Chase (ChronoShift Trilogy) (13 page)

"
A time to love, and a time to hate;

a time of war, and a time of peace.
"

                      - Ecclesiastes 3:8

May 6
^th
2013, Boston, MA

They were home, back at headquarters in Boston.  Savannah had brewed a pot of freshly ground coffee, and the smell of it flooded the office gloriously.

"I like the new table."  Ty leaned back in a leather recliner, one leg propped up in bandages.  The bullet hadn't done much damage, but he was going to have to wear compresses for several weeks.

Hardy and Mark sat in hard-backed chairs around a large, round table in the center of their lounge.  It was a new purchase.  The old table had been long and rectangular, like a conference room.  This was more like the Knights of the Round Table.  It was also good for poker.

They were playing 5 Card Draw at the moment.   Mark peeked at each of his cards as Hardy dealt it to him.

"Thanks."

"What's it supposed to be?  Like King Arthur or something?" Ty asked.

"Something like that," Mark grinned.

Ty picked up his cards when Hardy had finished dealing.

"Anything wild?"

"That's for kids, man."

"Sorrrrreee," Ty laughed.  They hadn't spoken about the rescue much since they'd gotten back, but Ty knew they'd risked their lives greatly coming after him.  He was deeply grateful for their friendship and even happier to see Hardy and Mark getting along again.

"What are we going to do about Rialto?" Hardy asked.  From the sliver of a grin on his face, he obviously had a good hand.  He never disguised it very well.

They'd filled Ty in on everything they'd learned since he'd been taken captive.  Ty had learned Vincent Torino's name, who they'd been internally referring to as Grey Tuft.

"I had an investigator look into Rialto and Torino," Mark informed them.  "Just got finished meeting with him."

"What did he say?"

"Alexander Rialto used to be a top investigator with the IRS.  Now, I understand how he knows me.  A while back, there was an investigator named Rialto making inquiries about the antique coins I made."

"Why would he care about that?"

"When I set up our historical armory, I contracted with an antique coin expert named Angelo Lombardi to fabricate about a thousand historically accurate coin molds.  I used the molds to produce enough coins to fully fund us in any era we needed.  Somehow, Rialto got wind of it.  He thought we were trying to do some kind of con job and began investigating me.

“He kept poking his nose around, so I called in some favors to shut the investigation down.  I didn't know it at the time, but he got fired because of it."

"I guess a guy could get mad enough to kill you over that.  Still seems over the top though."

"You never know with people.  Could be he's just trying to eliminate competition.  One thing's for sure, he did not have a shifter back then.  A person who can jump through time at the drop of a hat does not keep working for the IRS.  Nobody loves taxes that much.  He had to have acquired a shifter
after
I got mine."

"Maybe not," Hardy interrupted, "in linear time that might be the case, but we well know how these shifters can change the apparent order of events."

Mark nodded.  "That's true, but that time when I cornered him in the bank, his shifter disappeared off his wrist precisely
because
he burned my Wal-mart shares.  In other words, he only has his shifter because I became wealthy and started this company.  Something I've done...or will do...gave him the opportunity to get a shifter."

"Can't be something you will do," Hardy piped in, "You haven't done it yet.  That means all your future decisions are still up in the air.  It had to be something you've already done."

"That's not true," Ty countered.  "Everything we've ever done or will do is predetermined, we just don't know what that is yet.  We can't choose differently than what we're supposed to choose.  Mark may be destined to find another shifter at some point, and Rialto steals it before we can put it to use."

"Here we go with that crap again," Hardy replied disgustedly.  "What about us saving you?  Let me tell you something, we had to be pretty darn creative to get your butt out of there and still we took a chance on figuring wrong.  That was no piece of cake."

Mark stared silently at his cards as they debated the ancient argument of fate versus free will.

"Predestined," Ty answered curtly.

"Thanks, man.  I feel
reeeeal
appreciated."

"Come on, I appreciate what you did.  Both of you.  You had no way of knowing how it was going to turn out.  Neither did I.  You're both giants as far as I'm concerned.  Look, it's like this. The future is predetermined, that is
reality
, but it always
appears
open to be changed by us because we don't know what's going to happen.  In other words, to God, it's all set, a done deal.  To us, it's all up for grabs.  Anything could happen."

Hardy grimaced, "Man, I'm not sure I buy into this whole God thing regardless, but what you're saying means we're not responsible for anything we do."

"I never said that."

"Yes, you did.  You said it's all predetermined."

"Just because we can't change the future doesn't mean we're not going to be held responsible for it."

"That's crazy."

"It may sound crazy
to you
, but we've all seen for ourselves there are certain events which can't be changed, not even with the shifters.  That's because those events are predestined."

"No, those are just things that would create paradoxes if we changed them, so we aren't able to."

"Why not?

"What do you mean ’why not'?"

"What stops us from creating a paradox?"

"The universe."

"Does the universe think?  Does it have a mind that monitors all time travelers to make sure we don't violate some law against paradoxes we don't understand?'

"I don't know."

"What's the difference between a universe that thinks and an intelligent God anyway?"

"I don't care."

"Yes you do.  By the way, it doesn't really matter if you buy into the whole God thing or not.  He's there.  You believing or not doesn't change the fact of His existence."

"Guys," Mark interrupted, "Let's get back to the original question.  What are we going to do about Rialto?"

They both fell silent, lost in thought.

Finally, Ty broke the silence.  "What do you think we should do, Mark?"

Mark laid his cards down, face up.  He had two pair, ace high.

"I say we call a truce."

***

May 14
^th
2013, Boston, MA

Mark faced Alex Rialto across the concrete picnic table, each man's eyes locked on the other's like a radar targeting system.

They appeared to be alone in the city park Mark had named for their meeting site, but the reality was they were not.  Hardy and Ty kept a close watch on the situation from afar.  Rialto's men would be doing the same.

It was a little past midnight and only a thin sliver of the white moon remained, barely providing enough light to see each other.  The nearest street lamp was several hundred yards away.  The cool night air was pleasant with only a bit of a chill to it.  No breeze, no mosquitos to molest them, just stillness.

Mark had called the meeting by sending a simple note to Rialto's residence once they'd figured out where that was.

"What's this all about?' The former IRS investigator asked.

"Let's call a truce, Rialto"

The man's eyes were cold, cunning, like a snake's.  A shadow of doubt floated through Mark's mind. 
Was he doing the right thing?

"Why?" Rialto asked flatly.

"Frankly, I'm not really sure why we're fighting the first place, but I figure it must have something to do with me getting you fired."

            Something dark flashed behind Rialto's eyes.

Mark continued, "Anyway, I don't know if you've noticed, but we seem to be at a draw."

Rialto nodded grimly.  "I thought we had the advantage," he growled, "but I'm willing to concede it may not be that straightforward."

"You mean your detectors?  Yes, that was a definite advantage, but we're ex-military. That more than compensated for the deficiency."  Mark wasn't about to tip his hand that they had detectors too.

"I'm no fool, Carpen, You guys must have them by now as well. 
You'd
be fools if you didn't.  No, our chance to catch you off guard with
that
little surprise was back in those Virginia woods."

"Rialto, I don't know how you or your men got your shifters and I really don't care.  Do you know what we're doing with ours?  We're helping people.  We're saving people, keeping them from getting killed or hurt."

"Very noble," he sneered.

"We don't care what you do with yours.  Use them to make yourselves a massive fortune.  I don't care.  As long as you're not hurting people, we don't care what you do.  Let us alone and we'll leave you alone."

"And if we
do
 hurt people?"

Mark's face darkened.  "
Then
, we would have to do something about it."

Rialto threw his head back, chortling.  "My, my, you are the little elitist, aren't you?  Who elected you judge?  Regardless, your idea has some merit.  We're just spinning our wheels when our teams fight each other.  These battles could go on forever.  What good would that do?"

"Glad you see my point."

"Don't get me wrong, Carpen.  I do hate you.  I hate you with every fiber of my being, but it doesn't seem like I can do much about it, does it?"

"You shouldn't hate me.  You know why I had to stop your investigation.  You'd have done the same."

Rialto stood.  Mark did as well.

"All right.  It's a deal.  We'll leave you alone if you leave us alone.  That suit you?"

Mark nodded in assent.

Rialto turned, then stopped and spat one last comment over his shoulder.  "I'd shake on it...but I wouldn't want to get your hand dirty."

When the dark night seems endless

Please remember me

"
Dante=s Prayer@

                              ~ Loreena McKennitt

January 22
^nd
1674, Swansea, MA

The smell of fresh bread warmed the otherwise dreary morning.  Normally, she would have been the one up early to bake it, but on the Sabbath day, Father always let her sleep in a little late and cooked her breakfast.  The sweet butter melted into liquid yellow as Abigail Cooper spread it on a thick, fluffy slice of bread.

Father had also stoked the morning fire and put more wood on, banishing some of the day's cold from their small cottage.  The crackles of the superheated wood popping was a familiar and homey sound.  The faint scent of smoke lingered in spite of the strong aromas from the Sunday morning meal he'd prepared for them both.

Their family had emigrated from England to Massachusetts fifteen years ago on a leaky ship held together with a little more tar than nails.  Some families could afford better, but not theirs.  Her father had been a poor cooper back in England, as had been his father before him, and thus their surname.

Her dear mother, may God bless her soul, had perished that first winter after their arrival of the coughing sickness, along with her older brother, Edward.  The sickness that year had not devastated their village as much as it had the Separatists further east in Plymouth nigh fifty years before, but it had taken a number of good souls to be sure.

Since then, their small family had consisted of just her and her father.  He'd grieved hard for the loss of his beloved wife, and though there were a number of available widows in the village, he had chosen not to remarry.  Instead, he'd raised her alone, pouring all the love that remained in his heart upon her.  Bittersweet was their meager existence, tragic in their loss, yet joyful in their trust in God's providence and their love for one another.

"Dah, I don't want to marry that boy."

"Abbie, dear, you cannot stay a maid forever, takin' care of me an' this hovel.  Yer nigh on nineteen years now.  Clemency's a good man."

"But he is not for me," she said.

"How do you know that?"

"I know.  I do not believe God wants me to marry."

"That be wicked talk, Abbie.  What else would you do?"

"Tis not wicked, Dah.  The scriptures teach the Lord does not intend matrimony for all."

Her father didn't bother dwelling on that.  They'd had this conversation a hundred times already.  She knew he loved her and just wanted her to be happy.  He thought marriage and children would do that, but she felt something else burning in her heart.  Something unusual, something odd.  Something she didn't comprehend even herself yet, but she was sure it was from God.