The Secret Truth of Time: A Time Travel / Supernatural Suspense Novel

by C. M. Murphy

  Blood pounded through his body. He could feel his own pulse in his throat. His heart pumped blood so fast he thought it would explode.

  Haniel stared down at his father. The man had beaten him. Haniel wondered how he'd been so deluded into thinking a mere gun could kill his father.

  Sweat poured down Haniel's back. His lungs pushed and pulled the air in and out of his body so fast, a sensation of dizzy intoxication overtook him.

  Haniel relaxed at the idea that his own death might not be painful. An overwhelming urge to look his father in the eye overtook him.

  He used his free hand and lifted his father's eyelid with his thumb. The knuckle of his middle finger grazed the space between his father's eyes. A zing of electricity sparked through Haniel's hand and up through his body.

  His father's eyes shot open. Haniel's knuckle pressed harder into his father's flesh. It was as if a circuit had just been completed.

  "And I thought you were just an ordinary boy," James said with a smile.

  The love and admiration in his father's eyes astounded Haniel. He'd craved that very look his entire life, only to get it moments before his father killed him.

  But it was worth it. Haniel closed his eyes to avoid the pain of being drained of his life force like his mother. Would it be quick?

  A rush of giddiness swelled in Haniel's heart as waves of euphoria wiped clean his worried mind. Death would be Haniel's salvation.

  Haniel opened his eyes to see his father one last time.

  The sight of his father's shriveled skin horrified him. His father had been a large man, nearly two hundred pounds. Now, he looked emaciated. His father's wrists and his skull shrank under Haniel's touch. James resembled a skeleton more than a man. A cyclone of wind encircled Haniel and his father's remains. The electric charge faded as the body turned to dust, and the wind blew the remaining specks of his father away.

  Haniel sat on the carpet next to where his father had vanished. He laughed as the phrase "drunk with power" popped into his mind. It described his situation to a degree beyond what anyone else had ever experienced. He had access to his father's thoughts and memories. His own thoughts crystalized in his mind with a clarity he'd never imagined.

  Even through his jeans, he found himself aware of each individual fiber of the carpet. Slight fluctuations in the air didn't escape his notice. When sensory input threatened to overload his thoughts, he discovered he could mute certain thoughts and zero in on others. He marveled at his power. No wonder his father craved more knowledge. Knowledge truly was power.

  A sense of invincibility had slipped into his consciousness as well along with a healthy warning from himself around it. An urge to be around people and in a more stimulating environment beckoned him. He stood up and looked at the spot where his father died. He smiled, realizing there'd be no need to drive to the desert to dispose of the body. It didn't occur to him to be troubled by his lack of remorse. His father's death was of little consequence. Haniel could see the bigger picture now.

  Winifred Fernandez looked down at her niece. Alma was still unresponsive. The young woman's coloring had come back, and the swelling and bruising had subsided. But Alma hadn't returned. Something was keeping her away, and that worried Win Win.

  Alma entered Irene Polk's life, or rather Irene's memory of it. Her mansion estate stood on over five acres in the Hollywood Hills. The twelve-bedroom home—not including the servants' quarters—employed two full-time gardeners, and six full-time house staff, including a chef. There was a film screening room, meditation room, upstairs and downstairs sitting room, and a cabana by the pool.

  Each Tuesday and Sunday, the house staff converted the downstairs sitting room into a classroom for Irene's highest level students. James was one of the those students. That would be the perfect opportunity to kill him.

  Alma rummaged through the drawers of the house for Irene's husband's gun. The problem with Alma's search of Irene's was that Irene Polk only had a vague notion that her husband kept a gun in his desk drawer and sometimes he took it with him to get cleaned or some other excuse the man made up.

  Each time Alma entered a room that Irene hadn't been in recently, like her husband's study, Alma's visualization of the memory got fuzzy. Alma stood in the study and stared at the drawer. She needed to find a time when Irene knew exactly where the gun existed.

  Alma paused to think about her problem, and the perception of time in this construct of Irene Polk's memory stopped, as if Alma had hit pause on a VCR. That gave Alma an idea. She trained her eyes on the desk where Irene's husband was supposed to keep the gun and then imagined a fast forward button. She pushed the button, and she watched as the shadows from the sun changed and the occasional visitor or servant swept in and out. After a day or so flew by, Alma didn't need to pretend to push the button. She found she could keep time clipping by with just her thoughts.

  Days and nights sped by. Alma worried what she hoped to find may have never happened.

  But then, in the middle of a late November night, the lights to the den clicked on. Lawrence Polk dashed toward his desk to get his gun. Someone was in the kitchen, and the servants had the night off. Irene's head poked in the door as she whispered, "Don't go down. I already called the police."

  "Stay up here," Lawrence said.

  "No!" Irene hissed as her husband pushed by her and headed downstairs.

  Irene waited a moment and then tiptoed downstairs after him.

  Irene peered into the kitchen. A scratching sound came from the walk-in pantry. The pantry door was cracked, but not open wide enough to see who was inside.

  "Show yourself!" Lawrence commanded as he stood next to the sink in the kitchen. "I have a gun."

  The intruder continued to rifle through the cupboard, ignoring Lawrence's instructions. The elderly gentleman switched on the light and made his way to pantry.

  "Do not make me shoot you," Lawrence said. "If you're hungry, you're welcome to some food, but you need to show yourself right now."

  The shuffling continued and then a high-pitched cluck-like sound came from the closet, followed by the sound of a jar crashing to the tile.

  Lawrence whipped opened door with one hand, his gun poised in the other. For a moment, he saw nothing, but then he looked down and spotted two raccoons staring up at him. Lawrence laughed.

  "Irene!" he called to his wife. "Sweetheart, you can come down."

  Irene entered the kitchen, and the two shared a laugh about their "furry bandits." Irene called back the police to tell them not to come, and then the couple lured the raccoons out of the house with food. They closed the open window that allowed their animal burglars inside and headed upstairs to bed. On the way, Lawrence returned the gun to his desk drawer.

  Alma sped up the memory to find out the next moment in Irene Polk's life that included James. Two days later, the man who killed Alma's mother showed up at Irene's house for the Tuesday night class.

  Alma had found her moment. Only two things about her plan worried Alma: The possibility that Lawrence Polk had moved the gun without his wife's knowledge, and the fact that Alma had never attempted to influence change when she traveled through time.

  But she pushed those thoughts aside and set her mind to waking up from this construct and heading into actual time.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Haniel marveled at his power. The world hummed around him with such clarity and brightness. He could see and feel where the vinyl in the restaurant booth was worn. His body craved food, and the smell of the bacon in the dilapidated old diner called to him. Haniel had stayed up all night walking the streets, dancing in nightclubs, and talking to strangers. Although, the stupidity and slowness of people tried his patience. Now he understood his father's short temper over the years.

  A waitress with dark hair, brown eyes, and cute dimples came over to take his order. She reminded him of Alma. Her intelligence revealed itself in her alert expression and even in the way she walked. She slid her feet slightly along t
he ground, with each step conserving her energy and the impact each step had on her back, which had a slight curvature.

  "May I take your order?" she asked.

  Haniel smiled up at her, and she smiled back. He could see her attraction to him in her dilated pupils and the slight flush of her cheeks, but her body language remained guarded.

  "I want pancakes, eggs, sausage, and bacon," Haniel said as he handed her the menu that he hadn't bothered to read. "Can you choose whatever special would make that the most economical?"

  The waitress, who'd cleverly overlapped a promotional orange juice pin over her name tag, nodded and asked, "How would you like your eggs?"

  "Scrambled," he answered.

  She turned and left to put in his order, grabbing a few empty cups to refill along the way. Haniel watched as his hunger for her dwarfed his interest in breakfast.

  Winifred looked across the living room at her niece on the couch. Alma's color had returned and the bruising and swelling had gone. She just needed to wake up, which would happen in its own time. Win Win decided it was okay to take a nap. Doug would stay with Alma, anyway. He sat on the floor next to the couch where Alma rested. He'd been there for days, his eyes trained on her face with hope. He was loyal, just like Stuart was to Bernie.

  Charles joined Winifred in the living room. "Let's hope they don't waste as many years as we did," he said.

  "I'm going to lie down."

  Charles nodded.

  "You can join me," she said.

  He smiled.

  "Don't smile too big," she whispered. "I'm really going to sleep."

  The two went into Win's room and dozed fully clothed for a half an hour until the jingle of her front doorbell woke them up. Win rushed to the door, passing Doug in the living room. Taylor followed her as far as the living room, but let her answer the door alone.

  Win opened the door. Two of her friends greeted her to cheers of, "Happy birthday!"

  It was Sunday, her birthday! In all her worry over Alma, Win Win had forgotten to cancel her birthday party.

  "Sorry we're late," Ellen, a nurse at Win's agency, said. "But it being LA, we figured a half hour wouldn't hurt. We got the sodas and some food. Karen's bringing the decorations. Did she beat us?"

  "No," Win said. "Listen, my niece—

  "She's awake! Come quick!" Doug yelled from the living room.

  Win Win left the door open and hurried over to Alma's side.

  "Doug?" Alma asked, her voice cracking from days of not talking and dryness.

  "Are you okay? Are you in pain? I thought you'd never come back," Doug said.

  "I went back, and James recognized me in Irene Polk's body. He tried to kill me, but only got Irene."

  Alma sat up. Her body felt stiff, but none of the pain she'd experienced during Irene's attack remained.

  "We thought you might not make it," Doug said.

  "Oh," Alma said, distracted by reality. It didn't feel different from her visualization of her memories. Existing in that construct had seemed as real as this moment. Alma hadn't noticed that the book she'd used initially to catapult her back in time to Irene's life remained on the table.

  "Hey!" a female voice said from the doorway! "I'm here."

  It was Karen from Win Win's work. Alma noticed, for the first time, that three women carrying presents, a cake, balloons, and other food were huddled by the open front door.

  "Aye!" Win said, rushing back to the women at the door. Hushed whispers followed by a few glances in Alma's direction followed. Eventually the women left, but insisted on leaving the birthday goodies.

  Win Win and Taylor set the birthday stuff in the dining room.

  "You didn't have to cancel your party," Alma said.

  "I need to make sure you're okay," her aunt said, and added that she wasn't in the mood for a party.

  "I'm okay, but I need to go back again," Alma said.

  "No," Doug said. "You almost didn't come back before."

  "I stayed on purpose for research. I wasn't in any danger," Alma insisted.

  "You were blown up like a balloon until your aunt healed you," Doug said.

  But Alma didn't fully listen. She remembered something urgent. "I have to go back soon. I found out that Haniel is James's son."

  "Who's Haniel?" Win asked.

  Alma explained, and Win's face paled. It sounded so much like what happened to Bernadette.

  "He knows where I live, and so his father must know by now. I have to go back," Alma said. "I must've come back to this moment to give myself the time. It's got to be my destiny to kill him before he kills Mom."

  "But you almost died last time," Doug said.

  "He'll come here in person, and everyone here will be in danger—especially Tita Win, Cassidy, and Leo."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Haniel left a seven-dollar tip and got up to pay his $9.47 check at the cashier. The brash blonde at the register flirted with him, and he flirted back.

  "Does the entire morning shift get off at the same time?" he asked.

  "We sure do," she said, handing back his change.

  "And when is that?" he asked.

  "Noon," she said.

  "Not much longer left," he said. "But the last hour is the longest I'm sure."

  She laughed and smiled. "Maybe I'll see you later," she said.

  Haniel nodded.

  The blonde was nice enough, but she didn't possess that spark of intelligence that his waitress possessed. Haniel exited the restaurant. They'd turned this part of town into the NoHo Arts district. Construction had begun two years ago. It made the neighborhood more walkable. Haniel enjoyed the energy of the traffic and the people rushing by him.

  He stood on the sidewalk outside and looked back through the glass storefront, delighted he could see his table. He waited until his waitress came by and picked up her tip while helping the busboy clear his dishes. It disappointed him that she didn't smile at the tip. He wished he'd thought to bring more money with him.

  Haniel knew he ought to walk away, but his obsession with this waitress pulled at him. He found himself crossing the street and popping into a liquor store to buy a pack of cigarettes even though he didn't smoke. He exited the store, leaned against a nearby telephone pole, and opened the pack. The package opened easily. No fumbling with the packaging or the matches. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. It surprised him how much enjoyed feeling the toxic smoke filtering in and out of his lungs as the rush of the nicotine spread through his body.

  He found himself waiting for the waitress to get off work. The tension of waiting and smoking added to the excitement. His body tingled with anticipation. He smoked nine cigarettes before spotting her leave the restaurant. She'd changed out of her uniform into a white T-shirt and jeans. Her hair remained pulled back in a pony tail, and she wore no makeup.

  Haniel flicked his cigarette into the gutter and followed her, careful to keep a reasonable distance. But even at a distance, he could smell her scent, a combination of pancake syrup and the faint smell of her sweet sweat. His heart pounded with hunger, and he sped up his walk to catch up to her. Her stride quickened, and he could hear her heart speed up. She sensed she was being followed, and it frightened her.

  "Miss," Haniel called out to her, but she sped up instead of stopping.

  Why was she afraid? Haniel's impatience sparked. All he wanted to do was talk to her. Women loved to talk to him. If she'd only turn around, he could explain to her that she was safe.

  "Miss, it's me from the diner," he said.

  She looked back at him, but didn't slow her gait. "Oh hi! Sorry, I'm in a hurry," she said and began to jog.

  Haniel smiled and rushed up beside her. "I thought you were worried I was a creep," he said. "Do you need a ride or something?"

  "No, that's okay," she said as her eyes darted around the street.

  That's when Haniel noticed they were near a construction site, and the street was empty. He laughed. "You're lost."

  "No
, I'm fine," she said and started to dart back in the direction they'd just come.

  Haniel grabbed her by the arm. "You don't need to worry," he said. "You're fine. Stop running."

  She stopped, which delighted Haniel until he realized it was because he was holding her back. He marveled at how easy it was to just hold her there. She tried to pull her arm away, but she was so weak he could barely feel her try. He wondered if he'd gotten stronger, or if he'd just never bothered to test his strength before.

  Her skin hummed under his grip. He stared in fascination at her forearm clenched in his hand. So much energy from such a small, thin arm.

  "Let me go!" she screamed.

  The loudness of her shriek pierced his eardrums as if someone had blown a trumpet into his ear. The pain angered him. His grip tightened around her arm. "You're fine," he spat out. "Stop shouting or you won't be."

  She froze and stopped struggling. Her eyes stared directly into his with such horror Haniel found himself insulted.

  "I just wanted to talk to you," he said through gritted teeth. "Why are you being so stubborn?"

  She shook her head. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't mean to offend you."

  Haniel smiled. She was coming to her senses. He loosened his grip on her arm. "I hope I didn't hurt—"

  Before he could finish, she bolted away. He charged after her, his blood pumping anger throughout his body. He caught up in a few quick strides. He snatched her by the wrist and pulled her back to him.

  Her tingling energy flooded to him. Such a tender, sweet, power. The tap of her pulse beat into his grip. He looked down at her small wrist. She wasn't struggling anymore. A peaceful quiet encircled him. The gentle smell of pancakes wafted in Haniel's nostrils as an image of her laughing at the diner with coworkers popped into his mind.

  He smiled as he caught more glimpses of her life. This is what he wanted. He just wanted to get to know her. Something pricked at his palm and interrupted his daydream.

  The horror that met his eyes took a moment to register. The waitress had been replaced by a skeletal frame pricking through ashen, shriveled skin. He tried to pull his hand away, but in a flash the skeleton disintegrated into dust.