Linda Evans - Time Scout 3 - Ripping Time.pdf - Linda Evans - margozap

RIPPING TIME

LINDA EVANS and ROBERT ASPRIN

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this

book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely

coincidental.

thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-57867-7

Cover art by John Monteleone

First printing, May 2000

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

OUT OF THE FRYING PAN-

INTO THE TIME TUNNEL

Armstrong thrust one gun into a pocket, shoved the other two into Jenna’s

shocked hands. “If I tell you to shoot, do it!” Then the detective jerked her

into motion once more.

They pelted down the alleyway and into heavy traffic. Armstrong ran right in

front of a taxi. The car screeched to a halt, the driver cursing. Armstrong

yanked open the driver’s door and tossed the cabby into the street.

“Get in!”

Jenna dove for the passenger’s door. She barely had her feet off the

pavement before the car squealed into motion. Armstrong drove like a maniac.

“Forget Europe, kid,” he muttered. “They’re not gonna let you get out of New

York alive.”

Jenna’s eyes burned, and she couldn’t get enough air down.

“Ever been time-touring, kid?” Armstrong asked before she could speak.

“Wh-what?”

“Time-touring. Have you ever?”

She blinked, tried to force her brain to function again. “No. But . . . Carl

and I, we were going to go . . . through TT-86, to London. Got the tickets and

everything, used false ID to buy them, to keep it a secret . . .”

The taxi that Armstrong had taken from its driver slewed around another

corner, merged with traffic on Broadway, slowed to a decorous pace.

“Kid,” the detective said softly, “those tickets might just save your life.

Because the only by-God way out of this city now is through TT-86.”

Other Books in the Time Scout Series:

Time Scout

Wagers of Sin

Ripping Time

The House That Jack Built (forthcoming)

Baen Books by Linda Evans:

Far Edge of Darkness

Bolos: The Triumphant

(by David Weber & Linda Evans)

Chapter One

She hadn’t come to Shangri-La Station for the usual reasons.

A slight and frightened young woman, Jenna had lost the lean and supple

dancer’s grace which had been hers . . . God, was it only three days ago? It

seemed a year, at least, for every one of those days, a whole lifetime since

the phone call had come.

“Jenna Nicole,” her aunt’s voice had startled her, since Aunt Cassie hadn’t

called in months, not since before Jenna had joined the Temple, “I want to see

you, dear. This evening.”

The commanding tone and the use of her full name, as much as the unexpected

timing, threw her off stride. “This evening? Are you serious? Where are you?”

Jenna’s favorite aunt, her mother’s only sister, didn’t live anywhere near New

York, only appeared in the City for film shoots and publicity appearances.

“I’m in town, of course,” Cassie Tyrol’s famous voice came through the line,

faintly exasperated. “I flew in an hour ago. Whatever you’ve got on your

calendar, cancel it. Dinner, class, Temple services, anything. Be at Luigi’s

at six. And Jenna, darling, don’t bring your roommate. This is business,

family business, understand? You’re in deep trouble, my girl.”

Jenna’s stomach clenched into knots. Oh, my God. She’s found out! Aloud, she

managed to say, “Luigi’s at six, okay, I’ll be there.” Only a lifetime’s worth

of acting experience and the raw talent she’d inherited from the same family

that had produced the legendary Jocasta “Cassie” Tyrol got that simple

sentence out without her voice shaking. She’s found out, what’ll she say,

what’ll she do, oh my God, what if she’s told Daddy? She wouldn’t tell him,

would she? Jenna’s aunt hated her father, almost as much as Jenna did.

Hand shaking, Jenna hung up the phone and found Carl staring at her, dark

eyes perplexed. The holographic video simulation they’d been running, the one

they’d been thrown into fits of giggles over, trying to get ready for their

grand adventure, time touring in London, flickered silently behind Jenna’s

roommate, forgotten as thoroughly as last summer’s fun and games. Carl

blinked, owl-like, through his glasses. “Nikki? What’s wrong?” He always

called her by her middle name, rather than her more famous given name-an

endearing habit that had drawn her to him from the very beginning. He brushed

Jenna’s hair back from her brow. “Hey, what is it? You look like you just

heard from a ghost.”

She managed a smile. “Worse. Aunt Cassie’s in town.”

“Oh, dear God!” Carl’s expressive eyes literally radiated sympathy, which

was another reason Jenna had moved in with him. Sympathy was in short supply

when your father was the John Paul Caddrick, the Senator everybody loved to

hate.

Jenna nodded. “Yeah. What’s worse, she wants me to meet her by six. At

Luigi’s, for God’s sake!”

Carl’s eyes widened. “Luigi’s? You’re kidding? That’s worse than bad.

Press’ll be crawling all over you. Remind me to thank the Lady of Heaven for

not giving me famous relatives.”

Jenna glared up at him. “Some help you are, lover! And just what am I

supposed to wear to Luigi’s? Do you see any six-thousand-dollar dresses in my

closet?” Jenna hadn’t put on much of anything but ratty jeans since hitting

college. “The last time I was seen in public with Aunt Cassie, she had on a

blouse that cost more than the rent on this apartment for a year! And I still

haven’t lived down the bad press from that horrible afternoon!” She hid her

face in her hands, still mortified by the memory of being immortalized on

every television set and magazine cover in the country after slipping headlong

into a mud puddle. “Cassie Tyrol and her niece, the mudlark . . .”

“Yep, that’s you, Jenna Nicole, the prettiest mudlark in Brooklyn.” Jenna

put out her tongue, but Carl’s infectious grin helped ease a little of the

panic tightening down. He tickled her chin. “Look, it’s nearly four, now. If

you’re gonna be in any shape to walk into Luigi’s by six, with a crowd of

reporters falling all over the two of you-” Jenna just groaned, at which Carl

had the impudence to laugh “-then you’d better jump, hon. In case you hadn’t

noticed, you look like shit.” Carl eyed her up and down, wrinkling his nose.

“That’s what happens when you stay out ’til four A.M., working on a script due

at six, then forget to go to bed when you get back from class.”

Jenna threw a rolled up sock at him. He ducked with the ease of a born

dancer and the forlorn sock sailed straight through a ghostly, three-

dimensional simulation of a young woman laced into proper attire for a lady of

style, prim and proper and all set to enjoy London’s Season. The Season of

1888. When Jenna’s sock “landed” in the holographic teacup, while the

holographic young lady continued smiling and sipping her now-contaminated tea,

Jenna’s roommate fell down on the floor, howling and pointing a waggling

finger at her. “Oh, Nikki, three-point shot!”

Jenna scowled down at the idiot, who lay rolling around holding his ribs and

sputtering with laughter. “Thanks, Carl. You’re all heart. Remind me to lose

your invitation to the graduation party. If I ever graduate. God, if Simkins

rejects this script, I’ll throw myself in the East River.”

Carl chuckled and rolled over, coming to his feet easily to switch off the

holoprojector they’d borrowed from the campus library. “Nah. You’ll just film

it, win an Oscar or two, and take his job. Can you imagine? A member of the

Temple on faculty?”

Jenna grinned-and bushwhacked Carl from behind while he wasn’t looking,

getting in several retaliatory tickles. He twisted around and stole a kiss,

which turned into a clutch for solid ground, because she couldn’t quite bring

herself to tell Carl the worst part of her news, that her aunt knew. Just how

much Cassie knew remained to be seen. And what she intended to do about it,

Jenna didn’t even want to think about. So she just held onto Carl for a long

moment, queasy and scared in the pit of her stomach.

“Hey,” he said gently, “it isn’t that bad, is it?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s worse.”

“Cassie loves you, don’t you know that?”

She looked up, blinking hard. “Yes. That’s why it’s worse.”

His lips quirked into a sad, understanding little smile that wrenched at

Jenna’s heart. “Yeah. I know. Listen, how about I clean up the place while

you’re out, just in case she wants to visit, then when it’s over, I’ll give

you a backrub, brush your hair, pamper your feet, spoil you silly?”

She gave him a watery smile. “Lover boy, you got yourself a deal.”

Then she sighed and stepped into the shower, where she could let the smile

pour away down the drain, wishing the fear would drain away with it. Christ,

what could she tell Aunt Cassie? She tried to envision the scene, quailed

inwardly. Cassie Tyrol, cool and elegant and very Parisian, despite her New

Hollywood accent and the ranch up in the hills, where Jenna had spent the

happiest summers of her life-the only happy ones, in fact, until college and

the Temple and Carl. . . . Aunt Cassie was not likely to take the news well.

Not at all. Better, of course, than her father.

Two hours later, Jenna was still quailing, despite the outward charm of her

smile for the maitre d’ at Luigi’s, the most fashionable of the restaurants

owned by increasingly wealthy members of New York’s leading Lady of Heaven

Temple. It was little wonder her aunt had chosen Luigi’s. Given Cassie’s

prominence in the New Hollywood Temple, she probably had a stakeholder’s share

in the restaurant’s profits. Jenna’s only aunt never did anything by halves.

That included throwing herself into her latest religion or making money the

way Jenna accumulated rejection slips for her screenplays.

The maitre d’ greeted her effusively, by name. “Good evening, Ms. Caddrick,

your aunt’s table is right this way.”

“Thank you.” She resisted the urge to twitch at her dress. Carl had, while

she showered and did her hair and makeup with the most exquisite care she’d

used in a year, worked a genuine theatrical miracle. He’d rushed over to the

theater department and liberated a costume which looked like a million bucks

and had only cost a few thousand to construct, having been donated by some New

Hollywood diva who’d needed a tax write-off. Jenna, who existed by her own

stubborn insistence on a student’s budget that did not include dinner at

Luigi’s or the requisite fashions appropriate to be seen there, had squealed

with delight at his surprise.

“You wonderful idiot! If they’d caught you sneaking this out, they’d have

thrown you out of college!”

“Yeah, but it’d be worth it, just looking at you in it.” He ran his gaze

appreciatively across her curves.

“Huh. This dress is a lot more glamorous than I am. Now, if I just had Aunt

Cassie’s nose, or cheekbones, or chin . . .”

“I like your nose and cheekbones and chin just the way they are. And if you

don’t scoot, you’ll be late.”

So Jenna had slid gingerly into the exquisite dress, all silken fringe and

swaying sheik, and splurged on a taxi, since arriving on a bicycle in a ten-

thousand-dollar dress simply would not do. Jenna followed the maitre d’

nervously into the glitzy restaurant, aware of the stares as she made her way

past tables frequented by New York’s wealthiest Templars. She did her best to

ignore the whispers, staring straight ahead and concentrating on not falling

off her high-heeled shoes and damning her father for saddling her with the

price of an infamous family face and name.

Then she spotted her aunt at a dim-lit corner table and swallowed hard,

palms abruptly wet. Oh, God, she’s got somebody with her and it’s not her

latest.

If this was family only . . . The only person it could be was a private

detective. Cassie’d hired more than her share over the years. Jenna knew her

style. Which meant Jenna was in really serious hot water. Worse, her aunt

appeared to be absorbed in a violent argument with whoever it was. The dark

circles under Cassie Tyrol’s eyes shocked her. When Jenna reached the table,

conversation sliced off so abruptly, Jenna could actually hear the echoes of

the silence left behind. Her aunt managed a brittle smile as she stooped to

kiss one expertly manicured cheek.

“Hello, Jenna, dear. Sit down, please. This is Noah Armstrong.”

Jenna shook hands, trying to decide if the androgynous individual in a fluid

silk suit beside her aunt was male or female, then settled for, “A pleasure,

Noah.” Living in New York for the past four years-not to mention a solid year

plunged into Temple life-had been an education in more ways than one.

“Ms. Caddrick.” Firm handclasp, no clue from the voice. Noah Armstrong’s

eyes were about as friendly as a rabid pit bull challenging all comers to a

choice cut of steak.

Jenna ignored Armstrong with a determination that matched Armstrong’s dark

scowl, sat down, and smiled far too brightly as Cassie Tyrol poured wine.

Cassie handed over a glass in which tiny motion rings disturbed the wine’s

deep claret glint. Jenna hastily took it from her aunt before it could slosh

onto snowy linen.

“Well, what a surprise, Cassie.” She glanced around the elegant restaurant,

surreptitiously tugging at her short skirt to be sure nothing untoward was

showing, and realized with a start of surprise there were no reporters

lurking. “Gawd. How’d you manage to ditch the press?”

Her aunt did not smile. Uh-oh.

“This was not an announced visit,” she said quietly. “Officially, I’m still

in L.A.”

Worse, oh, man, she’s gonna let me have it, both barrels . . .

“I see. Okay,” she sighed, resigned to the worst, “let’s have it.”

Cassie’s lips tightened briefly. The redness in her eyes told Jenna she’d

been crying a great deal, lately, which only added guilt to an already-

simmering stew of fear and defensiveness. Jenna, wishing she could gulp down

the wine, sipped daintily, instead, determined to maintain at least a facade

of calm.

“It’s . . .” Cassie hesitated, glanced at Noah Armstrong, then sighed and

met Jenna’s gaze squarely. “It’s your father, Jenna. I’ve discovered something

about him. Something you deserve to know, because it’s going to wreck all our

lives for the next year or so.”

Jenna managed not to spray wine all over the snowy linen, but only because

she snorted thirty-dollar-a-glass wine into her sinuses, instead. She blinked

hard, eyes watering, wineglass frozen at her lips. When she’d regained

control, Jenna carefully lowered the glass to the table and stared at her

aunt, mind spinning as she tried to reassess the entire purpose for this

clandestine meeting. She couldn’t even think of a rejoinder that would make

sense.

“Drink that wine,” her aunt said brusquely. “You’re going to need it.”

Jenna swallowed hard, just once. Then knocked the wine back, abruptly

wishing this meeting had been about her highly secret down-time trip with

Carl, a trip they’d been planning for more than a year, to Victorian London,

where she and her roommate planned to film the East End terror instilled by

Jack the Ripper. They’d bought the tickets fourteen months previously under

assumed names, using extremely well-made false identifications she and Carl

had managed to buy from an underworld dealer in new identities. New York

teemed with such dealers, with new identifications available for the price of

a few hits of cocaine; but they’d paid top dollar, getting the best in the

business, because Jenna Nicole Caddrick’s new identity had to be foolproof.

Had to be, if she hoped to keep the down-time trip secret from her father. And

what her father would do if he found out . . .

Jenna had as many reasons to fear her world-famous father as she had to

adore her equally famous aunt. Whatever Cassie was about to lay on her, it

promised to be far worse than having her father discover she was going time-

touring in the face of the elder Caddrick’s ultimatums about never setting

foot through any time terminal gate, ever. Voice tight despite her relief at

the reprieve, Jenna asked, “Dad, huh? What’s the son-of-a-bitch done now?

Outlaw fun? He’s outlawed everything else.”

Noah Armstrong glanced sharply into Jenna’s eyes. “No. This isn’t about his

career as a legislator. Not . . . precisely.”

Jenna glanced into his-her?-eyes and scowled. “Who the hell are you,

Armstrong? Where do you fit into anything?”

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