He smiled. "Ten disappearances are not enough?"
She sighed, and shook her head. "I'm not naive. People vanish every day, Mr Cantor. Who knows where those ten are." She recalled the portfolio she'd received. Men, woman, and a couple of children. All had disappeared. They were missing, and they stayed missing. All of them, for at least a year. People searched for them, and not a trace was found. One moment they were there… and then they just were not.
Cantor disturbed her. She didn't like looking at him, so she turned to look at one of the paintings on the wall. An 18th century woman, dressed in a pink gown, clutching a small dog.
"Those ten are gone, Mrs Ballantine. Into the past. They will never return."
He moved until he was standing beside her.
She swallowed. He smelled musty. She forced herself not to move. She'd met many dangerous men in her life. This man was the most dangerous of all. Or the best trickster. "This painting." She indicated it with her chin.
"Yes?"
"You would put them into this painting?"
"That's not what happens."
"Then tell me how you do it."
He sighed. "If I told you, you would not understand it. I don't understand it myself. So what would be the point?"
"The point, Mr Cantor, is 30 million dollars. That's a lot of money. You say you can — transmit — people into the past. Unharmed. But they never come back to the present day. They live their lives… then they die. In the past."
"Your stepdaughters. Why do you want them gone?"
"What concern is that of yours?"
"This is irrevocable. When they go, they're gone. Forever — you will never see them again. You can't change your mind."
Devon thought for a moment. She pursed her lips, and looked down at the large diamond solitaire on her left hand. She felt like rolling her eyes. Why did she have to deal with fools?
Finally, she said: "Mr Cantor, I assure you that I will not change my mind. There's never been a chance of that. Now, prove to me that I will get my money's worth. My money. Not my husband's. It's money that I earned, doing things that were distasteful, but necessary. I'm prepared to invest that money — I look on this as an investment — if you can prove to me that your process works."
"Very well. Follow me."
Cantor turned back the way he had come, and held a door open for her.
Devon walked though the door, and found herself in a long hallway. Cantor moved past her, and she followed him. He held a door open, and she found herself in a storage room. Shelves filled the center of the huge room. Each shelf was stacked with items wrapped in brown paper and bubble wrap.
"Wait here." He indicated a chair. "You may sit."
She'd followed Cantor to a large table, with four chairs, in the corner of the storage room. She glanced at a dusty chair, and shuddered. She'd stand, and try not to touch anything.
Her phone shrilled in her purse. She took it out. A message from her husband, Thomas. She shut down the phone.
Thomas loved her. So he told her, and she had no reason to doubt him. He gave her everything she wanted. She had only to indicate a preference.
She wanted everything.
Most of all, she wanted the three women gone. They were lovely, each in her own way, and each one was in her twenties. They didn't like her, that was to be expected. Why should they? She was their father's third wife. Their mother had died, many years previously.
Cantor returned. He carried a small metal box. He set the box on the table. "I can give you a personal demonstration of the process if you wish."
"You can send me into the past?"
"Yes."
Devon shivered. Did she dare? "What's in the box?"
He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a small key. He inserted it into the box's lock, and turned it.
She stood, and bent over the box. Inside, a crystal box rested inside a nest of white satin. Cantor removed the box, and flipped it open. He took out a small purple stone. "The Send," he said.
"That's it?" It was half the size of a hen's egg.
"Sit down, Mrs Ballantine."
She glanced at the dusty chair, and sat. Cantor sat opposite.
"I'll tell you a story. You can then decide whether you'd like to make a journey into the past." He closed his fingers over the stone. "It's rumored that the Send was used by the Borgias, over 500 years ago. That may or may not be so, but it's the first record we have of the Send."
Devon folded her arms.
"So. The Borgias. The Send changed hands many times. I first heard of it almost 90 years ago. I made it my mission to find it… if it indeed existed. I knew that it would make me immensely rich. I won't bore you with the details, but finally I had the Send in my possession."
He placed the stone into the glass box, and sat back in his chair.
"How does it work?"
"It's just a stone. No one quite knows how it works, but it does.“ He smiled. "Just a stone." His voice dropped. "Rumor has it that an artist first discovered the properties when he tried to use the Send in a painting. It’s very soft, and he scraped it, to get some pigment. He added water, and used it in a painting. How shall I explain this…"
He paused, and closed his eyes for a moment. "No one really knows how the process works. You don’t need to scrape, or add water, for the Send to be activated. Not everyone is susceptible — the Send focuses on one individual. I focus it — or I —.” He hesitated. “I won’t lie to you. It’s hard to control the process.”
Devon stared at the stone, then at Cantor. "You mean it might not work?"
Cantor waved his hand. "It will work — I've worked with the process many times. I've even experienced it myself."
"You've gone into the past?"
"Of course. I returned, only because I had the Send in my pocket when I — left." He shuddered. "How old do you think I am?"
Devon had no idea. She looked closely at him. "Sixty?"
"I'm 140 years old."
She laughed. "Prove it."
"I could prove it. But we're wasting time. The money, Mrs Ballantine. Pay it or not, your choice. You have 24 hours. I can send you into the past now — today, so that you can experience it for yourself."
It was a lot of money. However, she wanted the girls gone. And she'd become aware that the stone in the glass box emanated power. She could feel it. It was a presence in the room; the air carried a weight of something.
She decided that she didn't want to experience it. What if it really worked? She'd end up somewhere in time. All the hard work she'd done, and only to become a snack for a saber-toothed tiger.
Cantor glanced at her, and at the stone. Then he closed it inside the metal box again, and locked the box.
"Tell me about your experience of the stone — how did you go into the past?" Devon wanted to know as much as possible.
An hour later, she'd left the gallery. She couldn't wait to get back to her hotel room. She'd transfer the money, and the girls would be gone. She smiled.
New South Wales, Australia, 2015
Tara drove across the cattle grid which led to Ballantine Hill. Her family home, and the family estate. Several thousand acres of prime agricultural land in New South Wales, Australia. The land was worth millions, but the family had more land, in homes and estates in Australia, the UK, and in South America.
She was home again, for a family wedding. She'd already decided that she would stay out of her father's way — and her stepmother's way — during this trip. Her father asked probing questions about her future.
She knew that he wanted all of his daughters to work for him. Molly was a lawyer, but she worked for her father's marketing organization. Tara and her youngest sister, Priscilla, had managed to escape their father's net, so far.
"Someone has to take over," he'd glare at them.
"You should have had sons," Molly would respond.
Now 26, Tara had received access to her trust fund when she was 25. Her father encouraged he
r to do something with the money. She was still deciding what to do. In the meantime, she loved her life as a lifestyle and travel blogger. She'd trained as a teacher, but once she'd started her first blog, she'd seen that she could make a living at it.
That pleased her — she didn't have to access her trust fund at all. Blogging gave her a measure of independence.
Tara wanted to see her sisters. She needed advice. She'd received a marriage proposal from her long-time boyfriend. Gary was a surgeon, a kind man, and she knew that she would be happy with him. She hadn't told Gary that she'd accept his proposal, but she'd almost decided that she would.
Her sports car was low-slung, and bumped along the graded dirt road which led to the main house of the estate.
Fields on either side of the road contained sheep. She barely glanced at them. She knew more than she wanted to know about sheep. Her father, Thomas, had insisted that she and her sisters worked on the property in their summer holidays in their teenage years.
She couldn't wait to see Molly and Priscilla again. Although they spoke via Skype at least once a week, they hadn't been together for several months.
Devon, their stepmother, had offered to host a wedding for one of their cousins.
Tara couldn't believe it. The witch was finally doing something kind.
Tara liked everyone. She always believed that people were basically good. Everyone had good in them. However, when it came to Devon, sometimes it was hard to find the good. It was there however, she was sure of it.
A deep pothole jolted the small car. Devon reached out her hand to steady Pudding, her toy poodle, in the passenger seat. Pudding licked her hand, yapped, and quivered with excitement.
"Yes Pud, we're almost home — lots of other dogs to play with, and dams to swim in." Tara glanced at Pudding, who licked her hand again.
Pudding loved visiting Ballantine Hill. When it was time to return to the city, little dog always hid when she realized that Tara was packing. That made Tara feel a little guilty, but she couldn't leave Pudding at Ballantine Hill. Devon didn't like dogs. She called Pudding: "that oversized fuzzy piece of vermin".
Although Devon had the sense not to complain about her husband's cattle dogs and border collies, she felt free to complain about Pudding, although never in Thomas's hearing.
The black toy poodle had been a gift to Tara from her father on her 21st birthday.
It was a replacement — if any dog could ever be a replacement — for her mother's black toy poodle, Tigger, which had lived to 16 years of age. Tigger was part of the girls' childhood.
Tara and her sisters never mentioned the first toy poodle. Their father didn't either. Devon didn't like it when the girls talked about their mother.
Devon's eyes would narrow, even as she smiled. Then things would happen. Tara's favorite mare foundered. Molly lost her favorite pen. Priscilla's portfolio of drawings went missing.
Three bumpy miles later, Tara entered the long avenue of ghost gums which led up to the house. The trees had been planted by her mother, so Devon had started a campaign to have them removed. So far, Thomas Ballantine had refused to have it done.
Ballantine Hill was a typical English manor house, dropped into the Australian landscape. It was over 100 years old.
Tara drove around the house, to the garages at the back.
She parked, and climbed out. Pudding leapt for freedom, and squatted immediately.
Tara had barely had time to reach into the car for her bag, when Molly yelled: "You're here!"
Her sister grabbed her in a tight embrace.
Tara chuckled. Her younger sibling was eight inches taller than she was. She felt as if she'd been hugged by an octopus. Finally she managed to wriggle free, and stared up at her sister. "You cut your hair."
Molly's locks had been shorn, into a chin-length frizz of red-gold curls. Tara stepped back, and looked at her critically. "It suits you — but I liked your hair when it was long."
"This is easier to manage. Long hair takes too much time. Come on," Molly grabbed Tara's hand. "Dad and Devon are out. I want to talk to you before they get back. Priscilla's arriving tomorrow."
Tara allowed herself to be dragged into the kitchen. She greeted Mrs Smiles, the cook and housekeeper, who pulled her into another tight hug.
"Now let me see — " Mrs Smiles took Tara's left hand. "Your ring finger's still bare. I hope you'll be bringing a husband home to see us soon, young lady."
"Maybe soon," Tara agreed.
Her sister squealed. "You haven't?"
"Almost. I've met someone. I want to talk to you about him. He's very nice."
They had tea. Tara refused to say anything more about Gary. "Later," she promised Molly.
"Now," Molly insisted, when she followed Tara to her rooms. All three girls had small suites, almost studio apartments, in the Little House, a cottage which was situated a few hundred meters from the main house. The cottage was older that the main house, and was the original Ballantine Hill. Over the years, it had become more than a simple cottage, when extensions had been added on to it.
Devon wanted to turn the Little House into guest suites. She thought it a waste to keep an entire house empty, because her stepdaughters stayed at Ballantine Hill so rarely.
Devon had been complaining about the Little House again, Molly told Tara. "She says we never stay. And there's a good reason for that," Molly said. "I told her she was a greedy bitch. She said she'd speak to Dad."
Tara frowned at Molly and shook her head. "That's an old argument. Why bait Devon? You know that Dad will ask us what we want. We'll say we want the Little House… then Dad will buy Devon something to turn her up sweet…" Tara spent her life trying to keep the peace between her father and her sisters, and her stepmother and her sisters. It was a challenge, but she took heart at the fact that Molly and Devon hadn't yet come to blows.
Tara took her phone from her purse, and found a picture of Gary. She handed the phone to Molly. "And there you have him. Isn't he gorgeous? His name's Gary Rosstown. He's 30, a doctor."
"Wow, I'll give you that. He really is gorgeous."
"Let me change, and I'll tell you all about him."
When Tara returned to her sitting room a few minutes later, after changing into an old pair of jeans, a chambray shirt and her riding boots, Molly was standing in front of a large landscape painting over the fireplace. It was pretty. Very simple, just a path leading through a bluebell wood.
"A new painting?" Tara asked. She looked at the walls. Where was the large black and white photograph of her mother which usually hung there? "Where's Mum?"
Molly shrugged. “Devon. Ask her what she's done with Mum's photo. Then take Mum's photo with you when you leave. I don't trust that woman."
Tara sighed. Devon was doing it again. Devon had gone through the big house, removing all the photos and anything that belonged to the girls' mother.
Her father loved her stepmother, but the woman wanted everything in the house to be all about her. Her goal was to eradicate all trace of Thomas's first wife. All trace of the second Mrs Ballantine was already gone. "I've got that photo at home in town already — I just liked to have it here, as well."
She joined Molly in staring at the landscape. "Who's the artist?"
"It's not signed. Priss will know."
Yes, Priscilla would know, Tara thought. Priscilla was the artist in the family. She had a small studio in the city, and had started exhibiting. Molly had instigated a campaign to turn Priss into a commercial artist. So far it wasn't working, but she was doing illustrations for a book.
Molly turned away from the portrait, dismissing it. "Now tell me all about Gary. I warn you, if you marry him, you'll need to keep a close eye on him, he's too good-looking for any wife's peace of mind."
Tara told Molly she'd met Gary at a race meeting.
She and Molly sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Tara had pulled Pudding's favorite toy, a fuzzy white cat, which miaowed, out of her bag and gave it to
her. Pudding lay at their feet and chewed at the toy, pressing its squeaker again and again.
"You're not listening to me," Molly complained.
Tara laughed. It was hard to talk over the sound of the toy.
She'd also been distracted by the landscape. Bluebells. A bucolic English scene; rather sentimental. Where had it come from? Devon favored modern art, so she hadn't purchased it. The painting was well enough done. She had no idea why it kept pulling at her attention.
"So, will you marry him?"
"We'll be here for over a week. I've told him that I'll give him an answer when I get back to Sydney. It's a big step… Enough about Gary. Tell me what you've been doing. Are you seeing anyone — anyone more than once, I mean."
"You know me. My rule — no attachments. Once is more than enough. I'll shortly be an old maid, and very happy to be one."
Tara couldn't help but think that Molly wasn't all that happy, but Molly had long ago declared Molly's Rule: she had a two-date limit.
Later that afternoon, Tara caught one of her horses, and went riding.
The image of the landscape painting kept intruding into her mind. She shook her head. Why? It was important in some way. Tara had long since learned to trust her intuition. When she didn't, strange things happened. She decided that she would look at the painting more closely when she got back to the house.
Her father and Devon had returned by the time Tara had brushed her mount and turned the horse out into the paddock.
She hurried to the Little House. Pudding was lying on the verandah, and greeted her joyfully. Tara picked her up, and carried her into her sitting room. She gave her a doggy chew, and left her enjoying the rawhide.
Stripping off her clothes, she ran a bath. A knot of tension had formed in her chest, as it always did when she was due to spend time with her stepmother.
Why did the woman hate them so? When they were all together, with her father, Devon seemed gentle and kind. That sugary demeanor vanished when she got the girls alone. Then she left them in no doubt that she hated them.
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