That night, she sat in the room and spoke to Seth as if he were with her. She missed her brother. “You would like this room, Seth.” She tossed a baseball from hand to hand. “Wish you were here, little brother.” She tossed the ball once more. As if an invisible hand held it, the ball hung, suspended in the air, as the nightmare she’d had in Denver revisited her memory. Shivers of fear clutched her chest and she could hardly breathe.
“Run, Ari, run!” She swore it was Seth’s voice she heard.
The ball dropped to the ground.
Chapter Forty-One
Christopher spent a frustrating few days in Colorado Springs. A murder suspect had stolen a car Saturday night in Pueblo and had been apprehended by the police in the Springs. Christopher, having worked on the homicide case in Denver before he’d been transferred, was assigned to connect the dots that led the suspect to Pueblo then Colorado Springs, collecting enough evidence to get him off the streets for good.
He’d tried calling Ari a few times, but between the lack of cell phone service at her jobsite, and his demanding work situation, he never made a connection. Maybe it was better that way. By the time he’d headed back to Pueblo on Friday, he’d convinced himself to stop trying and focus on his family.
However, he couldn’t quit thinking about Ari’s and Sarah’s journal conversations. There had to be a way for him to communicate with Sarah. If he could, she might be able to lead him to Father’s device.
He still had the key to the house he’d copied. Fingering it in his pocket, he decided he would investigate the possibility of finding and using his sister’s journal.
On Saturday, when he figured nobody would be working there, he disarmed the alarm to his family’s home and let himself in.
Making his way through the house, he checked each room until he was certain he’d found Sarah’s. Dropping to his knees, he felt between the mattresses until his fingers bumped into the leather book. He pulled out the journal. This could somehow be the answer that had evaded him for so long.
Opening it, he immersed himself in the conversation between Ari and Sarah. Arianna seemed to be a balm for Sarah, just as she had been for him. He closed his eyes as thoughts of Ari tumbled through his head. His heart lurched. The heavy sadness made him physically ache. He quickly began reading again, before reflections of her completely drowned him.
Glancing down the page, an illegible paragraph caught his attention and he skipped ahead a few entries, curious to decipher the words. They appeared to have been scribbled out. He held the page up to the light streaming through the window. His heart immediately began pounding harder and faster. No, no, Sarah was divulging too much. Perhaps Arianna hadn’t read this, but what if she had? Any reaction on Ari’s part could land her in serious trouble. He so badly wished to write in the book and admonish his sister to take more care in what she wrote. He feared for both Sarah and Arianna, should the journal be discovered by Father.
Looking around, he realized the room had been fully furnished and would soon be ready for its occupants. They would be moving in any day. The idea struck him. Maybe he could leave a note for Sarah in her bedding. She might not find it right away, but she would have to go to bed in this house at some point and would find it then.
He tore a page from the back of the journal, took a pen from Sarah’s desk and began to compose a letter.
My Dearest Sarah,
Do not wonder how I am able to come into this home, but I have found a way to do it. I need to communicate with you. Please write on the back of this paper and leave it where you’ve found it. We can have a conversation. I need your help if I am ever to find the device—I am certain you know of what I speak. Sarah, do you know where it is? I have searched this house from top to bottom and cannot find it. I do so need your help. But, as always, be careful, let no one know what you are about.
Yours, C.
With hopeful anticipation, he placed the letter just beneath the covers, out of sight, then left the house.
Chapter Forty-Two
Convinced her imagination had gotten the better of her Friday night, Ari refused to let the frightening incident in Joshua’s room bother her. She must remain focused.
Today, butterflies fluttered in her stomach as anxiety pulsed through her veins. She always felt this way when a project entered its final weeks. But never having worked solo, she felt the stress of it all more keenly. She bore the full weight of its success or failure. Activity moved at a fever pitch. The next few weeks were critical. During this time every loose end must be tied and every detail addressed.
She tried to smile at her reflection in the mirror as she brushed through her blonde tresses. “I think I can get to the finish line.” She touched two fingers to her wrist, noting the reckless rhythm. She frowned. “That is, if I don’t have a nervous breakdown first.”
Monday and Tuesday flew by with constant commotion in the house—deliveries, installations—as usual, but times a thousand. Ari loved seeing the final touches applied, but also found it exhausting. Wednesday was no different. When she had a second to eat a sandwich she’d packed, she scooted up to the table to scan her notes. The date at the top of her planner popped, catching her attention. Today’s my birthday. Strange I didn’t think of it ’til just now. She shrugged and continued perusing her notes.
By day’s end, she was too tired to care what the calendar said. She flopped onto a sofa and the protective cover crinkled beneath her. I can’t wait to remove it. She poked a small hole in the plastic. For now, she just wanted to drag herself to her car, pick up some fast-food—something terribly bad for her, but sinfully delicious—go home, and veg out in front of the TV. She let out a huge sigh. And she’d do just that as soon as she had the strength to move off the couch. She almost closed her eyes but decided that celebrating her birthday would be far better in her apartment than asleep on the Somers’ sofa.
As soon as she entered cell phone service range, her phone buzzed with a text message from Maggie. She waited until the next stoplight to read it. Wishing you a super happy birthday. Call me! Ari smiled, amazed at how one little line brightened her day.
Things were going according to plan. An aroma of hot fries wafted through the car, making her mouth water. Arms laden with food, along with her purse and work-supply bag, she plodded through the complex parking lot and headed for her apartment but stopped short when she saw a dark shadow next to her door. She edged around the building until she was out of sight, then peeked over to see who it could be. The figure moved, and she sucked in a breath. She bit down on her lip to minimize escaping noises. It had to be Mr. Somers. No one else was bold enough to just wait to torment her. Panic rippled through her body.
After several long moments, her legs wobbled, and her arms began to tire from holding everything. She’d had enough. If he wouldn’t move, she’d face him head-on. Heart thudding wildly, she took a few steps, closing in on the intruder. If only it weren’t so dark.
A breeze whispered by and the figure lurched toward her.
“Wha—” She nearly dropped the food.
She burst into a nervous giggle. “A balloon!” Make that several balloons in a bouquet sat next to her apartment. Her hand still trembled as she opened the door and turned on a switch, shedding light on the offender. Propped next to the balloon bouquet was a birthday card.
Somehow she managed to lug it all to her table, then collapsed on a chair and took a long, calming breath.
She tore open the envelope and pulled out the card. It had a simple generic birthday greeting on the outside. When she opened it, her eyes dropped directly to the bottom. Christopher. She wondered how he knew it was her birthday. She didn’t remember telling anyone in Pueblo. Her emotions teetered between excitement and anxiety.
She returned to the beginning of the note.
Arianna, I could not bear the thought of you spending this special day alone. For now, however, this is the best I can do.
Typical Christopher. Even when they weren’t
speaking, he couldn’t let her birthday go by without doing something thoughtful. She wanted to smile, but her heart smarted from the dull ache of loneliness. She missed everything about him. Everything except for the thing that mattered most—he didn’t trust her with his secrets.
Temptation beckoned her to sit down and have a good cry. She resisted. She knew him well enough to know he did this to cheer her, not to make her cry. He’d never hurt her intentionally. She paused to think about the irony of that statement. Almost never. She decided to enjoy the party atmosphere the balloons created rather than allow herself to grieve losing Christopher all over again.
****
On Friday, Mr. Somers showed up alone, much to Arianna’s dismay.
She was too busy to worry about it for long, however, as the last of the draperies and other window coverings were being installed. “This pulls the whole décor plan together,” she said to a nearby worker. He nodded. She appraised the beautiful colors popping from every room of the house. Mr. Somers even acted the tiniest bit pleased with the effect.
He still sat at his mahogany desk studying some papers when Ari had finished her work and prepared to leave. He was probably looking over her contract, trying to figure out a way he could still fire her. She would have smiled at her joke, but, knowing Mr. Somers better now, it wasn’t funny. She craned her neck to covertly peer at what he scrutinized so intently. A newspaper, and unless he could read upside-down, he was just waiting for her to leave. She was all too happy to oblige. Mr. Somers—such an odd, odd man. She pulled her bag over her shoulder. It was his house, and he could do whatever he wanted. Taking a quick glance around, she exited, grateful to have made it through another Friday. Yay for her. She let out a big sigh of relief.
After eating dinner, Ari snuggled up on the couch and turned on the television to unwind. Clicking the remote, she looked for a comedy, something to get her mind off work. Commercials seemed to be playing on every single station.
“Arianna!”
She jerked to attention, her heart in her throat. Who was that? It’d sounded like her father, but that was impossible. Perhaps it had been the TV, or maybe she’d dosed off for a moment.
“Pay attention!” the man’s voice said with great urgency. She must be hallucinating.
“Attention to what?”
Was it her imagination, or had the volume on the television increased? She peered closely at the ad still playing. A car commercial. She switched stations. The same ad played. Blood pulsed through her veins so fast, she thought she’d faint. What is it about this ad that’s so important?
A red Cadillac cruised across the screen. Ari’s heart stopped. The driver, who looked eerily like Mr. Somers, paused long enough to sneer at her, then drove away laughing.
Her entire body shook. Had she been dreaming? No. Her father had been trying to tell her something. Warmth enveloped her as if to confirm she was on the right track. Mr. Somers. What if he’d been the drunk driver who’d killed her family? And if so, how could she ever prove it? Nobody would believe her. They’d think she was nutty. Maybe she was.
She spent a long, tortuous night coming up with no answers.
The next day, as she prepared to work out the last details in her notebook, she realized she must have left the book at the Somers’ house. Just what she wished to do—go back to work on a Saturday, especially after the fright she’d experienced the previous evening. She climbed into her little red car and headed south.
She let herself in and absorbed the full beauty of her work for a moment. It had rarely been calm enough in the house lately to do that. She didn’t think she would ever see anything so pretty as long as she lived. A wistful sigh escaped her as she scanned the rooms for her notebook.
The ground jolted. “What the heck was that?” Another one soon followed. “Could it be an earthquake? Doubtful.” She looked outside and saw nothing but quiet, deserted landscape. A hum began and grew into a rumbling vibration. Still searching for her notebook, her pulse quickened exponentially. Where was it? She needed to leave. Now! When she walked into the study, she noticed the Persian rug wasn’t lying flat. The perfectionist in her knew she hadn’t left the house with the rug pulled up like that. As she crossed the room to straighten it, the ground shook violently, and she lurched forward. She steadied her legs, but the vibrations came even stronger and louder. She had the end of the rug in her hand, ready to pull it back into place, when she spied what looked like a trapdoor. A cold chill swept over her like a frigid Arctic blast. A thousand questions assaulted her as she stared at it. Whatever was shaking this room was down there. She jumped back, as if suddenly stung by the rug. Notebook or not, she was getting out of there.
She sprinted out of the room and the house, only turning back long enough to set the alarm. Her hands shook so hard she had difficulty sliding her key into the car door. She couldn’t get away fast enough.
Mr. Somers had to be down there. She shivered. He’d been parking in the garage lately, so she hadn’t seen his black Cadillac. Thoughts of Christopher nagged at her. No. She would not run to him.
Not this time.
Not anymore.
Chapter Forty-Three
Christopher galloped hard and fast. Maida Vale loved speed, and so did he. The warm wind whipping against his face helped calm the nervous anxiety roiling in his stomach.
Riding along the ridge behind his family’s home, he wondered if he should go in to see if Sarah had found his note. A thunderous rumble pulled his gaze to the house. Peculiar. He cantered in a bit closer and began to dismount, then looked down at his muddy boots. Not yet. He’d clean up and return. He wouldn’t want anyone—especially Ari—to know he’d been there.
Once he’d gone home and showered, he drove back toward the Somers’ residence. Perplexed about the rumbling noises he’d heard from the ridge, he racked his brain, mentally searching for the source, certain he’d heard it before. Déjà vu perhaps. A sudden realization had him pressing hard on the gas, lights on, sirens blaring. The Device. Father must be on the premises using it. This was it! He’d finally catch his father red-handed doing, he shook his head, he didn’t know what, but Christopher would find something to nail on him.
The silent house gave no clues of his father’s whereabouts. That didn’t stop Christopher from storming in, gun drawn, prepared for a fight. He began a search. The smell of sandalwood hung in the air, a sure sign his father had been there. It was especially strong near the study, but he didn’t bother entering the room. A quick look through the glass doors told him Father wasn’t there. He scanned each room, taking a few extra minutes in Sarah’s bedroom to check for the note. He found it still nestled in her sheets, undisturbed. Disappointed, he finished examining the home in search of his father, but soon realized he must have just missed him.
He wanted to kick himself for not entering the house earlier—muddy boots or not. He’d lost at least an hour and a half finishing his ride, showering, then driving back. He ground his teeth, frustrated.
Defeated, he left the house. As he approached his squad car, he noticed a large paper twirling in the soft breeze near the drive. He plucked it up and began to read.
Travelogue: Date August 9
Destination: Paris, France—Louvre Palace
Year: 1867
Christopher’s heart nearly stopped. His hands twitched as he realized what he held. Father kept a log of his nefarious travels, and somehow today’s entry had gotten away from him.
He took the paper to his apartment to read, needing to analyze every word. Surely, he’d find evidence of a crime—something exposing his father.
After pulling a chair up to his table, he spread the paper out. The writing, although not from the quill pen he’d been accustomed to, brought back a flood of memories. The unique lettering confirmed to him the author’s identity. Father, no doubt at all. Now for the crime.
The log read as if it were a journal. Christopher wondered why his father would include so many details.
>
It was a bumpy start, but a smooth ride into Paris, France. Arriving at the Louvre Palace, I could not escape the wretched smell of the nineteenth century. That world is dead to me. Now it is my servant, and I its master. Instead of the rejection once heaped upon me from that century and those people, I am feared and esteemed by all I encounter. Powerful beyond measure, wealthier than the Almighty Himself. I am Benjamin Somerset, earl of nothing, but ruler of all. For one day, all shall bow to me and do my bidding.
Christopher smirked. Delusional! Father had lost all bearings on reality. He continued reading.
No modern alarm systems alerted guards of my arrival, of course. I stowed my traveling device and began my search for art and artifacts—décor for my mansion. Just a few more to round out the collection. The Louvre brimmed with priceless possessions. I had no plans of stealing anything as ostentatious as the Mona Lisa—much too showy. I kept to the more obscure, yet invaluable, pieces.
Dismantling art that hangs from iron pegs is a bit difficult, but with twenty-first century tools, such as battery-operated drills, the challenge is more of a game—a game I always win.
Two guards must have heard the noise. They rounded the corner just as I had freed the third of three paintings from its iron fasteners. They spoke French, but I understood them. One asked the other about my intense candle. I nearly laughed aloud. They’d seen nothing like it, I’m sure. I shined my flashlight directly in their eyes. They ducked from the powerful beam that blinded them. I heard muffled voices, then shuffling toward me. I feigned fear of being discovered. One man hollered something to me I couldn’t understand. I readied my weapon. Shuffling and more muffled whispers followed. I adjusted my position. A man dressed in a uniform stepped from behind a display. Aiming a pistol at me, he told me to stand down. I brandished my semi-automatic, taking pleasure in his astonishment. The knick-knack he held looked like a toy in his quivering fingers. The other guard appeared, gun in hand. He began to approach, but the first man held an arm out, stopping him. I told them I’d had hopes of someone making this lift a bit of a challenge. For a moment, the stunned guards seemed rooted to the ground, but finally one fired on me, the bullet grazing my arm—nothing a bandage can’t fix. I fired back, leveling both. Oh, how I like to see the bodies tumble.
Time Twist Page 19
