Time's Enemy: A Romantic Time Travel Adventure (Saturn Society Book 1)

by Jennette Marie Powell

  They didn’t fight. They didn’t talk. They didn’t... much of anything. Except sit and watch TV.

  He slurped down his food, trying to pay attention to the news, but he couldn’t keep his mind off Everly. All you have to do is imagine...

  Yeah, right. The guy was a nut, someone who’d read too many sensational stories. On TV, the newscasters mourned a community activist who had been killed two years before on that date. The murderer had never been caught.

  If Tony believed that crackpot in the parking garage, he could go back. Find out who’d done it. Tony’s lip curled. Yeah, right, go back two years. What had Everly said? Any time, any place, all at your disposal. Why would he want to go back in time? Living through it once was enough.

  He stole another glance at Dora, who was still engrossed in her magazine. “...on March eighteen, two years ago,” the newscaster said. March eighteen, two years ago, huh? Vertigo seized him. He gripped the armrests on the recliner to remain upright. His head wobbled, then the feeling passed.

  “Tony? Are you all right?” Dora said, a glass of wine halfway to her mouth.

  Huh? Tony searched the area around her chair. She hadn’t been drinking wine a moment ago, and the magazine she’d been reading was now nowhere in sight. And she’d been wearing a green blouse, not a light blue sweater.

  What the hell? “Yeah, I’m fine.” Maybe her glass had been sitting on the end table beside her and he hadn’t noticed. Maybe she’d dropped the magazine on the floor beside her chair, where he couldn’t see.

  But what about her clothes? Maybe that Everly guy with his talk of time travel had shook Tony up more than he thought. Or maybe he’d imagined the green outfit. He let out a big sigh and hauled himself up from the recliner, amazed at how difficult it was. He hadn’t been this tired since his first few days in the hospital. “Man, I don’t know what it is, but all of a sudden I’m totally wiped out. I think I’ll hit the bed early tonight.”

  He trudged down the hall, stopping to lean against the doorframe leading into his bedroom. What was going on with him? Maybe something was still wrong, never mind that the doctors had never been able to figure out anything.

  The five steps to his bed seemed like a mile. Like the first time he’d walked to the john at the hospital in Cancun.

  He lay on the bed. Just for a few minutes to muster up some energy. Then he’d get up, brush his teeth and get undressed—and pray he didn’t sleep for five days this time.

  Dora did a double take when Tony stumbled into the bathroom the next morning. “You really were tired last night, weren’t you?”

  He reached down to slip off his underwear, but his hand met with the metal and leather of his belt instead. He looked down. He’d slept in his clothes. “Damn, I guess I was.”

  He patted down the front of his light blue oxford-cloth shirt, touched the logo of one of LCT’s technology contract firms embroidered on the pocket. Then he brushed a hand over his casual, relaxed-cut pants.

  Not the dress shirt and slacks he’d worn the day before.

  “You’re not coming down with something, are you?”

  “I- I don’t think so.” Tony undid his belt and undressed to shower. The different outfit was freaky, but physically, he felt fine. Whatever its cause, his heavy sleep had rejuvenated him.

  The water woke him the rest of the way. He lathered up his hands and started to wash.

  When he slid his hand over his chest, he noticed something else.

  No raised line where the scar was.

  The soap slipped out of his hand. He looked down at his chest, but without his glasses, couldn’t see anything but a light blur of hair and bubbles.

  He felt around again. His hand slid smoothly over his chest.

  The scar was gone.

  He reached up to his neck. The skin was smooth beneath his sudsy fingers. No way. He jerked his hand back to his chest, felt around. No scar. He drew his hand around his neck three times. Nothing but a day’s growth of beard. As if the scar had never existed.

  “Hope your meeting goes well,” Dora called. “See you later.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure.” Her blurry shape moved across the textured glass of the shower stall door. Tony looked down at his chest, then picked up the soap. Both scars, gone. “Dora?”

  No answer. She’d already left. He quickly rinsed off and stepped out of the shower.

  He grabbed his glasses and checked the mirror. No scars.

  A quick glance at his watch lying next to the sink told him he didn’t have time to ponder the matter. There was a leadership meeting at eight-fifteen.

  He threw on some underwear then strode to the closet and grabbed the first pair of pants he touched. He hesitated. Where were his dress slacks? He flipped through a dozen pairs of casual trousers, several of which he could’ve sworn were too tight and Dora had given to AMVETS. Finally he found his suits, way in the back, and grabbed a navy one he was sure she’d gotten rid of ages ago.

  For the hell of it, he slipped the pants on. They fit.

  While he knotted his tie, he stared in the mirror at his unblemished neck with growing unease. Was he cracking up? Had he imagined the last three weeks?

  He put his socks and shoes on. He was glad the ugly scars were gone, but what did it all mean? Then a frightening, yet exhilarating thought struck him. Maybe he hadn’t dreamed he’d met a horrible death at the hands of the ancient Mayans. Maybe he’d dreamed it all. The trip to the ruins, the hospital, his scars. Everything. Including that kook Everly in the parking garage.

  There was no other logical explanation.

  Pleased he’d figured it out—and relieved his mind had conjured those unpleasant past three weeks—he combed his hair (wasn’t there a little gray yesterday?), washed his glasses, and headed for the kitchen to grab his briefcase.

  A piece of paper lay on the table next to it. He picked it up. An e-ticket airline itinerary. For him, leaving Dayton at 7:55 A.M. for New York, and returning at 11:18 that night. What the hell? He wasn’t traveling that week. Then he read the itinerary again. Huh? The ticket was for two years ago. To the day.

  He’d probably had a one-day meeting with one of the LCT ad agencies there. One they no longer used, since Tony had convinced Keith there was plenty of talent to be found in Dayton without the cost and hassle of travel.

  He always gave Dora his itinerary when he traveled. Maybe she’d cleaned out her attaché after he went to bed, and found the printout wedged inside a pocket she seldom used.

  He wadded it up and tossed it in the trash.

  At Bernie’s, his unease grew when he walked right up to the counter. No line. How long had it been since he’d seen that? And fewer than half the tables occupied?

  He searched for the pudgy, black guy who’d become his occasional sports bar buddy in the two years since opening the deli on Seventh Street, but Bernie was nowhere in sight. Then a tray full of fresh bagels, carried by a pair of dark hands, appeared in the doorway.

  “Hey, Bernie,” Tony called.

  Bernie put the tray down, revealing a much thinner frame than Tony remembered. “Hey, yourself. What can I get you?”

  What the hell? Did Bernie have a skinnier twin? Tony drew back. Bernie didn’t have a brother, only sisters. Then what—

  His friend gave him a pointed stare. “Uh... the usual, of course,” Tony said.

  “Which is?” Bernie leaned on the counter.

  Tony gave a little laugh. “Come on, Bernie.”

  Bernie’s brows lowered. “I got dozens of customers who all got a usual. What’ll you have?”

  Tony chewed the inside of his lip. How the hell had Bernie dropped fifty pounds since yesterday? “Ah... sesame with veggie and a large hazelnut coffee, extra cream. And the Dayton Daily News.”

  He drew out his wallet as Bernie punched the keys on the cash register. “Three sixty.”

  “Three— you running a special?” He gazed up at the wall menu. Sure enough, it read “Specialty bagel with gourmet cream cheese,
$3.60.” His stomach rolled. His usual had gone up to four dollars over a year ago—

  “Hey.” Bernie held out his hand, palm up. “Three-sixty. You don’t like it, you can—”

  “No! No, that’s fine.” Tony yanked out a five and dropped it on the counter.

  “Hey, Christie,” Bernie yelled. “Sesame with veggie!”

  Christie? Must be new. Tony watched the blonde scoop out the cream cheese as Bernie grabbed the coffeepot and filled a large cup. How had he lost all that weight? Even surgery couldn’t take off fifty pounds in a day.

  Bernie pushed his order across the counter and turned to the next customer. Tony forced an impassive face as he reached for his tray. He’d go to his table and read the paper, just like he always did. And when he got up to leave, Jack would be back, Bernie would yell goodbye to him, and everything would be back to normal. He was imagining things.

  Bernie shot Tony a dirty look. Tony grabbed his tray and headed for his usual table by the window. It wasn’t unlike Bernie to mess with him. Only it was usually something like “Sorry, Tony, we’re out of sesame today, how ‘bout onion instead?” knowing Tony hated onion. Then when Tony had resigned himself to plain, Bernie’d laugh and pull out a bin full of fresh sesame bagels. Must just be having a bad day.

  Tony sat at his table—thankfully unoccupied—and propped his feet up. Whatever had pissed Bernie off, he’d get over it.

  Tony took a bite of bagel then flipped the paper over to skim the headlines. Thousands of Filipinos Flee Volcano. Activist’s Death not an Accident. Warmer Weather to Return this Weekend. Tony did a double take. Activist? Frowning, he skimmed the story. According to the article, the crusader had been killed last night—not two years ago. And the volcano story sounded oddly familiar, too.

  He started to turn the page to read the rest of the article about the activist. Maybe it was a reprint, but on the front page? His hand stopped mid-flip.

  No. No, no, no! The bite of bagel in his mouth turned to concrete. He stopped chewing, his tongue dry. His stomach bottomed, and the bite of bagel threatened to choke him.

  The date beneath his finger read March 19. Two years ago.

  I HAVE NOT GONE BACK IN TIME. I have not gone back in time. I have not gone back in time. Tony walked down the street to the office. Everything would be okay once he got there. He’d misread the date in the paper. Imagined Bernie’s weight loss. Maybe Bernie’d fired Jack—sometimes the kid slacked—and that’s why he’d been so brusque.

  But things got weirder when Tony reached the office. The receptionist gave him a puzzled look as he walked past her desk.

  “Hi, Sarah,” he said. Weird. Her hair had definitely been grayer the day before. She must have colored it, but hadn’t done a very good job, for some of the gray still showed.

  “Tony? I thought you were out today. Miss your flight?”

  Flight? The itinerary. He mumbled something about changed plans and hurried to his office. Once inside, he shut the door, something he rarely did.

  He walked to his desk, dreading what he’d find.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Stop and think.

  He decided to do what he always did as soon as he arrived at work. His stomach settled a little as he hung up his coat on the middle hook behind the door, sat at his desk, and turned on the computer to check email.

  The computer rejected his password.

  He tried again, typing slowly to ensure he didn’t fat-finger it. No go. After a third failure, he grabbed the phone and punched in Violet’s number.

  A man answered. “I.T. Support, Pete speaking.”

  Tony scrutinized the display on his phone. He’d dialed the right number. Maybe Violet had gone to the john. “Is Violet around?”

  “Violet? You must have the wrong number, sir. This is I.T. Support—”

  “Yeah, I know. Is Violet there, please?” He twisted the phone cord in his fingers. He always forgot his new password after he changed it each month, and Violet gave him less shit about it than the other techs, so he preferred to deal with her.

  “Um, the only Violet I know is in food services. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Food services. Where she worked two years ago.

  By the time Pete reset the password, Tony had the phone cord wrapped so tightly around his wrist it was starting to cut off his circulation.

  The calendar view in his email program displayed March from two years ago, and showed him as out of the office for the meeting in New York.

  He grabbed the phone and punched in the ad agency’s number, but as he waited for someone to answer, a horrible thought occurred to him. What if another Tony Solomon, a two-years-ago-version, had caught the flight as scheduled, and was already there? Damn. He pressed his palm to his forehead.

  He started to hang up, but the agency receptionist answered. He explained that he’d missed the plane.

  “No problem, Mr. Solomon,” she said. “I’ll let them know.”

  Tony exhaled as he hung up. Well, that’s one question answered. One down and about a million to go.

  Throughout the morning he pushed his chair away from his desk every now and then, closed his eyes, and concentrated on the present—or rather, two years in the future, if he’d really gone back in time. He concentrated on the one thing in his office that would have changed—his desk calendar, which should have been Dilbert, but now featured The Simpsons—which his Grandma Anderson had given him for Christmas, a year before she passed away—which should have been last year.

  Nothing happened.

  So much for that Everly guy’s “all you have to do is imagine.”

  On the other hand, dreams didn’t usually make sense.

  Maybe he had to let the dream—or so he hoped it was—run its course. By eleven he could no longer ignore his growling stomach, so he headed for the cafeteria.

  The room was empty aside from two employees at a table by the far window, where a few stray snowflakes fluttered to the flat roof of the building next door. Violet stood behind the cafeteria counter’s glass hood. Oh, no. Tony’s steps faltered, his appetite vanished, but she’d already seen him. “Hello, Mr. Solomon.” She flashed him a wide smile. “Chili or vegetable soup?”

  He forced a chuckle. “Violet, I told you you could call me To—” One of the men by the window rose to get a napkin. Tony did a double take. Keith had fired Bentley over a year ago.

  “Mr.— Tony?” Violet’s lips turned up a fraction. She tipped her chin down, then brought her gaze up to meet his. Warmth radiated from the half-circles of her golden-brown eyes showing beneath her thick lashes. “Chili or vegetable?”

  “Oh, sorry. Chili, please.”

  Weird. Violet knew he always chose chili. He felt like he should say something more. Keith had told him she was the one who’d grabbed his ankle when he fell on the pyramid, possibly saving his life.

  But the Violet who now ladled chili into his bowl hadn’t yet gone to Mexico, wasn’t yet the woman who’d come to his hospital room and read to him. A kindness he couldn’t forget.

  At least she hadn’t changed. She wore her white chef’s apron over a blouse and red plaid skirt that was dressier than her job demanded, her long hair pinned up in a bun. “Would you like anything else?”

  Yeah, how about some sense to this crazy day, please. But Tony simply thanked her for the food and paid, then took it back to his office.

  He hardly tasted the chili as he sat at his desk, with his two-year-old calendar staring him in the face. Had he traveled in time? Maybe that Everly guy wasn’t such a nut after all. What if it was real?

  It was like he’d stumbled onto a line in the sand, and he, ordinary-guy Tony Solomon, had just stepped over it.

  My God, what have I gotten into?

  What if he was stuck, and had to relive the entire two years?

  Bethany was still dead; her murder had still happened. Those two years had slipped by in a mire of work, golf and boring nights watching meaningless television.


  Everly! Tony jerked out of the slump he’d fallen into and dug out his wallet, where he’d stuck the card out of habit.

  But none of the thirteen cards inside were Everly’s. Idiot. Of course it wouldn’t be in this wallet. Because if he’d really gone back in time two years, he hadn’t yet met the man.

  We can help you, Everly had said.

  Maybe it was time to find out. But first, Tony would do a little research, and make sure it wasn’t a scam.

  He turned to his computer and did a search for the Saturn Society. The first hit was for a non-profit organization dedicated to the study of time travel.

  He clicked the link. It existed all right, and “Find a Society House” returned the same Harrison Street address he remembered from Everly’s card. A map pinpointed it in the neighborhood known as the Ghetto, between downtown and the University of Dayton. The rest of the information on the site was useless and vague, or required a login.

  Tony grabbed the phone and started to punch in the number beside the listing, then hesitated.

  In this time, Everly would have no idea who he was. He wouldn’t give out much information by phone, if any. Tony hung up, then grabbed his coat. He’d use his lunch hour to check out this Saturn Society, whatever it was. And figure out what Everly had meant when he’d told Tony “Like it or not, you’re one of us.”

  Storm clouds were gathering overhead as Tony left the office, but Harrison Street wasn’t far. He could check the place out and be back before bad weather hit.

  He parked across the street from the red brick Victorian house. The three-story structure loomed above him as he crossed the road. 140 Harrison Street’s well-maintained exterior and tidy front lawn contrasted sharply with the surrounding properties. Two of the windows on the second floor had been filled in, judging by the rectangles of lighter brick.

  A dark cloud drifted across the sun, and a sense of foreboding settled over him, like he was about to be tossed into a den of lions.

  He gave himself a mental shake. It’s just a house, for God’s sake!

  His legs wouldn’t move. Why am I here? a little voice inside his head asked.