Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  Please don’t let this be the end. Let me get revenge on all those bastards who took my family from me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CLAIRE: North Atlantic 1912

  Claire was cold. She hadn’t expected that—she wasn’t sure why. She opened her eyes to a night sky filled with bright stars and a weak moon, gasping as frigid air filled her lungs.

  “Are you all right, miss?” a man’s voice said to her from somewhere close.

  Five rows of thin metal railings stood before Claire and she braced herself on the top one, noting idly that she wore a pair of fine leather gloves as she stared out at a vast sea of dark, roiling water lit by the moonlight. “It worked,” she whispered, her entire body shaking. “I can’t believe it worked.”

  “What worked, miss?” asked the same man. They were almost the same height, though the bowler hat he wore made him appear as if he was much taller than she was. His long overcoat flapped in the wind, and his eyes were filled with concern as he stared at her behind a pair of round spectacles. His nose was wide and flat, with a thick mustache beneath it that curled down on either side of his mouth. A second man stood nearby, this one younger, huddling within his coat as he waited with an impatient look on his face.

  “I…um,” Claire said, blinking as she fought to make her mind work.

  “My name is Benjamin Guggenheim,” the man said, introducing himself with a formal bow. Claire turned to face him as he took her hand in both of his, stooping to kiss the soft leather as he held her eyes. “And you would be?”

  Guggenheim waited, a slight smile on his face. Claire hesitated. What could she tell him? Then she realized in surprise that she actually knew the answer. “My name is Miss Carmen Lucy Bellows, sir.”

  “Ah,” Guggenheim said, clicking his heels together. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Bellows. I have seen you around the staterooms, of course, but the opportunity to introduce myself never presented itself until just now.” Guggenheim’s companion cleared his throat and the older man glanced at him in mild annoyance, then patted Claire’s hand regretfully before letting her go. “Unfortunately, Victor and I are just now on our way to the A La Carte Restaurant. The Wideners are hosting a dinner party for our dear friend Captain Smith. Perhaps we will see you there in due time?”

  “I look forward to it, sir,” Claire said, barely listening and anxious to be rid of the pair. She noticed her voice had a cultured sound to it, American, but with a hint of British as well.

  “Excellent,” Guggenheim said with a grin. He turned to his companion. “Come along, Victor, we mustn’t be late, or Miss Aubert will no doubt have my head on her plate to replace the lobster that she cares so little for.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Victor said, giving Claire a cold, appraising look before following after Guggenheim.

  “Finally,” Claire muttered when she was alone. She still hadn’t quite come to grips that she was alive, dwelling in another time and another person’s body and persona. That body was young, slim, and healthy beneath her coat, she realized, and she reveled in the fact that for the first time in her recent memory, she was completely free of headaches and pain.

  Claire looked around curiously, wondering where in time she was. She knew Gerald wouldn’t have arrived yet, as her instructions to him on that had been clear. She needed to leave him the agreed-upon sign that the serum had worked and that she was alive first. That sign had to be obvious enough that he would see it, as even though he’d be searching history books, neither of them knew when or where she would appear. That left Gerald an awful lot of ground to cover, and he wouldn’t be a young man by then. Claire knew it might take her several tries and more than one lifetime before her message was seen, but she had, quite literally, all the time in the world now.

  Claire’s main concern, and one that had kept her up at night—along with the whole dying thing—was would the markers that she’d duplicated in Gerald’s dose of JPL-7 connect them both once he took it? Or would he be thrown randomly into what she now thought of as the timestream—both of them destined to spend eternity searching for each other? It was a thought that she didn’t even want to contemplate.

  “One thing at a time,” Claire whispered to herself. “I’m here and it’s worked so far, so the markers will work too.”

  Lifeboats wrapped tightly with heavy tarpaulins hung on crane-like davits along the railings to either side of her. Claire counted four to her left and four more farther away to her right. She was clearly on a sailing vessel of some kind. That much was obvious even in the darkness, though what little she could see of the ship appeared enormous. Claire turned and craned her neck, looking up at a monstrous smokestack high above her head billowing a long stream of smoke. She could see a second one further to her left and two more to her right. The ship's entire topside was lit by electric lighting, which gave Claire a better approximation of the time she was in. Then she snorted as she realized that she didn’t need to wonder at all, for her host already knew.

  “April 14th, 1912,” she said in wonder. “I’m on a ship called the Titanic.”

  Carmen and her family had boarded the vessel in Southampton, Claire realized, furrowing her brow as she thought about the ship's name. She had heard something about the Titanic, but that had been years ago. What was it? Something had happened, or rather, had almost happened on its maiden voyage. The Titanic had narrowly avoided hitting a giant iceberg, she remembered now, saved by an alert lookout only to be sunk several years later by a German U-boat. Gerald had told her about it once. He’d become fascinated by the great ocean-going vessels of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and had planned to do a book on them—though, like many things with Gerald, it never happened.

  “Well, there you are, child,” a large woman scolded as she approached, her heels clicking against the planking of the boat’s deck. She wore a rich coat and wide-brimmed hat tied down against the wind with a scarf. Her hands were encased in a thick muff of mink fur. “Armand and I have been searching everywhere for you. I was beginning to fear that you had fallen overboard.”

  The woman was Carmen’s mother, Claire knew, a socialite from Boston. Carmen’s father was long dead, and Armand was her mother’s third husband, who was by far the richest of the three men she’d married to date.

  “I was just getting a little fresh air, Mother,” Claire said dutifully. She was having a hard time separating her own memories from Carmen’s—something that she had never considered would be a problem back in Naperville. “I just met a delightful man. His name is Benjamin Guggenheim.”

  “Bah,” her mother said with disdain. “That stuffed shirt.” She sniffed. “He made his money in mining of all things.”

  “Well, he seemed nice enough,” Claire said, following alongside her mother as she led her briskly toward the bow of the ship. A steward hurried past them with his chin tucked into his chest against the wind. The man mumbled something to them and tipped his cap as he went by. “He invited me to dinner with the captain,” Claire added.

  “Did he now,” her mother said, one finely plucked eyebrow arched. “I imagine that greasy side-kick Italian of his was with him, too.”

  “Why, yes, there was another gentleman with him. They both seemed quite nice.”

  Carmen’s mother stopped, turning to face her. “You listen to me, young lady. I don’t want you fraternizing with strange men on this trip. You promised me after what happened in London that you would change your ways. Armand didn’t go to all that trouble arranging this marriage so that you can ruin it with your wild ways.”

  Claire just stared at the other woman, pausing as she accessed Carmen’s memories. She could feel a flush coming over her at what those memories soon revealed. Carmen was a little more adventurous than Claire had been expecting for this time in history.

  Carmen’s mother frowned then, clearly taking Claire’s silence for disobedience. “Dear God, child. The man is married! He’s got a wife waiting for him back in New York and is doing only G
od knows what with that singer hussy he brought on board with him.”

  “I have no interest in Benjamin Guggenheim, Mother,” Claire said truthfully. “I swore to you I would be good from now on, and I meant that. You need not concern yourself.”

  “Well,” her mother said doubtfully. “I do hope you’re being honest with me this time. I promised Armand there wouldn’t be any more problems, and you know what he can be like.” Carmen’s mother sniffed. “Besides, what would a girl like you want with a bunch of greedy capitalists anyway? They offer nothing to society, only take from it.”

  “Capitalists?” Claire said, her interest piqued as they started walking again.

  “Yes, dear,” her mother said. “Some of the richest and most powerful men in the Empire and the United States are on this ship. Though making money that way just seems, oh, I don’t know, dirty somehow.” Carmen’s mother chuckled. “Imagine if this so-called unsinkable ship actually sank. The deaths of all those men at once would probably bring the stock market to its very knees in one fell swoop.”

  “Yes, imagine,” Claire whispered, her eyes gleaming with interest.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MALCOLM: Austin, Texas, 2021

  Of all the indignities Malcolm Foster suffered daily—and there were plenty—needing an interpreter to decipher his words was the one that he hated the most. His voice had been everything to him when he was lecturing, and to lose it this way was a crushing blow that he had never been able to accept. Malcolm sat in his wheelchair under a sprawling oak tree that dominated the backyard of his ten-acre estate. His interpreter, Miguel, stood to the side in the shade, his expertise still not needed. It would be soon enough.

  Heat shimmered off the long, paved driveway, though Malcolm, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and sweater, was oddly enough immune to it. He was always cold for some reason these days. Malcolm glanced at Miguel, who was dressed in a white cotton shirt and brown chinos. Rings of sweat circled the Mexican’s armpits, with a similar, smaller half circle just starting to show at the neckline. Malcolm chuckled at the sight, though it came out as more of a tortured gasp. Miguel had joked when he first arrived on the estate that Texas felt like a trip to Canada after living along the Yucatan Peninsula. But it appeared to Malcolm as though Miguel was actually suffering in the current heatwave. He made a mental note to tease his friend and translator about it once his guests had left.

  “You do have air conditioning, you know,” Miguel said, standing rigid with his hands behind his back. “It might be wiser to take this indoors. This is the government, after all.”

  Malcolm had insisted that Miguel relax more around him, but relaxing and Miguel were words that didn’t seem to go together. After many repeated attempts, Malcolm had finally given up asking him. The Mexican was stubborn, opinionated, and not the least bit interested in doling out sympathy to a cripple. All qualities that Malcolm Foster appreciated, so his friend could stand any way he damned well pleased as long as he didn’t treat him like a helpless child.

  “I’ve got a chill,” Malcolm replied. His voice actually came out as garbled nonsense that even he had trouble understanding, but somehow Miquel always knew what he was saying. It was one of the many remarkable talents the man possessed. Malcolm shifted in the chair, trying, and as usual, failing to stop the rhythmic bobbing of his head and shake in his arms. “Must be that damn polar vortex sweeping down from Canada. I’m betting we get snow today.”

  “Ha!” Miguel replied, flashing brilliant white teeth in a rare smile. “Good one. Did you stay up all night thinking that up?”

  “No, it just came to me,” Malcolm said, enjoying the ribbing. It was times like these that he felt like a normal person again—another one of Miquel’s talents. “They’re talking about giving me a slot on Carson after this.”

  “He’s dead,” Miquel said, his face back to its regular professional neutrality.

  “Oh,” Malcolm replied. He hadn’t known that. “Is The Tonight Show still on?” he asked. Malcolm rarely watched television anymore, as all there seemed to be on now were shows filled with guns and violence. He was a born and bred Texan and had probably shot more guns in his life than the average gangbanger, but despite that, he hated the things.

  “Yes,” Miquel replied. “Jay Leno hosted for a while, but now they have some other guy. He’s not that funny.”

  “As if you would know the difference,” Malcolm grunted sarcastically.

  “Enough to know you’re not going on The Tonight Show anytime soon.”

  Malcolm chuckled. “Well, you’ve got that right.” His eyes shifted to the laneway and wrought-iron gates protecting it. A dark sedan had just pulled up with a squeak of brakes, and as Malcolm watched, the driver’s side tinted window lowered smoothly and an arm appeared, pushing the buzzer, coinciding with a sharp beep coming from Miquel’s iPhone.

  Miquel held up the beeping phone. “Last chance, Boss.”

  Malcolm frowned. He hated when Miquel called him that. “Let them in,” he said. “The bastards will just keep on pestering me if I turn them away now. Best to find out what they want and get it over with.”

  Miguel nodded and swiped his finger across the screen as the double gates clanked and then swung slowly inward. The two men watched in silence as the dark sedan drove slowly toward them, stopping finally by the fountain in the circular drive near the house. A man and a woman emerged, both of medium height. The woman was black and lithe, with short hair and a serious expression. She was carrying a small briefcase in her right hand. The man—who had been driving—was white, with a red complexion and red, thinning hair. Both of them looked to be in their early forties.

  “Are you Mister Foster?” the red-haired man asked as he and his companion approached. His accent was East Texas, probably Houston, Malcolm guessed. They both flashed badges that he barely noticed. He knew who they were.

  “You see anyone else in a wheelchair?” Malcolm grunted. The two agents glanced at each other in surprise as Miguel came closer and translated. Malcolm had seen that shared look between people many times—a combination of pity, discomfort, and disgust when he tried to speak. It used to bother him, but now the looks just washed over him and rolled away unnoticed.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Mister Foster,” the woman said. “I’m Miss Banks, and my associate here is Mister Fields.” Her accent was east coast, Philadelphia, by the sounds of it.

  “Did your mother call you Miss Banks when you were born?” Malcolm asked.

  The woman blinked in surprise as Miguel translated, then shook her head. “No, sir, she didn’t. She called me Imani.”

  “Imani,” Malcolm said thoughtfully, his eyelids fluttering as his brain fired. “That’s Swahili, is it not?”

  “Why, yes, sir, it is,” the female agent said, looking slightly taken aback.

  “I believe translated to English, it means faith,” Malcolm added.

  “Yes, Mister Foster, you’re right,” Imani said, her face breaking out in a dazzling smile. “My mother is a pastor at Canaan Baptist Church in Philadelphia. She’s always telling everyone that all the world needs is a little more faith. I’m not sure if she means God or me.”

  “Uh-huh,” Malcolm grunted, unimpressed. Faith and God had long since disappeared from Malcolm’s belief system—right around the time the first shakes had begun. “Well, Imani,” he said. “People call me Malcolm, and that grinning fool behind me is Miquel.” Malcolm shifted his eyes to the male agent, who looked hugely uncomfortable with the conversation. The red-haired man loosened his tie, sweat already rolling down his face. Malcolm smiled at the sight—though he imagined it probably appeared as more of a snarl to his guests.

  “I’m, Jim,” the agent finally said into the expectant silence. He glanced sideways at his companion, a slight twist to his lips. “Just means Jim as far as I know.”

  Malcolm’s eyelids fluttered again. “Jim is derived from the name James,” he said. “Its origins are Hebrew and means, he who supplants.”
>
  “Oh,” Jim said weakly. He wet his lips as he glanced at his partner again. “That is interesting, Mister—” He hesitated. “I mean Malcolm. I wonder if we might go inside to talk? It’s scorching out here.”

  “Is it?” Malcolm said indifferently. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Jim started to protest, and Imani put her hand on his arm, silencing him. “Malcolm,” she said. “I understand and appreciate your distrust of the government, what with all that happened with your parents. But we really do need to talk to you. What we have to tell you is complicated, and it would be easier for everyone if we went inside.”

  Miquel leaned over Malcolm’s chair with his lips pressed to the crippled man’s ear. “Stop being a stubborn fool,” he whispered. “You’re toying with these people.”

  Malcolm ignored him. “You have five minutes,” he said. “After that, I’ll be asking you to leave.”

  “But that’s not enough—” Jim started to say just as Imani cut him off with a sharp look.

  The female agent turned back to Malcolm. “Five minutes will suffice, sir,” she said as she leaned toward the man in the wheelchair, their eyes less than three feet apart. “But I want your word that when you ask me to tell you more,” she smiled then, “and you will, that we finish off inside the house with a nice cold bottle of Big Red.”

  “What makes you think I have any?” Malcolm asked, liking the woman despite himself.