Hoodwink Page 6

It was exactly the same as the one on the ancient altar out in the sculpture garden … the headdress worn by the priest howling at the sky.

  7

  HALF MOON BAY, SOUTH OF

  SAN FRANCISCO

  For the late afternoon, traffic was unusually light around San Francisco airport, so I made it onto Highway 92 in record time. After that it took less than thirty minutes to cross the Santa Cruz Mountains and reach Half Moon Bay, the tiny seaside town where I bought most of my supplies. I didn’t need any today, so I just turned left onto the Cabrillo Highway and headed south along the sparsely settled coast for Victoria’s beach house on Old Cypress Drive.

  I parked my old clunker in the driveway and wrenched open the sticky wooden garage doors. They made an eerie shrieking noise as they went. I’d bought my 1973 Buick Riviera at Manny’s Used Cars on the highway up in El Granada. It was the pick of his classic bombs but I’d just made it home from the airport and, from the knocking sound, it was the engine this time.

  Classic lines or not, I was going to have to either spend some solid time working on my car or consider picking up a more reliable, cheap ride. Until my training finished I had no spare time to earn an income so I was living on my meagre savings.

  I’d just finished my first year of training at the NTA facility across the Santa Cruz Mountains in Menlo Park. But in two weeks’ time I’ll start my fieldwork at the NTA building in Union Square where the portal is. We’ll be assigned field projects with a specific list of objectives and then assessed on the results. If the next six months were as hard as the past year had been then we could be sent anywhere in time, to retrieve any information they demanded.

  But whatever happened I had to be able to drive the twenty-five miles into Union Square whenever they wanted me.

  I got back in the old Buick and eased it into the double garage.

  Victoria was away at NTA headquarters in Washington but her BMW was still here. She’d wanted me to use the Beemer, but I still felt uncomfortable about taking things from her. I’d loved Victoria on sight. But I’d only just found her again last year and after twenty years of separation I was still getting used to everything … including my own contradictory emotions.

  If I was honest, I was trying to prove myself to her.

  The therapist I’d seen when I was a teenager told me that the Lost Child part of me, however irrational, felt that I was somehow to blame for being kidnapped.

  I had yet to find a way to get completely past that guilt.

  Spud had heard the car and barked a welcome from the back yard.

  I unlocked the peeling side gate and braced myself for the onslaught. She’d been named for her favourite food — mashed, fried, even raw. Spud was big, black and her mix of breeds was closer to a Ridgeback than anything else I’d seen. Last year I’d brought her back with me from Australia.

  Lick. Lick.

  ‘Yes. Yes, love … I’m home, Spud. It’s okay.’

  I opened the front door and she bounded for the hall table. A leash sat level with her head. Her big honey-coloured eyes went to it, then back to me.

  The sun hadn’t set yet; we had time for a walk, didn’t we?

  ‘Yes, baby.’ I was itching to get out of my suit. ‘We can take a nice long walk. I have to think this all through.’

  Shelby Bloom and Susan Curtis were both hiding something … and it may not be the same thing. One thing was certain: Bloom was trying to force me to commit to the case before I knew the full deal.

  There was the crunch of tyres on the gravel drive and Spud began nosing the front door with friendly interest.

  A car door opened and slammed shut.

  ‘Kannon?’ Constan Valdestiou peered in at me through the glass panes of the front door. He was a short, slim bundle of positive energy with brown hair, hazel eyes and the latest fashion tips.

  I found a grin on my face. He obviously hadn’t been able to wait for my call and had just driven down on spec. Constan was an extreme movie fan and I’d just met some of the Hollywood elite, both old and new.

  I opened the door. ‘Good timing, Constan, I just arrived.’

  ‘So I can see, Kannon. Nice suit, sweetie. Very sexy-professional.’ His eyes slid downwards. ‘Hate the shoes. What are they … army boots in a low heel?’

  ‘They’re three inches high, Constan. I can barely walk in them,’ I said with heavy sarcasm.

  We had a running battle going about clothes and especially shoes. I’d pretty much grown up barefoot and still stayed that way as much as possible.

  Constan had a more European sensibility. He was part WASP and part Black Sea Cossack. His grandfather, Yuri, had been born on a train ride from Tolbukhin to Odessa so he didn’t really know what nationality he was, but called himself Russian anyway. Constan spoke with a Californian accent but had the heart of a gay gypsy.

  ‘So what was Teen Scream like?’ asked Constan, eager to hear all the gossip.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, but I didn’t actually meet any of the stars. I was there about a case … remember?’ Constan was the office manager at the NTA in Union Square so he knew very well what I meant.

  Propelled by Spud’s eager insistence, ten minutes later we were out the door. Spud took off at a run, ecstatic to be on the beach yet again.

  ‘So who do they think put Earl in that floor?’ asked Constan, picking his way around a particularly slimy patch of seaweed.

  ‘Bloom says the LAPD have no idea. No leads. Zilch. That’s why they want to hire me.’

  I didn’t want to talk about my suspicions yet. It would open up more questions than I could answer.

  ‘I can’t believe you may be taking this case, Kannon; it’s the archetypical American mystery. Like being sent back to check who fed Marilyn Monroe those sedatives.’

  I sucked in a lungful of clean salty air and tried to clear the smog from my brain.

  ‘Constan, I know Earl was supposed to be a great director but why such an enormous fuss about all this? I just don’t get it.’

  ‘Kannon …’ he replied, getting ready to gently patronise me over my lack of knowledge of American culture. ‘Earl Curtis was a unique filmmaker. His movies were box-office gold but they were also experimental, anarchic …’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, Constan, I get it: he was unique. But even so, why is he still a legend now … outside of film school?’

  ‘That’s because in the 1960s the hippies adopted him as the iconic rebel. They claimed he disappeared because he rejected the mainstream lies and greed. That he walked out on Hollywood and the old American Dream … Earl Curtis became an anti-war symbol.’

  ‘An anti-war symbol?’ Surely that was a stretch …

  ‘Oh yeah, everyone had a poster of him up on their bedroom walls, along with James Dean and Che Guevara. It was a copy of that moody black-and-white photo the police distributed when Curtis first went missing.’ Constan sighed. ‘He’s standing in the Place de la Bastille looking up at the French Statue of Liberty … And let’s face it, Kannon,’ he waggled his eyebrows, ‘Earl was hot. Tall, dark brooding eyes …’

  ‘In Paris, eh?’ That was the second time that city had come up. ‘Okay, so Earl Curtis became a legend. What about the Gone with the Wind angle? Why was he working on that? I wasn’t under the impression it was particularly cutting edge.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Many people consider it the greatest movie to ever come out of Hollywood.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s it about?’

  ‘Kannon!’ Constan recoiled in pretend horror. ‘You haven’t seen it? Does Australia have no culture, as well as no decent shoes?’

  ‘Constan, I’m twenty-three. Why the hell would I’ve watched a movie made in 1939?’

  ‘Well …’ He started backtracking. ‘A lot of people here have. Isn’t it one of the most watched movies in the world?’

  ‘How would I know? So tell me what it’s about.’

  ‘The South during and after the Civil War.’ He waved his hand about, as though trying
to paint a picture for me in the air. ‘The story of a woman’s struggle to survive the loss of home and family …’

  ‘Is it any good?’

  ‘Er …’ Constan squirmed. ‘That’s not an easy question.’

  I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘It’s not,’ he said, defensive. ‘It’s very controversial. I love the film but hate that it romanticises slavery.’

  ‘What …? How can you get past that? That’s like enjoying a light comedy set in a concentration camp.’

  ‘Yeah …’ Constan struggled to explain. ‘But it’s also about the strength of women … their ability to triumph over extreme adversity. It’s written by a woman about women.’

  Hmm. ‘That sounds better. But why did they combine it with the racist crap?’

  ‘We’re talking about a film made in 1939 about the Civil War, Kannon.’

  ‘But why is it still accepted?’

  ‘Because it’s become a symbol of survival against all odds, especially to my grandparents’ generation. It was released in 1939 and …’

  ‘Okay, so that generation took it as speaking to them about what they were going through. World War II … and the same wind was blowing yet again.’

  Constan nodded. ‘Yuri used to talk about it when I was little … My grandparents escaped from Stalin’s Russia in 1940 only to land in London during The Blitz … the German bombing. They used to huddle in the old underground cinema next to their apartment while the air-raid sirens screamed. Yuri said they must’ve seen Gone with the Wind a thousand times. He said that it was why they came here. America represented hope …’

  ‘So the film is a source of hope …’ I muttered. ‘That you can lose everything and yet still pull through.’

  I gazed out over the rolling ocean, Troy’s lost and desperate face in my mind’s eye. That boy had experienced so much loss already …

  ‘I have to find a way to crack this case, Constan.’

  Sometimes, in the darkest hours, it could be just the help of one person that tipped the balance towards survival.

  I was lucky … I’d had two.

  I’d only survived my kidnapping because my adoptive mother and the Australian police detective who’d pursued my case for twenty years had never given up on me.

  As far as I could tell Troy had no one.

  He wanted his great-grandmother’s love and attention, and I was going to do everything in my power to help him get it.

  We reached the end of the beach and turned for home. Spud danced around us then took off to scatter a flock of seagulls.

  ‘What’s Brigham like to work with?’

  Foster Brigham was the new head of NTA-San Francisco. He’d been freshly appointed at the beginning of the year and was an extremely tough boss from all reports. Last year, half of Union Square had been sacked or faced a court of law for taking part in illegal ops. Brigham was the hatchet man who’d been sent to make sure nothing like that ever happened again.

  Constan frowned. ‘By the book. Hard. Very hard. I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.’

  ‘What worries me is that Victoria has never heard of him.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a worry all right,’ Constan agreed. ‘Have you rung her yet … about the case?’

  Victoria had been temporarily appointed to NTA headquarters in Washington to help recoup political support. Last year’s explosive corruption trials had blown all public trust in the National Time Administration and now a phalanx of politicians were threatening to block their budget. The politicians were pushing for closure or at least a radical downsizing. Victoria, as one of the key victims of the conspiracy and a highly esteemed marshal, was a major asset to the NTA’s defence team.

  ‘No, Constan, and don’t mention it to her, either. Nothing’s set and she’s stressed enough as it is.’

  He frowned. ‘It hasn’t been the same since your mother left Union Square. There are so many new people …’

  ‘What are the new marshals like?’

  The Time Marshals were the NTA’s equivalent of astronauts. They went through the time portal and carried out missions for the government, retrieving information … whatever the government needed done.

  ‘They seem good enough but we won’t know which ones will be made permanent until next year …’

  We fell into a comfortable silence.

  ‘What did you tell that cute guy from the gym? The one with the biceps and that sexy …’

  Oh no. ‘Don’t, Constan.’ I couldn’t stand going through this one more time.

  ‘Can’t you go on just one date? Try him out. He’s really nice and so persistent …’

  ‘Please don’t.’ It hurt just to talk about this. Victoria wisely said nothing, but Constan was making it his life’s mission.

  ‘Kannon.’ He touched my arm, gently. ‘You can’t just sit around waiting for Alex to come back.’

  ‘Look, Constan, I’m not sitting around waiting for anyone or anything.’ Now I was irate. ‘When do I have time to get to know anyone new anyway? In the fifteen minutes between dinner and me falling asleep on the couch?’

  ‘Kannon, you’ve got to move on.’ Now he was exasperated.

  ‘Just don’t …’

  Last year I’d brought a gladiator back with me from ancient Rome … a man I had feelings for. Alexander had been about to suffer a cruel and brutal death so I’d saved him the only way I could. I’d smuggled him back through the portal to the present.

  ‘Kannon, I know you still care about Alex, but …’

  ‘A fat lot of good that’s done me, Constan. He knows I would’ve found a way for us to be together!’

  ‘Kannon, what you did … bringing him back … was a felony. If the NTA ever found out about Alex they’d send him back to die in ancient Rome and put you in jail for the rest of your life. Alex had to leave! You know that. Even now the media still follow you around like vultures waiting for their next meal …’

  In that first year the paparazzi had followed me all the time, everywhere. I hadn’t been able to see Alex since the day I brought him back through the portal.

  And then he just left.

  His note simply said, ‘I won’t be back. Don’t wait for me.’

  Now I was both bereft and furious.

  If he’d just waited, I know I could’ve found a way for us to be together. Why couldn’t Alex believe in me … believe in us?

  Constan was right. I still couldn’t quite accept it.

  ‘I know he’ll never come back, Constan. I just can’t …’ Then I caught a microsecond of guilt flash across his face.

  He was keeping something back.

  ‘What do you know, Constan …? Do you know where Alex is?’

  ‘No, Kannon, I don’t.’ That was the truth, but he looked away.

  ‘What is it then?’ I grabbed his arm so he had to face me.

  ‘All right.’ Constan gave me a sad grimace and then sighed. ‘I believe Alex won’t come back this year, or maybe even the next … But he’ll be back one day, Kannon. He won’t be able to help himself.’

  ‘I wish you were right, Constan, but you don’t understand. Alex is a gladiator: he lives by his word. If he said he isn’t coming back … then I’ll never see him again.’

  We walked back to the house in dismal silence.

  There were two messages on the answering machine.

  The first was from Des Carmichael, the police detective who’d stood by me in Australia … Yuki, my adoptive mother, had died a couple of years ago but now Des had become a beloved part of the family I’d re-formed with Victoria. The message said he’d be back from Sydney the week after next and couldn’t wait to catch up.

  The second message chilled me.

  It was from Foster Brigham’s secretary. I was ordered to appear at his office at 7.30 am tomorrow.

  No excuses would be accepted.

  8

  BRIGHAM’S OFFICE,

  UNION SQUARE

  Foster Brigham was reading a newspaper but m
y file was open before him on the desk. He hadn’t greeted me or asked me to sit down. Instead I was left standing there, like a private at attention.

  From the grey and white hairs speckling the black ones, Brigham had to be past middle age, but he was athlete-thin and held himself upright with parade ground rigour.

  Yeah. Brigham was ex-military or ex-something that operated with military precision. Again, I wondered why no one knew anything about him.

  He slowly folded the paper and put it to one side. The movement was taut with menace. As though he was just managing to stop himself from throwing it at me.

  Brigham glared up at me. ‘Do you realise what you’ve done, Dupree?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know why I’m here …’

  ‘Shut up!’ Brigham thumped the desk. His clenched fist landed right on the photo Personnel had taken of me.

  I held onto my temper. Whatever this was about, if I could find a way to salvage the situation I would.

  ‘Do you realise that your attempt to force us into giving you the Curtis investigation now is jeopardising our ability to get the NTA budget passed through Congress?’

  That caught me off guard.

  ‘No. No,’ I said, trying to work out what Brigham was going on about. ‘I made it absolutely clear to Shelby Bloom that it would not be approved at this point in time. That I couldn’t take the case until after I finish Basic Training.’

  ‘Oh, did you? Did he get a good laugh out of that? But you went down there anyway. And met with Susan Curtis too,’ he boomed. ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did, sir. But as I said —’

  Brigham rode straight over the top of me. ‘Well last night her nephew, Senator Milhouse Curtis, rang Director Gaskell and told him that unless he personally approves your mission, the good senator will make sure we get no funding through at all!’

  ‘What!’

  Brigham sat back in his chair. ‘You really don’t know what you’ve done, Dupree, do you?’

  Why had I let my curiosity get the better of me? ‘I certainly had no idea, sir …’

  ‘No idea? Well that pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it, Dupree? You had no idea …’