Killing Time

by Linda Howard

  “I don’t guess it occurred to anyone that making a kid a ward of the nation, depriving it of a real family, always pointing fingers and looking for abnormalities, could cause personality disorders and a tendency toward violence, huh? Look at you. You were raised in a family with people who love you. The biggest problem is their childhood environment, not anything intrinsic in being a Copy.”

  “The prejudice against cloning is so ingrained, and with good reason, that most people react first with their emotions when they learn I’m a Copy. I’ve always told people I was becoming close to, so they could make the choice whether or not to remain my friend. Most chose not to.”

  “Their loss,” he said briefly. “I’d hazard a guess and say that’s the real reason why you aren’t married, not just because of the pressures of your job.”

  “There’s the birth control issue, too,” she said, and despite her best efforts she could hear the echo of pain in her voice. She took a deep breath and regained control of herself. “Copies aren’t allowed to have children. By law, I have to be on a birth control regimen. If I don’t report in to have my birth control renewed, I will be captured and sterilized.”

  Held as closely to him as she was, she could feel the tension that invaded his muscles, feel the heat of anger wash over his skin. “Excuse the hell out of me for saying so, but sounds to me as if civilization has reversed instead of going forward. Never mind your technology, your society sucks.”

  “And yet, if you had lived in a time that saw the horrible birth defects caused by cloning, you would probably be more understanding.”

  “Probably not. I’m a Kentuckian; I’d more likely be in some underground militia, trying to overthrow the tyrants. To hill people, the Civil War was yesterday, and the Revolution the day before. The word ‘taxes’ still gets us riled.”

  “Then you wouldn’t want to live in my time,” she admitted.

  “Probably not, but I sure would like to visit. What’s it like?” He turned on his side to face her, and as she had with his anger, she could now feel the force of his curiosity. “What’s the world’s population? Is our form of government still the same? How many states are there? And what about cars?”

  She laughed softly and looped one arm around his neck. “Stop worrying about the cars. They’re called personal vehicles now, and they’re powered by a variety of means: magnetic propulsion, hydrogen, electricity. There are free lanes and regulated lanes. If you choose the regulated lanes, the speed and traffic flow is controlled, so you never go very fast, but you don’t get in traffic snarls, either. You program your route into the PV’s computer, then sit and read or otherwise amuse yourself while the vehicle takes you to your destination.”

  “Have sex?” he suggested, laughing.

  She had to laugh, too. “Yes, people being people, sometimes sex is had. If you see a PV with the privacy screens in place, you can be fairly certain what’s going on inside. Occasionally a couple will be arrested for not having the privacy screen in place.”

  “What about those free lanes?”

  “They’re just as they sound: traffic isn’t regulated. You have control of your vehicle. You choose the speed. There are horrific accidents on the free lanes, but every time someone brings up legislation to convert all traffic lanes to regulated, there’s a huge outcry and that politician gets voted out of office in the next election.”

  “I imagine so. Is government still the same? Two-party, Democrats and Republicans?”

  “There are three parties now, but no Democrats or Republicans. Those two parties died out in the early twenty-second century. No, ‘died out’ is the wrong terminology. Their identity changed, and they became something else. Murphy?”

  “Murphy?” Knox echoed. “Who the hell is Murphy? Or do you mean morphed?”

  “Yes, that’s the word. They morphed into their present political identity.”

  “How about the rest of the world?”

  “Some nations change, some don’t. There are eight billion people on earth now. There would be more, but the great viruses of the late twenty-first century killed millions upon millions. The death toll from the viruses contributed to the changing political climate that did away with the Democrats and Republicans.”

  “And wars?”

  “There are always wars.”

  “Yeah, figured. Human nature doesn’t change much. Tell me about space travel. You have a colony on the moon?”

  “And on Mars. The Martian colony was established underground, in the cave system; that was the only way to get enough protection. The moon colony is by far the most popular, because of earthrise. I think around four hundred thousand people live on Mars, but the moon has a population of over two million. There’s a ban in place now to prevent any new settlers on the moon.”

  “I’d love to go to the moon and watch the earth rising,” he murmured. “Have you been?”

  “No, it’s a hideously expensive vacation. Public servants don’t make that kind of money.”

  “Something else that hasn’t changed,” he commented.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “No other colonies in outer space, though? No contact with other species? No faster-than-light travel?”

  “No, no, and no. If we had the last one, we might manage the first one. But no one has ever made any form of contact with another intelligent species.”

  “I’m disappointed. In two hundred years, you expect to get a little farther out than your neighbor’s house—metaphorically speaking, of course.”

  “Of course. But we did get the pope on the moon, so you have to give us credit for that.”

  “Now, that I’d have paid to see. The press coverage must have been wall-to-wall.”

  Wall-to-wall pertained to carpet, she was certain. She puzzled over the sentence, trying to work out the meaning from the context. Wall-to-wall, carpet . . . They were carpeted by the press reports? Yes, that made sense.

  “The coverage was nonstop,” she agreed, then gave an eye-watering, jaw-popping yawn that made him laugh.

  “We don’t have much time left to sleep, but we might squeeze in an hour,” he said against her temple. “I’ll hold the rest of my questions for later.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea.” She yawned again. “Knox—thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For not being disgusted by what I am.”

  “You’re a woman,” he said quietly into the dark. “And I’m a man. We’re together, and that’s all that matters.”

  26

  Nikita lay in bed sleepily looking around while Knox took another shower before going to work. It was just after dawn, but the drawn curtains kept the room dim. She was slightly sore, utterly relaxed, and completely infatuated. On the physical front she had been overwhelmed by Knox’s male pheromones during all of that bare skin contact, then emotionally ambushed by his easy acceptance of her circumstances. She suspected the combination had been too much for her defenses.

  She couldn’t make her feelings for him go away; it was too late for that. There was nothing she could do now except enjoy him for the length of time she had left, however much that was. She still had a mission to complete, a mission that was rife with complications. Even if she successfully apprehended Hugh Byron, her links were missing, stolen by someone who had no idea what they had, and the danger that person ran by having links and not knowing how to work them made her hair stand on end.

  There was nothing like a little dose of reality to dim a postcoital glow, she thought. Duty gnawed at her. She would have liked nothing better than to snuggle down and sleep for several more hours, but she forced herself to throw back the covers and get out of bed. Yawning, she padded into the other bedroom and put on her sanssaum; she liked being naked with Knox, but that was entirely different from being naked in front of him while he was dressed and doing other things. She wasn’t yet that comfortable with him.

  He had put on a pot of coffee, and she followed the smell to the kitchen. As she
went by, the door to the bathroom opened and a wave of warm, humid air rolled out. Knox stood there completely naked, rubbing his head with a towel. “Good morning,” he said, his eyelids lowering as he swept his gaze down her. “Man, I love that gown thing you’re wearing. It’s sexier than a bikini.”

  Noting that he was definitely comfortable with being naked in front of her, she said, “Good morning,” blew him a kiss, and continued toward the coffee.

  She poured two cups, and carried both of them to the bathroom. Knox was standing in front of the sink, the towel knotted around his waist, while he squirted lather onto his palm. Nikita extended one of the cups. “Would you like a sip of coffee before you put that on your face?”

  “God, yes.” He set down the shaving cream can and reached for the cup, an expression of bliss crossing his face as he sipped the hot liquid. “Some people don’t drink coffee,” he commented. “I wonder about them.”

  She couldn’t resist slipping her hand under the towel for a pat on that fine ass of his, which got her soundly kissed—as soundly as possible, anyway, since they both held cups of hot coffee and his other hand was full of lather. “Should I begin cooking breakfast?” she asked when her lips were free again. She pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder. “If you’ll tell me what to do and how to do it, I’ll manage.”

  He looked guilty. “I don’t think we have anything here for breakfast.”

  “No food?”

  “No food. We’ll eat out. And I’ll buy groceries today, I promise.”

  If he had time, she thought. He certainly hadn’t had an extra minute for the past two days. Perhaps she could do it, after he rented another car for her. He had other cases he was working; he had to give them some attention. She was dependent on him to help her navigate the present, so until he was free, she might as well make herself useful.

  While she waited for him to finish in the bathroom, she strolled into the living room and examined his stacks of books. A series of big, fairly thin books caught her interest; she pulled one out and, without looking at the front cover, flipped it open. It was full of photographs.

  She looked back at the cover. It was white leather, and the words Pekesville High School were imprinted in the leather, along with the year 1986. It was a yearbook from Knox’s high school. Smiling, she leafed through the pages until she found Knox, a gangly adolescent with a serious expression on his face. He must have been sixteen or so, with a hint of power already showing in his neck and shoulders, and a slight shadow on his jaw that said he was already shaving, and on a regular basis.

  She put that yearbook back and took out another one. This one was from 1985, the year the time capsule was buried. She found Knox’s class photograph again, noting the difference a year had made. He looked so young in this photograph, boyish, without the beard shadow he had the next year.

  Out of curiosity, she went to the front of the yearbook and slowly began turning pages. The faculty pictures caught her attention and she looked for the football coach who had committed suicide, Howard Easley. He’d been a pleasant-looking man, she thought, his face not giving any hint of the sadness within that must have led him to his final action. Guessing someone’s age from a photograph was tricky, but she thought he looked to be in his early forties, perhaps, with thick dark hair and striking pale eyes.

  She read his list of credentials; he had several degrees, including a master’s, and he’d taught both physical education and physics. He had attended the University of Kentucky, and the California Institute of Technology.

  She was still staring at the page when Knox came into the room several minutes later, neatly shaved and partly dressed. At least he had on jeans. “What are you looking at?”

  “Your yearbook from 1985.” She looked up at him. “The coach, Howard Easley. He went to Cal Tech. I don’t believe mediocre students receive master’s degrees from there, do they? He taught physics as well as physical education. He’s the only person so far who’s anything close to being qualified to write whatever it is we’re looking for.”

  He came to stand beside her, his head bent as he read the coach’s credentials. “I didn’t know him that well. I was just a sophomore when he killed himself, and I was into basketball instead of football, anyway. He didn’t strike me as a genius, but what do kids know? I paid attention to girls and basketball, not some old guy in his forties. And, no, Cal Tech doesn’t accept mediocre students.”

  “Does he still have family in the area whom we can talk to? Someone who would know if he was perhaps working on a hobby, or a pet theory?”

  Knox put his left hand on the back of her neck, gently kneading. “I don’t think he was from here, but I can find out. There are still people around here who knew him. I can find out what projects he was involved with when he was at Cal Tech, too.” He glanced down at her. “You said ‘Cal Tech’ instead of ‘California Institute of Technology,’ which is what the yearbook says. I guess Cal Tech is still around, huh?”

  “Cal Tech is the premier research facility for space travel. It has very close ties to NASA.”

  “Space travel is a long way from time travel.”

  “Not at all, actually. FTLT and time travel have a lot in common.”

  He narrowed his eyes, thinking over the acronym. “I get it. ‘Faster-than-light travel.’ Do we have that yet?”

  “Not yet,” she said regretfully. “But the team working on FTLT serendipitously developed time travel when prior research took them in an unexpected direction.”

  They looked at each other, their eyes lighting with excitement as the eureka moment sank in. Sometimes, even without all the pieces of the puzzle, you knew beyond a doubt what shape the puzzle would take when it was completed. This was one of those moments, and they knew Howard Easley was the key. The big problem was, he’d been dead over twenty years.

  “There are still people around who knew Coach Easley,” Knox said. “Max Browning, for one; he covered all the football games.”

  “Mr. Browning’s name has been mentioned a lot,” Nikita observed. Cops didn’t believe in coincidence; should they be looking more closely at Mr. Browning?

  “There were only two reporters for years, and they took their own photographs, too. Max may have files of photos that didn’t make it into the papers, so he’s at the top of my list of people to contact.” He furrowed his brow. “I need to talk to Ruth and find out what the hell she was doing. There will be tips called in concerning Jesse’s murder and I’ll have to check those out—”

  He wandered toward the bedroom still mumbling to himself, his mind racing as he tried to think of everything he needed to do that day. Smiling, Nikita followed him, but only to get some clean clothes from her bedroom and take her turn in the bathroom for a quick shower. She had to shampoo her hair, so there went her blondness, right down the drain. It was a simple matter to reapply a polymer color, though, and dry her hair.

  When she came out of the bathroom, Knox glanced at her and choked on his coffee. Obligingly she went over and whacked him on the back. Through watery eyes, he stared at her red hair. “Wow,” he finally wheezed. “I think I like this better than the blond. Just how many colors do you have?”

  “Three. Blond, red, and black.” She liked being able to change her hair color so easily, and she especially liked the red shade because it went so well with her warm complexion. “Your neighbors will think you’re a real ladies’ man.”

  “You mean they’ll think I’m a hound dog.” He sifted his fingers through the red strands, watching the light filter through.

  “I hate to keep nagging about this, but I also need a vehicle. I can’t sit here all day, and I can’t sit in your office.”

  “Damn. Look, can you drive a stick?”

  The look she gave him was completely blank.

  “A manual transmission. A stick shift.”

  She arched her brows. “I can drive your stick shift, big boy.”

  He chuckled and gave her a quick kiss. “Damn straight you can; you pu
t me in overdrive. But that isn’t exactly what I was talking about. Some cars—mostly sports cars and trucks—have manual transmissions. You have to change the gears yourself.”

  “Then, no, I can’t. I’ve never seen one.”

  “Then borrowing my dad’s old truck won’t work. Okay, I’ll get a car for you; I’d been hoping not to use a rental company, but I don’t see any way around it.”

  “What’s wrong with using a rental company?”

  “The cars are recognizable, for one. They all have that little company decal somewhere on it. Dad’s old truck looks like a thousand others around here; no one would pay it the least bit of attention.”

  “Could you teach me how to drive a manual transmission?”

  “I could give you the basics, but it’s something that takes practice. Stalling out every time you accelerate would draw attention, and that’s what I don’t want.”

  “Not knowing who tried to kill me certainly is inconvenient,” she remarked.

  He growled, “Don’t you dare be blasé about this.”

  Nikita put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Have I been blasé? I’ve followed instructions to the letter. I didn’t open the door even last night when I really, really wanted to throw that woman off the porch.”

  “And I appreciate your restraint. I guess I’m just saying, be careful. Got your cell phone?”

  “Got my cell phone.”

  “Got your weapon?”

  “Got my weapon.”

  “Got your laser?”

  “Never go anywhere without my laser.”

  “You’re set, then.” He bent and kissed her, his mouth warm, the kiss slow. “Though I’d put you in body armor if I could. Let’s go get some breakfast; then we’ll hit the rental company and hope they have something available.”

  Nikita pulled her hair back and secured it, then put on her baseball cap and sunglasses. She was starving, so she was glad he’d listed breakfast first. She would have something other than eggs, though. She’d found that ova weren’t to her taste.

  Hugh Byron parked on the street several houses down. He risked having someone come out to complain about him being there, but several cars on the street were parked at the curb, so he hoped he was simply blending in. He had a pair of binoculars lying in the seat beside him, and he watched Knox Davis’s house for any sign of life. The county’s chief investigator should be leaving any minute now; Ruth said he had a habit of going to work early, and it was almost seven o’clock.