“One is perfect. I will meet you there,” I told Hadley.
We said our goodbyes, then I replaced the receiver in its cradle.
“Do you think she might know where to find another part of the manuscript?” Gaige asked.
“Maybe,” I said with a shrug. “It’s worth a shot. You should schedule another date with the menfolk, too.”
Gaige fingered his bruised eye. “Something other than boxing, I hope.”
“Or not,” I replied with an innocent grin. “What’re you doing over there?”
“Syncing the pages I scanned in the bathroom to my Qube before I take it down to customs. Wanna see?”
As I plopped down beside him, Rosenthal’s scrawling handwriting appeared as a hologram over the coffee table. Gaige moved the device so it was between us, and we both settled in to read the immortal words of his new friend.
The will had been very clear. Once Serena Rushforth of Warwickshire, England, now Serena Nolan of Blue’s Canyon, North Carolina, she was to inherit all lands, accounts, and businesses formerly held by her husband, Tate Nolan.
Serena smiled wanly, recalling Marta Nolan’s outrage upon hearing that her ancestral home was to become the property of an outsider. Even the lawyer had shaken his head whilst making the announcement. A woman, an Englishwoman at that, inheriting Bellerose Manor and the Blue’s Falls Hotel and Country Club went against a centuries-long tradition of bequeathing the family properties to the eldest living male of legitimate birth. But that was Tate’s way; he had always enjoyed causing a stir.
Standing atop Wind Rock, Serena peered down into the canyon below. A single tear slid from the corner of her eye, followed by another and another, until the scarf around her neck was wet with her painful loss. She wept openly for the first time since his death, as if someone had finally unscrewed the lid on the jar where she kept her emotions hidden from the world. On the Rock she felt safe. It was the site of their first kiss; the place her beloved had gone to his knees and asked for her hand in marriage; where, had fate not so cruelly intervened to cut short their time together, Serena would have told her husband that she was carrying their child.
With Tate by her side, the Canyon had felt like home. Without him, the Canyon felt foreign, just as when she’d first moved there. The majestic beauty she’d once embraced while standing in the same spot with her husband seemed cold and ugly now that she was alone.
“Outsider!” “Interloper!” “Imposter!” the winds seemed to cry in her ear.
Serena wept impossibly harder.
The baby in her womb kicked and she rubbed her belly affectionately. This child, part Tate and part Serena, would prove to be the best of each, of this she had no doubt. The ache in her heart lessened as love for her unborn child helped to mend the fissure left by his father’s death.
She breathed deeply. She had not come to the Rock to cry over that which could not be changed. She had come with a purpose.
Fingers stiff with cold, Serena unfastened the sapphire broach nestled in the hollow of her throat and removed the scarf. Once soft and smooth to the touch, the fine silk fabric was roughened by her dried tears. It had been Tate’s favorite, the fabric the same azure as his eyes. He had been wearing it the first time they met—that fateful day on the train that had changed Serena’s life forever.
Oh how Marta Nolan had made a fuss when Serena refused to allow the scarf to be buried with the man that both women loved wholly, unconditionally, and, in Serena’s case, with reckless abandon. The act had only caused more tumult in the already rocky relationship with her mother-in-law. That, Serena decided, was a problem she would fix. She owed it to Tate. And to their unborn son who would bear his father’s name, another Tate Nolan to watch over Blue’s Canyon.
Serena inched forward, until the toes of her shoes hung over the edge of Wind Rock. She secured the broach to one end of the scarf to give it weight. Drawing back her arm, just as Tate had taught her, she hurled both the scarf into the fog-filled ravine below.
Her reason for doing so was dismissed by the men in the village as a nonsensical wives’ tale. Nonetheless, the women below swore on their firstborn children that the legend was true. Serena was there to prove once and for all that women were wiser than men.
For a paralyzing moment, the winds ceased to blow. The air went impossibly still. Serena herself thought she had gone deaf. And then, competing gusts from every direction whipped loose strands of hair from the plait running down her back. Out of the fog, a ribbon of blue appeared. Tears filled Serena’s eyes for the second time that day. These, however were tears born of joy. She reached out to pluck it from the wind, the scarf catching around her arm, the broach settling delicately in her upturned palm.
His body may have gone to earth, but Tate’s soul was alive in Blue’s Canyon. Of this, she was certain.
THE END.
“Wow, that’s so sad,” I said, wiping a tear as I finished reading the last chapter of Blue’s Canyon.
Gaige snorted. “Damn women and your sobbing over nothing.”
“Heartless misogynist,” I shot back.
“Hey now, I love women,” Gaige said defensively. “In fact, I love working under a woman. Hell, I prefer having a woman above me.”
Just in case I had missed the pervy undertones, Gaige smiled wickedly to drive home his point.
I held up my hand. “Enough. For the future of our partnership, it is best you don’t continue that little speech of yours.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying, sparky. Save it for someone who cares. Flip back to the beginning of the section, so we can see what all we have.”
In total, the portion Gaige found in the toilet tank contained pages 147-225 of Rosenthal’s unpublished manuscript. The excerpt from Shakespeare and Company included pages 1-77.
“So, we’re missing the middle third of the book,” I announced.
Gaige nodded his agreement. “If all else fails, we could always write those chapters ourselves. I bet our client won’t even know the difference.”
“You don’t think so? Do you think your boss would know?” a wry voice spoke up.
Gaige and I both turned towards the front door. We’d been so engrossed in our task, neither of us had heard Cyrus enter.
“Of course, he’d know. Our boss is a genius, you can’t get anything by him. Not that I would try, I have too much respect for him. In fact you might even—” Gaige abruptly halted his babbling mid-sentence, blood rushing to his tanned cheeks.
I was just about to make a wisecrack, when I realized what silenced Gaige—the firm set of Cyrus’s jaw. Though he didn’t look angry, our boss was clearly in no mood for jokes. His green eyes, normally so vibrant and full of life, were dull and weary. Cyrus gestured to the scanner and tablet in front of us.
“Did you find more of the manuscript?” he asked, with a hint of surprise.
“We did,” I replied, pleased that we could offer a bit of good news. “There was another third of it in the bathroom at that restaurant they all frequent.”
Cyrus raised one eyebrow at the latter bit of information, but didn’t comment on the hiding place.
“Good. That is very good. You are both far exceeding my expectations for this mission. I am really quite impressed.”
Gaige and I exchanged a look of disbelief. Given how stressed our boss was, the last thing I’d expected was praise.
Cyrus carried a leather train case into the sitting room, placing it on the coffee table before settling into one of the two plush velvet armchairs.
“Well don’t look so shocked,” he said with a chuckle. “Am I really that much of a hardass?”
“No, of course not,” I replied quickly. “We just know you have a lot on your plate right now, things more important than our mission.”
“Which is exactly why I’m so pleased that you guys are staying focused and getting the job done. I honestly thought we have to abandon the run, but you’re making remarkab
le strides towards completion.” Cyrus sat back in his chair and gave us a tired smile. “I’m proud of you both.”
It was the first time in my life that someone had ever said they were proud of me. I didn’t know what to make of it.
“Looks like you found something, too,” I said hastily, nodding to the train case to hide my embarrassment. Shifting his focus from Gaige to me, Cyrus’s gaze softened. He kept his attention on me for a beat longer than I would’ve expected—just long enough for Gaige to start fidgeting.
“Sorry, I did,” our boss finally answered, shaking his head to clear whatever thought he’d been lost in. “I paid another visit to Lachlan’s hotel room. He’s been back since we were last there. You remember the door that connected his room to the one next to it?”
I nodded, then quickly explained the room’s layout to Gaige.
“We closed the door again, right?” Cyrus continued.
“Definitely,” I assured him, recalling the final visual sweep I’d given the bedroom before departing.
“That’s what I thought,” my boss confirmed. “It was open when I arrived today, so I picked the lock to the adjoining suite.”
“Naturally,” Gaige said with a chuckle.
Cyrus unlatched the clasps on the train case and the top popped open, as if on a spring. He pulled on a pair of gloves, then plucked several clear plastic bags from inside.
“I didn’t find anything new in Lachlan’s room, but the one next to it was an absolute mess. I checked on the way out, and both rooms are registered under Shepard. I found these in the second one.” Cyrus held up one of the bags. Gaige and I leaned forward in tandem to peer at the contents—a whole mess of empty candy wrappers.
“I’m confused,” I admitted. “Unless he’s diabetic, I don’t understand why eating an excessive amount of candy is significant?”
“He’s devolving,” Cyrus explained. “As you both know, the combination of sucrose and cocoa will stave off time sickness and lessen the symptoms. Judging by the sheer volume of wrappers I found, I’d guess he’s dealing with a bad case of it. Probably from jumping too frequently within a short period of time.”
“So he’s curing himself?” Gaige asked skeptically.
“Not exactly. Chocolate is neither a vaccine nor a cure, more like a bandage. It treats the symptoms, but not the disease itself. Like using painkillers to treat a broken leg—a cast is still needed for the bone to heal properly.” Our boss shook the plastic bag. “I found at least forty of these wrappers on the floor of the second hotel room. It means that Lachlan at least somewhat cognizant of the fact he’s suffering from time sickness, which suggests he hasn’t devolved completely. Or, at least, he hadn’t as of yesterday. The chocolate left on the wrappers has been exposed to air for between twenty-four and thirty-six hours.”
I didn’t bother asking how Cyrus had reached that conclusion; he’d brought all sorts of things with him from the island that were atypical on an ordinary run.
“Maybe that’s why he didn’t strike last night?” I proposed.
“That’s my guess, as well,” Cyrus agreed.
“Do you think he’s so far gone that he won’t be able to stage another one of his deadly performances?” Gaige asked.
Cyrus shook his head regretfully.
“I have no idea. I wish I did. I showed the photo to the staff on duty today, but no one remembers seeing him in the past twenty-four hours. The maids said the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign has been on the door for days, so they haven’t been inside either room in some time.” He sounded exasperated.
“Maybe he’s bribed the staff to say they don’t know anything? I mean, he is a runner, after all. He knows the tricks of the trade,” Gaige said.
Cyrus eyed him pointedly. “That is precisely why I offered them a substantial amount myself. Lachlan may know the tricks, but I invented the game.”
For the second time in ten minutes, Gaige turned scarlet.
“What else did you find?” I asked, drawing our boss’s attention away from my partner.
“Nothing too helpful, in terms of telling us where he might be now.” Our boss reached inside the train case and pulled the remaining evidence bags out, one at a time. Cyrus held them up as he rattled off the contents. “A lock picking set, night vision glasses and contacts, a handheld scanner—all syndicate-issue, from the mission kits that runners can check out from customs.” He laid the items in a line on the coffee table.
“Is the Paris station missing a kit?” I asked. “They are extremely organized. Sort of seems like they’d have a record of the theft.”
“According to Ines, all of their inventory is accounted for. My guess is Lachlan stole the items from the Montgomery Syndicate before he left. I’ll send a message to Bane to confirm they’re short.” Cyrus withdrew four more plastic bags from the train case. “Stage makeup, also syndicate-issue. Shepard is most likely using it to change his appearance, which might explain why no one at the Ritz can recall seeing him recently.” The next bags he pulled from the case were much larger, and contained men’s clothing. “The style and fabrics of Shepard’s clothes are consistent with this time period. And definitely authentic, not reproductions. Again, he could have stolen the items from customs. Or he could have purchased them once he was here.”
“All of this was in the second room?” I asked, leaning closer to inspect the vacuum-sealed evidence bags.
Cyrus nodded.
The bags with the clothing were closest to me and immediately drew my attention. One contained a pair of men’s dress pants in navy, while another had a very ordinary white dress shirt. But it was the contents of the third that caused my heart to skip a beat.
Inside was a beautiful silk handkerchief, checkered in shades of scarlet and gray. I’d seen a handkerchief in the exact same pattern peeking out from the pocket of a suit with a coordinating lapel lining.
Charles was wearing it the night we all went to Exotique.
I swallowed hard. There was no way. Charles was definitively not the Night Gentleman. He’d been sitting right next to me when the killer had made his villainous speech at Exotique.
Baylarian didn’t make that speech himself, a voice inside my head reminded me.
I shoved the thought aside. It didn’t matter. Charles couldn’t be the Night Gentleman. Lachlan Shepard, alias Mitchell Baylarian, was the Night Gentleman.
Right?
As I struggled to keep my thoughts from galloping wildly away with the notion that my handsome suitor could be a killer, I remembered an irrefutable fact: the Night Gentleman was a new addition to the time period. His existence wasn’t documented anywhere in the history books on the island, nor on the syndicate’s vast intranet. Since Charles was a native citizen of this time, if he’d gone on a mad killing spree, it would have already happened. It would have been recorded in the historical archives. It couldn’t be him.
Right?
“Stassi? Is something wrong?” Cyrus asked.
“Hmm? Wrong? Me? No, I’m good.”
Cyrus leveled his patented stare on me. The one he used when communicating to an underling that he knew they were withholding information. The one that said it would be in everybody’s best interest if he didn’t need to ask again. The one that made the unlucky recipient wish for the power of invisibility.
If I were capable of communicating even a tenth of what my boss could with a single withering look, I would never have to speak again.
“I recognize the handkerchief. I’ve seen it. Or, rather, I’ve seen one like it. It couldn’t have been this one. Obviously it wasn’t this exact one. No, definitely not. That’s impossible.”
My, oh-so-eloquent diatribe came out in a single breath.
Gaige snickered and I shot him a glare. I’d taken the heat off of him, but he couldn’t repay the favor?
“Where did you see it?” Cyrus asked calmly.
The lump in my throat proved nearly impossible to swallow around.
“On Charles DuPree,”
I whispered, feeling impossibly traitorous.
Admittedly, the sudden onset of guilt didn’t make a whole lot of sense; I’d only known Charles a few days. I wasn’t even sure how I felt about the guy, except that his touch made me all tingly and warm inside. And his fascination with my necklace had kind of weirded me out. Nonetheless, Charles had put his reputation on the line for Gaige. That sort of genuine kindness was rare, and spoke volumes about his character. Dragging him into an inter-century murder investigation was a terrible way to repay a man who had been nothing but a solid friend to both me and my partner.
“And who is Charles DuPree?” Cyrus prodded, forehead wrinkling in confusion.
With Cyrus’s attention on me, Gaige began making kissy faces and licking his lips suggestively. The gestures would’ve earned him several smacks in the face with a pillow, had my boss not been sitting with us.
“Stop that, Gaige,” Cyrus warned, without turning. That rumored second set of eyes in the back of his head missed nothing. Gaige jumped in his seat. Without skipping a beat, my boss added, “You look constipated.”
“Charles is a man on the periphery of Rosenthal’s circle,” I explained. “He appears to know all the same people as Rosenthal, and attends the same parties and events. DuPree also has a casual friendship with the author.”
“And?” Gaige prompted, drawing out the word for several seconds.
“And he seems to like me.” I closed my eyes and sighed. Was this really happening? Was I actually dishing about a cute guy with my boss?
Cyrus cleared his throat loudly. Twice. I opened my eyes to only the smallest of slits and peeked through, like a child afraid to face the scary monster lurking at the foot of her bed. Cyrus opened and closed his mouth several times, as if the words were stuck on the tip of his tongue and he couldn’t quite manage to knock them loose.
My eyes popped fully open and I stared at my boss in astonishment. Cyrus rendered speechless was a sight worthy of my undivided attention.
“I know the rules about getting involved with someone on a run,” I was quick to add. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) Page 27
