Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  “That proves nothing,” Malcolm grumbled, though he could feel his heart starting to race.

  Imani chuckled and swiped again. “This is a wall mural in the Takamatsuzuka Tomb in Japan.” Imani enhanced the picture. “Notice here, near the bottom. Another crest.”

  Malcolm said nothing, barely breathing as Imani continued, showing two more pictures with crests; one from Greece in the 5th century BC, the other from the ancient Mayans. Finally, he raised a shaking hand that it was enough. “Let’s just say for argument's sake that I believe you,” Malcolm said. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

  Imani and Jim shared a look as the red-haired agent started to pace. Imani put her hands on the table, playing with a thin band of silver on her right middle finger. Malcolm guessed she was recently divorced, as the ring finger on her left hand was slightly discolored.

  “Malcolm,” the agent said. “Claire left a second vile of JPL-7 in a safety deposit box for Gerald.”

  Malcolm nodded. “I gathered that. So they’re both going to live forever in time, trying to destroy history. Sounds like fun.” He said that last bit sarcastically.

  Imani shook her head. “No, that’s not going to happen. Gerald died in a prison fight almost three weeks ago, Malcolm. Claire’s on her own.”

  Malcolm sat back in his chair as he finally understood what this was all about. “And you want me to use his dose to go after her and try to stop her,” he said. Imani nodded, her large brown eyes focused on him as she waited. “Why me?” Malcolm asked, already anticipating the answer.

  “Because you have a photographic memory and know your history,” Imani whispered. “But not only that, you know Claire and she knows you.” The agent lowered her eyes. “And we both know you have nothing left to lose.”

  Malcolm mulled that over, glancing at Miquel, whose usually swarthy face was pale and uncertain looking. “And if I let you stick that stuff in me, what happens if it doesn’t work?”

  Jim sighed and rubbed his thinning hair before putting his hands on his hips. “You die either way, Mister Foster. There’s no coming back from this.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MALCOLM

  “You can’t seriously be considering this,” Miquel said.

  Malcolm couldn’t remember ever seeing his friend looking so angry. “Why not?” he replied, staring at the tablet on the table. Imani had left it on, freezing it on the last image of Claire before she’d shut off the video. Malcolm had expected the tablet to go to sleep at some point, but he guessed since it hadn’t that Imani had left it on deliberately.

  “Because those people are insane,” Miquel said, gesturing to the government agents, who were standing outside on the patio talking. Malcolm had asked them to leave to give him time to think things over. “And their insanity is starting to infect you now.”

  “Are you telling me you don’t believe in any of this?” Malcolm asked.

  “It’s superstitious bullshit,” Miquel replied. “Nothing more.”

  “What about the Day of the Dead? Isn’t that just superstitious bullshit, too?”

  “That’s different,” Miquel said, shifting his eyes away.

  “Is it?” Malcolm said smugly, knowing that he had him. The Day of the Dead was a festival where people honored and remembered the deceased. Many Hispanics believed the souls of the dead came to visit loved ones on that day. He and Miquel had argued over it many times, with his friend insisting that the spirits did indeed come back to see the living on that day.

  “That’s a celebration, like Halloween, not this crazy, go-back-in-time shit.”

  “You never described it like that to me before,” Malcolm pointed out.

  “I am now,” Miquel grunted stubbornly.

  “But what if this crazy shit actually works, Miquel?” Malcolm said. “You saw the pictures. It’s hard to argue with what they show.”

  “You’re blinded by false hope,” Miquel said. He started to pace as Malcolm fought the shakes to keep his eyes on him. “Any ten-year-old with a paint program could do the same thing in half an hour. They’re playing you, Boss.”

  “Suppose you’re right,” Malcolm said, starting to feel queasy as Miquel continued to walk back and forth aggressively. “Could you stand still, by the way? You’re making me dizzy.”

  “Oh,” Miquel said, looking distraught. He sat down beside Malcolm and put his hand on his arm. “Sorry. I’m just upset.”

  “What’s there to be upset about?” Malcolm said, his mouth curling in an attempted smile. “You should be doing cartwheels over this. The second I croak, you become a very rich man.”

  “You know it’s not about the money,” Miquel whispered, looking hurt. “Being here with you has never been about that.”

  Malcolm nodded, wishing he hadn’t tried to make light of it. He did know. Miquel had been a fourteen-year-old orphan living on the streets when they’d first met, doing whatever he could just to stay alive. He’d stolen Malcolm’s wallet one day and had run with it, thinking the older man was an easy mark. But back then, the ALS hadn’t manifested yet, and Malcolm could run like the wind. He’d caught the boy after three blocks, but rather than thrash him or turn him over to the police, he’d brought him home, fed him, and given him a place to stay.

  Miquel had lived with Malcolm for ten years after that, and the two had formed a deep friendship that transcended both age and race. But one day, Miquel got a letter from Mexico, learning that he had a mother and two sisters living there and that they needed his help. So Miquel—being the man that he was—had left to go to them, and there he had met his future wife and had started a family. Miquel had been in Mexico for almost ten years, not knowing anything about Malcolm’s worsening health, before finally, the older man had called him, having nowhere left to turn. Miquel hadn’t even hesitated and had rushed back to Texas, pledging to stay and help until the end—however long that might be. His wife and children were still trying to work out an immigration snafu, but hopefully, they would be arriving soon to join him.

  Malcolm felt deeply ashamed of himself for even joking about money after everything his friend had sacrificed for him. He lifted a shaking hand, the fingers unresponsive and drooping as he lowered his withered hand on top of Miguel’s strong one. He met the other man’s eyes. “I’m all used up, my friend,” he said. “Look at me. There’s no hope. I’m just a bag of bones and skin now. My life is just—” Malcolm hesitated as tears began to roll down Miquel’s face. “It’s just nothing, Miquel. That’s what my life has been reduced to—nothing. This thing with Claire Blackwood is probably some kind of sick joke. But just the same, I have to try. If that’s all it turns out to be and I die, well, at least I’ll be free of the pain and helplessness once and for all.”

  Miquel lowered his head as he fought to control himself. Malcolm clumsily tried to stroke his hair, finally giving up in frustration when he couldn’t steady his arm. He folded his twisted and useless hands in his lap instead. “The best thing that ever happened to me was when you stole my wallet, Miquel. Thank you so much for your friendship. I couldn’t have gotten this far without you.” Malcolm swallowed, his resolve hardening. “But we both knew someday it would come to this. We just thought it would be those pills or a heart attack, something like that.”

  Miquel looked back up, his eyes red, though he’d gained control of the tears. “So, that’s it? You’re just going to give up after all you’ve been through?”

  “Yes, Miquel, I am,” Malcolm said firmly. “Please don’t fight me on this. I don’t want our final time together to be filled with anger and resentment. Sometimes you just have to know when to let go.”

  Miquel studied his older friend’s face, searching for any signs of uncertainty there, but he saw nothing in the other man’s features except pain, suffering, and weariness. Finally, he nodded in defeat. “I understand,” he said, though the words came out reluctantly. He tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace than anything else. “Shall I call them back in no
w, Boss?”

  Malcolm’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Call me boss one more time and I’ll kick your ass.”

  Miquel chuckled as he stood, though the humor didn’t penetrate to his eyes, which were filled with infinite sadness. “I’d like to see you try, you old fart.”

  Malcolm laughed. “Careful what you wish for, boy. I just might come back as a four-hundred-pound wrestler. Then what will you do?”

  “Most likely run like hell,” Miquel said as he turned on his heels and headed for the closed patio doors. He paused with his hand on the door handle and looked back. “It has been an honor to know you, Malcolm Foster. You’ve been like a father to me, and I just want to say thank you for everything you did for me.”

  Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment as his whole body trembled. Finally, he said, “Trust me, Miquel Campana, the honor has been mine. Now go get those two and let’s do this thing.”

  Miquel nodded and opened the door, stepping outside to speak with Imani and Jim.

  “Thank you, my son,” Malcolm whispered, watching Miquel with fatherly pride, remembering the scared, troubled boy that he’d once been. “You’re the only thing I’m going to miss from this life.”

  Malcolm opened his eyes to screaming, unable to breathe as his tortured lungs fought to suck in air. He lay on his back, with an incredibly hairy face inches away from his own and strong hands wrapped around his throat. He felt overwhelming panic rising in his chest, and he clawed wildly at the man above him, gratified to hear him shout in pain as Malcolm’s long fingernails raked down his face. The hairy man twisted away, howling as the pressure around Malcolm’s throat receded, leaving him lying on the ground, retching and gasping for air. Finally, having recovered enough to look around in wild-eyed shock, Malcolm saw that he was lying in a clearing surrounded by tall trees, with shadowy forms battling around him dressed in furs. They appeared to be fighting each other with crude clubs, spears, and fist-sized rocks.

  “I don’t believe it,” Malcolm whispered in awe. His voice sounded guttural, almost beast-like, though he knew it wasn’t from his ALS. Claire Blackwood’s serum had worked! He felt overwhelming joy at being alive explode in his chest, his happiness quickly switching to fear as a club-wielding figure rushed toward him. Malcolm instinctively lifted his hands to protect himself, but the fur-clad man just grabbed him roughly by the arm, hauling him to his feet.

  “Dak, we kill now,” the man grunted in a language that sounded like barking, though somehow Malcolm understood the words. He thrust the club into Malcolm’s hands. The man was short, with enormous eyes and a wide, protruding brow. His face and nose were flat and brutish, with long, wiry brown hair and a beard that was thick on the chin and growing wispy along the jawline and across his cheeks almost to his eyes.

  “What?” Malcolm managed to say in confusion.

  The man pointed toward the combatants. “You kill now. Get women and go.”

  Malcolm felt himself being shoved forward and he stumbled, holding the club uncertainly. He was still trying to come to grips with the idea that he could walk again, though a part of his brain knew dwelling on that fact for much longer was very likely going to get him killed.

  “Come,” Malcolm’s companion grunted as he ran toward the fight, a spear now held in his hands.

  Malcolm watched him go, transfixed, realizing that some of the men fighting in the clearing were much taller than both he and his new companion were. Malcolm’s analytical brain automatically began feeding him information even as he took several steps back toward the treeline, away from the fight. Judging by the size and protruding ridge bone at the brow of the man who had spoken—which Malcolm quickly assessed he also possessed—both he and the shorter, stockier men appeared to be Neanderthals. The taller men—also dressed in furs—would be the ancestors of modern humans, he guessed. Which meant he could be anywhere from 400,000 years in the past to 40,000—when the Neanderthals had become extinct.

  Malcolm heard sudden sobs behind him and he whirled, spying three Neanderthal women huddled together behind some bushes. One was old, with scraggly grey hair and tough, leathery skin, while the other two appeared to be much younger. He took several tentative steps toward them, one hand extended. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  One of the women stiffened, her large eyes widening before she jumped to her feet. “Gerald!” she cried.

  Malcolm just gaped at her, trying to find his voice just as searing heat erupted in his chest. He looked down in confusion, unable to comprehend why a sharpened, bloody piece of wood was jutting out from between his ribs. He felt the club drop from his numb fingers and he fell to his knees as the Neanderthal woman that he now knew was Claire rushed toward him, screaming Gerald’s name. Then all awareness left him.

  Bath Town, North Carolina, 1718

  Malcolm awoke to semi-darkness. He groaned, automatically reaching for his chest, surprised to find it bare and uninjured. He could still feel the pain from the spear piercing it—though he quickly realized that was just a figment of his imagination. He was perfectly fine. Moonlight streamed in from a window to his right, illuminating a small room with rounded walls sheathed in shadows. He’d clearly moved on to another life, released when the Neanderthal’s body he’d been in died. Malcolm cursed, thinking of Claire. She’d been only feet away from him, and he hadn’t had a chance to tell her anything. Then he remembered that she’d called out Gerald’s name to him and he frowned. What other name were you expecting, dumb-ass?

  “What’s wrong?” a voice asked sleepily from beside him.

  Malcolm realized he was lying on a mattress that smelled faintly of perfume and sweat. He glanced sideways toward the young woman who lay in the bed beside him. She was on her side facing him and she sighed, then propped herself up on an elbow and yawned mightily, her dark hair askew. A thick blanket covered them both, and it slipped away from her to reveal full breasts that gleamed like pale moons in the faint light.

  “Uh, nothing,” Malcolm said, unable to tear his eyes away from her breasts. He hadn’t been in the presence of a naked woman in a very long time.

  The woman laughed, following his eyes as she cupped one breast and jiggled it suggestively. “Pray tell, are you wanting more, Mister Thache? You’re a randy one, that’s the truth. I swear you were snoring less than a minute ago, and now your topsail is full of wind again.”

  “No, uh, that’s all right,” Malcolm said, having to force his gaze away from the girl. He swung his legs over the bed and stood, realizing he was very tall and very naked. He flexed his arms, marveling at the strength in them. His legs were rippled with muscle, and his body fit and hairy, though he weaved a moment to get his balance, feeling woozy. It felt like a hangover, something Malcolm hadn’t experienced in many years. A long, dark beard tied with ribbons hung past his chest and he stroked it absently as he looked around.

  “Go outside if you need to piss, love,” the woman said drowsily, the bed creaking as she lay back down and snuggled beneath the covers. “The last time you used the pot, you splashed all over the floor. Just mind the flowers out front. Margaret will be overcome with grief if you drown them, and I’m in no mood to listen to the woman’s caterwauling.”

  “Uh, okay,” Malcolm said. He saw a faint light coming through cracks around a door to his left and he took several steps that way, the boards beneath his feet protesting against his weight.

  The girl in bed chuckled. “You going out there bare arsed with your hairy canary swinging in the wind, are you? You’re likely to give poor Margaret a terrible fright if you do that.”

  Malcolm grimaced at his nakedness. “Oh, yes, of course.” He spied a pair of breeches, a linen shirt, and what looked like stockings draped over a chair nearby. Scuffed black leather boots lay on the floor by the bed near his feet. He noticed a faded red coat hung on a hook above the chair with a sword still in its scabbard attached to a colorful sash hooked over the coat. Malcolm pulled the strange clothing on the best that he could,
then reached for the coat.

  “Have you gone daft, love?” the girl muttered in amusement. “The stockings go under the breeches. You didn’t drink that much, did you?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Malcolm said, trying not to look as flustered as he felt. He put on the coat, then adjusted the stockings and breeches properly before sitting on the bed and pulling on the boots that reached well past his knees. He felt a hand caressing his back lightly and he turned and glanced at the woman, thankful that she’d covered herself. He wet his lips. “Is that you, Claire?” he asked tentatively. Imani had told him that Claire had put markers in Gerald’s serum so that—at least in theory—the two would always be close together regardless of where they were in time. Where one went, the other would follow. The rational part of Malcolm’s brain told him that was impossible, but Malcolm just told that part to shut up, since that part had also assured him that past lives were just a fairy tale for the weak-minded and gullible people in the world.

  “What did you just call me?” the woman demanded, her eyes lighting with sudden anger. “Are you so addled that you can’t remember my name now? Or perhaps you’ve mistaken me for one of the many hussies from your glorious, swashbuckling past?”

  “No, of course not,” Malcolm said weakly in confusion as he stood. “My apologies, madam. I meant no insult, I assure you.”

  The woman laughed then, slapping her hand on the mattress. “Good Lord, Edward, you truly are a sight. Would that others could see the mighty Blackbeard as I do, looking for all the world as red as a cock’s crest. If your attempt was to divert me from my slumber with humor, good sir, then I assure you, you have succeeded mightily. I know well that your eyes and all else upon you have but one interest, and that is dear old Mary. So do not look so chastened, my love. I was merely quipping a joke at your expense.”