Jaclyn the Ripper (30 page)

H.G. resisted an impulse to verbally assault Kevin Robbins and acted as if he hadn't heard. He nibbled on an artichoke leaf—melted garlic butter made it taste better—then discovered he was very hungry and dug into the turkey and rice.

“Oh, I forgot the gravy!” said Elizabeth. She got up and rushed to the kitchen.

At the same time, H.G. excused himself and went to the guest loo off the marble-tiled foyer. He dallied, but it wasn't all Kevin Robbins. Jaclyn Smythe, that woman they'd met in Franklin Canyon, was on his mind like a familiar and depressing melody. She had been in the last universe as well—flagging down Amber and then talking to the police when he was sick with grief at Amy's “death.” Still, her appearances were within the scheme of cause and effect. First: She was a tourist looking for a friend's house who drove past Amy's murder and stopped to help. Second: She was a tourist looking for a friend's house who stopped to ask for directions before Amy was murdered. (Thanks to H. G. Wells dropping a figurative pebble in Destiny's Sea of Tranquility that hopefully wouldn't become a tsunami.) No great inconsistency there. Why then was she singing some siren's song in his brain? Yes, she was stunning and voluptuous, and normally he'd think it pure sexual attraction, except this woman didn't appeal to him. She haunted him.
Was she an acquaintance of Leslie John Stephenson? No, no. Stephenson wasn't one to have beautiful accomplices. He had victims
.

When H.G. came back to the table, he noticed that Robbins had gone from whiskey to wine. He hoped that meant the evening would be more civilized.

Instead, Kevin started probing again. “How'd you happen to meet our little Amy, anyway?”

“I was in San Francisco,” H.G. replied modestly, “and I went in the Bank of England to change some money.”

“Were you with your parents, or what?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Daddy—” said Sara.

“Or did you have a thing for older women?”

H.G. realized that despite multiple glasses of hard liquor, Kevin Robbins could still add. Thirty-one years ago, Amy had been a twenty-two-year-old bank teller, and he had been an innocent twenty-seven-year-old time-traveler. Now, in 2010, they should be fifty-three and fifty-eight, respectively, yet thanks to
The Utopia
, they were as they had been in 1906—thirty-three and thirty-nine. H.G. didn't know how Amy had explained her youthful appearance to her father and wasn't about to ask. Deflecting the old man's assault, he stammered, “There's not that big of an age difference between us.”

“Well, if you're over fifty, you've had one helluva soft life.”

Stung, H.G. thought of his mother working as a maid at Up Park so that they wouldn't starve. “Would you like me to tell you about growing up poor, sir?”

Cackling, Robbins was delighted he'd gotten a rise out of H.G. “Sure, go ahead.”

“Bertie,” Amy warned softly.

H.G. gave her a nod, then—tight-lipped—raised his hand and passed. He recalled ironically that the last American of wealth and power he'd had a conversation with was Theodore Roosevelt in April, 1906. They had discussed fiction, poetry, the Fabian Society and other progressive movements that gave them both hope, though T.R. had been concerned about the end of the world H.G. had predicted in
The Time Machine
, saying, “Men like you and I—we must not let it happen. We must never let it happen.” Now H.G. frowned at the irony:
More than a century later, in my next conversation with an American of means I discover one who is downright rude and offensive and has obviously no concern for his fellow man other than the size of his bank account. Why isn't Kevin Robbins worried about the destruction of the planet? Or technology's bastard spawn: global warming? Why must he be Amy's father
?

“You didn't meet Amy in San Francisco,” Kevin said slyly.

“I didn't?”

Sara saw it coming, but wasn't fast enough.

“You met her in Bedlam, right?”

“Daddy!”

“How dare you, sir!”

Kevin Robbins nodded and grinned shrewdly.

Amy grabbed her sister by the hand and pulled her from the room, yet H.G. remained fixed on the old man and didn't lose his cool.

“Though false, your assumption is intriguing, sir,” said H.G. disdainfully, “in that your entire society is a case of the inmates running the asylum.”

Kevin reeled back in his wheelchair.

“I doubt that you can prove me wrong, old man, so would you please pass the turkey . . . ?”

 

“Why did you tell him, Sara?” cried Amy. “Why?”

They were in the kitchen. Sara opened another bottle of wine, drank and passed it to her sister.

“Because he's family.”

“Yes, but—”

“They need to know, Amy.”

“You should've let me tell them!”

“You wouldn't have,” said Sara. “Besides, it's better this way. . . . It gives Daddy a reason for why you ran away—a reason other than himself.”

Amy turned, her eyes wide with astonishment.

“And that way, he's blameless.”

“Blameless?”

“Sure. You ran away because you were crazy, and you ended up in an institution. He figures it wasn't his fault, so now he can handle you coming home.”

“But I left because of Bertie.”

Sara guffawed. “Which proves to Daddy that you're crazy!”

Amy stared at her sister, then got it and laughed with her. “You know, you're quite brilliant, little sister.”

Sara hugged her. “Ah, if only it were true.”

They held each other tightly, and finally Sara pushed away, smiling brightly.

“I'm sooo glad your Bertie came. . . . I told you he would, didn't I?”

Though she didn't recall Sara having said any such thing, Amy nodded.

“He's a real charmer,” Sara went on, “and I can tell that he really, really loves you.”

Amy put her hand to her mouth, once again surprised; her eyes brimmed with tears.

“
Talk
to him. . . . You can work it out. I know it.”

Suddenly, Sara's coat pocket buzzed, and Amy jumped back, startled. Sara pulled out her iPhone, glanced at its screen.

“Uh-oh, gotta go.”

 

“Amy tells me you're a critic, or something.”

Robbins was leaning forward in his wheelchair, flushed red, his hands clawed, waiting. H.G. sighed. He was tired of trading shots with this relic from the future. He had figured it was over when Sara had left unexpectedly because one of her patients was in “crisis,” but, no, Kevin wanted more. Elizabeth came in with a coffee service, but he waved her away and took another hit of whiskey. Amy wordlessly thanked her mother and helped herself, her eyes downcast.

“You write about books and movies? That stuff?”

“Books, yes.”

“Anything I might have heard of?”

“I don't think so.”

He nodded at Amy. “She says you're some kind of expert on that relative of yours, H. G. Wells.”

H.G. looked at him blankly, wanting this to go no further, but powerless to change the subject or tell him to shut up without incurring more rancor or suspicion.

Suddenly, Robbins guffawed again. “ 'Lizabeth! 'Lizabeth!”

“Yes, Kev?”

“Remember that remake that came out five, six years ago . . . ?
The Time Machine
. . . ?” He laughed. “All due respect to the dinner we just had, but what a turkey!”

“Kevin,” she scolded, nodding at H.G. “Maybe he liked it.”

Robbins turned his derisive grin on H.G. “Did you . . . ? Don't tell me you liked it, please!”

H.G. was frozen, his eyes locked on Kevin's drunk face at the other end of the table, yet he felt Elizabeth's expectant smile and Amy's look of horror.
My book has become a film? Good Lord, I don't know whether to cheer or cry or—How could they have possibly photographed anything remotely resembling the end of the world? Or the Eloi and Mor-locks? Or do they all assume it's just a fantasy . . . ? An entertainment to pooh-pooh as if it were a simple picshua?

“They got his grandson to direct it. Simon Wells. . . . You know him?”

“We've never met.” H.G. managed a smile, despite having his fragile innocence peeled away by this elderly twenty-first-century Philistine who apparently wanted everyone around him to feel as miserable as he looked.

“Well, if you run into him at one of your socialist film festivals or something, tell him he ought to forget about making movies and be happy he's got a trust fund.”

“And you, sir,” said H.G. indignantly, “aside from bank balances, what makes you happy?”

Robbins grinned at the affront and replied, “My family . . . as in my blood relations.”

“We're really very close,” offered Elizabeth. “We go to church, too.”

“Dammit, we don't have to explain ourselves to him!” Robbins growled at her. “He's a guest in our house.”

“As are you on this earth,” H.G. shouted. “As we all are.”

“I
own
part of this earth,” said Robbins. He pointed at the floor. “This patch right here and a few other patches in Florida, Hawaii and Vegas. How about you . . . ?”

“We have a house,” Amy chimed in, smiling bravely, “a beautiful house on the shore at Sandgate.”

“I call it ‘Spade House,' ” H.G. said defiantly. “Voysey, the architect, wanted to put a heart-shaped letter plate on my front door, but I'm not one to wear my heart so conspicuously outside—or anywhere else, for that matter—so we compromised on a spade.”

“A spade.” Robbins was puzzled.

“I turned the heart upside down.”

Still puzzled, Robbins stared at him, and H.G. went on to explain that workers in town had already confused him with another Wells—a man who had broken the bank at Monte Carlo—so when they heard the new house was named Spade House, they began telling people it was “on the ace of spades” that the trick had been done.

“So you're a gambler,” said Robbins flatly. “That's why Amy doesn't have a lot to say about you. . . .” He chuckled, shook his head. “A socialist gambler . . . who knew?”

“I am
not
a gambler!” H.G. said hotly.

Pleased, Robbins swigged his whiskey, then saw that Amy was on the verge of tears and tried to back off. “Hey, Herb—”

“I say, old man,” H.G. interrupted, “my name is not ‘Herb.' I
detest
‘Herb.' ”

“Whatever. All I was gonna say is, as long as you work hard and make money, that's all that counts.”

“That's
not
all that counts!”

“Bertie, please,” said Amy.

Her eyes pleading with him, she placed her hand on his arm. He exhaled and sat back, yet didn't want this vitriolic old man to get off so easily. He thought of T.R. again and shot a question down the table. “Tell me, sir, how do you think we should better serve mankind?”

“
Serve
. . . ? Where the hell did that come from?” Another guffaw. “The politicians serve mankind, boy. And I gotta tell you, after they're finished at the trough, there ain't a helluva lot to go around.”

“Charming,” H.G. said sardonically. “Do you know anything at all about one of your past presidents, Theodore Roosevelt?”

“Even if I did, so what?” He glared at Amy. “Is he always like this? Talking in circles?”

“Tell me, Mr. Robbins,” H.G. pressed. “Do you love your daughters?”

“Yeah, I love my daughters.”

Amy could no longer hold back her tears, and Elizabeth embraced her from behind the chair, but said nothing.

H.G. held Robbins with his eyes. “Then why not make the world a better place for them to live in?”

“Sara's set for life,” he croaked. “So's Amy if she comes home.”

“I'm talking about the greater good.”

“What's the greater good?” he said suspiciously.

“If you become a Citizen of the World,” H.G. said softly, “and erase the lines between nations, people, race and class . . .
then
you will make the world a better place for your daughters.”

“Horse shit,” said Robbins.

The phone rang.

 

“It's for you,” said Elizabeth, coming back in the dining room.

Surprised, H.G. had no idea who would be calling him here, then thought of 'Dusa and blushed. He turned to Amy. “It has to be Miss Reeves.”

Amy gave him a small, fragile smile.

H.G. took the call in the dark-paneled study, surrounded by Kevin Robbins's memorabilia and plaques—and absence of books.

“Hello . . . ?”

“Welcome to the future, Wells,” said a distorted, robotic voice.

Stunned, his breath whooshing out, H.G. automatically sat down behind the massive, curved desk. He immediately looked to that ingenious technological advance on the phone's cradle—caller ID—but much to his dismay, it read “Restricted number.”
Of course. Having been to hell and back, Leslie John Stephenson would be quite comfortable with modern technology.
“John,” he uttered.

The monster chuckled with delight, the garbled sound reminding H.G. of Amber's microwave before it exploded.

“Ah, Wells. . . . It's been years since we've spoken. It wasn't so long ago that we were having a glass of claret in your parlor and discussing the theory behind your magnificent invention. How have you been . . . ?”

“You bloody well nipped my time machine!”

A buzz that resembled laughter. “And what a ride it was.”

H.G. grimaced. “I'm going to find you, John. . . . And despite my abhorrence for violence, I plan on killing you.”

“Actually, I've been thinking of a more civilized alternative.”

H.G. peered at the phone, wondered if there were some combination of keys that would give him Stephenson's location. He cursed softly, wishing he'd paid more attention to the GPS in 'Dusa's car before falling back on the arcane help of a map.