Time's Enemy: A Romantic Time Travel Adventure (Saturn Society Book 1) (12 page)

Non-intervention.
Society members are expressly forbidden from interfering in or deliberately changing the past. Any act, no matter how small or inconsequential, can have disastrous, ripple effects. By signing below, the Society member acknowledges that he/she is aware that the consequences for doing so can be severe, up to and including death. Deliberate manipulation of the past for personal benefit will in no case be tolerated.

Tony’s stomach churned, then the slow burn of indigestion rose up his throat.

He couldn’t sign the papers. Couldn’t agree not to do the one thing he desperately wanted. Even if he didn’t fear the consequences from the Saturn Society—after all, how would they know?—he wouldn’t sign an agreement he had no intention of keeping. And if locking people up was how the Society went about signing up new members, he wanted no part of them.

But how would he get out? The door was solid wood, old and heavy. It would take some serious blows from a sledge hammer or axe before it broke.

Then he remembered his cell phone. All the weird stuff was getting to him. He pulled the phone out and punched the speed dial number for the office.

Silence. He looked at the phone and scowled. No service.
What the hell?
He shoved the phone back into his pocket and walked back toward the table. Was that someone talking from the distant bowels of the house? Taylor? He pounded on the door again. “Hey! Let me out of here, Goddammit!”

No one came.

He paced around the windowless room. No doors besides the one through which he’d entered. He looked up. The solid plaster ceiling offered no way to break through either.

Nothing to eat, although someone had left a pitcher of water on the credenza. Not even a place to go to the john. He was screwed. In a final, half-hearted attempt to get Taylor’s attention, he pounded on the door and shouted once more. No response.

He returned to the table and stretched out in a chair, propping his feet on another. Nothing to do but wait and hope she let him out before he had to take a whiz on the carpet.

He tore each sheet of paper into tiny shreds.
Fuck ‘em.
Pounded on the door and yelled again, with the same result as before.

A little after five, he heard the front door slam shut. He jumped up and pounded on the door again, screaming.

Still nothing.

She’d left him.

What was he going to do? He was trapped until she came back. It was Friday, too. What if she didn’t return until Monday? What if she never came back at all?

He’d starve. It might be months before someone found him—

Come on, Solomon, you’re letting your imagination get the best of you.
Someone would come eventually. But the prospect of being locked up in there the entire weekend was looking more likely.

There had to be a way out. He jumped up, strode to the credenza, and threw open the top right drawer. Empty. Ditto for the two below it.

The center cabinet held a pillow and a pair of blankets. Under the blankets lurked an antique-looking covered dish about the size of a casserole. Huh
?
He scratched the back of his neck, then stopped mid-scratch. A chamber pot. How long were they planning to keep him there? And where was he supposed to dump it, should he have to use it?

He flung open the top left drawer. A couple pencils rolled forward and hit a can opener. He picked up the latter. If he couldn’t find anything better, he could use it to break through the plaster wall. Blank papers lay in the middle drawer. Nothing he could use to pick the lock. Hope dwindling, he pulled the bottom drawer’s handle.

A yellowed certificate in a wooden frame lay inside. He picked it up and read.

The Saturn Society

Certificate of Highest Achievement

Presented this Seventeenth day of October, 1954 to

Theodore Pippin

In recognition of loyal service and dedication in finding, apprehending,
and stopping those whose actions unjustly influence the flow of time.

Tony glanced at the photo of the two men. The certificate was the award the black man was accepting. He must be Pippin.

Tony replaced the certificate and shoved the drawer closed.

As if knowing his situation, his stomach growled, even though he wasn’t hungry. The body could live for many days without food. People went on hunger strikes for weeks. But the pitcher of water wouldn’t last long.

And he had other things to do. His job. Sunday night supper with his parents and Lisa’s family. Watching college basketball playoffs.

Oh, who was he kidding? Other than his job, he had nothing important to do. But even if he had food, books, even TV, a weekend spent locked in a tiny room wasn’t his idea of fun.

He started back for the table, then stopped. Maybe he could warp in time. Back to before Taylor Gressman was there.

It was worth a shot.

Mental energy, that’s what she said it took. And all he had to do was imagine...

Last week he’d jumped back to two years ago. He could do it again.

He concentrated, waiting for the dizziness to hit.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, squeezed his eyes shut, imagined himself full of psychic energy, thought about two years ago.

Still nothing.

He tried other years. Four years ago. Ten years. Fifteen. One. The dizziness never came, and the room remained unchanged. And locked.

Maybe he’d never traveled in time after all. The thought relieved him, but he wasn’t looking forward to digging through that heavy plaster wall with a can opener.

Could be he wasn’t imagining hard enough. His gaze lit on the photograph of Theodore Pippin receiving his award.
Okay, 1954, what the hell.
He tried again. Lightheadedness swept over him, but only for a second. Could’ve been wishful thinking.

Perhaps it would help if he pictured the room as it was five decades ago. That woman had said something about visualizing. He studied the photo. It had been taken in that very room. Pippin stood beside the little table, with the credenza behind him. Striped wallpaper covered the walls, and an unremarkable still life painting behind him made it look like flowers were growing out of his hat—

The vertigo swept through Tony. He stumbled and grabbed for a chair, then looked down as his balance stabilized.

The worn, wall-to-wall carpet had given way to hardwood floor with an oriental rug beneath the table. The painting he’d seen in the photo had replaced the photographs. And someone had taped flyers all over the striped, papered walls. At least three dozen, each with a mug shot, like wanted posters.

He stepped closer to one, and saw that was exactly what they were.
Sought by the Saturn Society,
the headings read.

Thoughts of escape left him while he scanned the bills. Some were men, some women. Some young, some old. White, black, Asian, Hispanic, Native American...

Below each picture was a name, a date of birth (some of which were in Tony’s future—one was in 2022), and the reason they were wanted. Most of these were “For disruption of the time-space continuum.” Below that, a line read “Capabilities,” and had four check boxes beside it, labeled Minimal, Average, High, and Exceptional. All but a few were Average.

He’d walked halfway around the room when one flyer made his heart stop for a second. The name below the photo was Tony Solomon.

He froze, an icy fist clamped around his throat. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see anything but his own face, starting at him from between a beard and longish, unkempt hair.

He stepped closer, conscious of his footfalls on the wooden floor.
No way.
It had to be another Tony Solomon. He’d never let his hair get like that, or wear a beard. He’d tried to grow one before, and it always itched like hell to the point he shaved it off before it ever filled in. But despite the differences, the features behind the man’s oval, wire-rim glasses were frighteningly familiar, as were the glasses themselves.

The man in the photo had more gray in his hair, too. But the date of birth was May first. Tony’s birthday. Under “Capabilities,” the checkbox next to “Exceptional” was marked. The physical description matched too, except Tony weighed more than the flyer noted by a good twenty pounds. Too close to be a coincidence.

Somewhere a door slammed. Footsteps approached in the hallway. “Hello?” a man called.

Tony glanced around. What would the guy do if he caught him? Keep him locked up, or worse? His legs seemed made of rubber, but he forced them to move and ran to the door, hoping to catch the man by surprise and rush past him to freedom.

He gripped the doorknob and tried to turn it. Still locked. A phone rang, a clanging, metallic sound. Probably in that little alcove across the hall. He pressed his ear to the thick, wooden door. Something clicked. “Pippin,” the man said.

Holy shit, the guy in the picture.

Tony’s body went rigid. He glanced across the room at his own face, staring balefully from the wanted poster. He wanted to sit down, stretch his legs out, and take a nap.

“...got to go, I have a visitor,” Pippin said. “I’ll get back to you...”

Rock formed in Tony’s chest. The guy was coming for him, no time for a nap. And there he was, one of the Society’s most wanted. He’d have to warp back further, before the Saturn Society arrived in Dayton.

The plaque by the door had said established nineteen fourteen. Tony fought the increasing urge to sit down—hell, even the floor was starting to look good—and squeezed his eyes shut. He would warp to the Smoke Shop that had been on the site before the Saturn Society House. He was on the second floor, so he’d likely wind up in the shop’s attic. He’d leave when the store closed for the night. Hopefully they wouldn’t have a guard dog.

He heard the clang of the phone being replaced on its hook, then footsteps.

Nineteen-thirteen, nineteen-thirteen!
He squeezed his eyes shut. Imagined a deserted attic. Bare rafters overhead in a sloped roof. Maybe some crates of tobacco. He gripped the doorframe, and this time was prepared when the dizzy spell hit.

When it passed, he opened his eyes. Too dark to see anything. The room was cool, but not uncomfortably so. A roaring sound came from all around him.

Thunder cracked, and a light, woodsy smell of tobacco permeated the room. The roar was rain pelting the roof. In the burst of lightning that followed he saw hulking, square crates and boxes. He’d made it.

He rose to take a look around, swearing when he bumped his head on the low, slanted ceiling. He rubbed the sore spot as his eyes adjusted to the dim light coming from a low window in the gable end of the attic. A feeling of accomplishment spread through him. He’d done it. Gone back in time of his own will, escaped the prison where that Taylor girl had locked him. Escaped Theodore Pippin and God knew what.

He gazed around the room, then moved slowly toward the middle of the room, where a gap in the crates could indicate an exit. But each step took more of an effort, his body growing heavier by the second. Lightning flashed, and dust swirled at his feet. The attic obviously wasn’t frequented regularly. He squinted toward the window in the gable end. Had he seen a pile of blankets over there?

A stairwell descended from the center of the attic. Heat wafted up from it. A crack of light showed around the shut door at the foot of the stairs, and voices drifted from beyond. He’d sneak out later, then warp home from outside.

But he had to rest first. Must be that mental energy thing. He forced himself to take another step.

At the other end of the room, he found an old quilt draped over a crate. He snatched the quilt and laid it on the floor behind a couple more crates that would block him from view should someone come upstairs. He lay down and pulled the blanket around him. It smelled musty, but as weary as he was, it could’ve stunk like a skunk and he wouldn’t have cared. A man’s voice drifted from downstairs. “Thanky, sir, and have yourself a nice Easter!”

“Be better if this rain would stop,” a second man said. “Least it’s Friday.” He said something else Tony didn’t hear, then a door slammed.

The rain’s steady drumming started to lull him to sleep almost instantly. Hopefully, no one would find him before he woke.

The whistles woke Charlotte before dawn on Tuesday morning. They stopped for a few seconds, then started up again, strident even above the steady beating of rain on the roof. In the brief pauses she heard church bells ringing, every bell in town from the sound of it. “Papa?” She tumbled out of bed. “Mabel?”

The other bed in the room she shared with her sister creaked and a loud sigh told her the noise had roused the older girl too. “Mabel? What’s going on?” Charlotte asked.

“Don’t know. But it isn’t good.”

Charlotte bit back a retort. She might be only nine, but she wasn’t a dunce. Sometimes Mabel didn’t seem to realize that.

They stumbled downstairs, where their father stood at a window, watching the rain.

Mabel’s eyes went round. “We’re going to get flooded, aren’t we?”

“Flooded?” Charlotte twisted a strand of wavy blond hair around a finger.