Killing Time Read online

  Whether it would do any good, whether she would be believed, was the bigger question.

  22

  Nikita stood in the kitchen, looking around. This scenario was almost identical to the one the day before, but things had changed so much that she didn’t feel as if she was even the same person. In truth, the only thing that had changed was herself, and her perception of herself.

  Are you a robot? Sarcasm would have been bad enough, but the cautious seriousness in his tone had sliced through her.

  She wanted to hate him, but that wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t hate him. She hated the position she had been forced into, she hated the emotional cage she lived in, she hated the fear that made it necessary, but she would never hate Knox.

  He was . . . special, and she didn’t think he knew how special he was to a lot of people. When she’d been shot at and he’d called in reinforcements, and the entire damn SWAT team and half the sheriff’s department had come running, he’d said jokingly that they loved him—and it was nothing less than the truth. They might phrase it differently; they might say he was a good guy, they liked him, and all the other ways people said they cared about another person; but the meaning was the same.

  The affection in which he was held would cause people to give him the benefit of the doubt if any awkward questions were raised. So much of this situation depended on chance: who had happened to drive by and notice his car, if anyone had at all, if the time was noticed, if the incriminating detail was mentioned to the wrong person. Whether the troublesome details could be glossed over remained to be seen. If everything worked perfectly, they were okay. If not—she and her mission were exposed.

  Idly, she wondered what would happen then. There were several possibilities, the first of which was that she wouldn’t be believed, so she’d have to do some demonstrations, which might not convince people of anything. Knox had been intrigued, but he hadn’t been convinced until Luttrell’s appearance. Unfortunately, any demonstration of the laser pen would definitely convince the sheriff that she was the one who’d killed Jesse Bingham.

  But if she was believed, events would quickly spiral out of control. Logically, the federal government would be contacted. The FBI, specifically. Her own agency, but an agency two hundred years removed from her own reality, would take her into custody. She would be interrogated, examined, subjected to a barrage of psychological testing, and held prisoner for her own safety. She had a fake driver’s license and a fake credit card. She had a lot of cash with her. Moreover, people in this time had social security numbers; she didn’t. She had a serial number, engraved in her flesh. She was number 233704272177. The first four digits were her order of creation: she was number 2,337. The remaining digits were the date of her “birth,” April 27, 2177.

  The FBI would have a real party with that.

  She could tell them so much, though. She could talk to the scientists, tell them what she knew about solid-state lasers, about antigravity propulsion, space travel, warp drives—which admittedly wasn’t as much as a scientist from her time could tell them, but she was an intelligent, widely read woman, and she had made excellent grades in the sciences she had studied in college. She could make drawings of spaceships, personal vehicles, but she didn’t know if she could make them believe her.

  Without links, without proof positive, she couldn’t prove anything. Her laser pen and DNA scanner would be taken apart, and she imagined there would be a great deal of interest in them, but what would they prove? She couldn’t point to a building and say, “These were manufactured here.”

  But all this worrying was wasted effort, because until she heard from Knox exactly what had transpired, she had no idea what would need doing. In the meantime, she was once again marooned, without any way to help him or even continue her own investigation. If she made it through the night without being arrested, come morning she would make certain the situation was remedied as soon as possible.

  The afternoon was wearing down, and she was tired. The last two days had certainly been eventful: two days, two bodies. This was three bodies for Knox, because he’d been at the former mayor’s house and she hadn’t. He’d also been investigating Taylor Allen’s murder. He had to feel overwhelmed by death and violence.

  She could make an educated guess as to what had happened to poor old Jesse Bingham—or rather, why it had happened. He must have been nosing around where he’d seen those flashes, and for some reason Hugh Byron had returned there and Jesse had seen or heard something he shouldn’t have. Perhaps Hugh’s links had been buried there, and he had decided to put them somewhere else for safekeeping, and Jesse discovered him when he returned to retrieve them. Jesse had definitely been killed with a laser. The wound was distinctive.

  A single burst of energy into a stationary target would produce a single bore, but the more usual method was to fire a single stream as you tracked onto the target. The tracking movement was what produced the long, deep, furrowed sear. What flesh the energy beam touched was vaporized, and surrounding tissue was cooked. Jesse had died immediately, but had he invited Hugh into his house or had Hugh intruded?

  Hugh’s willingness to kill told her that she had to be willing to kill him, or her chances of survival decreased dramatically. He was as well-trained as she, and had proven himself to be ruthless. He had an unknown ally. On the other hand, she had Knox as an ally, and her altered appearance would perhaps allow her to catch Hugh unawares. That is, she had Knox, provided he didn’t get arrested, and provided she herself stayed out of jail.

  The telephone rang.

  Nikita jumped; she’d been lost in thought, and the sudden sound rasped along her nerves like a metal file.

  It wasn’t Knox; he’d said he would call on her cell phone. “Damn it!” Nikita swore, leaping for her purse and taking out the phone. Yes, it was on. She breathed a sigh of relief. Knox had turned it on to show her the features and play with it himself, and he hadn’t turned it off before dropping it in her lap.

  The call went to the answering machine after four rings. A woman’s voice said, “This is Ruth Lacey. Please pick up.” Nikita didn’t, of course, and after a moment the call clicked off.

  Ruth Lacey, Nikita thought. That was Knox’s dead fiancée’s mother. Why was she calling? And wasn’t it a coincidence that she would call after seeing them shopping that morning?

  Nikita immediately felt a little ashamed. For all she knew, Knox talked to her on a regular basis.

  Just so she would know Mrs. Lacey’s number, she picked up the cordless phone and looked at the little window, but it had already gone blank and she didn’t know how to call up the number again.

  A little on edge, she checked all the doors and windows to make certain they were secure, then decided she should once again take advantage of her privacy to shower and take care of her personal chores, such as laundry. The curtains were all pulled, she had both weapons at hand, and the cell phone was on. She wasn’t likely to find a better time.

  “She didn’t answer,” said Ruth Lacey, hanging up the receiver. Byron had rented a motel room in Pekesville so he could be close at hand, but they were at her house. Edward, of course, was out at some bar. He seldom came home before midnight, and if he did happen to come home while Byron was there, she simply didn’t care. She and Byron were in the living room, both fully clothed, but even if Edward caught them naked in bed, she wouldn’t care. He was nothing to her, literally nothing.

  “She’s there,” Byron said. “I saw her go into the house.”

  “I don’t want to leave a message that I can’t explain,” she said, worried. “That’s the first thing the police do, is listen to any messages. No one, not even Knox, would think it unusual if I call to talk to him, but if I say, ‘Tina, please pick up,’ then that raises questions.”

  “I know. You were smart not to say any names. It’s just that I couldn’t see her face very well when she went inside; she was wearing a cap. I need to hear her voice, or get a better look at her face.”