The Time Collector Page 6

  “That was quick,” Stuart noted.

  Roan tried to revive the feeling back into his hands by rotating his wrists and clenching his palms into fists. “My hands are numb.”

  Stuart exploded into laughter, his British accent becoming even more pronounced. “Crikey, that’s brilliant. This calls for another round. Waitress! Can we get two more, love?” Stuart wiggled his glass in the air at her, motioning her over. “And a basket of crisps?” He turned back to find Roan performing acupressure on his hands. “Come on, man. Let’s hear it. Whose ring is this?”

  “René Descartes.”

  “The René Descartes? The mathematician René Descartes?” Stuart was flummoxed. “When I held it all I got was a teacher from Sweden.”

  Roan nodded. “Because Descartes was in Sweden tutoring the queen when he died of pneumonia in 1650.”

  Stuart made a long silent “Ah.”

  “Then the imprint jumps to the present, like a time gap,” Roan explained. “You found this in Jordan buried in Cretaceous rock. Your lab technicians tested it several times because it’s not possible for a seventeenth-century ring to be buried in rock millions of years old.” Roan shook his head, completely perplexed. The Cretaceous period came right after the Jurassic period, and this ring was only four hundred years old. Maybe this was why his hands had gone numb. He put his gloves back on, not wanting to touch it again. “It’s an oopart, isn’t it? Just like the compass Miguel showed us in France.”

  “Precisely. Very, very good.” Stuart tucked the ring back into its special box. “What I want to know is how these little buggers are jumping through time.”

  Roan went to open his mouth to say no, already knowing Stuart was going to ask for his help, but Stuart cut him off.

  “Forget the group,” Stuart said. “I know you don’t want to deal with those chaps. Let’s solve this mystery together. Just you and me.”

  Roan shook his head. “Sorry, not interested.”

  “Come on. You’re the best psychometrist I know. And you waste all that talent returning heirlooms from the past two centuries? Boring. Grasp the mettle, man. I’m talking about a mystery that spans millions of years.” Stuart tried to infuse some humor into their conversation. “We could be the dynamic duo of the archaeological world. You already dress in black.”

  Roan didn’t laugh. Handling ooparts buried in million-year-old rock that made his hands go numb was a risk, for reasons Stuart didn’t understand.

  “How can you not be interested in objects that are jumping through time and space?” Stuart asked with exasperation.

  Roan stared at his friend, realizing he had no choice but to share the truth about why helping him hunt down ancient artifacts was the last thing he’d ever do.

  And the easiest way to explain was to show him the memory.

  Without a word, Roan pulled out his wallet and slid out a flattened piece of plastic from the inside pocket. When he handed it to Stuart it became apparent it was a hospital bracelet. Roan didn’t know how accurate Stuart’s reading would be, but he was sure Stuart would gather enough information from the bracelet to understand. Roan carried it around with him as a reminder of how he almost died.

  He watched the bracelet disappear into Stuart’s palm, so he could glimpse the story inside. The incident had happened years ago, before he met Stuart, at Gobekli Tepe, an eleven-thousand-year-old archaeological site in Turkey that had been established as the world’s oldest temple.

  At the time, Roan had wanted to visit the site and see what he could sense. A German collector he’d sold several antiques to was friends with Klaus Schmidt, the archaeologist in charge of the dig, and Roan managed to get an invitation.

  According to modern archaeologists, eleven thousand years ago a structure of Gobekli Tepe’s immense size and sophistication shouldn’t have been possible. Roan didn’t need to touch a single stone to know that its discovery was rewriting history.

  When Roan took off his glove and placed his hand on one of the stone pillars, he felt like a light bulb being plugged into a socket and turned on. The imprint pulled him like an ocean current, with such force he became untethered from his body. Then everything went dark.

  Later he woke up in a hospital room in Istanbul, where he learned that he’d been airlifted from the dig and treated for cardiac arrest. Both of his parents had flown out to be at his bedside.

  The accident changed Roan’s outlook on everything.

  For months he didn’t touch a thing in fear that it would trigger another heart attack. As he picked apart what had happened, he became convinced it was the stretch of time that had been too much. Like a diver in the ocean, he had found his limit, the depth of years he couldn’t swim past. So he stopped chasing the mysteries of the ancient past and settled for the world’s closer and more well-worn history, never reading anything older than five thousand years. Even with those self-imposed limitations, history was still a vast playground.

  That little piece of plastic with his name on it reminded him never to try to touch anything that old again.

  When Stuart was done reading the imprints, he nodded somberly and handed the bracelet back. “Right, then. That’s that.” Stuart didn’t mention his oopart research after that night, and he had never asked for Roan’s help again—until now.

  Roan picked up the letter that had come with the key:

  Roan,

  Apologies for not showing up in Texas. I’m in more trouble than I thought. I’m sending you something for safekeeping in that warehouse of yours, an original key to the astronomical clock tower in Prague from the 15th century.

  Hopefully you’re reading my letter before you touch it. I’m afraid the key holds nothing good. What makes this artifact significant isn’t its origins, but the fact that it was found buried in 2,000-year-old volcanic ash in Managua, Nicaragua. I know because I’m the one who found it.

  It’s an oopart, just like Descartes’s ring. Any other archaeologist wouldn’t have been able to identify it.

  I’ve been piecing together a unifying theory about these ooparts with Miguel that may have landed us in real danger. Someone doesn’t seem to want us to arrive at the answers. Miguel is missing and I’m afraid I’ll be next. I need to go into hiding and will call when I can. Please keep the oopart safe.

  I’m sorry to involve you, but I don’t know who else I can trust.

  -S

  A myriad of thoughts ran through Roan’s mind. Stuart had been in a panic when he wrote the letter. Roan studied the clock tower key on the table and a weary sigh escaped him. He needed to touch the key again to find other imprints and see if it could shed light on Stuart’s situation.

  He didn’t relish having to sense Hanus’s life again or endure the numbing feeling that would take hold in hands, but he needed to read every imprint the key held, not only the memories from Hanus’s life.

  Discordant moments were always the easiest to access and many times masked the rest, but if there was one thing Roan had learned early on it was that time was an objective observer and collected every moment, both light and dark.

  Centering himself, he took the key in his hand again. He forcefully pushed past the violence of Hanus’s powerful imprint and ignored the nerves in his fingers as they tingled in protest.

  Like a minnow in the water, his mind became fluid as he dipped and dived through every layer of memory that had been left by the years.

  As he pushed through the centuries, the imprints compressed, until Roan found himself standing in the recent past, in the middle of an imprint he wanted to see.

  NEW YORK CITY

  TWO WEEKS AGO

  STUART HELD HANUS’S KEY WRAPPED in a swatch of silk as he walked through Central Park with Sun. She strode with purposeful steps, her hands tucked behind her back.

  “When did it happen?” he asked her.

  “His son found him yesterday at home. There was no note. No goodbye. Traces of poison were found in his cognac.”

  Stuart shook his h
ead in disbelief. “Maybe François didn’t want to say goodbye … the man was dying of cancer,” he pointed out gently.

  “François would never kill himself. Never.” She had a scowl on her face. “And now Miguel is missing. Why did he go to Australia?”

  “Miguel’s theory is that the Aboriginal concept of time is the closest to the oopart anomaly,” Stuart tried to explain. “The Aborigines believe time dilates, moving seamlessly across the past, present, and future like a circle. Miguel thinks the ooparts might be too.”

  “Now Miguel might be dead. Like François.”

  Stuart ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “We don’t know that. He’s traveling alone in the outback. Give him time.”

  Sun let out a tsk sound in disagreement. “Miguel would not disappear for this long without sending word to his family.”

  Stuart didn’t agree. “The man’s divorced. His daughters are busy with college, one in Peru and one abroad in Europe—”

  Sun didn’t let him finish. “And François would never kill himself, no matter how dire his circumstances. I knew the man much better than you.”

  “Sun,” Stuart said, trying to keep his patience. “We are so close to discovering the answers. Miguel was the one who saw the connection to the circles. Gyan agrees it could be the unifying factor we’ve been searching for.” He stopped walking and held out the key. “Please, I’m begging you. Please help us.”

  “There is no us.” Sun stopped walking and stared at him, a fierce light in her eyes. “Something happened to Miguel and François after they started researching these artifacts. Now you may be blinded by your own ambition, but someone sees our ability as a threat.”

  Stuart stared up at the sky, feeling helpless. “Don’t you think the best way to help find Miguel is to figure out the answers? I’m just as worried as you are, but it’s not like we can go to the authorities with this. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “You said you have two ooparts.” Sun frowned. “Where’s the other?”

  “I gave it to Gyan.”

  “He needs to be warned.” Sun continued walking.

  “I already have.” Stuart hurried to keep up with her. They exited the park and were now on Fifth Avenue. “Please, Sun. Help us find the connection between the ooparts and the circles. I think it could solve this whole riddle.”

  Sun shook her head. “If you value your life you must stop. Hide the key. Give it to someone you can trust, someone not connected to any of us.”

  They stopped near the entrance of an apartment building across the street from the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Sun held back from approaching the doorman. “Who else have you told about your research?”

  “Only my friend Roan West, who you met. He was there when Miguel first showed us the compass. He didn’t want to get involved.”

  “He’s already involved. Until we find out who is behind this and what happened to Miguel and François, no psychometrist is safe, not even your friend.”

  8. THE CHAMPAGNE GLASS

  MELICENT HAD BEEN GOOGLING ROAN WEST without success. The man didn’t exist. There was only one mention of Roan West in an obituary for Robert West, who passed away five years ago from a stroke in New Orleans. Robert West had founded West, Inc., an antiques dealership in New Orleans, in 1997.

  West, Inc.’s corporate website didn’t offer much information either. Someone named Holly Beauchêne ran the company. She was also on the board of the Heirloom Foundation, along with a history professor from Oxford, Dr. Jocelyn Matthis. Melicent could find no mention of Roan West with the Heirloom Foundation either. The foundation stated it was a nonprofit organization that worked to restore and return lost heirlooms to the original families’ descendants. No other details were provided.

  RW Antiques was the official name of West, Inc.’s storefront in New Orleans. A picture showed a charming pearl-painted house located on Magazine Street built in the early 1900s. Like so many of its neighbors, the house had been converted into a business. Visits were by appointment only.

  The website offered elegant pictures of the showrooms and the house’s exterior. Melicent clicked on several links for Magazine Street. More than forty stores lined the six-mile street along with artists’ studios and design firms. It was a mecca for home decoration. Only a handful of the antique stores were exclusive, where appointments were recommended or required, and most of the pieces heralded from Europe and previous centuries. RW Antiques had been written up in countless magazines and trade publications, including Journal of Antiques and Collectibles, Preservation in Print, The Magazine Antiques, and Southern Living, as one of the premiere places for the serious collector.

  Melicent squinted at the article she was reading, uncertain. Her mystery customer didn’t look like an antique dealer from New Orleans. But then she didn’t know what he looked like. She just wanted to stop thinking about him—she’d been obsessing about Roan West, whoever he might be, since he walked out of the shop. Thinking about him was becoming a distraction and kept her from facing the fact that her life had now drastically changed.

  Yesterday she’d driven to Breguet’s store in Beverly Hills and met with their representative, who had flown in from Paris to appraise the watch. She sat in the back office for more than twenty minutes while he examined every facet under a loupe.

  Directly in her sight line, a print of Abraham-Louis Breguet’s portrait hung on the office wall, along with the words THE WATCHMAKERS OF KINGS, THE KING OF WATCHMAKERS.

  Melicent’s eyes kept darting to the picture. Breguet looked exactly like she’d imagined him with his enormous brow and high hairline. His deep-set eyes held a distant gaze and his attire and carriage exuded a gentle grace.

  Melicent knew from holding the watch that the man had been born in Neuchâtel, Switzerland, and that the pocket watch was one of his favorites. He’d made it during one of the happiest times of his life, while living in Paris before his wife died. For a glimmer of a moment Melicent had seen his workshop at Quai de l’Horage, the worktable lined with his tools, his view from the window to the Seine, his desk with stacks of handwritten orders from patrons, along with the registrar book that kept account of every record.

  Breguet had taken the watch—hidden in his breast pocket—to Switzerland after he escaped the French Revolution and the guillotine. He had gifted it to a family in repayment for their help during those years before he returned to France, and Melicent felt how difficult that decision had been. Giving the watch away had set the course for its long journey from Europe to America over a tide of centuries. Louis would be overcome to learn that his beloved pocket watch had been found and, in essence, returned to him.

  “The last original Breguet timepiece to surface came from the private collection of a noble family in England,” the French representative said, bewildered as to how one of the most treasured watches in the world had been lost at a flea market in Anaheim. He acted as if she had been the one to put it there.

  When the representative offered her $1.8 million, every muscle in Melicent’s body seized. She sat there frozen, suspended for an endless moment, feeling disconnected and far away. Then she heard herself say yes.

  The company kept the watch and wired the funds to her bank account right then.

  When Melicent walked out of the store, she looked around, turning in a full circle, suddenly feeling like an astronaut who had landed on another planet, a world where she was no longer struggling or stressed. She was free to live a different life.

  She had almost two million dollars in her bank account—an account that had had four hundred and twenty-nine dollars before today.

  Her whole body was shaking with a heady rush of emotion. She thought about calling Parker, but he was staying over at his best friend BJ’s, which was just as well. She needed time alone to process what had happened.

  Where did they go from here? If time equaled money, Breguet had just given her all the time in the world.

  * * *


  When she got home, the house was empty. She looked around her mother’s cluttered living room, at the threadbare sofas draped with decorative printed quilts to cover the stains. Sadie had been a master at hiding their secondhand furniture and worn walls with colorful art and plants.

  Every inch of the house held her mother’s memory—and the fear of losing those memories, of having to say goodbye to their childhood home, had been keeping Melicent up at night. Not having that threat looming over her felt surreal. They could keep the house her mother had loved so much. The bank wouldn’t foreclose. Melicent could pay off her student loans. She could walk into a car dealership and buy a new car that didn’t break down every other week. She could get Parker a new car too. Forget the used truck. She’d get him a brand-new car that would last him well through college and beyond.

  “Mom, I did it,” she said to the empty room. Her voice sounded hesitant. She didn’t quite believe it yet.

  The house answered with a heavy silence.

  Melicent didn’t know if her mom could hear her, if she knew they’d be all right, and a sob escaped her. Soon she couldn’t stop crying. She cried harder than she had at the funeral as the ball of stress and worry inside her uncurled like a clenched fist.

  After the tears were gone, she was emotionally spent. A pang of hunger hit her—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. She jumped up, deciding to call her favorite Thai restaurant. Tonight she’d splurge.

  She went to the refrigerator in the garage to get a bottle of champagne. Champagne had been her mother’s drink of choice, and Sadie had always kept several bottles chilled for entertaining. The labels were nothing fancy—or even more than fifteen dollars—except for one or two bottles that had been in the fridge forever.

  Melicent looked at the selection and picked the Moët. She sensed her mother had bought it for a special occasion. Sadie hadn’t known what it would be, but she’d wanted to be ready for it.