Khan moaned and sank to the ground, and with the curtailed breath he had remaining, swore a second blue streak.
27
· JILLIAN ·
Le Mans, France, 1908
Mr. Wright had addressed Jillian by name. Why did Wilbur Wright think he knew her? How could anyone in 1908 know her? She wouldn’t even be born for a century. Maybe Everett had given her name to Wright? But there had been no time for that, not in Everett’s 1908 timeline.
There was a lull in the conversation, and Jillian, who had somehow entered the work shed without noticing she’d entered it, realized Wilbur Wright was awaiting an answer. From her.
She glanced at Everett, who nodded, encouraging her to answer.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Could you ask the question again?”
Deep curves furrowed either side of Wright’s smile: parentheses. Jillian’s mother had warned against smiling too much to prevent “parentheses,” but Jillian thought they looked regal.
“Whereabouts are you visiting from this time?” asked Wright.
“Oh. Um, I live in Santa Barbara. It’s in California.” She glanced at her watch. Seven precious minutes had disappeared. She needed to get out of here in less than three.
“And what brings you all the way to France?”
“Well, sir,” said Jillian, “you do, sir. That is, I’d like to request some of your valuable time. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. Fifteen minutes—”
“Of course, of course. I’m at your disposal anytime.” Wilbur Wright looked deliberately to his right and left. “I appear to be completely free at the moment, as it happens.”
“I’m expected by friends right now,” Jillian blurted out. “Is there a time I can come back for an . . . interview?” She bit her lip. Were women journalists even a thing in this era? She hadn’t thought to fact-check this particular area.
“Come on by tomorrow afternoon. Say, three o’clock, if that suits.”
Jillian agreed to return at three, and with one final panicked glance at her pocket watch, she exited the building and hunkered down next to an enormous barrel—there wasn’t enough time to race for the woods. As her muscles locked into place, she overheard a last exchange between Wilbur and Everett. The two were agreeing that she hadn’t aged a day in five years. Which was the moment she figured it out.
28
· KHAN ·
Wellesley, Florida, the Present
In the end, Khan had decided the most sensible thing to do—the only thing to do—was to let the idiot Roman have it his own way and give up all hope of returning him to the first century BC. On his head be it, and all that.
After making the decision, Khan had checked himself into the ER under a completely bogus name and got himself treated quickly by moaning louder than anyone else. As soon as the physician who fixed Khan’s dislocated shoulder stepped out to answer a nurse’s question, Khan stepped out, too, concealing his sling under a GATORS! sweat shirt he grabbed off a coat hook. Rather to his surprise, no one attempted to stop him leaving. They could sort out how to bill “Mr. Arthur Jones’s” insurance later.
Khan watched the news that night, holding his breath lest a crazed man with dark hair who spoke an indecipherable sort of Latin should make the headlines, but Spartacus (Khan had to call him something) seemed to be keeping a low profile.
“Good riddance,” muttered Khan. And then, pale with pain and exhaustion, he took two Vicodin stolen from Littlewood’s bathroom and called it a night.
Khan didn’t wake up until eleven the following morning. Littlewood would be back by now. Khan jumped out of bed, pushing off with his injured arm, which precipitated a howl of pain. Not bothering to change his clothes, he drove the Honda Civic loaned to him by Littlewood at least twenty miles over the posted limit with only one hand to the wheel. He was about to learn the outcome of Operation Fountain Pen!
After parking the Honda, Khan took the steps down to the lab two at a time, impatient to speak with Littlewood, whom he could see hunched over his desk.
The lab smelled like bleach, which was puzzling up till the moment Khan noticed it also smelled faintly of vomit. Oh. Right.
“Sorry about the mess,” Khan said by way of greeting.
“You sure you should be up and about?” asked Littlewood.
“Oh. Yes. I had a bug. Stomach flu. Twenty-four hour. I’m fine now.”
Littlewood stared at the sling supporting Khan’s arm.
“Slipped and fell, too,” said Khan. “But I’m fine now. Everything’s fine.” He hoped Littlewood wasn’t going to ask how he’d gotten treatment for his arm without insurance. “So, your pen? Did you get it back?”
Littlewood grinned sheepishly and held up the pen.
Khan’s heart raced. Right before he’d started the Honda, he’d checked his pockets for the original (stolen) pen, which had still been there. He checked again. Still “still there.”
Turning away from Littlewood, Khan felt a powerful rush. More powerful a rush than the Vicodin had provided. He’d done it. He’d done it! He had just proven that space–time was active in keeping the historical timeline moving in the same direction. It was a kind of . . . law of inertia. Yes . . . inertia. He’d just proven the theory of temporal inertia.
No. He’d just proven Khan’s law of temporal inertia.
29
· JILLIAN ·
Montecito, the Present
As Jillian recovered from her return, she was already working out what must have happened to make her a part of Wilbur and Everett’s past. She must, at some point in her future, be going to decide to take a trip further into the past. Her thoughts tripped over the sentence construction. The English language didn’t have verb tenses to deal with this sort of thing. But somehow, someday, it seemed she would make the decision to visit North Carolina in 1903.
Someday soon, if she “hadn’t aged a day,” as Wilbur and Everett agreed.
“Kitty Hawk,” she murmured softly. “I’m going to Kitty Hawk.”
Should she change her plans and skip out on her scheduled appointment with Mr. Wright tomorrow at three? Or rather, in 1908 at three? Should she visit him in Kitty Hawk instead? She considered it for several minutes. After all, she seemed to have fairly conclusive proof she would do it someday. Why not now?
It was the lack of a proper plan that helped her decide against traveling to 1903. She was not repeating her mistake of time traveling without a proper plan. Her visit to Le Mans in 1908 was solidly planned, and it was nearly four in the morning. She didn’t have time to come up with a plan for getting her questions answered in 1903 instead of in 1908.
No, she was sticking to her plan. She was heading back to 1908.
As she recalibrated the machine, her thoughts drifted to Everett. She found she was glad she would be returning to him. She told herself it was because she wanted to leave things between them on a better footing. That good manners demanded it. But the truth was more complicated. Wasn’t it always?
Jillian remembered a slumber party at DaVinci’s. Halley had fallen asleep, and Jillian had asked DaVinci in the dark, still room what it was that boys found so wrong with her, why they never joked with her the way they did with DaVinci, why they never asked her out. DaVinci had been quiet for so long that Jillian assumed she, too, had fallen asleep. But then her friend had responded.
Jillian was too . . . intimidating. Too serious. Too damned polite. I mean, Halley and I know you’re lots of fun, but you need to let it show. People look at you, and they see the heir to Applegate Everything, Incorporated—someone who never has a hair out of place and probably wouldn’t know a good time if it bit her in the—well, you know. Jillian had thanked DaVinci for the insights, waited until she was sure her friend was asleep, and then cried in bitter silence until dawn. She’d never asked for dating advice again.
And now there was Everett. Everett who hinted that he, too, had a wealthy family and past experiences not unlike her own. Everett who unquestionabl
y knew what it was to be judged by the number of servants your family kept. Everett who had broken away from that life of privilege. She wished . . . Oh, she wished.
But Applegates were practical. Sensible. They did not cry for the moon if it wasn’t for sale, and at a good price, too. She would enjoy a few more minutes with Everett, enjoy being the focus of a handsome young man’s attention. She would enjoy it, and then she would return home to her carefully planned future—to happy, flour-coated mornings in the shelter of the Alps; and one day, to running a bakery that brought people together, the kind of place everyone gathered for croissants, good coffee, and good company. Her future would be full and not lonely. She had plans.
She’d finished setting up her next journey. The only thing left was to have a quick look outside to make sure Khan’s nosy lawyer wasn’t here. It was overkill, checking for someone at 4:45 in the morning, but if she was doing this alone, Jillian owed it to her friends to take every precaution. She dashed up the stairs and stepped outside to have a look. Seeing no one (of course there was no one), she dashed back inside and fired up the time machine.
30
· JESÚS TORRES, JD ·
Montecito, the Present
Jesús Torres was ambitious and hardworking, even by the standards of the cutthroat lawyers at the Los Angeles arm of Brockhurst, Alvarez & Jackson, Associates. Over the protests of his children, wife, and even his own madre, he had left the family gathering in Los Olivos early so that he could stop by the home of one of his clients. One of his former clients. It was looking like Jules Khan had been the victim of foul play, from what Torres had picked up from the investigation into his disappearance, now nearly concluded.
But cause of death wasn’t Torres’s immediate concern. As the trustee on Khan’s living trust, Torres was getting his ducks in a row, and today that meant making sure the pool-cleaning company he’d hired had finished treating the algae problem adequately this time. After a year of neglect, the pool water had been the green-brown color of the Pacific. Not something that would appeal to potential buyers. The smell alone was enough to knock thirty thousand off the selling price. The smell alone had been enough to convince Torres that Khan was truly gone, because, alive, Jules Khan would never have let his place run down like that.
So at four a.m., Torres kissed his madre, who was already up making enchiladas, and hit the road. With no traffic, he figured he’d be in and out of Khan’s by five, just in time to join the Los Angelinos driving to work.
He flew over San Marcos Pass, taking the 101 to exit 94A at Spring Road, where he turned north onto Olive Mill Road and followed the winding back roads to Khan’s estate. Automatic lights lit his way to the guesthouse at the back of the estate, where he parked his car and got outside to examine the pool.
He wasn’t the only one working early this morning. From some neighboring estate, he could hear what sounded like a pressure washer or maybe a wood chipper. Something that probably violated Montecito’s noise laws. He crossed to the pool. Even in the predawn gloom, he could see the algae was coming back. Sighing, he turned his head away, staring at the round pools of light created by the motion detector lights. He wondered how much power they drew, flicking on and off every time some cat scampered past. Something had been driving the power bills through the roof since last June, back when Torres had still been hopeful Khan would turn up. Probably those damned climate control cases holding Khan’s valuable collection of art and artifacts. Torres had an expert coming in to value all of it.
He marched back to his car to grab the printout of Khan’s contacts. The pool service was going to get an earful. As he left a message, he realized that the loud noise he’d noticed seemed to be coming from the main house, not a neighboring estate. What the heck was that? Was someone jack-hammering the granite countertops? Torres pulled his set of estate keys out of his briefcase and walked to the house, his feet crunching on eucalyptus leaves and branches that had mixed with the gravel.
He was going to need to call a grounds crew to clean that up, too, before putting the place on the market. Unlike the pool, the leaves could wait until the SBPD turned in their verdict. Although that would probably come in before Christmas, despite the lack of a corpse. The evidence provided in the art dealer’s statement had put the nail in the empty coffin. It would end in a death certificate.
With no heir to inherit the place, Khan had specified all monies from the trust were to fund a Jules A. Khan Center for Theoretical Science—notably not at UCSB—which meant Torres had to oversee the liquidation of, well, everything.
The noise was definitely coming from the house. Inside, the air was stale, and a layer of dust covered all the formerly shining surfaces. Torres glanced around the living area before following the sound, which led him past Khan’s office. Oddly, the sound seemed to be coming from the basement, which was some kind of lab, if Torres remembered correctly. It was one key he didn’t have—the basement key. How long had . . . whatever it was been drawing power? Maybe this explained the crazy power bills.
Sighing, he checked the time on his phone. It was already 5:10. He was going to hit traffic. But the power bills generated by this place were insane. There was no earthly reason to keep supplying power to the basement. Or the guesthouse. Or the motion detector lights, for that matter. Torres resigned himself to finding the breaker box and turning off whatever was making the racket below ground.
31
· JILLIAN ·
Le Mans, France, 1908
Jillian fell into the familiar chill of France, 1908. The instant she’d recovered from the journey, she ran for the barnlike structure.
Wilbur, who stood inside his workshop waiting for her, offered the crook of his arm to her and began walking, steering her out of the shed toward the racetrack. Everett, she noticed with a twinge of regret, was nowhere to be seen.
“Mr. Randolph wished me to convey his regrets,” said Wilbur, after they’d exchanged pleasantries. “He was intending to see you again but had to leave under urgent circumstances.”
“Oh?”
A small smile played over Wilbur’s face. “The cook’s bicycle needed repairing, which sent Mr. Randolph’s employer into a panic. Evidently the cook refuses to travel by automobile.” Another brief smile of amusement.
“I love traveling by, um, automobile,” replied Jillian. It was the alternatives she feared. Or one particular alternative.
“Why, naturally you would, an adventuress like yourself,” said Mr. Wright, beaming. “I haven’t forgotten your enthusiasm for our enterprise back at Kitty Hawk. And I noted you kept what you saw to yourself, which must have been trying for a budding journalist. Orville and I most certainly appreciated it.”
She tried to smile, as if she remembered what he was referring to.
“Since those early days, I have learned there are journalists and journalists,” Wilbur added, shaking his head. “Perhaps we need more females in the profession.”
“Maybe,” said Jillian. She was just glad to hear a woman journalist wasn’t completely preposterous for the time period. “So, about my interview—”
“I thought we’d conduct that aloft,” he said, eyes twinkling.
“Aloft?” Jillian’s heart began to hammer. “As in . . . up there?” She raised a hand to the sky.
“I believe I owe you a ride.”
“You do?” Jillian felt her stomach heaving.
He turned away from Jillian and called to a group of men. “We’re ready.”
The group of men had been standing beside what looked vaguely like an old-fashioned oil derrick, but now they grabbed a thick rope lying on the ground and began pulling, competing in a tug of war against a very heavy-looking weight in the middle of the derrick.
“Have you observed the catapult in action?” Wright asked her.
“Catapult?” asked Jillian. They launched planes with catapults?
“We sorely miss the winds of Kitty Hawk, but the catapult serves us well in launching us along the t
rack.” He indicated a length of track in front of the plane.
Okay, they weren’t being “catapulted,” not exactly, but still . . .
Jillian tried to speak, but her mouth had gone completely dry. Wilbur Wright was walking over to his airplane in full expectation that she would follow.
Somehow, her feet carried her forward. If she was going to say no thanks, she had to be close enough to be heard.
“I always regretted having to refuse your request to fly back at Kitty Hawk,” he was saying. “But I said you would fly one day, and I am a man of my word.” He indicated a vaguely chairlike portion of the plane. “There’s your seat.” He offered to help her up.
Her heart was pounding. “Wait a minute,” she managed to blurt out.
Someone called for Wright’s attention, giving her the “minute.” She tried to think quickly, tried to ignore the thudding in her chest, the tightness in her lungs. At Kitty Hawk in 1903, she had asked Mr. Wright to take her for a spin. Or rather, she would ask. Where had she found the courage? Where would she find the courage?
A stranger approached her, interrupting the whirlwind of thoughts.
“For zee skirt, mademoiselle,” said the stranger, his French accent thick. The man held out a belt. “To prevent zee . . .” He mimed a skirt blowing up and backward like an umbrella turned inside out.
Oh. Her skirt blowing inside out, from the wind on the plane.
Wright rejoined her, a slight frown on his face. “We can only go for a few minutes, I’m afraid. The additional fuel I ordered never arrived, so we’re stuck with what we have.”
Somehow, Jillian found herself nodding and walking forward with Wright to his aircraft. Although her stomach was in knots, although her pulse was racing, she was doing this, because, somehow, incredibly, in 1903, she had already asked to do this. She’d been ready. She had asked Mr. Wright to take her flying. Somehow she’d possessed the courage to ask. And if she had possessed it once—if she would possess it someday—then that meant she had it inside her now. Courage: that was why she was here. That was the whole point for coming here.
A Flight in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 2) Page 14
