He walked into his living room, surveying the emptiness. At least the police tape had been removed, a grim reminder of what had taken place there. He and Naomi would have to leave of course. Nothing could ever be the same in their house. He also realized that by returning he had committed to a world in which both Charlie and Samara was truly lost. It horrified him, but what other choice did he have? There would be no story to tell the police of course, not that they would believe. What of their missing detective though? He hadn’t thought of him and Caesar hadn’t brought him up again either. Perhaps Caesar had released him somehow. He had kept his word on all other matters. It truly pained him to disappoint Detective Sullivan and in spite of everything he still had a warm feeling about him. And then there was Charlie. Had the cops found him yet? Or worse the Vestals? Or was he trapped forever in the past?
He walked to the counter and reached for his bottle of scotch, but it was gone. Whiskey would have to do: the cheap stuff, Jim Beam. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed. He wanted to find out if Charlie had been found, if anything had happened in the search for the missing detective. The line picked up immediately, but went straight to an ‘out of order’ message. He looked at his phone to double check the number. He was calling the right phone. Then he scrolled down to his wife’s number. He hadn’t spoken to her in what felt like a thousand years. He dialed and waited. She must be frantic by now not having heard from him. The number rang and rang, but no voicemail ever picked up. Then the doorbell rang, nearly causing him to lose his drink. It was the police no doubt, so he downed his whisky before walking to the door. So what if they smelled it? He winked one eye and peered into the hole. Outside stood the mailman of all people. He had an envelope in his hand and was already looking through the glass of the side window. Downy opened the door.
“Hello sir,” he said seeming startled, “Are you Noah Downy, Professor Noah Downy by chance?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
Downy suddenly noticed the mail truck parked at the curb, which was full of passengers, other mailmen it seemed. They were all watching intently through the windows.
“Holy shit man, I can’t believe you answered; when I saw the house was for sale I thought for sure no one lived here. You just won me a ton in the office pool.”
Downy looked confused, staring out at the for sale sign in the yard. Someone had placed it there mistakenly no doubt.
“I’m sorry, what’s this about?”
The mailman shuffled nervously seeming to regain his composure. “I’m sorry if--I didn’t mean to be impolite, it’s just that--well this letter has been around as long as the office itself. None of us believed there’d be--I do need a signature.”
He looked down at the extremely weathered looking envelope. His name and address were written on the front in all caps, but there was no return address. Written beneath his name were the words: Read Immediately.
“Thank you,” Downy said turning to go back inside.
He could hear the mailman running excitedly back to his truck. Then Downy stopped in his tracks. The sign, the furniture. He’d sent him back to the wrong time. My God, of course! How could he have been so stupid? The drug always made things hazy, unclear. Caesar had made a mistake and sent him back too early. He looked up from the letter and around the room in a panic. They hadn’t taken his furniture because it had never been there. They hadn’t even moved in yet. That’s why there were no cops answering or his wife. It meant Samara was still al--
A voice interrupted him. “I’ve sent you home a bit prematurely, haven’t I?” It was Caesar leaning against the wall, his belt hanging loosely off one hip. He had an altogether different look in his eyes. He still wore the purple bordered tunic from their last meeting.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I had to come back for you professor.”
“I thought you were—“
“I know. For the record, I have still never lied to you. I said my death was in keeping with nature. So then is my ability to stop it apparently.”
Downy looked down to the letter in his hands.
“There’s no reason to read that now.”
“What about your plan, what about the Ides?”
“Yes, even now the Vestals are in the Senate house cleaning up after me, ghastly creatures. They scuttle about like phantoms. I know not what they are. They will come here next, sadly, and that I cannot allow.”
“Why are you here?”
“Great movements always require a supreme sacrifice, often equal to their ambition I’m afraid.”
Downy looked to the corner where the sword had been. It was gone. Caesar pulled open his robes.
“As I told you, this blade brings great power and tragedy.” Caesar swung as he always did, in a true, straight line; not with malice, but lovingly to release him. It cut through Downy’s throat first, then down his torso. Blood spattered in great torrents around the room as Downy twirled in agony, hopelessly trying to defend himself. Caesar wanted to give a quick death, so he lunged and stabbed several times, hitting for the heart with each blow.
“There is no future with you in it, I’m afraid, good man; but in your death there are a thousand lives waiting to be born.
But Downy had stopped listening. He was in a light place now where the words seemed muted, inconsequential. He came to rest finally in the room’s corner. He was about to say something, but it escaped him. The whisky was still on his lips, reminding him of home. He was headed there now and felt calm.
Epilogue
Detective Fleming pushed at the door with all his strength, finally breaking through. A call had been made that someone heard screaming coming from the house, which was on the market for sale and supposedly empty. Fleming crouched low when he saw the blood on the walls and pulled his weapon. He reached for his radio and called the station immediately whispering,
“We have a situation, a possible 1031 at 381 Latimer St. Send paramedics and back up, possible homicide, suspect possibly at large, repeat suspect possibly at large.”
The room was empty, but through the kitchen he could see through to the back patio deck, which opened into a panoramic view of the ocean. He thought he could see some movement and approached with his gun drawn.
“I’m armed and will use my weapon,” Fleming shouted.
He made his way silently around the corner, but could find no one. The leap was too far for anyone to have risked it he figured. The blood on the walls was still fresh though, of that he was sure, but the house was completely silent and empty. He heard a voice outside announcing SDPD and then another officer appeared, leaning in cautiously through the front door.
“I was in the area, heard your call.” It was detective Jensen. “My God,” he muttered, “where did all this blood come from?”
The two men cautiously explored the house, but could locate no one. On the table sat an opened bottle of Jim Beam whiskey.
“We can test that later,” Jensen said.
“Whose place is it?”
“It’s empty, up for sale. We will need to contact the owner.”
“Whoever this was is dead for sure,” Jensen said pointing to the wall.
“Helluva place to kill someone too,” Fleming said staring out to the back doors. A flock of birds burst suddenly from the trees below and took to flight. The men peered over the ledge, but could spot no one.
“Yes it is,” he said, “Yes it is.”
***
Artemidorus demanded in a tense whisper to know who was at his door at such an ungodly hour.
“Thank you my old friend,” came the voice in return. “You have served me well twice this day.”
“Great gods, Caesar! You yet live?”
“Yes, my friend, of course, but remember I go by Taro now.”
“I had forgotten, sorry my son.”
“How are my compatriots?”
“Well,” he said nervously, “it will take the girl a bit more time to wake up. She’s
been tinctured to the brink I’m afraid, but she will survive.”
“Where are we?” Sullivan said coming to, realizing he too must have been unconscious for some time.
The four lay around a tiny fire in the middle of a room with a great opening in the ceiling above. They’d all taken ill before drinking a cup of wine with the old man, to calm their nerves, and then could remember nothing.
Taro stood over the fire warming his hands.
“That little pond over there will let you go anywhere you want. Dream big, detective. Your life is one of great fortune, I’d say. You will see sights others could only dream of.”
Tackett raised his head groggily, staring into the small fire, watching as the embers moved up into the night sky. Taro drank heartily from a wineskin. He swiped at his lips before speaking.
“You’ll find the pond with the help of my dear friend here. The drug has been stored in great quantities at the Priory of the order of the Gracchi. It stands in all time threads I’ve traversed, so you should always be able to find it. Everything else you need can be found here.”
He slung a tiny book at each of them.
Tackett held it up in the light. “What the hell is this?”
“It has maps to the priory and far beyond. Artemidorus has the medicines you will require for the short term. Read the rules of that little book well my friends and whatever you do read the chapter on avoiding the Vestals. Everything else should be perfectly clear. I’ve tried to write sparingly, without overcomplicating the topic.”
Sullivan held the book up to the light:
On Traveling Through Time
By Gaius Taro
Caesar pulled his cloak over his head concealing his face and moved to depart.
“Where are you going?” Sullivan said. “You haven’t explain--”
“I’m headed to parts unknown, just like you detective. I never grow tired of Rome, you see. It’s just that it is so full of Romans,” he said with a great laugh.
And then he turned and was gone.
The End
Saboteur: A Novel Page 27
