In fact, walking back was exactly what she should do. “I’ll walk—” she began.
Knox glared at her. “No, you, by God, won’t walk. Someone’s trying to kill you, remember, and it isn’t Hugh, so you don’t know who to be wary of. Let’s just get you home as fast as possible, and pray for the best.”
He didn’t put his portable light on the roof or turn on his siren, but he drove as fast as he could without attracting even more attention, and got her back to his house in about fifteen minutes. He didn’t get out, just pulled a key ring out of his pocket and gave it to her. “Here’s the house key. It’s the one with the big flat head. Usual drill: don’t open the door, and don’t answer the phone. If I call, I’ll call your cell phone.”
She nodded and slid out of the car. He was already rolling again before she got the car door closed, and she had to give an extra-hard shove to close it before he was out of reach.
Using his keys, she let herself in the back door and carefully locked it behind her. If the scenario went sour for Knox, if details came out that he couldn’t explain, she would have to come forward. Secrecy was one thing, but this wasn’t a matter of national security and she wouldn’t let Knox take the blame for any of this.
Whether it would do any good, whether she would be believed, was the bigger question.
22
Nikita stood in the kitchen, looking around. This scenario was almost identical to the one the day before, but things had changed so much that she didn’t feel as if she was even the same person. In truth, the only thing that had changed was herself, and her perception of herself.
Are you a robot?
Sarcasm would have been bad enough, but the cautious seriousness in his tone had sliced through her.
She wanted to hate him, but that wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t hate him. She hated the position she had been forced into, she hated the emotional cage she lived in, she hated the fear that made it necessary, but she would never hate Knox.
He was . . . special, and she didn’t think he knew how special he was to a lot of people. When she’d been shot at and he’d called in reinforcements, and the entire damn SWAT team and half the sheriff’s department had come running, he’d said jokingly that they loved him—and it was nothing less than the truth. They might phrase it differently; they might say he was a good guy, they liked him, and all the other ways people said they cared about another person; but the meaning was the same.
The affection in which he was held would cause people to give him the benefit of the doubt if any awkward questions were raised. So much of this situation depended on chance: who had happened to drive by and notice his car, if anyone had at all, if the time was noticed, if the incriminating detail was mentioned to the wrong person. Whether the troublesome details could be glossed over remained to be seen. If everything worked perfectly, they were okay. If not—she and her mission were exposed.
Idly, she wondered what would happen then. There were several possibilities, the first of which was that she wouldn’t be believed, so she’d have to do some demonstrations, which might not convince people of anything. Knox had been intrigued, but he hadn’t been convinced until Luttrell’s appearance. Unfortunately, any demonstration of the laser pen would definitely convince the sheriff that she was the one who’d killed Jesse Bingham.
But if she was believed, events would quickly spiral out of control. Logically, the federal government would be contacted. The FBI, specifically. Her own agency, but an agency two hundred years removed from her own reality, would take her into custody. She would be interrogated, examined, subjected to a barrage of psychological testing, and held prisoner for her own safety. She had a fake driver’s license and a fake credit card. She had a lot of cash with her. Moreover, people in this time had social security numbers; she didn’t. She had a serial number, engraved in her flesh. She was number 233704272177. The first four digits were her order of creation: she was number 2,337. The remaining digits were the date of her “birth,” April 27, 2177.
The FBI would have a real party with that.
She could tell them so much, though. She could talk to the scientists, tell them what she knew about solid-state lasers, about antigravity propulsion, space travel, warp drives—which admittedly wasn’t as much as a scientist from her time could tell them, but she was an intelligent, widely read woman, and she had made excellent grades in the sciences she had studied in college. She could make drawings of spaceships, personal vehicles, but she didn’t know if she could make them believe her.
Without links, without proof positive, she couldn’t prove anything. Her laser pen and DNA scanner would be taken apart, and she imagined there would be a great deal of interest in them, but what would they
prove
? She couldn’t point to a building and say, “These were manufactured here.”
But all this worrying was wasted effort, because until she heard from Knox exactly what had transpired, she had no idea what would need doing. In the meantime, she was once again marooned, without any way to help him or even continue her own investigation. If she made it through the night without being arrested, come morning she would make certain the situation was remedied as soon as possible.
The afternoon was wearing down, and she was tired. The last two days had certainly been eventful: two days, two bodies. This was three bodies for Knox, because he’d been at the former mayor’s house and she hadn’t. He’d also been investigating Taylor Allen’s murder. He had to feel overwhelmed by death and violence.
She could make an educated guess as to what had happened to poor old Jesse Bingham—or rather, why it had happened. He must have been nosing around where he’d seen those flashes, and for some reason Hugh Byron had returned there and Jesse had seen or heard something he shouldn’t have. Perhaps Hugh’s links
had
been buried there, and he had decided to put them somewhere else for safekeeping, and Jesse discovered him when he returned to retrieve them. Jesse had definitely been killed with a laser. The wound was distinctive.
A single burst of energy into a stationary target would produce a single bore, but the more usual method was to fire a single stream as you tracked onto the target. The tracking movement was what produced the long, deep, furrowed sear. What flesh the energy beam touched was vaporized, and surrounding tissue was cooked. Jesse had died immediately, but had he invited Hugh into his house or had Hugh intruded?
Hugh’s willingness to kill told her that
she
had to be willing to kill
him,
or her chances of survival decreased dramatically. He was as well-trained as she, and had proven himself to be ruthless. He had an unknown ally. On the other hand, she had Knox as an ally, and her altered appearance would perhaps allow her to catch Hugh unawares. That is, she had Knox, provided he didn’t get arrested, and provided she herself stayed out of jail.
The telephone rang.
Nikita jumped; she’d been lost in thought, and the sudden sound rasped along her nerves like a metal file.
It wasn’t Knox; he’d said he would call on her cell phone. “Damn it!” Nikita swore, leaping for her purse and taking out the phone. Yes, it was on. She breathed a sigh of relief. Knox had turned it on to show her the features and play with it himself, and he hadn’t turned it off before dropping it in her lap.
The call went to the answering machine after four rings. A woman’s voice said, “This is Ruth Lacey. Please pick up.” Nikita didn’t, of course, and after a moment the call clicked off.
Ruth Lacey, Nikita thought. That was Knox’s dead fiancée’s mother. Why was she calling? And wasn’t it a coincidence that she would call after seeing them shopping that morning?
Nikita immediately felt a little ashamed. For all she knew, Knox talked to her on a regular basis.
Just so she would know Mrs. Lacey’s number, she picked up the cordless phone and looked at the little window, but it had already gone blank and she didn’t know how to call up the number again.
A little on edge, she checked all the doors and windows to make certain they were secure, then decided she should once again take advantage of her privacy to shower and take care of her personal chores, such as laundry. The curtains were all pulled, she had both weapons at hand, and the cell phone was on. She wasn’t likely to find a better time.
“She didn’t answer,” said Ruth Lacey, hanging up the receiver. Byron had rented a motel room in Pekesville so he could be close at hand, but they were at her house. Edward, of course, was out at some bar. He seldom came home before midnight, and if he did happen to come home while Byron was there, she simply didn’t care. She and Byron were in the living room, both fully clothed, but even if Edward caught them naked in bed, she wouldn’t care. He was nothing to her, literally nothing.
“She’s there,” Byron said. “I saw her go into the house.”
“I don’t want to leave a message that I can’t explain,” she said, worried. “That’s the first thing the police do, is listen to any messages. No one, not even Knox, would think it unusual if I call to talk to him, but if I say, ‘Tina, please pick up,’ then that raises questions.”
“I know. You were smart not to say any names. It’s just that I couldn’t see her face very well when she went inside; she was wearing a cap. I need to hear her voice, or get a better look at her face.”
“I suppose I could go over there, knock on the door, but what if a neighbor saw me?” Ruth asked.
“Don’t worry,” he said, hugging her close and kissing her forehead. “If we don’t find out today whether this Tina is actually Agent Stover, we’ll have other opportunities tomorrow.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can wait.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Yes, I do. As long as it takes. I’m sorry I’m not more help.”
“You’ve been more help than you imagine.” He framed her face with his hands, tenderness in his gaze. With his thumbs he gently wiped away the tears that overspilled her lashes, and kissed her soft mouth.
Ruth ducked her head against his shoulder. A week ago, she had been lost in despair, but since she and Byron had met in the cemetery, her entire life had turned around. He’d confessed that he’d seen her at Rebecca’s grave on Monday morning, talking to Knox—though of course he hadn’t known who Knox was—and with only a wisp of hope had gone back the next day hoping to see her again. She had indeed gone back the next day, because talking to Knox had sharpened the pain and she had felt the need to be as close to her dead child as possible. Byron had introduced himself, the next thing she knew they were having coffee, and within a few hours after that he was her lover.
The speed at which events had moved was bewildering, and exhilarating.
When Byron told her he was a policeman from the future who had been sent back to catch killers who were trying to prevent the invention of time travel, her heart had almost broken. Her affection-starved heart had opened to him without hesitation, and now she found he was a delusional schizophrenic. She had burst into tears, and he’d started laughing.
“I’ll prove it to you,” he said, smiling lazily at her, and he had. He’d taken her out into the country that night and demonstrated some of his weapons for her, as well as introducing her to his partner, a cool-eyed man named McElroy who had verified everything Byron said. McElroy had then completely convinced her by attaching what they called “links,” four of them, one on each wrist and ankle, and . . . disappearing. Completely. Right before her eyes.
Byron had kissed her forehead then, too, and held her close. “I need help,” he said. “If we can stop this killer, then I’ll show you how to go back to the day before your daughter died.”
“I don’t want to relive it,” she’d said, pain stark in her eyes.
“No, no. You’ll go back with full knowledge of today, of everything that’s happened. Time travel doesn’t wipe out memories. If you can convince her to . . . I don’t know, go to the doctor and have some tests run, maybe you can save her life.”
“Maybe?” Ruth had been anguished.
Maybe?
She might have to live through Rebecca’s death again? She couldn’t bear it.
“There are some things that can’t be changed,” he’d explained gently. “Rebecca might not listen to you. Or there might not be time to have tests done. I’d actually suggest you go back to at least a month prior to her death.”
“But won’t I already be there?”
“No, of course not. If you travel a mile down this road, then turn around and come back to this very spot, you won’t meet yourself. If you go back to before her death, you’ll know everything that has happened in the years since she died, but physically there will be only one of you.”
Temptation was a lovely monster, and hope was a tender bloom almost afraid to poke up its head. To see Rebecca again, to have her daughter alive and well—“What if she does listen to me? Will she come back to this time with me?”
“She could, but why would you want to? When you change something like that, reality . . . realigns itself. That’s the only way I can explain it. You will have created an alternate reality, one in which your daughter lives, gets married, raises a family. And you’ll be there with her.”
And there it was, the thorn that tore at her heart. She felt it now. “But what about you?” she cried.
The smile he gave her was both tender and sad. “I won’t be there.”
So that was the choice he’d given her: she could go back in time and save Rebecca, but the price she’d pay was that she would lose Byron. He couldn’t stay in this time, he couldn’t wait for her. He had a job to do, and then he would be returning to his own time. If she
didn’t
go back to save Rebecca, then she could go forward with him. He didn’t ask her to, didn’t flay her by asking her to choose between him and her daughter. But it was in his eyes, the knowledge that if he gave her what she most desired, he would never see her again.
For now, though, she would love him with every ounce of spirit in her. She would cherish every moment with him, commit every detail to memory: how he talked, how he moved, the scent of his skin, the way one dimple would peek out when he laughed. She would love him, and love him well, for the short time they had.
She would pay any price to have Rebecca back again.
Byron had brought a police scanner, and they had been listening to a flood tide of police chatter. Ruth didn’t know the codes, but Byron did. He told her there had evidently been a death at someone’s house, but she found the scanner difficult to understand and the constant noise got on her nerves, so she tried to tune it out.
“Do you have to listen to that?” she asked, trying not to sound irritable.
“Police activity gives me information,” he said, though he turned down the volume some. “I can’t just assume that Tina is the woman we’re looking for. Stover may still be out there, and this at least gives me an idea of what’s happening in the county.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just on edge.” She rubbed her eyes and sighed. “Shall I call again? Sometimes sheer nuisance will make someone answer the phone.”
He nodded, and Ruth dialed again. Again the phone rang four times, and again the answering machine picked up. She didn’t leave a message this time, just quietly hung up.
“Still no answer.”
“After it’s dark,” he said, “we’ll go over there.” He glanced out the window; the sun was setting, but there was at least another hour of daylight left.