Keeper of Time (Wealth of Time Series, Book 4) Page 2

  Crooked Island provided him the sense that he was in a whole new world, a floating mass of picturesque land where there were no such things as Revolters or Road Runners (except for the two Road Runners trailing him like secret service agents in the background). With a population of 400 and minimal tourists, Martin had the beach to himself most of the time, and today was no exception.

  He used his time to reflect on the life he had left behind in Denver, and all that he had been through over the past month. Not a day passed where he didn’t think of Izzy, her body finally resting in peace after two decades in the bottom of a lake. His mother, Marilyn, had encouraged that he take this wild journey with the Road Runners, one that may have led to her very death.

  Numerous times each day, Martin had to fight away the thoughts of Chris Speidel and how badly he wanted to wedge a machete through the old man’s throat. Chris had turned his world upside down after Martin wandered back into his fake antique shop, falling into a trap that led him to this exact moment, alone on the beach in the middle of nowhere.

  He wasn’t sure if he had fallen into his old habits of alcoholism, but he certainly enjoyed the numbing sensation all of the rum on this island provided. He felt out of touch with reality, as if Izzy, his mother, and Chris never existed. Never mind Sonya, who the mere thought of turned Martin into a crying, hysterical teenager.

  They were all in his past where they’d stay, minus Chris. That brainwashing lunatic surely wouldn’t rest until he had Martin dead or in his possession. But they’d never find him on this island while he plotted the next steps of his life.

  The Road Runners weren’t going to give up their relentless pursuit of him running for the commandership when he returned to the U.S. The thought of taking on such a heavy responsibility disturbed Martin. He lacked leadership experience and had only been an official Road Runner for a little more than a week.

  He’d eventually call over the two men who followed him around all day. They dressed like tourists, blending into the background whenever Martin took his long walks on the beach, or sat down at the local bar. He had pulled out his phone to make a call before leaving Miami for the island, but realized he had no one to call, neither personal or professional.

  Bill and Julian were dead, and Commander Strike might have been dead, for all anyone knew, trapped inside the walls of Chris’s mansion on the other side of the world, leaving the organization with no actual leader.

  It’s not my problem, he reminded himself. I don’t owe a thing to these people. Sure, they helped me obtain the cure for my mother, but where were they when Chris slipped in and killed her? They tried to get me to kill the only woman I’ve loved since Lela. Why should I bend over backwards to help them?

  The whole situation made him feel like he needed a hot, steamy shower. What bothered him was how they expected him to be honored by such a request to lead the Road Runners, as if he should jump at the opportunity. He didn’t even know what the job entailed. Would he have to move to a different city? What exactly did he have to do on a daily basis? How many lives were affected by his decisions? How far did his control even go? What happened to his life after the two-year term?

  If he could leave the world of time travel behind forever after serving his term, he’d fly back right now and start campaigning. But they surely wouldn’t allow someone who served in the highest office of the organization to simply disappear into the night like they never existed.

  He had many questions that needed answers before he considered running, because as of right now, he still toyed with the idea of finding a way to slip away from the two Road Runners tailing him. Vanishing to a new country—perhaps in a different year—and never looking back. He even considered just walking into the ocean and letting the water take his body where it may.

  But you’re a Warm Soul, or have you forgotten? It’s your destiny to kill Chris. No one else can. If you can’t see the writing on the walls, then you need to open your eyes.

  Martin tipped back the last of his drink, his fingertips and face turning numb. He started back toward the house he had rented, a beachfront property that cost him $400 per day to rent, hardly putting a dent in his bottomless bank account.

  It was time to make a much-needed phone call, one he had been putting off for too long. He pulled his cell phone out and dialed the name he never thought he’d type.

  It rang four times to an unknown location. He could be anywhere in the world, Martin thought.

  Just as he was about to give up, a man answered. “Hello?” the voice asked, both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Martin’s stomach sunk at the sound, and he was suddenly dizzy with nostalgia.

  “Daniel?” Martin replied, knowing very well it was his brother on the line, but wanting to test his voice now that a lump had swelled within his throat.

  “Martin . . . this is a surprise. Is something wrong?”

  “What? I can’t call my loving brother to see how he’s doing?”

  “Okay,” Daniel replied, his voice dripping with confusion, panic, and a bit of curiosity. “How long has it been?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen you since 1996. Did Mom ever tell you we had a funeral for Izzy after they found her body in the lake?”

  “She did.”

  “Oh, well thanks for calling to check on me.”

  Stay calm, Martin told himself, but his other inner voice got the better of him. Fuck this guy, don’t ever forget what he did to you. Drag this call out and make him as uncomfortable as possible.

  Martin smiled at this thought, kicking the sand beneath his feet while an ocean breeze rushed through his graying hair.

  “I’m sorry, it’s complicated,” Daniel said.

  “Complicated? Why? Because you fucked my wife?”

  The line fell deathly silent, the gentle waves the only thing Martin could hear.

  “How did you find out?” Daniel asked, his voice deflated.

  “Hmmm, Mom must have not had the chance to tell you that Lela’s in prison. Did you know that?”

  “Prison?!” Daniel gasped, sounding genuinely surprised. “What the hell for?”

  “For murdering Izzy. The same night you fucked her. You don’t even know what happened, do you?”

  “What?! No. I left. Izzy went missing and I already had so much guilt. The emotions were too much, so I packed my things and drove across the country.”

  Hearing this sent chills down Martin’s back. Had he not just done the same thing? Is that not why he was on Crooked-fucking-Island in the middle of the Caribbean? He and Daniel were clearly cut from the same cloth if this is how they handled problems at home.

  “Izzy knew what you and Lela had done that night. She was in middle school, for God’s sake—she wasn’t some oblivious child. Did you two even think this through before you started making my wife moan in the room right next door to my daughter?”

  Silence.

  Martin continued on. “Izzy came out of her room after you left and called out Lela for what had happened. They got into a big fight, and it ended with Lela chucking a frying pan at Izzy. It hit her in the head and she died on the spot.”

  Martin wanted to let these words linger, remaining silent as he waited for Daniel to reply. It might have been ten seconds or ten minutes that passed before Daniel spoke. Martin would never know as his body tensed with steaming rage.

  “I don’t know what to say, Marty.”

  “Don’t call me Marty. You’ve lost that right.”

  “I’m sorry. None of this was my intent. It was a bad lapse in judgment. I was young and dumb.”

  “Well, it affected so many lives. I hope you realize that. I’ve been suffering through depression for the last two decades, drinking myself within an inch of my life. Have you ever put a gun in your mouth, little brother?”

  Martin knew Daniel hated when he called him ‘little brother’, which is exactly why he said it. Fuck him.

  “I’m sorry, Martin. Really. I don’t know what you want me to say.”r />
  “Mom’s dead.” Martin decided this would be a good time to drop that bomb.

  “What do you mean dead?” Daniel gasped, all the life returning to his voice.

  “She died earlier this week. Her body is being cremated and the ashes are being delivered to me.”

  “What? Where are you? What’s going on? How did she die?” Now he spoke with the urgency of a teenage girl telling her friends about her crush.

  “How long has it even been since you last spoke with her?”

  “It’s been a month or so. That’s about how often we talked, though.”

  “Did you even know she had Alzheimer’s?”

  “She had told me she thought she might have it. But I never heard back, so figured nothing of it.”

  “Son of the year. You are impressive. Well, it was very advanced and it finally took her.”

  Martin had no intent on sharing the actual truth. The truth wasn’t believable and would take hours to explain how they had all arrived to this exact point. And Daniel didn’t deserve hours from Martin. Never.

  “She probably forgot who you were, let alone remember to call you,” Martin said.

  “I need to come home. I’ll catch the next flight.”

  “Oh, now you want to get involved. Save it. I’m handling things just fine. You keep living your life.”

  Martin was dying to ask Daniel where he lived, what he did for a career, and if he had a family. He was sincerely curious to know what kind of life his little brother had carved out for himself. But asking him would show that he cared, so he pushed the questions to the back of his mind.

  “I’m coming home,” Daniel declared as if no one could stop him.

  “You can come home, but that’s not where I am, and that’s not where Mom’s ashes are being sent. You don’t even know where we live in Denver.”

  “I can find out.”

  “Good for you. Do whatever you need.”

  “Tell me where you are, dammit!” Daniel snarled, and Martin pictured his brother’s face turning bright red. The thought made him snicker.

  “I’m in the Bahamas.”

  “What the hell do you mean? Mom dies and you take a vacation?”

  “It’s not like that. I just . . . had to get away.”

  “Real rich coming from you after all the accusations of calling me the bad son. You’re so full of shit—”

  “I’ll explain another time, maybe in another life. Until then, enjoy the rest of your life.”

  Martin hung up the phone, arms still shaking with anger.

  He stormed off the beach, dashing across the sand like an angry crab, and barging into his house where he’d have a drunken crying session for the next hour.

  3

  Chapter 3

  “What are we doing with Briar?” Councilwoman Murray asked her colleagues. Her eyes drooped over a notepad, gray hair twisted into a swaying ponytail. They had gathered in their New York office, pressure mounting from the Road Runner community as they needed an actual leader for guidance in these trying times.

  “His mother was just murdered, give the man a break,” Councilman Uribe said, his dark brown eyes gazing at Murray. Uribe served as the Chief Council, the leading member of this group of seven unofficial leaders of the organization. He had served on the Council for the last forty years, twenty as the Chief, where he presided over all debates brought to their attention.

  “I understand, but we don’t exactly have the luxury of time right now,” Councilwoman Murray fired back. “We are running around like headless chickens.” She had never been a fan of Uribe, the two clashing on nearly every decision.

  The Council was loosely structured after the United States Supreme Court. Members were appointed by commanders as positions opened. All terms were lifetime, but seeing as time travelers could essentially live as long as they’d like, most councilors bowed out after twenty years or so of service. The Council served as the only real checks and balances against the commandership, able to overturn any decision made by a commander by having a simple majority vote.

  However, it was rare for them to get involved with a commander’s decision, seeing as a commander represented the population of Road Runners, no matter how controversial. They did not get involved with Strike’s decision to attempt an assassination on Sonya Griffiths, but did intervene when Julian Caruso found himself thrust into the position of commander and promptly authorized the bombing of Chris Speidel’s Alaskan mansion. That particular day might go down as the most chaotic in the history of the organization, and the Council had no choice but to pump the brakes on such a drastic decision by a freshly inaugurated commander, one who had not been elected, but rather succeeded due to Strike’s capture.

  Everything about that situation had felt slimy as they voted unanimously to halt the bombs. Julian proceeded anyway, and the rest of the story was history. In the days since, more evidence rose to the surface that uncovered Julian’s secret operation to overthrow the commandership and put himself in the position of power. They had traced the history of Julian’s tracking device, finding a couple of trips to Chris’s mansion, one that included him going inside the mansion. The timing aligned with the random—at the time—release of Road Runners from Chris’s control. From there, it wasn’t difficult to figure out that he had negotiated with their sworn enemy to exchange Commander Strike for the prisoners.

  “We haven’t even decided how we want to proceed with our government,” Councilman Pierre said, stroking his pencil mustache. He was the newest addition to the Council, and the youngest at the age of 38, now serving in his seventh year.

  “He’s right,” Uribe said. “Julian exposed a major flaw in our system for succession to the commandership.”

  “Not to mention he murdered Bill,” Pierre said. “Assuming we don’t have any more murderers in our organization, our current system is fine. He was being impatient, if you ask me. He could have had an easy go at the commandership in the next election. That’s why we only have two-year terms, to keep the ideas fresh and ensure that no one settles too comfortably into their position of power.”

  The room fell silent, the topic still a sensitive matter. Julian’s actions were one thing, but the biggest fault was the fact that someone like Julian had made his way into the Road Runners to begin with. Even for an organization with millions of people across the world, each holding strongly to their opinions, nothing like a murder had ever been reported. It was simply something the Road Runners did not do.

  “I’ve said it time and time again,” Councilwoman Lewis said from the opposite end of the table, brushing back her strawberry blonde hair before throwing her hands in the air. “We need to put caps on membership. Our population has soared, but our resources and government have not. It’s all about scaling, and that’s something we have never done in our history. My proposal is to break our continent into regions and appoint separate, regional governments to run things.”

  The Council also held the power to create laws for the organization. Globally, the Road Runners were divided into different governments across each continent and had no sort of international leader, although they did convene twice a year to make sure priorities were aligned.

  “Lewis, you’ve been calling for regions for years and no one has ever sided with you,” Murray said. “It’s not going to happen.”

  “Then what’s your solution? Nothing, like always?” Lewis snapped.

  “Stop it right now!” Uribe barked. “All of this bickering will get us nowhere. Lewis, the issue we run into with regions is trying to figure out how it will all work. We’d have to lay out the initial groundwork and rules.”

  “But we wouldn’t—and that’s the point,” Lewis said. “We create regions and let each region decide how to approach things for their population.”

  “That only takes us down the dark road of the government structure used in many countries across the world,” Murray said, much more reserved. “Eventually, it will all lead to local governments:
states, counties, cities. Just a bunch of power-hungry fools clamoring over themselves to get ahead and push their agendas. When that many people get involved with power, it leads to corruption. Road Runners are still human beings, don’t forget that.”

  “Corruption like Julian Caruso?” Lewis asked, burning a glare across the table to Murray. “Fear is not a reason to not do something. Don’t feed me all of this bullshit about how it will spiral out of control. We are still in control over this continent. We already have regional chapters who run things smoothly.”

  “Under our guidance,” Murray said. “Not through their own power.”

  Councilwoman Thrasher cleared her throat. “I’m willing to vote with you, Lewis,” she said shyly, dropping her gaze to the table, fidgeting with her ring-covered fingers. “We need something new, and this just might be it.”

  “And what has changed your mind?” Murray demanded.

  “Our current state. I’ve thought this over plenty. Toyed with the idea of developing a congress, but it’s too messy. Maybe we can discuss having a separate election for the lieutenant commander instead of letting the commander decide who fills that role. I don’t know, but we need something, especially with our growing population, and we’re beyond the point of putting caps on membership. Even if we halted any new members from joining for the next five years, our membership will continue to grow through childbirths, and we’d still be outbalanced to govern all of North and Central America.”

  “Those are all good ideas to discuss,” Uribe boomed with complete authority. The bright lights of their chambers gleamed off the growing bald spot on top of his head. “If you recall, though, my question was about Briar. We can discuss these matters tomorrow, but we have to figure out the plan for Briar and the election.”

  “Two weeks,” Murray said. “He’s in the Bahamas all by himself, surely he’ll be ready to come home in two weeks and we can start the election process.”