Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3) (23 page)

As I say it, I realize that Kiernan’s decision not to go on this jump is evidence of how much has changed. Kiernan has the same information that Trey does about Rio. If Trey could use the key, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. I’d have 24/7 backup. The same would’ve been true for six-years-ago Kiernan, even if it took him weeks to build up enough “battery power” to make the jumps.

“I could ask Max to go,” I say reluctantly. “It might not be too bad, if he’d stay in the background.”

“He can use the key?”

“So Connor didn’t tell you everything,” I say as Connor walks in, heading straight for the coffeepot.

“I hit the high spots. Anyone else want some? There’s no milk . . .”

Trey passes, but I need the buzz. “I can take it black. And yeah, Max can use the key. Not very well, from what Delia said on the video, but he can use it.”

“And he’s the only one?” Trey asks. “The only jumper? What good is this Fifth Column if they can’t back you up?”

“Well, for starters, they created a vaccine.” I fill him in on the events at the Fifth Column meeting. When I’m done, he shakes his head.

“So Tilson is the only one who’s done anything really meaningful—he and his colleagues. The rest of the group seems more concerned about jet packs and making sure their branch of Cyrists survives.”

“Well, maybe. But the jet pack thing was to keep me from breaking my neck. And . . . they don’t want to kill anybody. They want to stop the genocide.”

Connor snorts as he slides my coffee in front of me. “Bravo, Fifth Column. They win
all
the gold stars.” He pries open the toffee and grabs a few pieces. It smells good, but I don’t have any appetite. I wave it away when he pushes the tin toward me.

“Yeah,” Trey says. “If the best thing you can say about them is that they’re not in favor of genocide, especially when that genocide would apparently include them, since they’re New Cyrists, well . . .” He shakes his head.

What they’re saying makes sense, but I can’t help but feel I’ve painted Julia’s group too cynically. “The religion is part of their heritage. Even knowing the bad side, maybe they want to salvage something. To turn those resources into a force for good?”

They nod, although I doubt either of them is convinced. I’m not even convinced. But going back to what Katherine said earlier, they’re the only allies we have, and we need allies.

“Would Max help you get the key from Bess?” Trey asks. “Honestly. Don’t just say what I need to hear because I’m worried.”

I think for a moment. “If he stayed in the background . . . I guess. Maybe?”

“But you don’t think he will?”

“No. Max seems like . . . maybe he’s jealous of my ability with the key? He wants to play hero. I don’t think he’d be content just providing cover. And I’m worried having him there might spook Bess. I mean, you’ve both seen Max.”

“Yes,” Connor says dryly. “If this Fifth Column gig doesn’t work out, I hear they’re casting for a biopic of the Rock.”

I snicker because there actually is some resemblance in the face, even though Max isn’t anywhere near
that
large. “The bigger issue is that Julia didn’t want me going after Houdini yet. She didn’t know the key he has belonged to Prudence, but she told me to wait, and I’m thinking that after defying her about London, this would just make things worse. I’ll be careful. And I’ll have the gun.”

They both go a little pale, and I wish I hadn’t reminded them about the Colt.

“What if Bess says she doesn’t have the key?” Connor asks.

“Then I go back to when they left the restaurant in 1905 and take it by force. If that fails, I go back and track down Ira Davenport. Either way, I need this over and done with before tomorrow morning. We’re supposed to meet at Tilson’s place at eleven. I don’t have the address, though. Just coordinates.”

A yawn punctuates the last sentence. I glance at the clock. It’s only eight, but I was up much of the night, and I’m not sure how many hours have been packed into this day.

“It’s okay,” Trey says. “Tilson lives maybe ten or fifteen miles north of Gaithersburg. I have his number. I’ll call, get the address, and meet you there.”

“Or maybe come back and pick me up here? A car ride, a little time to wake up properly, would be really, really nice.”

Connor gives me a hesitant look. “Umm . . . this isn’t something Julia expects Katherine and me to attend, is it? Because . . .”

“No. Julia said you should stay here. Anyone watching the place is used to seeing Trey come and go. Julia even has him listed as a student intern, in case he comes with me to her office. But you and Katherine . . .”

“Yeah. As you can tell from the fridge, I haven’t even been going to the store lately. And I don’t think she should be out this soon given the headaches—”

Trey clears his throat and glances toward the door.

“What Trey is trying to tell you is that
she
is standing in the doorway listening to every word you say.” Katherine’s sunglasses are the large, dark kind that cover half of her face. They hide the circles under her eyes, but she’s still pale. A black dress—one that actually
looks
like a dress and not a disaster—is flung over her arm, along with a beaded handbag. “Julia is correct. Connor and I can do more good here, getting background information or whatever else you need.”

She slides the beaded bag across the table. “This one is close to what girls carried back then, but I’ll find something else if it’s too small. I’d rather have people notice you for an odd handbag than because the barrel of a Colt is sticking out the side.”

Katherine seems much more at ease with the idea of me carrying the gun than Connor or Trey is, which makes me wonder if this is a guy thing. Would they be less worried if Trey were the one packing heat?

I take the bag. “I’ll make sure the gun will fit when I’m getting ready.” Another yawn hits. “Sorry.”

“How many hours since you slept?” Katherine asks with a knowing look.

“It was in London, so technically, last night.” I shrug. “I’m okay. Nothing another cup of Connor’s coffee won’t fix.”

Katherine reaches out and takes the purse back. “No. You need more sleep, not less, when doing long-distance jumps. I don’t care how adept you are with that key, travel wipes you out. And I can only imagine the impact of multiple jumps to different locations in a single day. We never did that, even during training. We had a day or two off between jumps.” She shakes her head. “You need your wits about you, and that’s hard to manage when you’re exhausted.”

“But Trey just got here. I don’t think I could sleep yet anyway. And we need food.”

“We’ll get food,” Katherine says. “And Trey can stay until you wind down enough to sleep. But I’m keeping the dress until morning.”

278 W. 113
TH
S
TREET
, N
EW
Y
ORK

November 9, 1926, 3:12 p.m.

The rain is coming down hard, much harder than I’d have guessed viewing through the key. This has taken five jumps so far, and I really hope Bess is home and in a mood to talk, because I’m tired of stalking her.

My first jump this morning was to set up observation points for watching Houdini’s townhome. I blinked into a stable point behind the Block House in Central Park on April 4, 1965—a clear spring morning chosen entirely at random—and walked several blocks to 113th Street, where I set up four local points to observe the comings and goings at number 278. Then I caught a cab and set a few more points near the Elks Club, where Houdini’s memorial was held, and a few more outside Machpelah Cemetery.

Most of that was a total waste of time. The initial plan was to corner Bess at the memorial or the burial. According to the
New York Times
, there were over two thousand people at Houdini’s services on November 4th, but having been there, I’d say that was an understatement. I was never able to get anywhere near Bess.

So I spent the next hour in the CHRONOS version of a stakeout, watching the stable points around the Houdinis’ townhouse from the sofa in my room. Friends escorted Bess home, and there was a steady trail of visitors until early evening when she left for a second memorial at a nearby theater.

That’s when things got interesting. The car carrying Bess had barely rounded the corner when two men appeared on the front stoop in a flash of blue light. While I couldn’t see their faces, I’m pretty sure one of them was Simon. The other guy was taller, thinner, but that’s all I could tell from his silhouette.

Once they were inside, there was intermittent activity on all four floors for nearly two hours. The lights stayed on until about a minute before Bess arrived home, so they were clearly watching her movements. And unless they got really lucky during that last minute, I don’t think they found what they were looking for.

So . . . the Cyrists know Houdini has a key. But how long have they known? Who told them? I’m not sure, but given that they’ve clearly been watching the house, I’m glad I listened when Trey suggested jumping in at a random date to set these observation points.

There was a flurry of police activity at the house that night and again the next morning. I skipped forward a few days, looking for a time when scrutiny died down and Bess seemed to be alone, but after a half hour or so, I said screw it. Waiting for the precise, perfectly right moment to present itself isn’t a viable option in a doomsday scenario.

And so I’m here in the rain. I duck under the umbrella as I cross the street, both to shield me from the afternoon shower and from anyone who might be watching via CHRONOS key. A middle-aged woman answers my knock almost immediately. After a quick glance at my face, she says, “Come in. Bess has been expecting you.”

Both the foyer and the parlor off to the right are dark. I don’t get the feeling this is simply because the house is in mourning or even due to the overcast sky. It’s just a dark home—the paneling is dark and the windows are narrow. I doubt it would be bright and airy even on the nicest spring day.

We go up three flights of stairs to a library, and when the woman opens the door, I see Bess seated on the carpet. Papers are strewn everywhere, and she’s replacing books on the shelves. She’s older now, and mostly gray, but her features are still childlike.

“Thanks, Marie,” Bess says without looking up.

As Marie closes the door, I hear an unearthly screech, followed by a high-pitched voice proclaiming, “I am the Great Houdini.”

I jump, turning toward the sound. The outline of a cage against the window reveals that it’s only a stupid parrot. I try to relax, but the adrenaline surge has my body on full alert, and I jump again when Bess slams another book into place.

“Mrs. Houdini,” I begin, “I’m so sorry for your—”

“Did you send them?”

“Who?”

She picks up another book off the floor and waves it toward me before shoving it onto the shelf.

“No, I didn’t send the men who did this. But I saw it happen. I watched through the key the night of your husband’s funeral. Two men with CHRONOS keys broke into your house. I couldn’t have stopped them, Mrs. Houdini—not without alerting them to the fact that I know you have the medallion. And there’s far too much at stake for me to risk that. Did they find it?”

“No. And you won’t, either.”

My stomach sinks. “He got rid of it?”

“I didn’t
say
that,” she sniffs. “I just said you won’t find it. You fix this . . . you bring him back to me . . . and then I’ll give you the key.”

Bess shoves two more books onto the shelves, thwack, thwack,
and reaches for a third.

I crouch down a few feet away so that I’m at eye level with her. “I can’t do that.”

She’s quick. The book is out of her hand and flying toward my head before I realize it. I barely have time to lift my arm. Even so, the force of the blow knocks me off balance and I land on my backside.

“You
knew
they were planning to kill him!” she screams. “Didn’t you? And you did nothing to stop it! Nothing to warn us so we could take precautions.”

I pick up the book that bounced off my arm—
Was Abraham Lincoln a Spiritualist?—
and move it out of her reach. She still has plenty of ammo on the other side, however, so I keep an eye on her hands.

“They didn’t kill him, Mrs. Houdini. I don’t know if you remember what Kiernan told you about time travel, but I’ve read historical accounts from this timeline and ones from when there were no Cyrists around to threaten anyone. He died the same day in the very same way
both times.”

“Bushwa! Then why did that guy ask him about the key? Before he punched him?”

I have to guess at what the first part means, but I have no idea how to answer her questions.

In both timelines, Houdini died from a ruptured appendix. In both timelines, insurance paid double indemnity because some guy punched him in the gut when he wasn’t ready. Apparently Houdini liked to play the macho dude, something that doesn’t surprise me, having met him. Several biographers said he’d go around challenging young guys to punch him in the stomach, saying he could take anything they could dish out.