Littlewood nodded morosely, knowing no such records existed.
Then he brightened slightly. “I can produce records showing the cost of the materials to build this.”
Torres gave a small shrug, as if to indicate that wouldn’t really prove much. Which it wouldn’t.
Littlewood added, “My only concern is getting my equipment back. Whatever it costs.”
He swallowed as he said this. Littlewood wasn’t poor, but he wasn’t exactly flush in spare funds, having burned through his retirement to fund his private research. However, the equipment couldn’t be allowed to fall in any hands but his. That much was clear to him.
“Oh, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Jesús Torres, smiling. “You go have a look for those records. Honestly, I’d be relieved to not include this in the catalog. What is it, anyway?”
“Just a pair of oversize Tesla coils and some electromagnetic field-shaping equipment” replied Littlewood.
Torres nodded, and Littlewood couldn’t tell if he was nodding politely or because he knew what Tesla coils and EM field-shaping equipment were. Fortunately Torres didn’t ask any follow-up questions.
“Let’s touch base in a day or two, shall we?” asked Torres. “It’s just this one . . . collection of items that you have a claim to? Not the sarcophagi and all the rest of it?”
“Just the Tesla coils, these grid and coil structures, and the equipment rack—all of this.” Littlewood indicated the time machine again.
After the two said their goodbyes, something else began to trouble Littlewood. He pulled off to the side of the road to think. If Khan had been MIA for months already, who had been using the time machine? He supposed Torres or his assistant might have tried to fire it up. . . . That was not a pleasant thought. It was as he mused on this mystery that he checked his e-mail and found an odd query from a young woman with a question about space–time. Her e-mail address was from Cal Berkeley.
A few phone calls to the UC Berkeley Physics Department later, Littlewood discovered something even more curious. The young woman who had posed the space–time conundrum lived here. In Montecito. Not half a mile from Jules Khan. Littlewood was a scientist long accustomed to avoiding unsubstantiated leaps of logic, but really, what were the odds? He started his car and drove half a mile farther along Olivewood Way, bringing his car to a halt at the gated residence denominated “Applewood.”
He hesitated before pushing the intercom button. If he spoke with the girl, he was going to have to be very careful what he said. Ask lots of questions; reveal nothing. That was the only way this could work.
43
· JILLIAN ·
Montecito, the Present
After she’d run out of pie plates, Jillian settled at the window seat, her perch in the kitchen, and pulled her knees up tight to her chest.
Branson found her like that when he showed up that evening to prepare for the return of Mr. and Mrs. Applegate the next day. Taking one look at Jillian and another at the row of unfilled pie shells, he crossed to her and hugged her tightly.
Jillian had no tears left, but for several seconds her face scrunched into the shape of crying. She felt so powerless. That was the effect history had on a person.
“You have a visitor,” said Branson quietly. “I met him at the front gate when I drove up just now. I let him in, but I already told him I didn’t know if you were here. I can tell him you’re not. I left him in the breakfast room.”
“Who is it?” asked Jillian. Her voice rasped.
Branson handed her a glass of water.
“A professor from the University of South Central Florida.” Branson was now examining a business card. “Name of Dr. Arthur Littlewood.”
Jillian blinked, her eyes wide with shock. Almost immediately, they narrowed. Littlewood was collaborating with Jules Khan, making him the last person she wanted to see. But it was also true that Littlewood was the only person on earth who could answer her questions about Everett’s fate: Had he died alone or with the memory of her kiss?
She swallowed.
“He wrote his cell phone number and the name of his hotel on the back of the card when I said I didn’t know if you were available,” said Branson.
Jillian turned the card over. There was a phone number. There was the name of a hotel. Not exactly information someone intent on harming her would be passing out. So why was Littlewood looking for her? And how did he find her? Could it have been her e-mail query?
“I can tell him you’re not available,” said Branson.
Slowly, Jillian shook her head.
She wanted answers to all of the questions swirling in her mind. She wanted to know Littlewood’s connection to this “second” Jules Khan. She wanted a solution to her dilemma: Should she travel to 1903 or not? And the only person who could answer her questions was here, in her house.
“I’ll see him,” she said to Branson.
“I’ll let him know.”
As soon as Branson left, doubts assailed her. What about Khan answering Littlewood’s phone? If the two were in league, did they know about the time machine in Khan’s basement? The trips she and her friends had taken over the summer? Did Littlewood know the other Khan had tried to kill Halley and Edmund?
She took a steadying breath and reached for the same courage that had gotten her on airplanes three different times. She would have to adopt the impenetrable Applegate manner that had made her mom and dad so successful in business. She flipped the business card back over.
Dr. Arthur Littlewood.
She would have to be very careful what she said. Ask lots of questions; reveal nothing. That was the only way this could work.
44
· LITTLEWOOD ·
Montecito, the Present
When the young woman entered the room, Littlewood rose, put on a smile he hoped was pleasant, and held out his hand.
“Jillian Applegate, I’m Arthur Littlewood, and you are one challenging student to locate.”
The girl sat at the table and Littlewood followed suit. The table was mahogany, if he was any judge. Which he might not be. His dining table was Formica.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
Well, she was direct. Those dark eyes were intelligent-looking. Almost unnerving, truth be told. She looked like the sort of person who didn’t suffer fools lightly. Well, he had a PhD in physics. The small joke made his mouth twitch into a sort of smile, which he just as quickly disposed of. She’d asked a question.
Littlewood examined his shirt buttons. He knew he was a terrible liar. Besides, the truth gave away nothing he wanted to hide.
“Well, let’s see. Your e-mail identified you as a Cal student, so I started with the Physics Department at UC Berkeley, but they said you weren’t a physics major, so then I called a Berkeley colleague, Gary Donald, directly. I reasoned you might have taken him for general physics, based on what you wrote. It took Donald a minute, but he remembered your name, and he found you in student records for me.”
Too much talking. He did that when he was nervous. He should have just said Dr. Gary Donald.
“Dr. Donald was my Physics for Nonscience Majors instructor,” murmured Jillian.
“So he’s teaching a little space–time theory in Physics for Poets, is he?” That was it. Steer the conversation gently in the right direction.
Jillian nodded. “And you’re here because of the question I e-mailed you?”
Littlewood opened his mouth and then closed it and then opened it again. Terrible habit. He fiddled with an envelope in his pocket. Just say something already.
“I’m in Montecito because I wanted to have a look at some equipment that’s coming up for sale half a mile down the road.”
There. Maybe that would get her to talk.
Unfortunately, they were interrupted by the man who’d introduced himself as the Applegate’s cook, now bearing a tray with coffee and biscotti. Littlewood didn’t suppose she would say anything . . . interesting with a thir
d party in the room. Although, one never knew. Keep the conversation moving. That was the important thing.
He accepted the coffee.
Maybe he could flatter her into a more communicative mood. It wouldn’t even be flattery, not really.
He leaned forward. “We graduate physics students every year who’ve shown less curiosity than you demonstrated in your single query. Am I correct in my understanding that you are not a physics major? You might make a good one.”
“You’re here to ask me to change my major?”
He stirred cream into his coffee. “I was in the neighborhood. Literally. Might you have an interest in studying physics?” He reached for his coffee.
“Um, no. I don’t plan to switch to physics. I’m no brainiac.”
“In my experience, the ability to ask the right questions is an excellent indicator of intelligence. And you posed a very good question in your e-mail.”
The cook departed. Good. Maybe he could ask more directly, although frankly he was feeling less and less certain about his abilities to corral the conversation.
“So, what’s the answer?”
“Ah,” said Littlewood, taking a sip of coffee. “Exactly.”
The young woman frowned and set her cup down. “Does the girl go back to 2040 a second time or not?”
“Precisely,” said Littlewood. Brainiac or not, her grasp of the dilemma was excellent. Ah, but he was allowing himself to be distracted. Focus. Focus.
“No, I mean, I’m really asking,” said the girl. “I actually want to know the answer.”
Littlewood’s brow furrowed. “Well, hypothetically speaking, of course, I don’t know. But it’s a fine line of inquiry.”
He needed to get back to the questions he’d come here to ask. He cleared his throat. “I am curious, though, what got you interested in the topic in the first place? I . . . well, when I spoke with Donald, he said you’re not enrolled in physics classes this term, so I take it you have some other . . . motivation for asking such a question?”
“I was just curious,” she said. And then, with a tiny smile, she added, “I drove my middle school science teachers crazy.”
He knew the type. Only too well. He was blowing this whole thing out of proportion. If she’d had any actual contact with the time machine down the road, surely she would be pumping him for information, not asking theoretical questions for which there was no practical answer.
“But seriously, if you were to guess,” said the young woman. “Do you think the girl in my scenario actually had to return to 2040?”
Littlewood gave a small shrug. “Her grandmother certainly thought she did.”
“So she did go back. As far as we can know. Based on what her grandmother said.”
Littlewood couldn’t help himself. “Well, that’s where it gets interesting. It depends on your position regarding temporal inertia. For instance, if we posit temporal instability . . .” He broke off, reaching for a pen and grabbing the envelope from his pocket. “If we posit temporal instability, there is the possibility she didn’t return.” He scribbled a formula on the envelope. “On the other hand, there are good reasons to believe temporal instabilities are strongly damped. It’s all right here,” he said, tapping at the equation.
Jillian looked at the equation and shook her head.
Good heavens. What if she were asking the question in reference to an actual situation? What if she was the one responsible for the microquake events?
“Of course, these equations are highly speculative,” Littlewood said carefully. “Until humans can time travel, at least.” He fixed his eyes on hers. Neither of them blinked.
“That would be impossible,” said Jillian, matching his gaze.
Littlewood looked away first. “Well, there it is.”
How disappointing. Either she was a good liar, or she really knew nothing about the machine down the road. Honestly, though, what had he been thinking? Was this the kind of young person who broke into other people’s houses? It had just been one of life’s little coincidences, her e-mail query. One of those little things that made people of an unscientific bent of mind assume connections where none existed. He knew better.
At that moment, his phone buzzed in his breast pocket and he took it out. It was Khan again. He really should respond. He had to respond. This was Khan’s eighth attempt to reach him in twenty-four hours.
Pocketing the phone and looking up, Littlewood said, “I should be going. I only have one more day here, and I’m determined to visit the Santa Barbara Mission. Here’s my card.”
As soon as he held it out, he realized he’d already given one to the cook, who had presumably given it to the young woman.
Jillian, however, accepted it without comment. She was cool-headed, this one.
“If you change your mind about your major, well, we’re not Cal Berkeley, but the University of South Central Florida graduate studies program in physics is nationally ranked in chaotic cosmology. Feel free to, ah, reach out.”
Jillian rose, shook Littlewood’s extended hand, and ushered him to the front door.
He was halfway to his car when he realized he had one last chance to find out what she might know about Khan’s associations in the area—former associations, that was.
“You didn’t happen to know your neighbor Jules Khan socially, I suppose?”
“Not really,” replied Jillian. She continued to stare at him as if waiting for more.
“Colleague of mine,” Littlewood said, feeling the need to explain. When someone stared at him like that, so collected, he tended to babble. Terrible habit. “He’s been declared legally dead, sadly. Thugs in Los Angeles. One more argument for moving to Florida.”
With a final nod, he climbed in his car and drove toward the gate. When neighbors had such substantial “fences,” it wasn’t surprising they didn’t know one another. It had just been one of life’s odd coincidences after all.
45
· JILLIAN ·
Montecito, the Present
No sooner than Littlewood was out of sight, Branson strolled outside.
“Was it a good visit?” he asked softly.
Jillian nodded absently.
“Well,” said Branson, “I’ve got a beautiful salmon marinating in the fridge for when your parents get home tomorrow night. And I’ll be back early in the morning to work on some sourdough bread. You can help, if you feel like getting up early.”
With a forced smile, Jillian thanked him and said goodbye. Once Branson drove away, she sank down, resting on the top of the wide stairs leading down to the semicircular drive.
So. Littlewood knew Khan was dead. Littlewood was here to buy “equipment” from Khan’s estate. It had to be the time machine. He’d said he was leaving tomorrow. Tomorrow. He was taking the machine back to some other Khan working with him in Florida. Some other Khan he wasn’t willing to talk about.
Jillian had been that close to just asking him about the Khan who’d answered the phone in Florida. But, as Edmund had pointed out, Jillian was friends with Halley, who had been questioned in connection with Khan’s disappearance. As soon as the thought had passed through Jillian’s mind, she’d known she wouldn’t ask Littlewood the question. The risk was too great.
As for her other burning question, she was no closer to an answer about Everett’s final moments, either. But she had a timetable. Littlewood had said he was leaving in a day. Assuming he took the machine with him, this meant her last chance to time travel was tonight. She rose and strode to her room.
The first order of business was to write a note for her friends. Just in case. Something she should have done last time. Unlike the e-mail she’d composed and sent to Littlewood, this one was easy to write, the words coming effortlessly.
Dear DaVinci, Halley, and Edmund,
Please don’t hate me. I know I’m taking a huge risk. Maybe I’m being reckless or stupid. But here’s the thing: Everett was in love with me. He says I kissed him in 1903, and when we said
goodbye in 1908, he told me he would remember that kiss until the day he died. He died young. I looked it up. He was shot down in World War I. I need to know that when he died, he had that kiss to remember. I know I’m taking a risk, but it’s nothing compared to the risks Everett took day after day during the war, until the day he died.
She looked up. She knew why he’d done it. Sometimes a risk was the only acceptable course of action. That was how Everett must’ve seen it. Sometimes you had to stand up rather than stand by. She started writing again.
I’m not doing this because I think space–time has already made the choice; I probably do have a choice. If I end up caught or arrested or worse, I’m sorry. But I can’t live with myself if I do nothing, if I choose fear instead of—
She broke off, lifting her pen to her lips and holding it there nervously. Instead of what? Instead of bravery? No, this wasn’t about courage. Or, not mostly. This was about her Uncle Maxfield captured behind enemy lines, dreaming of his Beverly. This was about Everett in the days before pilots had parachutes, getting in his Sopwith Camel again and again and again. It was about Everett and the look on his face when he’d said goodbye to her. About Everett and the kiss he would remember.
There was only one word that captured what she was choosing over fear.
I can’t live with myself if I do nothing, if I choose fear instead of . . .
Love.
She was choosing love.
She set her pen to paper, adding the final word. After signing her name, she wrote a PS: If anything happens, please tell Branson and my parents I love them. And then she walked to the kitchen, where she knew Branson would arrive between 3:30 and four in the morning to start baking, and she set the sealed envelope addressed to DaVinci on the counter.
46
· KHAN ·
Wellesley, Florida, the Present
His new ID in hand, Khan only had three and a half hours until the end of the business day. Sadly, the one thing the singularity device could not do was buy him time in the correct quantities. But if he hurried, he might be able to accomplish everything on his list before five and get himself on a plane tonight, arriving in Santa Barbara on Littlewood’s last day there. Littlewood had some explaining to do.
A Flight in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 2) Page 19
