Chronomancer

by Mackenzie Morris

  Since then, the government had been in shambles.

  "Aren't you hungry?" Gin asked, before gulping down his third glass of champagne. "Try the veal, Dean. It's to die for."

  "Yeah, sorry."

  "Are you feeling all right?" Annette asked, her head tilted to the side like a concerned puppy.

  "Actually, where is your restroom? I'm terribly sorry."

  She gave him a small comforting smile. "It's fine. First door to the right, down the hall, then it's the door with the candelabras on both sides."

  Dean carefully left the table, placing his napkin in his chair, then exited the dining room. It was a short walk to the mother of pearl and ivory restroom with the lounge chairs, giant mirrors, and fountains filled with tiny pink violets. He locked the door behind him then set the bag on the pearlescent counter top.

  With shaking fingers, Dean grasped the tab for the heavy zipper. He took a deep breath before sliding it down the length of the bag. He pulled the sides apart to glance inside. A tangled mass of red wires, coils, gears, and glowing LED numbers greeted him.

  He gasped before zipping it back up. A cold sweat beaded up on his forehead. A bomb? Did they really expect him to leave a bomb there? What could he do? Was the Inquisition watching his every move? If he tried to tell Gin or Annette about it, would they kill them, anyway? Would they slaughter his children?

  Dean turned on the faucet then splashed the cold water on his face, but it did nothing to calm him. It had to be a fake, a false bomb made for the purpose of testing him. The Inquisition needed to know how far Dean would go to save the lives of his long-lost children. Surely not even the Inquisition would make him kill his friends. That is what he repeated time and time over in his mind as he replaced the bag on his shoulder, more cautious this time, and went to the door.

  He paused. What if there was a way to let them know that was less conspicuous than telling them? Dean went to the counter and began pulling the drawers open. He searched through the various toiletry items until he found a half-empty tube of pink lipstick. It would have to do. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the door was still closed, Dean scribbled his warning message on the side of the counter so it was out of sight, but still visible to anyone who approached it.

  Evacuate. You're in danger.

  He hoped that would be enough. Someone had to see it eventually. Dean took a deep breath and left. He nodded his head to the Secret Service agent who was standing outside the door before heading to the dining room where Annette was giggling and holding hands with Gin.

  Dean bowed his head as he took his seat again. "My apologies."

  Gin's boisterous laughter died down as he finished off his veal. "So, Annette and I were talking about taking a vacation to France for our honeymoon, but with all the terror attacks recently, it seems best to stay at home. You know, at least until those Mana Glen killers are caught. Tell us about the case, the investigation. That has to be hard, having it so close to home."

  "Yeah, uh, it is." Dean picked up his fork and jabbed it into the meat. "You know, they're kids. You both know that I have a soft spot for kids."

  "They're not children, Dean. They're monsters. Children don't go around killing people or bombing trains. They . . . you know what they did to Nolan."

  Dean shook his head. "Annette . . ."

  "It's not your fault, Dean." Gin scooted his chair to the side and put his arm around Annette. "She's just upset. It still hurts her a lot. It hurts me, too."

  She pushed him away and wiped the tears from her eyes. "I'm fine. I wish you would take this more seriously. You're a detective, Dean. Find them. Bring them to justice. Do it for Nolan. You owe him this."

  Dean finally found the will to take a few bites. "I owe him more than putting two kids behind bars or in the ground. My job is to find the truth, and I will do everything in my power to find the truth, even if it's hard, even if no one believes me, even if I do it from inside a cage like I'm an animal. I will get to the bottom of this, I swear that to you, and I will figure out what happened to your husband, my dear friend. I will. But you have to trust me. Trust me, Annette. I won't forget and I won't give up."

  Gin tapped his fork against his fiance's plate. "Your veal is getting cold, dear."

  "Yes, it is. I'm sorry."

  Dean reached out to take a roll from the basket, but stopped when he noticed how violently his hand was trembling. "No, don't apologize. You've done nothing wrong."

  "You're so understanding, Dean. You know I just want closure."

  "I know. I do too. I will find who is responsible and I will see justice done. I promise."

  The three of them continued to eat in silence, aside from a few questions about Gin's work or the occasional small talk about the weather or the stock market. The longer they dined on tiramisu and drank hazelnut cappuccinos, the more worried Dean became. Below the fancy table, his leg was pressed up against a bomb. He had no idea how long he had until it detonated. He could nearly hear it buzzing.

  "Dean?"

  The detective cleared his throat and met eyes with Annette. "Sorry. I was . . . enjoying the coffee a little too much."

  "Isn't it divine? An ambassador from Brazil brought it to Gin as a gift. I have never had coffee this rich."

  "It's great. Oh, it is getting chilly in here."

  Gin held up his cell phone where his weather app was pulled up. "There's a snow storm coming, Dean. And from the look of the radar, it's gonna get worse. You should probably stay here tonight. I have a meeting in about an hour with a few members of Congress for some wine and cigars, but you're welcome to stay around until morning."

  "Uh, that's very kind of you, but I must be getting back to Tennessee before they realize I'm out of the state."

  "Oh, yeah. Did they say you couldn't leave the state?" Annette asked. "Isn't that rare?"

  "It's a high profile case, Annette. I probably shouldn't have left my house."

  Gin stood and smiled. "Then by all means, get back home. We don't want to hear about you being arrested again, old chap. I mean it, though, Monday morning, I will have my attorney call you and set up a meeting. I've already given him all of your information. We'll clear your name."

  "Thank you so much."

  "It will be all right. You don't belong in jail with those criminals who hurt people. You couldn't harm a spider. You're a good man, Dean Amethyst."

  Dean bit his lip and slid the bag farther underneath the table. He stood then shook hands with Gin. "I cannot thank you enough for everything."

  Gin hugged him, patting his back. "All we ask is that you come visit more often. I get tired of all the politics and dealing with a stubborn Congress day in and day out. Sometimes even a president needs to relax and have a few drinks. I might just take you up on those beers, if you're still offering."

  "I promise I will."

  "Want me to walk you to your car?" Annette asked.

  "Nah, I've got it. Thanks. I'll call you when I get home to let you know I made it in one piece. I just want you two to know that whatever happens tonight or tomorrow . . . know that I love you and you're everything to me. I would never hurt you if I had a choice in the matter. You're my friends, you became my family. And family comes first."

  Gin nodded. "Always, Dean."

  "If we don't see each other again, please know that I am so sorry."

  "We'll get you cleared of these charges. You won't live in a cage."

  He nodded and left without another word. Even if they didn't know what he was truly talking about, they heard his apology. They heard the truth about how much he cared for them.

  Just when Dean stepped out of the dining room, the airy voice of the Secret Service agent hissed at him. "Sir, you forgot your bag."

  Dean froze. He watched the snowflakes falling outside the towering windows in the outside lights. For a moment, he saw those windows shattering in a cloud of smoke as people screamed and flames engulfed the mansion. He blinked and it was gone, but his heart pounded in his ears
with a near deafening beat.

  "Sir, your bag."

  He turned and took the black duffel bag from the agent. "Thank you. I can't be leaving that."

  "Have a good evening, sir. Drive safely."

  "You, too." Dean slowly walked to the front door, waiting for the agent to return to Gin's side. He paused in front of a waist-high clay urn and glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one could see him. With one swift motion, he dropped the bag into the urn and slid out of the doors into the blowing snow.

  The same slick silver car that Shay had been driving earlier in the day was parked in the driveway, but it was empty. Dean found the keys taped to the side mirror. He entered the car and turned it on, the music starting up on a classical music station. With the dramatic irony of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony drowning out the squeal of the tires, Dean sped away from the mansion and the bomb he left behind. The faster and the farther he could get away from there, the better.

  He didn't know where he was driving or how fast, but the lights from other cars blurred together in a dizzying mass of twisted shapes in the darkness. Dean pressed his foot down on the pedal and gripped the steering wheel as the engine purred, whisking him away from the pain, the death, and the violence that he left in a duffel bag for his friends to find. He floored it and lost himself in his adrenaline high that sent his blood snapping with electric energy. His heart grieved for his friends, but something became alive in Dean's chest, something dark that he had kept locked away behind pain and loss. Over the crescendo of the music, he smiled. His smile turned to laughter and his laughter turned to cries of anger.

  Dean screamed and screamed until his voice went hoarse and the robotic female voice from the GPS chastised him for missing a turn. The snow turned to ice pellets that pelted the windshield as he made a U-turn in the middle of the highway, barely missing the front of a tractor trailer. He raced the wrong way, darting between cars until he whipped around and found his exit ramp. As if he was in an intoxicated dream, Dean continued driving, his knuckles white around the steering wheel and sweat pouring down his face.

  Whatever he believed about himself was a lie now. He had shrugged off that old skin and found something more dangerous underneath, something vile, something terrifying. But it was the skin of desperation, of necessity, of doing what he believed to be right at the time. His children meant more to Dean than anyone else in the world. No matter what happened, he made it his mission to get them back and to save them from the brainwashing of the Inquisition, even if he had to become a murderer to do it.

  The robotic voice ranted at him again to turn right, so he did, slamming on the brakes to stop inches away from the sign for the run-down motel with the flaking green paint on the walls that were slicked with ice. Only a few clunker cars sat in the parking lot, covered in snow. A single man sat outside on a plastic lawn chair in his boxers drinking a beer while an orange cat rubbed against his legs. Dean parked as straight as he could then turned the engine off. He rested his head against the steering wheel for a few minutes, feeling the cold creep inside the heated car, letting his senses return to him.

  Once he could breathe again and his pulse returned to relatively normal, Dean exited the car and crunched through the ice-encrusted snow to the dingy glass door of the lobby and entered. The tiny bell jingled, alerting the three white cats that crawled on the cracked vinyl seats of his presence.

  Dean shuffled towards the only other human where the woman behind the high counter of peeling brown laminate was smoking a cigarette and watching late night television on her phone. He pushed past the two overly large plastic palm trees in cracked clay pots to lean over the counter. With as much composure as he could manage, the detective spoke to her over the sound of a cheering audience coming from the speaker. "I have a reservation."

  "You that business man coming back from D.C.?"

  Businessman? Dean almost corrected her, but thought for a moment before making a mistake. "Yeah. Just in D.C. for a business meeting. Politicians, am I right?"

  The woman reached over to take a key from the rack beside her and placed it in front of Dean without looking up from her phone. "Room 103. First floor."

  "Thank you."

  "You have a merry Christmas."

  Dean was taken aback by the kindness from such a strange source. He crushed the key in his fist and stormed out without returning the pleasantry. There was no room in his life for such fanciful ideals like happiness. With every passing minute, Dean's heart hardened like the layer of snow on the highway, compacted and formed into solid unbreakable ice.

  He reached his room, ignoring he wave from the shirtless man in the plastic chair. Dean opened the door then entered the tiny motel room and slammed the door shut behind him, knocking chips of yellow paint off of the door frame. He flipped on the single overhead light that sputtered and snapped as it woke up, sending cockroaches fleeing into the air vent above the sloppily-made bed.

  The bottle of scotch with the golden label was out of place next to the old boxy television and the smeared mirror on the back of the particle board dresser. Dean removed his tuxedo jacket, letting it fall to the matted carpet in a heap, then went to the dresser and picked up the small card that rested next to the bottle. He held it up to read the curly handwriting in the dull light.

  To congratulate a job well done. The Inquisition of Purity values your compliance. May this be the beginning of a prosperous partnership.

  -Inquisitor Shay Terringer

  Dean tossed the card to the floor as well then turned on the television. He flipped through commercials for dog food, vacuum cleaners, and exercise equipment until he found the local news where bright red banners scrolled across the bottom and top of the screen. A female reporter was in the middle of nowhere in the dark, addressing her sleepy audience.

  "Around eleven local time, there were multiple emergency calls placed, all reporting hearing or seeing a massive explosion at the home of President Tomlinson, who was away from the White House for the evening. The president, former First Lady Annette Fleur, and six members of Congress, who have not yet been identified, have been rushed to the hospital. Twelve more Secret Service agents and civilians were taken in for care when their adjacent homes were damaged in the blast. We also just received word of at least eight fatalities. We do not know if these numbers are some of the wounded or additional victims. Initial investigators are calling this an act of terrorism that may be linked to the spree of killings in Mana Glen in November and the hijacking of Air Force One, as well as multiple incidents overseas. The suspects in this case have already been determined to be Jackson Carter and Nikolas Valentino of Mana Glen, Tennessee. Officials have been searching for the duo since last month's rampage and subsequent attacks. They believe the two young men are part of a home-grown terrorist group seeking to uproot the government and promote anarchy."

  With a rapidly racing heart and a painful tightness in his chest, Dean turned off the television then went to the dresser. Sirens blared in the distance, down some rural road to nowhere while the lights in the crooked fixtures on the spackled ceiling flickered and snapped. He stared at the bottle while a couple in the room next door argued over something incoherent in sharp bickering and muffled screams.

  Dean popped the cork then cradled the bottle like an infant as he stumbled onto the faded blue tiles of the tiny bathroom. Without removing his clothes, he stepped into the mildew-speckled shower and turned the water on to icy cold. He took a long drink as he slid down to sit on the slick surface. It was over. It was done. He had turned down a path that only led one direction with no way to turn around.

  What had he done?

  He betrayed Niki and Opal. He planted a bomb in the house of his friend, injuring many and killing several innocent people. And for what? To maybe save the lives of three people Shay said were his children? But now it was too late to change things. As a fugitive, the Inquisition was his only chance at remaining out of prison . . . or worse. How could he have been so stupid?
After all those years working in law enforcement, he fell into such a trap with no foreseeable way out. It had happened so quickly, giving him no chance to think things through or find another way. Dean was in way over his head and he was drowning.

  The water stung his skin, the wind howled outside the creaking walls, and the shouting next door grew louder. But Dean was lost in his misery, his grief his only remaining friend. In shock, he watched the water swirling down the rusted drain, wishing he could escape as easily. There he remained through the dark night with only the inner warmth of the alcohol to keep him company.

  Chapter 12

  The dull glow from the pulsing lantern sent shadows dancing across the flower-print wallpaper that was streaked with soot and mud where it still stood to make up what was left of a gutted home near the banks of the Volga River. The pops of distant gunfire were accented with the pained screams of soldiers and Stalingrad citizens. Chunks of plaster and bricks tumbled down from the charred remnants when a tank rumbled past in the frozen air of early morning.

  Jack sat with his back to the crumbling wall with Niki on one side and Opal on the other, huddled together to keep him warm under a wool blanket while he slowly munched on soft beef tacos. They had only been there thirty minutes, but Xander was already growing agitated with the situation. The older Chronomancer paced back and forth at the edge of the building's husk where the battered ground dropped off into a shallow pit filled with debris and a small fire that continued to crackle despite being only embers.

  They were all dressed as Stalingrad citizens in plain winter clothes with only the bare necessities. Xander's long brown canvas coat was speckled with snow and ashes as he stood watch with an MP40 slung over his shoulder that he had taken off of a fallen German soldier near the building's entrance. His breath fogged in the air below the sky that had just begun to lighten and turn pink around the eastern horizon.