by D. L. Koontz
All gazes darted to her, eyes blinking against this sobering statement and what it meant for them.
Chapter Thirty-One
1926
After Colette’s stunning declaration, a silence fell and lingered.
Libby frowned. “Hardin. He’s still there. In danger—”
“No, Libs,” Colette said. “When I got scared, I realized he might be in danger too for what he knows. You trusted him, so I helped him.”
“What did you do?”
Colette’s gaze flicked around the room before returning to her. “Let’s just say it involved staging an escape, a middle-of-the-night flight, and a one-way ticket to Brazil. He’s interested in the plant life in remote portions of the Amazon. He’ll be fine.”
Libby shook her head in disbelief. After a moment she looked at Davis. “Did you know about Andrew? When you helped me in the cave, I mean.”
“Know? No. Suspect? Yes. For a while I thought you might be involved. As you healed you said things in your sleep that didn’t jibe with the story you delivered once awake. I assumed you were lying. So, Zach followed you, until Colette showed up, that is.”
Colette smiled. “When I climbed out of the spring...naked, I might add...” She looked at Zachary. The corner of his mouth curved slightly, hiding a smile. She ventured a smile in return. “... Zach was right there to help me. He took me to the Arandale Hotel and I met Davis. The bureau was too big for me to have known them. They turned the tables on me, and interrogated me.”
“Zach spent much of his time nursing Colette back to health,” Davis said, smoothly picking up the story. “I checked in when I could. Thanks to Colette, and watching your different interactions, we began to understand Sheriff Harrow might have been a time-traveler as well. So, we approached him this afternoon.”
Libby looked at Zach. “You followed me? I thought it was a man named Leon Martelli.”
“It was at first,” Zach said. “Then I began to tail you, and it turned into me following him following you. On your last night in Pittsburgh, he acted agitated, tired of waiting to strike. And, I was tired of him. Tired of the threat he held over you. Tired of the concern you’d get hurt. So I pulled him into an alley and took care of him.”
Libby gasped. “You tried to kill him?”
Zach shook his head. “If I had tried, he’d be dead. But, I admit his recovery has taken longer than intended. I forgot how behind the times medicine is in these days. Besides,” he waved a dismissing hand, “I know he has a future ahead of him filled with countless mistresses, two scathing divorces, and death by alcohol. Why would I want to deprive him of all that misery?”
“What do you mean?”
“My first-ever assignment with the bureau was in Philly. I needed to know how the city worked. I read about his supposed greatness in a series of biographical articles. ’Course he’s long dead by then.”
“But who then,” Libby wondered out loud, “was the pale-looking guy with the unkempt look?”
“A pale guy? I don’t—” Zach’s eyes grew wide. “Wait a second. I do remember seeing a guy like that once. He was sickly pale. I’d almost forgotten. Initially, I thought too that he was watching you. But I ruled it out because he was so sloppy about his attire. He stood out too much.”
Davis asked, “What do you mean?”
Zach shrugged. “His clothes. They didn’t fit. Too short, and too big. Like he’d stolen the clothes off a line somewhere. If you’re trying to spy on someone the last thing you do is stand out yourself, right? I mean, who would do that?”
Davis frowned. “Someone from the future who had to hide his nakedness quickly.”
“And, who was especially sick from the water and trapped here with no money,” Colette added. All gazes shot to her. “Carter. Dash Carter. He disappeared at the same time as Libby.”
Libby’s heart hammered. “Are you saying another agent followed me back?”
Colette tilted her head. “I’m saying it’s possible. Remember, the bureau suspected Matryoshka involved a mole. So, they had two groups work on it. Separate investigations. A sort of checks and balances.”
Davis rubbed his lower chin, clearly agitated. “So it’s true. We could have someone from the future out there already.”
Libby listened to the others talk about what this might mean. The uncertainty. The jeopardy they could be in. But, she couldn’t take her gaze off Andrew. This man she married was a murderer. The reasons she’d been separated from Broken Arrow. She circled the nearest bench and sank onto it, looking at the others. “Now what?”
Zach sighed. “There’s nothing we can do for now, except deal with our most imminent threat.” His gaze bored into Andrew.
Andrew looked around, snorted. With a condescending tone in his voice, he said, “You can’t prove any of this. It will never stand up in court.”
“You’re right.” Brogan pulled a folded piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “That’s why we have the signatures of two eye witnesses saying you killed my wife, Gretchen Harrow, last night.”
Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a lie. Who signed that?”
Brogan unfolded the paper. Slowly. He read from it. “Davis Whitaker and Zachary Hayes.”
Andrew blazed, tension escalating in his voice, “You’re framing me for her murder? I never even met her. I guess that makes all of you as guilty as me, doesn’t it?” Sweat broke out on his forehead like dew.
Brogan remained calm. “It would be rather hard to prove you murdered Libby’s entire family, and Richard and Anabelle Wallace. Or, that you shot both Libby and me and left us to die. Or, that you manipulated three other people’s lives by—”
“Son of a...you can’t do this. I’ll ruin all of you.” He turned beat red, looking like a man gone mad. The madness that comes from lustful dreams and delusions of grandeur destroyed.
Davis raised his brows at Andrew’s cold warning. “Andrew, I don’t think you understand.”
Libby sucked in her breath. She watched the three men exchange looks. Another nonverbal conversation.
Andrew snarled with contempt for the group and launched a freight train of words at them. “I’ll tell people Zach killed the sheriff’s wife. He’s a stranger in town with no links to anyone, whereas I will look familiar to the townies. Davis, the fat cat over there, I’ll say he was colluding with the sheriff to cover it up.” He whirled to Colette. “And you! You’re just a freak in this time with that height...”
In her peripheral vision Libby could see Zach posturing loathing and rage at Andrew’s cocky attitude and his snide words.
Yet Andrew continued anyway, speaking in a steady stream and pouring his derision on Colette like syrup. “You’ll be easy to track. You’ll stand out everywhere. Be very afraid because I will hunt you down no matter where you go!” He smirked with what could only be considered cold, diabolical triumph, then continued ranting, delivering impudent, revolting, provocative jibes and threats about what he’d do and what he’d say about them all. “And I’ll tell—”
In several efforts that blurred together as one fluid, frenzied movement, Zach cursed, sprang to his feet, pulled a pistol from his backside, and shot Andrew in the chest.
The sound roared and echoed in the small cabin.
The shot hit Andrew hard and flung him backward off the bench, his hands still cuffed behind him. He howled one animal cry of pain, flailed his legs and shuddered. Then, a final inhuman sound gurgled up from his throat, and he went still.
It happened so quickly Libby later thought if she had blinked, she would have missed it.
By then, Davis and Brogan had leapt to their feet yelling unintelligible exclamations.
Libby and Colette pulled together, locking arms. Tears welled in Libby’s eyes even as a chill of relief streaked down her spine. The tension in her shoulders dissipated and she could feel her limbs relax. She flinched against the cold, almost uncaring feeling of ambivalence she had at his death.
For a harrowin
g moment all eyes darted from Andrew to Zach and back again. Everyone appeared stunned at the speed with which Zach had acted. But, Libby supposed he had taken just about all he could. Andrew’s mistake had been to attack Colette.
The silence that descended was particularly pronounced, coming as it did immediately following Andrew’s growled oaths of retaliation and vile insults.
Brogan crouched to check the body. He rose slowly. “Dead.”
Davis still gaped at Andrew’s body, his mouth hanging open, a dazed look in his eyes. From the stunned expression he wore, Libby surmised that killing Andrew this quickly, in this way, had not been part of the plan. If they had planned to kill him at all.
Zach’s cold eyes dwarfed to slits as his gaze slanted down to assess what he’d done. It was clear that anger still burned in him. He lifted his gaze and in a cool, smooth gesture, spun the pistol around on one finger, like a true gun slinger, and handed it to Brogan. His voice was flat, serious. “You going to arrest me?”
Brogan stiffened and looked at the gun, then Zach. He took a breath but didn’t take the gun. “No.” He looked back at Andrew. “He took your life. Now you’ve taken his. Sounds like justice to me.”
The two exchanged a look of understanding, then nods of agreement.
“Then I’m outta here.” He placed the gun on the bench closest to his knee, donned his hat, and turned to Colette. “You coming?”
Colette stared at him a moment, her eyes wide. He extended a hand. She smiled and reached for it as she stood.
Startled, Libby scrambled to her feet. “Colette, wait!” What in the world happened in the past three weeks between these two?
Colette looked back at her. “I’ll find you. Leave a bread crumb trail.” She turned to Zach.
Zach looked at Davis. “You know how to reach me.”
Davis said nothing. He looked lost in a stupor, his face red and his gaze locked on Andrew’s body. His shocked look confirmed he hadn’t anticipated this turn of events.
Zach turned to Brogan. “How do I get back to my bike?”
Brogan gestured. “Left out the door. Straight up the hill. Over the top, the trail veers to the right. Follow it to the Arandale.”
Zach pivoted to Libby and tipped his forehead.
Colette gave Zach an expectant look. “Bike?”
“A 1924 version of a Harley,” Zach said. “Built for one, but if we move as one and lean in unison, we’ll be fine till we get a sidecar.”
Her smile grew and she picked up a lantern. “Let’s go, cowboy.”
They hurried out the door, not bothering to shut it behind them.
Dazed, Libby followed after them several steps before stopping a couple yards from the exit. She stared at the darkness beyond the open door. When Zach had thrust it open, the sound had been unnaturally loud in the stillness of the cabin. Libby thought now how apropos the whole departure was, how it punctuated movements that were so Colette-like, jumping right into the unknown in search of adventure, but leaving doors open for a return.
In the lull of the moment, she heard a frog croak, and a gentle rush of warm, humid air carrying an earthy scent wafted through the opening. She breathed in the lush fragrance, feeling her anxiety subside. It had taken her a while not to see the less that she saw in 1926, and to achieve what Brogan saw, the more of life here. Colette had seen it almost immediately.
Libby knew all along that Andrew had been able to take the water more than once. She hadn’t considered doing the same, telling herself she was staying because she was waiting for him. Or, because taking the water was so painful. Or, because she didn’t know where she’d end up. But, she realized now, the truth was that the rhythms of life at this time felt right for her. And Brogan had been right about this being a second chance. She wanted this place, this time, to be better off for her having been there.
Brogan came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She really didn’t even know him, yet their lives were forever entangled. They’d lost so much time together, but if—as the French novelist Marcel Proust said—“Love is space and time measured by the heart,” then perhaps their story was still young. Han. Korean for the state of feeling sad and hopeful at the same time.
Libby touched Brogan’s hand on her shoulder and nodded in confirmation that all was well. “Ohonte, oròn:ya.”
They turned to see a pale Davis pointing the pistol at them.
“No one else is leaving this room,” he growled.
Chapter Thirty-Two
1926
A chill crept down Brogan’s back as he assessed Davis, and more frighteningly, the gun. The flickering light from the lanterns danced on the sleek metal, sending his memory back to that other time Libby had been shot. Heart thundering, he reached for her and tried to move her behind him but she wouldn’t have it.
“Davis, what are you doing?” Libby cried, stepping toward him and raising her palms, as though posturing disbelief and a have-you-gone-mad look, all in one. “We’re your friends.”
“We agreed earlier about Andreii,” Brogan reasoned with the man. “I won’t let you alone with his body. We’ll wait until N.C. returns and—”
“It’s not that.” Davis’s gaze dropped to Andrew’s body on the floor, and back. “I can’t let anyone else leave. Don’t you understand?”
Brogan bristled, but calmed his voice. “Perhaps you should explain it to us.”
Davis rubbed his temples with his free hand. “I should have stopped Zach and Colette. Now I’ll have to hunt them down. All this time we thought Andrew was a communist, plotting against the United States. Turns out, he didn’t care about any country. Just himself.”
“But he’s dead,” Libby said. “It’s over.”
Davis shook his head. “Don’t you see? Zach was right...about killing him. That is the only way.”
Libby asked, “What are you talking about?”
Davis looked at her like she was daft. “He wanted to change this country to his own advantage. I can’t let that happen. All of us who understand time-travel can use this to our personal gain. I took a vow to protect this country.”
Brogan said, “We pose no more of a threat than you.” Heck, if anything Davis was the biggest threat in the room. He clearly felt remorse, whereas Brogan refused to. The gunshot that took Andrew’s life had stilled Brogan’s hammering heart, restored it to a steady, comfortable pace for the first time in a long time. If he allowed himself to feel guilt or regret, then even in death, Andrew would eclipse him again.
What’s more, in the greatest of ironies, all the justice and reasoning benefitted Andrew, because a person should be innocent until proven guilty by a jury. Andrew had been denied that. But, Brogan didn’t care. The culpability and responsibility he felt for nine years had spread so thin, in so many directions, for so many of the wrong people, like Anabelle, Jasper Hudd, and Gretchen, that it had become invisible and impalpable. He’d lived several deaths of the man he had once been; it was time to choose life. He took a deep breath. “If you think—”
Davis snapped, “I’m entrenched in this life now. You’re not. I have a wife. Children. I’m not going to time-travel again to change the country. I don’t know about you two.”
Libby shook her head as though Davis’s logic escaped her. “I’m not going anywhere, Davis. And neither is Brogan,” she said, shooting him a hopeful look.
Brogan returned her gaze as he spoke, hoping she’d ascertain his full meaning. “Of course not. Everything I want is right here.”
Libby stared at him a heartbeat and he watched her soften. Then, as though catching herself, she turned to Davis and squared her shoulders. “Besides, Davis, there are others out there. People like us who have traveled. Think about it—if we figured it out, then they could have, too. We already suspect that pale-looking guy is out there.”
Davis’s hand began to shake. “I’m sorry. I really am. You have the potential to travel through time again and change the whole course of our country.”
All gazes darted to see a short woman standing there. She was dressed in pants made of hide, and a fringed jacket. Beneath her wide-brimmed hat, a long dark braid dropped at least eight inches past the smirk on her face.
“Ista!” Brogan said at the same time Libby uttered, “Aunt Isabel!”
Brogan and Libby looked at one another as they each digested the other’s words. He composed himself quickly and yelled to the woman, “Don’t come in! He has a gun.”
Ista tilted her chin and looked at Davis from the top of her eyes. “He’s not killing anyone,” she said with a leisure delivery as she entered, her steps slow and lithe. She embraced Libby and Brogan as though she hadn’t a care in the world. Holding her cheeky, confidant look intact, she sank down on a bench.
Davis beetled his brows and wavered the gun between Ista and where Brogan and Libby stood. “What’s going on? Who is this?”
Libby hurried to sit beside the old woman. “Ista.” My Mohawk mother. “My aunt Isabel.”
Davis paled. “Aunt...from the future...?”
Ista grinned. “And the past.” She patted Libby’s knee as she spoke to Davis, indulgence in her voice. “You are not killing anyone. If you do, then you will have to kill your pretty wife, too.”
“What are you talking about?” Davis sounded stunned. His hand began to tremble. “How do you know Darcie?”
Ista’s grin grew. “Ask her about 1814. When the British burned Washington.”
“What...” Davis began, but fell silent. He ran his free hand over his head. “It can’t be. My Darcie? How many people have you seen take the water?”
Ista shot him a wicked smile. “Fourteen. Perhaps more when I could not be there.” She pulled off her hat and brushed back loose wisps of hair with her hand before parking the hat back on her head. There was nothing hurried about this woman, Brogan remembered, as she continued. “Probably many more before my time. For years, campfires were built beside the spring. Tubs and buckets...kept there so people could heat the water in winter, too.”