52 - The Novel Page 6

  "Then we're off!" His feet lifted off from the rusty subway tracks as he flew down the tunnel. "Don't spend all of that in one place, Bob!"

  The actor's eyes bulged at all the zeroes inscribed on the check. "I'm not sure I could."

  Booster grinned. The future was starting to look bright again.

  Let it never be said I don't pay my villains well!

  wmK m

  ARIZONA.

  NO TRESPASSING, read the sign posted to the sturdy chain-link fence surrounding the remote desert outpost. Razor wire and security cameras topped the fence. Miles of desolate badlands surrounded the compound in every direction. Cacti bloomed amidst the arid landscape. Buzzards circled overhead . Red rock mesas loomed in the background.

  "What's he preparing for? World War III?" Booster Gold flew over the fence and touched down in front of a pair of massive steel blast doors. "An underground bunker in the middle of the desert? This is his last known address?"

  Despite Skeets' confident assertion back in Metropolis, it had taken them a week to track down this location. The Arizona address the robot had initially discovered had turned out to be merely the first link in a chain of forwarding addresses used to conceal Rip Hunter's true place of residence. Clearly, the celebrated scientist did not wish to be disturbed.

  “IN HIS DEFENSE, SIR, DR. HUNTER IS JUST BEING SAFE.” SkeetS

  was dwarfed by the size of the looming steel doors, “he is the unquestioned FATHER OF TIME-TRAVEL, OVER SEVENTY-NINE ATTEMPTS HAVE BEEN MADE TO STEAL HIS TRANS-TEMPORAL TECHNOLOGY THIS YEAR ALONE,”

  I suppose, Booster thought grumpily. The hot sun and blistering temperature did little to improve his mood. He knocked on the steel doors. "Hello? Rip?" He had met the so-called "Time Master" once or twice before. "It's Booster Gold!"

  There was no response.

  “perhaps he isn’t home?” Skeets speculated, “that would explain WHY i COULDN’T REACH HIM EARLIER.”

  "Or maybe he's caught up in one of his projects." Booster examined a futuristic-looking locking mechanism mounted to the door. "Skeets, what kind of a lock is that?"

  “AN ATOMIC TIME LOCK, SIR.”

  Booster fingered the device, looking for some sort of keypad. "A time lock? When's it set to open?" .

  “MIDNIGHT, JANUARY FIRST . . . FIFTY-TWO B.C.”

  Booster groaned. "I hate time-travelers."

  Skeets tactfully refrained from pointing out that Booster was no one to talk.

  “DR. HUNTER SET THE LOCK, BUT ITS COMPUTER CHIPS WERE MANUFACTURED BY KORD OMNIVERSAL. SO, TECHNICALLY SPEAKING, THAT MEANS THE CENTRAL PROCESSOR IS MY GREAT, GREAT, GREAT, GREAT,

  great grandfather.” A probe extended from the floating robot, plugging into a matching port in the lock. «it speaks a primitive language, but

  I THINK I CAN CONVINCE IT TO OPEN IF I JUST . . .”

  Circuits hummed inside the lock. A second later, the blast doors slid open with an audible ivhoosh. A burst of cool air blew against Booster's face. Beyond the doorway, a long metal staircase led deep beneath the surface of the desert.

  All right! he thought. Now we're getting somewhere. "You're magic, Skeets." “thank you, sir.” The robot did not withdraw his probe from the lock.

  “UNFORTUNATELY, THE LOCK HAS A FAIL-SAFE REQUIRING A CONSTANT HARDWIRE SEQUENCING CODE TO KEEP IT OPEN. I’M AFRAID I MUST REMAIN HERE.”

  "No problem," Booster said. He started down the stairs on his own. "I'm sure there's nothing to be worried about...."

  His words trailed off as he reached the bottom of the steps, where a baffling scene confronted him. Rip Hunter's underground laboratory was in a state of extreme disarray. A transparent Time-Sphere, with seats for four temporal explorers, was cracked like a broken egg. Jagged shards littered the floor around the Sphere, which was obviously not in working order. Layers of dust covered the abandoned workstations and computer consoles. A wardrobe full of period costumes, to be used by Hunter when visiting the past, looked like it had been rifled through. Roman togas, Elizabethan ruffles, chain mail, capes, buckskin, and other antiquated items of clothing lay in a heap upon the floor. Hundreds of clocks, ranging from old-fashioned wooden timepieces to contemporary digital clocks, were scattered around the lab. Every clock was stopped at the same time: 12:52 a.m. The digital displays simply read 00:52. Scribbled notes and newspaper clippings were strewn about like confetti. Booster thought he recognized Hunter's handwriting.

  Video screens played key historical events on a continuous loop. Booster recognized the Boston Tea Party, Columbus's ships setting sail, Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address, the arrest of Rosa Parks, Elvis Presley's first re-cordin g session, the destruction of Pompeii, the assassination of Julius Caesar, the battle of Marathon, the invention of gunpowder, the death of the dinosaurs, and a few scenes he couldn't quite place. History had never been his strong suit. That's what Skeets was for.

  A globe of the world, the size of beach ball, had rolled up against one wall. Large red Xs had been scrawled over the globe, crossing out great chunks of the Middle East, Russia, Korea, India, and China. A chisel had been used to carve a gaping scar where North Africa used to be. Booster gulped as he read the ominous graffiti defacing the globe: WORLD WAR III. WHY HOW?

  Even more troubling than the mutilated globe, perhaps, was the classroomsized blackboard set up in the middle of the laboratory. Nearly every inch of the board's green surface was covered by what looked like the incoherent ravings of a disturbed mind. Chalky white arrows and equations were interspersed with dozens of cryptic remarks and queries. Booster hastily scanned the board, trying to make sense of some of the bizarre notations:

  Don't ask the Question. It lies.

  The scarab is eternal.

  Who is Supernova?

  When am I?

  520 Kane.

  Who is Diana Prince?

  The four horsemen will end her rain?

  I'm supposed to be dead?

  Who is Batwoman?

  TIME IS BROKEN.

  The latter phrase was written in capital letters across the top of the blackboard, many times larger than the other sentences, as though it was the fundamental problem from which all the other puzzles arose.

  "Time is broken?" Booster said aloud. He didn't like the sound of that, not to mention the reference to World War III. Perhaps Hunter had a good reason for hiding out in the desert like this? But where—or when—was he? "Rip?"

  His call echoed within the subterranean chamber. Water dripped from a rusted pipe. Booster searched the lab, looking for some clue to Hunter's whereabouts. Stepping around the blackboard, he spotted more writing upon the walls in a far corner of the lab. To his dismay, he saw that a single phrase had been scrawled onto the walls, over and over again:

  It's all his fault.

  Huh? Booster thought. "Whose fault? Who ..."

  Taped to one wall was a handful of publicity photos depicting him and Skeets in various heroic poses. The cover of a recent issue of NewsTime depicted

  Booster triumphantly holding Mammoth over his head. Skeets hovered near the edge of the photo, shining a spotlight on Booster. The hero's gleaming smile and wavy blond hair had not required a trace of retouching. A framed copy of the same cover currently hung on the wall of Booster's lavish apartment, but this copy had been treated with considerably less respect. Arrows, drawn with a magic marker, pointed at the photogenic hero and his robotic sidekick. Post-it notes repeated the same damning message.

  All his fault.

  Booster couldn't believe his eyes. He swallowed hard, unwilling to accept what the crazing scribbling seemed to imply. "Me?"

  I broke Time?

  WEEK 7

  GOTHAM CITY.

  The Kane family estate was located in one of the ritzier neighborhoods in Gotham Heights. A high wrought iron fence surrounded the grounds of the multimillion-dollar mansion. Imposing stone columns supported the portico in front of the three-story Gothic Revival structure. It was the kind of house that pract
ically screamed, "We Have More Money than You Will Ever Dream of Having, and No, You Can't Come In." Guards were posted at the front gate just in case you didn't get the message.

  Tonight the house was host to the annual Kane Family Gala, one of the major social events of the season. Limousines were lined up all along the drive. The elite of Gotham society converged on the estate, eager to see and be seen. The men flaunted tuxedos and expensive haircuts. The women paraded their best furs and jewelry. Hired goons, in fancy suits, kept the local paparazzi at bay.

  Just try to keep me out, Renee thought.

  She had read about the Gala in the newspaper, while recovering at home from her injuries. Her right arm itched beneath a plaster cast, while another itch nagged at the back of her mind. It had been three weeks since she'd almost died in that waterfront hideout and she still didn't know why. Instead of answers, all she had to show for her investigation were three cracked ribs and a fractured elbow. That's not good enough, she thought.

  Part of her wasn't sure why she couldn't just let the warehouse mystery go. She was no private eye; she didn't even have a license. Besides, her no-faced employer had only paid for three weeks, and she had already put in more like six now. Plus, No-Face himself seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. She hadn't laid eyes on him since that fight with the monster. There was absolutely no reason to keep pursuing this matter ... except that she had maybe one more lead to follow.

  Which was why it was time to crash the party.

  She felt a flicker of apprehension as she strolled up to the gate, but not because of the beefy security guard posted at the door. It's been a long time, Kate, she thought as she peered past the iron bars of the gate at the mansion. Close to ten years ...

  "I'm sorry," the guard said brusquely. He sneered disdainfully at her leather jacket, white Oxford shirt, and pressed trousers. This really was her best outfit, but he still seemed to think that she didn't belong here—and was only too happy to point that out. "This is by invitation only."

  "Yeah, it always is." She took a moment to light up a cigarette. "Listen, just call up to the house and let Katherine the Younger know that Officer Renee is here."

  "That would be you?" he asked dubiously. A few feet away, another guard let a Rolls-Royce through.

  Renee wasn't interested in bantering with this clown. "Just give her the message."

  It took three minutes to get permission to approach the house and another five to walk up the damn driveway. A metal detector made her glad that she had left her spiffy new ray gun at home. Along the way, she tried to calculate how much money she was passing.

  She gave up at fifty million.

  The stem-faced butler gave her an even snootier look than the guard at the gate. "This way, please," he instructed, leading her away from the foyer. Polished wood paneling covered the walls. A crystal chandelier sparkled overhead. An antique lever-action rifle was mounted above a doorway in a position of honor. The name was Kane, she recalled, but the money was Hamilton. The Hamilton Rifle Company, to be exact.

  Like trying to count the money, you couldn't begin to count the dead.

  He escorted her to a cozy den, safely distant from the main festivities. Walnut bookcases, stuffed with expensive-looking first editions, surrounded her on all sides. A large globe rested upon its axis. An antique leather couch and old-fashioned rolltop desk displayed both affluence and good taste. "If you'll wait here, please," the butler said, "Mistress Kane will be with you in a moment." He left, shutting the door behind him.

  "Thanks, Jeeves."

  Her flippant tone belied the butterflies in her stomach. Now that the meeting was only moments away, she started to have second thoughts. Ten years is a long time, she mused, pacing restlessly about the opulent chamber. Maybe too long. She had just about convinced herself that sneaking out the servants' entrance was a good idea when she heard the door swing open. A husky voice addressed her from behind.

  "If you've come to arrest me, Officer Montoya, I trust you'll be searching me first?"

  The photos in the society columns never did her justice. Katherine Kane had the kind of beauty that took your breath away. Lustrous auburn hair cascaded onto her shoulders. A strapless red satin gown clung to her athletic figure. A string of pearls discreetly called attention to her generous cleavage. Perfect makeup subtly highlighted her exquisite features. Piercing brown eyes made Renee's heart skip a beat.

  Renee tried to play it cool. "If you insist." Forcing herself to look away, she turned to light a fresh cigarette. "Although that dress isn't likely to conceal anything I haven't seen before."

  She didn't see the fist coming until a hard right cross slammed into her jaw. Renee's head snapped to the side. The cigarette and lighter tumbled onto the carpet. A stunned Renee massaged her jaw. Her tongue probed for loosened teeth. She tasted blood in her mouth. Somewhere along the line, someone had taught Kate how to throw a punch.

  Good thing I know how to take one, Renee thought.

  "You've got a lot of nerve coming here." Kate's vibrant eyes flashed with anger, betraying a temper that Renee remembered well. Her fists were clenched at her sides. "Especially after the last time I saw you."

  Renee gave as good as she got. "I assume this means you're still in the closet."

  "You self-righteous—!" A furious Kate came at her again, her fingers poised to claw the smirk off the other woman's face, but this time Renee was ready for her. She seized Kate's wrist with her good arm, catching it before Kate's nails could draw blood. They confronted each other face-to-face, their bodies almost touching. Renee could feel Kate's puls.e racing beneath her fingertips. Her face was flushed with emotion.

  It had been an easy button to push. Renee had always been able to press Kate's buttons, just like she had always been able to press Renee's. That's what had made it so good ... and why it couldn't last. At least, that's what they'd told each other.

  "Not so loud," Renee taunted. "Someone might come in here and get the wrong idea."

  She stared into Kate's brown eyes. An endless moment fraught with possibility. The beautiful socialite's gaze seemed to soften. She was breathing hard. A familiar perfume tantalized Renee's senses, throwing her memory back nearly a decade. Old desires surfaced, as strong as ever. Kate's bps parted, and Renee's own heartbeat quickened in anticipation. They leaned toward each other. Renee couldn't believe this was really happening.

  GREG COX

  It's been so long.. . .

  so

  But instead of kissing her, Kate pulled away at the last minute. She wrested her arm from Renee's grip and put some distance between them. "What do you want, Renee?" Her voice was hoarse with emotion. "You're not on the force anymore, so why are you here?"

  "Been keeping tabs on me, have you?" Renee asked.

  "Don't flatter yourself," she said crisply, regaining her composure. "Father had Commissioner Gordon to dinner last month. It came up in conversation."

  Sure it did, Renee thought smugly. Despite everything, it gave her some comfort to know that Kate had not forgotten her completely. Lord knows I've never forgotten her. ...

  "I'm asking you again." Kate said impatiently. Her bare arms were crossed protectively across her chest. "Why are you here?"

  ■ Renee was both relieved and disappointed to get down to business. "Five-twenty Kane Street. It's in the harbor district."

  "Do I look like I spend my time in the harbor district?"

  Not exactly, Renee admitted. "You look like you spend your time at Calais on Sixty-third, getting mud baths, massages, and facials. But the building, 520, your family still owns it?"

  "I don't know." She shrugged her shapely shoulders. "Possibly. Probably."

  "Could you find out?" Renee pressed her.

  Kate eyed her suspiciously. "This have anything to do with that cast you're sporting under your jacket?"

  Renee was impressed by her observational skills. She'd always thought Kate would make a first-rate detective. "I need to know," she ple
aded. "Call it curiosity."

  "Why should I help you?"

  Her icy tone tore open a scab that Renee had thought long healed. "Because once we thought we were in love with each other." She laid all her cards on the table. "And maybe we even were."

  It was the wrong thing to say, something she realized a moment too late.

  Kate's face flushed once more. Breaking eye contact, she turned her back on Renee. Perhaps so Renee couldn't see her pained expression? "I think you had better go now.''

  "Kate ..Renee longed to reach out to the other woman, but wisely kept her hands to herself. I've done enough damage already.

  "Go," the other woman insisted, "before I change my mind and decide not to help you." She looked back over her shoulder, her face a frozen mask that gave nothing away. "You can show yourself out."

  Renee got the message. She headed for the door. "You know where to find me."

  "Yes..." Kate admitted as Renee left the room. She spoke so softly that Renee couldn't be entirely sure that she was hearing her right. "I always have."

  METROPOLIS.

  A huge crowd had turned out for the opening night of Aquaman: The Motion Picture. A line of eager moviegoers stretched around the block, while a handful of protestors demonstrated against the movie's alleged "distortion" of Atlantean culture and history. Police officers stood by to maintain order, even though no one was seriously expecting the demonstration to turn violent. Journalists and photographers were on hand to cover the premiere. The sidewalk outside the theater was overflowing with people—which made this the worst possible moment for a LexCorp tanker-trailer to jackknife right in the middle of the street.

  Flames erupted from the ruptured tanker, climbing high into the sky. Billowing black smoke blotted out the theater's marquee. Terrified men, women, and children fought to escape from the spreading conflagration, only to find themselves trapped by the crush of the crowd. Overwhelmed cops called for order, but there was little they could do to control the frantic stampede. "Outta my way!" a frightened voice cried out, just one of many in the chaotic din. People were literally climbing over each other in their desperate attempts to escape the blaze. The protestors trampled over their own signs. A hefty movie fan shoved another man aside. "Move, jackass!"