earth should we wait?”

  Peter’s eyes took on a decided gleam. “What about a fancy wedding?”

  “Frankly, the thought gives me chills.” Seeing the mischief on his face, she shook a warning finger. “You’d better watch out, buster. I’m going on zero sleep here, and if you mention one more harebrained idea like spinning cakes, I’ll slug you. All I want is for Sam to marry us.” Gulping a little, she said seriously, “All I want is you.”

  The teasing light left Peter’s
eyes. Holding her close, he whispered against her hair. “Love, if that’s how you feel, we’ll talk to Sam after breakfast.”

  ~*~

  Agent Ruthford walked through the soggy ashes of what had once been his home. Glass was melted into hard puddles. Metal was twisted into grotesque shapes. He knelt and sifted through the ruins. He couldn’t find anything salvageable. The magnitude of heat the fire had generated was incredible.

  Clenching his jaw, he muttered, “If Drake thinks this will stop me, he’s dead wrong. He’s just made it personal.”

  ~*~

  When Marc arrived at headquarters, he saw Zeke scrolling through information on his computer. With a mouth feeling as dry as sawdust, Marc greeted him.

  Zeke chuckled. “It must’ve been quite a night. You look like something the cat drug in.”

  Giving a wan smile, Marc didn’t answer.

  “Hey, did Cris have any alcohol last night?” Zeke asked. “She isn’t coming in until later, and Nicole said that she sounded hungover.”

  He shook his head.

  Zeke smiled. “I was worried about her for a while, but looking at you, I’ll bet she’s just tired. It looks like you did your duty and danced the night away. Thanks for watching over her last night. It meant a lot to me.”

  Marc didn’t reply. Turning away, he sat down at his desk. Inside his chest, he felt as if a knife had just been twisted. He wanted to tell Zeke what happened, but he was embarrassed, and he didn’t know what to say. He kept hoping that after a good night’s rest, Crystal would come in—cheerful as always—ready to pass off the kiss as a joke.

  ~*~

  In Colorado, Phoebe put a hand on Silverfire’s nose and laughed when he blew against her fingers. She fed him a sugar cube, giggling as his velvety lips tickled her palm.