“Yes, yes. We met.” Fear clutched at him. Something had happened to Ari.
“I can’t find her. I mean, I’m at her apartment and she’s not. We were supposed to meet here over an hour ago. Ari’s never late.” Tasha paused and took a breath. “It’s probably nothing, but she told me a few things about the owners of the house she’s been working on that have me concerned. I wouldn’t bother you, but I don’t remember how to get out to the location, and she isn’t answering her phone. I didn’t know who else to call.”
The more she spoke, the more frantic Christopher became. “I’m glad you called me. There is no cellular service at the Somers’ home. I’ll go out—”
“Can you pick me up?” Tasha’s shrill voice cut in.
He thought for a moment. “Perhaps you’d best stay put, should Ari arrive home.”
“I—I guess you’re right. You’ll bring her back safely, won’t you?” she choked out.
Christopher’s heart pounded in his ears. “Yes. I’ll get word to you as soon as I’m able.” He hung up and sped away in his squad car, thankful he could use his lights and siren to part the traffic.
He drove through Pueblo and to the outskirts of town in record time. As the house came into view fifteen minutes later, he spotted Arianna’s little red car in front, where it always was. He ran to the door and, finding it unlocked, threw it open. He noticed mud on the floor. His eyes darted around the house, searching for clues as to where she might be. He called out “Arianna” several times but got no response.
Willing himself to be calm and think like a cop, he looked back down and studied the muddy footprints. They led to the book room. The Device. His heart raced like a rocket spiraling out of control.
Following the footprints, he could tell there had been a struggle. In fact, it looked as if Arianna had been dragged back into the house from outside. She’d been trying to escape. His heart twisted, imagining her fear and pain. The mud grew darker in the study—especially on the rug. He yanked it back, exposing the trapdoor. Any other time, this would have been cause for celebration. Not today. Not with Arianna’s life dangling in the balance.
He descended the ladder in seconds and began frantically scanning the room. Seeing the light left on and a chair toppled over, Christopher knew he was in the right place. He’d studied Ari’s pictures of the three machines so intensely; there was no question which one was missing. “If anything happens to her, Father, you will not live to see another day.”
Discerning his next move, Christopher’s heart dropped to his feet at the realization that with the aid of the device, his father could take Ari anywhere in the world in any time, kill her, come back and act as if nothing had happened.
He spotted Father’s chemistry book lying open on the desk. In three large strides he was to the book, examining it for clues. Desperation seized him. Again, he had to take a deep breath and focus on the numbers and names in front of him. He’d studied the formulas. Surely he could figure this out. He used every bit of concentration he possessed to remember what he’d learned from the pictures. His eyes roved over words that were, until just days ago, foreign to him. Then he saw a red smudge. His gaze followed the scarlet fingerprints. Blood. She might be dead already. Anger boiled to the surface. He pounded the desk with his fist. But before he completely lost his presence of mind, he realized the prints could possibly serve as a guide if he followed the trail. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he willed himself calm again.
The residue from the freshly mixed chemicals still clung to the sides of the beakers, indicating how full each had been before they were emptied into the vials. Referring to the book and opening the picture files Arianna had sent him, he began calculating how much formula it would take to fill each one to the residue lines.
It was no use. Father could have filled them up more than once.
He closed his eyes and stepped away from the books and beakers. There had to be something more concrete. Pacing, his shoes squeaked and felt tacky against the floor. More blood. It hadn’t pooled. That was odd. He knelt to examine it. Although he’d walked through it, he realized it was more than just blood, it was a message. The number was clear. 50. Must mean years. The letters were too smudged to read.
Fighting down panic, he scanned the desk area until locating a map. Among other smudges, there was a fresh print next to New York City and nothing next to the others. He compared it to the blood on the floor to see if it could be a match. Yes, possibly. Relief gave him strength to go on.
Moving forward or backward fifty years—that was a guess, but an easy one. He knew his father hated uncertainty. Father has undoubtedly gone back in time to commit his crimes, he thought, reflecting on the valuables in the safe, and now would be no different.
Arriving somewhere completely unknown was unnerving, Christopher could attest to that. After all, landing in Denver had to have been a gamble for Father, since Colorado was known only as a western territory in the early 1800s.
That notion helped Christopher land on a decision. He’d go back first, then forward, if he couldn’t find them.
He furiously mixed chemicals together—glad he’d spent some time memorizing the formulas. Christopher made a much larger amount than he would need—just in case he had chosen the wrong direction.
Packing the vest-like machine with the chemical formulas, as well as his own revolver, Christopher uttered a quick prayer, then followed his gut.
The vest hung loosely on his shoulders. After cinching it up, he carefully turned the dials to the appropriate notches. Immediately the vibrations and humming noises began. He braced for what he hoped would be a rescue mission through time.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Arianna woke to the hum of the moving device. She tried, but failed to stretch her cramped legs, and her head throbbed. Lifting a hand to massage her temple, her knuckles smacked on a hard surface. As she became fully conscious, reality crashed down around her. She gulped in an attempt to breathe. I’m crammed in a bin on a time machine headed for my death in New York City. It may as well be my coffin. Bitter angst for the man who put her there filled her heart. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been unconscious, or when to expect to arrive. The bin would likely run out of air before then and Mr. Somers would simply dump her body. She shifted a fraction of an inch, which gave her burning spine some relief.
Every particle of her being wanted to beat against the box and scream. But she remained calm, realizing that her best chance of staying alive was to escape Mr. Somers’ grasp once he opened the bin. She would hold very still and feign unconsciousness when—if—they stopped. Letting out a silent breath, she tamped her tears back, unwilling to risk Mr. Somers hearing so much as a sniffle.
Her stomach began doing cartwheels as the device decelerated, then came to a somewhat bumpy halt. Bumpy, but not hard enough to be a road. They must have landed on grass. She figured they’d just materialize somewhere. Surely someone saw them.
The lid of the bin creaked open. Dead of night—pitch black.
Ari was careful to make herself completely limp, no matter how her nerves jumped inside.
Something poked at her shoulder first, but she didn’t flinch. “Miss Miller,” Mr. Somers said in a low tone. Still, she remained motionless. Then a finger pressed against her neck.
He cursed, evidently unhappy her blood continued to pump beneath his fingertip. He shook her. Nothing. Once he seemed satisfied she was unconscious, he grabbed her arm and hauled her out of the bin; then, for whatever reason, he gingerly carried and placed her against something firm and scratchy. “Come now, dear, sit against this tree and you will feel better.”
There must be witnesses.
Ari peeked at him through squinted eyes. He hoisted up the machine and shoved it behind a copse of trees, close to where he’d placed her. Hands fisted on his hips, he scanned the area. It looked like he was searching for the best place to kill her. His back was to her, but she still didn’t dare move a muscle. A noise caught her
attention, a couple sitting on a nearby bench—the witnesses. Thanks to them, he hadn’t killed her yet. The man looked angry as he whispered to the woman, who rubbed her head. He pointed to Mr. Somers several times, then rose and pulled her by the hand until they were both out of view.
It was now or never. Keeping her eyes on Mr. Somers, she silently scooted close enough to the device to feel one of the dials. She yanked with all her might until it snapped off, then stood to run. Her legs wobbled, having been cramped for so long, but her blood pulsed, giving her a boost where her muscles failed her. She eventually took off, ignoring her pounding head pain.
Mr. Somers turned wild eyes on her. He lunged toward his machine. Her intuition paid off. She’d been certain that if she didn’t take part of the device with her, he would be satisfied to leave her—dead or alive—and immediately head home. With an essential piece of the device in her pocket, however, there was a chance—albeit a small one—she’d make the return journey. Somehow.
This is Central Park, Ari realized as she dodged trees and spotted city lights. Where had that couple gone? She stared hard into the darkness but saw nobody. She’d just keep running until she found someone, or lost Mr. Somers and could circle back to reclaim the device.
Mr. Somers sprinted behind her. He huffed and grunted and huffed some more.
Her feet finally hit asphalt. Looking up and down both sides of the street, she didn’t see very many people at all, let alone the sort who could help her. They mostly appeared homeless—slumped over, asleep, or passed out. She continued to run.
Even though Mr. Somers couldn’t match her pace, each time she dared glance back, she saw him. Her hopes of ditching him dimmed. She knew, while she could be left in New York, he’d do whatever it took to get his device put back together. She needed to find help. Running faster, she passed some streets that looked hopeful, but he was still hot on her heels. She’d have to outrun him.
The clomping behind her faded; perhaps she’d lost him. A sharp pain shot through her ribs. Panting, she willed it to subside. She scanned her surroundings. Times Square. Her breaths slowed. There were lots of restaurants in Times Square; she’d just need to make it to one of them.
Ignoring the discomfort in her side, she continued until she stumbled into the first establishment she came to. It was a bar, or a club. It didn’t matter to Ari; the neon sign blinked “Open.”
Ducking inside, she recognized a Beatles song playing in the background. The strong smells of burning incense and cigarette smoke competed with each other, creating a haze that saturated the air and made it difficult to see—or breathe. She wove her way through tables and chairs, aiming directly for the bartender, who swabbed the Formica surface with a dingy cloth. A man nursed a cocktail in front of him and whined loudly about something—every once-in-awhile breaking into song with the Beatles. “I wanna hold yer haaaand…” He winked at a woman with ruby-red lipstick sitting on a nearby stool.
Ari caught her breath as she regarded the bartender, who shook his head and rolled his eyes at the crooner. Pieces of scraggly, long, brown hair escaped his low ponytail. He wore a colorful shirt bearing a peace sign in the center. Still panting, she had to get control before she spoke. “Please—” She let out a few breaths. “I need help!” More air escaped. “Someone is chasing me!” The bartender narrowed his eyes. He obviously didn’t believe her.
She glared at him until he acknowledged her.
He threw the damp towel he’d been using to her. “That’s some shiner.” He motioned to her cheek. “But I can’t have you bleeding all over my bar. Ain’t good for business. Whatcha drinking tonight?”
Ari wanted to slug him. “I don’t need a drink. I’m being followed. Please—”
He walked to the door, opened it, craned his head back and forth, then sauntered back behind the bar. Raising his hands to the surrender position, he said, “There’s no one there.”
She frowned. “He’s there. I know he is. Do you have a phone I can use to call the police?”
He pointed to a payphone on the wall next to the restroom, then returned his attention to his musical customer.
Ari looked at the phone. She hadn’t seen one of those in ages, and she didn’t have any money. “Does anyone have a cell—” She caught herself before she asked the residents of the 1960s if any of them had a cell phone. That would plummet her credibility. No one even glanced up when she spoke. She blinked against the burning smoke and incense. They all seemed to be absorbed in their own worlds—or they were intentionally ignoring her. The lounge probably got a dozen crazies every night.
She turned back to the payphone and wondered if she pushed the “0,” would the operator answer? It was worth a try.
“I’m looking for my daughter.” A booming voice at the bar stopped Ari short.
Mr. Somers.
The only option that wouldn’t expose her was the ladies’ room.
She’d be a sitting duck in there, but maybe there’d be a window she could escape through.
She entered. Nope, no window. She paced, her brain working furiously.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Arianna peeked out the restroom door to see Mr. Somers sitting at the bar sipping a drink, as if he were any other New Yorker. She looked down the hall past the men’s room to see if there was a back way out. A door read “Exit.” Her heart thumped faster as she glanced from the bar to the door and back again. Although Mr. Somers seemed contentedly drinking away his problems like everyone else in the room, she knew just a turn of his head would give him a perfect view of the ladies’ room.
Maybe if she made a dash for it when he looked down, she could reach the exit unnoticed.
She cracked the door open again and had one foot out, when Mr. Somers stood. She immediately scrambled back into the restroom and locked herself in one of the stalls.
The door creaked open, and her heart stopped. If it was Mr. Somers, she’d be cornered.
She climbed onto the toilet to keep her feet from view. Peering through the crack of the stall door, she saw his black shoes—the very shoes that had chased her through the Victorian mansion and the streets of New York City. Her heart sank. She had hoped for a miracle—another woman needing the restroom.
“Miss Miller, I know you are in here. There is no way out.” His voice was menacing. He opened the first of three stalls. Then the second. Through the crack she could see his arm reach for the door she hid behind. He yanked on the handle. Ari watched it jiggle, but not open—yet. She closed her eyes in anticipation of what would happen when he forced his way into the stall. He wouldn’t let up. He needed the dial. She pushed it deeper into her pocket.
“I guess you wish to do this the hard way.” She heard him take a breath, most likely preparing to break down the stall door. Laughter, however, cut in as she heard the restroom door fly open. High-heels click, click, clicked on the tile near the sink area. She could see Mr. Somers’ shoes move as he flattened himself against the far wall, out of the girls’ view.
“Shelly, let me borrow your lipstick. That color is far out.” Silence. “Thanks.”
“Oh man, that guy’s hitting on you bad. Did you see him wink? It looked like he had something caught in his eye.” A fluttery laugh followed.
“Ugh! He’s not my type, Linda. But you’re welcome to him.”
“His shirt is groovy—love all that chest hair—and he wears those bell-bottoms well.” More laughter.
“Wait”—shuffling noises—“there’s a man in here, Shelly.” Her tone was low now. The laughter stopped.
“What are you doing in here? This is the ladies’ room. Are you some kind of perv?”
Ari could have kissed her.
While she couldn’t see his face, by the grunting noises he made, Ari was certain Mr. Somers simmered. She watched his shoes pivot and flee the room.
This was her chance to slip out. She hoped that Mr. Somers’ back was to the restroom. He’d surely be headed to the bar to formulate a plan B. …Or, he
could be waiting for her right outside the door. She let out a sigh and decided to hold off and exit with the two ladies—blend in, if that were possible.
“That man was twisted. Did you see the glare he gave me when I called him a perv?”
“Yeah. Let’s steer clear of him. Maybe we should report him to Wally.”
“Wally, the bartender? He’s probably Wally’s friend.” Both ladies giggled.
The two continued to chat while Ari’s anxiety level rose.
“You ready?” It sounded like the one named Shelly.
“Mmmm. Let’s go.”
Ari slipped from the stall and walked out, sticking as close to the ladies as she could. Except when they turned left, she kept going straight and dashed to the emergency exit door. Giving it a hard push, it opened. Sirens began to wail.
She took off at a run.
It didn’t take long before she heard male voices—security guards. But Mr. Somers’ voice rose above them all, verbally knocking them out of his way. “I’ll get her! She is my daughter! She’s always pulling these stunts.”
“She might have stolen something,” an unfamiliar voice said.
“Stand down, man! I will return anything she may have taken!” Mr. Somers barked.
Ari blocked out the voices and concentrated on running. The dark alley behind the bar backed up to several establishments and smelled of rotten food and sewage.
She yanked at a few of the back doors, but no luck. Panic rose and threatened to choke her as she heard Mr. Somers’ heavy-footed clomping not far behind. She kept running. Central Park was in sight. Hiding places became scarce, and he seemed to have picked up a second wind.
She had to be careful not to trip over the legs of vagrants—some sleeping, some not. “What’s up, pussy-cat?” A drunk ogled her. She ran faster.
Glancing back to see how far Mr. Somers trailed her, she smacked into a garbage can that had rolled into her path. Falling hard onto the road, she felt a sickening crack. She tried to get up, but the second she put pressure on her leg, she crumpled back to the ground. Agonizing pain shot from her hip down to her toes.
Time Twist Page 25
