A Cook in Time (23 page)

He laughed. “I escaped. Quite easily, I might add. I knew the government was trying to kill me because I had found out too much about their space programs and the important information they concealed from the people. I hid for a time, planning to rejoin the Prometheans.
But they changed. Holton changed them, dividing them, weakening them. I watched and waited.”

“Why kill anyone? You could have gone to the public, told your story. You would have been safe.”

“You're so naive, Angie. The public believes whatever the media tells it, and the media is a tool of government. My victims were people who had been in Area Fifty-one with me and had moved to San Francisco like the Prometheans did. It was interesting to learn how their little exposure to Area Fifty-one—to me—had stayed with them over all these years, and when given the slightest encouragement, they sought us out. They happily gave my friend Oliver their names and addresses.”

“So Oliver worked with you?”

“Yes. He was the only one I trusted enough to tell I had returned. He thought he was recruiting old Area Fifty-one workers for me. It was too bad he got so upset when he learned he'd sent those men to their deaths that he took his own life. Before that, he believed everything I told him—he was quite the idiot.”

“Poor Oliver,” Angie said. “I knew he was no killer.”

“But I am. Enough of this! I know what you're doing, Angie, but it won't work.” He took hold of a rope and reached for her. “Turn around so I can tie you up. I don't want to hurt you.”

“No!” She lunged at him with the knife.

 

Paavo remembered seeing a freight elevator on the wall past the stairs. He'd crawl up the shaft if he had to, but he was going to find Angie and get out of this damned basement.

As he tried to find the elevator, he saw the soft glow of a light in the distance. Quietly, he inched his way toward it.

 

Neumann grabbed Angie's arm, stopping her before she could jab it into him. She continued to yell, kicking and flailing, knocking over bottles and flasks, and generally trying to create as much noise and chaos as she could.

Connie picked up a meat cleaver and moved toward Neumann. He spun around and with one hand slapped her in the face, sending her sprawling as the meat clever fell from her hands.

A gunshot reverberated through the lab. The door sprang open and the man in black came into the room. His eyes scanned the room for Neumann. He raised his gun—

Too late.

Neumann fired first, and the man in black fell forward into the laboratory, his hands outstretched. In one was a gun, in the other, a flashlight.

Angie dived for the gun.

“You fool!” Neumann cried, running toward her.

The door to the hallway was wide open. She knew she couldn't pick up the gun, turn, and
shoot—that would be suicide. Instead, hoping against hope that she was guessing right, she reached toward the gun and shoved it hard, causing it to skid across the concrete floor and out into the hallway.

In one rolling movement, Paavo picked it up and, as Neumann shot at him, returned fire.

Neumann was hit. He fell, unconscious. Angie turned to Paavo in the doorway, but it was empty. She screamed.

 

Two ambulances stood outside Tardis Hall.

The doors were open and the lights back on. Derrick Holton and his friend Phil were wheeled into one ambulance. Derrick had lost a lot of blood and was unconscious from a severe blow to the skull. Phil had a bruised neck.

Into the other went the man in black and I. M. Neumann. The man in black had been wearing a bulletproof vest and was only stunned by the bullet that had hit him. He had refused to give his name or say anything other than to insist he was a special agent and had to go with Neumann.

Neumann had been shot in the stomach and was expected to survive.

The ambulance drove away, sirens screaming.

Angie and Connie huddled against Paavo, who had one arm around each of them. Earl, Butch, Vinnie, Elvis, and Kronos stood nearby, offering whatever support they could. After stopping Neumann with a bullet, Paavo had found the
controls in the lab to unlock the doors and turn the lights back on.

It looked as if Neumann had built himself a miniature Area 51 in the basement of the building he owned. He might have stayed hidden there a lot longer, simply playing at being Malachi, except that the city had decided to demolish the building as part of the urban renewal of the area. Not even a scientific genius like Neumann could fight city hall. He finally had to move on his plan to take revenge on those who had destroyed his life and his group, and then to retake the leadership of the Prometheans, who he expected—as a result of his plan—would become bigger and stronger than ever.

“Let's go home,” Angie said, holding Paavo tightly. “This place reminds me of how scared I was when I looked at the doorway and you weren't there.”

“It was all reflexes. We're taught to roll and keep going to get out of the way of a bullet. What was remarkable was your timing in knocking the gun to me in the hallway. How did you know I was out there?”

“I didn't. But I knew if you could be anywhere, that was the place—and I knew you didn't have your gun.”

“Oh my,” Connie murmured, still shaking. “I'm glad I fainted at the first gunshot and missed it all. I swear, if I never see or hear anything about UFOs and aliens again, I'll be happy.”

As they all moved out of the building onto the sidewalk, they saw Algernon running down the street toward them, waving his arms.

“Here I am! I thought the event had been canceled,” he cried, breathless but smiling. “I was trying to find a taxi, and then I saw a couple of ambulances go by. Sorry I'm late! I didn't miss anything much, did I?”

As Angie sat at her dining room table, Paavo brought her a dish of spumoni ice cream with a maraschino cherry on top.

It was Christmas Eve. He had cooked the entire meal while she sat in the living room, listened to carols on her CD player, and wasn't allowed to even peek in the kitchen. She only cringed a few times at a crash or flurry of very un-holiday-spirited oaths. He prepared steak, baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, and a salad with oil and vinegar dressing. He'd bought the spumoni dessert in honor of her Italian background. Simple, but to Angie's mind, absolutely delicious.

“How lovely,” she said. “This was the best fantasy dinner I could imagine.”

“You're the only fantasy I want in my life, Angie.” Paavo poured them both some coffee.

She smiled as she waited for him to return
from the kitchen. It was rare for Paavo to express his feelings openly, and when he did, it always touched her deeply. “Well, I don't want any more fantasies in mine, either. UFOs and aliens have cured me of that.”

“Don't remind me.” He sat down. “I'm pissed off as hell about the way that man-in-black character and Neumann disappeared. FBI, NSA, DOD, CIA—no one will admit to knowing either of them, and the fingerprints we found of the two don't match with anything on file. Even their guns were untraceable.”

“It was a clever plan, you have to admit, Paavo,” Angie said, taking a spoon to her ice cream. “The switch to another ambulance at San Francisco General was inspired. It happens enough these days due to overcrowding that no one questioned it.”

“I just hope Neumann pays the price for what he did.”

“I'm sure whoever sent the man in black after him will see that he does.”

“They'd better,” he grumbled. He attacked his ice cream.

Angie thought it was time to change the subject. “At least Derrick is doing well—except for an ugly scar. He and Algernon might even learn to get along together.”

“They can have each other,” Paavo said. “At least this is one old boyfriend your father won't want to trade me in for.”

She put down her spoon. “That really bothers you, doesn't it?”

“How could it not bother me? I know the kind of man your father expects for you. I also know I'm not it.”

She placed her hand lightly on his arm. “Remember when you told me it didn't matter what I did, it was who I am that you loved?”

“Yes.”

“Well, listen to your own words, Inspector. They were good ones. And if I ever, ever hear you belittling yourself again, I will leave you. For stupidity! You saved my friends' lives, Paavo. No one can ask more of you than that.”

“I hope you're right,” he said.

“I know I am.”

She started to lift the ice cream bowls to take them into the kitchen. “Leave them,” he said. He blew out the candles they'd dined by, took her hand, and led her into the living room.

They shut off all the lights except those on the tree, then sat on the floor, face-to-face, in front of it. “When I was a boy,” Paavo said, “we always opened our presents on Christmas Eve.”

“My family did, too.” Angie reached for the present for Paavo that lay under the tree. “You first.”

Without a word, he carefully peeled off the tape and unfolded the wrapping paper, giving her a glimpse of the serious, thrift-conscious child he must have been. He lifted the box to
find an imported Bijan hand-stitched cashmere sports jacket and brown leather gloves. The material was soft and elegant. “They're great, Angie. I've never had a jacket or gloves so nice. I'll be afraid to wear them.”

“You'd better not be. I expect to see them on you.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said with a smile.

Then he got up and walked over to his coat. From the pocket, he pulled out a small square box. “I'm not very good at this kind of thing,” he said, sitting on the floor again. “I'll have to explain it.”

He had obviously wrapped it himself. The paper and Scotch tape were rather creatively applied. Smiling at his worried expression, she quickly tore off the ribbon and paper. Breathing deeply, she caught his gaze, then lifted the lid.

Inside was a small cameo brooch in a gold setting.

“It was my mother's,” he said. “I want you to have it.”

She was stunned. “Your mother's?” Paavo never spoke of his mother. Angie didn't know he owned anything that had belonged to her. She doubted he had much that was hers, yet he was giving her this piece of jewelry. She held it in her hands a long moment. “It's beautiful, Paavo, but I can't accept something that belonged to your mother. This is for you to keep.”

He tried to shrug off her words, pretending the
gift was no big deal. She knew otherwise. “I've had it tucked away in a drawer for years. It's something that should be worn and enjoyed.”

“But I can't—”

He clasped his hands over hers, the brooch held between them. His casual manner was gone now, his face stark, all pretense set aside. “When I was a little boy,” he said, “other kids would talk about the presents they'd received and about giving gifts to their families. Aulis is a wonderful man, and I love him, but it wasn't the same. I was old enough to remember my mother. I missed her. I couldn't understand why she'd left me. Sometimes, I'd even pretend she was still there with me. But most of the time, I would take this brooch and hold it and look at it, and wish very hard that I wasn't alone anymore.”

Her heart ached at his words.

His eyes met hers. “I finally got my wish.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.” She wrapped her arms around him, holding him and the brooch tight. “Merry Christmas, Paavo.”

“Merry Christmas, Angie.”

From the kitchen of Angelina Amalfi—

Angie's Favorite Tiramisu

 

The literal translation of
tiramisu
is “pull me up.” Whether this derives from the caffeine content of the coffee and chocolate, or from the liqueur, is anybody's guess.

Combine the cooled coffee with the liqueur. Arrange half the ladyfingers in a slightly rectangular, flat-bottomed serving dish with high sides. The entire bottom of the dish should be covered
(which is why you may need more than 24 ladyfingers). Sprinkle or soak the ladyfingers with half the liqueur/coffee mixture. You don't want the ladyfingers to be soaked completely soft, but you want to make sure they've absorbed the flavor.

Beat the egg whites in a bowl until stiff. Set them aside.

In another bowl, beat the egg yolks together with the sugar until the mixture thickens and lightens in color. Add the marscarpone to the egg yolk mixture and stir to combine thoroughly. Fold the egg whites into this mixture.

Spread half the mascarpone mixture over the ladyfingers in the serving dish. Sprinkle half the grated chocolate on top of the mascarpone mixture (be generous here—you might need more than the 6 ounces of chocolate called for, depending on the size of your serving dish; you can still see the mascarpone below, but make sure the mixture is definitely covered).

On a separate plate, soak the remaining ladyfingers with the remaining coffee/liqueur mixture, then make another layer of ladyfingers on top of the chopped chocolate. Layer it with the rest of the mascarpone, and then the rest of the grated chocolate.

Cover the tiramisu with plastic wrap and chill overnight, or for at least 5 hours. Serves 6–8.