Imani chuckled. “I might be an eastern girl, but I know enough to know everyone in Texas has Big Red in the fridge.”
Malcolm felt Miquel squeezing his shoulder, and he had to fight the urge to shrug him off. Malcolm hated being touched, though he’d learned to tolerate the Mexican’s hands on him simply because he had no choice. “You have a deal, Imani,” Malcolm finally said.
“Would you have any chairs that we could sit on?” Jim asked, removing a handkerchief from his pocket to mop at his expanding forehead.
“No,” Malcolm grunted. “You just wasted ten seconds.”
Imani set her briefcase on the ground and withdrew a small tablet, turning it on before flipping it for him to see. “Do you know this man, Malcolm?”
Malcolm studied the handsome face peering back at him for just a moment. “Yes, that’s Gerald Blackwood.”
“You’re a long-time friend of his, I believe,” Imani said, tucking the tablet under her arm.
Malcolm snorted. “Hardly.”
Imani frowned. “I don’t understand. Didn’t you write the forward to one of his books?”
Malcolm nodded, silently cursing as his head went off on a trajectory of its own. He tried to force it back as he twitched and shook. Both agents waited patiently, having clearly been warned that this might happen. Finally, Malcolm gained reasonable control over himself. “Gerald and I weren’t friends. Anything but, actually. We went to High School together, that’s all.”
“Then why did you write the forward?” Jim asked.
Malcolm sighed. “Because his wife, Claire, asked me to.” Malcolm looked away, afraid that they’d see the hurt in his eyes. It was almost forty years ago that he and Claire had first met, but the pain of what had happened between them still sat on his chest like a hundred-pound weight.
“You wrote the forward for Gerald’s wife?” Imani asked, sharing a long look with Jim.
“Yes,” Malcolm said. She went to the same High School as Gerald and I did. Gerald was shopping a series of history books to publishers, but no one was biting. She thought getting a published author’s endorsement might help push him over the edge.”
“So, you did it for Claire,” Imani said. “Not Gerald.”
“Yes,” Malcolm agreed.
“May I ask why?”
Malcolm’s hands started to shake and he forced them into his lap, feeling the steady pressure of Miquel’s grip on him. “No, you may not.”
“I understand,” Imani said soothingly, though her eyes showed that she didn’t. “Are you aware of what happened to them? About their daughter?”
Malcolm took a deep breath and did his version of a nod. “Yes, it was a tragedy.” He looked up. “I never cared much for Gerald, but it’s hard not to empathize with him after what happened. Sometimes the law is just plain wrong.”
“He murdered someone,” Jim said with a shrug. “There’s a price for that in a civilized society, Mister Foster, regardless of the reason.”
Malcolm looked away, watching a hummingbird flitting around one of the baskets of red and yellow flowers hanging from the sprawling front porch of the house. He had no plans on debating the failings of the law with these two.
“Have you read Mister Blackwood’s latest book?” Imani asked.
“I have not,” Malcolm said moodily. “I have better things to do, like stare at a wall or count blades of grass.”
“I take it you don’t share Mister Blackwood’s belief in past lives, then?” Imani said.
Malcolm lifted a trembling hand and pointed as best he could to the tablet under her arm. “The man is a fool. He had it all and he threw it away on garbage. I wouldn’t wrap that gibberish he wrote around rotting fish for fear of insulting the fish.” Malcolm took a deep breath, a vision of a beautiful, black-haired girl rising in his mind before he thrust it angrily away. “You’re five minutes are up and I’m still not interested. Now go away.”
Neither agent moved.
“I said get lost,” Malcolm shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Please,” Miquel said, hurrying around the wheelchair and gesturing to the sedan baking in the harsh sun. “Mister Foster needs his rest. You’ll have to go now.”
“Malcolm,” Imani said, ignoring the Mexican. “Claire died a month and a half ago.”
Malcolm blinked in surprise, the anger he’d felt slipping away like air from a balloon, replaced by a deep sorrow. “Claire,” he whispered. “No.”
Imani stepped closer and knelt in front of him, one hand on his withered knee. Malcolm barely noticed, lost in memories of raging hormones, a laughing girl, and the happiest times of his life. “When is the last time you spoke to her, Malcolm?” she asked.
“What?” Malcolm muttered, focusing on the woman. He forced his mind to replay what she’d just said. “Years ago,” he answered. “It was just after Gerald’s first book was released. She called to thank me.”
“And nothing since then?” Imani asked gently. Malcolm shook his head and said nothing. “Not even after their daughter died?” the agent prodded.
“No,” Malcolm said. He snorted bitterly. “I could barely make myself understood by then. I sent her a condolence note.”
Imani stood, staring down at the crushed figure in the wheelchair with obvious pity.
“How did she die?” Malcolm whispered.
“Boss,” Miquel said, not translating the question. “I think you’ve had enough for one day.”
“Ask her!” Malcolm snarled. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
Miquel seemed unaffected by Malcolm’s anger as he turned to the agents. “Mister Foster wishes to know how Miss Blackwood died.”
“She killed herself,” Jim said bluntly. “Stuck a needle in her arm and OD’d.”
Malcolm closed his eyes at the news, his body rocking back and forth in the chair.
“Claire left a video message before she used the needle,” Imani said. Malcolm opened his eyes in surprise as the agent held up the tablet. “That’s why we’ve come. I think you need to see it.” She smiled sadly. “Besides, my throat is parched and I could really use that cream soda right about now.”
CHAPTER THREE
MALCOLM
The house had belonged to Malcolm’s parents. It had twelve bedrooms, two formal dining rooms, and eight bathrooms, not to mention a seven-car garage. Malcolm hated the place, but one of the stipulations of his inheritance was that he had to live there until the day that he died. Any deviation from that clause and access to the fortune his father had amassed before his death would be cut off immediately. Normally, Malcolm didn’t react well to blackmail, especially the kind that came from beyond the grave. But his worsening condition required constant care—care that was expensive—and the dwindling funds earned from his speaking tours and the royalties from his books were not nearly sufficient to cover the costs.
Malcolm had calculated there was enough money from the inheritance to keep him living in the same manner for another twenty years if need be. But he knew with his deteriorating condition that he’d never make it that long. There were pills in his desk drawer in his bedroom, and all he had to do was say the word to Miquel and he would give them to him. That was the agreement the two men had sworn the day Malcolm had reluctantly asked Miquel to come to Texas. That and a promise once he arrived that Miquel would inherit the house along with a five million dollar one-time payout. If any of the money was left over after that, then it would go to ALS research.
“Ah,” Jim said, smacking his lips in appreciation after a long swill of Big Red. The agent started to set the bottle down on the gleaming dining room tabletop, then thought better of it and propped it up on his knee instead.
Miquel had wheeled Malcolm to the head of the table, and Imani sat to his right with her tablet open, propped up by a folding black case. Jim sat to his left, with Miquel leaning against the wall behind them beside an antique grandfather clock, his arms crossed over his chest.
“All right,” Malco
lm said. He’d come to grips with Claire’s death by now and had his emotions under control. “You’ve had your drink and you’re both nice and cool now. So, whatever all this is about, let’s get it over with.”
Imani nodded and woke up her tablet, stabbing a finger on an icon on the main screen. Malcolm blinked in surprise as a paused video appeared of a mostly grey-haired woman sitting alone at a desk. It took him a moment to realize that it was Claire. He wasn’t the only one who had suffered over the years. Claire looked old, worn out, and sick. “What’s wrong with her?” he whispered.
“Brain tumor,” Imani answered. She grimaced. “Terminal.”
Malcolm nodded in sudden understanding. “And with Gerald in prison and no one to care for her, she took her own life.” Malcolm had said that last bit with a tinge of envy, but Miquel didn’t seem to have picked up on it as he translated for the agents. Malcolm thought suddenly of Claire’s mother and he frowned, surprised Claire would commit suicide after what had happened. Things must have been very, very bad for her to do that, he realized.
“Not exactly,” Imani said. “You’re aware of what Claire did for a living, I assume?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Some kind of scientist,” he said.
“Not just some kind,” Jim said as he toyed with the soda bottle. “She was a biomedical engineer.”
“That field covers a broad spectrum,” Malcolm said. “I assume Claire’s was in medicine.”
“Yes,” Imani said. “Nanotechnology specifically, along with cell and gene manipulation.”
Malcolm nodded, impressed. Claire had come a long way from the cute cheerleader that he’d known. “So, she was working on a cure for her cancer, then?”
“No,” Imani said with a quick shake of her head. She hesitated, studying Malcolm before adding, “She was working on a way to prove that her husband’s theory about past lives was correct.”
Malcolm felt his lower lip quivering as he gaped at the agent in astonishment. “Are you telling me Claire bought into that crazy bullshit of his?”
Both Imani and Jim nodded at the same time once Miquel had translated. “I think it would be best if we let Claire explain it to you from here,” Imani said, reaching for the tablet.
Malcolm blinked. “To me?” he said. “You mean she recorded this specifically for me just before she died?”
Imani’s face turned regretful at the sudden look of hope coming from the man in the wheelchair. “No, my apologies, Malcolm. I misspoke just now. She recorded this for Gerald, not you, but it’s self-explanatory. Are you ready to proceed?”
Malcolm took a disappointed breath, then grunted assent as Imani hit the play button.
“Hello, my love,” Claire said, her voice sounding odd. Malcolm wasn’t sure if it was from the playback or the woman’s obvious emotional distress. Claire stared into the camera for a moment with tears hovering in her eyes. “I tried calling the prison, but they told me you were in solitary confinement for fighting.” Malcolm thought she looked as though she couldn’t quite believe that fact, then he saw a flash of something behind the tears, a hint of pride as she continued, “I finished it, darling! The serum is mapped and ready. Now all I have to do is find the courage to use it.” Claire paused then, wincing as she rubbed her right temple. “The headaches are getting worse now. Soon, I’m sure I won’t be able to think straight. I know we agreed to make this decision together, but I can’t wait any longer. I need release from this shit-hole world we live in.”
Malcolm was surprised by the vehemence in her tone as her features twisted with hatred. Except for a brief time after her mother’s death, the Claire he’d known had been all smiles and kindness. We all change, he thought bitterly, knowing that time could do that to anyone.
Claire leaned closer to the camera. “Marta left an hour ago with everything you’ll need once you get out. She’s putting it in a safety deposit box at the Chase Bank on Naper Boulevard, just as we agreed. She’s going back to Guatemala after that. I’ve buried the box key in the backyard beneath the shed—you know the place. Wait until you’re sure you’ve seen the crest before you do anything, and make sure you follow the directions that I’ve left closely.” Claire smiled wearily then. “It’s almost over for me, my love. Don’t grieve for me, because we both know this is not the end. I just wish you didn’t have to wait so long to join me.” Claire wiped at her eyes with a tissue, reaching toward the camera. “I’ll see you in no time at all, my dearest Gerald. Until then, I love you.”
The screen went suddenly blank, with silence filling the dining room.
Finally, Malcolm said, “What is all that supposed to mean?” He glared at the agents. “You can’t tell me Uncle Sam is buying into this ridiculous crap? The tumor has clearly affected Claire’s normal brain function. She’s delusional.”
“Claire created a serum called JPL-7,” Imani explained, ignoring Malcolm’s protest. “It stands for Julie Past Lives version 7.” She sighed. “I can’t even begin to understand how it works; that’s for geniuses like you and her. All I know is it somehow released her mind, sending her back in time to live in a past life.”
“To live in past lives,” Jim corrected.
Imani bowed her head slightly. “Lives,” she agreed.
Malcolm stared at the two of them, incredulous. “Are you shitting me? Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No one thinks that Malcolm,” Imani said. She stabbed at her tablet again and turned it so Malcolm could see better. “Do you remember this?”
The screen showed a newspaper headline. Malcolm leaned forward, squinting, having trouble focusing with his shaking head.
London Herald
Tuesday 16th April 1912
TITANIC SINKS
Great Loss of life
Malcolm frowned in confusion. He glanced at Miquel, who had approached the table to get a better look. The Mexican just shrugged after reading the headline.
“Is this supposed to mean something to me?” Malcolm asked.
Imani swiped her hand across the tablet face, bringing up another picture. This one was of a rowboat in the water. Malcolm had seen it and others just like it many times. It was a picture of some of the survivors from the Titanic taken from the deck of the Carpathia—the ship that had rescued them from the freezing North Atlantic. The agent enlarged the picture with her thumb and forefinger, focusing on a grainy figure sitting on the lifeboat's railing. Malcolm could tell it was a girl, but what set her apart from the others was that she was holding up a piece of cloth, smiling and waving, while most of the other survivors just sat in grim, haunted silence.
“I’m losing my patience,” Malcolm said after a moment, glaring at Imani.
The agent seemed unworried as she flipped the screen, revealing a digitally enhanced copy of the previous picture. Again she zoomed in on the girl, who Malcolm could see now was very pretty. Her expression was one of joy, which could easily have been mistaken for relief at being rescued, but for some reason, Malcolm knew that it wasn’t.
“Notice what she’s holding,” Imani said, enlarging the photo even more. “We think it’s a pillowcase from one of the cabins or something like that.”
Malcolm could see a crude depiction of what looked like a medieval shield, with a crescent moon between two stars, then a thick border cutting across the shield with a diamond shape below it. Malcolm knew he’d seen it before and his eyelids fluttered as his brain processed the information. “No,” he whispered once he understood.
“Yes,” Imani said softly. She swiped left, revealing a brightly lit study with an empty fireplace. A coat of arms hung above the mantle with the same pattern as that on the pillowcase. “This picture was taken in the Blackwood’s home. I assume you know what it is?”
“The Blackwood family crest,” Malcolm whispered, fascinated despite himself. His head wobbled as he swiveled to look at the agent. “Are you telling me that’s what Claire meant in the video? That she was telling Gerald to look for this crest so he would know she wa
s alive?”
“Yes,” Jim said. He stood and stretched, looking uncertain about what to do with the empty bottle he held. Miquel took it from him and the agent thanked him before turning back to Malcolm. “We think Claire is living in the past, doing whatever she can to try to reverse history and save her daughter.”
Malcolm laughed then—the sound harsh like the braying of a donkey. “That’s preposterous! Next, you’re going to tell me she had something to do with the Titanic sinking!”
“After that photo, it’s a possibility that we have to consider,” Imani said.
“No, all you have there is a coincidence,” Malcolm replied. “And not even a remarkable one at that.” He gestured to the tablet. “The girl was probably a Blackwood. That’s all. Gerald doesn’t own a monopoly on the name, you know.”
“Her name was Carmen Lucy Bellows,” Imani said. “She was nineteen when the Titanic sunk.”
“And you think she was actually Claire?” Malcolm said with a snort. “You people take the cake.”
“Have you ever heard of the CPUSA?” Jim asked.
Malcolm nodded. “The Communist Party of the United States of America. What of it?”
“Both Claire and Gerald were members,” Jim said. Malcolm blinked in surprise as the agent continued, “Their participation was semi-formal at first, but after their daughter died, they became heavily involved with the party. Attending rallies, trying to get donations and more awareness, that sort of thing.”
“Because of DakCorp,” Malcolm guessed.
“Yes,” Imani agreed. “Both Claire and Gerald blamed the company for Julie’s death. But more specifically, they blamed what they called corporate greed that had infected the western world.”
“So, you think Claire went into the past to try to change all that?” Malcolm said, shaking his head in wonder. “I thought you people were Homeland Security, but now I’m starting to think you both escaped from an insane asylum.”
Imani just stared at him for a moment, her features serious, then she swept her hand across the tablet again. “This was found in Mesopotamia,” she said, indicating a rounded clay pot with a narrow neck, collared rim, and two strap handles. Malcolm knew it was an Assyrian amphoriskos. He grimaced at the weathered Blackwood clan crest in the ancient glaze. The agent raised an eyebrow at his expression. “Not too many Blackwood’s running around back then, now were there?”
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