Revolution in Time (Out of Time #10)

by Monique Martin

  But the investigators would have to find something. A cadaver matching her basic age and size was found. Parts of it—Elizabeth shuddered at the thought—were planted at ground zero. The biological matter would be retrieved and sent to be tested.

  Since they couldn’t plant the evidence they wanted to be found, they had to change the evidence after the fact. Someone in Travers’ network of moles would extract Elizabeth’s DNA from samples they’d been given, prepare it in the proper solution and give them to Victor to swap when the time came.

  The little cadre of friends she thought were behind the plot to save her was larger than she’d imagined. The whole of the Council wasn’t corrupt, and there were people there who wanted to help. To help her. It was humbling.

  The missions she and Simon had gone on didn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated. And now, instead of them saving the Council, the Council, some of it at least, was saving them.

  She looked out of her window but the moon was obscured by clouds and the night was dark.

  The results would confirm her death and, hopefully, set the rest of Hawkins’ plan into motion. And free Simon.

  She’d spent every night here so far in restless sleep, unable to stop thinking about him. Maybe some warm milk or an entire plate of leftover chicken would help.

  Grabbing her robe, she headed down to the kitchen. At the foot of the staircase, she saw the tell-tale flickering light of a fire coming from Teddy’s study. A true sense of déjà vu overcame her. Maybe Teddy couldn’t sleep either.

  But it wasn’t Teddy she found in the study; it was Victor. He was dark and brooding, even for him, as he stood holding a glass of some amber alcohol and staring down into the flames.

  He glanced up as she came to the doorway.

  “Can’t sleep?” she asked.

  He frowned at her for stating the obvious, and she felt foolish, but it didn’t stop her from joining him in the room.

  “I haven’t been able to sleep since I got here,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking about him. I feel so guilty.”

  “I could build you a bed of nails if it will help.”

  The jab took a second to sink in and Elizabeth frowned.

  He finished his drink in one swig and turned to her. “Punishing yourself will not aid your husband.”

  He moved to refill his glass. “Trust me.”

  “The voice of experience?”

  He gave a short laugh. “Perhaps. But is it not possible I was this charming before I lost my family, hmmm?”

  That clearly wasn’t his second glass.

  He threw back the whole drink in one fell swoop and then refilled it.

  Elizabeth had never seen him like this. She knew he wouldn’t welcome sympathy, and just remained silent and present.

  He sat down in a chair close to the fireplace and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The firelight danced in the empty crystal of the glass he held in front of him.

  “When my wife was pregnant with Juliette, not much more than you are now, she asked me to feel our child moving inside her. Just as you did today. I did as she asked, but I did not feel anything. When I saw the hope in her eyes, I lied to her and told her I did.” He shook his head at the memory. “It made her happy, and her happiness was mine.”

  He leaned back and then stood. He glanced down at his glass, considering another, then thought better of it.

  He walked back over to the butler’s tray and held the glass above it.

  “Loss carves out pieces of who you are. Sometimes they are small. Sometimes they are all you are. I am a hollow man,” he said and put the glass down before turning to her. “Your husband will return to you. He will be able to touch you, to hold you again. And the hole inside him will fill.”

  Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. He sensed her emotions and frowned, closing off whatever door had opened inside him.

  “I should ….” He looked down and started for the doorway.

  “Good night,” she said and laid a hand on his arm as he passed. “And thank you.”

  His eyes never met hers, but he nodded once and continued on his way up to his bed and another sleepless night.

  ~~~

  Simon stood in the foyer and felt like a stranger in his own house. It had been nearly three weeks since she’d been gone. He loosened his tie, but couldn’t seem to do anything more.

  He just returned from the memorial service he’d refused to allow, until now.

  For days, he received packages from his attorney’s office that contained more papers that he refused to sign—the petition for her death certificate, wills, all of it could go to hell. And then the DNA report had been delivered.

  He’d sat and stared at the unopened envelope for what seemed like days. He’d spent his life not simply believing things, but needing proof. Now, that proof sat in front of him, ready to take away his last bit of hope.

  And it did. One simple sentence: The DNA found at the scene and the sample provided for Elizabeth Cross were a 99.9% match.

  He’d known. He’d been told again and again, but somehow, some part of him hadn’t believed it. He’d kept hold, deep, deep down that somehow this was all a mistake.

  But even he couldn’t hold out in the face of the report. Part of him had given up that day. And so, he finally allowed the memorial so many wanted.

  He didn’t hear much of it. He sat there numbly, thinking this was someone else’s life.

  But when Jack dropped him off, Simon knew it was his. This was his life now. Rattling around an empty house that would never feel like home again.

  He pulled his tie off and tossed it onto the table. It dangled there before sliding to the floor.

  He ignored it and went upstairs. He was tired. All he could think about was sleeping. Finally, sleeping.

  He walked upstairs and paused at the landing. Slowly, he walked over to the nursery. He stood there a moment, then reached out and closed the door. There was no reason to keep it open now.

  He was making his way to his bedroom when he heard Wells’ heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  “There you are,” Wells said as he entered the room.

  Simon sighed. “Yes. Here I am.”

  Wells checked his watch and took a step closer.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “No.”

  Despite his protest, he did, but he was feeling tired and petulant.

  “I am sorry about all this,” Wells said.

  “Then leave me alone.”

  “I can’t.”

  Wells took a large skeleton key out of his pocket. Simon felt a prick of curiosity, but it died quickly. He started to turn away, but Wells took hold of his arm.

  Simon glared down at it. “What are you doing?

  Simon started to pull away, but Wells wouldn’t let go. His grip was like iron.

  “I said—”

  But the rest of Simon’s protest faded away as a familiar blue light arced from the key in Wells’ hand and snaked up his arm. It captured Wells and then jumped to Simon.

  “What’s going—”

  The rest of Simon’s question was lost as the light took hold of him and the world shook itself apart.

  Chapter Eleven

  SIMON’S HEAD THROBBED. AGAIN. He’d grown used to the pain, almost welcomed it. His mind was wrapped in gauze as he opened his eyes. Had he passed out again? Was he even truly awake or was this just another alcohol-induced dream state?

  He was on a bed, but not his own. Where was he? He rolled his head to the side. The room was familiar, but not his own.

  He lifted his head and looked around.

  Then he saw her.

  She stood by the window looking as beautiful as she always did. He’d had this dream more times than he could count. Carefully, he sat up. The bed creaked beneath his weight as he shifted position and she turned toward him.

  There were tears in her eyes. Why was she crying?

  Why was this different?

  Slowly, he stoo
d.

  She swallowed and another tear rolled down her cheek. He wanted to go to her, to tell her everything was all right, but his legs wouldn’t move.

  “Simon.”

  Her voice was so real. So clear.

  She stepped toward him and his heart began to race.

  She stood in front of him now. His chest rose and fell with the effort to keep his heart in place.

  She was close. He could feel her in the air.

  “Am I dead?” he asked.

  She shook her head and fresh tears fell. She reached up with one hand and touched his chest. It sent a bolt of electricity shooting through him. His breath caught.

  “You’re alive,” she said. “We’re both alive.”

  He didn’t dare believe her. This was some new trick his mind had found to torture him. But he wanted to believe so badly. So very, very badly.

  His hand trembled as he reached out to touch her. It hovered there, just an inch from her cheek. Every time he’d tried before she’d vanish. He didn’t think he could bear that again.

  He didn’t have to.

  She reached up and covered his hand with hers and pressed it to her cheek. He felt her tears beneath his palm, the warmth of her skin, the life inside her.

  His eyes blurred with tears of his own. “You’re real?”

  She nodded and his heart leaped from his chest. His breath was quick and short. Could it really be her?

  His voice was barely a whisper. “How?”

  She shook her head and suddenly he didn’t care how. None of it mattered. How didn’t matter? She was real and alive and here.

  “Oh, Simon.”

  He cupped her face in both of his hands and leaned in to kiss her. He could barely breathe as their lips touched. He pulled back and then kissed her again and then the dam inside him broke.

  He pulled her toward him, crushing her body against his. He buried his head against her neck and sobbed.

  He didn’t know how long he held her, how long she held him, but he finally pulled back to see her again, to reassure himself again.

  “You’re alive.”

  She nodded, that smile he’d missed so much gracing her face. His knees felt weak, and she helped him ease back to sit on the edge of the bed before he collapsed to the floor.

  He caressed her cheeks and pulled her close for another kiss. He wanted to kiss every inch of her, feel every inch of her. She knelt in front of him and he gazed in awe at her.

  She touched his stubbled cheek. “You’ve lost weight.”

  He shook his head. What did it matter? What did anything before this moment matter?

  “You’re not hurt? The baby?” he asked, fearing the worst.

  She smiled through her tears. “Fine. We’re both perfectly fine. Just … waiting for you.”

  Thank God. Thank you, God.

  He pulled her up and into his arms. He kissed her again and held her and swore he would never let her go.

  ~~~

  Jack stood in the doorway to Teddy’s study and glanced back at the stairs down the hall and the landing above. He’d done all he could; Elizabeth would take care of him from here. He just hoped, someday, Simon would forgive him. But even if he didn’t, Jack didn’t regret it. They’d done what needed doing. It wasn’t the first time he’d made a Hobson’s choice. It wouldn’t be the last, either.

  He stepped into the library where Victor Renaud was busy pouring himself a drink. He held up the decanter in a silent offer, but Jack shook his head.

  Renaud shrugged and finished filling his own glass. “You do not know what you are missing. 25-year-old Glenlivet.”

  It was tempting, but Jack wanted to be alert a little while longer, just in case they needed him. Not that he expected to see them until morning, if even then. Not to mention, one drink and he’d be asleep. He was exhausted.

  He started toward a very inviting looking leather chair by the fire when Teddy passed by the door with a tray in hand.

  “Uhm, Teddy?”

  Teddy stopped and turned to him, a smile on his face. He was a curious little man. Jack had heard stories about him, but nothing quite measured up to meeting him.

  Jack nodded toward the tray of food. “Where’re ya going with that?”

  “Hmm? Oh, upstairs.”

  Jack smiled and moved over toward him. He laid a friendly hand on Teddy’s shoulder and gently maneuvered him away from the hall and into the study. “You might want to give them time.”

  “They’ll be hungry.”

  Victor snorted and Jack shot him a glare.

  Victor merely shrugged.

  “I’m sure they will, but they probably want some time alone to …” He struggled with how to frame it. “Get reacquainted.”

  “Oh.”

  Victor joined them and picked a drumstick off the plate. Jack shot him a look.

  “No need for it to go to waste,” he said and took a large bite.

  Jack had to admit he was right. “I guess he’s got a point.”

  Teddy still looked confused.

  “It might be a while,” Jack said and took the plate of food. He hesitated, “Unless you want it?”

  Teddy shook his head and Jack sat down to eat.

  “Bread,” Victor said and Jack threw a dinner roll to him.

  Teddy looked hesitantly at the doorway and then put the now empty tray aside.

  “I will retrieve Travers tomorrow,” Victor said.

  Jack nodded. “And then we’ll know what they’re planning?”

  Victor shrugged the way Frenchmen so often do. “We shall see.”

  “And why don’t we know what it is already?” Jack asked, motioning for Teddy to hand him the fork. “Future you should know all about it.”

  Teddy started to hand him the cutlery but saw a spot on it. He blew onto it and rubbed it with his fingers before handing it to Jack.

  Jack stared down at it, shrugged and shoved a pile of peas onto it.

  “I, future me,” Teddy said, “knows a great deal, but some things are in flux. This period of time is one of them. It’s changing.”

  This whole thing had twisted Jack’s brain into a pretzel, but he found the less he fought, the more sense it made. He nodded.

  “In fact, the reason all of this came about was because Elizabeth was killed.”

  Jack choked on his food and cleared his throat. He managed to swallow. “She what?”

  “That’s why I, the future me, came back in the first place.”

  “Are we fixing time or changing it?” Jack asked then held up a hand. “Don’t answer that.”

  He took a bite of mashed potatoes. “Do me a favor and don’t tell Cross about that other.”

  Teddy looked at him in confusion.

  “About Elizabeth dying in the other timeline. He’s going to be on edge as it is, we don’t want to push him over it.”

  ~~~

  Simon lay on his side next to her propped up on one elbow while he gently ran his finger along her collarbone and down her arm. He hadn’t stopped watching her, hadn’t stopped touching her since she’d awakened. As she looked at him in the dim lamplight of the bedroom, the circles under his eyes were darker and more pronounced. His face was slimmer, drawn. It broke her heart to think of what he’d been through, what had driven him to this.

  He looked up from the mindless patterns he was sketching with his finger and gazed into her eyes. His were bloodshot, the green standing out even more against the red.

  She reached out and touched his cheek. “We’ll have to shave this in the morning.”

  He nodded, caught her hand and kissed her wrist. He looked down at her palm thoughtfully. “I love your hands. Small, delicate.” He turned it over and gripped it in his. “Strong,” he added then looked up at her. “It’s funny the things you think about.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  He shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re here. That’s all I need.”

  “If there had been a
ny other way …”

  A cloud came over his face as he looked away.

  “Don’t be mad at them,” she said. She’d explained everything, but it was a lot to take in. “They did it for us. To save us.”

  He grunted and let out a long breath. Finally, he nodded, but she knew it would take time for him to accept, to forgive.

  His hand moved to cover her stomach. “You’re sure she’s all right.”

  Elizabeth covered her hand with his. “She’s fine.”

  He nodded thoughtfully and then looked back up into her eyes. “Promise me something?”

  “Anything.”

  “The next time you die, take me with you.”

  Fresh tears came to her eyes and she pulled him in for a kiss. Finally, he eased back and lay down, pulling her against him.

  It was a promise she could never keep.

  ~~~

  While Travers pored through stacks of papers, Jack admired the guns of the impromptu armory that had been established at the far end of the dining room. A sideboard was covered with small arms. Smaller arms anyway. There was nothing small about Revolutionary Era weapons. Most of the flintlock pistols were enormous by modern standards. In addition to the massive flintlocks, there was a pair of what looked like long, slender dueling pistols and a petite snub-nosed gun. Next to the handguns was an impressive array of knives including a small but lethal looking double-edged dagger.

  They were all interesting enough, but it was the big guns that drew Jack’s attention. He chose one of the long rifles, emphasis on long, and hefted its ample weight in his hands. It probably weighed eight or nine pounds, at least, and the barrel alone was well over three feet long. It was awkward and unwieldy.

  He lifted it and set it against his shoulder to check the sight, nearly knocking a few plates off the breakfront as he did. Across the room, Travers looked up from the makeshift desk he’d made of the dining table, frowned and went back to his reading.

  “Are you a good shot?” Victor asked.

  Jack squinted and tried to line up a dangerous looking daffodil in the garden outside the window. “Pretty good.”