Vengeance

Vengeance

A History Patrol Novel

J L Wilson

Copyright, 2011, J L Wilson

Smashwords Edition

This book was originally published under the title Endurance. It has been revised and expanded for the current release.

All rights are reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This work may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For more information, go to http://www.jayellwilson.com

Dedication

For my nieces, Tina and Lisa. If Cerberus showed up on their doorstep, they'd adopt him for sure.

Prologue

In 2070, the Blue Plague decimated much of humankind. If it hadn't been for the Great Intervention of 2072, mankind might have perished. But because of God's Intervention, humans developed telepathic powers, allowing them to begin an era of true peace. After all, it's hard to wage war when you know exactly what the other guy is thinking and planning.

In 2145, God's Portal was implemented, allowing travel back through time. At first, only scientists used the device, although illegal copies proliferated and other less scrupulous individuals used them. Gradually others were allowed to use the monitored, legal devices for travel. Any travelers were researched thoroughly to make sure they didn't alter the timeline. Of course, by this time the legal faction had to jump on the bandwagon, pointing out that since history had already occurred, obviously timelines hadn't been altered--debates are still festering to this day about this point. Time-tourists were implanted with recall devices, which would bring them back to the present.

Not surprisingly, one of the first illegal tools to come on the market was a way to circumvent the recall. As so often happens when an illegal device appears, murderers, felons and other criminals were the first to take advantage of the technology. In 2163, travel through the portal was banned because too many criminals escaped and so many tourists decided to stay behind. In 2165, the History Patrol was formed. The Guides with the Patrol go back in time, checking to ensure that criminals are not wreaking havoc and that those wayward tourists who did not recall remained behind of their own free will.

A telepathic, shapeshifting Companion accompanies each Guide as a guard. Only Companions know the whole truth about the Patrol. The Companion and Guide are reincarnations of two lovers, one of whom betrayed the other. Companions cannot be seen in human form until they can forgive the one who betrayed them in a former life or until they are freely forgiven by the one they betrayed.

The Guides are unaware that they have a previous-life connection to their Companions. As far as they know, their assignments are straightforward--find the criminals and/or tourists, bring 'em home. Their Companion is with them to help, give advice and monitor--until that moment of revelation when penance has been served and forgiveness must be given or withheld.

In a way, it's God's way of giving people a do-over. Sometimes the do-over is positive and sometimes...well, don't let it be said that God doesn't have a sense of humor.

Chapter One

The hairs on my neck prickled and I shivered. I caught my reflection in a store window as misty snow swirled past my face. A tall man with cropped gray-and-black hair stared back. That ghostly hand touched my shoulder again. Someone walked on my grave. I remembered my mother using that expression, two hundred years in the future. I smiled now at the memory, the mist like cold tears on my face.

Someone walked on my grave. That couldn't be. I was immortal. I had no grave. I shook aside the distracting thought and continued stalking my quarry.

As normal humans go, she was attractive. She was nearing middle age but didn't look her forty-six years. She was short, barely five feet tall, and perfectly proportioned with small breasts, a smallish waist and flaring hips. A real woman, like those I remembered from my time travels to the 17th and 18th centuries. She wasn't one of those anorexic athletes I saw jogging around the lakes. And certainly not like the unisex creatures from my original life in the 22nd century.

I followed her at a distance. The sidewalk was crowded with after-work shoppers, making it easy to blend in. The chill of Minnesota in late March made people hurry. Even the lure of Easter windows only caused brief ripples in the mass of woolen-coated bodies as they stampeded through slushy waves of melting snow.

Lucinda Delacroix stopped, causing a parting of the body-sea in front of the window of the huge bookstore. I craned my neck as I stumbled past, trying to see what so intrigued her.

Her wide gray eyes were fixed on an animatronics scene from The Velveteen Rabbit, part of the Easter display the conglomerate advertised. Dark curls twined around her face from under her cocky red cloche. Her flushed cheeks and Mickey Mouse mittens gave her the look of an excited child. She smiled, as though remembering the story of the animal who was made Real because of love.

I glanced at the display. An ancient stuffed bunny sagged on a child's chair. It looked as old as I felt. But after two hundred years of living, I was entitled to weariness. I was within touching distance when she turned. Our eyes met. For an instant the world stood still. I was engulfed by the wistful expression she still wore. I longed to experience innocent delight again. I thought for one crystal moment that if I could touch her, I'd inherit her sweetness and humanity.

The crowd pushed us apart and I lost sight of her. The world resumed its breathing.

I, of course, did not.

I wasn't looking forward to killing her. This happened occasionally in the two decades I've been a paid assassin for that secret organization with the ludicrous name funded by the U.S. government. Perhaps I was tiring of it. Or perhaps I was developing a conscience. I hoped not. That could be inconvenient to a man who killed for a living.

I followed Miss Delacroix through the dusk, the heavy mist turning to light snow. I was born, lo those many years in the future, in Northern England and my travels had taken me around the world to many times in history. But I always came back to the northern reaches of America or Scotland, where few people lived and there was so much space. The encroaching suburbs were consuming my current home in northern Minneapolis, so I seldom stayed there, going instead to my cabin in the North Woods where I plotted the next move in the chess game that was my existence.

My Life Quarry, as I thought of him, had remained out of reach for decades. But Robert Meyer was now emerging from hiding and Lucinda Delacroix could put me in a position where I could finally murder Meyer. Once that happened, I could try to kill myself and end the insanity that had gripped me since the day in 1790 when Meyer infected me with his virus. And then I could rest. I was very close to the goal that had sustained me for more than two centuries.

Lucinda paused again near a Caribou Coffee shop. I silently urged her inward. I wanted a chance to view her in good light, to get a sense of her. My assignment was clear. She had to die in six days, on Easter Sunday. Pity to spoil her holiday, but we have rules in this trade.

She ducked inside. I loitered a moment, pretending interest in a travel agent next door. A dog sniffing at a trash can nearby looked up and started toward me. He had coarse, matted, black-and-gray fur, a big, rangy build and paws the size of dinner plates. His tongue lolled out like some alien's, drool gathering at the sides of his jaw where yellowed teeth were displayed. Floppy ears completed the picture, one black and one white, giving him a harlequin look. He sneezed moistly at an unsavory looking brown lump on the ground.

I followed Lucinda into the coffee shop. I expected to see her at the counter, ordering one of the obnoxious drinks so loved by 21st century Americans. Instead I almost ran her down as she stood in front of a display of small stuffed animals. She turned as the cold air from the door wafted over her. Our eyes met again. She smiled.

Women always smiled at me. Not to mince words, but I'm handsome. I resemble one of the current movie stars--Clooney? Jackman? Brosnan? I can't keep them straight. Someone tall with a strong jaw, pale blue eyes, thick, dark hair cut short and streaked with white, and dimples when he smiles. It was just the luck of the draw, all traits inherited from my mother, who was a beauty, and my father, a genetic engineer. I was older than time, but no one would know it from my appearance. I was injected with the virus when I was forty-five and I've aged only slightly in the two-hundred-plus years since then.

Sorry, I said, stepping around her.

She pulled one of the small stuffed animals from the shelf. They shouldn't put such an enticing display where it'll cause a traffic jam.

Enticing? I looked at the cloyingly cute animals. She must have seen my bemusement. I love the look on his face. She held up a specimen to show me.

I considered the creature in her hand. The small brown moose wore a minty green and white Easter Bunny costume, large ears poking up between his antlers. Its arms and legs (paws? hooves?) poked out of the green costume, one upraised hoof waving a coffee mug. The animal's countenance bore a look of chagrin, or perhaps sly good humor at its costume.

Indeed. I started to move around her, but she shifted. I gestured her ahead of me to the counter.

She plunked down the moose and pulled off her red cloche. Dark, springy curls bounded out, prisoners released from their cage. Medium coffee with room for cream, she said without hesitation.

Her choice of beverage redeemed her choice of enticing toy. Allow me. Before she could reply, I said, Make that two. I pulled my wallet from my jeans' pocket. It's the least I can do since I almost flattened you at the door.

She regarded me from under dark lashes that framed gray eyes the color of the clouds on the moors, building and tumbling in the distance, changeable from dark to light. Thank you, but I'll pay for my moose. She flourished the creature at the cashier.

Oh. I already rang it up, the woman said uncertainly.

The process of rectifying the mistake appeared beyond the cashier's meager mental capabilities. I shook my head. I insist.

So do I. Lucinda rummaged in the voluminous denim bag hanging at her shoulder, emerging finally with what appeared to be a plastic billfold decorated with M&Ms characters. She extracted a five-dollar bill and thrust it at me. Please.

I took it, tucking it in my jacket pocket. Only if you'll sit with me. I smiled, trying on my 'lonesome' look. I extended my hand. Nico Haidess.

After the briefest hesitation, she put her hand in mine. A psychic shock pounded through me, almost dropping me to my knees. I maintained my composure by sheer force of will as she murmured, Lucinda Delacroix.

My fogged brain barely processed her words. Her fingers were like warm little animals that I held captive. Memories, emotions, longing--I was inundated by humanness, as though my past had been returned, as though I hadn't been infected.

She withdrew her hand and I was left alone, bereft and cold again. Lucinda? I managed to croak around the shock that grabbed my throat.

Picking up her foolish moose, she started to the end of the counter. A family name. It means--

Bringer of light, I said. It's a pretty name.

It's better than my middle name. She toddled the moose along the small ledge that rimmed the counter, making its antlers dance merrily. Nico is unusual. Greek? Or is it short for Nicolas? The moose slipped out of her hand.

I caught the moose before it could touch the floor, made gritty with sand tracked in by customers from the icy sidewalk outside. Her hand closed around mine and once again sensation flooded me. It reminded me of that telepathic touching I used to experience with Persa, my beloved shapeshifting Companion, before she died defending me from Robert Meyer in New York City in 1790.

Greek? Lucinda asked again.

Nicodemus. I released the moose and straightened. My last name is a variation of Hades. I waited for her reaction. I didn't often use my real last name. For some reason, in this latest re-creation of identity, I decided to return to it.

The god of the underworld. She tucked the moose securely into her bag.

I was surprised. Most people associate Hades with a place, not a person. Have you read the classics? I researched my family name thoroughly as a youth, using the computers at the History Center in the 2180s. But it wasn't until I was stranded in time in 19th century America that I finally learned Greek and read the sources in the original. When one is immortal, one has time to do useless things, like learn extinct languages and practice careers that take lifetimes to master. Landscape artist. Musician. Computer designer.

Assassin.

I've read them, she said. And yes, you can join me. I'm waiting for a friend.

Our drinks arrived and she added a dash of cream and a packet of sugar to hers. We took two seats in front of a blazing fireplace near two elderly men playing chess in front of the window. As she settled on the low sofa she set her bag on the floor, the moose's paw waving as though seeking attention. What brings you to Minneapolis, Nico? she asked, sipping the hot liquid.

I paused as I raised my cup. I need very little nourishment because my cellular degeneration is slow, but I enjoy a good coffee now and again. I beg your pardon?

She set her paper cup on the pine coffee table as she shrugged out of her navy blue coat, revealing a blue striped turtleneck and dark jeans. You're from England, right? You're not from Minnesota. She said this in a singsong voice, a caricature like that heard in the film Fargo.

You're right. I'm originally from England. I was from an England far in the future, but I arrived in America via a New York City centuries in the past. Yorkshire.

I spent a week there, she said. A few years ago. I did a B&B tour of England.

The England of my memory didn't have B&Bs. They vanished in the Alien Wars and the Blue Plague. It's beautiful there. I sipped my drink, eyeing the man who came in the door and was making a beeline for us.

Yes. I especially liked the pubs and--

Hey, Slayer. The man put a casual hand on the back of her neck.

Lucinda peered up at him, thus missing my stunned look. Slayer? I asked with what I thought was commendable poise.

The man winked at me. He was in his forties or fifties, tall and stocky with thinning brown hair and an oval face with a prominent chin, reminding me of Jay Leno. His dark topcoat, tailored suit and leather gloves were a sharp contrast to the cabin-themed décor of the coffee shop. She's our Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Can I get you anything?

Before we could answer he went to the counter. Lucinda gestured to him. That's my half-brother, John Fairchild. John, this is Nico Haidess.

Fairchild waved to me even as he talked to the counter clerk. Buffy? I asked. You slay vampires? I didn't realize there were any in Minnesota.

It's just a nickname. I help with animal rescue groups and we ran across a guy once who was--well, you know--doing weird things to animals.

Really? I was mistaken for a vampire in the 19th century and it had been an unpleasant experience. I occasionally wondered if Meyer had infected any others, which might account for the vampire myths that periodically resurfaced. Some of the current vampire writers had captured the nuances of the life I led, but no one could fully understand the despair. I often felt like Rod Taylor in the old movie, The Time Machine, as decades rushed by me, crumbling into dust.

So Buffy there goes on a raid with some other animal activists, spots these poor puppies, gets mad and decks the guy. Fairchild called this out gleefully from across the room. The two old men near us looked up and smiled approvingly at Lucinda, who appeared flustered.

I didn't really deck him, she explained. I took a swing at him. I managed to hit him then he sort of stumbled and fell.

Right out of the hayloft, Fairchild added. Broke his leg. And all because of the Slayer there. He took his coffee from the clerk and joined us, taking the seat next to Lucinda on the couch, his brown eyes assessing me. I was sure in that brief glance he had correctly evaluated my bank account based on my clothing, just as I had done with him. My tailored Lagerfeld jacket, Armani jeans and hand-stitched boots no doubt spoke volumes.

John is in the finance department at my company, Lucinda said.

Her company. My attention sharpened. I could get access to Robert Meyer through her company. And once I found Robert Meyer, I could murder him. Your company?

The company I work for, she corrected.

You're a bit more than a worker bee, Fairchild said. You're head of Research and Development.

This confirmed my facts. Delacroix Labs was small but had several government contracts for genetic research. It was precisely the sort of company that would attract Robert Meyer, who was probably one of the 'worker bees' at Delacroix Labs and perhaps a close associate of Lucinda Delacroix. Her death could flush him out, into my hands. It had taken me years to get into this position, but I was careful not to let my eagerness show.

Head of research? I sipped my coffee. That sounds important.

I'm not head of projects. She crossed her legs and wiggled one sneakered foot. Just head of people.

What kind of research? I leaned back, affecting a casualness I didn't feel. Better and better. She would definitely have access to Meyer if he were, indeed, at the company.

Her posture changed. My years of study with Tibetan masters, assassins and police personnel alerted me. It was subtle but there--tension in the set of her shoulders, her foot pausing in its rhythmic tapping, her fingers shifting position on the cup. Medical. The dismissal in her voice was obvious. She nudged John Fairchild. How did your meeting go?

Fine. The talks are set for the first week in May. He smiled briefly at me. Sorry. Business.

No problem. I invited myself to this little party when I almost ran down Lucinda here.

Fairchild quirked an eyebrow at me but didn't comment. Lucinda said, Did you talk to Cara? Did she approve it?

I told you she would. Fairchild sipped his drink, looking smug. It's a great deal. Cara's not an idiot.

No, she's just a-- Lucinda glanced at me. Shrewd businesswoman. Well, good. I'm glad it's a go. She sounded uncertain, though.

It's great for the company. Fairchild looked at me. What do you do, Nico?

I considered telling them the truth. I work for a clandestine government agency, killing people here and abroad. I used to be in computer design. I'm semi-retired now and work for a travel agency. Maybe you've heard of us? TATA? Travel And Tours Associated? The acronym, of course, served a dual purpose, also representing my real line of work with the Tactical Anti-Terrorist Agency. And the computer part wasn't a lie. I went into computer development when I realized it would be essential to help me find Meyer. I designed several computers in the past, as well as made a fortune on software.

Really? Lucinda's small foot bobbed, reminding me of the toddling moose. I used to work for a computer company. Was it here in town? Maybe we know some of the same people.

Most of it was on the East Coast. Unless she had known Grace Hopper and Seymour Cray, I doubted we had anyone in common. I've been out of that business for a while now. I smiled easily. I got out before the dot-com bubble burst.

Nice. Fairchild nudged Lucinda. Did you get your shopping done?

No. Her disappointment was evident. I couldn't find it. I don't know what I'll do. She saw my confused look. I went to that gallery down the street to see if they had a necklace. My niece saw work by the artist and I was told they had some of his jewelry here.

That explained why she'd ventured into this trendy Uptown shopping district. Her company was located in a western suburb and she lived even further west, in the small town of Burnsville. When she left her office I wondered why she came into this congested, aggressively chic neighborhood. It didn't seem her style.

She sighed. Time is running out.

For a panicked moment I wondered if she knew her death was imminent. I raised my eyebrows in question.

Kat has a birthday soon, she clarified. She's been living out of state for the last few years and she's just come back home. I'd like to get her something special.

Ah. Maybe I can help. I have a friend who runs several galleries. Perhaps she can contact the artist for you.

Lucinda shook her head. The lamp near the couch highlighted white strands mixed among her black curls. The owner said the artist doesn't like to be contacted except through galleries. Apparently he's out of the country or on vacation. Lucinda's shoulders slumped. I'll have to think of something else.

Please. Let me help you. Give me the information about the artist and I'll see what I can do. I had contacts that Lucinda could only dream about. I could find the damn artist.

I'd appreciate that. She looked so grateful I felt momentarily guilty. I squashed the unfamiliar emotion.

I have to get going, Slayer, Fairchild said, setting down his coffee cup. Can I put that table I brought for you in your car?

Oh, sure. She chugged