I Never Thought I'd See You Again: A Novelists Inc. Anthology

by Неизвестный

  Winnie grabbed her husband’s arm. “That’s true, Paul.” Her voice was soft. “Even I thought you were crazy. Remember?”

  Sam couldn’t keep his laughter inside as he recalled the way Winnie had reacted to Paul when the three of them had first met in his time. “So now I’m visiting your time,” he said, as if it made perfect sense.

  Paul folded his arms and lowered his chin. “Why? How?”

  Sam shook his head and dragged his thumb across the rough surface of his chin. The sound echoed through his head. Whiskers were growing again. “To catch a killer.”

  Paul stiffened and met his gaze. Finally. “What killer? Why here? Why now?”

  Sam realized his descendant knew or suspected something. Otherwise, why had he reacted so strongly​ to news about the killer? “I’m supposed to report to the OSBI headquarters in Oklahoma City, then work on assignment in Tulsa.”

  A brown delivery truck rumbled into the circle drive in front of the house. The driver saw the three of them gathered by the paddock and trotted toward them. “Got a package for Sam Weathers.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “I wouldn’t tempt fate and damnation if I were you,” Paul said.

  “That’s a fact,” Sam said. “I got stories to — well, later.”

  The driver waited as Sam figured out how to sign the electronic pad to accept delivery, then handed him the small package. “Must be from Henry.”

  “Who’s Henry?” Winnie and Paul asked simultaneously.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Don’t reckon you’ll believe me.” Lucifer nudged his hand. “It’s not for you, big fella.” He tore open the envelope and removed a letter. After reading it, he passed it to Paul. “From Henry.”

  Paul just stared at him, so Winnie took the letter. She read it silently, then cleared her throat. “Paul, you have to at least consider — “

  “Read it to me.” Paul said.

  Dear Sam:

  By now you should be with your family and your horse, whose name I find myself unable to write in my present surroundings. Paul will be able to give you most of the information you need about the case, but there are some things he does not know. You and he should understand better than anyone what is possible in this world that others believe is not. The killer you must stop is not from Paul’s time. He is from yours. You must stop him before he slips through time again and is lost, because he will kill again. Just as he killed your wife … You will find documents here you need. I trust Paul and Winnie will help you get settled, but they should be cautious. The Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation is expecting Agent Sam Weathers Monday morning. You are Paul’s younger brother.

  Eternally Yours,

  Henry.

  PS: This letter will self-destruct in five seconds. (I always wanted to say that.)

  “Self-destruct?” Paul looked at the slip of paper in Winnie’s hands as it disintegrated to ash and floated away on the breeze. “Damn.”

  “Like I said … ” Sam lifted one shoulder and dug into the envelope again. He pulled out a card made of a shiny substance almost like wax, but glossier. “Hey, that’s my picture.” He held it out to Paul and Winnie. “Has my name, height, weight, eye color.” He grinned at Paul. “What is this?”

  “An Oklahoma Driver’s License,” Paul said, glancing at Lucifer. “I, uh, don’t think you know how to drive a car, though. Do you?”

  “I can drive a team if I have to, but I prefer to ride.”

  Winnie giggled. “Oh, Sam. I’ve missed you.” She took the driver’s license and glanced at it. “Paul, your ‘brother’ is nine years younger.”

  With a sigh, Paul said, “I can’t fight both of you.” He aimed his thumb at the paddock. “Let’s get Lucifer settled, then eat breakfast. I think driving lessons are on the agenda.”

  Winnie walked toward the house, and Sam held back with Paul. “So you believe me now?” he asked.

  Paul put his hand on his ancestor’s shoulder. “Letters don’t disintegrate in real life, and we have a killer to catch. Grandpa … ”

  Sam chuckled and slapped Paul on the back, then found himself enveloped in a bear hug. With a sigh, he met his great-great-grandson’s gaze. “That bastard murdered my wife. You know that’s why I’m here.”

  Paul looked toward the house. “We’re in this together, old man. Again.”

  Sam snorted. “Who the hell you callin’ old, big brother?”

  The scent of lilacs wafted up from the empty envelope.

  # #

  “What the hell good is a marshal without a sidearm and his horse?” Sam asked, pretending not to notice how fast they flew down the road. Though he had practiced all weekend, he still wasn’t comfortable behind the wheel, and doubted he ever would be. Riding shotgun, such as it was, suited him just fine for now.

  Paul sighed and turned off the radio. He wore a dark suit and tie, no hat, and fancy shoes. Sam had refused the coat and tie, but agreed to borrow a pair of Paul’s jeans and a clean shirt. He might not know what in tarnation he was doing, but at least he was clean.

  “I don’t know how much time Henry will give me to get this done, Paul,” he said. They’d spent most of the weekend driving around and discussing the killer Paul called the Butcher. “They gonna issue me a pistol?”

  Paul glanced sideways at him and chuckled. “Something like that.” He slid a leather bound case toward Sam. “Open this.”

  Sam opened the folder and a screen glowed with something resembling a silver apple with a bite out of it. “Sonny and Amanda already showed me one of these things.”

  “An iPad?” Paul chuckled as he steered onto a wider road. After a moment, he said, “Tap the icon with the skull and crossbones with your finger.”

  “Icon?” Sam had forgotten the screen in his lap and was staring at motorcars rushing past and toward them.

  “The picture, Sam.”

  “Oh, right.” He swallowed and forced his attention back to the screen. “I got it. I got it.” Sure enough, after he tapped the icon another bigger screen opened with pictures and words. “Amanda’s is pink with flowers.”

  “Sam’s has superheroes.”

  “Sam?”

  Paul grinned. “You didn’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That Sonny is a nickname.”

  “You mean that fine boy is … ” Sam’s throat filled with something he hadn’t felt in more than a century. “He’s named after me? Really?”

  “Of course.” Paul smiled. “Winnie and I decided that right after we returned to the present time. And Amanda after Winnie’s ancestor.”

  Sam blinked and took several deep breaths. “Thanks, Paul.” He turned his attention back to the screen. “I’m right proud — of you and that boy of yours.”

  Paul cleared his throat. “Not as proud as we are of our heroic ancestor, US Marshal Samuel Weathers.”

  Sam blinked several times, remembering how he’d felt to hold his own infant son after Martha had given birth. He swallowed the lump in his throat. She’d been so happy, and proud of their boy, and of him. Until the Butcher took her life and disappeared …

  Now Sam had another chance to catch his wife’s killer, and maybe — just maybe — be together again for eternity. “We’d best get back to business, son.” His voice sounded more gruff than usual. “I got a job to do.”

  Paul cleared his throat. “You bet, little brother.” He grinned at Sam’s groan and pointed at the iPad. “All my notes on the Butcher. Just use your finger to move the page as you read.”

  He read the reports, glanced at photos of crime scenes, victims, witnesses. All the women had died the same way — with a heart-shaped arrowhead driven into their hearts. “Same sonofabitch,” Sam whispered. “Same bastard.”

  Paul seemed to understand Sam’s need for privacy as he digested the certainty that his wife’s murderer had found a way to live and kill in the twenty-first century. “Thanks for showing me this,” he said. “How do you think he got here?”
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  “How did Winnie and I get swept back to 1896 when we did?” Paul looked over and met Sam’s gaze for a moment before returning his attention to the traffic. “There’s no logical explanation for you being here either. It just is.”

  Sam drew a long, slow breath. “Not quite.” He closed the case. “Think on it. I ain’t a religious man, but I reckon some things happen for a reason. I can’t rightly say you and Winnie coming back when and where you did wasn’t planned.” He looked at his great-great-grandson’s profile and knew they shared that thought. “Couldn’t have been an accident.”

  “Point taken.” Paul nodded. “And you being sent here?”

  Sam sighed. “To stop that evil bastard.”

  Paul fell silent again, then asked, “Sam … how did Winnie and I go back? I’ve always wondered if there could be some kind of time portal or — ”

  “Damnation.” Sam removed his Stetson and shoved a hand through his hair. “I reckon there is. I always thought it was the Almighty lending me a helpin’ hand, but that can’t be the case with this evil bastard. What? How?”

  “Somewhere in or near Lake Oologah now and the banks of the Verdigris in 1896.” Paul shrugged.

  “The … Butcher found it.”

  “Tulsa is the nearest city of any size, so it makes sense he would head there for … ”

  “Hunting.”

  They met each other’s gazes again. “You still got that houseboat, Paul?”

  “The Sooner Sunset? You bet. Fully restored and docked down at the lake.”

  “Good. I’d like to see it.”

  “What do you have in mind, old man?”

  “You really gotta stop calling me that, big brother.” Sam grinned.

  “Get your first good look at the big city, Gramps.” Paul pointed into the distance.

  He glanced upward at the window in the roof of Paul’s car. “Looks like a forest of buildings.” Sam’s gut gave a twist. “How far into that mess we goin’, Paul?” Henry, I hope we know what we’re doing.

  “Downtown.” Paul grinned, though he kept his gaze on the road. “You scared, Marshal?”

  “Watch your language, boy.” Sam shook his head. “Can’t believe people live like this. Would make me loony, bein’ around so many folks all the time.”

  “I know what you mean.” Paul sighed. “Why do you think I commute?”

  “Commute?”

  “Drive so far back and forth to work.” He chuckled quietly. “Before I met Winnie, I was okay living near downtown Tulsa, close enough to bicycle to work. After seeing 1896, there was no way I could go back to that life.”

  “Your place is right nice.” Sam nodded. “You done good by Winnie and the younguns.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you, Sam.”

  “How long is all this gonna take?”

  “We’re almost there. I have a meeting, so I’ll drop you first.” Paul slowed the car and guided it off the busy road onto a slower, narrower one between tall buildings. “Just do as you’re told this first day, and I’ll touch base after my meeting.”

  “Do as I’m told?” Sam narrowed his gaze and repositioned his Stetson. “You’re sounding more and more like Judge Parker in your old age, boy.”

  “Who are you calling boy?” Paul chuckled. “Go through those glass doors. You’ll have to pass through Security, but they should be expecting you.”

  “So Henry said.”

  “Henry … ” Paul clicked a button and unlocked the doors. “Whatever you do, Sam, don’t drive.”

  “Heh.” Sam had no intention of ever driving. He climbed out and closed the door, then started across the busy street.

  Cars screeched to a halt, horns honked, people waved and shook their fists. One gave him the middle finger, so he gave one right back. “Helluva welcome.”

  A kid with curly blond hair and a pack slung over one shoulder shoved past him on the steps. The youngster glowered at Sam, then pushed in front of him to enter the building first.

  Back in his day, he would have taken the time to teach the boy some manners. But not now. Best not to draw attention to himself.

  Instead, he removed his hat and followed the kid inside toward a desk where guards were stationed, and a tunnel-like contraption stood between the outside world and whatever waited beyond. Sam hesitated while the youngster who’d pushed by him talked to the guard.

  “I would have been here earlier, but Roy Rogers doesn’t know how to cross the fucking street.”

  “So ticket him for jaywalking, Murphy.”

  “Ha ha.” He aimed a thumb toward Sam. “Out of my jurisdiction.”

  The kid put the pack and other items in a tray, then walked through the tunnel. Sam shook his head. “Everybody around here that dang rude?” he asked.

  The guard chuckled. “Agent Murphy?” He shook his head. “She’s just pissy because she’s getting the new guy.”

  “She? That’s a woman?” He tried to catch another glimpse beyond the tunnel, where she was pulling the pack over her shoulder again. Definitely female.

  As he imitated her actions and emptied his pockets, the rest of the guard’s words began to register. “Did you say Agent Murphy?”

  “Yep,” he said. “One of Oklahoma’s finest. And she’s stuck with the new guy.”

  Sam thrust out his hand. “I’m Marsh — er, Sam Weathers.” He grinned. “The new guy.”

  # #

  Sam spent the rest of his morning processing — whatever the hell that meant. Pictures, fingerprints, locker assignments, badge — at least that felt right — and being issued a weapon. He stared at the strange pistol before taking it in hand.

  “Don’t have as much heft to it as my six-shooters.”

  “Your … what?” the young clerk asked, pausing in the middle of typing her form. She arched a brow, then resumed typing. “Murphy will meet you on the second floor.”

  “Right.” Sam chewed his lip, then asked, “Does this Murphy got a first name?”

  The clerk smiled as she handed him a stack of documents. “Ask her.”

  “Sure, that’ll work.”

  He headed toward the red EXIT sign. “Hey, the elevator’s right behind you, Agent Weathers,” the clerk called.

  “My legs ain’t broken.” No way in hell Sam was getting back in that boxcar to hell. No way. He didn’t scare easily — far from it — but his ride up here to the fourth floor wasn’t an experience he’d ever forget, and sure as heck didn’t want to repeat.

  “Keeps you in shape, I suppose,” the clerk muttered as Sam slid through the door into the stairwell.

  He headed down, wondering what Agent Murphy’s reaction would be to him. Well, she’d get over it soon enough. They had a killer to catch.

  Murphy had her back to him when he walked into a room with several desks and a large map on the wall. She was pointing at the map while talking to another agent, her short blond curls bobbing with the movement of her head.

  “He struck here, and here, and then here in the last month,” she said.

  The man used a stick and pointed to eight other markers on the map. “And these since last August,” he said, tapping the map. “Do you see a pattern, Murph?”

  Sam stepped closer to the map. He picked out familiar bodies of water, Tahlequah, and farther east in Arkansas he saw Fort Smith where his home had been. He followed the Verdigris River to where a dam had transformed it into the lake it was now — where he had died.

  “If’n you’re talkin’ about the Butcher,” he began, pointing at the lake and earning a scowl from his new partner, “he’ll make his way back up yonder.”

  “Don’t tell me.” She held one hand, palm out, toward him and closed her eyes. “It’s you. I get all the damn luck.”

  “My mama would’ve washed your mouth out with strong lye.”

  The other agent cleared his throat while Murphy’s eyes reminded Sam of those he’d seen from the unlucky end of a gun barrel a time or two. “You must be Sam Weathers,” the ma
n said, offering his right hand. “Agent Bryan Johnson. You and Agent Murphy have already met.”

  “Not exactly,” Sam said. “She didn’t like the way I crossed the ‘fucking street’ this morning.”

  “All right, cowboy,” she said on a sigh. “We’re stuck with each other, so let’s get a couple of things straight. I’m the senior partner. You take orders from me.”

  Sam folded his arms and nodded. “I’m listenin’.” He ignored the silent laughter from Agent Johnson.

  “I may be small and I may be female, but I can handle this job as well as anybody and better than most.”

  “Go on.”

  She took a step closer, sparks flashing in her dark blue eyes. “And my mama didn’t care enough to wash my mouth out with lye, or even to make sure I had food in my belly.” Murphy took a moment to draw a breath. “She was too busy turning tricks to feed her habits on the streets while I was raising myself and my kid brother. So stick that where the sun don’t shine and never mention my personal life again. Got it?”

  Sam understood enough of her modern slang to realize he’d been rude as hell. “Beg pardon, ma’am.”

  “And don’t ‘ma’am’ me, cowboy.”

  “I’m tryin’ like hell to apologize for bein’ lower than a snake’s belly, but you ain’t givin’ me a chance,” he said quietly. “And I’m a lawman — not a cowboy, ma — er, Agent Murphy.”

  “Lawman?” Agent Johnson interrupted, blinking.

  Sam drew a steady breath and turned his attention to their map. “We got us a killer to catch or not?”

  “We do,” Murphy said on a sigh. “Apology accepted, and you’re…” she arched a brow and looked at the Stetson in his hand, “…not a cowboy.”

  “And you’re not a ‘ma’am’.” That made Sam feel like he was saying she wasn’t a lady. Just wasn’t right.

  She offered him her right hand. “Welcome to the Bureau, Agent Weathers.”

  “Thanks.” Her hands were so tiny. He wondered how she could even hold a pistol, but knew she wouldn’t appreciate the observation. With that cap of blond hair, fair skin, and big blue eyes, she reminded him of one of his aunt’s porcelain dolls.

  “Weathers, why do you think the Butcher will head north again?” Johnson asked, pointing at the map.