A Twist in Time

Chapter 15

Casey watched the old guy stroll across the interview room like he didn’t have a care in the world. Lowell didn’t look around at the hive of activity, didn’t acknowledge Evans and Jameson at his side. Huaraches, torn jeans, a suede jacket with ridiculous amounts of fringe. Went with the gray ponytail and the beard. Guys stuck in the past were pathetic.

Casey pointed to the interview room and Lowell strolled inside and took a seat on one of the folding chairs, legs crossed out in front of him. Casey motioned Evans and Jameson out. He remained standing. That always intimidated them. “Jake Lowell?”

“Yup.”

“You the manager of 1632 Filbert?”

“Yup. Owner, too. You already know that.”

Lowell’s eyes were appraising. Not afraid. Not even with being dragged down to a federal building with a special elevator and into a busy beehive of hard men in suits. Interesting. There was one kind of guy who wouldn’t be intimidated. Casey felt himself getting excited.

“Wanted to talk to you about a car that was down in the parking lot of the building.”

“What car was that?”

“Tenants say it was an old blue Chevy, maybe a Pontiac. Say it never moved.”

“I might remember a car like that. . . .” But he only seemed to consider.

“Your tenants have assigned spaces?”

“Nah. It’s every man for himself. Or woman.”

“Do you have records of your tenants’ cars, since they’re parking on your property?”

“Not much into keeping tabs on people. Too much trouble.”

Casey pulled on his upper lip with his teeth. “So you don’t know who owned it.”

“Doesn’t anybody claim it?” Lowell looked surprised. “Guess you could break in and see the registration, seeing as you’re who you are.”

“And who is that, Mr. Lowell?”

“You tell me. Something with lots of initials. CIA. NSA. Branch of the military. Maybe NIATF, even. Not retired and selling yourself on the street corner, or you wouldn’t be using this building.”

“You have a lively imagination, Mr. Lowell.” That nailed it. Nobody would guess NIATF. No one even knew about it. “To get back to our point. The car is missing.”

Lowell glanced to the one-way glass. “All this trouble over a stolen car? Law enforcement must be rolling in dough these days. Well, I guess murders were down in the city last year. Gotta have something to do.”

“You’re a real comedian, Mr. Lowell.”

“Nah. I’m not smart enough. Lenny Bruce. Now he was a comedian. Richard Pryor. Sam Kinison. They were comedians.” Lowell folded his hands across his thighs and waited.

Casey called on his well-known control. “Was that your car, Mr. Lowell?”

“Don’t have a car. Walk or ride the cable cars. Better for the earth.”

“Do you know who took the car?”

“Say, does this have anything to do with that former tenant you were asking about?”

“Lucy Rossano, Mr. Lowell. Don’t pretend you don’t remember who we were looking for. And yes, it does.”

Jake shook his head. “Well . . . maybe the car was hers then and it’s wherever she is.”

Casey turned his back so Lowell wouldn’t see his frustration. How did you break someone who had probably played this game a thousand times?

After a minute Lowell said, “So, anything else I can do for you? It’s getting late.”

Casey took a moment before he replied. He didn’t turn around. “No. You can go. I wouldn’t leave town if I were you.”

Casey heard the man stand. The chair scraped back. “You seem to have extra help, so feel free to set a tail on me. Better get some good walkers, though. I’m spry for my age.”

The door opened and closed. Casey stood for a long minute more. The guy was a spook, or had been. He’d either blackmailed somebody or been paid off with a lot of cash and a new identity for very dirty work. He was involved in the Lucy Rossano mess up to his eyeballs.

But did you ever retire? Did anyone ever let you? Maybe Lowell was working for a rival agency. The CIA would kill for a time machine. Maybe the NIATF had a leak. Or maybe Casey’s bosses were only pretending not to believe him about what it was. Maybe they didn’t trust him to bring it home and were running a shadow operation. One thing was certain. It was too much of a coincidence that Lucy Rossano was living in an apartment building with an ex-spook.

“Hey, Colonel, did you mean to let Lowell go?”

“Of course I meant it,” Casey snapped without turning around. “We can pick him up again whenever we want.”

“Right.” Evans did a disappearing act.

Casey wanted Lowell in the worst way. Nobody was going to get that machine but him. But it was more than that. Jake Lowell thought he was better than Casey at his own game.

So Jake Lowell was going down. But first Casey had to find out what he was up against, who Lowell was working for. Time to call in some very old chips.

By the time Lucy and Galen got back to the marina, the clouds had spilled over the coastal range and were racing, dark and low, across the bay. Lucy took out her key and fumbled at the lock. Galen loomed close behind her. The electric feeling in the air echoed some feeling inside her. Down the dock, the hard guy was out on his deck screwing down something. Boats took a lot of maintenance. The Camelot was impeccable. Jake must hire a service to do it. How did he pay them without leaving a trace?

The father and his son were out on the deck of their old Catalina, too.

“Goddamned dog,” the father slurred, his voice loud enough so she and Galen could hear him clearly over the creak of boats rocking in their slips. “Get him up here, Kevin.” The father had a lined and pinched face, his eyes narrow, whether from squinting against the sun or just because he didn’t want to take in very much of what he saw she didn’t know.

“He didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Dad.” The kid was surly, his hair brush-cut like his dad’s, his jacket worn out at the elbows. “They was my socks. I didn’t care nothin’ about them.”

“Him or you,” the father threatened. “Leavin’ crap all over where he can get at it . . .” The father’s fists were balled up at his sides. “You think money grows on trees?”

The kid took a couple of heaving breaths, thinking about rebellion before he slumped and disappeared down the hatch. The man looked around and stumbled over to a stout stick with a hook on it used for hauling in big fish like marlin or tuna and picked it up. Lucy had a horrible image of spurting blood until he grabbed it by the hook end and stood there, tapping the long handle against his palm. That was bad enough.

Lucy’s pulse raced. The boat loaded with impending violence was several down to the right. She and Galen should be turning left to get to the Camelot, but Lucy couldn’t just walk away. She glanced to the hard guy, maybe five boats farther down from the boat in question, but he studiously turned his back. He’d seen this before.

The kid came up the hatch dragging the big black dog behind him, rope around his neck.

“Get him over here,” the father slurred. “Teach him to chew socks.”

The dog knew what was up. Maybe he had seen this before, too. Or felt it. He sat down and the kid had to drag him over, the dog pulling and shaking to get out of the rope noose.

“Damned dog.”

The dog whined and cringed, pulling against the rope as he rocked back on his haunches. The boy had gone flat and emotionless. He held the rope about halfway down its length so the dog had nowhere to go. The sound of the dog’s nails scrabbling against he wooden slats of the deck mingled with his whining. The man raised the handle, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

Lucy wasn’t going to sit here and watch a dog get hurt. “Hey, stop that” she yelled. The handle paused. She started forward.

Galen was around her and off at a run. “Stay here,” he growled.

“No, Galen!” He was in no shape to take on a guy like that. She hurried after Galen.

The father raised the handle again. Galen leaped aboard the boat and strode over to catch the handle with his left hand before it came down on the dog. He wrenched it away easily, holding it by the hook end, as his adversary had. The kid looked like Martians had just landed.

The father staggered back. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You will not beat my hund.”

“Not your hound. Not your business. Get off my boat.”

“I take my hund now.” Galen held out the hand of his bad shoulder to the kid for the rope.

“Like hell you will.” The man straightened up. The shock had sobered him. He wasn’t swaying anymore. Oh, this was bad. The kid took a step back, eyes frightened.

“Galen,” she called, not knowing quite what she wanted to say but sure she had to stop what might happen here.

He ignored her. Instead he just tossed the fishhook into the air and caught it by the handle, so the hook end was available for business. He grinned, his eyes glittering. A kind of sureness radiated from him. He swung the hook backward without looking and put it through a port in the cabin. Glass shattered. Shards tinkled to the deck. “You come now. We fight.”

The guy’s eyes shifted around, looking for a weapon. He thought about reaching for a pole lying on the deck. Lucy saw his changing mind reflected in his face. He held up his hands, palms out. “Dude, take the damned dog. He’s a shit-ass dog anyway. We’re better off without him.”

Galen looked to the kid. Lucy saw the fear in the kid’s eyes replaced by sadness. He handed over the rope. “He’s a good dog, purebred and all,” the kid whispered. “He just chews socks.”

The dog didn’t move. Galen didn’t pull on the rope. He just held it. Keeping one eye on the father, Galen spoke to the kid. “You are like him?” He indicated the father with his head.

“No,” the kid said hastily. Then a spasm crossed his face. “I don’t know.”

Galen nodded. “I understand. How many years you have?”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Enough.” Galen nodded to the hatch. “Get clothes. You go from here. Or not. You choose.” She’d never taught him the word “choose,” so it must be a lucky confluence of the language. Who knew how he was spelling it in his mind. Galen’s accent was a little thick, but the kid got the idea.

“Boy, you leave now, I’ll see you in hell before I let you back.”

The boy gave a frightened glance from his father to Galen.

“Make a new life,” Lucy said from the dock. “I’ll give you money.”

The boy’s eyes gleamed for a moment. Then the light in them dimmed. “Haven’t got nobody but Dad. When the money runs out, what am I gonna do, work at some McDonald’s?”

“Go to school,” Lucy suggested. She couldn’t take him in when they were on the run. Could she? She’d be putting him in danger. . . . But she could see him wavering.

“I ain’t much for school.”

“We’ll help you. You can stay with us.” How could she not offer?

But she lost him. He frowned and looked away. “I guess I know who I am.”

Lucy knew then. He couldn’t see any other life but what he had. He was trapped.

“Good boy,” the father said. “You don’t need no dog. What I was thinking to let you keep a dog on a boat anyways I’ll never know.” He turned to Galen. “Now git off my boat.”

Galen looked around at the boat. It was old, but that wasn’t the problem. It was not well kept, unlike most others in the little marina. Old rags were scattered around the deck. The fiberglass was porous from never being sealed, and greasy. The sails flapped where they hadn’t been properly stowed. “This boat does not . . . belong here. You sail it to another place.”

The guy started to protest, then eyed the fishhook. He swallowed. “Been meanin’ to go over to Richmond anyway. Slips are cheaper there.”

Lucy doubted that, but it didn’t matter.

“You go by dark,” Galen said to the father. He glanced to the boy and spoke carefully. “You come to that boat,” here he pointed, “if you choose other street before he go. Goes.”

The kid nodded, but Lucy didn’t hold out a shred of hope.

“I keep this,” Galen said, hefting the fishhook. He leaned down, slipped the rope over the dog’s head, and tossed it onto the pile of rags by the hatch. What was he doing? That dog was going to bolt for the Canadian border after how he must have been treated. Galen backed to the edge of the boat and stepped over the side to the dock.

“Come, hund.”

To Lucy’s surprise the dog got up, limping a little, and managed to leap over the line railing. He touched Galen’s hanging right hand with his nose. “Good hund,” Galen whispered. Then he lifted his gaze to the father. “You go . . . now.”

Lucy’s heart thudded in her chest. Galen took her arm and turned her up the dock. The hard guy five boats down looked on impassively. Lucy craned around. The dog was, miraculously, trotting behind them, though his gait was a little off.

“What do you mean, sayin’ you aren’t like me, you little creep?” the father hissed at the boy. “Now see what you done with that dog you had to have.”

“Sorry, Dad,” the kid mumbled. “Real sorry.”

“Now you take the truck over to Richmond. I’ll motor over, moor in deep water. Call me when you got a slip. It better be cheap. And don’t be long about it.”

Lucy hoped the kid took the dilapidated truck and drove to Oklahoma or Wisconsin or somewhere, but she didn’t hold out much hope. Maybe he couldn’t help being like his dad after all. Galen would say the Norns had already woven the kid’s fate. But she didn’t believe it. He had a choice. He just wouldn’t take it. But did he have a choice? There was nobody to show him life could work any other way. As she and Galen walked down to their own boat, the kid trotted up to the parking lot, brushing at his cheeks. She and Galen stepped onto the Camelot. She paused, in spite of the first pelting drops of rain, and watched the truck roar out of the parking lot. Then she unlocked the hatch and scooted below, just in time to avoid the downpour. Galen came down the ladder and beckoned to the dog, who hesitated for a long instant, then plunged into the cabin.

Galen felt better all around. His thigh was throbbing and his shoulder was even worse. But that was “okay,” as Lucy would say. He felt more like a man.

The hund sniffed his way to the aft cabin, exploring. The creature looked like a black, long-haired wolf, but more elegant, with feathered tail, hindquarters, and front legs and a ruff around his neck. He was young, not filled out in the chest yet. He was much like the dogs Galen had as a child. His mother had gotten the first from a great wicce in Suthfolc named Britta. He had grown up with that dog’s progeny, a long line of intelligent companions. They were tricksters and thieves, fiercely protective, easily trained to herd sheep and cattle or guard sleeping babies and grain harvests. Was this dog descended from those ancestors so long ago? Only the Norns could know for certain.

“What are we going to do with a dog on such a small boat?” Lucy asked, hands on her hips. She was more bemused than exasperated.

“This is a big boat, Lucy. The hund will live here well. We have much food. We will take him off the boat to shit.”

She rolled her eyes. “I might have known that word would be the same.”

He raised his brows.

She sighed. “I know. What else could we do?” A small smile drew her lips up. “You were fearsome. Mighty.” Then she frowned. “But you could have been wounded again. Very stupid.”

He liked the fact that she thought him brave. “That man wound me? No, Lucy.” And she worried for him. That was good too. The hund came up and nosed Galen’s hand.

Galen went down on one knee and took the hund’s ruff in both hands. Lucy and the others had called him a dog. Galen looked directly into the dog’s face. He got concerned, started to struggle, and then relaxed as though he were melting butter. “You are safe now,” Galen rumbled. “You are my hund.” He glanced to Lucy behind him. “And you are Lucy’s dog.”

The beast’s tail gave a little thump on the floor. Galen’s smile broadened. This was a good dog. The moment broke and Galen gave him a pat and rose.

“He came right with you,” Lucy said. “Why didn’t he run for the hills?”

“Ders are my friends, always.”

“Der? Dog? No, you call them hounds.”

“Swine, hors, lamb, all these.”

“Oh. Animals. Beasts.”

He nodded. Beasts liked him. They came to him naturally. “You will name this dog, Lucy. He be your friend.”

“Will be,” she corrected, looking doubtful. “Well, let’s get him some water. He probably has fleas.”

“No fleas.”

“How do you know?” She frowned at him.

“If other beasts are here, I know.” It was just true. He could always sense other life. It was part of his warrior’s senses. No one could waylay him from a hiding place.

She gave him a wide-eyed look and got down a bowl, not made of glass but of something she had told him was plastic. She filled it and put it on the floor. The dog lapped eagerly.

“Poor thing,” Lucy said, looking down at him. His fur was worn away where the rope around his neck rubbed. His skin was raw. “And that poor boy.” She sighed. “I don’t think he’ll ever escape his father.”

“Mayhaps not.” A father could twist a boy’s soul as a mother could not. Galen was lucky in his own father, who had been honorable and stern but loving. It was he who had made Galen a warrior and a leader of men, when he could not be something more.

Lucy knelt and examined the dog. She made soothing sounds. It occurred to Galen that this was the sound women made when they crooned to their babies. “He’s got some raw places, but no wounds. And nothing’s broken. Maybe he’s just sore from getting hit recently.”

“Ja, sore. Same word.” Watching her, there, caring for the dog as she had cared for him, made him remember her hands on his flesh. His loins tightened. His scamlan began to swell as well as his wpen. Odin’s eye, but she could raise him.

She must have felt his gaze on her. She glanced up and reddened. He found her blushes inflaming. And her eyes. So green. And her hair. Frfaexen. And her breasts and the buttocks the breeches she called jeans revealed so clearly. Dear Freya and her maidens, this woman was attractive to him. So attractive he was like to lose his soul.

“I’ll brush him. We’ll feed him good food. He’ll heal and his coat will shine.”

Galen nodded, swallowing.

“You . . . you want some Vicodin?”

He shook his head. He had forgotten about his shoulder and his thigh. He pretended he didn’t want to raise her to her feet and drag her to his bed. Instead he peered out the small, high windows. The rain had brought twilight early. The boat that had been the dog’s home was making a noise like Lucy’s car as it moved out from the docks. “He goes.”

Galen heard her clear her throat. “How about pork for dinner? Swine?”

“Ja. Is good.” Now how was he going to get through the night without ravishing her?