Timewatch Page 5

  “Have you ever been here, to San Francisco?”

  She shook her head.

  “Me, neither. Minneapolis is my town.”

  A lonesome look on her face, Gerry stared at some windsurfers scudding over the waves and a ferryboat with its top deck crowded with passengers. Gulls screamed overhead.

  She didn’t look much older than Laney, thought Dan, certainly younger than his 42 years.

  “So what do you do for a living, Gerry?”

  “I edit books. When my boss discovered my interest in metaphysical matters, he sent books like How to Become a Psychic in Ten Easy Lessons my way.”

  Nice to see that she had a sense of humor.

  “Sounds interesting.”

  She nodded stiffly, as though she hadn’t really heard him.

  “Some days it hardly seems worthwhile getting up,” Dan said pensively.

  Startled out of her reserve, Gerry really looked at him.

  On an impulse, he asked, “How’d you like to grab a bite to eat tomorrow, just you and me, Gerry?”

  “I have to see an author in the morning, Dan, but thank you for asking.” She attempted a smile and walked away.

  At least she didn’t actually say no, thought Dan. He could hear Caleb telling Marjory as he pointed to the slate-green water, “About 150 species of fish live in the Bay. Great white sharks have even been spotted here.”

  Leaning over the railing of the pier, her ponytail blowing in the breeze, Laney exclaimed, “Look! Sea lions!”

  Thumbing through her guidebook, Marjory said, “Apparently the first male showed up here in 1989.”

  “We’ll cruise by them when we get to my yacht,” said Caleb, who began pushing his way through the crowd of tourists sauntering along the pier. His relatives dutifully followed him.

  “There she is,” he said, pointing with satisfaction to a large white yacht. “She has twin engines that can go up to thirty knots and four cabins, which sleep eight. I sometimes bring clients out here.”

  A man dressed in white slacks and shirt hailed them from the gangplank. “Welcome aboard.”

  “This is Joseph, my captain,” said Caleb. “Let’s go up to the flybridge.”

  He led the way up to an open area with spacious seating.

  “Take us out, Joseph,” ordered Caleb.

  “Yes, Mr. Morgan.” Standing at the helm, Joseph started the engines and began easing the yacht out of its berth between two sailboats.

  “Nice,” said Dan, running a hand over the highly polished teak railing that ran along the side decks.

  As they were moving slowly past the dock area, Joseph remarked, “Mr. Morgan, a man came to inspect the safety equipment.”

  Caleb said sharply, “I didn’t ask for an inspection. Who was this so-called inspector?”

  Flushing under his deep tan, Joseph replied defensively,” I don’t know. He was wearing a company uniform and said you had sent him.”

  His bushy eyebrows climbing right up into his hairline, Caleb frowned and said, “I should have been contacted earlier about this.”

  “There wasn’t time. He came about half an hour ago and left just before you came aboard.”

  Marjory darted a look at Joseph. She was looking older than she had a few minutes ago.

  “You feeling a little seasick?” Dan asked her.

  The normally clear hazel eyes were clouded as she said in a low voice, “No, no. It’s just I’m getting a very bad feeling about this.”

  A tremor of unease ran down Dan’s spine. His expression must have given him away because in the same low voice, Marjory added, “You feel it too, that something is wrong.”

  Gerry looked at her aunt with concern.

  Sensing something was up, J.J. and Laney drifted over to them. “What’s going on?” asked Laney.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing,” said Dan, putting a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

  “Where did this guy go?” demanded Caleb.

  “Near the locker with the life jackets,” replied Joseph meekly.

  With an angry jerk of his shoulders, Caleb turned and went below, followed by his relatives.

  He began throwing open lockers. Suddenly, he went very still.

  Dan peered over Caleb’s shoulder. What he saw made him suck in his breath.

  Caleb put out a hand to touch the object. “Don’t touch it!” yelled Dan.

  “What is it?” asked J.J., crowding in close behind him.

  “Bomb,” said Dan tersely. He still had nightmares about the ones exploding in ’Nam, which was why, after his tour of duty was over, he had refused to accept any job having to do with his specialty—disarming the damn things.

  Peering at a clock connected by wires to what looked like a battery, Caleb said urgently, “There’s only ten seconds left!”

  Marjory paled and put a gnarled, veiny hand to her throat, while J.J. froze. Laney let out an involuntary, “Daddy!” After she’d said it, she looked embarrassed. Then he could see the fear creeping into her eyes. That was what he feared most at this point—panic. He’d seen it kill more than one man.

  “Couldn’t we get off on one of the life rafts?” asked Gerry. Except for a muscle twitching in her cheek, she appeared very calm.

  “Dad, why don’t we just throw it overboard?” interrupted Laney, fighting hard to keep her voice calm.

  “Not a good idea.”

  Laney’s voice went up a notch. “Then what are we going to do?”

  “Two seconds left … zero.” Caleb’s voice was flat.

  No one moved. Time seemed to slow down. Dan forgot to breathe.

  Dumbfounded, Caleb looked at him. “We’re still alive!”

  “I know, I know.” Dan pointed to the bomb. “You’d better tell Joseph to stop the yacht. Now … and very gently! And bring some wire cutters.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “In the military, I used to disarm bombs. Now go get those wire cutters!”

  To his credit, Caleb didn’t argue, just left, taking the stairs two at a time and bellowing for Joseph.

  “Here,” Caleb said, breathing heavily when he returned and slapped the wire cutters into Dan’s hand.

  Dan snipped some wires. “Now the bomb can’t go off.”

  A ragged cheer went up.

  He glanced involuntarily at Gerry. The freckles on her nose were standing out starkly on her skin, which made her look even paler than usual. She had one arm around her aunt.

  Caleb was clenching his fists. “Someone will pay for this!”

  His voice cracking with an effort to appear cool, J.J. asked, “Why would anyone want to kill us?”

  “Oh, surely not!” protested Gerry. “What possible reason could anyone wish to do us harm? We just arrived the other day and don’t know a soul here.”

  Marjory cleared her throat. “Maybe this has nothing to do with us.” She turned to Caleb and asked, “Do you have any enemies who might want you dead?”

  “Dear lady, I have many enemies, but none, I think, who would actually go to the trouble of killing me—at least as far as I know.”

  His curiosity temporarily getting the better of his fear, J.J. edged closer to the bomb and asked, “I don’t get it. Why didn’t the bomb go off?”

  “After the timer counts down, the mercury in the glass thing needs to be joggled hard enough to complete a circuit. Then the battery activates the detonator, causing the C-4 to explode.”

  “What’s C-4?”

  Dan pointed to what looked like a brick of modeling clay. “We used a lot of the stuff in ’Nam. It’s pretty safe, won’t go off by itself. Sometimes we even burned it to make a fire for cooking food. There’s enough C-4 here, once it’s activated, to have blown us out of the water.”

  “Why is there a timer as well as a switch?”

  “The IRA used to build their car bombs this way. The timer would be set to give the bad guy enough time to safely place the bomb and get away. After the timer counted down to ze
ro, the bomb still wouldn’t go off until there was enough sudden acceleration—could be a car or, in this case a yacht—to move the mercury to the end of the glass thing. Then boom!”

  The group let out a collective gasp and edged away. The yacht was idling now, not going anywhere.

  “I’ve told Joseph to call the police. Is it safe to stay aboard?” asked Caleb.

  “I think we’re okay as far as this bomb is concerned.”

  “Still, it might be a good idea to get out of here and wait on the pier for the police,” said Caleb.

  Shortly after, the police came with a bomb disposal expert.

  When the wearisome process of having statements taken from them was finished, the Morgans didn’t feel in the mood for sightseeing. At Caleb’s suggestion, they went back to his mansion.

  CHAPTER 8

  Dan Morgan Caleb Morgan’s library, San Francisco,

  Friday, June 19, 1992

  * * *

  They were a pretty subdued lot, thought Dan, looking around the library where they’d gathered after finishing the evening meal that Caleb had ordered from a nearby restaurant because no one felt like going out.

  “Something to drink, sir?”

  “A beer would be fine, Cummings.”

  After the day’s events, he could use a drink.

  Dan shifted uneasily in the brown leather chair. Sitting near the fire, which was sending up showers of orange-red sparks in the huge white marble fireplace, was making him too warm, although the luxurious furnishings in the room with its maroon velvet curtains blocking out the chilly San Francisco night and hundreds of leather-bound books lining the walls—while a little too fancy for his taste—were something that he might get used to.

  The others, sitting on leather chairs and a sofa, seemed to be holding up pretty well. Laney was talking to J.J., who looked more relaxed now. Dwarfed by the large armchair she was curled up in, Gerry had that faraway look on her face again. As if aware of his scrutiny, she darted a quick look at him, then turned her attention to Caleb, who had stood up and was clearing his throat.

  “I’ve talked to the police again, but it’s too soon to tell who the bomber was, or his motive for placing that bomb on my yacht. In the meantime, we’ll just carry on as usual. I hope you’re all comfortable and have had enough to eat and drink.”

  “You’ve been most hospitable, Caleb,” said Marjory. “And I for one do not intend to let the events interfere with our visit here.”

  A murmur of agreement went around. But was the danger really over?

  “Thank you, Marjory,” said Caleb smiling, the light from an ornate standing lamp throwing his weathered face into relief. His bushy white eyebrows drew together, giving him an ominous look that must have intimidated plenty of business opponents. He stopped and again cleared his throat. For a minute there, Caleb looked downright uneasy, but he recovered himself quickly and went on. “Last year, a firm specializing in genealogical research looked up my, ah, our family tree. One of the things that came to light was a memoir, written by our ancestor, Jeremy Morgan.”

  Dan groaned inwardly. Not another guy who was nuts about his family history! Personally, he didn’t care where he’d come from. The important thing was where he was going next.

  “You’re probably all wondering what this has to do with you. I ask you to bear with me for a short time.”

  Dan sat up straighter and tried to look interested as Caleb threw him a glancing look and then began reading from a battered-looking volume bound in a dark, stained leather:

  San Juan Mission,

  June 1683

  I, Jeremy Morgan, having arrived at the age of 52 years and in rapidly failing health, do hereby set down a brief account of my life. So fantastical a journey, which led me from the civilized world to the depths of the wilderness in the New World, would scarcely be believed. If it had not been for God’s grace, I should have perished after taking ship from New Amsterdam to the West Indies and from thence to a Spanish mission in the Californias.

  After laboring long with the good brothers, I set out with Father Francis, who, in a dream, received a call to venture north and set up a mission. A converted Indian was our guide into the vastness of the land, on which no European had ever set eyes. We settled finally at the place that the good Father had been shown in his dream, a land of wild beauty near the sea.

  My life began in a remote place by the sea in Norfolk, England, on—so I am told—a wild, wet night on the thirteenth of September in the year of our Lord 1631. The taking of my first breath was the occasion of my mother’s taking her last, leaving my father and older sister, Susanna, bereft. To his credit, my father, a man of some distinction in those parts, did not blame me for this misfortune, but neither, thereafter, did I see much of him.

  Caleb paused. “I’m not a man who believes in the supernatural,” he said, “but this Jeremy person appeared to me twice in visions. He even monkeyed with my elevator, making it go out of control until I promised to ask all of you to visit me in San Francisco.”

  Laney and J.J. were staring openmouthed at him. Gerry was sitting up straight now and looking at Caleb with a wide-eyed interest.

  “I’d like to hear you read some more from the memoir,” said Marjory, breaking the awkward silence.

  Pleased with her show of interest, Caleb said, “If you insist,” and turned to the memoir again.

  Between my sister and me sprang up a bond that I would have sworn was stronger than death, for she became my constant companion. Many were the long hours we spent roaming the moors, gathering the purple-headed flowers and screeching like wild young things as we raced across the cliffs rising like mighty towers above the sea.

  Until I was 12, I was as thoughtless a boy as you might find anywhere, until Jacob de Ruyter literally dropped into my life. It happened in this fashion.

  The day of his coming was a gloomy day in early October. I remember Will, who looked after our horses and did odd jobs of work around the estate, scowling at the leaden gray sky and predicting a rare great storm that night. And so it happened. Glad I was to be behind stout walls when the wind was keening like a soul pursued by the Furies.

  Then we heard a thundering at our door and men’s voices calling out. So fierce was the storm that our superstitious servants feared to open the door, thinking it was the devil himself trying to get in. My father had to go down and draw the great bolt that barred the door. A small company of men rushed in, water pouring in sheets off them, and carrying a man who looked to be more dead than alive, so still and white he was. After examining the man, my father pronounced him still to be breathing and ordered him brought into the parlor, where he was divested of his heavy clothing, rubbed with cloths to dry him, and wrapped in blankets. Some Madeira wine was administered to the poor wretch, who began coughing and heaving up a quantity of water in his lungs.

  At this juncture, my father noticed my presence and ordered me to tell Molly, our elderly housekeeper, to fetch some hot soup and one of Father’s nightshirts for our visitor.

  As you may have guessed, I was aflame with curiosity to know the identity of our visitor. Later, I discovered that the Dutchman Jacob de Ruyter—for so he was named—had grown weary of his country’s incessant warfare with Catholic Spain, which had been fighting to take over the Protestant United Provinces. (The southern provinces, the Spanish Netherlands, were already under Spanish rule.)

  In addition, Jacob’s parents and two sisters had died of the plague, which had killed about 20 percent of his countrymen in Amsterdam. Longing to leave the scene of so much heartbreak and see something of the world, he had resolved to visit London.

  In the course of his journey, his ship had been blown off course in a great storm. Foundering off our inhospitable coast, the ship had gone down with all hands lost, except for him. At this point, my father, seeing the man’s labored breathing and unhealthy pallor, forbade any further questioning, thanked the men for their part in the rescue, and sent them home after giving each on
e a coin.

  In the morning, I was up early, surprising Molly, who usually had to shake me awake before I would get up for my lessons, which I took with the village lads in the local school. I rushed into the parlor, where I found Jacob de Ruyter sitting in my father’s heavy oak chair, his broken leg swathed in bandages.

  The barber-surgeon, a portly man with greasy, thinning hair and displaying that air of authority that all medical men seemed to exude, was just finishing packing his bag of instruments and saying to Father, “I have splinted your guest’s leg and bandaged it. It should heal in six weeks or so. For relief of pain, I will leave some wintergreen. Tell your cook to brew a potion with it for your guest to drink.”

  Father thanked him for coming and escorted him out of the room. I was left alone with Jacob. I had not been shy the previous night about looking at his corpse-like figure—in those parts death was accepted with a certain phlegmatic stoicism—but I was not prepared to greet a gentleman only a few years my senior who, apart from a certain pallor, seemed none the worse for his misadventures.

  Up to that time, I had lived a rather secluded and uneventful existence. When school finished each day, it was still early enough to go roaming the hills with Susanna or, more rarely, play with one of my schoolmates. But my father did not encourage “mixing with the lower classes.” He was keenly aware of his position as a Morgan, a family who, in preceding generations, had elevated themselves to a position of some wealth and prestige. Now, however, we had fallen on hard times.

  Father had invested heavily in buying tulip stocks. When the stocks crashed in February in the year of our Lord 1637, my father lost a great deal of his fortune. He had little money left to keep the estate in good repair.

  This was the state of affairs when Jacob came into our midst. He smiled kindly at me and said, “You must be Master Jeremy. Your father has spoken of you with great pride.”

  My father? I thought he was scarcely aware of my existence. He spent most of his time reading in his library or out riding the one horse left in the stables, which had once housed a dozen.

  “Your father has kindly asked me to stay on here until my broken leg has mended. In return for his hospitality, I have offered my services as a tutor—such as they are—for I have not been so trained in this occupation, but have been well-educated in the things that gentlemen should know—so there will be no necessity for you to attend the village school, which your father thinks that you have outgrown. I hope this meets with your approval?”