Quantum (39 page)

epilogue

D
illard looked at the number again. He’d tried calling it back three times now, but no one was picking up. Some one called Raj Sen left six messages for him. He’d said that it was urgent, that it had to do with Olivia. Quite frankly, he didn’t care. Olivia was history and he’d like to keep it like that. If it weren’t for the fact that Raj had mentioned that Dillard could be due a lot of money, he wouldn’t even have tried calling back.

Money? Well, he was in no position to pass up any chance at a bit of money. His ex-wives were bleeding him dry,
had
bled him dry. He was now forced to live in this crappy council apartment in the Secroft area near Leeds, whereas his latest ex-wife and their kids enjoyed living in the four-bedroom house that he had poured his sweat into. She’d taken everything in the divorce.

At least Olivia had left without bleeding him dry. In fact, he’d bled
her
dry, he recalled fondly. Those were the days. Olivia had been one of those toffie-nosed young conservatives seen sipping on Champagne with a capital C at university. He would have never come into contact with her had it not been for Christine Glendorf. Christine was one of the few women in his engineering classes. She also happened to be an active member of the young conservatives. She’d brought Olivia along to one of weekend engineers’ parties. Why? Who knows?

He’d felt sorry for Olivia. Although she’d been one of only six women at the party, the guys left her alone, concentrating their attentions on the other five–Christine being particularly popular. And it wasn’t because Olivia was dog-bottom ugly. Just the opposite, in fact. Her almost perfect features, accented with a mane of sleek, long hair, made her appear almost unapproachable–until she smiled, which she had done at him when she’d noticed him staring. He’d grabbed a flute from the bar and filled it with beer–it was all they had–and walked over to her.

“Refreshment, mademoiselle?” he’d asked, gallantly bowing his head.

She’d laughed, but had taken the flute. And so it began. He’d immersed himself in a false persona, pretending to be just like her, pretending to enjoy the things she did. He kissed footie goodbye and spent his time at ballets–all to be with her. He loved what her presence had offered. It opened doors that had been previously closed to him.

They had rushed into marriage, or he had, mainly to save money. What was the point in having two apartments when they could live in one? She did start getting to him soon after they moved into their new London flat, after they had both been offered jobs at the university. If she dragged him to one more opera, he’d happily strangle her. What he needed were season tickets to Chelsea FC–which he did get. He reconnected with his buddies and kissed spending time with Olivia goodbye. Well, apart from when they visited her friend Celia. Celia lived with Rockson, a theater producer whom Olivia adored. Dillard adored him for other reasons–Rockson was a dealer, though Olivia wasn’t aware of that. So, a trip to Celia’s meant a supply of the necessary substances to help him cope with the life that he had faked for himself. The drugs helped him more than cope; he actually started feeling brave enough to reveal himself to her. Dillard guessed that she didn’t like the real him. They drifted apart. Divorce was an easy decision.

You’d think he would have learned his lesson. He’d come out of it fairly wealthy, a magnet for the local girls. He had enjoyed life to the fullest and then got married again. What a sap! He was now back to being almost poor again. Yes, money would come in very handy. He called the number again, no reply.

Who was Raj Sen anyway? He turned on his computer and googled him–over two million hits. What about Raj Sen and Olivia Darley, that was her married name as far as he could remember? Hmm, this was interesting, Dillard thought to himself as he scanned over the FBI wanted bulletins and news stories form last October. He couldn’t remember this being mentioned in the British press, but then he avoided the news channels.

So, Raj Sen–probably the man who kidnapped Olivia’s children–was trying to contact him. Why? Wait a minute. Sen? Wasn’t that the name of the woman who had left the odd message on his answering machine last year? He couldn’t recall for sure. He’d jotted it down at the time, but it would have long been discarded. He hadn’t called her back. Again her message had mentioned Olivia, but there had been no mention of any money. What was this all about? There was only one way to find out. He picked up the phone and booked a ticket to New Jersey. Yes, he could call her, but if there was money to be had, he better do it right and surprise her. Only money could change his current unsatisfactory momentum.

The Story Continues…

PORTAL CHRONICLES BOOK FOUR

Imogen Rose was born in a small town in Sweden and moved to London in her twenties. After obtaining a PhD in immunology from Imperial College, she moved with her family to New Jersey, where she has been based for the past ten years. Storytelling is her real passion and she is excited to be publishing the third book in the Portal Chronicles.

Please visit
imogenrose.com
for more information.

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An excerpt from Heroes ’Til Curfew

the second book in the Talent Chronicles series

by Susan Bischoff

Something doesn’t feel right.

But then I thought, Maybe you really are just paranoid.

Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean no one’s out to get you.

That last thought was my dad’s voice in my head, because I was that well programmed. Which is why I had varied my schedule and left work a little bit earlier than usual. I was trying to throw off my stalker.

As I walked down the brick-paved road that ran through the middle of the downtown pedestrian mall, my own boots were the only ones I could hear beating the pavement. The feelings I had weren’t the sensations of being followed and watched that I had become familiar with over the last month or so. Tonight was different.

It’s not like I’m that kind of psychic. I don’t, like, sense disturbances in the Force or anything like that. It’s just that I’m trained to pay attention to my surroundings. At some point, that kind of training turns to instinct—an instinct that warned me something was up.

The economy of our town was not great, and downtown was especially bad. Yeah, here and everywhere else in country, right? That left a lot empty storefronts, a lot of darkened glass windows that showed my reflection as I walked by, a lone, dark-haired girl in a vintage army jacket and combat boots, faking confidence in her stride.

Our store was at the far end of the mall. I had to walk the whole length of it to get home. I remember being so happy when my dad started letting me walk home by myself, because I loved walking it, the feeling of freedom in the night air, the quiet, the glow of the converted gas lights. But making enemies, getting my ass handed to me, getting to walk around with a bruised face for weeks and all the attention that got me…that kind of thing changes a girl, I guess.

I glanced over at the confident girl who moved from glass to glass beside me, at the dark alleyways that opened up every few buildings, the looming, brick store facades, and the shadows under awnings where the attractive but weak lamplight didn’t reach. I listened hard to the sound of nothing—too much nothing, it seemed to me—and tried not to think about the cell phone in my pocket and of calling Dylan. Not because I was some useless girl, afraid of the dark and in need of rescuing, but just to hear his voice.