Chapter 2 
Chapter 2
Government paperwork was only one of many things about running a time-terminal hotel which Kit Carson hated. A laundry list of his favorite complaints, carefully filed away in one corner of his mind where they wouldn’t distract, included laundry bills; the price of food brought in past customs; the cost of replacing towels, ashtrays, and plumbing fixtures carted off by the guests; a work force likely to vanish at a moment’s notice; crushing boredom interspersed with ulcer-generating crises; and—near the top of the list—tourists.
Paperwork, however, was the thing he despised most.
He’d almost rather have returned to academia.
The Neo Edo’s executive office, larger than some modern, up-time homes, was one of the features of his current career that made it tolerable. His office boasted a video wall with panoramic real-time views of the Commons and equally panoramic taped views of multiple down-time vistas. A wet bar stocked with illegal bottles of liquid ambrosia (which both Kit and his predecessor, the builder of Neo Edo, had brought back up time) was available any time the job grew too hairy.
Priceless paintings and art treasures rescued from palaces destroyed by the Onin Wars in fifteenth-century Kyoto graced Kit’s office, which also boasted pristine tatami rice mats on the floor and the clean, uncluttered look of sliding paper-screen walls and delicately carved woodwork.
The office’s best feature, however, was a recessed light well which cast realistic-looking “daylight” over a miniature Japanese dry landscape garden. The serene arrangement of raked white sand, upright stones, and elegantly clipped topiary which filled an entire corner of the office rested the eyes and soothed the soul.
It was Kit’s salvation on paperwork days. He would periodically sit back in his chair, nurse a good bourbon, and contemplate the symbolic “islands” the rock formations represented, floating in their withered “sea” of sand. It gave Kit intense pleasure to symbolically consign the drafters of the requisite government forms to a long life marooned on one of those miniature desert islands, without hope of rescue.
Talk about the perfect Zen hell. . . .
The phone call interrupted him halfway through a form that required an entire battery of expensive lawyers to decipher. Kit grinned despite the fact that the call had come through on the “Panic Button.” He tucked the receiver between shoulder and ear, allowed his gaze to stray to the corner garden, and said, “Yeah, Jimmy?”
Jimmy Okuda, at the front desk, was the only person with direct access to that particular intercom line. A call on the Panic Button usually meant another jump in Kit’s blood pressure; today, the distraction was more than welcome.
“Call from Malcolm Moore, Kit.”
“Malcolm?” What was Jimmy doing, buzzing him on the Panic Button for a call from Malcolm Moore? “Uh . . . put him through.”
An outside line flashed as Jimmy transferred the call. What on earth could Malcolm Moore want? Kit had offered him a job more than once, only to be refused politely but firmly. Kit pressed the button. “Malcolm? Hello, what can I do for you?”
“Kit, sorry to interrupt whatever you’re doing, but you’re going to have a visitor in about five minutes.”
“Oh?” Malcolm’s tone invited all sorts of speculation. From the background noise, Malcolm was calling from the Down Time. That could mean anything might be on its way. Just as Kit had started reviewing lethal potentialities from his down-time adventures—and wondering where he’d left the soft body armor he’d used in his scouting days—Malcolm said, “An up-timer’s looking for you.”
“Up-timer?”
Malcolm chuckled thinly. “Some day, Kit, I will get you to tell me about that deal in Bangkok. Yeah, an up-timer. Real impatient, too. We took a vote and decided you deserved a warning before this one collared you.” Malcolm was laughing at some inside joke to which Kit was clearly not privy.
“Uh-huh. Thanks, I think.”
“Don’t mention it. What’re friends for? Relieve our curiosity, would you? Sven says he’ll buy, if you’ll tell.”
Kit raised a brow. If Sven Bailey was that curious, something decidedly odd was up. “I’ll let you know. Thanks for the warning.”
Malcolm hung up. Kit shoved back his chair. Whoever was on his way, meeting the guy face to face, cold, was not Kit’s idea of good strategy. He paused at the doorway to slip on his shoes, thought about his attire and hastily exchanged his comfortable kimono for a business jacket and slacks, then headed down to Neo Edo’s main desk. “Jimmy, Malcolm says an up-time visitor is headed this way. Tell ’em I’m out, would you? I want to be scarce for a few minutes. Lay a false trail or something.”
Jimmy, also a retired time scout, winked and nodded. “Sure thing, Kit.”
Time scouts could never be too careful.
Particularly world-famous ones.
Kit damned all reporters everywhere and made tracks through a gathering crowd. The Neo Edo’s lobby was a modern re-interpretation of the receiving hall of the shoguns at Edo Castle, as it had appeared before Ieyasu Tokugawa’s famous shogunate headquarters had burned to the ground in the Long-Sleeves Fire of 1657. The lobby’s showpiece was the mural-sized reproduction of Miyamoto Musashi’s famous, lost painting of sunrise over Edo Castle, commissioned from the master warrior-poet-painter by none other than Japan’s third Shogun, Iemitsu Tokugawa. The painting drew the eye even from the Commons, which meant tourists who wandered in to admire the artwork often stayed to become customers.
Homako Tani had been a shrewd hotelier.
La-La Land scuttlebutt had it that the Neo Edo’s builder had liberated the original during the 1657 conflagration which had destroyed Edo Castle; but Kit had never found any trace of it, not even in Homako’s private safe. Of course, scuttlebutt also had it that Homako Tani had been murdered by the irascible Musashi, himself, during a down-time visit to feudal Japan, for some minor insult the ronin samurai hadn’t been willing to overlook. Other rumors had him last seen stepping through an unstable gate into Tang Dynasty China; and others that he’d gone into permanent retirement in Tibet as the Dalai Lama.
The point was, nobody knew what had become of Homako, not even the named partners in the law firm of Chase, Carstedt, and Syvertsen, who had delivered the impressive envelope deeding him ownership of the Neo Edo for “payment of debts.” The only debt Homako Tani had ever owed Kit Carson was having his backside hauled out of that incendiary fiasco in Silver Plume, Colorado. So far as Kit knew, Homako never had gone back to the Old West. The stink of burnt saloons, banks, and cathouses had lingered in Kit’s lungs for weeks afterward. He still mourned that sweet little four-inch “Wesson Favorite” he’d lost during the confusion. Only a thousand of the S&W Model .44 cal. DA revolvers were ever made, and his had gone up in smoke.
Kit sighed. Whatever the true fate of Homako Tani, the “inheritance” had come just as Kit was being forced into retirement. He’d needed a job, more to justify hanging around La-La Land than anything, since he didn’t really need money. The Neo Edo had seemed a gift from the gods. After three years of managing the hotel, Kit had begun to suspect Homako Tani had simply come to hate government paperwork and tourists so desperately he’d bailed out before his sanity snapped. Kit shouldered his way politely past incoming arrivals from Primary, nodding and smiling to customers whose loud voices grated on his nerves, and headed past the pebble-lined fish pond just outside his lobby. He glanced both ways down the Commons, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual batch of new tourists gawking and lugging heavy suitcases while trying to decide which hotel they could best afford.
Kit wandered over toward a free-standing souvenir-and-information stall with a nonchalance born of long practice and pretended to study the trinkets. The stall’s owner, Nyoko Aoki, raised a brow, but she said nothing, tending her genuine customers with studied diligence. Nyoko’s stand provided a perfect view of the Neo Edo’s main lobby. The hotel’s graceful facade towered three stories above the Commons floor, rising to a peak two stories below the ceiling. The name was painted tastefully in gilt English script and Japanese characters. The tourists provided perfect cover as they busily bought up station maps, guidebooks, and T-shirts or wandered into the hotel lobby to admire Musashi’s mural.
Kit didn’t have to wait long, although the visitor’s appearance startled him considerably. The minute Kit spotted her, he knew that this was the up-timer Malcolm had called about. She was young, redheaded, and apparently operated on full throttle as her natural mode.
Unlike any normal tourist, she was not gawking, window-shopping, or looking for a station guidebook. The way she was dressed—and the way she moved inside all that black lace and leather—got attention from ninety percent of the men on the Commons and not a few of the women.
Kit found it suddenly difficult to control his breathing properly. Good God, she’s easy on the eyes. Hard on the pulse, though. . . . A man could get himself into serious trouble with that girl, just by smiling at her. She charged into the Neo Edo like a runaway bullet train and cornered poor Jimmy behind the desk. His eyes had bugged. Kit couldn’t quite hear what was being said over the tourist babble, but he could see her impatient frown and Jimmy’s shrug and uplifted hands. He could also read Jimmy’s lips: ‘Try the Time Tripper.”
Good. Wild-goose-chase time. She shot out of the Neo Edo’s lobby at full tilt. Who in God’s name was this kid? He’d expected . . . Well, Kit wasn’t sure who, or what, he’d actually expected. But it wasn’t a redheaded speed demon with an Irish wildcat manner and motives as inscrutable as a mandarin’s. Malcolm, drat the man, hadn’t given him even a hint. Of course, with Sven offering to buy drinks in exchange for information, maybe no one else really knew, either.
Kit followed her thoughtfully. He was certain he’d never run across her down time. Her, he’d have remembered. Vividly. He was equally certain he’d never met her up time, either. Hell, he hadn’t been up time in years, probably not since that sexy little kitten had been wrapped in diapers. If that girl was past eighteen, it wasn’t by more than a few days.
So who was she and why was she looking for him?
Probably a journalist, he thought gloomily, trying to make a name for herself. She had that supercharged “I’m going to get this story if it kills you” look of someone out for a first Pulitzer.
God . . .
Her skin was delightfully flushed, either from carrying that suitcase—which looked heavy—or from sheer pique. Kit grinned. Good. If she were sufficiently off-balance when they finally met, so much the better for him.
Kit bought a tourist map for camouflage and followed her at a respectable distance. She certainly didn’t dawdle. Whoever she was, she headed straight for the Time Tripper, a modestly priced hostelry catering to families on tight budgets. Middle-aged fathers, respectable in their Hawaiian shirts and jeans, ogled her from over their wives’ heads and ignored whining kids.
She cornered the hapless desk clerk, who shrugged, looked thoroughly irritated, and gestured vaguely toward the next hotel. When she stooped to retrieve her suitcase, Kit’s viscera reacted mindlessly. The man standing next to him groaned, “Oh, yes, there is a God. . . .” Kit grinned. The guy pulled himself out of a trance when the woman next to him hit him on the shoulder. “Hey! Quit drooling!”
Another man said, “Five minutes with her would probably kill a horse.”
“Yeah,” his companion moaned, “but what a way to go. . . .”
They were undoubtedly right on all counts. That girl spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E—and her trouble had his name over it. He sighed. When the redheaded whirlwind headed for the Tempus Fugit, Kit decided to let her continue the hunt alone. If Jimmy had laid his groundwork properly, she’d spend the next several minutes going from hotel to hotel. That would give Kit time to dig up what he could on her. He watched her eye-catching retreat toward the Fugit, then hastily backtracked toward the Down Time.
Margo rapidly received the impression that people were jerking her around, apparently for the fun of it. None of the desk clerks had seen Kit Carson, despite what that grinning idiot at the Neo Edo had told her. If Kit Carson had “stepped out for a meeting with the other hotel managers, sorry, I’m not sure which hotel,” Margo would eat her luggage, suitcase and all.
“This is ridiculous!” she fumed, heading for yet another hotel. “He’s got to be here somewhere!”
The desk clerk at the Hotel Acropolis looked at her like she’d taken leave of her senses. “Meeting? What meeting? I am the manager.” The middle-aged woman patted the back of Margo’s hand. “Honey, Jimmy probably called Kit, wherever he was, and warned him you were coming. Kit doesn’t much care for unannounced visitors. If I were you, I’d settle into a room someplace, call for an appointment, and meet him at his office.”
Margo thanked her for the advice and left in a hurry, more determined than ever to track him down. If she simply called for an appointment, he’d find some excuse or other to delay meeting her, probably permanently. Margo might be a nobody, but she wasn’t going to remain one and she wasn’t going to let a little thing like impossible-to-get appointments stand in her way. Working as she was against a ticking clock—with a six-month countdown not even God could delay—she simply didn’t have time for failure.
“If I were Kit Carson,” she muttered half-aloud, “and I were trying to find out who was looking for me, where would I go?”
Someplace where he could talk to the people who’d already talked to her.
“Right. Back to the Down Time.”
She transferred the hateful suitcase to her other hand, eyed the vast stretch of Commons she had to re-cross, and groaned aloud.
“Consider it training in physical endurance,” she told herself. The scent of food wafting out into the Commons from various restaurants was nearly more than Margo could bear. She was sorely tempted to stop for a good hot meal, but didn’t want the trail to grow any colder than it already had.
You’ll see, she told a host of nay-sayers, beginning with that pig of a high-school guidance counselor, moving on to Billy “The Rat” Pandropolous and ending—inevitably—with her father. Hateful, hurtful words rang in her ears, retaining the power to injure long after the bruises had healed. Just you watch. You’ll see. Margo’s eyes burned. She blinked back the tears. Small towns were terrible places to grow up with world-sized dreams—especially when those dreams were the only things you had left to hold onto. She was scared to death of Kit Carson already—had clung to this dream so long she was afraid to have it shattered, too. But the clock was ticking and Margo wasn’t a quitter. No, by God, she wasn’t. Just standing here was proof of that. Margo narrowed her eyes. All right, Kit Carson. Ready or not, here I come.
She closed in on the Down Time Bar and Grill.
Kit ducked under the girders and stepped across the Down Time’s threshold. “Hey!” Malcolm called from a crowded, jovial table.
“Did you meet her?”
“Not exactly,” Kit said drily. “I’ll get with you in a minute.”
Malcolm only grinned at the threat in his voice. Sven Bailey chuckled and popped a handful of peanuts into his mouth, washing them down with a sweating beer. Ann Mulhaney and, oh God, Rachel Eisenstein, leaned expectantly on their elbows, grinning in his direction. Rachel’s eyes twinkled. Kit knew one helluva ribbing was coming, for sure—Rachel was the one person in La-La Land whose wit he could never top. Granville Baxter grinned and lifted his beer in a silent salute.
Kit stepped behind the bar and borrowed the phone.
A voice at the other end said, “Time Tripper, may I help you?”
“Yeah, Orva, this is Kit. What can you tell me about the girl who’s been asking for me?”
Kit was tempted to hold the receiver away from his ear as Orva vented considerable irritation. She was just starting to say, “I have no idea why . . .” when the subject of their conversation stalked through the Down Time’s door and dropped her suitcase with a bang. Kit held back a groan and tried to blend in with the wall. Sven grinned like the evil gnome he was. Rachel hid her eyes and shook with silent laughter. The redheaded wonder of the hour glared at Malcolm, who shrugged and nodded toward Kit.
Thanks, buddy, Kit thought sourly. I owe you.
Malcolm was grinning expectantly.
“Uh, gotta go,” Kit muttered.
The line clicked dead. The outrageous little redhead cornered Kit behind the bar. “Mr. Carson? Kit Carson?”
She was standing directly in the center of the only narrow egress from this end of the bar, arms akimbo, hands on her hips, eyes flashing with barely suppressed irritation. Kit didn’t think he’d ever seen a sight quite like her. She stood glaring up at him like an enraged scarlet parakeet.
Kit hung up the phone and said cautiously, “And you are . . .?”
“Margo.”
Uh-huh. He surveyed her silently, waiting for the rest. When she didn’t offer it, he prompted, “Margo . . .”
She still didn’t offer a last name. Instead, she said, “I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Carson.”
Oh, God, here it comes. The story of your life, major news feature, blockbuster motion picture . . .
In that getup, she looked like a Hollywood wannabe. Who knew, maybe she did have studio connections. For all he knew, she was somebody’s kid, looking for a thrill.
“Lady,” he said, with as patient a sigh as he could manage, “I never discuss business on my feet and I never, ever discuss business with someone who has backed me into a corner.”
Her eyes widened. She had the decency to color an unbecoming shade of pink. Margo No-Name backed off sufficiently for Kit to edge out from behind the bar. Once he’d escaped, he leaned against the comfortably worn wooden bumper. “Now, if you want to talk business, kid, I suggest you buy me a drink.”
From the way her mouth dropped open, one would’ve thought he’d suggested they get naked and mud-wrestle. He revised his estimate from Hollywood to Smallville. She closed her mouth and said primly, “Of course.”
She moved one hand surreptitiously toward a small belt pouch, giving away her insecurity and lack of funds in one greenhorn motion. Kit sighed. Journalism student, he revised his mental estimation, and not overly bright at that.
He said, “Marcus, how about my usual—no, make it a bourbon—and whatever the lad wants. She’s buying.” Marcus, who by this time was accustomed to the oddities of up-timers, only nodded. “House bourbon? Or the Special?” He glanced from Kit to the kid then back, smiling far back in his dark eyes. Marcus had seen it all, even before his arrival in La-La Land. The “Special” was a particular bottle Kit had brought back on one of his last trips. The Down Time kept it in a private cabinet for special occasions. Two matching bottles sat in Kit’s private liquor cabinet. Getting through an interview with a journalism student called for more fortitude than a lone bottle of Kirin (his usual) could provide, but this was not a celebration. “House will be fine.”
Marcus nodded. Kit reluctantly led his mystery pursuer to a table. He chose a spot as far toward the back of the Down Time as he could get, in the dimmest corner of the dark room, far enough from his friends to prevent casual eavesdropping and dark enough to make it hard to read his face. If he had to endure this, by God, she was going to work for the story. The darker the corner, the better.
Wordlessly, Margo picked up her suitcase and followed.