Susan Squires: A Twist in Time

You are asking yourself how it works. If you care to read the journal, you will know. But if you are in haste, know this, time is not a river but a vortex, and with enough power a man can jump into another part of the swirl .

So, my dear Contessa, pull the lever. Think of the moment you want to be in as you leap into the maelstrom. You will end in the moment you imagine .

Be warned: The machine will go with you, but it cannot stay long in another time. To return, you must use it again before it disappears. I do not know how long it can stay. I do not know what will happen if you make it back to the time you are in now, or what will happen if you don’t. I give you only the means to change your destiny, or perhaps all of our destinies. Use it if you will .

But the book wasn’t Leonardo’s. She’d known it from the first words of the dedication. She turned the page .

My God.

The writing of the central text was done from right to left. Each letter was written backward. It would read correctly in a mirror. Exactly how Leonardo wrote his notebooks—why, no one knew for certain. Diagrams, calculations in the margins, long batches of text that would take many hours to translate . . . it all looked amazingly authentic. And on the final pages, there was an intricate picture of a machine with incredibly complex interlocking gears .

“What do you think?”

Lucy looked up at the girl. The look in those blue eyes was cynical, but only on the surface; underneath there was a terrible, wrenching . . . hope .

Lucy managed a shrug. “Well, if it’s fake, it’s one hell of a fake. The paper is made from macerated rags rolled out in a press. The writing is in the manner of Leonardo. There’s a chance it’s real. I’ll know in a couple of days.”

Frankie Suchet had left her name and address. The book had been real, of course. But that wasn’t the strangest part of it in some ways. When Lucy had told her, three days later, the girl had taken a gigantic breath and said, “Well, that’s it then.” And she had turned around and made for the door.

“Don’t you want to take the book with you?” Lucy had called after her.

The woman had turned in the doorway. “You keep it. I have what I need from it.”

And she’d walked out.

That was the last Lucy had seen of her for five months. And then one day, she walked in through the shop door, accompanied by the most drop-dead gorgeous man Lucy had ever seen. At least Lucy thought it was Frankie Suchet. She had to look twice. Gone was the spiky hair, the air of cynicism. . . .

“It’s you! I’ve been looking for you.” Lucy’s eyes slid to the guy. She tore her eyes away and back to Frankie. “You look . . . different.”

The girl ran her hands through her hair self-consciously. “Where are my manners? Lucy Rossano, this is Henri Foucault.” She pronounced it in the French manner. “Ahn-ree Foo-coh.”

Lucy nodded to the guy and felt herself blushing like every other woman probably did when confronted with that man. “A pleasure, Monsieur Foucault. Am I to credit you for the change I see in Ms. Suchet?” Lucy glanced to Frankie. The soft expression was the real change .

“I like to think so,” the hunk murmured .

Frankie’s blush joined Lucy’s. “Never mind that. I’ve come about the book.”

“That’s why I’ve been trying to find you. No one had heard of you at the address you gave.”

“I’ve been . . . away. Do . . . you . . . have . . . the . . . book?” Frankie spoke each syllable slowly .

Lucy realized she was staring at the couple. She ran her hands through the thick mass of her hair. “Yes. Yes, of course. But someone has made an offer on it. A . . . a million dollars.”

The couple glanced at each other. “We’ll match whatever you’re offered,” Foucault said .

Lucy’s mouth worked, but she couldn’t manage any sound. She couldn’t sell it to the woman who had given it to her. She wanted to say she’d just give it back. But that would mean giving it up .

Frankie leaned over the counter, blue eyes burning. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

Lucy felt trapped. But this woman would know about the book if anyone did. And Lucy needed to know. “I’ve started to dream about the book. I think about it every waking moment. Is . . . is it cursed or something? I mean, the way you just left it here when it was so valuable—were you passing it on to get rid of it?”

Frankie smiled. Suddenly she seemed sure of herself. “No, I had already decided to use the knowledge it contained to make me happy. I had all it could give me.”

“You do look happy,” Lucy whispered .

Henri looked to Frankie, then spoke to Lucy. “If you’re short of money, we know some influential people in the arts in San Francisco. We’ll spread the word about your shop.”

“Keep the book.” Frankie looked into Lucy’s eyes. “You’re meant to have it just as I was.”

And they left her a treasure. Sometimes she wished they hadn’t. The book had hold of her, no matter how much she pretended she wasn’t obsessed. She’d begun to make up fantastic stories about Frankie Suchet using the machine to make herself happy and what that might mean. She’d daydreamed about using the machine herself as if it really existed. Because ever since her father died, Lucy had been drifting, waiting for . . . something. She wanted what Frankie Suchet had. Certainty? Happiness? Lucy wanted that. She wanted her life transformed into something meaningful, even though she didn’t know what that meaning would be.

And now the whole sequence of events seemed like destiny. The feeling was overpowering. The book had been left to her. Frankie believed it was meant for her somehow. The Italian government sent the machine to America to give it power. Her friend Brad was assigned to the project. Too many coincidences. The book and the machine were coming together with power only the Super Collider Lab could provide.

And they would be used.

Tonight.

Maybe it wouldn’t work. This could all still be some elaborate hoax.

But Lucy no longer believed that. This was destiny. Her destiny.

A guy with a ramrod-straight military bearing and a brush cut stepped out of an office directly into Lucy and Brad’s path. She could practically feel Brad cringe. The guy had an intense look about him.

“Colonel Casey, just the man I wanted to see.” Brad wasn’t an imposing man, maybe five nine or ten, lean from being a runner. He dressed precisely in pressed chinos and Bruno Magli loafers, maybe too precisely. He wasn’t God’s gift to women. But he and Lucy had their common looks in common. She wasn’t God’s gift to men. Maybe that drew them together—a lifetime of being everyone’s second choice. There was no way Brad was fit to stand up to Casey.

“I heard you made a breakthrough, Steadman. About time. Though what this retro bunch of gears is supposed to do is beyond me.” His eyes never left Lucy’s face. They were the palest blue she’d ever seen. Even though his hair was blond, they seemed unnatural. “Trying to impress your girl with a government project that requires special clearance?” The sneer in his voice was evident. “Not smart, Steadman.”

“As a matter of fact,” here Brad cleared his throat, “Miss Rossano is my research assistant. I’ve located a book about the origin of the machine and its purpose.”

Lucy tried to relax. This guy would never let the machine be used, destiny or not, by some girl he didn’t know. She was off the hook. She had no desire to succumb to some fate over which she had no control, regardless of the feeling in the pit of her stomach.