Time Was (6 page)

Even though he'd employed the Catherine Wheel program, they'd somehow managed to crack it.

But how? Robillard had no idea of the modifications that Preston had made in the past five years, turning the Catherine Wheel into more than either of them had ever imagined.

He looked at the three figures in the photograph again and
thought about the bright moments of youth that were all too quickly lost.

And the mistakes you sometimes made.

Oh, God, the mistakes.

He could feel the fire inside sparking back to life.

He laid the photograph facedown on his desk—perhaps a bit too hard.

“No human being could have done what they did,” he said aloud to the lonely office, then popped two more pills into his mouth.

He picked up his phone, punched in a number, checked the time, almost hung up, then someone on the other end answered.

“It's me,” he said. “I need to get in touch with Janus as quickly as possible.”

Just saying the man's name made the blood chill in his arteries.

But he had to do it. His only other alternative would be to contact Annabelle Donohoe.

Anything was preferable to that.

Even dealing with a Class-A, #1, certifiable nuclear bomb of a dangerously unpredictable psycho like Janus.

Janus
, he thought.

And the chill blood in Preston's arteries froze solid.

 

Time was the child had known happiness, hope, and acceptance.

123:18:22

But no more.

Never again. Not in this darkness. All this darkness.

Help me,
he whimpered.

But no one answered. No one came.

123:18:02

Soon, it wouldn't matter. Soon, the darkness would be all.

And so the child remained still and silent.

But inside he was screaming. . . .

 

Annabelle Donohoe's expensively manicured fingernails, today sporting bloodred metallic polish, drummed rhythmically on the teak desk in her penthouse office in WorldTech's main building.

The incessant
scritch-scratch-scrape
sounded like the sharp, staccato cadence of a military drum beating the death march at an official execution.

Her face was backlit by rows of state-of-the-art track lighting and obscured somewhat by the wisps of smoke curling from the tip of her cigarette.

She sat hidden in shadows, except for her eyes, which shone with a bright, ominous anger visible from ten feet away.

She rose from her chair and leaned on the desk. A small light installed at the base of her intercom cast a diffuse glow upward, creating gothic shadows. Her face, though beautiful, looked like something out of the final reel of a black-and-white horror film. But that was all right.

She'd installed the light just for that effect.

She stared down at the well-dressed man who stood at the foot of the twenty-four-inch high dais that supported her desk.
“Well?”

“Very intimidating, madam,” replied Simmons, her personal assistant.

Annabelle's mouth twisted into a smile, which on her face fell somewhere between a smirk and a sneer. “Everything's ready?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Then let's not keep our visitor waiting.”

“Very good, madam.” Simmons turned and exited through the
large wooden doors at the far end of the office. His Italian leather shoes whispered across the plush, dark carpeting.

It reminded Annabelle of the sound of a terminal cancer patient's last death rattle of breath.

She found the sound not at all unpleasant.

She crushed out her cigarette, lit a fresh one, then positioned herself on the desktop so that the first thing her visitor would see was her left side—her most intimidating side, if the rumors she heard were to be believed.

She cast a quick glance at the seven-by-nine-foot photograph of the late actress Joan Crawford that covered a large portion of the wall behind her desk. “Bette Davis had nothing on you, babe. Not even Dietrich could be as nasty.”

Her free hand reached up and clutched the small locket that dangled on a fragile gold chain she wore around her surprisingly delicate throat.
What did I know
, she thought.
What did I know of love's austere and lonely offices?

She drifted away for a moment, turned a corner in her mind, and tried to recall the name and author of the poem from which that line had come; as always happened when she went around that corner, she pulled in a slow melancholy breath, for it was only here, in this secret place that no one else knew or would ever know about, that she was not entirely in control of her destiny.

And that stuck in her throat like bile.

Nowhere on this earth was there anyone who believed more in controlling her own destiny than Annabelle. She refused to believe in luck, or happenstance, or fate and divine intervention. She had as a child, but now, as far as she was concerned, such flights of fancy were the last refuge of the hysteric: frantic attempts to explain chaos—or at least give the appearance of having explained it. They were too easy and too cheap a way out of a dilemma.

Annabelle refused to shake her head and throw her hands up in thrashed capitulation to the incomprehensible machinations of the universe. No, not for her; she was a woman driven to answer all the questions at hand, to meet every challenge issued, or else succumb to the snarl altogether.

If she had to go down, she would do so fighting.

And probably take several dozen people with her.

But Annabelle Donohoe, CEO of WorldTech, had no intention of being brought down; not by the so-called turns of nonexistent Fate and especially—
most
especially—not by the back-alley, late-night duplicities of an underling who thought the quickest way up the rungs of this particular corporate ladder was to step on her toes, symbolic or otherwise.

She exhaled a plume of smoke, ran her tongue over her lips, moistening them, and then pulled her dress up just a tad higher, showing a bit more thigh than was necessary or professional.

She wanted to make the little twerp sweat in every possible manner.

The office doors opened and Simmons entered, followed by a young man in an expensive power suit that had been tailored to accentuate his well-toned body.

Annabelle swallowed her urge to laugh. With his dark, slicked-back hair, striped shirt, solid color tie, and suspenders, he looked like a throwback to the laughable Wall Street power brokers of the early 1980s. Of course, 80s retro was very
in
right now, and this twerp hadn't even a passing acquaintance with an original notion and so followed what he'd been told was popular.

This is going to be fun
, though Annabelle, knowing all too well how a tiger felt the moment before it snuffed out the life of a fleeing zebra.

“Madam,” said Simmons, closing the door behind him and gesturing toward the young man, “Mr. Anton Tyler to see you.”

“Thank you, Simmons,” she replied. “Please remain in the room.” She looked down through the smoke and shadows at Tyler. “Richard Nixon recorded the conversations in the Oval Office when he was president; I prefer to have Simmons present. Of course you don't mind.” It was not a question.

She pointed to a chair and Tyler took a seat, doing an admirable job of masking his anxiety.

“So, Mr. Tyler—or should I say Tye? That's what everyone calls you, isn't it?”

“Yes, Ms. Donohoe,” replied the young man. He had a surprisingly high voice for one whose form was so classically manly.

“Oh, do let's dispense with the ‘Ms. Donohoe' nonsense, shall we? Call me Annabelle.”

“I . . . uh, I don't know that I'm comfortable with—”

“But I insist,” interrupted Annabelle. “I
absolutely
insist upon it. I wish for all gutsy folks to call me by my first name.” She picked up a folder and tossed it over the desk, down into Tyler's hands. “Especially those who go behind my back and attempt to submit unflattering reports to the Board of Directors. I think that brand of gutsiness—and it's quite rare around here—requires that we dispense with formalities. Of course you agree with that, Tye.”

His eyes widened with panic. “Ms. Dono—uh, um—Anna—
Ms. Donohoe
, I can explain this.”

“You can? Did you hear that, Simmons? Our friend Tye here says he can explain the unflattering contents of those eleven and a half, impeccably-typed, single-spaced pages that he holds in his hands.”

“What a relief, madam.”

“Yes, I thought you'd think so.” She sat down, blew a puff of smoke down into Tyler's face, and grinned as he coughed and waved away the cloud, trying to read the pages.

“I trust my smoking doesn't bother you.”

“N-n-no, Ms. Donohoe. Not at all.”

She blew another stream into his face. “I'm listening,” said Annabelle.

“I'll be honest with you, Ms. Donohoe—”

“Honesty is good, I like honesty. Simmons, what are your feelings about honesty?”

“That it is the best possible policy, madam.”

“So we're all agreed that honesty is what's needed here. I beg your pardon, Tye, I seem to have interrupted you once again. Please, do go on.”

Tyler loosened his collar, stretched his neck, and rubbed his arm, already sweating more than Annabelle had hoped.

“Do you think it's hot in here, Tye?”

“Maybe just a little. I apologize, I . . . I seem to be running a slight fever.”

“Did you agree to the drug test this morning? I certainly hope so, Tye. Everyone here has to submit to it every three months or I send them on their merry, unemployed way.”

“Yes, ma'am, I did.”

“Oh, no—don't you
ma'am
me, Tye. ‘Ma'am' is for English nannies and other assorted old maids.” She moved around enough to expose a little more thigh and was pleased that the young man's eyes focused precisely where she wanted them to. “You don't think I'm an old maid, do you, Tye?”

“Not at all.”

The barely contained lust in his gaze and words amused Annabelle no end.

“Don't even think about it, Tye. I'd chew you up and spit you out before you even had your shirt off.”

“I . . . I'm sorry if I was staring at—”

“You're perspiring, Tye. Temperature up a bit, is it?”

He blinked. “Yes, Ms. Donohoe.”

Annabelle poured herself a healthy dose of cold water and sipped at it, reveling in the look on Tyler's face as the ice
tink
ed against the sides of the glass.

“I'll tell you what, Tye; I'm going to give you one chance—
one
—to explain to me why you did what you did, and if at any time during your explanation you sound even the least bit supercilious, Simmons over there is going to tie knots in your spine. Is any of that unclear so far? I could start again and talk slower.”

“No, you've made yourself quite clear, Ms. Donohoe.”

His explanation wasn't precisely what Annabelle was expecting.

She listened with great interest as the little cockroach explained that he'd been sent over from the main Accounting Division to secretly examine the books from the last five years, paying particular attention to the budgetary excesses of the last sixteen months—specifically, the money that Annabelle had allotted for the continued search for Zac Robillard and the five I-Bots.

“The board has become seriously concerned about the money, time, and company resources that you've . . . squandered on this search,” said Tyler. “Some of the board members feel that you've . . . well, that you've . . .”

“Gone a little overboard?” prompted Annabelle.

“Yes. The word they've been using is ‘obsessed.'”

Annabelle drummed her fingernails on the desk once again, louder this time, more forcefully. “And what is your personal opinion, Tye? Do
you
think I'm obsessed with Robillard and the I-Bots?”

“It's not my place to say, Ms. Donohoe. When my predecessor, Mr. James, resigned and left the company with all of his notes—”

Annabelle lifted her index finger and shook it from side to side, twice. “Ah-ah—be careful you don't jump to conclusions, Tye. That can be hazardous to your health.”

Tyler blinked, looked back at Simmons, then swallowed loudly as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I'm afraid I don't understand, Ms. Dono—”

“You will.” Annabelle walked away from her desk and pointed to the large photograph on the wall. “Do you know who this woman is, Tye?”

“Can't say that I do.”

Annabelle shook her head. “Infidels, Simmons. Tyler here is among those pitiful infidels who haven't the slightest idea who St.Joan was.”

“Most distressing, madam.”

“Isn't it?” She returned her attention to Tyler. “This was a great lady and great actress, Tye. Her name was Joan Crawford, and in her day she was
the
grande dame bitch of Hollywood. At one point in her life she was married to the CE0 of Pepsi. When he died, he left all his stocks to her. Pepsi's board of directors was a little uncomfortable with having a woman in charge of their company, and they asked her to step down. Do you know what she said to them, Tye? No, of Course you don't. St. Joan laughed in their faces, refused to step down, and said to them—and this is a direct quote from the minutes of that meeting—‘Don't screw with me, fellahs.' I admire her. That declaration to Pepsi's board of directors has been something of a mantra for me all these years.”