“To my bedroom, in 1919,” Everett replied. “After my . . . well, after the death of my other self, my parents shut the door and allowed no one to open it.”
“We read about it online,” said Jillian softly.
Everett felt a pinch of guilt. He knew it hurt Jillian to remember that death. Himself, he’d only ever felt gratitude for being given two chances at life.
“Right,” said Littlewood. “Let’s get underway, then, shall we?”
Everett nodded.
“It’s better than sitting around doing nothing while . . . while . . .” Jillian broke off, her eyes filling with tears.
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” said Everett, taking her hand in his. He wasn’t sure, not at all, but this wasn’t the time for speaking doubts aloud.
Littlewood, apparently, didn’t share his compunction.
“Well,” the professor said grimly, “if our little moth asphyxiates, that will certainly clear up our questions.”
It took Littlewood a while to satisfy himself the experiment had been properly calibrated, and what with one delay and another, it was not until after four in the afternoon that the moth returned, whole, asleep, and apparently none the worse for wear.
“They’re going to be okay,” said Jillian, her eyes squeezed shut in relief.
Everett threw an arm around her shoulder. “We’ve nothing to worry about.”
“Such a relief,” murmured Jillian. Then she turned to Littlewood. “So how much longer? Forty-something minutes, best guess, right?”
Everett was about to say yes when he noticed that Littlewood was hmming and ahhing to himself while examining his phone.
“What is it?” asked Everett.
Littlewood looked up, a frown creasing his brow. His free hand clutched a clump of his hair.
“Tell us,” said Jillian.
“It’s just that, ah, while our experiment confirms the amount of additional time provided by the use of the second harmonic, it would appear . . . how shall I put it? Our friend the moth, here, is capable of living without oxygen for quite some time. For days, studies suggest.”
“Oh,” said Jillian. “So we still don’t know . . .”
“I’m afraid we won’t know until . . . well, ah, until they return.”
The color drained from Jillian’s face.
“Perhaps we should call an ambulance,” suggested Everett.
Littlewood was back to muttering to himself. “No time to run another experiment with the tortoise . . . I don’t say the return journey will be extended beyond the usual thirty or so seconds, of course.”
“We’re back to where we started,” said Everett. “We don’t know.”
“I know CPR,” said Littlewood.
“We could end up needing a lot more than CPR,” murmured Jillian.
“We can’t risk paramedics standing by in the lab when Quintus and DaVinci return,” Littlewood said firmly.
“We are not risking their lives,” began Jillian, but she was cut off by a noisy thumping at the door to the laboratory. “Are we . . . expecting someone?” she asked softly.
Littlewood, who was now tugging his hair straight up, shook his head.
“I’ll get rid of them,” said Everett, crossing the room.
He peered through the window and saw a man holding up identification of a sort he’d seen on television. Everett’s heart sank. This visitor wouldn’t be so easy to chase off. Although Everett had been away during the FBI agent’s visit to Littlewood’s campus location, Everett felt certain the visitor was Special Agent Nevis.
47
• QUINTUS •
Rome, 53 BC
Quintus’s mind and body shifted into a familiar state of high alert. He had faced terrible odds before, but never with a girl by his side, let alone one so . . . beloved. It filled him with an unfamiliar dread. He attempted to set his feelings aside. To analyze the men before him. That was his task. That was all he had to do. Of the two opponents who had removed their togas, the one not drunk was clearly at ease with his gladius. And carrying a shield, he was prepared to fight. Quintus would have to subdue him first.
“Your slave struck a citizen,” the youth called in Latin from his table. “She must be punished.”
DaVinci whispered, “What is he saying?” Quintus could hear the tension in her voice. Before he could answer her, though, the trained fighter stepped forward, shield hand beckoning, the other gripping his sword.
“You will be compensated for her,” the man said. “Just hand her over, and we can avoid bloodshed.”
“Not entirely,” grunted the youth, leering. “Virgin or not, I think she will bleed before we are done with her.”
Thinking fast, Quintus, grabbed DaVinci roughly by the arm. “Take her. She is too much trouble anyway.” He swung her around in front of him, placing her between himself and the trained fighter.
The men at the table broke into lascivious laughter, making rude gestures Quintus feared DaVinci could not mistake.
“What’s going on?” she demanded in English, trying to break his viselike grip. It would suit his purposes better if she appeared fearful, the gods forgive him. Ignoring her question, he stepped forward, still gripping her forearm. Then, lowering his sword, Quintus shoved DaVinci forward toward his opponent, at the same time addressing DaVinci in hasty English.
“Beloved, drop low!”
The moment the fighter lowered his sword to take DaVinci, Quintus sprang. It was a less than honorable attack, but the deception gave Quintus the advantage he sought. His blade bit deep into the sword arm of the unprepared fighter, who dropped his weapon from his now dangling and useless arm. DaVinci, who had indeed ducked low, had unfortunately spun out of Quintus’s view. He couldn’t track her; the next several moments would be decisive. The fighter Quintus had attacked was bleeding heavily and had let go of his shield to staunch his wound. Swiftly, Quintus grabbed the discarded shield and brought it down heavily on his opponent’s head, leaving the man unconscious.
Next, Quintus had to subdue the slaves and reach the other two freemen in the tavern, all before the men down the alley were able to close in on him or DaVinci.
Quintus rushed the slaves. The first, unprepared, fell under the hammerlike blow of Quintus’s stolen shield, blood streaming from a head wound. The second slave, clearly in fear of his life, attacked Quintus with his club. From his periphery, Quintus noted the youth and the drunkard had risen and taken up weapons. Quintus fought the second slave giving no quarter, and the poor man, reconsidering his chances, fled, ignoring his master’s cries to return.
Whirling, Quintus spun just in time to meet the onslaught of the drunkard and the youth. He parried the youth’s blade, knocking it from his hand, but as he did so, the drunkard managed to stab Quintus’s shield arm, gashing his bicep. Ignoring the pain, Quintus turned and thrust his gladius into the drunkard’s belly. When he was certain his foe would not rise, Quintus spun to face the youth.
It was then that he heard DaVinci’s cry. The youth, instead of recovering his lost sword, had used the moment of Quintus’s attack on the drunkard to seize DaVinci by the hair and was now trying to steal the dagger from her. When his first attempt earned him a slash across the forearm, the youth yanked hard. Shrieking, DaVinci stabbed wildly. Quintus ran toward them just as they both stumbled over the downed body of the first fighter. The youth recovered more quickly, and this time, he managed to disarm DaVinci, holding her before him as a human shield.
“Coward!” cried Quintus. “Dog!”
In that same moment, Quintus felt a gentle rush of air behind him followed by a soft intake of breath. Spinning from DaVinci, Quintus saw he was under attack by one of the four men from down the street. His eyes followed the arc of his attacker’s sword and instinctually, Quintus hefted his own sword upward to block the blow, but he was late, and the attacker’s sword grazed Quintus’s brow, glancing through hair and skin. Quintus tried to return to DaVinci’s aid but quickly determined
the swordsman engaging him wasn’t going to let that happen.
With a jolt, Quintus realized he knew this attacker. The man was a former soldier, Titus Machus, who, unable to repay gambling debts, now hired himself to protect wealthy patrons.
Quintus swallowed heavily. Titus Machus might have failed to take him by surprise, but Titus would have more than one surprise up the sleeve of his tunic.
Engaging Titus with a loud cry, Quintus simultaneously tried to work his way to DaVinci. He heard her shriek, and turning to the cry, he saw why.
The youth held a knife to her throat. Grinning, the dog was now retreating with her, hauling her toward the three men at the top of the road.
48
• EVERETT •
Florida, July
Everett held the door open for the federal agent.
“Good day. How can I be of service, sir?” Everett asked politely.
The agent brushed past Everett, beelining for Littlewood.
“Arthur Littlewood,” said the FBI agent, his badge thrust out.
“Ah. Hello, again. Did we have a meeting?” asked Littlewood, gazing at his watch and frowning. “I must have misunderstood,” he added with consternation. “It’s, ah, not really a convenient time.”
“Agent Benjamin Nevis,” said the agent, flashing his badge at Jillian, the only person in the room who hadn’t yet seen it.
Everett crossed to Jillian’s side, and she murmured, “This is the agent Littlewood kept your information from. Play it cool.”
Everett nodded and swallowed hard, hoping he would not be asked to produce ID. There had been other inquiries into the credibility of his identification, but none had yet been with an officer of the law.
“Sorry for dropping in unannounced,” Nevis said, not looking at all sorry. “Quite a place you have here. You hold it privately, I believe?”
Littlewood stuttered, making a few false starts before simply nodding yes.
“I thought so,” replied Nevis. “Odd that you didn’t mention it to me already. I, on the other hand, did mention to you that I’m performing a review and approval process for heavy-use consumers of electricity to prevent acts of terror against the United States. Any particular reason your extremely heavy electrical usage for this facility escaped your mind in our previous conversations?”
“Ah,” said Littlewood, pasting a thin smile on his face. “Yes. It didn’t occur to me. But here you are. Now you know. I’m, ah, afraid I can only offer an abbreviated tour this morning. Expecting the arrival of friends, you know. Mustn’t keep them waiting.”
Nevis’s eyes remained fixed on Littlewood through the entire nervous speech. The agent didn’t say anything for a slow count of five, after which he walked toward what Everett referred to as the dining table.
“I think you’ll find you have time for this,” said Nevis, seating himself. He settled in as if for an extended visit.
“Well,” said Littlewood, “that is, ah, I’m not at liberty at present to . . . well, you know, and since I already received your kind—”
“Let me tell you an interesting story,” Nevis said, cutting off Littlewood’s nervous ramblings.
Littlewood shook his head. “I really am very busy just now—”
“Your visitors will have to wait, I’m afraid,” replied Nevis. “I’m here on a matter of national security. I’m sure your guests will understand.”
Everett tried frantically to think of a safe means whereby to explain that, no, these particular guests could not wait, would not understand. He glanced at his phone, checking the time. If everything went as Littlewood had predicted, Quintus and DaVinci would return in thirty-one minutes. But approximately four minutes prior to their arrival, the machine would begin warming up, and there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hades Nevis would ignore that level of noise, which meant getting him out soon was critical.
“Please,” said Nevis, gesturing grandly, “have a seat.”
Littlewood sank into one of the chairs.
“My story concerns you, too,” Nevis said to Jillian. “And as for you,” said Nevis, looking at Everett, “I don’t believe you showed up on the list of students Dr. Littlewood gave me. What did you say your name was?”
“Everett Randolph, sir.”
“Hmm. We’ll talk later. Please. All of you. Take a seat.”
Everett’s heart began to pound, but when he saw Jillian sitting, he joined her.
Nevis began his tale.
“As you know, I’ve been tasked with assessing threats to the power grid and with reviewing persons known to be heavy consumers. Your operations at the university seemed unexceptionable, Dr. Littlewood, but then I learned of this facility—which you neglected to disclose—and began to make further inquiries into your background and associations.”
“I believe you mentioned my background was above reproach,” said Littlewood. “On our first meeting.”
“On a casual review, it was,” said Nevis.
“Well, then, seeing as I’ve already received—”
Nevis cut him off. “But when I dug a little deeper, I stumbled on a name: Jules Khan.”
Littlewood exhaled at the same moment that Jillian, at Everett’s side, inhaled softly.
Nevis’s eyes flashed in Jillian’s direction, but he didn’t address her. Instead, he returned his focus to Littlewood, who had just begun to fiddle with a napkin ring lying on the table.
“Jules Khan, interestingly, was declared dead at the close of last year. The Santa Barbara Police Department issued the certificate.” Nevis turned to Jillian. “You lived most of your life in Santa Barbara, I understand.”
“Yes.” Jillian’s tone was clipped. Everett took her hand beneath the table.
“Imagine my surprise on learning you were a neighbor of Jules Khan,” continued Nevis, addressing Jillian. “What are the odds? I don’t suppose you were friends?”
“I met him one time,” said Jillian. “At an art gallery.” She was composed, her expression neutral.
At this point, Nevis brought out and examined a small, spiral-bound notepad.
“The gallery owner was one of the last people to speak to Khan prior to his disappearance.” The FBI agent looked up from his notepad. “Inga Mikkelsen and her daughter Halley Mikkelsen were the two others. Isn’t that interesting?”
Jillian’s hand clutched Everett’s in a death grip.
Nevis leaned forward. “I had to ask myself, what are the odds two people who knew Khan at different times in his life ended up all the way out here in Florida, working together? And one of them the best friend of Halley Mikkelsen.”
Everett tried to squeeze Jillian’s hand, but her grip was so tight he doubted she even noticed.
“You are a close friend of Halley Mikkelsen, aren’t you?” asked Nevis, flipping between pages of his notepad without actually looking at Jillian.
Everett took this to mean Nevis didn’t have to observe Jillian’s response because he already knew the answer to his question.
“Is there something you’d like to charge me with?” asked Jillian. Her tone was cool. She released Everett’s hand and adopted a pose even more upright than her already enviable posture.
Nevis, ignoring her question, turned to Littlewood.
“Dr. Littlewood, have you had any contact with Jules Khan, deceased, in the past twelve months?”
Littlewood shook his head vigorously. Everett knew that, in a way, this was true; Littlewood hadn’t met the dead Khan, even if he’d employed the duplicate living Khan.
“Can I have a verbal response, please?” Nevis asked.
“Unless you intend to charge someone here with something,” Jillian said coolly, “Dr. Littlewood needs to prepare for his next appointment.”
Everett checked his watch. Fourteen minutes.
Nevis ignored Jillian and repeated his request for a verbal response.
Jillian leaned forward. “Dr. Littlewood—”
“Yes or no?” demanded Nevis.
&nbs
p; Littlewood ran a hand through his thinning hair and then, as though aware his gesture signaled distress, settled both hands in his lap.
“No,” said Littlewood.
Nevis smiled. It was a cheerless sort of smile and reminded Everett of an illustration from a childhood storybook with the “smiling” crocodiles of the Nile.
“How curious,” said Nevis. “Because I have here a record of your having written a check to Jules Khan that he cashed in Florida at a local credit union. Rather strange that the two of you would find yourselves in a transaction such as this, in the same town, without meeting.”
Littlewood’s face paled. He checked his watch, causing Everett to do the same. Eleven minutes left.
Jillian stood and crossed to Littlewood’s side of the table. “Dr. Littlewood,” she said quietly, “you need to ask this man to leave. You have the right to do that.”
Nevis slammed his notebook on the table. “Let’s stop playing games, right now.”
“I believe Jillian is right,” said Littlewood softly. “This isn’t a good time. I’d like to, ah, consult an attorney before answering any more questions.”
“You know Jules Khan!” said Nevis, his voice rising. “You wrote him a check. You had repeated contact with the man beginning nearly twelve months ago.”
Littlewood had risen and was crossing to the door, Nevis at his heels.
“You not only wrote him a substantial check, which he cashed,” accused Nevis, “but you then proceeded to withdraw cash in thirty-day intervals in the exact same amount right up through the month of December of last year—the month Khan was declared deceased.”
“I must ask you to leave,” said Littlewood, indicating the door.
Everett had followed the pair of them, professor and agent, as had Jillian.
“He’s asked you to leave,” said Jillian to Nevis. “If you’re not charging us with anything—”
“At this point, Miss Applegate,” said Nevis, “I am engaged in two serious criminal investigations, with the pair of you front and center. We’re talking murder and acts of terrorism against the United States.”
A Sword in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 3) Page 21