by Amy Vansant
His new Motorola Startac clamshell phone rang and he jumped.
I’ll never get used to these damn things.
The bigwigs at the studio had insisted he carry a cell phone, but he hated it. Allowing people to reach him at any time or place was a torture he couldn’t have imagined. Before cell phones, people had time to reconsider how important their needs were. In the time it took to find a landline and call him for help, people often changed their minds or handled their own business. Now, as soon as the tiniest thing went wrong, an actor was on his or her ever-present cell phone, begging him to come running.
Groaning, he opened the phone.
“Hello?”
The voice of studio Vice President Dom Gastaldi boomed on the opposite end of the connection. Sean jerked the phone from his ear to keep from being deafened.
“Sean, I need you to find Joe Wake. He called the emergency line. Something about his wife.”
Sean recognized the name of one of the studio’s most prolific B-actors. Joe was a mealy-mouthed little man who’d made a career out of playing cuckolded husbands and cowering shopkeepers held at gunpoint by thieves.
“Did Theresa finally kill him?”
“The opposite, if anything.”
“What? What happened?”
“Who knows? All I know is that he’s got a shoot on Wednesday. We had the kangaroos shipped here special and it would cost a fortune to reschedule the scene. I need you to find him and sort this all out before the cops do their usual bang-up job.”
“Or before he hurts himself or someone else.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“Did you call Luther?”
“I called you.”
“Any idea where to start?”
“I think Joe’s home. Let me know when you have him.”
Dom disconnected.
Sean clapped shut his phone. He did find the crisp snap! of ending a call on the accursed thing strangely satisfying.
Walking towards his car, he opened the phone again to call his partner, Luther. As small as Joe Wake was, it never hurt to bring back-up to an unknown situation.
Big Luther was more than back-up—he was a howitzer.
Sean arrived at Luther’s to find his friend standing on the sidewalk, waiting. Luther was six-foot-six of pure muscle. Three tours in Vietnam had made him as tough as he was strong. Sean knew that deep in that over-sized chest beat a puppy-dog’s heart, but that was a side of Luther few ever saw.
Luther had no time for fools. Sadly, fools made up ninety percent of their clients.
Luther folded himself into Sean’s Jaguar and they headed for Laurel Canyon.
“Did I wake you?” asked Sean.
“You know you didn’t.”
“Did you hear anything about Joe?”
“Just what you told me—that Joe and his wife are into it.” Luther pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, dragged one out and rolled it back and forth in his fingers. “She probably beat the crap out of him.”
“Dom told me, from what he can tell, it’s the opposite.”
Luther laughed. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
“I don’t either.” Sean chuckled and glanced at his friend, nodding toward his cigarette. “Those things are going to kill you.”
“Lotta things linin’ up to kill me. No particular order.”
“They’re going to make my car stink, too. You know the rules.”
Luther huffed and slid the cigarette back into his pack. “You and this car. It ain’t healthy.”
“Right. And smoking is?”
Luther turned his attention outside. “Where we goin’? The Canyon?”
“Yep. Dom thinks he’s home. We’ll start there and see where it leads us.”
On Laurel Canyon Boulevard, a pair of lights approached them, closing rapidly. A red Ferrari roared past them. They looked at each other to confirm their suspicions.
“That’s him,” they said in tandem.
Sean cursed under his breath. “Where’s he going like that? This isn’t like him.”
The car had been an odd choice for Joe, and Sean had joked with Luther that the actor had hit his mid-life crisis. Perhaps he’d been more right than he suspected.
Sean arced into a U-turn and Luther braced himself to keep from being thrown against the door. Sean punched the gas.
“You’re never gonna catch him in that crazy Italian car of his,” said Luther.
The rearview lights they’d been following turned into a neighborhood.
“Doesn’t look like I’m going to have to.”
They reached the spot where the Ferrari had turned and found it led to a cluster of Spanish-style row-mansions. Joe Wake peeled into a driveway, bottoming out his sports car with the horrific sound of metal on cement.
Sean screeched his Jaguar to a stop at the curb. Joe was already at the door of a home, pounding with one hand and waving what looked like a gun in the other.
“Does that look like a gun to you?” asked Sean.
Luther nodded. “What the hell is going on with that little man?”
Sean leaned over Luther and pulled his own gun from the glove compartment before jumping out of the car. Luther stepped from his side and walked around to join Sean. Using the car as a barrier between themselves and Joe, they watched the actor scream at the door, demanding to be let inside.
“Joe!” called Sean.
At the sound of Sean’s voice, Joe turned and lowered his gun, his mouth gaping with surprise.
“Sean? How did you find me here?”
“Joe, put down—”
Joe interrupted. “Sean, you have to help me. There’s someone trying to blackmail me.”
Behind Joe, the home’s large brown door cracked open. A hand reached out and slapped hard on Joe’s shoulder, jerking him inside with such force it appeared as if the diminutive actor had been lifted off his feet.
The door slammed shut and the night fell silent again, as if Joe had never been there.
“What just happened?” asked Sean.
“Nothin’ good,” said Luther.
Sean moved from behind the car and headed towards the house. Luther fell in behind him.
“Any idea whose place this is?” asked Sean.
“Nope.”
At the front door, they paused on the landing. Luther retrieved the gun he wore tucked in his shoulder holster, hidden beneath a flannel shirt big enough to serve as a horse blanket.
Sean tried the door. The knob turned easily. He opened the door a crack.
“Joe?”
The house remained silent.
He called again. “Joe, it’s Sean and Luther. We’re here to help. Why don’t you come on out?”
They heard Joe scream out. “No! I’ll kill you, you son of a—” His outburst ceased as abruptly as it had begun.
Sean motioned for Luther to get behind him as they entered the home. Sean’s Glock 21 led the way, pointed out and down.
Upon reaching the first archway Sean paused, back against the wall, and peeked around the corner.
Joe stood in the center of a large living room. He held his gun pointed at someone on the opposite side of the room and out of sight. His hands shook.
“Joe, we’re here. Put down the gun.”
Joe glanced at Sean. He sniffed, his eyes wild, jaw working side to side.
“What’s up?” Luther whispered.
Sean grunted. “He’s coked out of his mind and holding a gun on someone, but I can’t see who. Get to the other side, I’ll keep him occupied.”
Sean again peered around the corner and motioned to his partner that it was safe to move. Luther dashed to the opposite side of the archway, he and Sean taking sentry positions on either side of the arch.
“I saw that!” screamed Joe, his voice echoing in the cathedral-ceilinged living room.
“Joe, this isn’t you. Put down the gun,” said Sean in his most soothing tone.
Joe swung the gun in Sean’s d
irection and Sean ducked back behind the wall.
“Sean, this man’s lying. I think he tried to kill me, I swear. He’s—”
There was a yip, followed by scuffling and a succession of thumps. Sean dropped to his knees and slid into the archway, gun drawn.
A tall, thin man stood where Joe had been. His features were sharp, his disheveled gray hair spilling in greasy clumps across his forehead. Joe lay crumpled at his feet, blood streaming from his nose.
Sean kept his gun trained on the man. “Take it easy, buddy.”
Without answering, the man bent down and plucked Joe’s gun from his hand.
Sean rose to his feet. “We’re here to help. It might not look like it, what with me holding a gun on you, but you’re making me nervous. I apologize for whatever Joe’s done, but right now I need you to drop that gun.”
The man straightened, the gun at his side. His arm lifted and, without taking his eyes off Sean, he shot Joe Wake in the head.
Chapter Eight
1995 – Los Angeles, California
With Joe Wake on the ground with a single hole in his skull, the gaunt stranger swung his gun at Sean and fired again.
Sean spun away behind the wall separating the living room and foyer. He took a quick personal inventory.
Not hit.
It became clear why he’d remained unharmed.
The bullet wasn’t intended for him.
Luther stumbled back and struck the iron railings of a staircase before sliding to a sitting position. From his angle, Sean could see blood staining Luther’s t-shirt beneath his flannel. Judging from the sound of airy wheezing, Sean guessed the bullet had perforated his friend’s lung.
Sean peeked into the living room, only to feel a hand clamp on his wrist.
The man had been standing directly behind the wall, waiting.
Jerking him into the room and pulling the gun from his hand in one swift motion, the man sent Sean’s Glock skittering down the hallway behind them. As his attacker raised his own weapon, Sean chopped at his arm and watched as the gun tumbled toward Luther. It slid on the tile until it stopped near his injured partner’s foot, revolving like the world’s worst game of spin the bottle.
Luther remained still, his expression slack. He stared at the stranger from beneath heavy lids, as if daring him to make a play for the gun.
The gaunt man pushed Sean, who tripped over Joe Wake’s leg and fell into a side table, splintering it into kindling as he fell.
As he scrambled to regain his feet, Sean heard the sound of scraping metal. He looked up in time to see his foe yank a sword from where it had been mounted on the wall and raise the weapon above his head.
Sean rolled away as the blade fell. He could feel the air move at the back of his neck and hear the heft of the ancient weapon as it hit the floor. It sunk into the floor boards and stuck fast.
Sean scrambled past the man on his hands and knees. A second sword remained above the fireplace and Sean leapt to jerk it from the wall. It released in time for him to block his enemy’s blade as it swept at him at waist level.
Pushing away from the attack, Sean backed toward the front window and held the sword aloft. It felt strange, yet comfortable in his hands. It had been a long time since he’d wielded such a blade.
The men squared off on either side of a low glass coffee table.
“You don’t know how to use that,” said the dark-haired man.
Sean smiled. “I think you’ll find I do.”
The man stepped around the table and thrust forward. Sean parried and, pushing off the sofa with one foot, assumed his enemy’s original position.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
Sean remained silent, concentrating. He couldn’t allow the battle to continue. He needed to get Luther to a hospital.
Sean took a step back, nearly tripping again over the lifeless body of Joe Wake. He saw a flash of movement at the end of the hall that presumably led to the bedrooms, and readied his sword, preparing to skewer this new approaching attacker.
A raven-haired little girl walked to the end of the hall and stared up at Sean. She held a gun in her tiny hands.
Sean recognized the weapon as his own, the one the man had tossed down the hall.
He glanced at his adversary. The man’s eyes grew wide and he pointed at the girl.
“Don’t touch her.”
Sean scooped the girl into the crook of his left arm. She dropped the gun to the tile floor and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Roaring, the gaunt man kicked the table between them, shattering the glass and flipping the flimsy frame onto the sofa as he cleared a path for his attack.
He thrust forward with his weapon and Sean raised his own, praying that his right arm would be strong enough to reject the blow. Twisting his body to protect the girl from the blade, he felt her jump as the crack of gunfire echoed.
The dark man’s blade jerked to the right, his legs buckling beneath him. Seeing his opportunity, Sean swung, catching the man at the shoulder, slicing deep into his upper chest with the heavy broadsword.
The man folded back, his sword clattering to the ground.
Sean turned toward the source of the gun blast to find Luther had crawled from the foyer. He lay on the ground, gun in his hand, breathing as if through a clogged snorkel.
“It’s about time,” said Sean.
“Screw you,” said Luther.
The man on the ground moaned. A pool of blood had collected around the fallen swordsman and Sean pressed the girl’s head against his chest to keep her from seeing.
“Who are you?” asked Sean.
The man ignored him, his stare locking on the girl.
“I’ll return for you,” he whispered.
A bright flash of light exploded from where the man lay and Sean reeled back, covering his eyes. When he could focus again, the man was gone.
“Where’d he go?” asked Luther between labored breaths.
His arm tiring, Sean appraised the room. There seemed to be no appropriate place to place a child. He wanted to remove her from the mayhem. Already, she’d stepped over a dead body to watch him split a man in two with a sword. The therapy bills were piling up.
Dropping his weapon with a clatter, he walked the girl into the foyer and set her down.
“You stay here,” he said.
She nodded, her dark blue eyes unreadable as a Scottish loch. He patted the girl on the arm and moved back to the living room to check on Luther.
“How you doing?”
Luther squinted at him and took a watery breath. “Never better. You?”
Sean pulled out his phone. “It’s a great Darth Vader imitation you have there, if that’s any consolation.”
“When this is over, I’m going to kick your ass.”
Sean grinned, squatted on his heels and put pressure on Luther’s wound. The big man winced.
“Put your hand there. I have to make a call,” said Sean.
“It hurts.”
“Stop being a baby and do it.”
Luther put his hand on his wound.
“I need you to do me a favor,” said Sean.
Luther looked at him. “Sure, anything. I’ve got nothin’ else to do.”
“Don’t say a word about the girl.”
Luther cocked his head. “The little girl?”
Sean nodded. “I need to take her. She was never here.”
“Are you kidding?”
“It’s important. I’ll explain it all later.” Sean dialed 911.
“What about the man?” Luther did his best to prop himself against the wall. The expression on his friend’s face told Sean that every movement was a lesson in agony.
Sean spoke to the emergency operator and, ignoring instructions to stay on the line, snapped shut his phone. He looked where the dark man had last lain. Even the blood pooling beneath his attacker had disappeared.
“Don’t mention him. He wasn’t here either. Or, he was—but he ra
n out after shooting Joe and you.”
“So you were never here either, I suppose?”
Sean shook his head. “No. Tell the cops you came in to find Joe dead. You struggled with the guy, he shot you and then ran away—” Sean paused, realizing how crazy the story already sounded. “Better yet—act like you can’t talk and I’ll come figure out the story with you in the hospital.”
Luther slumped, his expression pinched, muttering. “Leavin’ a black man with a dead white man. I don’t like this one bit. Give me your phone.”
Already turning to leave, Sean stopped. “What?”
“You made the 911 with your phone.”
“Shite. Good point.”
Sean patted him on the shoulder and placed the phone beside his friend before returning to the girl. He knelt beside her.
“We need to go now,” he said, lifting her.
“Will you take me to my mother?”
Sean grimaced. “Sure. We can talk about that.”
She clung to his neck as he opened the door and strode quickly down the house path to the sidewalk.
“Mommy can’t find me because he changed my name,” said the girl as he reached the end of the block and turned. In the distance, he could hear sirens.
“The man changed your name?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your real name?”
“My name is Catriona.”
“Ah, that’s a pretty name for a brave girl. That’s what I’ll call you, okay?”
The girl smiled and hugged his neck.
Chapter Nine
“You’re breaking up with me,” said Catriona.
Sean scowled. “What?”
Catriona looked around the restaurant. Sean had never taken her to a place as fancy as the one where they now sat. When he told her he was ready to share his past and explain the cryptic comment he’d made in the hospital about her possible time-traveling abilities, she’d thought his choice of venue meant the story would be worth celebrating. It wasn’t until she sat down that she realized she’d read it all wrong.
She was surrounded by strangers enjoying their expensive meals, none of whom could ever dream that the men at a nearby table had traveled from the eighteenth century.
