A Time of Shadows (Out of Time #8)

by Monique Martin

  She looked down at the canister, a last quarter moon on the cap. “How did Teddy know about that spot?”

  Simon had been wondering about that. Even if there were comprehensive files at the Council about their trips back in time, there was no logical reason why they might contain details as specific as this.

  He’d turned the question over in his mind until there seemed no other plausible answer.

  “We told him,” Simon said.

  “Okay, what?” Elizabeth stopped trying to move the cabinet back in place by herself. Simon helped her and it slid back into its proper position.

  “Who else could have? Vale?” he asked.

  Elizabeth made a sour face.

  “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” he said. “And since we are the only two other people who know what happened in this room, in all of the places we’ve been to….”

  Elizabeth frowned. “Well, we’re not the only two.”

  Simon shook his head, at a loss.

  “Knowledge is power,” she said, and he remembered.

  “Charlotte.”

  ~~~

  Victor lifted his eyes and stared across the small wooden table at Charlotte. She watched him carefully as he chewed. Frowning, he looked down again at his plate and took another bite.

  “Is it all right?” she asked eagerly.

  Keeping his head lowered, he glanced up at her and then back down. Over the last two days, she’d been growing more comfortable with his presence. Even growing…attached.

  “It is fine,” he said and scraped up a large spoonful of stew. The faster he finished the better. He’d done his best to avoid spending too much time with her, although in such close quarters it wasn’t easy.

  She smiled, pleased and shy, and picked up her spoon. But she winced and dropped it. “Sorry,” she said and reached to retrieve it.

  She looked at the palm of her hand briefly and held the spoon lightly. She scooped up some stew, blew on it and then ate it, giving him another smile.

  Victor frowned. “Your hand.”

  She glanced at it but shook her head. “It’s fine. Just a splinter.”

  He saw her wince again as her small hand closed around the utensil. She tried to hide it, but her face was an open book.

  Victor put down his cutlery and leaned back in his chair.

  “Let me see it.”

  She shook her head again. “It’s nothing.”

  Victor extended his arm across the table and laid his hand down, palm up. He waited expectantly.

  She sighed and then reluctantly put her hand in his. Gently, he turned it over and pulled it a little closer.

  An angry red welt rose from the flesh of her palm.

  He frowned down at it, his eyes shifting briefly to her face and then back. “When did this happen?”

  She shrugged and eased her hand out of his grip.

  Without a word, Victor pushed his chair back, left the kitchen and went into the living room.

  “Come here,” he called to her as he opened the doors of the credenza and dug around inside.

  He found what he was looking for, a tackle box and a quarter bottle of bourbon, and put them on the coffee table next to her abandoned game of solitaire.

  She appeared in the doorway and lingered there uncertainly.

  “Come here,” he said again as he sat down on the sofa.

  She didn’t move and he sighed. “I am not going to hurt you.”

  Slowly, she made her way into the room. He waved her forward.

  She stood watching him warily. He urged her to give him her hand again. The splinter had pierced her skin and dug its way into her palm.

  With a grunt, he let her hand go and dug into the tackle box that served as a basic first aid kit. There was plenty of gauze and tape, but not much else.

  He pulled out his Swiss army knife and Charlotte took a frightened step backward. He scowled at her, but her big round eyes were like an arrow that cut through his defenses.

  “It is getting infected. Do you know what that means?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I need to remove the splinter, hmm?”

  She looked down at her palm and then nodded again.

  “Good. Come here,” he said, curling his fingers to draw her closer.

  He took her small hand in his and gently probed the area. He could feel the piece of wood beneath the surface. It was large and the end wasn’t protruding. That meant he had to open the wound to get to it. Without a needle, the small blade on his knife would have to do.

  He picked up the bottle of bourbon and unscrewed the cap and poured some of it over the small blade.

  He held out his hand for hers, but she hesitated and he could hardly blame her. He was a virtual stranger, probably looked like fresh hell, and he was holding a knife. He tried to soften his face, but he’d nearly forgotten how.

  “I need you to trust me,” he said.

  She chewed her bottom lip and eyed his hand briefly before nodding and putting her hand in his.

  “And I’m afraid, this will hurt a little,” he said as he sat forward.

  She nodded again.

  “I have seen much worse than this,” he said, speaking calmly as he very carefully cut into her palm.

  She sucked in breath and started to snatch her hand away, but he held her tightly and she fought her instincts. “Good,” he said and continued to talk to distract her. “I was on a mission outside of Marseille. Do you know where that is?”

  “France?”

  “That is right. I was there doing some work for the government. Blowing things up,” he added, winning a surprised smile from the girl.

  “It was not as glamorous as it sounds. One of my men got a splinter,” he said, remembering the shrapnel from the faulty explosives as they’d blown up a bridge with a full German convoy on it. “A rather large one,” he said.

  “Bigger than mine?” she asked.

  Victor made a show of thinking about it as he worked to dig and pull the splinter out of her palm. She gasped in pain and he stopped.

  “A little,” he said, lying painfully. “But he was very brave.” That part was true enough. The man could have, most would have, cried out, but he did not. And did not give away their location.

  Charlotte nodded thoughtfully and Victor pulled the large splinter from her palm. He held it up to show her.

  “Wow,” she said and then her face scrunched up. “And gross.”

  Victor humphed in agreement and put it aside. He wiped away the blood. There was thankfully not much. He cleansed the wound and then wrapped it.

  She looked down at her bandaged hand and then smiled at him.

  He grunted and set about cleaning up.

  “Was the guy okay? The one with the splinter?” she asked.

  Victor nearly told her the truth. “Yes,” he said instead. “He was fine.”

  Charlotte’s smile grew wider.

  “Next time you will tell me if you are hurt, hmm?” Victor said.

  She nodded again and then stepped forward, giving him a hug before he could stop her.

  The feel of a slender pair of arms around his neck and the soft brush of her hair against his cheek nearly undid him. He closed his eyes and, for a moment, it was his Juliette who held him.

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said as she pulled away.

  Victor nodded, not trusting his voice.

  “Do you want more stew?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Okay.” And with one last smile, she was gone, completely unaware of the broken man she left behind.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  JACK FELT NAKED, MOSTLY because he was. He wrapped the towel more securely around his waist and closed the door to his locker and his only protection. The attendant smiled at him as he turned. There was no way he could bring his gun into the bath undetected. He’d hoped he could find a way to sneak it in, but the attendants were very
attentive

  Jack smiled back and turned toward Luka. He looked younger now, barely his seventeen years, and even more vulnerable. His slender arms wrapped around his middle anxiously.

  Jack put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It will be all right.”

  The boy nodded nervously.

  Skavo has chosen wisely, Jack thought as they were escorted from the changing room down a long hall of the Turkish bath. There was no place to hide a weapon. A man ahead of them bent over and his towel dropped to the floor. No place to hide anything here. And Tess couldn’t come in. This particular bath was men only. That left him and the boy and, hopefully, Skavo.

  The attendant left them at the entrance to the main room and they walked cautiously inside. It was large, maybe fifty feet across, circular, with a high vaulted ceiling. Around half of the room, at even intervals along the perimeter, were embellished sinks with brass faucets and elaborate tile. A small marble stool with a copper bowl sat next to each sink. Beyond that, larger marble benches alternated with sinks along the pristine, white tiled walls. Narrow arched doorways led to smaller heated chambers on the other side. In the center of the room was an enormous round marble platform.

  Half a dozen men lay or sat around the room, boneless in the heat. It was hot and damp and a sheen of sweat had already starting beading on Jack’s forehead. A man sat on a bench pouring cool water from one of the copper bowls onto his head sending it splashing onto the floor.

  Jack looked at each man carefully, but even those whose faces were covered with towels were too bulky, too fit, or too young to be Skavo. He led Luka around to the far side of the room to the adjoining hot rooms.

  The first was empty. In the second, an older man sat in the corner at the end of a long bench. Weathered hands rested on knobby knees. From beneath the towel he had draped over his head, Jack could see the edge of his salt and pepper beard, just as Skavo had in the grainy photograph Travers had given him.

  Luka hurried forward. “Father?”

  The man stood up so slowly Jack expected to hear creaking noises. As he did, the man looked at the boy. Luka hesitated and then hugged him. Something about that bothered Jack, but he’d worry about it later. Right now, getting out of here was his primary concern. A man could be without his gun, and a man could be without his pants, but he should never be without both.

  Jack stood in the short archway to the main room before turning back. “All right, let’s go.”

  He stepped out of the small alcove and into the main room and felt it before he saw it. Something was wrong. The way the men in the room moved now; the fact that they moved at all. One heavy-set man whispered to a man lying next to him, who turned and looked at the far wall before scurrying away. People didn’t scurry for no reason. When the second to last man had fled, Jack saw why.

  The only man remaining sat hunched over on a bench, a towel draped over his head and shoulders, a very shiny blade in his hand. Jack was certain he didn’t want to know where the man had hidden that.

  Jack heard Luka and Skavo shuffling along behind him. He turned to them quickly. “Stay inside,” he ordered.

  Thankfully, they didn’t argue. It looked like Jack was going to have enough of a fight on his hands. The man with the knife sat up slowly, the towel on his shoulders falling away to reveal muscles that had muscles. This was not good, Jack thought, as he clenched and unclenched his hands.

  The man stood up, pulled the towel off his head and tossed it aside. And Jack’s heart tripped over itself. He’d know that ridiculous jaw anywhere. David Quint, Travers’ missing operative.

  It was pretty clear from the push dagger in his hand and the stone-faced expression that this wasn’t going to be a warm and fuzzy meeting; this was going to be rough and bloody. So much for the great hero lost to the cause.

  They’re never dead until you see the body, Jack reminded himself as he circled to his right toward one of the small benches. And this one definitely wasn’t dead. He was big and strong and, from the look in his eyes, meant business, and damned unpleasant business at that. This was definitely not good.

  “I was just going to wait for Skavo,” he said in a deep baritone. “But then why not kill two birds with one stone?” He lifted the push dagger, basically a fist with a short blade sticking out between the knuckles, and smiled. “Emphasis on kill.”

  Jack raised his hands and kept slowly circling to his right toward the only thing nearby that might be a weapon. “I’m a bird lover myself. Lifetime Audubon member.”

  Quint smirked and kept moving forward. “You can make this easy or hard.”

  “I didn’t know I had options.” Jack edged a little further toward the bench.

  “Doesn’t matter to me,” Quint said. “You’re just as dead either way.”

  Suddenly, Quint swiped at Jack, who barely dodged it. Quint swung back again. And smiled. He was just toying with him, like a cat with a mouse.

  Just as Jack thought that might be to his advantage, Quint tired of the game and lunged forward. His fist, wrapped tightly around the handle of the dagger, came screaming forward with a quick jab. Jack barely had time to react. But he had just enough; he grabbed the copper bowl from the marble bench and raised it like a shield. The knife blade scraped against the bowl as metal met metal. Jack forced the momentum to the side, deflecting the blow.

  The force of his own punch threw Quint off balance. Jack re-gripped the copper bowl and swung for the fences. He’d had decent power when he played semi-professional baseball and he put every ounce of it into that swing.

  The bowl collided heavily with the side of Quint’s head and sent him stumbling forward. Jack’s hands ached from the reverberation of the impact.

  Quint’s hand spasmed, but he didn’t let go of the knife. Jack got a better grip, stepped forward and swung again, hitting the other side of Quint’s head. He’d always known being a switch hitter would come in handy one day.

  Quint’s head snapped back and he stumbled again, backward now, finally falling onto the circular platform. His arms flopped back over his head. The knife skittered across the marble.

  Jack looked down at the copper bowl, bent and misshapen now. He was about to kiss it when Quint groaned and rolled his head to the side.

  “Oh, come on,” Jack said, then with a sigh hoisted himself up onto the platform. It was hot beneath his hands and feet. He walked toward Quint’s head, ready to deliver the final blow when Quint’s hand snaked out and grabbed Jack by the ankle.

  Jack had just enough time to curse himself before he landed hard on the marble, the back of his head hitting it with a sharp crack. His vision blurred for a moment and he shook his head to clear it. And then wished he hadn’t.

  He looked up to see Quint’s fist just before it hit his jaw. Thick hands wrapped around his throat. Jack tried to latch onto something, anything to keep conscious, but he could feel the darkness pulling at him.

  Desperate, he reached up and found Quint’s face. His flushed cheeks were pulled back in a grimace of effort and Jack groped for something to grab onto. Quint was strong, but Jack was taller, longer. His reach was his only advantage now. His arms were longer and he gripped Quint’s head. Jack tried to push him back, but he was too strong. So Jack did the only thing he could and slid his thumb into Quint’s eye and pushed.

  Quint cried out and reared back, letting go of Jack’s throat.

  Jack gasped for breath and delivered a jab of his own—a quick sharp blow to the neck. Quint fell to the side, and Jack could hear his wheezing breath. Jack dove toward the edge of the platform, his hand reaching out for the knife that still sat there. He was just inches away when Quint grabbed him by the foot and pulled him back.

  He slid along the hot marble and rolled over just in time to block another iron fist from Quint. The two men grappled with each other. Quint’s sweat made it hard to get a grip, but Jack finally succeeded, and with a little leverage managed to push Quint back off the edge of the platform and onto the floor.


  Jack scrambled back across the marble and grabbed the knife. He jumped down onto the floor and raised it, ready.

  Quint, lumbering and dazed, pushed himself up and stared at Jack, his eyes wild and unfocused.

  What was it going to take to stop this guy?

  Quint blinked and took a step forward. Just as he did, his foot slipped in a puddle of water and he tumbled forward. His head hit the edge of the platform with an audible and unceremonious crack.

  Apparently that, Jack thought as Quint’s body slid to the floor. After all that, a little puddle of water did him in. Jack wasn’t sure if the marble or Quint’s head cracked when they met, but one of them did. And it seemed to have done the job.

  Jack panted for breath and stood over him for a moment, waiting for him to rise again. But he didn’t. Thank God, Jack thought, as his arms fell to his sides in exhaustion.

  He heard a noise to his left and looked over to see Luka standing in the doorway to their small room.

  “It’s all right now,” Jack said, breathless, and waved them over. “I hope.”

  Luka turned back and he and Skavo tentatively came over. Jack looked at the boy and then at Skavo, and then at Skavo again.

  “Aw, crap,” he said. “You’re not even him, are you?”

  Luka looked nervously at the older man and then back to Jack. “My father was too ill to come. This is Bekir. He’s from the village my father is staying in.”

  After nearly getting his head bashed in, all he had to show for it was a skinny old man in a towel.

  Jack nodded, defeated, and lifted a weak hand to say hello, too tired to do anything else. “Nice to meet you.”

  Luka handed Jack a towel, and it took him a moment to realize that he was naked. He must have lost his towel earlier, but had been too concerned about not dying to care.

  “That was for your head,” Luka said. “You’re bleeding.”

  Jack finished wrapping the towel around his waist and reached up to his forehead. He felt the wet stickiness and saw the blood on his fingertips. He wiped them on the white towel and looked down at Quint. A small pool of blood seeped out from beneath his head. The Council’s best agent was dirty and who knew who else was.