by Simon Hawke
Meanwhile, Warrick Morgannan was busy trying to find the builder of the time machine, having discovered what it was by eavesdropping on some narrative exposition. To this end, he had employed the infamous Sean MacGregor, alias Mac the Knife, the foremost assassin in the Footpads and Assassins Guild. Together with his hulking, bird-brained apprentices, the brawny brothers Hugh, Dugh, and Lugh, Mac set out to find the builder of the time machine while Warrick emptied out the royal dungeons for "volunteers" in his experiments, putting them into the time machine and using spells to tap into its temporal field, thereby teleporting them into our own universe. This resulted in a number of unusual incidents that provided colorful fodder for the tabloids and alerted a somewhat seedy journalist named Colin Hightower, who was the first to notice a pattern to these strange events. He smelled a story and started to investigate.
Meanwhile, back in the Kingdom of Pitt, in the capital city of Pittsburgh, Warrick had run out of prisoners to use in his experiments, so he had his minions start kidnapping people off the streets. This resulted in a long stream of irate petitions to King Billy, who told Warrick he couldn't simply grab people off the streets and make them disappear, but allowed as how it would be okay to do it with convicted criminals. Unfortunately, Warrick had run out of convicted criminals, so he convinced Sheriff Waylon, the king's ambitious and corrupt brother, to institute a whole slew of new restrictive edicts that would keep the royal dungeons filled. So now, instead of Warrick's minions snatching people off the streets, the Sheriff and his deputies were doing it, and citizens of Pittsburgh kept disappearing without a trace. Needless to say, this displeased the populace. People started packing up and moving like rats fleeing a sinking ship and a revolution was brewing.
Brewster, unaware of all these goings on, had become totally caught up in his efforts to bring progress to the muddy little town of Brigand's Roost. He had showed Mick and the brigands how to forge weapons more efficiently, produce Swiss Army knives, and construct a still to improve their yield of the potent and literally explosive peregrine wine. He had taught them how to construct better housing, and a small settlement had sprung up around the keep. And he taught them how to make aluminum, which turned out to be the same thing as nickallirium, the most precious metal in the twenty-seven kingdoms and the basis for the world's economy. All the coins were minted from it, and the secret of its manufacture was guarded jealously by the alchemists of the Sorcerers and Adepts Guild. And although he didn't know it, Dr. Marvin Brewster had just taken the first steps in bringing about a massive recession in the twenty-seven kingdoms.
Okay, how are we doing? Four paragraphs? Shoot, I didn't think I could do it in two. And there are still a few things I haven't covered, such as Harlan the Peddler's arrival in Brigand's Roost and Mac the Knife's romance with the notorious Black Shannon. Oh, well, we'll just try to cover those bases as we go along. I'll pull it all together one way or another, I promise. Remember, always trust your narrator.
I really would have done a much better job of this if Warrick hadn't gotten us off on the wrong foot. I hope all you people who wrote me letters demanding the next book in this series are happy now. My editors are going to think that living out in the middle of the Arizona desert surrounded by nothing but coyotes and tarantulas and rattlesnakes has driven me right over the edge. I've probably lost all credibility with my students, another novel project has been put on hold until I finish this one, and now I've got one hell of a migraine headache.
But this is it, I swear to God. This is absolutely the last and final novel in this cockamamie series! One way or another, no matter what happens, it all gets wrapped up in this one. And don't write me any letters asking for more sequels. I'm supposed to be a serious writer, for God's sake, and this thing has gotten completely out of hand. Enough's enough. I just won't stand for it, I tell you!
Okay. I feel a little better now. The pain in my temples is receding. I'll be all right. I'll have it all back under control by Chapter Two. Bear with me. Remember, always trust your narrator. Now, where were we?
Oh, right, we were still trying to get this story started properly. Damn that Warrick, anyway. I haven't had this much trouble since I wrote those Battlestar Galactica novels back in the early eighties. Don't ask. I don't want to talk about it. Just forget I mentioned it, okay? It wasn't me, it was that other guy, what's-his-name. I just got confused there for a moment.
Look, let's just get on with it, okay? Go ahead and turn the page. It'll be all right. I think...
Two
"Now remember, luv, no tricks, now. If you try anything funny, I'll scream."
"All right, all right," said Colin Hightower, glancing uneasily at the pretty, blond, and very naked young woman huddled low in the back seat of his rental car. "Just keep quiet and stay out of sight, for God's sake." He sighed heavily. As a reporter, he'd been on the wrong side of the law more than a few times, but he'd never been an accessory in a mental patient's escape from an institution before. And given his less than stellar reputation, he rather doubted the authorities would believe that he had gone along with it under duress.
He opened the driver's side door and walked the dozen or so feet to the front door of his motel room, unlocked it, glanced around, then said, "Okay, the coast is clear."
The blonde jumped out of the car and quickly ran inside the room. He hurriedly followed her in, then closed the door and locked it, mopping his sweaty brow with his handkerchief.
"Oooh," said the naked girl. "What a comfy bed!"
Under other circumstances, Colin would have taken that straight line and run with it like a Heisman trophy winner, but he was far too nervous to think about his slumbering libido. "Megan," he said, in his Liverpudlian accent, "I don't know if you realize this or not, but we're in an awful lot of trouble. By now, they've probably discovered your escape, and if they haven't, they'll certainly know within a matter of hours. I was the last one there to see you. I bribed the orderly to let me in, and he knows who I am. To save his own skin, he'll doubtless claim I forced him to do it at gunpoint or something, and I'm sorry to say most people in my business wouldn't put it past me. Either way, they'll put two and two together and they'll soon have an A.P.B. out on us both."
"What's an A.P.B.?" asked Megan as she bounced fetchingly on the mattress.
Colin had to look away for a moment. There was entirely too much bouncing going on for him to think straight, and he needed to be very clearheaded right now if he was ever going to get out of this mess. "An All Points Bulletin," he said. "That means the police will be looking for us everywhere."
"You mean like the sheriff and his deputies?" asked Megan, with a grimace of distaste.
"And the State Police and Highway Patrol, as well," said Colin. "We've got to get out of town and fast. But the first thing we have to do is get you some clothes. Get up a minute, will you?"
"Why don't you come down here, with me?" asked Megan, stretching out coquettishly and patting the bed beside her with a sly smile.
"Later," Colin said. "But for now, please get up so I can get a good look at you."
"Oh, very well," Megan pouted. She got up and posed for him. "See? You like?"
"Yes, very much," said Colin in a preoccupied tone as he looked her over carefully. "Turn around for me."
She did a slow, seductive pirouette.
"Let's see," said Colin, scratching his chin thoughtfully as he estimated sizes with a practiced eye. "Bra, 32-B; panties, size 5; panty hose, small; dress 4/5; shoes, size 6; and coat, small. I think that ought to do it. And maybe a scarf or something and some sunglasses. The mall should be open until nine tonight, so with any luck, I'll be able to pick everything up in about an hour."
"You're not leaving?" Megan said suspiciously.
"I'll have to," Colin said. "But don't worry, I'll be right back. And I'll bring some brand-new clothes for you."
"New clothes?" said Megan, brightening.
"That's right. Now just stay here, okay? And for God's sake, don
't do anything. Just stay here. Take a shower and wash your hair or something. I'll bring back some food for us, as well. Then we'll figure out what the hell we're going to do next."
"How do I know I can trust you? What's to keep you from just leaving me here?"
"My own sense of self-preservation, dear," Hightower replied wryly. "I shudder to think what you'd tell the police if they found you here like that. And you need me, so it looks as if we're stuck with each other, for better or for worse. And I'm afraid it's going to be for bloody worse if we don't make tracks out of here real soon, so just sit tight, all right? I'll be back soon."
"Don't take too long," she said.
"Don't worry, I won't. You just behave yourself. Remember, if we get caught, they'll bloody well lock you right back up again. And this time, they'll probably strap you to the bed."
"You could strap me to this one," Megan said coyly.
"I'm tempted to, but not for the reason you think," said Colin, with a grimace. "Now stay put. Watch the, uh, magic box. I'll be back as quickly as I can."
He went out and got back inside his car. As he pulled away, his mind was going a mile a minute. He'd been in tough spots before, and he'd always somehow managed to wriggle out of them, but this one was going to be a real test of wit.
I should've stayed in England, he thought, as he drove toward the mall he remembered passing on his way from the airport. Unfortunately, he had worn out his welcome in London. Even the tabloids, with their notoriously low journalistic standards, had banned him from their pressrooms. Fortunately, however, America's journalistic standards had plummeted even lower, so he had emigrated to the States and secured a job with a major New York City newspaper, thanks to his impressive resume and the fact that all his former editors were eager to have him permanently on the other side of the Atlantic. Before long, his American employers found out why, and he was now persona non grata with just about every respectable and even quasi-respectable newspaper in the country. It was a considerable achievement that in a profession known for sleaze and sensationalism, Colin Hightower had firmly established himself as the sleaziest, most sensationalistic reporter in the business.
Even his colleagues hated him. Barbara Walters had kneed him in the groin. Pete Hamil had threatened to break his legs. Jimmy Breslin had brained him with a beer bottle and Mike Royko said he knew a guy who knew a guy who could drop him in Lake Michigan if he ever came near him again. Mike Wallace had called him a disgrace to the profession and Bob Woodward had said he was the worst example of irresponsible excess he had encountered since he'd done that book about Belushi. Even Rolling Stone had fired him, and Hunter Thompson had actually taken a shot at him with a .44 Magnum. The tabloid news shows on TV were out. Colin simply wasn't very telegenic, with his wide, working-class, ruddy Liverpudlian face, unruly shock of white hair, and red-veined W .C. Fields nose, courtesy of a long and intimate acquaintance with Jack Daniel's. And then there was his taste in clothes, which made him look like a cross between a used-car salesman and an Arkansas real estate broker. The only place left open to him was a well known tabloid based in Florida that ran stories about aliens masquerading as congressmen and WWII airplanes discovered in craters on the moon. And right now, they weren't too thrilled with him, either.
This time, however, Colin was on the track of a real story. He could smell it. The only trouble was, he didn't know exactly what it was. All over the world, in widely scattered locations, people were popping up dressed in medieval clothing, apparently all suffering from a similar psychosis. They had no idea where they were; they seemed confused and frightened by modern technology; and they all claimed to come from Pittsburgh. Their stories were all exactly the same. They had been arrested and brought to a white tower, where a sorcerer named Warrick had forced them into some sort of strange device that had magically transported them to this world. And this same Warrick had placed a spell on them, or so they claimed, that compelled them to somehow find their way back to him in the Alabaster Tower and tell him where they'd been and what they'd seen.
It sounded crazy, which was why many of them had wound up in hospitals and mental institutions, but Hightower was starting to wonder. None of these people had any identification on them when they were picked up and not a single solitary individual had a paper trail. It was as though they had suddenly appeared from out of nowhere. Their stories were all remarkably consistent, and none of them displayed any physical signs of having lived in the modern world. No dental work; no surgical scars or inoculation marks; no modern haircuts and not much evidence of personal hygiene. They seemed genuinely ignorant of such things as radio and television, modern plumbing, zippers and buttons, watches, automobiles, and so on, as if they really had come from a medieval time. If they were all suffering from the same delusion, it was a remarkably sophisticated and consistent one.
"Jesus, what if it's really true?" Hightower mumbled to himself as he drove. The strange device they all described might be some sort of time machine. And the spell of compulsion they claimed this Warrick had placed on them sounded a great deal like hypnosis. Was it possible that the government had discovered time travel and was conducting tests of some sort? He frowned. No, that made no sense. Even if something like that were possible, they'd surely conduct their tests under strict laboratory conditions, and in utter secrecy. What possible reason would they have for going back into the past, kidnapping people from some medieval time, and transporting them into the present? And then why transport them to so many varied locales and then simply leave them on their own? No matter how he looked at it, there seemed to be no logical explanation. And yet there had to be an answer.
Megan was his only solid lead. She claimed to be a prostitute from Pittsburgh who had been arrested because she wouldn't give a freebie to a sheriff's deputy. She had been brought to the Alabaster Tower, which was near the royal palace, and a wizard named Warrick the White had placed her in his magical device and transported her to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Only she denied that it was Pittsburgh, and said it was nothing like the Pittsburgh that she came from, which was in the Kingdom of Pitt, in a land of twenty-seven kingdoms.
He had bribed an orderly at the sanitarium to get an interview with her and a copy of her file, but as he was leaving, she had pushed past him out the door and escaped down the elevator, which they had left keyed open so that Colin could get in and out real fast in case his highly unauthorized visit was discovered.
The orderly's immediate concern had been to get him out of there, and then think up some story to account for the patient's escape. He'd been certain she'd never make it past security in the lobby. However, she hadn't gone down to the lobby, but to the underground parking garage, where she had leaped into Colin's rental car. Under questioning, the orderly would probably break down and tell the truth. Colin didn't dare leave Megan behind. She had jumped into his car, stark naked, and threatened to scream rape if he didn't help her get away. Now he was stuck with her. They'd never believe he didn't plan to break her out. The only way he could see to clear himself was to get to the bottom of this story. And Megan was his only chance to do that.
Some chance, he thought. A bloody crazy nymphomaniac who thought the television was a magic box and the rental car was some kind of magic chariot. "You've really done it this tune, Hightower, old sod," he said to himself. "They'll lock you up and throw away the bloody key."
He had to cover himself somehow, account for what he had been doing. As he pulled into the mall, it came to him. He'd file the story. He'd hoped to get to the bottom of it all before going into print, because he didn't want anyone else beating him to the punch, but now he had no choice. And it occurred to him that if he played it right, he could even get the mainstream media to go along. He'd become the story.
Reporter investigating bizarre chain of occurrences kidnapped by mental patient. Yes, that was the way to do it. Lay it all out about how these incidents taking place all over the world were somehow connected. Strange Mystery! People From Anoth
er Time? Yeah, they'd go for it. Especially with the kidnap angle. He'd claim that Megan was armed and dangerous and was keeping him with her, making him file reports from different locations while they were on the run for the purpose of getting her story out to the world. And once the paper ran the story-and they would-they couldn't deny that he had been assigned to it. It had been his own idea, but his editor had approved it, and once the story ran, he couldn't claim he hadn't known anything about it.
Hightower decided he'd have to phone it in, as soon as possible, and then get out of town, fast. And after that? He'd play it by ear, stringing it out as long as possible until he found out what was behind it all. It would be risky, but it would be worth it. The mainstream media would be sure to pick the story up because of the kidnap angle. And so what if it weren't exactly true? Who were they going to believe, him or an escaped mental patient? He grimaced wryly. Well, given his reputation, it could easily go either way. But it just could be his ticket back into the big time.
