CHAPTER 4 CASTLE

Kathryn Copeland:

Stunned, I look around the spacious room we enter. Considering the foreboding stonework on the exterior, I was prepared for something resembling a bunker. Instead, the eccentric butler has welcomed us into what feels more like the lobby of a five-star hotel. Several stories above, enormous skylights flood the room with light. The architecture is starkly modern with white granite walls and highly polished marble floors, but the couches are overstuffed in elegant European style and arranged in conversation groups. European tapestries cover the walls. I suspect they are priceless antiques.

Collin hurries me through this room and into a wide corridor bathed in light by clerestory windows. He’s noticeably agitated about being late. Late for what exactly? My stomach churns. Nothing seems right about this. Why am I here for a meeting in this bizarre place with the façade of a mausoleum and the interior of an opulent mansion?

Racing to keep up with Collin’s long stride, I glance in awe at the museum-quality treasures we’re rushing past. Silk-covered couches line the corridor, separated by T’ang Dynasty horses in orange-gold hues atop marble pedestals. Delicate Sung porcelains glow in lighted cases.

We turn down a long, winding corridor. Antique French consoles displaying blue and white Ming porcelains line these walls. Finally, we come to engraved metal doors where an intimidating man stands guard. Without cracking a smile, he opens the door and steps aside. Not knowing what to expect, I hesitate.

But Collin gives me no choice. He ushers me into a room that turns out to be a spacious library with walls covered in mahogany bookshelves, full of leather-covered hardbounds. Unlike the windowless façade that faces the road, this room has magnificent views of Puget Sound, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows. The muted glow of recessed lights reflects off rich wood and plush carpets. Behind us the heavy door closes with a foreboding thunk. I feel trapped.

Collin and I settle into chairs by the door, not disturbing the dozen or so people seated on brown leather couches around an immense marble fireplace. Everyone’s engrossed in some report. I study their faces. To my increasing discomfort, I recognize a number of well-known public figures, including an heiress to the largest retail corporation in the world and a former secretary of state who tried to bring about Middle East peace treaties without success. A balding man huffs and slams the report closed. He’s a controversial member of Parliament and next to him sits the current president of a South American country.

A diminutive Chinese man returns my gaze. His face seems familiar. I look away, trying not to stare. Then I remember seeing his face in the news. He’s Dr. Hua, the quantum physicist who made history by developing the theoretical basis of time travel for which he received a Nobel Prize in physics. Time travel. The concept utterly confounds me. It’s become a hotly debated topic, and I’ve read a couple articles about Dr. Hua’s work. I always take what’s reported with healthy skepticism, but it’s claimed the technology has now been taken beyond the theoretical stage. Feels surreal to be in the same room with the man who might have accomplished that magical feat.

I try to discern a pattern, some logical connection between these people, but this seems to be a random conglomeration of men and women prominent in business, politics, and science. The only thing I’m certain of right now is my misgivings about why I’m here.

“What is this, Collin?” I whisper. “A meeting of the leading members of Who’s Who?”

“It’s the Executive Committee of the Foundation for Worldwide Action.”

The FWA? As I recall, that was created last year to fund ocean and freshwater reclamation projects around the globe. Puzzled, I murmur, “Just what are we doing here?”

“Be patient,” Collin says under his breath.

I glare at him. His intense, brown eyes turn away as he nervously rubs his beard. He’s testing my patience. I study his familiar face—the high brow and pronounced cheekbones of his highland ancestors—trying to figure what’s going on in that keen mind. He’s always had the straightforward Scottish manner of dealing with people. Why is he so evasive now?

I turn my attention back to the group as one of the men looks up from the report. It’s Howard Wheaton! Probably the most famous man on earth. The controversy over his time-travel program, under the direction of Dr. Hua, has been all over the news for the past several months. He’s said to be fifty-some years old, but he looks much younger—not a hint of grey in his ash-brown hair and only a few wrinkles in those striking features.

“Now, for the last item on the agenda,” Mr. Wheaton states. “The report you just read is to inform you of this situation before it possibly breaks in the news. I’m sure you have questions.”

The white-haired former secretary of state speaks up first. “Howard, how exactly did this happen?”

“The man we brought from the past was in far worse physical condition than we anticipated, and the infirmary here at Land’s End wasn’t adequate.”

They brought a person from the past? Really?“He needed immediate surgery and was taken to the hospital we own in Seattle,” Wheaton continues explaining. “We required everyone who had any contact with him to sign confidentiality agreements, and sizable bonuses were paid for their silence. Despite that, a leak occurred. It was traced to a nurse. We verified that after she pocketed a tidy sum from us, she sold the information to Powers, T’ang and Bianchetti.”

The PTB Corporation? I glance over at Collin. What has he gotten into here?

The secretary of state presses, “Tell me that nurse is no longer working for you and you’ve plugged all the leaks.”

“In a manner, yes.” Mr. Wheaton hesitates. “The nurse was involved in a fatal hit and run a few hours after our investigator talked to her.”

A man with an Aussie accent blurts out, “You don’t mean your bloke kil—”

“Of course not. That’s not the way I handle things.” Mr. Wheaton glares back at the man, and the room goes deathly silent as everyone digests this.

Someone killed that woman to silence her. A PTB thug? Or is Mr. Wheaton lying? He certainly wouldn’t admit to ordering a murder. My heart starts pounding. I really don’t want to be here—feels like I’m standing on crackling thin ice.

“When the PTB media machine gets wind of this, the muck is going to hit the fan,” the heiress says cuttingly. “I suspect some of it will land on us. What steps are you taking to keep this from tainting the work of the Foundation or any of us directors?”

“Sir Kenneth has advised us,” Mr. Wheaton replies, glancing over at a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair, “to release a statement that bringing Mercier from the past has nothing to do with the Foundation. We’ll clarify that Wheaton Industries transported him here to test our time-travel technology. To limit any negative publicity, I’ll step back from active participation in the Foundation’s public affairs until this matter is resolved.”

“Each of you can state that you had no involvement with this,” Sir Kenneth states, “and that this issue has nothing to do with FWA projects. Make no further comments.”

“What in hell possessed you to do this, Howard?” the heiress presses.

“As the report says, it was part of our system’s ongoing tests,” Mr. Wheaton shoots back. “We knew people from the present could travel into the past, but we didn’t know if it worked the other way. We needed to find out and never intended to make public that we had brought Mercier to the future. The plan was to send him back after he recuperated.”

“So you claim this was no more than an experiment?” asks a dark-haired man with a thick Russian accent. “Then why didn’t you pick some unknown person? Someone innocuous?”

“We selected the person based on specific parameters. It had to be someone about to die from an external cause, so if we were unsuccessful in returning him to the past, he wouldn’t be prevented from fulfilling his life’s work. That might have a ripple effect.”

“Why from an external cause?” A grey-haired woman wearing a brightly colored sari speaks up. I recognize her from a recent article. She’s a doctor who is developing new metabolic-nutritional treatments for chronic illness.

“We didn’t want to transport someone who was ill. If they died in transit or shortly afterward, how could we determine if it was from time travel or natural causes?”

“What possessed you to choose this particular chap, then?” the member of Parliament scoffs.

“As most of you know,” Mr. Wheaton replies, “my wife is interested in nineteenth-century French history. She came across a diary that gave us the information to locate him just before he was to die. The diary also indicated he was wrongly executed.”

“If you return him to the past, won’t there be ripple effects?” the Russian asks.

“No, there would be no ripple in our time stream that would effect us,” Dr. Hua replies.

“What do you mean?” a dignified man in an African agbada asks. I’ve seen him interviewed about his work in environmental crisis areas. “Wouldn’t changing something that occurred in the past create a domino effect on our history?”

“When Mr. Mercier was saved from execution, that created a new time stream. When he is returned to the past, therefore, he will be living on that alternate time stream and will not affect us or the stream we exist on.” Dr. Hua smiles patiently as if he’s explained this point many times.

The member of Parliament cuts in, “That may all be well and good, Howard, but why choose a chap with his nefarious background? Someone who could possibly bring discredit on your work?”

“Perhaps my wife can best address this.” Mr. Wheaton turns to the woman beside him.

Mrs. Wheaton is one of the people I hadn’t been able to identify. Her blonde hair is pulled back, highlighting azure eyes. She speaks softly, her precise British accent tinged with French overtones. “Monsieur Mercier was known to be a creative genius, so saving his life had two distinct benefits—rescuing a falsely executed man and allowing a genius to complete his natural life and fully utilize his talents. Wouldn’t that be a benefit to humanity?”

“Lady Margaret, I appreciate your good intentions,” the secretary of state says deferentially, “but wasn’t he also known as a murderer? Maybe even insane?”

“From the information we’ve gathered,” she replies confidently, “it appears Monsieur Mercier has not been portrayed accurately.”

“Also, his having a negative impact when he goes back would be unlikely,” Dr. Hua interjects. “One person alone would have a statistically insignificant effect on the alternate time stream.”

“It still leaves you with the current imbroglio,” the Russian argues.

“He’s right,” the member of Parliament declares angrily. “According to this report, the International Criminal Court of the Americas in Seattle is investigating Mercier for murders he might have committed. How did they get involved?”

Mr. Wheaton bristles under the heated scrutiny. “Powers, T’ang and Bianchetti Corporation has been busy behind the scenes. They informed the French government that Mercier had been brought from the past and pressured them to file criminal charges, since there is no statute of limitations on murder.” Smiling grimly, Wheaton continues. “However, Wheaton Industries is in negotiations to purchase and reclaim polluted land outside Paris for a new factory. Judiciously, the French government declined to pursue extradition or file charges. Then Powers, Tang & Bianchetti turned over the information to the Criminal Court of the Americas, which is examining the evidence to see if they have grounds to proceed.”

“So the PTB Corporation’s game plan is to use the trial to pillory you for bringing Mercier to the present?” the member of Parliament asks.

“Yes,” Sir Kenneth says, “this is another one of their maneuvers to get what they want—the time-travel technology.”

“And if they get their hands on it,” the South American president says, scowling, “they’ll find out about the future. That would be disastrous.”

The future? What’s he referring to? My stomach clenches.

“Why not send Mercier back to the past before charges can be filed?” the Russian asks.

“I can’t,” Mr. Wheaton chafes. “As the report said, the Criminal Court served me with an injunction that prohibits me from sending him back pending their investigation. At least we negotiated an agreement with the Court to keep this matter confidential. It’ll only go public if charges are filed. Although there were rumors that Mercier committed these murders, he was never charged with any of them during his lifetime. The Court may not be able to find sufficient grounds to bring charges.”

“Good grief,” I whisper to Collin, “who’d they bring? Jack the Ripper?”

“Ach, no,” Collin says under his breath. “Well, no’ exactly.”

“Not exactly? Then who exactly?”

Collin shakes his head and turns back to the group.

“If Powers, T’ang and Bianchetti is behind this,” the member of Parliament scowls, “there is little doubt the court’s prosecutors will dig until they find any excuse to file charges.”

“Whatever happens regarding this situation,” Mr. Wheaton retorts, “the Foundation must keep doing its work. In the meantime, I’ll take the heat, and we’ll dispute the charges if they’re filed. Once acquitted, Mercier will be returned to the past. That’ll quell the attacks.”

“It damned well better,” growls a man with an Australian accent. “There’s too much at stake here.”

“I trust you have shrewd attorneys to represent him?” the South American president asks.

“We do,” Mr. Wheaton replies confidently.

I blink. He can’t be referring to me. I’m not a defense attorney. Why would they want me for this case? After hearing what’s at stake, I don’t want anything to do with this.

“Howard, just pay them whatever they want.” The secretary of state wags his finger and chuckles. “You won’t miss a million or two.”

Mr. Wheaton replies stiffly, “Any further discussion?” When no one speaks up, he announces, “Meeting adjourned. Please join us for dinner in half an hour. Our chef has prepared some specialties for dinner tonight—lobster and oysters, I believe.”

“Lobsters? Oysters?” the environmental scientist exclaims. “Those haven’t existed outside museum aquariums for years.”

“We bought several islands and are developing processes to reclaim their coastal waters.” For the first time, Mr. Wheaton breaks into a smile. “We’re reestablishing oysters, lobsters, and two types of crab.”

Despite the prospect of such delicacies for dinner, the people wear worried faces as they leave. No one seems pleased with the turn of events. I can relate. Neither am I.

Abruptly, Mr. Wheaton addresses us. “Good evening, Ms. Copeland. Collin.” He already knows who I am. “We’re glad you agreed to meet with us.”

Agreed? More like hijacked. Mrs. Wheaton gives me a welcoming smile, but her haunting eyes make me uneasy. They seem to peer into my mind, as if she can read my thoughts. I feel like Exhibit A. But there’s also a wistful, sad quality in her gaze.

“Please join us,” Mr. Wheaton adds, “so we can discuss your client, Mr. Mercier.”

As Collin and I take seats on a couch opposite the Wheatons, I control my anger. Either Mr. Wheaton is taking a lot for granted, or I’ve been entirely left out of a rather significant loop. “First, let me clarify, I have not accepted Mr. Mercier as my client.”

“We apologize for the inconvenience of bringing you here at the end of your long work day.” Mrs. Wheaton’s voice has none of her husband’s demanding overtones. “I know you’ve had little notice, but we learned about this possible legal action less than a week ago ourselves. Could you please read the report? Perhaps that will help.” She nods to Collin, and he hands me one of the portfolios.

I hesitate before opening it. Do I really want to know? Do I want any part of this? Reluctantly, I open it and begin reading. The report goes over the reasons Mr. Mercier was chosen to be brought from the past and says basically what was discussed during the meeting. That is followed by a short biography of Mr. Mercier, which doesn’t contain any reference to murders he may have committed.

Then I turn to the last page and find the name by which he is well-known. I look up in shock. “I’ve heard about this man, but I thought the stories about him were fictional. So, you’re saying that Erik Mercier—the person you brought from the past—is that infamous man?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Wheaton replies. “However, Gaston Leroux wrote the original book about Mr. Mercier forty years after he died. Leroux pasted together myth and legend which he gleaned from different sources, so not everything in his book is correct. To find out the truth would be part of your job.”

“I see. Frankly, this isn’t the type of case, or client, I usually represent.”

“We’re aware of that.” She half smiles. “But I feel if you were to hear his story and understand his situation, you’d have a different impression of him. I feel he’s innocent, or if he committed any acts he’s accused of, surely it was justified. In any case, he deserves the finest defense possible.” Her response has an underlying emotional charge, and she’s certain he is, or should be, innocent? Fairly shaky from a legal perspective.

“Do you have proof to support that?” I ask, feeling like the ice I’m standing on is beginning to fracture.

Before Mrs. Wheaton can respond, Mr. Wheaton interjects, “How about a retainer of a couple million for starters?” That hits me like a plunge into icy water. Mrs. Wheaton talks about a man who’s been wronged, but Mr. Wheaton offers money that’s nothing less than a bribe. Everything about this feels wrong, twisted. My instincts scream for me to get out of here.

“An interesting proposition. However, respectfully, I must decline.” When I stand to leave, Mr. Wheaton stares in disbelief and Mrs. Wheaton gasps. Collin’s jaw clenches, but wisely he refrains from saying anything. I no longer trust him.

As I walk to the door, Mr. Wheaton calls after me, “Please come back and be seated. We have not finished.”

My anger ignites. I turn around and the words explode from me, “Yes! We have!”

I don’t wait for his response. Hurrying across the library, I shove open the door and rush down the corridor. I don’t get far before my knees give way, and I sink onto the nearest couch. My hand shakes as I take out my phone and call my legal assistant. I want her to send a car for me so I can just get out of here. Now!

But I can’t get a signal. I try over and over, with no success. Are they blocking my call? Then I remember what happened to the nurse who didn’t go along with the program. Nobody knows where I am. If I disappear, no one would even know where to look.

As I put my phone away and stand up, a dark flash catches my eye. Someone just came around the corner, then stepped back into the shadows. I’m being watched. Adrenalin shoots through me and my heart pounds as I race down the endless corridors.

When I finally reach the lobby, the skeletal butler plants himself between me and the exit. I start to make an end-run dash for the doors. Suddenly, strong hands grip my shoulders and stop me—just steps away from escape.