Yesterday's Thief: An Eric Beckman Paranormal Sci-Fi Thriller (29 page)

“Well, yeah, but you saved my life, and here I am yelling at you. If you hadn’t thought of Garrett … yeah, it’s a good thing you didn’t listen to me.”

She put her hand on my arm. “It’s okay, boss.” She pointed to the tank by the ceiling. “So, that’s the acid that’s going to destroy it?”

“It’s not just acid. It’s some kind of super-corrosive liquid the fucking, paranoid, evil doctor cooked up. And it’s not going to destroy it, because I’ve got a plan.”

She pointed up to the display next to the tank. “Well, you’d better hurry up. Two minutes and counting. Let’s not leave it till the last second. This isn’t—” <
It isn’t TV. No, I shouldn’t joke. His girlfriend just died.
>

My heart wasn’t in it, but I tried once more to pry open a seam in the Plexiglas box with my knife. No dice. One minute to go. I’d learned in PI school that shooting a padlock off only works in the movies.

I loaded the last Taser cartridge into the rifle and pointed it at the timer electronics box.

Peggy put her hand on my arm. “But what if—”

I pulled the trigger, and the darts flew into the box. Meant to travel up to sixty feet, they slammed into it, easily punching through the plastic housing.

The rapid rattlesnake-like clicking of the electrodes filled the room and the display shut off.

“Okay, the world’s been saved. Let’s go to the hospital.” We started out the door.

A snap made me jump, and we both turned. A valve opened, and the corrosive solution whooshed down the pipe, engulfing the
minge de energie.
I expected fizzing and hissing, maybe an explosion, but the reaction was slow. Some bubbles appeared from the submerged ball, and the fluid turned brown.

“Stand back.” I pulled out my pistol and shot holes in the bottom of the Plexiglas. Too late and way too little. Some of the liquid dripped out, but the damage was done.

The lights in the house went out. I pulled out my penlight and shined it on the Plexiglas container. The reaction was accelerating and, in fact, the Plexiglas itself was dissolving from the inside.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Two hours later, I sat in a waiting room at UCSF with my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. Viviana was still in surgery. Peggy sat down next to me with three large Peet’s coffees.

“Thanks, Peg. Who’s the third one for?”

“Your neurosurgeon buddy, what’s his name?”

“Craig.”

“Right.”

Appearing down the hall, Craig caught sight of me and thought, <
Still in surgery. She’s not out of the woods yet.
> When he got to us, he suggested I sit down. “She was very lucky, Eric.”

“Because of the heart?” I asked.

Craig nodded. “If her heart had been on the left side, she would have died, almost instantly.”

“Is she going to make it? Is she going to be okay?”

“I’ve talked to the trauma surgeon and the thoracic surgeon. I don’t want to get your hopes up. We won’t know for a—”

“But what do you think?”

<
I think she’s going to pull through.
> “You should prepare yourself for the worst, buddy.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Peggy squinted at me. Wrong reaction to his words. Right reaction to his thoughts.

I jiggled my leg. “I hadn’t mentioned her mirror-image, heart-on-the-right thing to the EMTs. I wasn’t firing on all cylinders. Do you think that—”

Craig patted me on the knee. “No, they figured it out soon enough. It wouldn’t have made any difference if you’d told them. But she’s not out of the woods yet. She lost a lot of blood, and her left lung collapsed. Dr. Thomas finished operating, but she started bleeding again in the ICU, so they’re working on her now.”

“Brain damage?” I raised my eyebrows. I’d take care of her no matter what happened, but I wanted the old Viviana back.

“I doubt it.” <
Absolutely not.
> “You just have to be patient. Any more questions about her?”

I shook my head.

“I examined the uncle.” Craig glanced at Peggy.

“Craig, let me introduce my investigative assistant, Peggy Barbera. Can we pretend that privacy laws don’t apply to time travelers? You can trust her to keep this under her hat.”

She winked and handed him his coffee. “I guessed that you like it black.”

Craig nodded and thanked her. He turned to me. “So, Eric, got an idea what’s wrong with him?”

“NPH. Missing shunt?”

Craig smiled. “Bingo.”

Peggy held up her hand. “I know I’m just an observer, but, since I brought the coffee, maybe you guys could talk English?”

Craig took a sip from his coffee. “NPH stands for Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus. Cerebrospinal fluid is produced in chambers in the brain and it flows through some narrow channels and out around the brain and the spinal column. With me?”

Peggy nodded.

“Sometimes too much fluid is produced or one of the channels is blocked. The fluid buildup squeezes the brain, resulting in decreased cognitive function.”

“So, that’s why Zaharia was crazy,” she said.

“That’s what was causing his cognitive problems, yeah.” Craig continued in his lecture role. “It also made it difficult for him to walk and explains why he was wearing a diaper when they brought him in.”

“But that’s not the most interesting part.” I looked at Craig and raised my eyebrows.

He gestured with his hand. “Go ahead.” <
Show off in front of your employee.
>

“NPH is treated with a thing called a ‘shunt.’ That’s essentially a tube that drains the excess fluid from the brain. From what Viviana told me, it sounded like Zaharia had NPH back when he was about twenty years old. Around 1940. He had cognitive issues back then, and—”

“That’s when he went nutso and hunted and killed his wife,” Peggy said.

“Well, yeah. So they put in a shunt, and he got better. Better enough to invent a time machine and the energy ball.”

Peggy looked at Craig. “They had shunts back then?”

He nodded. “Not as good as they are today, but, yes, the first permanent shunt was installed in 1893.”

Hmm. I didn’t know that. I leaned forward. “So, the real, real interesting part is that—”

“When he jumped forward in the time machine,” Peggy crossed her arms, apparently enjoying stealing my punchline, “his shunt stayed behind.”

Craig crossed his legs. “Exactly. We did an MRI of his brain today, and it shows a faint suggestion that a shunt had been implanted in the past. That’s not definite, but it is clear he has NPH. I’m putting in a new shunt tomorrow morning.” He closed one eye. “But there’s something I don’t get.”

“What’s that?” I took a sip of coffee.

“He was a smart guy. Shouldn’t he have known that his shunt wouldn’t travel forward in time with him?”

I put my coffee cup down. “Well, they only sent animals forward, and I’m not even sure how many of those they recovered. So, unless he had a bunny with an IUD or a beaver with dental fillings, he wouldn’t have known that foreign material
inside
the body got left behind.”

“But still.” Craig tapped his nose. “You’d think he’d soon realize his mental function was going downhill and go see a neurologist. Why didn’t he do that?”

Peggy raised her hand. “I know.”

We both turned to her. I frowned. “You know why he didn’t do that?”

“No, but I know how to find out. We’ll just ask him when he gets better again.”

Craig shook his head. “It’s not clear how much he’ll recover. We’ll just have to see.”

<
Eric, where are you?
>

“Viviana’s awa—” I looked at Peggy. “I’m going to check to see if Viviana’s awake yet.”

Craig turned and pointed. “The ICU is right there.” <
Or you can just follow her thoughts, wink, wink.
>

It took me a long time to get in to see her. It was frustrating, because I could hear her thoughts from the next room: <
Eric, are you here?
>

The nurse explained that Viviana had a throat tube in, so she wouldn’t be able to talk, and finally let me in for a few minutes.

Viviana looked terrible: pale and sick, with tubes and wires everywhere. It was an image that would stick with me for a long time, along with the picture of the arrow sticking out of her chest. She smelled like hospital chemicals. Her eyes turned to me, though she didn’t turn her head. <
Eric. Am glad you are here.
>

I kissed her on the forehead, sat by the bed, and whispered in her ear. “Everything is going well. You’re going to recover.”

<
What about Uncle Zaharia?
>

“He’s okay. He’s here in the hospital. Craig knows what’s wrong with him, and he’s going to get an operation that’s going to help. How do you feel?”

<
Is stupid question.
>

I laughed. That was the Viviana I knew. “Do you want more pain medication?”

<
Yes.
>

“Okay, I’ll tell the nurse. Everything is good. You just rest and get better. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

<
Does world know about Zaza and me?
>

“Yes, but that’s okay. It will work out fine. Is there anything you want me to tell the nurses? Do you want some coffee?”

<
Not funny. I sleep now. I love you.
>

She closed her eyes and I kissed her on the ear.

* * *

Twenty days later, we had the Christmas party in Zaharia’s mansion-slash-prison. The government set him up with a huge laboratory that included an attached residence. Until his legal status was fully resolved, he was under house arrest. According to his lawyers, he would be completely free soon. In the world’s speediest of trials, he’d been judged not criminally responsible for his acts. The legal system still had to work through some formalities.

The guards outside were more for keeping the paparazzi out than for keeping Zaharia in.

The statute of limitations prevented Viviana from being prosecuted for any of her past burglaries. There was no limitation on possession of stolen property, but she promised me that she had liquidated all of her ill-gotten assets. I hoped I could trust her on that.

Ferka, on the other hand, turned out to be a convicted rapist and murderer. He would be extradited back to Romania where he would remain in prison for life.

The great room looked nothing like a government installation. Heavy beams supported the vaulted ceiling and a fire crackled in the huge, inefficient fireplace. The scent of
vin fiert
, Romanian mulled wine, combined with that of the towering pine tree to put everyone in the Christmas spirit.

Craig and I were especially joyous, since the sale of our EZ-Sleeper had gone through.

Zaharia and Viviana sat together on the leather couch, their matching walkers nearby. With the aid of Hyperfix, both were recovering rapidly. As I prepared gin gimlets for Peggy and me, I looked over at my fiancée and her uncle. Zaharia’s intellect would probably never match that of his pre-time-jump self, but he’d recovered enough to guide the construction of a new energy ball. A prototype was only weeks away.

He’d been able to convince the scientists, even Dr. Barbie Doll Baumgartner over by the fireplace, that the device had worked and would work. The prospect of a solution to the energy catastrophe was enough to stop the erosion of the financial markets. Even without the prototype, factories around the world were gearing up to mass produce the device.

In addition, a smaller wing was devoted to his time machine research.

Yes, Viviana and I were to be married. I’d finally overcome my trust issues and our long-term relationship was off to a good start.

I went over to the couch and sat. Viviana barely paused in her Romanian jabber-fest with her uncle and my Romanian tutor, Ms. Ibanescu. Viv transferred her skinny butt onto my lap and took a sip of the gimlet. <
Uck. Too sweet.
>

She’d lost twenty pounds after the shooting but was working hard to gain it back. She didn’t need the walker any longer. I suspected she had it there just so she could drink more
vin fiert
and still get around
.

Concerning the shooting, we’d tried to keep it from Zaharia, who remembered nothing, but that was impossible. The story was all over the news. Intellectually, he understood he wasn’t responsible for his actions, but I know his heart ached over the death of Mr. Jarmin and the near-death of his niece.

Zaharia held up his hand. “Let us switch to English for the benefit of Viva’s future husband and his friends.”

His accent was strong, but unlike Viviana’s, his grammar was impeccable—better than mine.