by D. L. Koontz
She thought of Andrew, his smile, his touch. Saudade. Portuguese for an intense feeling of missing someone you love. Her mind went blank as darkness swirled in. She felt her body falling back to the ground.
Then, nothing.
Chapter Eleven
1926
Davis studied Libby as she slept. “Why are you here?” he whispered as though hoping the universe would murmur the answer. “Why this particular moment in time?”
He’d been startled to pull her from the water, having gone there anticipating another night like all the other solstices and equinoxes he’d passed at the mineral springs. Always waiting. Waiting endlessly for that one person, anyone, to need from him the care he had so desperately needed, but not gotten, when he’d taken the water.
And, foremost, to ascertain what their intentions were in being there. It had been a long time since he’d been forced to kill anyone, but it was always a possibility.
Why had this woman lied about her name? She’d said many concerning things as she recovered from her passage through time, so he’d heard enough to know she had not been truthful about her past or her last name. The water had a way of bringing out all manner of truths.
He rose and checked her pulse. Steady. The laudanum he’d poured in her whiskey would keep her knocked out for hours. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. The town would wake soon. He could make it there and back, without her being the wiser.
It was imperative he send a telegram.
He also would purchase more supplies while there, but first, he would make two phone calls from that small boarding house beside the telegraph office. They had the most private phone in town. He needed to let his wife Darcie know he intended to stay in Bedford longer than anticipated. Then he would call work and let them know the same. Fortunately, he’d left detailed directives for his assistant, in his top desk drawer.
Thirty minutes later he pressed the pedal on the floor, shifting his 1924 Oldsmobile Touring Car into higher gear, as the motorcar barreled down the rutted road to Bedford. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he composed the telegram in his head: “There’s been activity at the Crystal Spring. Might involve the Matryoshka Project. I’m concerned the lion is awake and moving. Ready to strike. I’ll relocate to the Bedford Lodge and Country Club, the old Arandale Hotel. Contact me there. We may need to take action.”
Action. Such a nice way to say the young woman might have to be eliminated.
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He may not trust her, but he did like her. Cursing, he banged his palm on the oversized steering wheel. Matryoshka had caused too many problems already. Changed too many lives. Why this woman too? He liked the way she talked. Her questions and responses were direct, her tone natural, not cloying or breezy the way the upper-class women in the Twenties spoke. And thank goodness she didn’t use those phrases that grated on his nerves, like swell and swagger and good egg. He also would not make any comparisons between her subtle beauty and the ease it took to soak her in. Such a contrast to this era’s women that loved blunted hair and layers of dramatic make-up.
Then again, she could ruin everything. He had to secure the plans. Plans to finally deal with Matryoshka. To secure the future.
He would have to cater to the woman for now. Court this along. Call on his best acting skills and learn what he could.
It’s such a shame that some people, who weren’t even involved in certain situations, had to die simply because of what they knew.
When he reached town, he parked in front of the telegraph office, setting the brake and stopping the engine. What he wouldn’t give for just one more ride in his 1965 Shelby Cobra convertible. Better still, his 1969 Chevy Camaro muscle car with its ripping horsepower and tire-shredding torque. Both antiques in his former life. Now, not even invented yet. Oh, but what a sweet ride that convertible had been. He missed that kind of speed.
After making his calls, he bounded up the wooden steps to the telegraph office and entered, a smile filling his face when he discovered Kip on duty. Kip was young, gullible, and easily bribable. For a huge tip, Kip would keep his secrets.
Fifteen minutes later, Davis emerged, puffing a cigar and holding the message he’d shortened for Kip to send, because, of course, you never left any incriminating evidence behind.
His telegram had read:
To: Zachary Hayes, Kansas City, Kansas
From: Whit, Bedford, Pennsylvania
CONCERNING DEVELOPMENT. STOP. THREAT ARRIVED. STOP. MATTER OF GREATEST SECURITY. STOP. IMPERATIVE TO CONTACT ME AT ARANDALE. STOP.
Chapter Twelve
1926
The routine continued, conversations followed by Libby waking to find Davis across the fire from her—sleeping, tending the flames, reading by lantern light—and her wondering when she’d fallen asleep. Each time she woke, she felt a little stronger, but still had no concept of time passing as nights and days morphed together inside the cave. Davis kept her nourished and hydrated with soup and water—she assumed it was the precious mineral water—and, when nature called, helped her stumble to the outside of the cave and behind thick bushes, leaving her alone until she lumbered back in.
Once, she woke to the welcome aroma of eggs and bacon frying over the campfire. Where and when he’d secured the equipment and the food, she had no idea. Her stomach growled as though selfish and eager for the nourishment. She hoped she could keep it in her stomach.
His gaze flicked to her as she sat up. He’d changed his clothes, now wearing tweed trousers and a tan sweater cardigan, complete with brown elbow patches and leather buttons. Old-fashioned. No, that was a foolish deduction because she was now in the era from which that style was in vogue. His dark hair, now combed and neater, curved smoothly across his brow.
“Good morning,” he said. “I thought it was time you tried solid food. You’ve progressed nicely.”
Libby tore her gaze from him and scanned the ceiling and the recesses of the grotto where cracks opened to the outdoors. Sure enough, the sun’s rays illuminated the crevices and openings, casting long shadows across the ground, suggesting the dawning of a new day. With relief, she also noted no spider webs, no bats roosting up high, no chewed bones on the ground.
His gaze must have tracked hers to the natural illumination because he added, “We can sit outside later, if you like. You ought to get some vitamin D.”
She nodded, not sure what to say. She didn’t want to admit concern at this change of routine, at this inevitable next step. She drew in her knees, tugging at the linen shift to disentangle it from her calves, then circled her legs with her arms in what must have looked a defense to protect herself.
“No need to be afraid of going out,” he said. “I’ll help you.”
She winced, then forced her lips into a half smile.
He scooped the eggs, bacon and biscuits onto two metal plates, partially stood, and stretched to hand one to her.
Giddiness and a startling desire to eat settled in. She took a bite, closing her eyes while she chewed, and savoring every sensation as her taste buds were entertained and pleasured.
She finished the eggs and bacon first, set the plate aside, and nibbled slowly at the biscuit. “Delicious,” she murmured, mouth still full. The word ‘shemomedjamo’ scurried across her mind; Georgian, meaning she can’t believe she ate it all.
Davis had settled on his side of the fire and was bending over a metal carafe when she spoke. He looked up and smiled. “No queasiness?”
“None,” Libby said. “But, even if it does come back up, the food was worth it.”
He chuckled, and she was glad. She liked seeing him pleased. She owed him so much. As he continued with the carafe, she had a thought. Acting on it, she turned over her empty plate to study her reflection on the bottom. She didn’t expect the limited light and tarnished metal to reveal much, but it still mirrored enough that she was appalled. Her eyes were bottomed with dark shadows, her cheeks looked hollow and pale, and the collection
of days had done a thorough job of plastering her hair to her skull. It hung in uneven clumps at her shoulders. She finger-combed the strands, but called defeat quickly. With quiet resignation, she returned the plate to the ground, and focused her gaze on Davis.
He poured something steamy from the carafe into two cups. The aroma of coffee hit her and more taste buds activated. Picking up one of the cups, he stepped around the fire and handed it to her. “Arbuckles,” he said. “The Starbucks of this era.” He pointed to the empty plate. “More eggs? Bacon?”
Libby shook her head. “Better not.” As she received the cup from him, a wave of melancholy rolled over her and she stared at the steaming refreshment. A memory of Andrew and her in a coffee shop surfaced and skittered away.
“Don’t worry,” he said, dropping onto the rock and taking a swig from his own cup. “Not everything is made of metal. You’ll also find rubber, ceramic, porcelain, china, in this day and age. Just no plastic.” He looked into his cup as he swirled it. “Synthetic plastic has been invented of course...it’s out there. But, it hasn’t undergone mass production yet. Doesn’t become important until World War II.”
She swallowed that reality; no plastic and no World War II yet. She’d have to reprogram her brain to function in this new life. She shook her head to dislodge the gloom that threatened to move in. “I wasn’t thinking about the cup. I’ve camped a lot. Spent time in third-world countries, too. Africa. Southeast Asia. Christian missions and relief groups tend to donate supplies and products that last longer than plastic.”
He nodded. “Then, why the frown?”
She didn’t want to discuss Andrew, so she told a different truth. “The coffee. I usually drink it with cream and artificial sweetener. I guess the latter isn’t available yet either.” She made an inane attempt to chuckle at her own statement, but it sounded more like despair.
“Ah,” he exaggerated the word and nodded. “I was a stevia man. ’Course you can get cream nowadays, but none of those little blue or yellow packets. You might find it easier in the long run to teach yourself to drink it black. It is an acquired taste.”
She took a sip and was surprised to find it tolerable. But then, she hadn’t had coffee in days. “Let’s hope life in nineteen twenty-six is an acquired taste, too,” she said.
He rubbed his forehead. “Let’s hope, because, really, you have no choice.”
She shivered against a chill that crawled across her skin. “I could be dead,” she said with a fake hint of humor, an attempt to lighten the moment, but it sounded just that. Fake. She took another sip and looked back at the fire. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she added, “In a way I am. At least, everything I knew is gone.”
“Yes, it is,” he acknowledged, his voice gentle, soothing. “I found I had to blank my mind. Lay my former life to rest. That way, I know no more about this time period than anyone else out there. Foreknowledge is agony. Pure torment. When those moments hit, that’s when you’ll feel most alone. But, you must not intrude on history.” He smirked. “I often think of Velcro and the wealth I could make by inventing it. On the other hand, I think that because we’ve been placed here, we can certainly use our knowledge to our own survival benefit.”
“Have you?” Libby wrapped her fingers around the cup. “Used your first life to your survival benefit?”
He swayed his head side to side as though weighing his response. “I suppose I have. My wife thinks I’m a little too worried about money, but I can’t unlearn what I know about the stock market crash in 1929, and the Depression ahead of us.”
“Your wife?” Her tone sounded more startled than she intended and his eyes widened in surprise. For the first time she gave credence to the fact that this man would have a life separate from her intrusion on it. If she were a betting person, she’d wager he understood the ignorance behind her question, but was considerate enough to ignore it.
“Been married for five years now. I don’t wear a wedding ring because men didn’t much wear them before World War II. Her name is Darcie. You’d like her, although she’s much older than you.” He looked intently at Libby. “May I ask how old you are?”
“Twenty-nine.”
He raised a brow. “She’s thirty-six. Closer in age than I thought. You could pass in this period as probably twenty-one or twenty-two. I guess it’s true that every generation looks younger than the last, what with modern conveniences and products.” He took a sip of coffee. “I’m fifty and often mistaken for being younger. I have two children now, too.” He frowned. “That’s an example of how foreknowledge can be pure hell.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re ages three and four. What’s coming down the pike when they come of age?”
Libby’s mind raced. She wanted to produce the answer, prove to herself she could identify the pitfalls to come. She cringed when the answer hit her. “World War II.”
“That’s right. They’ll be of age when America gets involved.” He continued eating as he talked. “Anyway, when I traveled back, my first wife had been dead for three years. Hit an icy patch in the road and her car skidded out of control. Died instantly. My only son was grown and on his own.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his tone grew softer. “You will move on, too, Libby. You’ll build a new life as well.”
Libby wondered about that but forced a smile, because really, it would do no good to argue anyway. “Andrew helped you?”
He looked back at the fire. “He did.”
“And you would have died otherwise?”
A shadow crossed his face and a muscle ticked in his jaw before he answered. As though he realized he’d hesitated, he hurried his answer. “Yes...that’s what the doctor said. I had a rare form of liver and intrahepatic bile duct cancer. Andrew brought me to the water.” He shifted as though he were uncomfortable and wished to change the conversation. For the briefest moment, it registered as odd with Libby, but his next comment made her realize he probably didn’t like talking about himself. “Tell me about your past,” he urged, “so we can lay that to rest and discuss your future.”
It struck Libby that this was the moment they were going to become intimate in their conversations, moving from rescuer and rescued, to collaborators, perhaps friends. She owed it to him to be forthright. She was reliant on his largesse, his tolerance in helping her adapt and progress. The least she could do is trust that he knew best.
“My mother was a botanist. My father, a car mechanic.”
Davis whistled low under his breath. “Unusual pairing.”
She smiled to ward back a wave of sadness. “Mama had her PhD and Daddy barely finished high school. But they got along swimmingly. Daddy actually made more money than she did. He helped me learn mechanics, while Mama insisted I learn the violin. I often had to wash the grease off my hands before touching my violin.”
A dimple appeared to the left of his lips. “Sounds like a diverse childhood. But, it was happy?”
“Very...at least until I was eleven. That’s when my mother died. Massive stroke.”
“Sorry. She sounds young to have experienced a stroke.”
“Only thirty-nine. My father was terribly distraught and distracted. I was told he died shortly thereafter from a hydraulic lift accident, but I don’t remember.” Libby drew in a slow breath and issued a long exhale. “I traveled for five years with my mother’s missionary single sister, Aunt Isabel. She was a physician. Worked with one of those doctors-without-borders groups.”
Davis tilted his head. “You were allowed to travel with her? That must have been exciting, not to mention educational.”
Yes, if you ignore that horrible time in Africa. Those terrible men. The attack. The deaths. My scar. Her scar! Libby gazed down at it and for the first time realized it was no longer raised and hadn’t ached since coming out of the water. But, the discoloration and slight disfigurement remained.
“That from your time traveling with your aunt?” His gaze had tracked hers to the scar.
&n
bsp; She nodded.
“You rubbed it while you were healing,” he said.
“Did I say anything?”
“Not much.” He looked away. “Nothing important.”
She recalled the visions she had while taking the water, of herself as a girl.
He was quiet a moment, and when he spoke, he eased her discomfort by changing topics. “What happened after the five years?”
“During a stay in remote parts of Australia, Aunt Isabel braved a hunting excursion into the Outback where she defied scouts’ warnings. She was attacked by a wild boar.” Libby swallowed against a rising nausea before continuing. “In the saddest of ironies, my physician aunt refused medical help, insisting she could doctor herself. She died. I don’t remember details of that either. I found myself shipped back to the States, and placed in foster care until I left for college. The tuition was paid courtesy of scholarships.”
He stopped sopping his egg with his roll to say, “I’m sorry.”
“I floundered from nursing to botany...some odd allegiance to my mother’s profession, I guess...to business, before finally settling on languages. That’s what I brought to the bureau. Language skills. Interpretation. Phonetic coding. Grammatical memory. They come easy to me, as does music which depends on the same brain systems. I worked for the DOJ before the FBI recruited me.”
“How many languages have you mastered?”
“Mastered? Seven, but I can speak nine, and know a little of three others. Plus, I’m a bit of a logophile. I know a bunch of random words from a few dozen other languages for which we have no equivalent in English.
“Like what?”
She tilted her head. “Ever experience that panicky hesitation before introducing someone whose name you can’t quite remember?”