by Gwyn Cready
“‘Fuck you’?” Jacket suggested.
“Well,” Ball said, pushing his thick black frames up with a finger, “I think I was going for ‘Y’all be damned,’ but I suppose ‘fuck you’ captures the essence as well. Someone who stands on the shoulders of giants and doesn’t say ‘fuck you,’ but says, ‘I understand, and I see even more.’ Do you see what I mean?”
Jacket tipped the beer and swallowed thoughtfully. “Sounds like an irritating little sod to me.”
Peter crossed his arms and slouched against the counter. “You’re a patron?” he said to Ball. “A collector?”
Ball beamed. “As if my life depended on it.”
“I can see where you find the ‘fuck yous’ of the world tiresome,” Peter said. “They betray a lack of substance. It’s all rhetoric. And when the posturing’s done, where are you?”
“Exactly,” Ball said, and Cam postured a discreet middle finger in Peter’s direction.
Ball rubbed his hands. “Well, Cam, I hate to chat and run, but the Gators are on in half an hour.”
Cam silenced Jeanne with a sharp look. “No problem, Mr. Ball. I really appreciate the ride.” She gestured for Jeanne to follow as she walked Ball to the elevator. When the elevator door closed behind him, Cam whispered, “How did he get here?”
“What do you mean, ‘How did he get here?’ The same way you did. He landed at your desk.”
“Couldn’t have. No Amazon in 1673.”
“Amazon?”
Peter appeared behind them. He smiled. “Do you mean the river?”
Cam didn’t say anything. Jeanne gave her a look and said, “Yes.”
“Ah. I’m afraid the river did exist in 1673. And for a good deal before that, I can assure you.”
“Thank you,” Jeanne said.
Cam rolled her eyes and jabbed the Down button.
“No, no, no,” he said, holding up his palms. “I cannot stay. Thank you for the kind offer, though. I am most sensible of your generous hospitality.”
Jeanne giggled, and Cam shot her a glare that would have ignited marble.
Ignoring this, Jeanne said, “Do you need a ride? I’m heading back to the office. I mean, like, what exactly do you do now?” She met Cam’s eye in a quick sidelong glance.
“What town do I have the pleasure of visiting?”
“Mt. Lebanon,” Cam said dryly.
“There is a small public house I spotted across Mt. Lebanon’s strand. I believe I shall retire there.”
“For the night?” Jeanne said. “It doesn’t work like that here.”
“Don’t fret, Miss Turner. I’m very resourceful.”
“So, you’re not going to go. You’ll stay?”
“Jesus, Jeanne.” Cam looked to see if Jacket was nearby, but he seemed to have disappeared into the studio. “He can stay or he can go. I don’t give a rat’s ass.”
Peter clapped his hands together. “There you have it. A prettier invitation a man could not desire.”
The elevator dinged, and Cam pressed the security button. When the door slid open, she leaned in and pressed 1. “Bye.”
Peter made a courtly bow and stepped through the door.
Jeanne giggled again. “You know who he reminds me of? Cary Grant.”
Cam smacked her forehead. “Christ,” she muttered, then barked “No!” at Peter when she caught him eyeing the buttons. “Don’t touch anything. Just get out when the door opens.”
Jeanne called, “Wait!” as the doors drifted closed and lunged to get an arm in, but Cam blocked it.
“Now what?” Cam demanded when the Down button went dark. “Were you planning to ask him to the prom?”
“Your key,” Jeanne said, crossing her arms. “He’s got it.”
Thirty-two
Jeanne waved at the Carnegie’s night guard and made her way down the long hallway. Eight o’clock on a Thursday, and she hadn’t even logged on. If she were going to pass biology and get a degree, she had better stop being the backstop for every weird problem her boss couldn’t field, get her ass in that chair, and start the virtual frog dissection.
She opened the door that led to the administrative wing. When she got to the office door, she stopped. A narrow strip of light was visible along the carpet.
Jeanne hadn’t left the lights on, and even if she had left them on, she knew they still should be off. To save energy, the lights worked on movement. When you turned a light on, it stayed on as long as there was movement in the room. After ten minutes of no movement, it went off.
Slowly Jeanne angled herself to look in the door’s side window.
A tall, skinny bald man stood, slightly dazed, peering at Cam’s books and rubbing his head, and the fact that he seemed to be nursing a broken nose would have been far more interesting to Jeanne if he hadn’t also been wearing puffy wool culottes and the second Adam Ant shirt she’d seen in the last three hours.
“No. Freaking. Way.”
Thirty-three
Peter saw the shadow cross his table and looked up.
“‘Rage Against the Machine’? A bold sentiment, Mertons, for a man clawing his way to the top of the Time-jump Accountants’ Guild.” He shoved a chair open with his foot and gestured toward it, then, turning to the coffeehouse’s publican, called, “Barkeep, one of these marvelous coffees for my friend.”
“Dammit, Peter, the Guild is going to be furious,” Mertons said, wiping his glasses on his shirt. “You’ve gone too far.”
Peter looked at the sticklike legs extending from the shiny blue drawers his friend was wearing. “Your calves are admirable, to be sure, but next time might I suggest slightly longer hose? Either that or a considerably warmer cloak—especially in this weather.” He nodded toward the rain sheeting down beyond the shop window that framed the dark street.
“This is no time for a joke. They’ve already issued a condemnation.”
“I reel from the blow. Speaking of blows, I hope mine did not importune you too much. It seemed the most expedient path at the time.”
Mertons grunted and brushed several drops of water from his brow. Peter hadn’t expected to see him quite so soon, though he’d already decided Mertons’s arrival would not change his plan.
“You have no idea the power they wield,” Mertons continued. “Would you care to be reborn as an Assyrian slave? Or perhaps one of the soldiers in the Second Punic War? Or here?” Mertons gave his outfit a look of mild disgust, and when Peter didn’t respond, he added, “You’ll never paint again. And they can ensure you remember that you did. Peter, they can ensure you remember everything…forever.”
Peter felt the budding of a small fear. He didn’t know the full extent of the Guild’s power, though he had heard they had a tendency toward vindictiveness when crossed. While he would sacrifice any happiness his own future might hold, there was one thing he would not risk. “Can they touch Ursula?” he asked hesitantly.
The accountant collapsed into the chair beside him and sighed. For a long moment he said nothing.
“Mertons?”
“I don’t know, Peter. I…I am not aware of it happening before. Such an act would be quite complicated and is technically beyond the purview of the Guild.”
“But?”
“But I did hear a rumor that one of the Guild members suggested it.”
“Bloody bastards.” A cool, focused anger formed in Peter’s gut.
“Peter, you have no idea what you’ve done. Travel to the future is not like travel to the past. The past is set. It’s known. Changing it takes enormous effort. Travel to the future is different. The factors are far more fluid, more susceptible to change, and a very little push can have a very large effect.”
“Then it looks as if I’ll have to do my pushing with care.”
“Dammit, this isn’t some prank. You’re not a time-jump acc
ountant. You have no training. You haven’t run a single simulation for this era. You haven’t the faintest idea what the parameters are to which you must adhere.”
“What impact is her book going to have? Is the Guild not concerned about that?”
“The new vector she’s started down was formed in the past, a place over which we have a modicum of control. I told you, we don’t roll dice with the future. The parameters specifically forbid—”
“Stuff the parameters. She’s writing about Ursula. I’m going to stop her.”
Mertons heaved his chest. “I’m afraid we can’t allow it. And as far as going from here to 1673—and don’t look at me like that. I am certainly smart enough to see you are planning to go back to Charles—you may forget it. The Guild has shut down all time tubes indefinitely, except for one, and that one they are monitoring closely.”
If Mertons had wanted to return Peter’s punch, he couldn’t have done better than this. How many times could Peter fail her?
“Furthermore,” Mertons said, “they will bring you back, forcibly if necessary.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, if the Guild had the power to force me to return, you’d be frog-marching me into their council room as we speak.”
Silence. Mertons looked at his feet.
Peter lifted his mug. “As I thought.”
Mertons dropped his head into his hands, and Peter considered what he could salvage from this adventure. He sensed the small sketchbook in his pocket and thought of the letter it held, the letter he would use if all else failed. It shamed him even to consider such an unscrupulous act—a letter that would destroy Cam’s career—but he consoled himself with the fact that an alternate plan, a plan with which Mertons might help him, should be enough to render the plan involving the letter unnecessary.
“Don’t despair, my friend,” Peter said after a moment. “I have a deal for you.”
“A deal?” Mertons looked up.
“Aye. You help me. I help you.”
Mertons covered his nose reflexively. “You’re not going to hit me again, are you?”
“No, no. Nothing like it. How would you like to be credited with negotiating my return?”
“Since I’ll lose my job if I don’t, I can honestly say I would.”
“Well, we can’t have you losing your job, now can we? ’Twill require only a few essentials. Nothing the Guild can’t afford.” Peter smiled.
Mertons looked slightly dizzy. “You’re going to blackmail the Guild?”
“Blackmail’s an ugly word. Think of it as facilitating the most efficient return possible.”
“What, pray tell, do you require?”
“You will want to make a list.”
As the publican placed a steaming mug on the table, Mertons took the pencil and piece of paper Peter offered him, all the while moving his lips silently, as if in prayer, though his expression was far from ecclesiastical.
“I’m ready.”
“Very well,” said Peter. “’Tis simple. I want a studio, a dozen bolts of canvas, and enough lead white paint to fill the Thames.”
Thirty-four
“There’s a man upstairs in the loft for you,” Jacket said as he pressed the security button to call the elevator.
“Really?” Cam searched his eyes for a hint but found none.
Jacket had taken to greeting her in the lobby each night when she got off her bus, sometimes even with a much-appreciated glass of wine. Her bus entered Mt. Lebanon where the two big churches sat, at the peak of Washington Road. She’d exited there and walked the last quarter of a mile to her building, past the cemetery where her father was buried, past the hardware store, past the Japanese restaurant, whose sushi she and Jacket loved so much. It was a great way to unwind. The last couple weeks before the opening of an exhibition were always hard, and though everything was coming together, she was glad the long workday was over and all she had to worry about was getting Ursula into the sack, creatively speaking, with Peter. Not that it was all that hard, after all. She knew how persuasive Peter could be when he put his mind to it.
“A man?” she said, juggling the wine and her laptop bag. “Who?”
“Dunno. Didn’t give his name. Says he’s a friend of yours.”
Her heart did a lurch, and then she remembered Jacket and Peter had already met. Whoever the man upstairs was, it wasn’t Peter.
When the door opened in the penthouse, Cam saw Peter’s nosy apprentice, Mertons, sitting on the edge of her couch. For an instant she didn’t know what to say. She knew he’d arrived shortly after Peter, for Jeanne had told her so. She also knew Jeanne had brought him to Orbis Coffee. But that had been a week ago. Where he’d been since then, she had no idea. He was dressed in a somber gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a tie so subdued it made regimental stripes look like fluorescent tie-dye. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was an accountant.
She looked at Jacket, then back at Mertons, waiting for a clue on the backstory Jacket had been handed.
Mertons cleared his throat and stood. “Gregory Mertons. Do you remember our appointment? Sorry to arrive so late. I’m on my way to the airport.”
Was he supposed to be a pilot? A chauffeur? The new breed of British middle-class terrorist? She looked at the briefcase at his feet as well as a huge, oversized suitcase next to the fireplace. “Um…”
“I’m here to discuss the insurance you asked about. Whole life?” He returned to his seat.
“Riiiiiiight.” She dropped her laptop bag on the table, hugged the wine a little closer, and said to Jacket, “Sorry, I, uh, forgot.”
Jacket gave her a questioning look. “Insurance?”
She shrugged. “You’re welcome to join us. I’m trying to decide between whole life and term. I want to be covered, you know, with renewable or decreasing term, but I also keep thinking of the cash value. I asked Mr. Mertons to run a few different scenarios for me—”
“Seventeen, actually,” Mertons said, patting the briefcase at his feet.
“I might need your advice.” She smiled.
Jacket waved away the idea like it was a swarming cloud of locusts and broke into a jog. “Lots of work,” he said. “Wine’s in the kitchen.”
When she heard the studio door shut, she turned to demand an explanation, but Mertons had his head buried in the briefcase. Good God, she thought with a start, I’m not actually going to have to hear about insurance, am I?
He pulled out a piece of paper, nearly laid it on the table, then picked it up again. “I need to talk to you about Peter.”
She felt a charge of fear. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.” Mertons regarded her closely over the top of his glasses.
“Oh. Good. I guess.”
“Have a seat.”
She sunk into the couch opposite him and put her wine on the table.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
She flushed. “Look, I don’t know what he told you, but sleeping with Peter doesn’t exactly make you his girlfriend. If anything, it makes you something a little closer to an idiot.”
Mertons examined a nonexistent crease in his tie. “I was talking about Jacket, Miss Stratford.”
Great, Cam. Maybe you can post a snap on Instagram too. “Um, yes, I guess you could call him that.”
Mertons nodded and balled the paper in his hand. Pressing the bridge of his glasses upward, he said, “You’re aware what you’ve done is illegal.”
She felt a different sort of warmth creep across her cheeks, the sort of warmth one feels when called into the principal’s office. “I’m not aware of any law I violated.”
“Ignorance is a very weak defense.”
“Who are you?”
“Gregory Mertons, Guild time-jump accountant.” He held out his hand.
“Time-jump accountant?”
/> “Yes.”
“What were you doing in Peter’s studio?”
He lowered his hand. “I’m an envoy and an observer. I travel the world to ensure the appropriate time rules are being followed. Think of me as a UN ambassador, the painting world’s version of Angelina Jolie.”
She looked at his hangdog eyes and Abraham Lincoln–like lankiness. “Um…”
“The Guild has been watching you for some time.”
“Watching? Spying on, do you mean? And what is the Guild?”
Mertons reached into his pocket and retrieved a mechanical pencil. “It’s not spying when the use of the time tube is unlicensed.”
“Gee, and I swear I sent in my application.”
“We don’t consider this to be humorous, Miss Stratford. Time travel is exceedingly risky, especially unprecalculated time travel.”
“Good news. I aced precalculus in high school. I never travel without my quadratic formula.”
“Miss Stratford—”
“Mr. Mertons, why are you here?”
“How shall I put it? Your travel visa has been revoked.”
Jacket had won every game of strip blackjack they’d played until he taught her to read the “tell.” Mertons clicked his pencil.
“You’ve shut down the tube?” The laptop with the extra-special version of Amazon was in her bag on the table in the entry hall. She tried to keep her eyes focused on Mertons.
Click click click click. “Yes.”
“Gosh, it was my favorite part of the DeLorean.”
The pencil stopped. A muscle contracted at the corner of Mertons’s eye. She felt like her laptop was practically tapping her on her shoulder, and she cupped a hand around her eye to block her view.