Portals in Time 3

by Michael Beals

  “So talk me through this,” Dore said, gazing up at the house. “Because it could be dangerous to stand here if we go too far into the future.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The wind had strengthened, dark clouds were racing across the sky, and Kat could smell rain. In case the house was torn down while they were teleporting, they had moved to the middle of a wide lawn area. Grantham had bought this house for a reason. It wasn’t just somewhere to park his car, although stability was a factor. He had also said he liked where he was living. It was certainly a beautiful area. He probably owned the woods as well.

  She had thought long and hard about how far into the future she should teleport. Remembering Grantham’s clothes, that they were still more or less in fashion, she doubted he’d be living too far in the future, although Men’s fashions never really changed much. The material was the biggest give-away, Grantham’s shoes in particular. They’d looked like English brogues, but they hadn’t been made of leather. It had been some kind of tightly woven material. And then there was his suit. It had looked like Thai silk, but was completely waterproof. So how far in the future was he living? Fifty years? A hundred?

  “Jock, I want to experiment on my own. I need to learn how to surf the years, the way Grantham did, and it would be easier if you’re not hanging onto me.”

  Dore scowled. “Just give me a clue where you’re going. If you don’t come back, Ellie and I will have to come looking for you.”

  “Twenty years, no more. I just want to test it. I’ll go forward in stages to 2045.”

  “Sounds like a long time, just to investigate an empty house.”

  “It might not remain empty. Don’t worry; I won’t be gone for long. I might spend some time investigating the different eras, but I’ll be back within minutes of leaving.”

  Walking into the middle of the lawn, she looked back at the house. It was now two hundred yards away; not much danger of falling masonry, or new buildings under construction. Pulling back her sleeve, she activated the device. It always gave her an eerie feeling when the date readout glowed brightly through the skin on her wrist. It was as if her arm didn’t belong to her anymore.

  She glanced at Dore. “Please stay here, Jock. I’d hate to have to go looking for you when I come back.”

  “What if it pisses with rain?”

  “Stand under the porch. Anywhere I can see you.”

  She studied the device. Like any large watch, the time machine had a crown to adjust the dates, except that it was covered with her skin, which meant she had to stroke the wheel instead of turning it, then tap the watch face with one finger, or in the case of surfing, two fingers. Stroking the crown to 2027, she held one finger against the watch face, looked at Dore one more time, and then tapped it. There was a rush of air, a slight feeling of disorientation, and the house seemed to age before her eyes. Otherwise, there wasn’t much difference, so she changed the date to 2029 and tapped again. Many roof tiles disappeared, and one of the lions by the front door vanished. Maybe it had been stolen. Keeping two fingers pressed against the watch face, she tapped again, and the date zipped to 2032. And suddenly, the front doors were missing, some windows had lost their frames, and one of the chimneys disappeared. She looked around. She’d only traveled seven years, but things were beginning to change. Was the house falling apart, or was it being dismantled?

  Taking a deep breath, she reset the date to 2038 and tapped again. The difference was shocking. She was still standing on a wide area of lawn, but the house was completely gone, in its place, rows of new foundations. But there were also people moving around. Men in overalls were wheeling barrows, hauling scaffolding from a truck, or pouring concrete. A group of men were strolling across the forecourt. There was no sign of Grantham, but then she wouldn’t expect him to be here. Had he sold the property, or was he having the house rebuilt? Noting that the garage was still in place, she decided on the latter. Grantham had always liked living here.

  She took another deep breath. What would she find if she teleported to 2039, or better still, 2045? Would the lawn still be intact? Was it safe, or should she take a few steps back? One of the workmen had seen her. He was talking to another man and pointing at her. Walking backward, she waited until they’d both looked away, then teleported to 2045, twenty years into the future from where Dore was waiting.

  The scene before her was astonishing. She was still standing in the middle of a lawn, but now it was beautifully mown. Roses had been planted in two rectangular flowerbeds, and a low wall had been erected to separate the garden from the forecourt. Still, more surprisingly, the Aston Martin was parked out front. But the house was the biggest surprise. It was a Georgian Manor House, and it was huge. A low buttress sat above the upstairs windows and surrounded a triple-pitched roof. The front door was framed by a pillared porch, and clematis was already growing up one of the walls. But what was fascinating was the oast house. It was still the same, and she wondered in a moment of fantasy whether Grantham made his own beer. She studied the upstairs windows. A child was taping a coloring of a rainbow to one of the panes.

  “Wow,” she whispered. “Grantham’s got children.”

  And then she saw Grantham. He was working in a small orchard by the side of the house, pruning one of the trees. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans… Some fashions never change. He was a muscular, suntanned man, and quite handsome. It was hard to imagine him living in Hell.

  She was about to re-set the watch to 2025 again when Grantham looked up and saw her. But he didn’t look shocked. He just shielded his eyes from the sun and peered at her.

  She wondered what to do. Should she take flight and teleport back to 2025, or should she wait to see what happens? Grantham had put down his pruning sheers and was calmly walking toward her. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning either. Maybe Grantham had been expecting her. He knew she had a time machine. She tensed. Was she in danger? She glanced at the house again, just in time to see a small child in one of the downstairs windows.

  “Well, if it isn’t Miss. Wolfram, our friendly detective!” he called, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans. “I wondered when you were going to find me.” He stopped when he was a few feet away. One of his arms had a bleeding scratch on it, perhaps from pruning. “Where have you come from?”

  Kat stared at him for a moment. There seemed no point deceiving Grantham. “2025.”

  “Ah yes, of course,” he said, studying her clothes. “Are you on your own?”

  “I am at the moment. My partner’s watching for guards.”

  “Oh, yes, the guards. I’d avoid them if I were you. They’re not very nice.”

  “Are they dangerous?”

  “I’m afraid they are. Hades keeps sending people to kill me. I gather, that’s why you’re here.”

  “Is my partner in danger?”

  “Yes, he is. When you go back, you should get away from here.” He smiled, showing perfect teeth. “But there’s no hurry. Come in and have some tea.”

  Without another word, he turned and walked towards the house, so she walked beside him, but her mind was racing. Kat seriously doubted that Grantham would kill her while children were watching.

  “You er… have children.”

  He smiled at her. “I adopted two of them. Six and four. I’m trying to be a hands-on father.” He laughed. “It’s 2045… not bad for a guy who’s well over three hundred years old.”

  “Does your wife know? About you, I mean.”

  He cocked his head and thought for a moment. “Not a clue.”

  Kat followed him through a doorway into a walled, Italian garden. She could hear water burbling and, after looking around, saw that Grantham had erected a network of irrigation channels that fed into a small pond. Flowers had been planted in tubs, and French apple trees had been trained across one wall. It was a delightful garden. Even the table and chairs sat beside a small herb garden.

  Putting his head around the kitchen door, he called out. “Geraldine!
Could we have tea for two, please? We’re in the courtyard!” He turned back to Kat. “Please, sit down. It won’t be long.”

  She squinted at him. “I don’t understand. You’re obviously a very wealthy man, why do you keep selling escapes from Hell? Surely, you don’t need the money.”

  “I gain great satisfaction from beating death and outwitting Satan.”

  “I can imagine,” she said, astonished that Grantham had been able to for so long.

  Geraldine arrived with a tray of tea. She was a pretty, dark-haired young woman.

  “Mr. Grantham–”

  “Call me Henry. You’ll know me quite well before all this is done.”

  She sipped at her tea. “Henry… what am I going to do with you? I doubt if you’ll just allow me to drag you back to Hell.”

  He smiled at her again. He seemed to be good at smiling. “I assume you’re armed. You could kill me right now and send me straight to Hell, and your job would be done… That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Peering over Grantham’s shoulder, Kat saw a small boy staring at her through a window. “I can’t,” Kat said, smiling at Grantham’s son. “One of your children is looking at me.”

  Grantham turned to see his son waving at him. Grantham waved back and said, “that’s Brian… I see you’re having a moral dilemma killing me in front of him.”

  Turning back to Kat, he said, “don’t you find it interesting, that a minion of Satan, God of the Underworld, is having a crisis of conscience in returning one of the damned back to Hell, where he belongs… because of a smile from a child?”

  Kat frowned. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  Grantham shrugged. “You could always go into partnership with me. We could make quite a team…”

  Kat was taken aback but didn’t acknowledge the offer. “Henry, if I don’t kill you or bring you back, Hades will just send someone else.”

  “It won’t make a difference; I’ll just escape again.”

  “Can’t they put you in prison or something?”

  Grantham laughed. “And what do you think Hell is supposed to be?”

  “So, there is no way of stopping you?”

  “Nope, and it has nothing to do with artifacts.”

  “It doesn’t? Then how on earth will you escape?”

  “Miss. Wolfram… Kat… Persephone comes back to the real world every spring, but she doesn’t use an artifact, any more than she does when she flies a thousand miles in the blink of an eye.”

  She ran a hand through her hair. This was going from bad to worse. “Are you telling me you can do the same?”

  Grantham chuckled. “Kat… really… do you expect me to answer that question?”

  “So what am I going to do? What am I going to tell Hades?”

  Grantham sighed. “Tell him I’m not coming back; tell him what I told you at The Loeb Boathouse, that I know too much for him to allow me to return. Tell him to let God sort it all out.”

  “But… then I’ve achieved nothing.”

  “That’s not true. Once Hades realizes I’m unreachable, he’ll simply close down the operation at West Fork, which means the New York office will go as well. I’ll have to set up somewhere else. A bit of an inconvenience, but manageable.”

  She stood. “Well, I’d better get back. Are you going to have your guards kill me when I leave?”

  “Not today. Not after such a pleasant conversation. Tomorrow, or yesterday, depending on your perspective, is another matter. Don’t go back via Old Wagon Lane; my guards will be waiting for you. There’s a dirt track at the back of the property. It’s quite long, and it has a terrible surface, but it brings you out by the golf club. If they shoot at you… well, you’ll just have to shoot back.”

  Thanking Grantham for the tea, she stood to leave, but he didn’t get up; he was quite happy sitting.

  “Henry, would you mind if I came to visit you from time to time?”

  Grantham took a long time thinking about the request. Finally, answering, “just for you, we’ll consider my home as neutral ground. You may visit anytime you wish. However, outside these walls, I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

  “One last thing, is Jonathon Steel one of your associates?”

  Grantham frowned as if he was trying to remember. “Isn’t he the fixer in Midtown? Nope, he’s nothing to do with me.”

  As Kat began to leave, Grantham warned her, “Miss. Wolfram, watch your back.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Kat found Dore lying face-down in the long grass, squinting towards the woods. It was getting dark and raining quite hard. He jumped when he saw her.

  “God Almighty, Kat, what’ve you been doing?” he hissed, shielding his eyes from the rain. “You’ve been ages.”

  “I’m sorry. I was talking to Grantham. Are you all right?”

  “You’ve been gone such a long time; the guards are closing in on us.”

  Squinting through the pouring rain, she scanned the grounds, but after the bright sunlight in 2045, it was hard to see. “Where are Giselle and Lily?”

  “Their car’s in the garage next to ours, they’re waiting to hear back from me, but there are more guards than we realized. The three we saw when we were driving here, are all waiting in the woods, and there are two more down by the gate in a four by four and two more halfway up the drive. They seem to be quite afraid of us.”

  “They bloody well should be,” she whispered, drawing her gun. “Shall we go? I know a way out of here.”

  Hauling a saturated Dore to his feet, they raced towards the garage. Her eyes had adjusted now; she could see the vehicle down at the gates, but she could have done without the rain. Water was already trickling down her neck, and the Browning was slick in her hand. Waving to Giselle and Lily, she jumped into the car and let down the window.

  “Give me your gun, Jock. You can’t drive and shoot.”

  “You’re going to shoot them?” he panted, handing her his canon of a gun.

  “According to Grantham, they’re going to try to kill us. When you drive out of the garage, turn right and drive around the back of the house. There’s a dirt track that lets out onto the golf course. And drive fast, Jock. They’re driving what looks like a modern Jeep.” Kat looked across at Giselle and waved for her to let down her window. “Ellie, you’re going to need both guns. And don’t be squeamish. Shoot to kill.”

  Only then did she realize that the car had a sunroof. Yanking back the locking handle, she scanned the dashboard until she saw the roof-opening button and pressed it. There was a high-pitched whining sound, and the sunroof slid open. They were as ready as they would ever be.

  “Go, Jock!”

  The car lurched forward, the tires spinning when they hit gravel.

  A shout went up, there was a burst of rapid gunfire, and a pair of headlights blinked on as the Jeep gave chase. And then two motorcycles started up in the vicinity of the woods. Clambering onto the seat, she poked her head through the sunroof. The motorcycle’s headlamps blinked on. She could see them now. They were racing across the lawn, their headlights weaving from side to side as the rear tires slithered on the wet grass. Shielding her eyes from the driving rain, she fired at the leading motorcycle.

  Another burst of gunfire from the Jeep, bullets pinging off the car, the back window starting to crystallize. They must have been using modern assault rifles because they sounded different from the machine pistols of WW2. Aiming at the Jeep’s windscreen, she raked it with both guns. There was a scream of pain, and the Jeep swerved, but it didn’t stop. She swung around and fired at the motorcycles again. The headlamp of the leading motorcycle did a nosedive. She fired again. The second motorcycle wavered. Gritting her teeth in the driving rain, she twisted around and fired at the Jeep again. It was only a hundred yards away and gaining fast, but they were on the dirt track now, trees flying by on either side, the car heaving and slithering in the potholes, rain pounding on the windscreen. One of the guards appeared through the roof of the J
eep.

  “Cool, pop-up targets.” she exclaimed, shooting him square in the chest. “Two points!”

  The man shrieked and disappeared, but within seconds another guard appeared.

  “Jock, this is great, it’s just like a carnival shooting gallery.”

  There were more flashes of gunfire, bullets pinging, and whining. Chuckling, Kat fired again. The windshield of the Jeep crystallized. A fist punched a hole in the glass. Then more gunfire. And then the second motorcycle was on them, weaving beside the Jeep as it went to overtake Giselle and Lily. But Giselle had found the sunroof. She suddenly appeared, both guns blazing, her hair flying in the wind, bullets peppering the back of her car. Screaming with fright, she fired both pistols. The motorcycle zig-zagged and flew off the track.

  Kat was firing furiously, but the car was bucking and swaying; it was hard to aim. One of the Jeep’s headlamps blinked out, steam pouring from the radiator. And then a loud clanging of metal on metal rent the air. In desperation, the Jeep was ramming Giselle’s car. Trying not to hit Giselle, she emptied the Browning into the driver’s side of the car, but with the car lurching and yawing, it was hard to know if she’d hit him. She could see Lily’s face in the red glow of the taillights. She was baring her teeth and yanking wide-eyed at the steering wheel. Dropping the empty Browning, she aimed Dore’s enormous gun, and suddenly they were on a normal road, and the Jeep had fallen behind, but Dore was still driving like a maniac, Lily finding it hard to keep up.

  She slumped back into her seat, water dripping from her hair. “They’ve gone, Jock. Slow down. The last thing we need is cops.”

  Five minutes later, Dore pulled into one of the swanky new service stations that seemed to be all the rage in 2025, the kind of place that was lit up like a Christmas tree and attached to a roadside diner. Climbing out, they assessed the damage. The rear screen was missing, and the trunk was riddled with bullet holes, but Giselle and Lily’s car was worse. The whole back of the car had been caved in. Kat had no idea what they were going to say to the rental company. We went to the future to bring back a fugitive from Hell. Well, you can just imagine how he felt about that, so he sent a few friends to dissuade me. Sorry to say, but your cars took most of the argument.