A Time of Shadows (Out of Time #8) (27 page)

Chelsea’s smile faltered and so did his bravado.

“I don’t think you understand the situation,” Chelsea said, trying to regain his composure and clinging to his authority like a security blanket.

“No,” Simon said as he stood. “
You
don’t understand.”

Slowly, deliberately, threateningly, he walked toward Chelsea until he reached his desk.
 

“I need that,” Simon continued, his eyes darting toward the object in Chelsea’s hands. “And I will do anything to get it.”

Chelsea leaned back and swallowed.
 

Simon put his hands on the desk and leaned forward menacingly. “Anything.”

Elizabeth held her breath. He wasn’t kidding.

Chelsea spluttered, surprised at the intensity of the threat. “Y-you wouldn’t. It’s just a game.”

Simon leaned in a little closer and whispered. “I don’t play games.”

Chelsea swallowed nervously and then hastily put the canister in Simon’s hand. Simon looked down at it and then back to Chelsea.

“Thank you,” Simon said as he stood up straight.

“Elizabeth?” he said, without looking away from Chelsea.

He held out the canister. She took it, popped the top off and read it.
 

“Okay,” she said.

“All a misunderstanding, you see?” Simon explained coolly.

Chelsea nodded so nervously Elizabeth was starting to feel sorry for him.

“I’d hate to have to come back to resolve…anything.”

Chelsea nodded again. “Of course. Have-have a nice day.”

Simon nodded and led Elizabeth out of the office.

Once they were outside they hurried down the street away from the museum.

“Laid it on a little thick, didn’t you?” Elizabeth said once they were safely in a real cab.

Simon looked down at the canister in her hand. “You’ve got the key to everything I hold dear in the palm of your hand,” he said as he took it from her. “I think I showed remarkable restraint.”

Elizabeth had to laugh, mostly just to release the built up tension.
 

“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“Impossible.”

She smiled and looked at the clue. “At least it’s the last one.”

“I hope so.”

“It is,” she said, urging him to open it. “See right there—final clue.”

Simon chuckled and read aloud. “A hiding place so secret only a child knows.”

He looked over at her as he rolled it back up. “Well, at least we know what that is.”

Elizabeth nodded. It had to be the mysterious series of numbers and letters Charlotte had told them about when this whole thing had started.

“Sort of,” Simon amended.
 

They knew the sequence, but not what it meant.
 

“I’m sure it’ll make sense when we punch the last coordinates.”

Simon nodded and took her hand.
 

“And then we can give the watch to Travers and get Charlotte back.”

He tried to smile, but his worry wouldn’t let him.

“Yes,” he said and then saw her concern at his response and wrangled a smile from somewhere. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

Elizabeth nodded and lifted Simon’s arm around her shoulder. He pulled her closer and kissed her temple.

“Maybe we can call her?” Elizabeth asked.
 

Simon nodded. “I’m sure Travers could arrange that.”

“Call him?” Elizabeth asked.

Simon nodded and took out their cell. He dialed and frowned as it rang and rang.
 

“No answer,” he said, before finally hanging up.

“That’s weird,” Elizabeth said.

“He’s a busy man,” Simon said sounding unconvinced.

Elizabeth nodded, but she didn’t like it. She took the phone from him and stared at it, willing it to ring.
 

“Maybe he’s—” Simon said, but the phone rang and interrupted him.

Elizabeth quickly answered. “Hello?”

“Don’t say anything. Just listen,” Jack told her. “We’ve got a problem.”

~~~

The rain leaking from the ceiling made a hypnotic sound as it dripped into the pots and pans they’d laid out around the house. Victor watched the pan near the doorway to the front hall. He’d emptied it less than hour ago, and already he could see the ripples on the surface of the water as each drop fell. It was nearly full.

A clap of thunder rolled in the distance.

He frowned at the pan and returned to cleaning his gun. It was a soothing ritual, or at least it usually was. Charlotte had finally tired of her cards and sat on the floor next to him, her elbows resting on the coffee table, chin resting in her hands as she watched his every move.

“Your gun must be really dirty,” she said. “You cleaned it yesterday.”

His eyes shifted over to her. ‘That was a different gun.”

She looked up and then back at the parts of his gun laid out on the table.

“Oh.”

She watched him for a few more moments in silence, her eyes carefully following his every move.

He glared at her and she simply smiled back.

With a sigh, he picked up the slide and inspected it in the dim light. He could feel her watching him.

He sat back. “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

She shook her head. He knew it was the truth. They’d been trapped together in the small house for nearly five days now and had run out of things to do on the first.
 

“You could teach me about guns,” she said.

He laughed. “Somehow, I think your mother and father would not be pleased if I did that.”

That certainly made the idea more appealing, but he resisted the temptation. If someone had overstepped with his child, he would not have been amused. The thought surprised him. Not that he had it, but that the mere thought of Juliette didn’t cut him the way it usually did. The pain was still there, but different, more subtle.

He looked at Charlotte, her face as open and curious as it had been since they’d arrived. She’d been frightened the first day or so, but she never cowered.

He turned the slide over in his hand and then put it back on the cloth with the other parts. He nodded toward the deck of cards.

Her eyes followed his gaze and her face brightened with realization. “Really?”

He held up a finger. “One game.”

She got to her knees and gathered up the cards, wriggling with excitement.

“I take it you know something other than Old Maid,” he said as he slid the gun parts to the far side of the table to make room.

She shuffled the cards as well as her small hands would allow and smiled. “Oklahoma Gin. Ace low, King high. Upcard sets the mark.”

Victor blinked at her in surprise.

Her smile grew wider and more mischievous as she dealt. What had he gotten himself into?

Lightning flashed outside the window.
 

Victor picked up his hand, rearranged it, for all the good it did and then looked over the top of his cards. She was still smiling.

“One hand,” he reminded her.

“Okay, but—”

A loud clap of thunder made her jump.
 

He arched an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of thunder.”

She shook her head, but from the way her eyes slid toward the front door, he could tell she was lying.
 

“It is nothing to be afraid of.”

She looked back at him and then recited, “Thunder is just the sound caused by the rapid expansion of super-heated air.”

Victor smiled. That sounded like Cross. “Your father?”

Charlotte nodded.

“Then you should—”

It was his turn to be interrupted. Another blast of thunder came, louder than the last.

Charlotte’s eyes went round as saucers. His reassurance died on his lips when the lights flickered.

They both watched as the end table lamp dimmed and then blinked back to life.

“It is just the storm,” he said.

She nodded, but got up and moved to sit next to him.
 

When the next rumble of thunder came she took his hand. He surprised himself by letting her.
 

“It is all right,” he said.
 

Then the lights flickered again, and a clap of thunder came, right on top of them. The lights flashed and then blinked out, and they were in the dark.

“D
ON
’
T
BE
FRIGHTENED
,” V
ICTOR
said.

“Too late.”

He smiled. Of course, Charlotte couldn’t see that, so he squeezed her hand. “It’s nothing to worry about. It is just the storm.”

On cue a flash of lightning illuminated the room, quickly followed by another clap of thunder. “You see? Nothing—”

Another sound interrupted him. But it wasn’t thunder. It was loud and echoing, and one he knew well. His mouth went a little dry. One of his tripwire cartridges had been set off.

“What was that?” Charlotte asked.

Logic told him it was probably just an animal seeking shelter from the storm. The feeling in his gut told him otherwise.
 

He knelt down, reached over and pulled Charlotte close. He could just make out her face in the darkness. “I need you to do as I say. No questions.”

“But—”

“No questions.”

She was trembling, but she nodded.

“Good girl.”
 

He dug into his weapons bag and pulled out two guns. He slipped one into his waistband and held the other.
 

“I need you to be very quiet. No matter what, you understand?”

She nodded again.
 

He touched her hair gently and then took her hand. He led her toward the back door. They would take the boat to Pascal’s landing, make due on a favor. From there—

A flash of lightning illuminated the glass in the back door and he saw a man’s silhouette.

Swearing silently, he pulled Charlotte back down the hall and into the living room. But when they reached the front door, he peeked out through the sheer curtains. Two more men ran across the grass.

He turned back. Charlotte stood alone where he’d left her. There had to be someplace to hide her. Desperate, he looked around the dark living room. Not many choices and even less time.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the credenza. Opening the door, he urged her to get in. “Whatever you hear, do not make a sound.”

She looked up at him with bright eyes filled with horror. And in a flash brighter than lightning, he remembered Juliette looking at him the same way.

He closed the door to the cabinet and to the memory.

Moving as quickly and as quietly as he could, he made his way to the back hall again. Pressing himself up against the wall, he peered around the corner. The man was gone.

But then he felt the cool breeze as it blew down the hall. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he turned toward the bedroom. The window had not been open. But it was now.

Gripping his gun tightly, he walked slowly down the hall. The old floorboards creaked beneath his feet.

Carefully, he pushed the door open, gun at the ready. But it swung in unhindered and the room was empty. He turned in the doorway to backtrack, but a bullet tore through his shoulder before he was even half way around.

Off balance, it sent him stumbling to the ground. The impact sent his gun sliding just out of reach. His shoulder was on fire. High caliber, close range, he thought weakly. Stunned, he started to roll over.

He looked up and saw the outline of a large man filling the hallway.

Dazed, Victor struggled to reach his gun. The man took a slow step forward.

His gun was just inches away, but it might as well have been across the room.

The man laughed.

“Victor!”

Charlotte’s cry surprised them both. The man spun around and that bought Victor the precious seconds he needed. He grabbed his gun.

“Get down!” he yelled.

Charlotte dropped to the ground and the man turned back. Victor had only a moment to relish the man’s surprise before he put three rounds into his chest.

Charlotte screamed, but it hardly mattered now. The gunshots had given everything away.
 

Victor managed to push himself up. His shoulder was not good, but he could walk and that was all that mattered.

He stepped over the body and grabbed Charlotte’s hand, lifting her up.

She looked back in horror at the dead man on the floor.
 

There was no time for comfort, and he pulled her down the hall and toward the kitchen. He opened the back door, his shoulder screaming with pain as he used his right hand.

He couldn’t see anything in the storm, but there was little choice regardless. They had to run for the boat and pray.

Taking her hand again, he pulled her out the back door and down the steps into the driving rain. They ran down the muddy path and onto the dock. Charlotte slipped and keeping her from falling made his arm feel like it was torn from its socket.

They reached the end of the dock and he helped her into the small boat. He got in after her, hearing voices back at the house. Two men stood on the back porch.
 

“Stay down,” Victor ordered, raising his gun. He was not as good with his left hand as he should have been, but he would be good enough.

From this distance, he could have hit one of them, both if he’d had his good hand, but one would not do. He would have to improvise.

It was nearly impossible to see in the rain, but he took aim at the propane tank next to the porch, a ready-made bomb, and hoped he’d hit it. He’d only get one chance. He took a deep breath, exhaled halfway, and pulled the trigger.
 

The explosion was blinding, deafening. A fireball billowed up into the night sky, pushing out a black mushroom cloud of smoke and death.

He watched it for a moment, then a moment longer, before he realized he was losing consciousness. He looked down at his shoulder and all he saw was blood.

Stay awake, he told himself. Just a little longer.

He put his gun down and untied the mooring line. A wave of dizziness came over him as he stood back up. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the rope to the engine, but he had no strength. He was too slow and it didn’t turn over.