Littlewood must know something.
But . . . what? What did Littlewood know?
Another shiver ran along her spine. What if the car pulling away yesterday had been Littlewood and not Khan’s attorney? What if Littlewood had known exactly what he was doing, shutting off the power to the basement?
She stood and began pacing. Was she in danger? Had someone tried to kill her yesterday? She picked up her phone to text her friends but then remembered they were all on a movie set, where they weren’t allowed to have their phones turned on.
After another hour and lots of pacing, Jillian was much calmer. If someone had been trying to kill her, they would’ve wanted to remove . . . the body, wouldn’t they? But whoever had killed the power had simply driven away. In a Mercedes Cabriolet, the car driven by Khan’s lawyer, whom DaVinci had seen entering the property. So, not Littlewood.
Besides, while it was highly suspicious that Dr. Littlewood was in Santa Barbara, Jillian knew from his CV that he had interacted professionally with the UCSB physics faculty. And how could anyone know what she and her friends had been up to? The manor had been abandoned for nearly fifteen months. Jillian had double and triple-checked this before agreeing to the trips she’d taken with her friends.
No, she had no reason to believe she’d been targeted yesterday. Still, it was one more compelling reason to avoid the manor from now on. Whatever lingering doubts she’d entertained about making her visit to 1903, Jillian knew she couldn’t. Not now. Everett wouldn’t get his kiss. She sighed. Probably that was best for everyone involved.
She sank onto the couch in her bedroom and stared at Aunt Beverly’s cashmere suit, folded and waiting for a trip to the cleaners. Beside it sat Everett’s scarf. Against her better judgment, Jillian lifted the scarf to her nose and inhaled. It smelled like Everett, like lemons and soap and the French countryside. As she pulled it away from her face, something fell out of it. She bent down and found the pocket watch. It felt heavy in her palm.
She should put it back in her mother’s collection. Or . . . maybe she would ask if she could keep it. She lifted the watch cover, exposing the dial. Since she’d last reset it, it was keeping good time; it was 2:10 in the afternoon. Opposite the dial sat the tiny picture of her great-great-great aunt. There was the face that had kept Uncle Maxfield going after he’d been shot down over Germany. Of course, he couldn’t have had this picture at the time. As the story went, he’d had no pictures, only the memory of her kiss.
Jillian’s mind returned to Everett. To the last words he’d spoken to her, saying he would carry the memory of her kiss to his dying day. Except that now . . . would he? Had he? She sighed and picked up her phone, wondering if Halley and DaVinci were free yet, but they didn’t answer her texts.
Staring at her phone, Jillian found herself wondering about Everett. Had he become a pilot like he wanted? A cold foreboding ran along the back of her neck. He would have been the right age to fly in both World Wars. And then, even though she had at least seven good arguments against it, she tapped his name into a search window: Everett Randolph IV.
The top three returns focused on Everett’s use of an alias. An alias? She ran her eyes down to the fourth entry.
Everett Randolph, also by alias, Evan Appleby, born New York City 1884, died France, 1918, age thirty-four.
No.
She read it again.
1918, age thirty-four.
Jillian’s hand had flown to her mouth. She exhaled slowly. No. No.
Jillian clicked the Wikipedia page for “Lieutenant Evan Appleby, RAF Officer.”
Born in New York City in 1884, Everett Winston Randolph IV enlisted in Canada in 1917 as Evan Appleby, under pretense of holding Canadian citizenship. Following training, he was stationed with the No. 73 Squadron, RAF, where he took part in bombing and strafing attacks from 15 April, 1918, to his death on 14 October, 1918. He was credited with five aerial victories and three assists, the third of which led to his death following damage to the propeller of his Sopwith Camel while in pursuit of a Fokker D. VII. His body was removed from his fallen craft by a French family, who were also responsible for recovering a letter to his parents wherein he identified himself as the American Everett Randolph. He was twice awarded the British Distinguished Flying Cross for his acts of valor while flying in active operations against the enemy.
At some point, tears had begun to fall. They covered her cheeks, streaming onto the hand covering her mouth. She blinked and reread the entry, as if hoping it would say something different the second time through.
When it didn’t, she returned to the search page and clicked other entries, looking for a different story, a better ending, an explanation of a later miraculous appearance in Paris with only fractured ribs, but there was nothing. The only other discussion of Everett Randolph of the Connecticut Randolphs addressed the bankruptcy of his father’s buggy-lantern company. At the bottom was a picture of Randolph’s father and mother beside their son’s grave.
Shaking, Jillian enlarged the picture to read the inscription on the headstone: Per Ardua ad Astra, which Google informed her was the RAF motto, Through Adversity to the Stars.
Abandoning any further reading, Jillian sank onto her bed, grabbed Everett’s scarf, pulled her comforter over her head, and wept bitterly for the young man whose clear eyes had been fixed on the heavens.
She cried for over an hour, at the end of which time she went to her bathroom and splashed water on her face. Then, sitting at her desk, she wrote a list of all the reasons she had to be happy. But it was useless. How could she be happy? She couldn’t be. More tears threatened. She couldn’t be happy knowing the young man she’d laughed with in France had died there alone, only ten years later.
Eventually, after another round of tears, she reached a certain level of calm numbness and went to the kitchen, where she made piecrust after piecrust—not filling the pies, just fluting their edges in perfect repetition, again and again and again, until she ran out of pie pans.
40
· LITTLEWOOD ·
Montecito, the Present
Littlewood drove along the winding roads leading to 1067 Olivewood Way, Montecito, California, 93108—the address for Khan’s estate, according to Jones. Things had gotten complicated. Unexpectedly and radically complicated. How was he going to explain this to Jules Khan—the young Khan awaiting news in Florida? And what, exactly, was it he was going to explain? It was impossible there were two living Jules Khans. Wasn’t it? So would he find an abandoned home in Montecito? Or an older Khan? Because someone had presumably conducted clandestine experiments in temporal distortion to have caused the recent clustered microtremors.
Littlewood’s memory drifted back to something Khan had scratched on paper the first week he’d been in Florida. He’d suggested it was theoretically possible space–time duplicated objects removed from one timeline as part of a cosmic healing process.
Littlewood had asked Khan about the scrap of paper, but Khan had shrugged and said it was a theory with too many holes in it. Completely crazy thinking. Littlewood, at the time, had agreed. But what if?
That was why he had to visit 1067 Olivewood Way. He had to know how many Khans existed. The younger Khan was hardly a shining example of moral rectitude. Would he have lied about what he’d surmised, about the “cosmic healing” property? And if there were two Khans, how was this older, presumably wilier, version of Khan going to receive him, Arthur Littlewood, ghost from Christmases past?
He pulled up to the gate, confirming the number of the house. He had to get out of his car to push the intercom and request admittance, but as he was doing so, the gate swung open of its own accord.
A well-dressed man driving a Mercedes was exiting. Although the man had dark hair, he wasn’t Khan.
The stranger rolled down his window and addressed Littlewood. “I’d given up on you,” he said, gesturing to the estate behind. When Littlewood didn’t answer, the man added, “You’re here to value the paintings,
right? We’ll have to reschedule. Plenty of time. The catalog doesn’t go to print for ten days.”
Valuing . . . paintings? Was Khan having some sort of auction? The man seemed to be awaiting an answer. Glancing inside the open gate, Littlewood observed an unkempt state that didn’t seem right for such an impressive property. Something was wrong. Something was off.
“You’ve mistaken me for someone else, I’m afraid,” said Littlewood, shifting his weight.
“You’re not here about the paintings?”
Littlewood shook his head and started to explain. “I was hoping to stop by and see—”
The man held up a hand. “I’ll stop you right there. No previews, I’m afraid. The estate will be liquidated in six weeks, catalogs available by written request in four.”
Liquidated?
“No exceptions,” said the man. “I’m sure you understand.”
Was this Khan declaring bankruptcy?
Littlewood thought quickly. “Of course not. I understand completely.” And then, on a hunch, he added, “I’m here about the scientific equipment. I’m Dr. Arthur Littlewood.” He reached inside his jacket and produced a business card. “Khan and I used to be . . . colleagues. I believe he held on to a few things that, ah, belong to me.”
Littlewood’s heart was racing. He wasn’t a particularly good liar, but then he wasn’t entirely lying.
“Hmm. I see.” The man in the suit frowned. “Right. Hang on—let me check my next appointment.”
“Couldn’t I have a look around?” asked Littlewood. “Maybe talk to . . . someone?”
“There’s no one but me. Place is a mess.” The man reached inside his jacket and pulled out a card identifying him as an attorney. “Jesús Torres. Listen, I wouldn’t mind showing you the equipment now, if you have time. I was going to try UCLA next.”
“Now. Yes. Now works for me.” Littlewood tried to swallow, but his mouth was made of cotton. He was trying to ignore a very bad feeling that had come over him.
“Maybe you could weigh in on what it’s worth, the scientific equipment? I tried UCSB, but they couldn’t be bothered. I guess Khan was something of a . . . well, you knew him.” Jesús smiled nervously, smoothing his slicked-back hair.
Was. Knew him. Past tense. Littlewood felt the color draining from his face.
Khan—the Khan of this timeline—wasn’t just bankrupt. He was dead.
“Of course,” he managed to say. “I’m happy to help with the equipment.”
“Sort out the valuable stuff from the crackpot stuff—oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply . . .”
Littlewood shook his head. “It’s fine.”
“Okay, then. Shall we have a look?”
“I’m, ah, completely at your disposal,” said Littlewood.
He waited as Jesús Torres turned his car around and approached the gate, keying it open again.
Khan was dead. Or he would be. Would sending him back to 2001 be a death sentence? Or had the sentence already been handed down? In the present timeline, Khan had been dead or missing or something long enough for his estate to be liquidated.
Arthur Littlewood took several slow breaths. He got back inside his car and drove slowly forward, through the gate, and along the deserted drive, his heart pounding with the horrible fear that this was all his fault. That somehow, when he’d brought the younger version of Khan into the present, he’d killed the version who had lived here, the version who would one day return to 2001.
41
· KHAN ·
Florida, the Present
It turned out, Khan mused as he drove back from Miami, that the saying about being six handshakes away from anyone on the planet was probably true. He needed to fly to California, and for that, he needed ID. He had considered using the machine to travel to California a day in the past, but that would have meant an outside limit to the time he could spend there—and a sudden yank back to Florida, possibly at a most inconvenient time. Which meant he was back to needing ID.
An underage graduate student in Littlewood’s group who had a fake ID had pointed Khan in the direction of someone who knew someone who directed Khan to a buddy outside Miami who could produce a driver’s license that would get you on a plane. The buddy outside Miami had been a bust, but he’d known someone else. Someone else whom Khan wasn’t allowed to meet in person. Someone else who could reproduce Khan’s license with a different expiration date.
For a price.
Khan had sold his Action Comics #1 for a paltry $27,000 throwing in a Rolex Datejust watch of Littlewood’s to cover the balance. He was probably going to have to start being more careful about acquiring Littlewood’s things. Littlewood was absent-minded, but he wasn’t a complete idiot.
He was also still not answering his phone. Littlewood had sent one text, vague and almost . . . dismissive: “Be in touch soon—very busy.”
But it didn’t matter as much, now. Khan had accomplished his mission: secure ID so he could purchase a plane ticket to Santa Barbara. He’d considered traveling back in time and renewing his actual license, but it would have taken four separate trips, as the license would have needed renewing in 2002, 2007, 2012, and 2016. There was no way he was waiting in a California Department of Motor Vehicle lines four times. Besides, his alternative self had presumably renewed those licenses. No sense raising red flags with the state government.
The cash value offered for the comic, which featured Superman’s first appearance, had been insulting, but Khan reasoned he could always buy it in 1938 another time. Maybe he would become a collector.
Maybe he had already become one.
He owned a house in Montecito. Well, his doppelgänger owned a house in Montecito. Those didn’t come cheap. He’d only visited Montecito once for a New Year’s party at the home of the absolute worst PhD candidate in Jones’s group. But the party had been good.
He nearly missed his exit, wondering what sort of mansion his second self would have chosen back in California. Well, now that he could fly, he was going to find out, wasn’t he? He supposed it was time to google himself, something he’d been putting off. He wasn’t sure why, but every time he’d typed his name in the search window, he had changed his mind and gotten up to do something else. Well, if he was going to confront himself, he’d be better off knowing a few things first. Which meant a quick search, at a minimum.
What on earth was he going to do when he faced himself—his old self? He couldn’t imagine being forty-three. The idea was appalling. What if he were gray? Or wrinkled? Or fat? What if his aged self was . . . jealous of his younger self? Khan didn’t like the thought of sharing an identity. He wanted the spotlight of history focused on him, thanks very much. If he felt jealous of his older self, the feeling would almost certainly be reciprocated. What if this other self was . . . dangerous? Khan shivered, suddenly less certain he wanted to meet himself. But he had to know the truth. He had to see it with his own eyes. There was no stuffing the genie back in the bottle now.
He turned down a sleepy lane leading to Littlewood’s and parked beside the mother-in-law unit. He hated doing searches on his phone. Letting himself in Littlewood’s house with a stolen key, he sat down at Littlewood’s ancient desktop computer and typed in his name.
The news about Jules Khan, deceased, was splashed all over the Internet. Dr. Khan, formerly of Montecito, California, had just had a death certificate issued following an investigation into his disappearance in 2016.
Jules Khan the younger stared at the monitor in disbelief. This changed everything.
42
· LITTLEWOOD ·
Montecito, the Present
There was a time machine in Jules Khan’s basement. Littlewood had crossed the country in order to find one, but seeing it there, in living color, had still taken his breath away. Torres was wandering around the basement, talking, but Littlewood wasn’t listening. The time machine, here in Khan’s basement, spoke volumes about his current postdoc, Jules Khan of 2001. When Khan retu
rned to 2001, he would evidently do so with stolen schematics. He would evidently lie to Littlewood in 2006 and 2007 when Littlewood contacted him with questions about temporal stability. He wouldn’t seek out his former colleague—oh no. He would make an end run around Littlewood, skirting him completely.
While becoming very wealthy in the process.
Littlewood frowned with distaste. He should have known better than to trust Khan. There had been something about him, from the very first—from that assault in the men’s room, for crying out loud.
Torres was now standing beside him, making it impossible to ignore him any longer.
“We had to get a locksmith to make a key to get inside,” said the lawyer. “My assistant suggested all this might just be movie props. But Khan once told me he had a lab in the basement, and besides, I don’t have any records of Khan working with Hollywood, so I’m inclined to think this . . . whatever-it-is must be some kind of hobby. From his UCSB days.”
“Well, in the case of this,” here Littlewood pointed to pieces of equipment that comprised the time machine, “it’s actually mine. Khan, ah, borrowed things from me on occasion. I can’t prove it, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to believe me or not believe me as you see fit.”
“You loaned him this equipment?”
Littlewood nodded. He was using “loaned” in the very loosest possible sense of the word.
“Do you have anything written, some correspondence that indicates the loan of your property?” asked Torres.
Littlewood couldn’t tell if Torres doubted him or was trying to help. He sighed heavily. “No. No records. Listen, I can buy it if I have to, but I really want my equipment back again.”
Torres seemed to be considering what to say next. At last he withdrew a business card. “Why don’t you have a look through e-mails, written records, text messages. Anything you can find that might substantiate your claim.”
A Flight in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 2) Page 18
