Out of Time: A Time Travel Mystery

by Martin, Monique

  He watched her through the slats of the louvered blinds. He was used to being on the inside looking out. It was how he lived. The loneliness had become a welcome companion, reinforcing old memories and keeping him safe from new ones.

  He scanned the darkness for unseen dangers, but the night was quiet and still. Elizabeth made her way to her decrepit VW Bug and unlocked it. She opened the door, but didn’t get in. She paused and lifted her head as if she’d heard something. Simon felt his heart lurch. He strained to see the threat, ready to go to her. After a painfully long moment, she shook her head and got into the car.

  Simon let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and watched her pull out of the lot. He stood at the window long after the red of her tail lights had been swallowed by the night. What was it about that woman that left him feeling so undone? He was a solitary man, by choice and by circumstance. He’d grown used to living according to his own whim and no one else’s. Then Elizabeth West had come into his life. She was curious, honest, unafraid and completely maddening. He had managed perfectly well without her and yet, he couldn’t quite remember how.

  Chapter Two

  The fall evening air was crisp, as crisp as it got in Southern California. A cool breeze swept over the finely manicured lawn in front of Professor Cross’ house. Elizabeth tugged her T-shirt down more securely over her navel and thought about grabbing a sweater from the backseat. She shifted the stack of papers in her arms and peered through the dirty car window. There was a sweater in there somewhere, buried under the piles of books. Wasn’t worth the effort, she decided. After all, this was a hit and run. Drop the papers off and then back to the library. Again. Her tiny matchbox apartment was not conducive to studying. Neighbors who thought they were on a daytime talk show and pipes that liked to sing off-key were just a few of the joys of her time at home.

  She turned back to the house and tried to tame her unruly hair, but the wind had other ideas. Maybe frazzled and windblown could be a new look for her? Not that he’d even notice. Another strong gust blew past her. Fallen leaves scraped against the pavement, the only sound in an otherwise strangely silent night. It wasn’t that late, but the street was empty, as if everyone knew something she didn’t, some coming apocalypse she’d missed the memo for. Maybe it was the full moon or the coming eclipse? She looked up into the bright moonlight, but the man in the moon wasn’t sharing his secrets either. She stood a moment longer on the sidewalk and then looked at the imposing façade of the Tudor style mansion—strong and intimidating, reeking of old money. The windows were dark and the porch light wasn’t on, and she wondered if he’d forgotten she was coming by.

  A large, gnarled oak tree blocked out most of the light from the moon and kept the front door shrouded in darkness. She stumbled on the path and almost lost her hold on the papers. Leave it to Professor Cross to have cobblestones. Probably imported them from England for the sole purpose of tripping young Americans.

  She rang the bell and waited. After a few moments, the porch light came on and Simon opened the door. He wore casual slacks and a loose-fitting, forest green sweater. Normally, the color would have set off his eyes; now it only served to draw attention to how bloodshot they were.

  “Miss West. What are you doing here?”

  She held out the stack of graded papers. “You said I should drop these off.”

  “What?”

  “The essays from last night,” she prompted with a frown. Simon Cross was many things, but forgetful wasn’t one of them.

  He ran a hand through his hair and nodded absently. “Right. Papers. Come in.”

  They passed through the dark foyer and into the warm living room. A fire blazed in the hearth, and a single floor lamp cast a pool of soft light onto a large, leather wingback chair. As she entered the room, she felt she was stepping inside the man. Outside, the exterior was cold and imposing, but the inside was inviting and comforting.

  She’d been to his home before and took each opportunity to find some new artifact or personal item. To put one more piece of the Simon Cross puzzle in its place. She set the papers down on the edge of a long, fruitwood trestle table and tried again to force her hair into some semblance of human appearance. “Essays weren’t too bad. I think a few of the students might actually be learning something.”

  Simon hovered uneasily in the center of the room. “One can only hope.”

  Elizabeth glanced around the room, guiltily sneaking a peek at the intimate details of his life. A grand piano sat in the corner. Although there was sheet music out, she couldn’t quite conjure the image of Simon ever playing it. Then, she noticed two large, open shipping boxes next to the sofa and gave in to her absurd urge to make small talk. “Packages. I love getting packages. Get anything good?”

  Good manners succumbed to curiosity, and she walked over to the crates. An old photograph rested on top of the crumpled paper inside the box. She leaned over to get a better look. In the photo was a young, lanky boy who stood with his hands planted firmly on his hips. Pure Simon Cross. Although, the cheerful smile was an expression she’d never seen him wear. A dapper, older man with a shock of white hair and an outrageously bushy mustache had his arm draped over Simon’s shoulder. They looked like two great white hunters, their quarry just out of frame.

  She’d been so caught up in the photograph she hadn’t noticed Simon at her side until she smelled the musk of his aftershave. He reached down and picked up the photograph. “My grandfather.”

  “Sebastian Cross? The anthropologist?”

  Simon fixed her with a piercing gaze, the flickering light from the fire reflected in his eyes. “And how did you know that?”

  “Your university bio.” Elizabeth had been curious about Sebastian Cross ever since she’d read the small blurb in the faculty biographies. “He was—”

  “Insane?”

  “I was going to say eccentric. His papers were... Unique.”

  Simon laughed. A cold bitter sound. “You read his papers?”

  “Some of them. They were very interesting.”

  “If by interesting you mean they were derided in academic circles, you’d be correct.” He crossed over to the fireplace and carefully set the photo on the mantle.

  In the two years of seeing him battle the impolitic politics of university life, she’d never seen him this defensive or wounded. “I didn’t mean that, Professor Cross.”

  Simon gripped the edge of the mantle and stared into the blazing fire. The muscles of his back, tense and formidable, stood out in relief against the taut fabric of his sweater. A loud, crackling pop accentuated the silence.

  “I know it’s none of my business,” she continued, throwing caution to the wind. “But—”

  ”You’re right.” Simon turned to face her, any sign of his turmoil replaced with an implacable hardness. “It’s none of your business.”

  Stung by his rebuke and feeling foolish for having tried, Elizabeth said, “I guess I should be going then.”

  Simon clenched his jaw, a deep frown furrowing his brow.

  Elizabeth waited for another tense moment, courting the hope that he might ask her to stay. Finally, she gathered her wits and the shreds of her dignity. “Goodnight, Professor.”

  She was nearly at the foyer when she heard his voice, demanding and pleading at the same time. “Wait.”

  She stopped and slowly turned to face him.

  “I’m— I’m sorry, Miss West.”

  Simon glanced back at the photo of his grandfather, as if he could find the answer to some unspoken question in the faded Kodachrome. She’d never seen him like this—so at a loss. It was strangely appealing and more than a little unnerving.

  “There’s something I’d like to show you,” he said. “That is, if you don’t have another engagement.”

  Elizabeth shook her head and smiled. He was actually asking her to stay, and she knew him well enough to know it cost him dearly to ask. Trying not to appear too giddy at the prospect and failing miserably,
she said, “I’m all yours.”

  He nodded, the ghost of a grateful smile in his eyes. “Please,” he said, gesturing to the sofa.

  Simon waited until she’d taken her seat before he sat opposite her in the overstuffed wingback. He looked down at his hands, and the silence stretched out between them. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Can I offer you something to drink? A glass of wine?”

  She wondered if the earth had shifted on its axis. Two apologies from Simon Cross in under a minute. “Thank you.”

  He excused himself and went into the kitchen. Elizabeth couldn’t imagine what had come over him. One minute he was distrustful and caustic, the next he was a gracious, even nervous, host.

  She glanced around the room and hoped to find some clues to explain his aberrant behavior of the last few days. Small statues, one of them a very well endowed fertility god, were strewn around at the base of the boxes. Vases and more picture frames poked out of the crates. She noticed an ornate box on the coffee table in front of her. It was made of deep, rich mahogany and about the size of a shoe box. An intricate gold and porcelain inlay of a globe adorned on the lid. As she leaned in to get a better look, Simon came back into the room.

  “I’m afraid I only have Cabernet,” he said and handed her the glass.

  Taking a sip of wine she leaned back into the soft cushions. “That’s beautiful,” she said, indicating the box on the table.

  Simon glanced down at the small chest. “It was my grandfather’s. All of this was his.”

  She knew from what little she’d read about Sebastian Cross that he’d died nearly thirty years ago. Why were the belongings just now being passed on?

  As if sensing her question, Simon lifted his eyes to hers. “My aunt died last week and the family sent these along.”

  “Were you close? To your aunt, I mean.”

  “Hardly,” Simon said. ”She had a unique talent for making you feel very, very small. My family wasn’t exactly what you’d call...” He frowned searching for the right word. “Functional.”

  “Functional is relative. Sorry, bad pun.”

  Simon took a sip of wine and set his glass down. “I wasn’t very close to my family, except for my grandfather. I spent my summers away from boarding school with him in Sussex.”

  “He’s the reason you teach occult.”

  Simon seemed startled by her insight, not that it was any great leap of logic. He leaned back in his chair and studied her for a moment. His expression eased from surprise to reluctant admiration. “He specialized in anthropology of the supernatural. And, not surprisingly, was ignored and ridiculed for what most saw as a specious field of study at best.”

  Elizabeth nursed her drink as Simon recounted his summers with his grandfather. She didn’t dare interrupt with any questions, afraid he’d stop sharing. The most personal thing he’d ever said before was that, in his opinion, Thousand Island dressing was an abomination. She sat quietly, with rapt attention as the unfathomable Professor Cross, revealed fathom after fathom.

  The old man had told him stories of his adventures with everything from the anthropomorphs of ancient Greece to the zombies of eighteenth century France.

  “And, like any young boy would be,” Simon continued. ”I was enthralled. His ‘brunch with the death eaters of Peru’ was a personal favorite.”

  Simon looked almost ashamed. He seemed to retreat inside himself, pulled under by the riptide of a painful memory. Slowly, he ran a long finger against the smooth edge of the mahogany box. “I was never allowed to touch this when I was a boy.”

  Elizabeth’s curiosity, as it was wont to do, got the better of her. “But you’re not a boy anymore.”

  “No,” Simon said, his voice stronger and his eyes clearer. He took a small key from the table and opened the box.

  There were dozens of small items resting on a red velvet covering. Jewelry, charms, and coins. Simon picked up a small pouch by its leather strap.

  ”A gris-gris,” Elizabeth said, barely able to contain her excitement.

  ”Typical of turn of the century voodoo practitioners, if I’m not mistaken,” Simon said, handing the charm to her.

  Elizabeth turned the bag over in her hand. For something supposedly a hundred years old, it was barely worn. She tentatively brought the pouch to her nose, sniffed and pulled back in surprise. “I can still smell the spices. There’s no way they should still be this fragrant after so many years. It must be a replica.”

  Simon picked up another item from the box, a small silver coin no larger than a dime. He held it to the light. “This is odd.”

  Elizabeth pulled her attention away from the gris-gris. “What is?”

  Simon gave her the coin. “What’s wrong with this?”

  “Well, it’s Greek. A griffin on one side and the head of a bull on the other. It looks authentic enough, but—” Her eyes rounded as the realization sunk in. “No signs of wear at all. It looks newly minted.”

  Simon reached for the next anomalous item. His eyes locked upon a beautiful, gold pocket watch. “I remember this. He always carried the watch with him, but I never once saw him open it.”

  Simon’s hand trembled as he took the watch out of the box. “I remember some men coming by the house asking about it not long after his death. I never did find out who they were.”

  He looked across at Elizabeth, his eyes clouded with worry and a tinge of fear, but he quickly averted his gaze and looked back down at the watch.

  Elizabeth set down the coin and moved to stand next to Simon. The watch case was etched with an intricate replica of the Mercator globe. He turned the timepiece over and summoned the courage to open it. He flexed his fingers and carefully undid the small clasp.

  The interior face was ringed by two thin bands, each marked with N, S, E and W. The face itself was a complex configuration of dials. Some dials were numbered with the standard one through twelve, while others were in increments of ten to one hundred. Near the stem was a cutout inset where the phases of the moon were displayed. The illustrated moon was full and there was a small black disk slowly moving across its face.

  Simon’s finger brushed against the crown. The stem clicked and extended. Elizabeth wasn’t sure, but she thought the hand on one of the smaller dials had changed position. Very carefully, Simon pushed the stem back into place.

  “It’s beautiful,” Elizabeth said, peering over his shoulder.

  Simon nodded, but he was clearly lost in the watch.

  Wanting to leave him to his private memories, Elizabeth peered into the box. “May I?”

  Simon glanced up from the watch. “Certainly.”

  Elizabeth picked up a small, Egyptian scarab ring. The scarab itself seemed genuine enough, although there was a crack down the beetle’s back, but the band and the setting were far too modern, probably from this century. She was about to comment on the irregularity when she noticed something odd about the gold watch in Simon’s hand.

  She frowned and looked at it more closely, then closed the small chest and studied the lid. The design on the watch was the same as on the lid.

  “They have the same inlay,” she said and moved back to look over Simon’s shoulder. “What kind of watch is that? And how does it know we’re having a lunar eclipse tonight?”

  “Eclipse?”

  “Yeah, I’m guessing that’s what that little black disc thingy signifies.”

  As if on cue, the room darkened. The moonlight filtering in from the window was slowly obscured by the earth’s shadow. Moving in perfect sync, both the disc on the dial and the darkness blotted out the moon.

  Without warning, a crackle of energy erupted from the watch. Small blue streaks snaked out, shimmering over Simon’s hand. Like azure lightning, the bolts moved up his arm and covered his entire body.

  Startled, Elizabeth reached out to him, and as soon as she touched his arm, the blue light slithered onto her hand and enveloped her, paralyzed her.

  The world around her began to vibrate, faster
and faster. Like the wings of a hummingbird the motion was so quick the edges of reality began to blur. It was as if universe were trying to shake itself apart.

  And then, it did.

  Chapter Three

  The sun sliced the alley in two.

  Simon groaned and rolled onto his side, his hand falling into a puddle of warm water. The strange sensation brought him back to the edge of consciousness. The blaring of car horns in the distance grew more insistent and drew him out of the haze.

  The acrid smell of gasoline and burning coal filtered between the old brick buildings. He took a deep breath and gagged on the stale, dank air. Bright sunlight stabbed into his eyes, and he brought a hand up to shield his face from the glare. Squinting against the light, his head throbbing mercilessly, he forced himself to sit up.

  The world around him finally came into focus. Battered trash bins and discarded wooden crates lay like victims of a firing squad against a brick wall. What the hell was he doing here? Or was this another vivid dream strangling him with realism?

  The last thing he could remember was sitting in his living room. He’d been going through his grandfather’s things. Days haunted with sleepless nights blurred his memories. Decomposing fragments slowly came back to him. He’d settled in for a night of warm whiskey and cold memories, but someone else was there.

  Elizabeth! The aching pain of his dreams, the loss and desperation rifled through his senses in rapid fire succession. He pushed himself to his feet and stood on shaky legs. His mind refused to clear, except for one thought—he needed to find Elizabeth. Frantically, he scanned the alley, dreading what he might find. She was only a few feet away, lying face down in the shadows. His heart raced faster in his chest as he stumbled to her side.

  She wasn’t moving. This had to be a dream. Please let this be a dream.

  “Miss West,” he said insistently.

  Nothing.

  He steeled himself for the worst. Perhaps this was a nightmare after all. His hands trembled as he gripped her shoulder and cradled her head in his hand. Carefully, he rolled her on to her back. Her face was pale, as if all the blood had been leeched away. Her body was limp in his hands. An unerring sense of déjà vu overwhelmed him.