The Children Who Time Lost (28 page)

Patrick struck the steering wheel in frustration and grunted. The traffic had barely moved. I placed my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it away.

“How many times have I got to say I’m sorry? I’m just—”

“I don’t want to know. Whatever it is you’re into, I’d best not know. I’ll drop you in L.A. as I said. After that, it’s up to you what you do.”

“And you won’t say anything to anyone about me?”

He half-laughed. “You really think I want to tell anyone that this happened?” He shook his head and looked ahead.

We reached L.A. just before one-thirty. I stared at the buildings in admiration: they looked fantastic and shiny, even comparable to their equivalent from my time. We drove past a building I recognized from many historical magazines.

“Stop,” I shouted.

Patrick slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded to a stop. He glared at me. I squinted and hunched my shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“What is it?” he said.

“Is it okay if I get out here?”

He nodded.

I opened the door. “Thanks for everything.”

He didn’t speak. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out whatever I could grasp. I must have held three hundred dollars in my hand. I dropped the money on the passenger seat.

“And what’s this?”

“It’s for you.”

He scowled. “I don’t want your money.”

“I know, but you’ve earned it. I just want you to know that I appreciate everything you did for me.”

Patrick eyed the money for a second and then faced ahead. I tapped him on the shoulder again but didn’t feel a hint of movement from him. I got out and shut the door. He sped off, his tires squealing even louder than when we stopped. I walked into the Millennium Biltmore Hotel with my suitcases.

I avoided making eye contact until I reached reception. Two people were ahead of me in the check-in line, and I turned around to study the hotel. It was every bit as beautiful as I had read in magazines. High ceilings with bright lights everywhere, marble walls with animal statues overlooking shallow waterfalls—it was stunning. I was wandering around, admiring every inch of the hotel, when the receptionist waved at me. I rushed back and stood in front of him with a smile. He was probably sixty, with long white hair and a narrow face.

“Reservation?” he said.

I shook my head. “It wasn’t planned.”

He smiled. “I know what you mean.” He tapped his computer keyboard before finding a king room for nearly $400 for the night. I didn’t need something that large, but I didn’t have time to price-hunt.

After he’d secured the room, he glanced at me. “Name, please?”

I hesitated. I was about to commit identity fraud. “Cynthia Rose.”

He typed it into the computer. When I saw him frown, I swallowed. Then he looked at me with a warm smile. “That’s it, Miss Rose. All I need now is a credit card to secure the room.”

I lifted my thumb up but remembered that in 2013, they used plastic cards rather than imprinted information in your fingers. “If it’s okay, can I pay by cash?”

“Sure. But we need a card to secure the room to cover any expenses.”

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a sizable chunk. After counting $600, I handed it to him. “Four hundred dollars, with an extra two hundred for any expenses.”

He counted the money, eyeing me every few seconds. I just kept smiling. After counting it, he fiddled with the computer a bit more. Then he handed me two white plastic cards. “You’re in Room 236, on the second floor.” He pointed toward a corridor. “Swimming pool and sauna is just over on the right. Breakfast finishes at 11 a.m.”

I took the cards and nodded. He returned his gaze to the computer without a hint of suspicion. He really believed I was Cynthia Rose. I sighed and rode the elevator to the second floor.

The room was definitely worthy of the name “King’s suite.” I lifted the cushions of the red sofa and searched for any type of hidden cameras or bugs. Then I lifted the bed’s pillows and sheets. Ever since Lorenzo had burst into my home and killed my husband, I found it hard to trust any situation. I paused in the middle of the room and thought about Patrick. I was taking a huge risk letting him know where I was staying, but there was something about him that told me he wouldn’t say anything. I walked into the bathroom, which had white walls, sinks and floors that were spotless, as if no one had stayed there in months. Either that or the hotel replaced the tiles, showers and toilets after every guest left.

I took a shower, and the delightful torrent of water soothed my body. I wished I could stay there all night, but I had work to do. After drying off, I returned to the bedroom with only my towel. The laptop was easy to set up, as was the hotel’s Internet access. The Web browser went straight to Google after I opened it.
I see not much has changed.
I typed Michael Galloway’s name and waited.
Please, come back with something.
I clicked the mouse’s left button, and hundreds of results came up, many more than I’d seen when I searched in 2043.

Michael Galloway was a corporate heavyweight. His parents had died in a plane accident when he was just fifteen. He inherited his father’s company, Glixima, then a very small pharmaceutical company. But his father left the day-to-day operations to his business partner and Michael’s godfather, Bill Adams, who became the company’s CEO. The company saw steady profits and grew in size and influence around the world. But Bill died five years later in a skiing accident, and the archived newspaper articles I was reading hinted that Bill’s death was suspicious.

At twenty years of age, Michael assumed control of the company, and in less than five years he took its annual revenue to almost fifteen billion dollars. Most people interviewed said he just carried on with the exceptional work that Bill had put in before his untimely death. Some screamed about foul-play conspiracies, but such theories were quickly quashed. From what I read, it didn’t seem likely either. Michael seemed to love his godfather too much to have had him killed. He even continued paying Bill’s yearly salary to his family after his death.

In the years that followed, Glixima won many large contracts in the country and around the world. Michael was a very important person. Some of the images showed him with no fewer than three U.S. presidents, including Jack Grace, whose term had run from 2004 to 2008. But my gaze never strayed from Michael. He had a chiseled face and smooth dimples. Even though it was just a photo, his dark hair and blue eyes drew me helplessly to him. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that he looked familiar. Maybe I could see Dylan’s dad, Tristan, in him.

I frowned at the ceiling. Michael was obviously a powerful man, but what did he have to do with all this? When had he started suspecting that something sinister had caused the worldwide infertility? My mind went in every direction, considering every possibility. I still needed to find the connection between the creatures from my time and Michael’s theory. That was the only way I’d find Dylan. Lorenzo’s coming through the portal meant that there must have been more like him here in 2013. Maybe Michael even knew something was wrong at this moment. But I couldn’t take that chance. If I approached him sounding like a fanatic, he would never trust me again. Hell, he might even call the police, and then I could kiss my chances of finding Dylan good-bye. I knew the meteor would strike in two days, but I needed to get Michael on board right now.
I’ve just got to break it to him gently.

I searched for Glixima’s contact number and found it within seconds. A chirpy-sounding woman answered after two rings. “Glixima. Sharon speaking.”

“Hi, I’m looking for Michael Galloway please.”

“Is he expecting your call?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

“I’ll put you through.” Classical music came on.

That was easy.
I sat on the phone for almost twenty minutes before I realized what had probably happened. The woman I spoke with was most likely central switchboard and all she did was put me through to his office. I put the phone on “speaker” and got dressed. The smell of the Dior perfume I bought was stunning. Midway between flossing, I heard someone speaking through the phone. I ran out and placed it to my ear.

“Hello. Is anyone there?” I heard.

“Hi. I’m trying to get hold of Michael Galloway, please.”

“And you are?” The woman sounded unhappy to even be on the phone.

“Cynthia Rose.” I said the name on the stolen license like it meant something, like the woman would be insulting me by not knowing who I was.

I heard her on the other end of the line going through sheets of paper. She spoke a few seconds after. “I’m sorry, but Mr Galloway is in a meeting right now. Can you call him back tomorrow?”

I frowned. She just didn’t recognize my name and didn’t want to bother her boss. I’d known it was a long shot anyway, trying to get hold of a man as important as Michael with a random phone call. “Do you know when he’ll be finished? Maybe I can call him back then.”

“I’m afraid he’ll be going home straight after. Sorry.”

I grunted in frustration. I didn’t have much time. “Is he in the office tomorrow?”

“Yes, he is, but he’s in meetings all day and can’t do any face-to-face mee—”

I hung up and stared at the ceiling. The digital clock on the table struck four. Time was ticking by. I clenched my fists and pounded them against the bed. Then I got up and paced around the room, aware that Lorenzo was still out there, searching for me. I thought of the 2013 version of myself. The fact that I was still walking around meant that no one had hurt her. But how long would she be safe? Maybe if I could somehow persuade my 2013 parents to leave town with the younger me and go somewhere far, they’d be safe. But what would I say to them? I stared at my wad of cash and wondered if I could persuade them with some of it. I ruffled my hair. I knew they’d probably laugh in my face and think I was mad, but I had to try something.

I drank a bottle of water from the minibar and rode the elevator downstairs. I asked the receptionist to call me a cab. It arrived ten minutes later.

“Where to, ma’am?” asked the young black cabdriver.

“Silver Lake, please. Kenilworth Avenue.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He joined the traffic and headed east.

When we arrived twenty minutes later, I was dizzy. My head pounded and my breaths grew short.

The driver looked at me with concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

I grimaced and nodded. “I’ll be okay. I just need water.”

He forced his glove compartment open and gave me an unopened bottle of mineral water. I took a swig and sighed. Then I gave him thirty dollars and got out. He stared at me as I crossed the street. I turned back at him and waved. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

He waited another minute and drove off. I still felt faint. It couldn’t have been my medication; I had just taken it a few hours ago. It was something else. I’d known it would be hard coming back to where I’d grown up, but I had no choice. I stood by the porch of 2005 Kenilworth Avenue, my home address when I was four. There was no car in the driveway, so I assumed no one was home, but I still had to check it out. I had many memories of this house. We’d stayed here for only two more months from this day before we moved. I’d hated our house in Pasadena, but it was where I met Kevin, on September 24, a week after my fifth birthday. A tear fell when I remembered how Lorenzo killed him.

I straightened and wiped my eyes and walked up the stairs to the front door. The stone house was just as I remembered. The roof tiles were a dark gray color, with hints of lime green around the windows. Just then, the sprinklers rose from the ground and turned on. Water splashed in my face and I jerked back, but then I smiled. I remembered running out of the house to play with my mom whenever I saw them on.

I dismissed the memories from my head and braced myself.
This is a bad idea.
I walked to the door and knocked.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I
knocked again. Still nothing. I walked to the living-room windows and tried to peek through, but the curtains prevented me from seeing anything. I tilted my head left and right, trying to find a better angle.