One Second Per Second Read online

  “No, visiting from Philadelphia,” I reply. I try to affect a strange accent but this logic is flawed as there are many varieties of strange, and all probably strange to each other. Yet my answer seems to satisfy him.

  “Ain’t seen ‘er neither,” he says, looking at Gallie. I look at her as if that’ll help prompt my memory. By then he has turned back to his mates to answer an insult. The singing starts again and I join in. Two more tankards are ordered and our coin pile shrinks. I learn he’s a farmer. He learns I’m here selling supplies to the British garrison. At least that had been his guess and I had nodded. After a while Gallie gives me an imperative nod that means get the fuck on with it.

  “The big house up the hill,” I say to my new friend. “Who lives there?” He surveys me carefully.

  “Why you askin’ me?” he says.

  “Just wondering,” I say. “Thinking I could do some business there.”

  “That right?” he replies and turns away. Then he turns back. “You and yer hedge whore can move on. G’arn.”

  We don’t dawdle. The fresh air feels light in my lungs and we put distance between ourselves and the ale house.

  “Let’s call it a night,” I say to Gallie. “That went downhill fast.”

  “And I thought you were bonding there for a while,” Gallie says, looking back as a wave of uproarious laughter comes from the building. We’re setting out for the path that leads to the house when I hear oi, wait. We turn to see two men approaching us. One of them is my bar friend.

  “Where yer goin’?” he asks. “We was just gettin’ acquainted.” This feels like a boatload of trouble. “Yer never introduced me to yer lady.”

  “That ain’t no lady,” the second man says without humor.

  “Was just bein’ polite.” He looks at me. “Why don’t yer go up to the old ‘ouse and knock on the door? See ‘oo lives there. Me and yer lady have some business meanwhile.” He grins and promptly grabs Gallie by the breast. Before I can plan my next step, the blur of Gallie’s fist has come into direct contact with the kid’s face causing his head to snap back and his body to drop. The second goon looks down in shock then launches at Gallie, fist raised. I step in to intercept but he’s fast and I take an electrically painful blow to the jaw. Then Gallie wraps an arm around his neck, jerking his face down to meet her upcoming knee. The first kid has gotten up by now and I deliver a full-force kick to his groin. He doubles up and collapses. I look back to the ale house and see there’s a gaggle of men outside the door. I squint and I’m pretty sure they had been at the same table as these two.

  With an unspoken consensus they charge at us. We run. Gallie hikes up her skirt and we make for the ridge. My hope is that they’re too drunk to keep up. This hope is dashed when I look over my shoulder. They’re shouting words I’m not understanding but there’s no mistaking the sentiment. One of them catches up and tackles me to the ground. I look down just in time to see Gallie’s foot connect with his nose. The others have slowed to a trot, confident of catching us, laughing and contemplating their prey.

  Then I hear someone shout “get up” with authority. I turn to see two redcoats each with a flintlock rifle pointed at us. I get to my feet as does the kid who’d tackled me. I’m nursing my pulsating jaw and him his bloodied nose. “Unless one of you wants a new arse, I suggest you fuck off home.” There’s a belligerent hesitation from the young drunks. “Now!” the soldier bellows and they raise their rifles to take aim. Gallie and I turn to run up the slope, not stopping until there’s forest between us and the town.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  We fall to the ground panting. It’s a gibbous moon and there’s enough light to see Gallie’s face creased in laughter.

  “You’re fucking demented,” I say. “You enjoyed that.”

  “Yes and yes,” she says. I laugh, too. I lean up on my elbow and touch my jaw lightly.

  “You hurt? Let me see.” She gets close and inspects my jaw. I feel her breath on my cheek. I look into the compassionate eyes examining me. Strands of hair resting on her forehead are fluttering in the evening breeze as she pulls closer for a better look. I see the laugh lines around her mouth. I wish I had the guts to ... She kisses me with warm lips and I kiss her back as we fall into the soft grass. I feel her hands pulling up my shirt, caressing my stomach. I run my hand up her leg, lifting her heavy dress to her thigh. Breeches have a lot of buttons and Gallie helps me, laughing. Then I roll onto her, kiss her on the mouth, and become lost in the starlight.

  We lie watching leaves flit over the surface of the moon.

  Gallie puts her lips to my ear. “We need to find another kind of foreplay.” I smile. So there will be a next time. A cool breeze rises and the trees rustle. I feel myself on the verge of sleep.

  “We should go back,” I say.

  “Let’s stay here a bit longer,” Gallie replies. “I’m not ready for that smelly barn.” I hold her hand and roll on my side toward her.

  “Where did you learn to do all that?” I ask. “That was savage.” She affects hurt and I chuckle. “Not that. The self defense.” She smiles but doesn’t answer. “Except that you have a cat, I don’t know much about you, do I.”

  “I like it that way,” she says and now I affect hurt. “Okay, what do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with family. You know a hell of a lot about mine.”

  “Mom, mechanical engineer. Dad, chemical engineer.”

  “Ah, so you’re from good diverse stock,” I say. “Siblings?” She’s quiet and it takes me a moment to see the smile has gone. “I’m prying, I know. There’s plenty–”

  “No, no, it’s fine.” She sits up. “Yes, a sister. Older sister.” The pitch of her voice has dropped. “But she died.”

  “I’m sorry.” I sit up, too.

  “Long time ago.” I know that I don’t know what to say so I stay quiet. “Very smart she was. Smarter than me, I think. Still in high school.” Gallie looks at me. “But she crossed paths with the wrong people one night.”

  “That’s awful,” I say, knowing how inadequate it sounds. She nods.

  “Anyway, I’m not sure what comes next, but let’s not risk going back to Leatown for a while.”

  I shift gears with her. “Might Prasad send a rescue team?”

  “We didn’t plan that, but yes, he might.”

  We sit for a while longer and I watch the moving shadows cast by the pale moonlight, listening to the sound of the rustling leaves. Then we dust ourselves down and head in silence toward the barn.

  TWENTY-NINE

  For a week I live the barn lifestyle with my friends. Funny that I now think of them as friends. It’s far from how I thought of them on the site. But now we’re huddling together in a frightening place, sharing the same incomprehensible risks and with an equal chance of surviving them. No schemes are hatched, no plans plotted, yet I’m asked constantly for assurances that we’ll be rescued. I have no assurances to give, but I give them anyway. Jenn has become a de facto leader and is who they go to to resolve disputes, test ideas or proffer theories. She’s cool under pressure and never loses her temper. This is why I would have never sat in the big chair. Yet, I figure out that she was obviously not part of the inner sanctum that knows about TMA’s other mission. It seems to me that she’s exactly the sort they should want on the inside, but TMA works in mysterious ways. Gallie has become Jenn’s lieutenant. She has a way with words that Jenn does not and knows how to lay out the case for a decision that Jenn has jumped to intuitively.

  And of course there’s much coition going on. Whether those relationships had arrived with them, or whether it had just suddenly seemed like a good idea, who knows? The only rule was, use the back of the loft and keep it quiet. I once saw Mack McEwan try to make a move on Gallie. I don’t know what she had said to him but his lumbering six foot four inch frame retreated with the bearing of a man castrated.

  Hygiene is a mixed bag. Our host had thrown us a bag of toothbrushes, nicely wrapped twenty-fi
rst century-style and soap bars that looked like they had been collected from a chain of Marriotts. It’s the little flourishes that count, I suppose. It’s all too strange for a dream.

  It’s on the seventh night by my count that the bedraggled, armed goons march into the barn looking for someone. “You,” the head goon barks, pointing at me. I do the looking behind me thing. “Yer must be quite the special one. The master has invited yer to dinner. And ‘ee wants you to bring yer lady.” Lady? Sounds like the ‘master’ has been tutoring him in manners. “We’ll be back in an hour to take yer.” He is as close to being courteous as he can bear, is the impression I get. Notwithstanding his polite invitation, his expression says you might be in favor now, but I can wait. Then you’ll see. They slouch out and many conversations erupt simultaneously.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know” I answer to questions from all directions. Gallie grabs my hand and leads me out of the barn. “Maybe we can get to the bottom of this,” I say.

  “Maybe, but that’s not the way our luck’s been going,” Gallie replies and nods toward the big house. “I’ve no idea what’s in there, but just keep your eyes open. Okay?”

  “I will ... for what?”

  “Anything. Danger. Something that might help us. Or kill us. Be nice if our accelerators are hanging on a coat rack. Just stay vigilant.”

  “Kill us?”

  THIRTY

  We’re marched to the mansion portico. A young woman with black hair pulled into a tight bun and a black dress with white apron opens the door. Her eyes stay low but we’re bidden to enter. Two of the guards enter with us, the others positioning themselves on the portico steps. The maid says nothing and we assume we’re to follow her which takes us up a grand staircase, illuminated from above by a large, crystal candle-lit chandelier. Gallie and I exchange a glance. There are enough mirrors to derogate the Chateau de Versailles, and where there are gaps between the gold-gilded mirrors and rococo sconces, there are paintings of lords leaning on swords and sheep grazing in meadows. From the outside, an eighteenth century mansion looks like a twenty-first century mansion, but when you’re inside, there’s no mistaking that you’re not in Kansas any more. There’s a dizzyingly wonderful smell of food and I hear a stomach rumble, maybe mine, maybe Gallie’s.

  We get to the landing. “The master thought you might wish to perform your ablutions before dinner,” the maid says. She opens a door and invites Gallie to enter. Pleasant scents waft out, and peering inside I see a bathroom befitting the Versailles theme. Gallie enters without hesitation. So much for vigilance. One of the guards takes up the position of sentry and then I’m shown into the next room down. I enter Nirvana. There’s a bath full of warm water, soap, scissors, folded towels, twenty-first century razors and an inventory of toiletries that’d shame Bed Bath & Beyond. Laid out is a fresh white linen shirt, breeches, waistcoat, jacket and, with disregard for the calendar, Fruit of the Loom underwear. This will take a while.

  I emerge fresh and defouled and my guard pats me down. Then, despite menacing looks from the other sentry, I walk down and knock on Gallie’s door. “You okay?” She calls out that she is, but not ready. After fifteen minutes she emerges and I mouth wow! She’s wearing a floral dress that’s somehow split in the front to reveal a white petticoat. I look upwards just to look away. Why now? I wonder. Why does the universe bring us together this way. Why not at a party or in a bar? Or in the grocery store, our hands touching as we reach for the same jar of pickles? Then I remember it’s because the universe is an imbecile. That’s why we both have a job in the first place.

  “Sir, Ma’am, this way.” The maid has appeared and beckons us to follow. “The master will receive you in the drawing room.” We descend the staircase and turn into a large room lined with paintings–portraits, landscapes, frolicking lambs. Chairs, tables and couches I would normally think of as antique are positioned around the room, seemingly at random but I’m sure conforming to some classical style. “He’ll be here shortly,” says the maid who curtsies and promptly exits. We wait in silence for what seems like an age. Is the idea to increase the tension? If it is, it’s not needed. I feel sweat on my palms.

  A man decked out in eighteenth century silk and satin enters with a smile wider than his face. “Joad,” says Kasper Asmus and he shakes my hand before I have a chance to consider withholding it. He looks more or less as he had looked when he tried to kill me in my Risley home, his eyes maybe even more sunken, his neck more ravaged by gravity, and with no signs of the beating I had given him.

  “Kasper,” I say, affecting nonchalance, “we were expecting you.”

  “Indeed? And may I have the honor of being introduced to this beautiful lady?”

  “This is Jane Galois,” I say.

  “Ah, the famous Jane Galois,” he says with a brisk bow. “I’m honored to have you in my little home–both of you.”

  I look around me. “Quite a place, Kasper. Seems out of the price range of a tackychemist, though.” Asmus chortles and waves at a waiter in white wig who promptly brings us drinks in crystal glasses on a silver tray.

  “English port. No better. It’ll lubricate the path for a very fine meal Mrs. Asmus has chosen for us.” We take our drinks and the waiter bows.

  “It’s very good,” says Gallie. I know she’ll have a sense of how to pace this, whereas I’d cannonball-in at the deep end with big questions.

  “You’ve picked a nice time of year, no longer too hot and–, ah, my darling wife, Elizabeth,” Asmus says. I look up from my drink and narrowly avoid a spit take when I see who it is. Bess, or her double. I look again to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. There’s no mistaking her. It’s Bess. She’s smiling at Gallie then turns to me. After a moment her smile fades into that look of embarrassment that goes with not recognizing someone you should.

  “Hello,” I say. She’s not exactly the Bess I last saw. I’m no substitute for Carbon-14 dating but I’d guess she’s maybe somewhere in her forties. Yet her porcelain beauty is undiminished. Asmus sees the discomfort.

  “Oh really, you two. Of course you recognize each other. You were at college together.” Bess’s eyes open wide.

  “Joad Bevan,” she says. “I’m so sorry.” She walks over and kisses my cheek. I glance at Gallie who’s wearing a frozen smile. “It’s so long ago.” I agree with her and then force my gaze away.

  “I’m famished,” Asmus says. “I’ll bet our guests are, too.” He beckons us to follow him. “You know, we could have laid on some fine eighteenth century fare like roasted partridge and turnips, but I thought you’d appreciate a good old steak and fries. Am I right? That sound good?” The words alone cause a cascade of digestive juices. We follow Bess into what must be the dining room. Paintings line the walls and in the room’s center is a long dining table that could have accommodated two dozen guests, but is set at one end for four. We sit and food is served immediately by two white-wigged servants who spoon fries and meat from their platters onto our china plates.

  “So, is the past what you expected?” Asmus asks and looks up from his steak for an answer.

  “We’ve had a very limited view of it,” replies Gallie. Asmus nods his understanding, deliberately missing her point. My own questions can wait until I’ve shoveled in a few more mouthfuls. Each time I momentarily look up from my eating frenzy Bess is staring at me. For a few minutes the only sound is the clattering of silver on china.

  “Don’t eat those plates. They’re expensive,” Asmus jokes and Bess smiles.

  I put down my fork and take a deep breath. “What’s going on Kasper?” I ask. He looks at me, affecting bafflement.

  “Going on? We’re just old friends sharing a meal, aren’t we?”

  “Some older than others,” I say.

  “Ouch,” Asmus replies smiling at Bess. It seems like an instant ago that a Kasper Asmus was forcing his stupid papers at me to read, and it’s getting harder for me to connect the two versions of him.

  “Why a
re you here?” I ask. He ponders this.

  “That’s a good question. It’s an interesting place in history, don’t you think? Nice to have a first-hand view.”

  “Living in a chateau,” Gallie adds. Asmus evaluates her.

  “With the entire staff of TMA in your barn,” I add. He raises a finger to a waiter who knows to pour wine, and then with a wave dismisses him. I look behind me to see two of his disheveled guards standing just outside the dining room door, not looking in our direction but obviously ready to act if needed.

  “Know much about these times?” he asks.

  “The Revolutionary War, you mean? I know the Americans won,” I say. Asmus smiles.

  “Yes. But being here right in the middle of it can change your perspectives a little,” he says. He sips his wine and then compliments the waiter. “You might call it the Revolutionary War, but from here it looks rather different. Sitting right in the action, it just doesn’t feel like a revolution. Not to me anyway.”

  “What does it feel like?” I ask.

  “Like what it is: just another proxy war between the British and the French. Been going on for centuries.”

  “Interesting way of looking at it,” Gallie says.

  “But it’s the way it is. Like you, I learned in school all about the uprising of the patriots to meet their destiny, but do you think the poor slobs down there in Leatown give a crap whether they’re being governed by King George or by a Continental Congress? Nah. It’s a handful of rich landowners who are the only real stakeholders, and they figure they’ll get a better deal if they align with the French. And lucky for them, the British are about to be consumed by another war in Europe so the French are in with a shot here.” Asmus sits back in his chair with the air of someone who’s about to grace us with his wisdom. “You see, when you’ve been to the places I’ve been, you see there’s a big, big distinction between the past and history. The past is just a collection of events that happened, that’s all. You’re both tackychemists so you get that. Whereas history is all about tales told by grayhairs–attempts to make stories out of the past, forcing the pieces together as if they have a plot and some kind of moral meaning. It’s history that’s the maker of heroes and villains, not the past.”