Killing Time (17 page)

“Oh, it isn’t paper; it’s a special cloth.”

He looked startled. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. It was analyzed.”

“Well, how about that. Come to think of it, if you look close you can see the threads in the bills.” He finally picked up his fork and began eating, and Nikita did the same—warily, at first, then with greater enthusiasm. She didn’t care for the texture of the eggs, but liked the taste, especially when it was combined with that of the bacon. The bread was unremarkable, but edible.

“I wish I’d had your DNA scanner with me last night,” he said after they’d finished eating, and she was observing how he placed the dishes in the dishwasher. “I don’t know how I could have used it without attracting attention, but maybe I’d have had a chance.”

“Could you use it today?”

“There were a lot of people in the house, scattering DNA everywhere. Would the scanner do any good now?”

She shrugged. “Possibly. It would be tedious work, trying to find a sample that’s in our data banks, but if you had enough uninterrupted time, you might find something.”

“The uninterrupted time would be the biggest problem. How about if we went back out to the Allen house, to where the shooter was standing yesterday? There was a heavy dew last night; would that destroy the evidence?”

“The conditions aren’t optimal, and in any case, we wouldn’t be likely to find anything in our database because the shooter is almost certainly from this time.”

“Yeah, I forgot. Shit.” He sighed. “Okay, let’s go to the library and look up those back newspaper copies. We’ll find out what was supposed to be buried in the capsule, get some names, talk to some people. Someone is bound to remember something.”

“Don’t you have to go to your office to work?”

“I am working. And I’m never out of touch.” He indicated the radio sitting on the table.

She watched as he put a small plastic pack in a slot in the dishwasher door, closed the slot, then closed the door. The settings would be easy enough to decipher, so she didn’t bother scrutinizing that; all she needed was to learn the process. He slowly turned the dial until there was a click and a red light came on, and that was it. “Ah,” she said. “I have it now.”

“Have what?”

“How to operate the dishwasher. If you will show me how to operate the laundry machines, as well, I’ll be able to take care of my own clothing.”

“I’ll do that when we get home tonight, unless you’re running out of clothes and need to wash something now?”

She shook her head. “No, tonight will be fine.”

“Do I need to wear the baseball cap today?” she asked when they were ready to leave. “If so, I’d really like to tie my hair back with something other than a trash-bag tie.”

He gave a quick grin. “We’ll stop somewhere and get something. I like the look, with the sunglasses and all, like a movie star trying to go incognito. You’re kind of glamorous, you know.”

“Glamorous?” she echoed, startled. That was certainly not a term she would ever have applied to herself.
Glamour
implied great beauty and style; she didn’t possess the one, and couldn’t afford the other.

“It’s the way you walk, shoulders back, head high, like you’re either in the military or have had ballet training.”

“Neither. I would have liked to take ballet classes when I was young, but there wasn’t enough money.”

“I bet you’d have been cute as all get-out in a tutu,” he said; then his eyelids got that heavy look as he studied her. “I’d sure as hell like to see you in one now.”

Nikita froze, afraid he would try to kiss her again. She thought she had been doing a good job of acting normal, chatting, but that was all on the surface. Not only did she not want him to touch her again, she was afraid that if he did, she might start crying and not be able to stop. With one question he had torn the scab off a deep wound in her life, leaving her emotionally bloody and in pain.

He sighed at the stricken look on her face. “It’s okay; I’m not about to grab you,” he said gently. “I know I’m in the doghouse. Just—give me a chance, okay?”

She managed to nod her head, a very small nod but a definite one. He touched her arm, a brief, warm caress that was gone before she could pull away; then he tugged on the bill of her cap and turned to open the back door.

As early as it was, none of the stores he thought might have something for her ponytail were open, so they ended up driving to the Wal-Mart store. Nikita forced her thoughts away from her personal problems and looked around with delight. Knox led the way to what he called the “hair section,” but she got sidetracked by the rack after rack of cotton clothing. By the time he noticed she was no longer following him and backtracked to find her, she had worked her way past the T-shirts and tops and was fingering some lightweight pants.

“Do you need more clothes?” he asked, which she was certain was a rhetorical question. She had four changes of clothes; she had intended to buy more clothing once she was here, anyway, unless by some great stroke of luck she had managed to catch the UT and return home within four days. Since the UT had obviously recruited local help, she didn’t think that was going to happen.

“I do, yes, but I don’t have to buy it right now.”

He checked his watch. “You have a little time. The library doesn’t open until nine.”

In her time, the libraries were always open and accessible by computer; if you were away from home and needed some information, there were public computers everywhere. The closest thing in her time to a physical library was the Archives, but access to it was strictly controlled because of the fragile nature of the items.

She took him at his word, and while he went to get a cart, she began pulling hangers of clothing off the racks and looking at them. She knew there was a sizing system, but had no idea what size she herself was. All clothing in her time was custom-made by computer: you stood in a private room, your body was mapped, you chose the garments you wanted from a touch screen, and five minutes later the neatly wrapped items slid down a chute into the room. You had to use your Goods and Services card to open the door, the amount of the purchase was deducted from your card, and that was it.

When he returned with the cart, she was holding a pair of cotton pants against her, trying to see if the size matched. “How did you know what size to buy for me?” she muttered.

“I did an intensive study of your ass,” he replied. A woman standing behind him snorted with laughter, and beat a hasty retreat. Frowning, Nikita watched her go.

“I’m serious,” she said.

“So am I.”

“Very well, then: what size is my ass?”

“You’re a very well-toned eight, edging slightly toward a ten. Slim, but not skinny. Basically, I lucked out—because there isn’t a uniform size standard. You’ll need to try things on. Or you can buy them now, try them on tonight, and we’ll bring back what doesn’t fit.”

“You can do that?”

“Yeah, we can.” He grinned at her astonishment.

“I’ll do that, then. Size eight, you said.” She returned to the racks, choosing four pairs of pants and four tops that she really liked. One even had sequins on it. From there she went to the underwear, where, to her dismay, the sizing was completely different.

“This makes no sense,” she complained in frustration.

“Size five,” he said, choosing a pair of minuscule black lace underwear and extending it to her.

She eyed the small garment, then shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“How about these?” Returning the black underwear to the rack, he pulled out a pair of red ones that looked even smaller than the black ones.

“Definitely not.” The back was nothing but a small strip, and she knew exactly where the strip would have to go.

Regretfully he returned his chosen item to the rack.

She decided on a six-pack of “natural cotton,” tossed it into the cart, and moved on to the socks and shoes. Knox told her what size, she decided on a pair of sandals that looked forgiving about the shape of the foot, and finally they moved toward the front of the store and the hair section. Unfortunately, before they reached the hair section, they passed the makeup and lotion aisles, and Nikita found herself sidetracked again. She
had
to have a lipstick from this time.

She had just turned to Knox with a tube in her hand, saying, “What do you think about this color?” when a woman behind him said, “Knox?”

He looked around, and an expression she couldn’t decipher changed his face. “Ruth,” he said in that gentle tone he could do so well. He released the cart to hug the woman. “You’re out early.”

“I could say the same for you, except I know you’re always out early—and late. When do you sleep?”

“Sometimes I don’t.” His arm still around her, he turned toward Nikita. “Ruth, this is Tina. Tina, Ruth Lacey. Ruth is Rebecca’s mother.”

Tina?
Well, he couldn’t very well introduce her using her real name, since she was supposed to have left town. She extended her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Ruth shook her hand, all the while sharply studying her. The older woman was pretty and neat, with a good figure and light makeup artfully applied. Because she was a woman, she also noticed what items were in the shopping cart. “Have you been dating long?” she asked.

“A while,” Knox lied easily.

“I’m glad for you,” she said in a soft tone. “It’s been a long time.” Still, there was a lost expression in her eyes. She hugged Knox, and said, “I really need to be going. Y’all have a nice day.”

She swiftly left the aisle, and when she was out of earshot, Nikita looked at Knox and raised her eyebrows.
“Tina?”

“I couldn’t remember your middle name. I knew it started with a
T,
though.”

“That’s okay.
Tina
it is. My middle name would be too unusual here.” She dropped her chosen lipstick into the cart on top of her clothing, and they moved on to the aisle with the hair products. She chose a small pack of multicolored bands for her hair, then was ready to check out.

“I felt sorry for her,” she said.

Knox didn’t have to ask whom she was talking about. “I know. I think it really hurt her, seeing me with you. When Rebecca died, Ruth told me to go on with my life, but I don’t think she’s managed to do that herself.”

“No,” said Nikita, her gaze turning inward. “Mothers never do.”

18

At the library they went into a small, narrow room with three microfiche machines lined up side by side. The room was dim, but the microfiche files were outside in the library’s main room, watched over by a bored young girl who made certain they signed their names on a list, along with which number microfiche they had. Evidently people had just been walking out with the microfiche sheets, though why anyone would unless they had one of the viewers, too, was a mystery.

Knox and Nikita hadn’t had to hunt through file after file of microfiche film; Knox knew exactly which issue of the newspaper he wanted: January 1, 1985. They pulled chairs close together in front of one machine as he moved the slide around looking for the article he remembered. Nikita had to lean in to read the screen, putting her so close to him their shoulders bumped together. He put off enough body heat that she felt almost scorched, burning her even where they weren’t touching. She could bear it only a moment before she had to move away.

He gave her a questioning glance, and she said, “The position was hurting my neck.”

“You’re lying,” he said equably, turning back to the screen. “You want me but you’re still mad at me, so you don’t
want
to want me, and touching me is too much of a temptation. Do I have it about right?”

“Fairly close,” she said, without expression.

“That’s good to know,” he said, and winked at her. “Now, slide back in here so you can read what I’m reading.”

“There’s no point. Just read off the list of items, and I’ll write them down, as well as the people who were there that you can remember or recognize.” She had his notebook, the one he made his investigative notes in, and he’d instructed her not to use her private shorthand.

“Coward.”

“ ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’ ”

“A coward said that.”

“Would you find the damn article!” she exclaimed, then looked guiltily around to see if she had disturbed anyone. It was doubtful; there were only a handful of people in the library, and she and Knox were the only people in the microfiche room. Still, she felt herself go hot with embarrassment; she had spent a lifetime very determinedly not drawing attention to herself. She was distressed both because she had almost shouted in a public place and because he didn’t seem to realize the depth of her distress. No, how could he? She would have to tell him about herself before he would understand, and that was something she had never done. From childhood she had been cautioned by her parents not to talk about her origins, or her legal status.

“Here we go,” Knox said softly. “Max Browning wrote the article. He still works for the newspaper, too. We can ask him some questions. Let’s see . . . the items slated to go into the time capsule include the 1984 yearbook from Pekesville High School, a cassette tape of the Top Ten in music along with a cassette player—smart thinking on someone’s part—photographs and a written history of Peke County, a copy of the articles of incorporation—though why in hell they thought anyone would be interested in that in a hundred years, I don’t know. There was also a copy of the local newspaper. That’s it.”

“That’s seven,” she said.

“That’s all it lists. The article says, ‘The mayor and others will place twelve items in the time capsule, including—’ then it lists the things I just read. It doesn’t itemize the other five. Shit,” he swore softly in frustration.

“Who was there?”

“The mayor, of course, Harlan Forbes. Taylor Allen. The football coach, Howard Easley. Edie Proctor, the school superintendent. City councilmen Lester Bailey and Alfred ‘Sonny’ Akins. That’s all it lists by name.”

“Do you remember anyone else?”

“Max Browning, of course. The former sheriff, Randolph Sledge. He retired a year or so after this, and died about ten years ago. The probate judge was there. I can’t remember his name . . . somebody Clement. He’s dead, too. There were a bunch of businessmen, my dad included, the police chief, the county commissioners. I don’t know their names, but all of that would be on record at the courthouse, and city hall will have the information about who was chief back then.”

“Where do we go next?”

“I don’t want you going to the courthouse, period. Cops are too good at recognizing people, especially if they’re in the same place where they saw them before. Someone else may have been studying your ass.”

“I was in your office, sitting on it.”

“You were at the Taylor Allen site for a good two hours, plus they watched you walk into my office and they watched you walk out. Trust me.”

“I refuse to believe that my buttocks are such an identifying feature,” she snapped, disgruntled. It wasn’t that she
wanted
to go to the courthouse; it was as if he thought her bottom was somehow so weirdly and differently shaped that people could recognize her by it.

“That’s because you aren’t a man. We men like to look at women’s asses. In fact, we stare.”

“Thank you for the explanation; I feel so much better.”

He looked past her to make certain they were still alone. “C’mon. You can’t tell me things have changed so much in two hundred years that men don’t care about women’s asses anymore. They still stare, don’t they?”

She thought a moment, taking the question seriously. “Not on the job, they don’t,” she finally said. That was where she had spent most of the past eight years, she thought, either on the job, or in training, or studying. The agents with whom she trained and worked, male and female alike, had shared her circumstances, in that they were so busy in their chosen career they hadn’t had much time for outside pursuits. Some agents, when they were off duty, had formed relationships with other agents, of course—and had promptly been separated. Not fired, but one or the other would be posted to another city. They were then free to conduct their relationship as they saw fit, but they couldn’t work certain postings together. Research, teaching, laboratory—yes. Field work—no.

Nikita hadn’t had much off-duty time in the past eight years. She had chosen to specialize, and the study had required hours of extra work tacked onto her regular duties. What free time she’d had, she had spent with her family, except for one relationship four or five years ago that for a while she had thought would be the final one, but it had faded away, too. No drama, no fireworks, just a gradual shift of affection.

That was just like the rest of her life—no drama, no fireworks. No heat, no passion, no raised voices, nothing but a strict adherence to the rules and the law.

“Hey,” he said, putting his hand on her knee. “Don’t look so upset. If men don’t look at your ass at home, whenever you feel the need, you just come here and we’ll take care of the problem. Scratch that—
I’ll
take care of the problem.”

She removed his hand. “Thank you, but I was thinking of something else. Now, what was it you wanted scratched?”

He burst out laughing, and she sat back, chagrined that evidently she had once again run afoul of some silly idiom.

“It means ‘mark that out,’ ” he explained. “Like this.” He took the pad from her, wrote a word, then quickly marked through it several times. “See? This was scratched out.”

“I understand,” she said with dignity. “I should have known that one, because pens and paper were invented long before the late-twentieth-century gap in our records.”

“Personally, I’m surprised you speak colloquial English as well as you do. Say something in your normal accent.”

“I’m not a monkey performing for your amusement,” she said in her normal rapid speech, slurring the words together.

He blinked. “Wow. That was fast. You sounded like an auctioneer. Does everyone talk that fast?”

“No, of course not. Some speak faster, some speak slower. To me, the cadence of your speech sounds very slow and measured, almost formal.”

“Well, you
are
in eastern Kentucky; that accounts for the slow part. I don’t know about the ‘formal.’ ”

Feeling as if their conversation had veered off course, as it so often did, Nikita tapped the pad with her fingernail. “I think we should concentrate on our plan of action. You don’t want me at the courthouse. I don’t necessarily agree with your logic, but since you’re a man, I’ll take your word for it. Perhaps I could research the city councilmen’s names, if you’ll take me to city hall.”

“You must have distracted me, because now that I’m thinking clearly, I remember where we are. We’re in a library.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, bewildered. When had he forgotten where they were?

“All we have to do is look in the newspaper editions that came out the day after elections. Okay, let me think; elections are held in even-numbered years, and we didn’t have any city elections last year so that means the last election was in 2002. Counting backwards, that means the city election we’re looking for was held in 1982, and since the city and county elections are staggered, the county election was in 1984. Our city elections are held in June, so we need the June of 1982 newspapers, and November of 1984 for the county commissioners. Sorry I don’t remember the exact dates.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to manage, with so little information to go on,” she said drily, and he chuckled. Before he could reply, his radio beeped, and a voice called out a series of codes. He hooked the radio off his belt and called in, and that was when Nikita realized it was a combination radio and cell phone. She looked at it with more interest, wondering if he would let her examine it. This must be one of the first-generation dual-communicators.

“I have to go,” he said, standing. He frowned as he looked down at her. “Will you be all right here by yourself?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, I’m just five years old instead of thirty; I don’t know how I can possibly manage.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

“Evidently I did.”

“I just feel like you’re in a foreign country, or something.”

“I’m not, I’m in
my
country. I have money, I have your phone number, and I’m certain I can manage to make a call if necessary.”

“All right, all right.” He bent down and dropped a kiss on top of her head. “Is that cell phone of yours a real one, or is it just made to look like one of ours?”

She felt as if she should say something about the kiss, but at the same time it was so casual that mentioning it would almost be making too much over nothing. “I’m afraid it’s fake. It looks like yours, but we no longer use the technology and none of the ones from now still exist.”

“Okay, I’ll get a real one for you. I want to be able to reach you at all times. Stay here until I get back.”

“Are you serious? This is my idea of heaven, to be in a library. Just think of the research I can do!”

He paused on the verge of walking away, curiosity lighting his face. “I’ve wondered about something. To fill in the gaps where so much data was lost, why haven’t your people just traveled back here and taken CDs and things like that back with you?”

“For one thing, your technology won’t transit. We tried it. Books, somewhat, though they’re damaged in the process. Your computers and discs—no. Anything organic transits best. We had to develop special fabric for our clothing, because natural fibers are so rare and expensive in my time.”

His head tilted. “You mean someone wearing polyester wouldn’t transit?”

“Oh, he would, but his clothing wouldn’t.”

A big grin split his face. “You mean he’d arrive stark naked.”

“Exactly.”

“Like the Terminator.”

At her blank look, he explained, “That was a movie, where this assassin from the future arrived without any clothes.”

“Then, yes, just like the Terminator. But you see why filling in those gaps is so difficult. I can research while I’m here, take photos—which most travelers have done, by the way—but there was just so
much
that was lost. And if this UT succeeds, then it’ll be lost forever.”

“He won’t. We’ll figure this out eventually. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, and left.

Nikita moved to the chair he had exited. She wasn’t exactly stranded—after all, her feet still worked—but without a vehicle of her own, she was limited in movement. But the library was a great place to be; not only could she research to her heart’s content, she felt safe here. In fact, now that Knox’s disturbing presence was no longer distracting her, her heart was racing with anticipation. A library! The research possibilities were endless. More excited than she could remember ever being before, she settled down to work.

“What’s wrong?” Byron asked softly, lifting himself on his elbow beside her. His warm hand rested on her bare stomach, in a touch that was both possessive and comforting.

Ruth Lacey looked at the face of her lover. She still couldn’t believe what she was doing, that after all these years she was actually being as unfaithful to her husband as he was to her. No, that wasn’t true; one lover in thirty-something years didn’t compare to dozens, perhaps even hundreds. She hadn’t let Edward touch her in years, not since shortly after Rebecca’s birth, because she was too afraid he’d give her a venereal disease. Later, there had been the risk of AIDS, which had completely destroyed the slight chance that she would ever resume sexual relations with him. She supposed he had somehow stayed disease free all these years, but she wasn’t interested enough to ask.

She should have divorced him. She should have made a better life for herself and Rebecca. But she had kept putting it off, wanting to wait until she was certain Rebecca was settled; then her daughter had died, and so had any incentive Ruth might have had for moving on.

She sighed. There was no point in denying her melancholy. “I saw my daughter’s fiancé this morning, with another woman.”

Byron looked confused. “I thought you said your daughter has been gone for seven years.”

“She has, but I still thought of Knox as
hers.
Logically, I know very few men would have waited this long before settling into another relationship, and, really, I love Knox and want him to be happy, but—but emotionally, I feel as if he’s cheating on her.”

“Ah. I see. How would Rebecca feel?”