Timewatch
Hay House Titles of Related Interest
YOU CAN HEAL YOUR LIFE, the movie, starring Louise Hay & Friends
(available as a 1-DVD program and an expanded 2-DVD set)
Watch the trailer at: www.LouiseHayMovie.com
THE SHIFT, the movie,
starring Dr. Wayne W. Dyer
(available as a 1-DVD program and an expanded 2-DVD set)
Watch the trailer at: www.DyerMovie.com
THE DALAI LAMA’S CAT, by David Michie
THE LAST LAUGH, by Arjuna Ardagh
LINDEN’S LAST LIFE: The Point of No Return Is Just the Beginning,
by Alan Cohen
THE MAN WHO RISKED IT ALL, by Laurent Gounelle
PUSHING UPWARD, by Andrea Adler
All of the above are available at your local
bookstore, or may be ordered by visiting:
Hay House USA: www.hayhouse.com®
Hay House Australia: www.hayhouse.com.au
Hay House UK: www.hayhouse.co.uk
Hay House South Africa: www.hayhouse.co.za
Hay House India: www.hayhouse.co.in
Copyright © 2014 by Linda Grant
Published and distributed in the United States by: Hay House, Inc.: www.hayhouse.com® • Published and distributed in Australia by: Hay House Australia Pty., Ltd.: www.hayhouse.com.au • Published and distributed in the United Kingdom by: Hay House UK, Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.uk • Published and distributed in the Republic of South Africa by: Hay House SA (Pty.), Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.za • Distributed in Canada by: Raincoast Books: www.raincoast.com • Published in India by: Hay House Publishers India: www.hayhouse.co.in
Cover design: Gaelyn Larrick • Interior design: Tricia Breidenthal
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use—other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews—without prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or deceased, is strictly coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grant, Linda.
Timewatch / Linda Grant. -- First edition.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-1-4019-4323-3 (softcover)
1. Families--Fiction. 2. Time travel--Fiction. I. Title.
PR6057.R316T56 2014
823'.914--dc23
2014028832
Tradepaper ISBN: 978-1-4019-4323-3
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
1st edition, December 2014
Printed in the United States of America
To my father, Lawrence B. Grant. Some of my earliest and fondest memories were of my father reading to me the Uncle Wiggily stories about the adventures of a certain gentleman rabbit.
And to my aunt, Aline Grant, and my “honorary aunt,” Dorothy B. Hughes, who fostered my love of reading by sending me books on my birthdays and at Christmas.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
Max Hauptman Brazil, June 17, 1992
* * *
Swathed in a blanket against the chill of the early morning air, Max Hauptman sat on his veranda in an ornate mahogany chair carved by some long-dead Portuguese. On a table beside him stood a scarcely touched plate of caldeirada, his favorite fish stew, and an almost empty cup of cafezinho. A brightly feathered papagaio (a birthday gift from Carlo) moped on its perch in a brass birdcage.
Death would claim him very soon, the old man knew, but he felt no fear, only a kind of impatience to get it over with and move on to the next stage. In preparation for the great event, his senses were beginning to shut down. The triumphal dawn chorus of the birds that had awakened him for years was only a faint squawk now, and even with his new hearing aid he could barely decipher what people were saying. The rows of coffee trees digging their roots into the red soil of the hillsides, the outbuildings containing the equipment to work the fazenda, and the stable housing his purebred horses were little more than a blur. But sharp and terrible still was the inner vision, which had revealed to him a new way of accomplishing his destiny.
He had been fortunate. Like so many others who had lost everything during World War II, he had fled to Brazil. Believing that his plans would be expedited if he belonged to the parentela or extended family of one of the elite, Max had ingratiated himself with an influential landowner, Dominic Bartoli. His alliance with Bartoli was cemented by his marriage to the man’s daughter, Luisa, who, upon inheriting everything after her father’s death, had turned it all over to her husband. Never had Luisa denied him anything.
Wealth was power. He sniggered at two-bit dictators like Saddam Hussein, lacking the wit to see the necessity of adapting one’s methods to the times. Through religion, the early popes in the Dark Ages and medieval period had controlled kings and their people just as some desert princes were able to do even now.
Today the fight for supremacy was being fought on a different front. Economic power had become the primary means of achieving one’s ends. Slowly, Max had gathered the threads of power into his own hands, adding textiles, chemicals, and steel to his late father-in-law’s coffee plantation—his factories in São Paulo turning out goods for export all over the world. And now the chance that he knew would come was here.
Tires crunched on the gravel as a car drove up. A car door slammed. Even before his dim eyes saw the figure dressed in a tan trench coat over a navy blazer and tan trousers, he smelled the musky odor of his son’s cologne.
“Papa, you look better today.”
A lie. He was worse and they both knew it, but they had to play this little game of make-believe.
“Carlo,” he said, waving a feeble hand to the chair beside him.
His son, his body muscular and fit from years of horseback riding and other sports, sat down deferentially beside him. Luisa had given him two other sons, but this, the youngest, was the only one who mattered now. It was important that Carlo see beyond the pitiful wreck of what his f
ather had become to the man he had once been.
“You have everything you need?”
“Yes, Papa.”
Those eyes, dark like his mother’s but filled with a steady flame of awareness that she had never possessed, looked at him with respect. Carlo was one of the very few people he had ever loved—certainly more than Luisa, whose adoration had dwindled eventually into a submissive adherence to his wishes. She’d been dead for years. He never missed her.
“When do you leave?”
Carlo glanced at the Rolex on his wrist and replied, “In a few minutes.”
A vague unease crept over Max; he brushed away the feeling. With all his failing strength, he gripped Carlo’s arm and said, “This will be the most important thing you ever do in this life. These next three days are our last chance to complete the Plan. Do not fail me!”
With an oddly feminine gesture that reminded Max of Luisa when she was nervous, Carlo patted the thick black hair springing back in waves from his low forehead. “I won’t fail you, Papa.”
“Call me when you’ve completed your task.”
“I will.”
He was only vaguely aware of Carlo’s departure. Already in Max’s imagination Carlo was driving down the dirt road leading to the highway twisting over the hills to São Paulo and the airport, where a pilot would be waiting to fly his son in the company jet.
San Francisco would be pleasant this time of year, everything in full bloom. He’d never dared go there himself: too many people might have recognized him. Perhaps in another life he’d visit. He’d sucked the last drop of vitality from this one. But he had to hang on, at least until Carlo called. The window of opportunity would not be open long.
CHAPTER 1
Carlo Hauptman San Francisco, June 17, 1992
* * *
The plush leather seat of the Gulfstream and a hot breakfast of eggs and steak washed down with cups of steaming hot cafezinho along with reading The New York Times had made the plane ride go pleasantly fast.
The customs official, who greeted him at the door of Papa’s private jet, had taken only a cursory look around the inside of the jet and then left. And, as usual, the official had never found—and had never even looked for—what was hidden in the cleverly concealed compartment. The formalities over and the official gone, Carlo retrieved his briefcase from the compartment. Carlo’s driver, Juan, had been waiting for him.
After a few pleasantries and the drive through the heavy traffic of San Francisco, they drew up to the stately entrance of the grand dame of Union Square, the St. Francis hotel, where many presidents and celebrities had stayed since its opening in 1904. It was also Carlo’s favorite place to stay when he came to the city on Papa’s business.
Juan brought the Lincoln to a smooth stop, got out, and took Carlo’s bag out of the trunk. “When will you be needing me again, sir?” he asked as he opened the car door for Carlo.
“Not until Monday at eight o’clock when we leave for the airport.”
A broad smile creasing his lined face after accepting Carlo’s generous tip, Juan said, “Very good, sir. I’ll be waiting here for you.”
At the bottom of the broad flight of steps leading into the hotel, a uniformed doorman was waiting to escort him into the lobby. A new man, Carlo observed. He nodded at the doorman and waved him away impatiently.
Striding into the wood-paneled lobby that gave the feel of a men’s club, Carlo barely noticed the display of photographs, vintage keys, and other memorabilia hanging on the walls. He briefly noted the time—11:45 A.M.—on the distinctive master clock hanging over a circular seating area. Time to eat, but first he would check in.
The lobby host at one of the front-desk stations recognized him and greeted him with a wide smile. “Mr. Hauptman. Welcome. How was your flight?”
“Fine, Miguel, fine.”
“We have your usual suite ready—reserved from yesterday until Monday—in the Landmark wing.”
Carlo nodded, signed the register, and gave his one bag to the bellhop hovering nearby. His briefcase he would carry himself.
After tipping the bellhop, who had shown him to his suite, Carlo walked into the adjoining bedroom and threw his trench coat and briefcase onto the king-size bed. He quickly opened the combination locks and then lifted out the hard-sided case that held the Czech-made Skorpion. Molded compartments held a holster and two curved magazines holding .32 caliber bullets, as well as a pouch for the magazines. While the stock was just over 10 inches long, it could be extended to 20.4 inches. A gun permit made out to him lay on top of the stock.
“Only for an emergency,” Papa had said.
Carlo devoutly hoped that no such emergency would occur. Even though Papa had made him practice with the gun until he could hit a target, he didn’t feel comfortable using it. He was good at hunting animals, but he had never killed anyone. Murder was what hired assassins did. And that reminded him that after he had conducted some business here in San Francisco for Papa, he would have to call the men Papa had hired.
Sighing heavily, Carlo picked up the gun and put it in the safe. No point leaving it around for some nosy maid to discover. This trip would definitely not be as fun as his previous ones, but as Papa had emphasized many times, his Plan must prevail.
CHAPTER 2
Caleb Morgan San Francisco, May 17, 1992
* * *
Caleb Morgan found himself walking through a forest of towering oaks. Looking up at their spreading branches, some of which were thicker than the width of a man, he had an uneasy feeling that they were possessed by a kind of awareness. Pagans like the Druids, with their ideas of wood nymphs and gods and goddesses, used to believe that.
His feet dragging on a wet, leaf-strewn path, the realization hit him that he didn’t want to go any farther. He wanted to go home. It was quiet, too quiet for his liking, and too dim. The shadows played tricks on you, made you see things that couldn’t possibly be there—like the faces he glimpsed peeping out at him from behind the bushes, faces that didn’t look human. They had eyes and noses and mouths in the usual places, but something about their features was very different from those of your normal, everyday humans.
A light fog rising from the ground and swirling about him made it hard to see. It was just like one of those old movies where the vampire suddenly leaps out at you. Whoever staged this might have been more original.
It was effective, though. He could feel his nerves twitching and his heart speeding up.
Ahead in a clearing stood a man of vigorous middle-age, wrapped in a heavy rust-colored cloak reaching just below the tops of his well-worn black boots, his brown hair drawn back in a 17th-century-style queue. He was leaning on a gnarled oak staff. The man from his vision of two nights ago, the man who called himself Jeremy Morgan, his ancestor, born in 1631, or so he had said. Waiting for him.
Reluctantly, Caleb found himself walking into the clearing. Didn’t seem to have any control over his damn feet; they just kept walking him right on over to the man looking at him with intense green eyes.
“Greetings, kinsman.”
“It’s you again!”
When the man threw back his head and laughed, did the gloom lighten for just a moment? Irritated, Caleb asked, “What’s so funny?”
“I beg your pardon, Caleb, but you are a gentleman of uncommon stubbornness.”
“You aren’t real! Get lost!” Caleb shouted.
“It does not advance matters for you to be uncivil and disobliging, kinsman. I am not a phantom of your overheated brain. I existed in the seventeenth century and still do. Do you not remember what happened yesterday with the elevator?”
“You did that?”
Jeremy nodded.
The incident was still fresh in Caleb’s mind. He had stepped into the elevator in his new building—so new you could still smell the paint—and the elevator had abruptly begun zooming upward. Whoever had heard of an elevator roaring out of control upward? After coming to a halt at the 12th floor, the li
ghts had gone out and then the elevator had plunged downward. With his heart hammering in his chest, he had gripped the metal railing as he’d shouted, “Stop, just stop!”
He’d thought he had heard a ghostly laugh; then the elevator had shuddered and stopped gently at the main floor.
“So what do you want, Jeremy?”
“As I said before, I desire you to undertake a task of no small importance. Call your closest blood relatives together immediately.”
“Why should I?”
Jeremy drew his cloak more closely around him. “If you do not heed my words, a cruel oppressor will arise and you will die—all of you Morgans—along with many others. And worse.”
“So let me get this straight: you want me to invite a bunch of strangers to my home, just on your say-so because something terrible will happen if I don’t?”
“The present timeline is unstable.”
“And that means?”
“That the present will shift into something altogether different—and nasty—in which none of you Morgans will have been born.”
“Even if I believed your far-fetched story, what can I—we—do about that?”
“On June 21 a window of opportunity opens when you Morgans can fix the present timeline in place.”
Caleb gritted his teeth. Jeremy was worse than that guy who had tried to stall him over a land deal. “So how do we do that?”
“When you and your relatives are gathered together, I shall enlighten you further.”
“Wait!” cried Caleb as fog began wreathing Jeremy from his head to his boots.
As Caleb’s hand connected with something, he came out of his vision to find himself sitting in his chair in his library, a glass of wine, which he had just knocked off the table beside him, spilling onto the Chinese rug.
Though the fire in the grate cast a welcome heat, he felt a chill go through him. His hands shaking, Caleb rang for his butler, Cummings, and told him to clean up the mess on the carpet.
Bearing a roll of paper towels and a bottle, Cummings walked with his usual soft tread into the library and silently set to work blotting up the spilled wine.