This changed everything. Everything.
A chill ran along his shoulders. This was too important to ignore. He needed pictures. Proof. Khan reached into the pocket of his ratty sport coat, which held a small camera he’d used to grab photos of the presenters. Another lovely bit of grunt work. But as he fumbled for the camera, he found instead a small wrapped package. It was a brand-new Lexar USB flash drive from the Lexar table at the conference, given to Dr. Jones by the sales rep, doubtless in the hopes it would generate orders. Jones, however, had instructed Khan to pass it on to the keynote speaker, along with bottles of local wine, olives, and preserved figs.
Khan had a much better use for the flash drive. He tore open the packaging.
Quickly inserting the USB stick into the G4, he proceeded to download not just Littlewood’s paper but also the entire contents of the folder in which it was stored. As he turned to watch the door, he inadvertently brushed against Littlewood’s jacket, sending it falling to the ground along with several of Joyce’s letters.
Khan cursed and began to collect the fallen documents, sorting them as best he could and then bent down to collect Littlewood’s coat.
“Hmmph,” grunted Khan. The coat was an actual Harris Tweed. “Of course,” he muttered to himself.
Khan gave the jacket a quick shake to straighten it before setting it down. As he did so, he accidentally dislodged a small slip of paper which fluttered to the ground like a drunken starling. This, too, Khan recovered. Had it come out of the breast pocket or an outer pocket?
He could hear Littlewood outside making his excuses: “I really must return—”
Khan ejected the flash drive (now successfully loaded) and tried to decide which pocket the slip of paper—an ATM withdrawal receipt—belonged in. Before he had decided, he noticed a tiny detail on the paper: the date. It was from June 28, two days ago. But it was not from 2001. The slip of paper read “6/28/2017.”
Khan’s eyes grew wide and he pulled the paper closer in case he’d misread.
He hadn’t.
“Impossible,” he murmured just as Littlewood rounded the corner and reentered the office. Hastily, Khan stuffed the receipt in his own jacket pocket.
Khan examined Littlewood with new interest, noting the creases to the sides of his eyes, a gray hair or two at his temples, the paunch at his waist. This wasn’t the same fit and vibrant forty-year-old who’d given a talk yesterday about the intricacies of space–time. The man before him was older—easily over fifty-five.
“Khan,” said Littlewood, hastily packing up his G4, “it’s been wonderful meeting you, and I would love to talk more, but I’m afraid there’s somewhere I need to be.”
“Wait,” said Khan, but then he hesitated. What, exactly, was he going to say or ask or do?
“Thanks very much for your insight,” said Littlewood, almost apologetically. “I’ll be in touch.”
Should he let him go? Should he demand an explanation? Khan hesitated. As he thought about it, he realized it might be better to let Littlewood go, to simply keep the information he’d stolen to himself. Wasn’t this, perhaps, his opportunity? His singular moment?
If Khan wasn’t losing his mind, Littlewood would disappear back to the future, in which case Khan could get nearly a two-decade jump on the research that Littlewood had given him. Well, that he’d stolen . . . But upon such small chances hung how many great advances? This was a localized destabilization, but globally, the implications were clear: someone, somewhere, sometime, would be the first to manipulate space–time, just as someone had ended up being Columbus or Caesar. And why shouldn’t it be Jules Khan, here and now?
The thoughts passed through Khan’s mind in a matter of seconds, during which Littlewood had snatched both jacket and laptop and crossed out of the office. Dazed, Khan didn’t pursue him at first. But then doubts assailed him. What if he was mistaken and the slip of paper was just a . . . a misprint, the time travel wholly imagined? What if this was his last chance to ask Littlewood for a postdoc?
Khan swore. He needed time. He needed to calm down. His heart was pounding painfully in his chest. He needed to ask Littlewood a few probing questions, because it might all be theory. It was probably all theory. It was one thing to postulate travel through the space–time continuum. It was quite another to believe in it.
But in that moment, Khan found he didn’t care if Littlewood thought he was crazy. Didn’t care, even, if Littlewood suspected he’d stolen the secrets nestled in the PowerBook. All he cared about was talking to Littlewood and finding out the truth: Had he done it?
Khan strode out of the office and was about to pursue a path back to the main hall when a subtle shift of light in his peripheral view made him turn to the men’s lavatory instead. The door had just closed, blocking the flicker of a malfunctioning fluorescent tube. He dashed into the men’s room. Under the harsh light, Littlewood looked pale and exhausted. He stood clutching the sides of one of the sinks, eyes shut, but his eyes flew open when he heard Khan entering.
Littlewood smiled the awkward smile of acquaintances meeting in the lav and then turned for one of the stalls with doors. Khan felt suddenly desperate to know the truth.
“Wait,” he said to Littlewood.
Littlewood exhaled in exasperation. “Just give a man a moment?”
Khan grabbed Littlewood, compelling him to stop. Khan was high on adrenaline and ready to do whatever it took to get Littlewood to provide a few answers. Littlewood tried to shrug free and the two grappled awkwardly. Khan was the stronger of the two.
“I just want to talk,” said Khan, breathing heavily, grasping Littlewood tightly.
But in the next moment, something happened that would forever change the life of the individual known as Jules Khan. Space–time wrenched the single man Jules Khan into two men, both Jules Khan, neither aware of the split.
One Jules Khan felt himself frozen in the grasp of the temporal rift as he hurtled forward through time with Dr. Littlewood. The other Jules Khan remained in 2001, standing in the lav, staring in shock at the empty space where, moments ago, Dr. Arthur Littlewood had stood.
1
· JILLIAN ·
San Francisco Airport, 2018—The Present
A culinary course brochure clutched in one clammy palm, Jillian Applegate examined her boarding pass as she stood in line. “SFO-SBA.” Just a short hop from San Francisco to Santa Barbara. Just a quick trip home for Thanksgiving. Just another UC Berkeley student escaping her sophomore year. People did this. People flew. Lots of people. All the time. And if they could do it, so could she.
She could. She would.
It wasn’t a question of bravery; everyone knew Jillian was brave. She’d been the kind of four-year-old who got right back on the pony that threw her. The kind of college student who stood up to her Berkeley alumni parents and said, nope, I’m doing something else. She squeezed the baking school brochure tighter, rumpling its smooth surface. It was just preflight jitters. She’d read about them. Perfectly normal.
The man behind her wheeled his suitcase into Jillian’s Achilles tendon for the third time.
Breathe in and out. In and out.
“Sorry,” murmured the man.
“Don’t worry about it.” The response was one hundred percent genetic. Applegates were polite, even with anxiety attacks looming.
At the fringe of her consciousness, the scent of burning cotton. Sweet, like leaves burning in autumn.
Stop it, she told herself.
For the past twelve years, her mother had referred to Jillian’s refusal to fly as “her daughter’s little thing with flying,” but it had nothing to do with flying or airplanes or airports, even though Jillian avoided them all.
The sweet burnt-leaf scent was joined in her imagination by the acrid scent of burning feathers.
Stop it!
Her stomach clenched. Her heart had been racing ever since the airport exit sign on US 101. Any minute now, her extremities would start tingling, and she
wouldn’t be able to breathe.
Desperately, she turned her attention to the baking school flyer: “Il Pane Perfetto—Pastry Chef Certificate Program in Italy.” She had to get on this plane. She had to prove to her parents she was capable of flying to Italy. Had to prove it to herself.
Breathe in and out.
Applegates kept it together. Applegates excelled at keeping it together. Keep it Together could be the family motto.
Breathe in and out. Keep it together, Applegate.
The suitcase struck her a fourth time.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay.
You can do this you have to do this you will do this . . .
Feathers, burning. The stink of it in her nostrils. Her Pottery Barn Kids couch on fire. Branson in the doorway. A burst of flame.
No—stop! She was in San Francisco. At the airport. There was no smoke. No fire. No danger.
She should try counting; sometimes counting helped when working with breathing didn’t help. One, two, three, four, five: Five people remaining in front of her, ready to descend the Jetway and board the plane. Then four people. All flying. People flew. Flying was normal. Not scary. Three people to go. Jillian’s arms began to tingle. Soon she wouldn’t be able to feel her fingers.
Two people.
One person.
The gate attendant reached for Jillian’s boarding pass. “Oh, honey, we called first class ten minutes ago.”
“So sorry,” murmured Jillian.
“Not a problem for us if it’s not a problem for you!” The agent was still holding her hand out for the boarding pass.
Jillian shifted the pass out of the agent’s reach. She was shaking. Her legs wouldn’t keep her up much longer. Her nostrils remembered the sting of inhaled smoke.
Jillian spoke. “Is it okay if I . . .”
“Yes?” The agent waited for Jillian to finish her question.
From behind her, the Achilles tendon-basher asked, “Is there a problem?”
Jillian turned from the gate agent to the man. “You go ahead. I’ll just . . .” Another unfinished sentence. The tendon basher advanced, held his phone over the scanner, and strode down the Jetway.
Apologizing to the gate agent, to the other passengers, to the world as a whole, Jillian stumbled toward an abandoned wheelchair emblazoned with the United Airlines logo and collapsed. She was having a full-blown panic attack.
The window. Crouching on the sill. Branson’s voice: I’ve got you. Firemen shouting from three stories below: Jump! The roar of fire behind. Branson speaking softly to her. I’ve got you. You’re going to have to jump. See? They’ll catch you.
No!
We’ll both jump. I’ll be right behind you, but you have to go first.
Jump with me!
I can’t Jilly. If I fall wrong, I could hurt you. Go ahead. Jump now!
No!
“Sweetie, you okay?” the gate agent called to Jillian, between customers. “You need assistance?”
Jillian blinked. She was here. She wasn’t seven. She was afraid of falling, not flying. She had a plane to catch. She looked again at the crumpled culinary program brochure: “Il Pane Perfetto.” Then she looked at her boarding pass: “Dep. San Francisco, 8:15AM, Arr. Santa Barbara, 9:31AM.” In two hours, she could be sitting in her kitchen, telling Branson all about her culinary school plans.
The brochure beckoned, reminding her of what was at stake. She had to get on this flight to prove to her parents she could manage the flight to Italy, which would last eight times as long as this one. She had to do this. She could be sipping one of Branson’s perfect espressos by 10:30. . . .
She wanted to fly. She desperately wanted to fly.
“Honey?”
The gate agent was approaching her. Jillian’s stomach seized.
“That’s the last passenger except you,” said the agent. Marva, read the badge swinging from her lanyard. “Are we flying today?”
Jillian swallowed back a sudden rush of saliva. She would not be sick here in front of the agent. She would get on that plane. She would—
“Is it sickness or a little case of the nerves?” Marva asked softly.
It was nerves. And not a little case. This was tsunami size. Catastrophic. The most awful case of nerves in medical history. Even before she replied, Jillian knew she wasn’t flying today.
“I . . . can’t,” said Jillian, her breath coming in short gasps.
“Nobody’s making you do anything you can’t do,” said the agent. “But I need to know if you’re planning to board the flight or not.” She lowered her voice. “Do you need medical assistance?”
Jillian shook her head. The gate swam before her eyes. “No,” she managed to say, shutting her eyes.
“Did we check a bag today?”
“No bag.”
As soon as Jillian squeaked out the confession, the agent nodded and rushed off to take care of the passengers, or to put Jillian’s name on a no-fly-ever roster, or whatever it was gate agents did in these cases.
Rigid as stone, Jillian remained in the wheelchair, counting to one hundred once, twice, three times, like the stupid GET CALM app on her phone suggested. She counted and she waited for her heart rate to slow. For feeling to return to her extremities. For the world to end.
How was she going to fly to Italy if she couldn’t even get on a one-hour flight from San Francisco to Santa Barbara? She was never going to become a baker. She was going to be stuck at the University of California, Berkeley, finishing a degree in marketing and making her parents proud while everything that made her want to get up in the morning was eroded away, chip-chip-chip, until nothing but a cold, shriveled, remnant of Jillian lingered. A tear slipped down her cheek. It was so unfair.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Marva returned.
“Listen, sweetie, you sure you don’t need some help?”
Jillian shook her head. The lightheadedness that had made her dizzy before was gone, replaced with a dull ache gripping her head, viselike.
“Are you going to need assistance getting home?”
“I’m not afraid of driving,” murmured Jillian. “Just . . . just . . .” It would sound so stupid out loud: I’m afraid of falling out of the sky.
“Relax, honey. It’s okay. People get scared. My sister-in-law used to be afraid to fly. But then I took her ballooning and everything changed. You ever ridden in a hot air balloon?”
Jillian shook her head.
“It might help,” said Marva. “Small steps. Start with one success and build from there.”
“Thank you,” Jillian murmured politely. She even tried to sound as if she meant it.
“It took my sister-in-law years to get as far as clearing security, and look at you! You made it all the way to the gate! Ninety-five percent of the way there, sweetie. Everyone has their off days. Don’t give up, okay? Small steps.”
Jillian tried to smile as the agent gave a little wave goodbye. Then she gathered her dark brown hair, smoothing it and pulling it into a ponytail. Neat and tidy. Rising on unsteady legs, she headed for car rentals. She had a pasted-on smile ready when the agent behind the desk greeted her.
“I’d like a one-way rental, dropping off in Santa Barbara,” said Jillian, handing over her license and her American Express Platinum. “I’m aware of the young-driver fee and I’ll pay it.”
The agent began typing. “And how was your flight today?”
“About as expected.” Jillian kept her smile firmly in position.
Applegates: keeping it together since Ralph de Apelgard, AD 1200s.
2
· JILLIAN ·
California, the Present
It had all come to a head the seventh week of her miserable second year as a marketing major at UC Berkeley.
Jillian had enrolled in marketing to make her parents happy, but she’d grown to hate it to a degree that was surp
rising even to her. To make life bearable, she’d taken to haunting Chez Panisse and La Boulangerie, and, through her mother’s connections, securing reservations at The French Laundry in Napa. During an October visit to Yountville, Jillian had discovered Bouchon Bakery, joining a line of happily chatting customers that extended out along the sidewalk. Inside, it had been like walking into her family’s kitchen on one of Branson’s baking days.
In fact, it had been . . . better.
It was as if everything Branson had ever baked or ever considered baking was on display at the same time. Macarons and petit fours, brioches and baguettes, tartes aux fraises and croissants aux amandes. Half a dozen tiny courtyard tables held laughing groups of friends lured in by the pastries, kept there by the indefinable atmosphere of joy and plenty and welcome. Jillian experienced what she had since come to think of as a sacred moment where time had gone muzzy, and at the same instant, her future had become clear. She would become a pastry chef and open a bakery like this.
In a way, it had always been obvious. The childhood hours spent with Branson watching as he folded and refolded croissant dough, never too busy to shoot a smile or a wink her direction. The lessons when she turned thirteen and asked Branson how to toss pizza dough just so, so that it would create volcano-like crust bubbles when placed in the Applegate’s wood-fired pizza oven.
She loved everything about baking—the work, the smell of yeasted breads and sourdoughs, the warm embrace of dough when Branson let her turn it, the shine of an egg wash on one of his perfect lattice crusts. By fourteen, she had wanted to know everything about baking. Unfortunately, Branson only had so many hours in a day. Her mother had reminded Jillian (testily, and more than once) that Branson already had a job, and it wasn’t to tutor Jillian in the mysteries of transmuting flour and water into bread.
After the third or fourth warning, Jillian’s father had said something about replacing Branson if he couldn’t damn well have dinner ready promptly at seven each night. Jillian’s mother had gasped, and not just at her husband’s inappropriate-for-children language. Losing Branson was unthinkable, her mother had murmured.
A Flight in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 2) Page 2
