SNEAK PEEK

Time and Time Again
by Katriena Knights

Jesse Branson could almost hear his car breathe a sigh of relief as he parked in the long circular driveway in front of the Keane mansion.

"Sorry about that," he mumbled as he got out. He normally didn’t talk to his car, but he felt obligated to apologize for the harrowing trek up the mountain. It had been touch-and-go for a while, when he’d wondered if the ancient Toyota would just give up and roll back down to a more comfortable altitude.

Now the car looked like something the Keanes had put out on the curb to wait for trash day. With a wry smile, Jesse patted the car’s hood, then wished he hadn’t. The metal was almost hot enough to burn. He sucked the quick pain out of his fingers, wiped them dry on his jeans, and headed up the long, flagstone walk to the double front doors. The afternoon sunlight blinked blindingly off the textured glass inlays in the doors’ upper panels.

As far as Jesse knew, no one had ever questioned how Dr. Adam Keane, a pediatric surgeon at St. Matthew’s Children’s Hospital, had managed to afford this palatial mountain estate. Keane had, after all, been quite a successful doctor, and his medical supply firm brought in a steady and large profit. But, five years ago, Jesse had been given reason—and a pretty damn good salary for a wet-behind-the-ears PI—to look more closely.

Determined to find the truth, Jesse had done so, but had been unable to prove it after Keane’s murder.

Then, last week, he’d been scanning the classified ads in the Denver Post, looking for a car. And there it was, a bold, strange little ad calculated to catch attention:

WANTED: Individual with firearm license. Preferably single, with no family attachments.

Weird, he’d thought, and then he saw the phone number. He recognized it. He’d been only days away from getting it tapped when Keane had died.

When he called the number and found himself talking to Mrs. Keane herself, the deal was clinched. Whatever she wanted done, he would do it, for the chance to close the case.

Well, within limits. He hadn’t yet decided what those limits were.

And now he stood at the Keanes’ front door. He scrubbed his dusty cowboy boots on the mat and rang the doorbell. Chimes echoed inside the house. The entry hall must be huge.

Silence settled, and Jesse was about to ring again when the doors opened, swinging silently outward. Beyond, in a foyer nearly as big as Jesse’s bedroom, stood a smallish, sober man in a pricey gray suit that didn’t hang quite right on him.

"Yes?" said the man. "May I help you?" The politeness seemed practiced, not quite natural.

"I’m Jesse Branson. Ms. Keane is expecting me. I’m here about the ad."

The man nodded. "Of course. Come in."

Light from a wall full of bay windows filled the spacious front room. Beyond the windows, the mountain fell away in a steep, tree-covered slope. In the distance marched a line of spectacular snow-capped peaks. The room itself held a cream-colored sectional sofa, positioned to take advantage of the windows.

"Have a seat," said the doorman, or butler, or whatever he was. "Mrs. Keane will be with you shortly."

Jesse settled into the chamois-soft leather sofa. He would have expected to see a TV in the room, but there was none. The view, he supposed, was sufficient entertainment. He propped an ankle on the other knee and tapped his still-dusty boot.

As much time as he’d spent pursuing Adam Keane five years ago, Jesse had never met the man’s wife. He’d seen her from a distance, so he knew what she looked like, but there had never been reason to get any closer.

Which, as it happened, was for the best. Because if she were to recognize him now...

The distinctive click of heels on tile rose from an adjacent room. Jesse stood.

She came into the living room seconds later. Jesse was wrong—he hadn’t known what she looked like. Five years could change a person.

She was taller than he’d thought, wearing a tailored ivory suit that sleeked over just-right curves. Her brown-black hair fell in a soft wave to just below her jawline. Upturned eyes the color of espresso scrutinized his face. She looked elfin, he thought, but not like a particularly friendly elf. More like the kind who’d leave coal in your Christmas stocking.

"Britt Keane," she said, holding out her hand. Jesse took it firmly.

"Jesse Branson," he replied.

"Please, sit down."

He sat, and Britt followed suit, settling into the other section of the sofa. She crossed her legs neatly, folding her hands in her lap.

"So, Mr. Branson. The job’s yours if you want it."

He gave an incredulous grin. "What? That’s it? That’s the interview?"

"Yes. That’s it. Do you want the job?"

"Aren’t there other candidates?"

Lips pressed together, she eyed him again. Small lines bracketing her mouth told Jesse she’d once smiled frequently. She wasn’t smiling now. "I didn’t contact anyone else. I have very specific needs, and you were the only one who met them."

Jesse considered that, then found himself unable to resist her inadvertent innuendo. "What, exactly, is it you want me to do?"

Her face reddened. "It’s all quite complicated, I’m afraid."

Her blush was lovely. Under other circumstances he might have tried to elicit another. But there was more to concern him here than a pretty woman.

"I’m sorry, Ms. Keane," he said, "but I can’t accept a job I know nothing about."

"Understandable." Composure back in place, she uncrossed her legs and crossed them in the other direction, exposing an intriguing few inches of thigh in the process. Jesse sensed hesitation, as if she didn’t really want to go into details.

Finally she took a quick breath. "To be honest, Mr. Branson, I would be much happier taking care of this situation myself. But I need someone who can handle physical confrontation. Someone who can use a gun. Which is why your military background appealed to me, as well as some of the...independent projects you mentioned in your résumé."

Jesse shifted. Curiouser and curiouser. What in the world could this neat, sophisticated woman want from him that would have any relation to his military service, or to the few soldier-of-fortune type missions he’d taken on?

With a slight twitch of one eyebrow, he met her brown gaze directly. "So," he said, "who exactly is it you want killed?"

"I don’t necessarily want anyone killed." She leaned forward a little, her hands clenched together so tightly her knuckles turned white. "On the contrary, Mr. Branson. I want you to save my husband’s life."

****

Britt watched, judging, as Jesse sank back in the couch, incredulity filling his face. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen that look, but she hoped it would be the last. So many people over the last few years had looked at her that way, then walked out her door. The memories made her tired.

When she’d gotten Jesse’s résumé, a glimmer of hope had surfaced where there had been so little for so long. She hadn’t known exactly what she was looking for when she placed the ad, but when she saw his credentials, she was nearly certain he was it. He’d been in the Army, and when he’d gotten out, he’d done work-for-hire. Normally a soldier-of-fortune type wouldn’t have appealed to her, but he’d taken on a number of cases involving children. Children stolen away by non-custodial parents to foreign countries. He’d spent six months in Saudi Arabia hunting down a four-year-old girl and her father. Reading the two-sentence account had made something click inside her. He had to be the one. Had to be.

She didn’t know this man, had no real reason to believe he could do the job. But she’d stretched herself so thin, until everything inside her felt all brittle and glassy, that if he gave her that look and walked out, she felt certain she would break.

"Ms. Keane," Jesse said carefully. "Um...your husband died five years ago."

Britt nodded sharply, then barreled on, giving him no space to speak. "That’s correct, Mr. Branson. I assume you know something of the details? It was, after all, a highly publicized case." She sounded crisp and businesslike, even to herself. The approach seemed to be working. At least he was still listening.

Jesse waved vaguely. "He was...shot, wasn’t he? In a parking garage?"

"He was gunned down in cold blood in the parking garage of St. Matthew’s Children’s Hospital, where he worked. I want you to kill—or at least incapacitate—the bastard who did it."

Jesse squinted, as if trying to peer directly into her thoughts. His eyes were a clear green, not quite like anything she’d ever seen before.

"They never caught him," he said. "How can I find him if I don’t know who he is?"

"Because you’ll catch him in the act. Perhaps you misheard me. I don’t intend to take revenge after the fact. I intend to prevent the murder before it happens."

Jesse shook his head. "I don’t understand." Britt came to her feet, smoothing her linen jacket. Inside, she trembled—had been trembling for two days, ever since she and Dr. Romanov had completed the final tests. It was hard even for her to believe sometimes. She certainly didn’t fault Jesse for his skepticism.

"Come with me, Mr. Branson," she said, stepping away from the couch. "I’d like you to talk to someone who’s much more qualified to explain the situation than I am."

Jesse stood slowly, wiping his hands on his jeans. The jeans were a bit worn, she noticed, just this side of having holes straight through the knees. She’d heard his car sputter up, too. If nothing else, she knew he needed the money. Perhaps that would be enough.

For a moment he hesitated, while she stood looking at him, waiting. Finally he gave a slight nod, and she turned to lead the way.

He followed her through the living room and the tiled kitchen to the basement stairs. Deliberately, she kept her attention forward, trying not to register that Jesse was there at all. Easier said than done. He had an aura about him, more powerful than anyone of his social status had a right to have. She’d been around men with such presence before, but they’d been eminent surgeons, politicians, company presidents.

She allowed herself a sidelong glance at him as she opened the door to the basement stairs. He stood about six feet tall, she’d guess, broad-shouldered, with a comfortably powerful body. His curly brown hair fell just past his collar, and a mustache partially counterbalanced a too-wide jaw.

"This way, Mr. Branson," she said, and stepped back a little as he moved past her, suddenly afraid he might brush against her. She’d been in self-imposed isolation for so long that even a stranger’s accidental contact in the grocery store could send her senses reeling. She had the feeling a touch—however innocent—from this man might send her into overload.

As he went down the steps ahead of her, she couldn’t help noticing the way the worn jeans clung to his buttocks and the backs of his thighs. He was an attractive man, that was certain. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t Adam.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Britt began to feel the by-now-familiar hum, so deep it vibrated in her belly. Jesse cast a questioning look over his shoulder. Britt merely waved for him to keep walking. There would be time for questions later.

They rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs, and Jesse stopped in his tracks. Britt twisted sharply to one side as her breasts nearly brushed his back. Straightening her jacket and her composure, she stepped around him.

The machine waited in the middle of the wide room. Next to it, Dr. Romanov sat in front of a collection of keyboards, screens, and something that looked like a voltmeter, tinkering among the controls with a small screwdriver.

"What the hell is this?" said Jesse.

Romanov looked up, smiling broadly, pale blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "Oh, hello." He kept his Russian accent under crisp control. "I’m Dr. Alexei Romanov. You must be our second traveler."

Britt almost smiled herself. Trust Romanov to cut right to the chase. His natural sincerity had appealed to her from the beginning. Of course, he could have been the most odious person on the planet, and she still would have hired him. Unlike the scientific and political communities which had blackballed him with barely a thought, she had a deep-seated and desperate need to believe in him.

">Second traveler?’" Jesse looked at Britt, a harsh, dangerous look in his eyes. "This is starting to look like some kind of cheesy sci-fi movie, except your effects really suck."

Britt took a small step back, ceding control of the conversation to Romanov. Romanov rose to the occasion, leaving his chair and stepping toward Jesse. As usual, the scientist carried an air of friendly competence.

Romanov removed his glasses to look Jesse directly in the eyes. "Surely Mrs. Keane has explained to you the nature of our mission? That we intend to prevent the untimely death of her husband?"

"Yeah, she did mention it." The sarcasm came thick. "But how exactly do you propose to prevent something that happened five years ago?"

Romanov smiled the soft, tolerant smile of a teacher dealing with a slow but promising student.

"With this." He gestured toward the machine. The elegant movement of his hand invited belief. It was like a father presenting his child. Britt smiled to herself. Nobody could do this quite like Romanov. Not for the first time, Britt wondered why so many people had found him so difficult to believe. It certainly wasn’t due to a lack of presentation skills.

"And what, exactly, is this?" Jesse seemed unimpressed by Romanov’s presentation. He pointed at the equipment as if it were a piece of roadkill.

"Why, it’s a time machine, of course," Romanov said.

Jesse gaped at him, then at Britt.

"You people are nuts," he finally concluded. He spun and stomped toward the stairs.

"Please, sir," said Romanov. "Don’t leave us yet."

Jesse spun, his wide shoulders set in anger. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t."

Gently, Romanov said, "Because if you leave now, you’ll miss the demonstration."

Jesse hesitated, wondering if he’d accidentally veered into the Twilight Zone. Not much chance of that, though—his car could barely manage an average Colorado side road, much less interdimensional travel.

So they were going to arrange a demonstration. That might be interesting, if completely bogus. Besides, he had nothing better to do. One side of his mouth pulled up in a smirk.

"All right. I’ll stay for the demonstration."

He looked at Britt. She seemed to be measuring him, judging him, maybe. Jesse’s eyes narrowed, matching her challenge. He stepped back down to the floor.

"What exactly are you going to show me?" he asked.

Romanov settled his glasses back on his face. "Why, how the machine works, of course." He stepped toward it, rubbing his hands briskly together.

Jesse eyed the supposed time machine. He assumed it was the source of the low, gut-rumbling hum. It looked fairly innocuous—two comfortable-looking padded wooden chairs sitting side by side with a domed metal cylinder behind them. Leather helmets sat in the seats of the chairs, connected to the cylinder by wires. In the left-hand chair—what would have been the driver’s seat had it been a car—lay a visor headset of some kind. It reminded Jesse of the VR headsets he saw kids using in the arcade at the mall.

The control panel—or whatever it was—beside the machine looked formidable enough, but it could have been just a bunch of cobbled-together bits and pieces for all Jesse knew. Obviously this Romanov guy must be some kind of a con artist, preying on confused widows. Jesse had no doubt he’d been well paid to construct this pile of crap.

"The machine is tuned to Mrs. Keane’s mind," Romanov said. "Her memories and thought processes serve as a sort of map, to bring you to your destination. You should be able to go back as far as ten years. Now, Mrs. Keane will sit here, and you’ll sit here—"

Jesse raised his hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m not getting anywhere near that thing. If you want to do some kind of demo, you can do it without me."

Britt stepped up to the machine, heels ticking on the tile. She sat down in the driver’s chair, transferring the helmet and visor to her lap.

"What good will the demo be, Mr. Branson, if you don’t participate?" she asked, fitting the leather helmet on over her head. "You’ll never believe it wasn’t a hoax."

Her steady gaze challenged him. He felt a surge of irritation and knew it was pure ego, but he couldn’t back down. Besides, it was all a bunch of bull, so what harm would it do to play along?

"All right," he said, and sat down in the second chair. The vibrations of the deep-pitched hum increased slightly, concentrating in his lower body. The sensation was a little too pleasant for comfort.

He half-forgot about it, though, when Romanov reached forward to take the helmet from his hand. Before Jesse could react, Romanov had put the helmet on him. Cold metal plates sat against his temples. Jesse had a sudden urge to rip the thing off and bolt out of the chair.

It’s not real, he told himself. Don’t get all worked up about it. Behind him, he heard rustling and the clicking of metal and turned to see Romanov adjusting a pair of knobs on the dome.

"What’s going to happen?" Jesse ventured.

"I’ll be in control at all times," Britt said, her voice crisp. "Don’t worry—I’ve done it before."

"I’m not worried." His voice sounded appropriately nonchalant, but his guts had started to boil.

This is fake, and they’re a couple of nuts.

"Are you ready?" Britt asked.

"Yeah," said Jesse. "Do your worst."

The sideways pull of her mouth told him he’d finally irritated her. "You asked for it."

He almost grinned, amused to have put a chink in her icy reserve. Then the low hum grew to a throb, filling him until he could feel it as deep as blood and bone. From behind came a sound like the revving of a huge engine, rising, rising, then howling through a strange Doppler effect as the thrumming rose into his head, burning in his sinuses like tears.

He opened his mouth to cry out his shock, but nothing came. At the same moment, his vision clicked off.

He had never come so close to panic. He’d once been held at gunpoint by six very angry Saudis, and even then he hadn’t been this frightened. He’d known what a gun could do. He had no idea what he faced now.

Then, in the midst of the thrum and the blindness, something changed.

At first he didn’t know what it was. He couldn’t pinpoint the sensation any more than he could make sense of it. But somehow, within the howling darkness, he was no longer alone.

It started as a sort of prickle at the back of his mind, then spread until he knew it was Britt. Feeling his fear. Filling him with her own confident sense of control.

She was inside him, in his mind, filling the most intimate places of him in a way no lover ever could. He fought it—it was an invasion and nothing he wanted. But she had him, and she wasn’t letting him go. He felt her essence melding to his, her strength consuming him.

And under it, a deep, black maelstrom that made a lie out of all her confidence, all her strength.

The blackness on his vision began to dissipate, becoming a familiar combination of cream and sunlight. Gradually outlines emerged, becoming the brightly lit front room upstairs. Jesse saw himself, standing as Britt entered the room. The image carried a soft blur, then that disappeared. He could have been sitting in the middle of the room, watching himself wait for Britt’s interview.

Britt removed the visor and eyed their surroundings. "We made it. We’ll only be observing on this jump. They can’t see us unless we leave the machine." Looking at Jesse smugly, she said, "Do you still want the job?"

This was completely nuts. He felt like telling her to take the job and shove it somewhere, but the truth was, he needed it. He needed the money, but more than that he needed to close this case. He was tired of waking up in the middle of the night thinking about it, trying to come up with a way to get those last few, crucial bits of evidence. It was impossible, though, without access to Keane. It might be possible with access to his widow. So he decided to play along for a while, to see what happened.

In front of them, in an eerily realistic three-dimensional panorama, the image of Jesse introduced himself to the image of Britt. They spoke to each other. Jesse remembered what they’d said and heard it repeated word for word. They sat down.

It could be a recording of some kind, maybe holographic, like the haunted house at Disney World. But that wasn’t the kind of equipment just anyone could get their hands on, and Jesse wasn’t sure even that could create this kind of effect.

He shook his head. If this was a hoax—and he was truly beginning to believe it wasn’t—it was incredibly elaborate.

"So," he said, looking at Britt. "Do we get out, or what?"

Britt looked back at him, an eyebrow raised high enough to disappear under the edge of the helmet.

"Did you see us during the interview?"

"No." Jesse looked back toward the image of himself. "But that’s already happened."

Britt gave him a self-satisfied smile. "You have a great deal to learn about the intricacies and paradoxes of time travel."

"If this is, indeed, time travel, and not just some weird mind game you’re trying to play on me."

"This doesn’t prove it?" Britt gestured toward the scene playing out before them.

"I don’t know. If it’s a setup, it’s a damned expensive one."

Britt slid the visor back onto her face. "I think you’ll find that any other explanation is actually more convoluted and nonsensical than the one I’ve given you."

"There’s one quite simple explanation, actually. That you’re completely nuts."

In reply, she turned her head away from him, and he was eaten again by darkness.

Only this time he knew he wasn’t alone. He could feel Britt’s presence, the sadness and the anger that drove her. And he could feel her essence—pervasive, soft, almost erotic. This time Jesse was ready for it. He relaxed into it, letting her take him.

Britt’s shock filled him like electricity as her essence sank into his. Didn’t expect that, did you? he thought, though he doubted she could actually read the words from his mind. He wondered if his own smugness was as obvious to her as hers was to him. Her shock changed quickly to anger, which was no less stimulating. Then she drew a little away from him, regaining control.

Only then did he realize how stupid he’d been. She controlled the machine—his shenanigans could have gotten them stranded in this weird between-place. Britt must have felt his remorse, because it was answered by a quick stab of righteous anger.

Then the world came back. Britt’s basement, the control panel, and Dr. Romanov stood around them. Romanov looked at them with some concern.

"All went well?" he asked.

Britt ripped off her helmet and visor and left the chair, glaring at Jesse. Jesse pulled off his own helmet and answered her anger with a mild smile.

"As well as can be expected," Britt said, her voice raspy with suppressed rage. To Jesse’s surprise, she turned the anger toward Romanov. "You and I will talk later. You—" she pointed to Jesse "—come upstairs. We have things to discuss."

Complacently, Jesse followed her back up the stairs to the kitchen. There she wheeled on him.

"You could have gotten us killed!" Her body was stiff, trembling with rage.

"I know. I’m sorry. It was stupid. I just...I didn’t expect any of this."

She eased up a little. "All right. You’re right. There was no way you could have known."

Jesse leaned against the kitchen counter, hoping she might follow his lead and relax a little more. She didn’t. "Listen, Ms. Keane, I’ll take the job. I’m not sure I like—or even believe—all this, but I’d really like to see if it can be done."

"You’ll take it?" Britt looked surprised—no, shocked.

"Yeah. I’ll take it."

She moved away from him, leading the way back into the living room. She looked tired suddenly, drained. Her shoulders slumped for an instant before she drew herself back together.

"All right. I’m too tired right now to go over all the details. I’d like you to move into the house. Can you do that?"

"Sure. I’ll have to get a few things from home, though."

"I’ll have Richard take you. I don’t think that car of yours will make it up the mountain again."

"All right."

Britt turned back toward him. He had the distinct feeling she wasn’t completely happy about his decision to take the job. Resigned, maybe, but not happy.

"As soon as you’re settled," she went on, "we’ll begin the serious tests. When it’s over, I’ll pay you five hundred thousand dollars."

"Fine," said Jesse, as if she’d promised him a fifty. "I’ll see you later, then."

He went outside. Looking at his still-recovering Toyota, he wondered if he might be watching himself even now.

He shook his head. So these were the paradoxes and intricacies of time travel. Laughing at his own gullibility, he sat down on the front step to wait for Richard.