The Reckoning

By Lee Capp

Answering a call-to-serve from the American President, detective Johnny O’Brien finds himself embroiled in more mystery, intrigue, and strangeness on steroids than he ever imagines possible.
Journeying to the fallen city of Detroit to thwart a radical-Islamic terror threat, Johnny must up his game considerably. After all, he’s now facing spies, gunnies, ghosts, and madmen. Not to mention the self-described, “Greatest criminal mastermind of all-time,” the infamous Saal Moradi, and Moradi’s companion and deadly cohort, the “Ice-Queen.”
Teaming with watchmaker friend and time-traveler extraordinaire, Matt McCabe, along with enigmatic new-guy Jedidiah Wahl, and turn-of-the-century prize-fighter and known cheat, “Kid” McCoy, Johnny is well-outfitted to take them on. Should be a piece-of-cake. Except for the little factoid that Johnny is now “displaced.”
May be a problem there.
Join the fun, adventure, and action of THE RECKONING, the epic final chapter of The Watchmaker Trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Capp
• Release date: Jan 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370367337

Lee Capp

Lee Capp (Larry Lee Caplin) was born in Detroit, Michigan in 1949, back when the Motor City was the crown jewel of the Midwest, and the center of the manufacturing might of America. Raised on motors and Motown and brought up in a tiny suburb called Walled Lake, he had a very misspent youth focused on rock and roll music, amusement parks, good friends (some of which were even girls) movies, golden age television shows and fortunately lots of really good books. Personal favorites among them were the popular anthologies of Alfred Hitchcock and Dorothy Sayers and the crime novels of Ellery Queen and Mickey Spillane. In addition to being a life-long writer of what he calls "Unsold and unsellable dumb stupid stuff" Capp has worked in many fields during his long career, including a short but very interesting stint as an apprentice embalmer in a Tucson, Arizona funeral home and a fish monger in Seattle, Washington. The fish selling he has said was equivalent to an advanced college degree in the study of human nature. Johnny O'Brien is a compilation of Capp himself, who descends from Irish, Scottish and English farmers, fishermen and lumberjack immigrants, and he says, a number of other (verbally at least) bad-assed friends of his youth. Capp says that "if we all were even a tenth as tough as we thought we were, we could have ruled the world." Lee Capp and his wife Bea, retired at last from the workaday world, now reside among the pines, ponds and streams outside Seattle, Washington, where he continues to see just how much trouble he can get Johnny O'Brien and Matt McCabe into the next time around. Contact the author at [e-mail], On Facebook as Larry Lee Caplin (Lee Capp) and [e-mail]

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PROLOGUE

Long Island City Athletic Club Arena

Long Island City, Queens, New York

Friday, December 17, 1897

The crowd roared as the blows fell, its bloodlust well worked-up. To a man, those in attendance (and it was mostly men) would likely have said they came for the art of boxing, or perhaps the science of it. Truth was, of course, it was about the blood. It was always about the blood.

. . . And the money. The smart money was on Creedon.

Creedon wasn’t having a very good fight though. His blows were well aimed, but this night they could not seem to find his opponent. It was like trying to pin smoke to a wall—futile. And Creedon was wearing out trying.

Fifteen rounds into a twenty-five round match, he was in real trouble. Round sixteen, and he couldn’t answer the bell. Bloodied, battered and bruised, it was over. Choynski, his manager, threw in the towel.

All of a sudden, Dan Creedon wasn’t middle-weight Champion of the World anymore.

The Kid was.

Detroit, Michigan

Present Day

The woman looked bored—and slightly pained.

If you scrub it any more, you’ll wear it out.

The man smiled as he continued with his ritual. A gun is like a fine watch—or an automobile. Keep it clean, my dear. Keep it well-oiled and clean. And then it will work for you as it should. When you need it the most. When your life depends on it. But what would a woman know of such things.

I don’t care much for guns.

Yes, my dear—I know. You prefer to wreak your carnage and take your revenge much more up close and personal.

And you don’t?

"I do, my dear, I do. I like to look my victim in the eye. I like to see the light go out of them. I like to see the unbelief, the denial, the agonizing frustration of knowing that he has lost everything. Lost all of his tomorrows, all his hopes, all his dreams. Everything."

You are a death lover.

Death, is my life, my lovely—paradoxically.

That is the only gun I have ever seen you with.

It is all I have ever needed. Short, light of weight. Magnum power. A trigger slick as glass. Ageless stainless steel. The dependability of a revolver. Six high-speed hollow-pointed bullets for sure in the cylinder. Twenty-four more in speed-loaders. Optional silencer. A fine rig. A professional’s set-up. It suits me well.

You love your work—and your gun.

An artist loves his brush, my dear. A writer his pen. A singer his song. I do the work I was born to do.

Kill.

"Level, my dear. Level. I am the ultimate leveler."

He paused a few seconds.

I do the work I was born to do, the man repeated. "That I was sent to do. For this I came to this world."

When do we make our move?

"Soon, my dear. Very, very soon."

CHAPTER ONE

Bellevue, Washington

St. Patrick’s Day,

Present Day

For the first time in nearly a month, it wasn’t a rainy day. Not that it was a sunny one either. The sky had been leaden gray all morning, and as late afternoon gloominess settled in, it only became more somber. But it wasn’t raining—and that, here in the Pacific Northwest at the tag end of winter, was something worth shouting about.

I was in a great mood, just having come from my annual physical. I need it to keep my professional license. The doc said I’m in great shape—for an old guy, that is. Told me there wasn’t much he could do for me, and he’d see me again in a year.

I was good with that diagnosis.

My name is O’Brien. John Albert O’Brien, to be precise. Just Johnny to my friends. It has always been my fortune, throughout my life, to have good friends. Here, in my forty-fourth year, was no exception. I was on my way to see one now. Matt McCabe. Just a kid, so to speak. He was like a son to me. A son that just happened to be almost eighty-five years old.

To those who did not know him well, Matt McCabe might appear to be a callow youth, somewhere in the range of twenty-something. Twenty-two—again, to be absolutely precise. To the day. And he would never get any older. At least that was, until he solved his little problem. Actually, come to think of it, his really big problem. You see—Matt’s a time traveler, and he owns a magic pocket-watch. A pocket-watch with real attitude.

And a taste for blood.

And callow? I’ve known a lot of men in my life—tough men. Men of action. Men who would make you dead quick if you got in their way very much. Matt McCabe was one of those, make no mistake, his baby-face notwithstanding.

I’m a writer. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bragging. A lot of writers author great works; literary tomes, volumes of great artistry, beauty, pageant, grace, inspiration, and knowledge. Me—I write tawdry detective novels. About a guy named Jack McGuire. He’s a lot like me. Worn down. Kind of a loser, and, kind of a hero too—in an offbeat sort of way. He carries a gun, and a badge. Without that, Jack would probably be a one-man crime spree—again, kind of like me. I used to carry a badge too. That was before I took a bullet in the spine and got pensioned off the force.

I still carry a gun.

Guess I forgot to mention. I’m also a private-eye.

And murder is my specialty.

Matt McCabe is my partner. I’m on my way to his house now. He lives in a little western Washington town called Bellevue. In a modest house set back in the pines—near Phantom Lake. A modest house—for a small mansion. Matt’s a millionaire, many times over. The man has taste though. It’s not that pretentious. He has good taste in women too. Matt is married to one of the best looking, and incredibly nice ladies of all time. Her name is Linh, and she is an Asian beauty. And she’s pregnant with their first child.

Linh’s a cop too, on the Bellevue force. The Bellevue Chief of Police is a cranky old guy named Howard Carter. He’s a friend and former partner, although we kind of have a history. Like we were once both married to the same woman. Although not at the same time of course. Her name was Janis and she left him for me. It put a strain on our relationship for a while, but we’re all over it now. She finally left me too, but not by choice. She’s buried up in a Bellevue cemetery—a victim of cancer. I miss her every day, but I’m finally getting my life back in order, clean and sober. Jan would have liked that.

She would have liked Maggie Moran too. That’s my on-again, off-again girlfriend. Maggie’s a keeper all right—but sometimes I think she may be just too smart for me.

I live in hope however.

My office girl (or I guess I should say office lady) is a tough old bird named Emily Hatcher. Late middle-aged. A peach. I know I couldn’t take her in a fist-fight. She’s recently widowed—but coping a lot better than I did. No sloppy-drunk routine for her. Emily’s the eye in my private-eye firm, which I lovingly call WE—or, Watchmaker Enterprises. An ex-IRS agent, she’s damned near a computer and personal-information gathering genius.

Without her I’m a one-eyed dick—and hey, nobody wants to see that.

Danny Pogobo is another cop-friend from the Mercer Island PD, and part-time investigator for WE. A native of Samoa, he’s about the girth of an extra-large palm-tree, and is not the kind of guy you would want to meet in a dark alley. Or even a well-lighted one, for that matter. A guy I know I could trust with my life—and have.

Larry the fish-guy is a sarcastic old SOB. I like that in a confidant and snitch. Reads, and writes detective stories of his own. He thinks they’re good. I could argue that. Sixty something. He works in a Bellevue big-box store—selling fish, of all things, and giving away for free, information, inspiration, logic, and good old-fashioned common-sense, which, as it turns out, isn’t always all that common anymore. He’s a sounding-board, and worth his weight in gold—a couple of times over.

That’s pretty much my circle of friends.

Oh yeah—there’s a new one now. Joshua McCabe. He’s about forty-two or so years old. He’s the estranged grandson of Matt McCabe. Joshua blames Matt for letting his father, James McCabe—Matt’s son, that is—die. Yeah, I know—but you heard it right. It’s like the old baseball saying—you gotta have a scorecard to know the players.

Joshua came back into Matt’s life at the first of the year, after a long absence. They’re getting along pretty well—so far. He’s either here to help Matt with his little problem—or to kill him. Matt and I just haven’t quite figured out which one it is yet.

Like I’ve said so many times—Matt McCabe’s life—well . . . it’s a lot like mine.

Complicated.

Welcome to my world.

CHAPTER TWO

Deadwood, South Dakota

Tuesday,

September 11, 2001

The day started badly.

And then it got worse.

Like the rest of America, Brick sat transfixed, watching the television set, not believing his eyes. And not trusting them either—ringed with moisture, as they were.

So many dead. So much brutality.

Brick had never killed anyone.

But then, the day wasn’t over.

The City of Deadwood began in lawlessness. In the early 1870’s the land was in dispute—an official treaty between the United States Government and The Lakota Sioux guaranteeing to the Indians ownership of the Black Hills until the end of time. The Sioux even got it in the white man’s writing. Didn’t matter in the least of course, when in 1874, famed American hero Colonel George Armstrong Custer led an expedition into the Hills and announced the discovery of gold. This led to the implementation of the golden rule; namely, that he who has the gold, gets to make the rules.

Just two years later Colonel Custer would pay for his sins with his life—his bloody corpse stacked, like so many thousands of others, as cordwood on the pages of history.

The blatant illegality of the settlement of Deadwood soon forgotten (at least by the white-man) more sprung up alongside it, fueling the greedy aspirations of the gold seekers, thousands of which poured into the Hills each month.

The process was endless. The Indians were not—the result a foregone conclusion.

And then there was Hickok.

As in James Butler. Otherwise known as Wild Bill. The Prince of Pistoleers. Another real-life American hero, even in his own day, although more myth than man. He likely would have been long forgotten, along with the town, if it were not for the fact that probably the most notable thing the man did in his life was to die. Oh, not so much that he died, but the manner of it. The story is well known. Sitting in Nuttal & Mann’s Saloon on Main Street, with his back to the open door, he played his last hand, trading a pot of gold for a brainpan full of lead as Jack McCall walked up behind and blew old Bill into the next world. It was August 2, 1876. Custer’s body, up there on the Little Bighorn River, had hardly begun to rot. It was a tough centennial year for America.

To this very day, the poker cards that Bill held (aces and eights) are known as the Dead’s Man’s Hand. But Bill died that the town might live, tourists rushing to the site of the shooting for a century and better. They were still flocking to it this late summer afternoon, September 11, 2001—when the robbery and shooting went down.

Deadwood had not seen anything like it—not since the long ago days of Wild Bill, anyway.

Brick was at home when the call came in.

At the Century Bank Plaza, three people were already dead—and three more were being held inside as hostages. Two women and a three-month-old-child. There were two gunmen—in an attempted bank robbery gone bad. Something so simple as the bank manager and his assistant—the only ones with the combination to the heavy and old-fashioned safe—being out of the building at the same time. And that almost never happened. But this day, of all days, was unlike others.

By the time Brick arrived on the scene, a little more than thirty minutes after the first call went out, the bank building was surrounded by cops, and a makeshift communications center had been set-up just around the corner, at a bakery.

Chief Wiggins had made telephone contact with the robbers. It was directly to him that Brick reported. Wiggins had just hung up the phone as Brick approached.

Brick—good to see you. We can use all the help we can get today.

No problem Chief. I think if I had watched my TV any longer today, my head would have exploded.

I know what you mean. It was on at the station too. What a damned day!

What’s going on here, Chief?

"Two dumb as shit robbers walk into the bank and draw down on the two tellers, demanding they open the safe. Two ladies and a baby, plus old man Smith, the security-guard, and a janitor are the only ones there. The manager and assistant manager have left early for the day. They rightly figured, I guess, that the bank wouldn’t be getting a hell of a lot of business today anyhow, so they went home to watch the news from New York themselves. Of course, they were the only ones with the combo to the safe.

"Old Smith tries to draw, but he’s way too old and slow for that shit, and he takes one in the chest. Dead as he hit the floor. One of the lady tellers starts screaming her lungs our and gets a bullet in the brain for her effort. The second teller the shit-bags drag out from behind the counter and over to the safe. I guess they didn’t believe her when she told them she couldn’t open the thing, so they pistol whipped her to death—or maybe they just did it for the hell of it.

"At this point the janitor, who has remained unseen at the back of the bank, decides that perhaps that isn’t the safest place to be right at the moment, and shags it out the back door at about the speed of light. That’s how we know what went down.

"They might have gotten away clean at that point, but for Lt. Evans’ squad-car that just happens to pull into the bank at about that moment. He was simply stopping off to cash a check, and almost got dead himself when one of the perps opened up on him from the bank door. He took one in the lower leg, but it’s not too bad. He’ll be fine. Evans did a good job keeping them inside the building with just his revolver while calling it in on his dashboard radio.

We got the place surrounded now, and the State Police boys are helping us out, so no one’s going anywhere. The big problem now is the two customers and the kid. I’ve talked to the perps on the phone. Nut-cases. Almost totally out of control. A couple of red-neck bubbas with guns. They’re threatening to kill one at a time each hour for the next three hours unless we provide a police helicopter to take them out of here. Say they’ll start with the kid. They say they want to go to Mexico. Guess they’ve seen way too many cowboy movies—the dumb shits don’t even know that Mexico would extradite their sorry asses right back across the border as soon as they set down.

How much time before the first one? Brick asked.

About twenty minutes.

Brick let out a low whistle. Not a lot of time. Got a plan?

Yeah, Wiggins said. "I told them we couldn’t land a chopper here in the middle of town. Too many buildings, power-lines, etc. Said we’d drive them and the hostages to the chopper in a squad car. The chopper will be sitting in a field just at the north end of town. We’re going to make a big deal out of flying it over the bank on the way there. That way it will all sound a lot more legit. State’s providing the bird.

There is only going to be one unarmed cop driving the squad car. He will be in his underwear to show he’s not armed. There will be a sixteen shot Beretta 9mm taped under the dash just to the right of the steering wheel column. Once inside, the cop is going to take them out with that.

Why inside? It’d be easier before they get in.

Maybe. But they’ll be using the hostages as shields. I figure them to put one in the passenger seat. Probably the single woman. Momma and papoose will go in the back. That means the officer will have to draw, turn and shoot behind him and not let the hostage in the passenger seat get in the way. I’d like to see them dead with one shot each to the head.

Small target.

"Well, we’ll need someone that can shoot—and look good in their underwear. Know anybody?"

I was off duty, Brick smiled.

"You were off duty. I know you’re damned good, but ever shot anything but paper?"

No—but there’s a first time for everything.

Can you handle it?

I can handle it. Where’s the car?

Just around the corner.

Okay then. Let’s get this done.

Chief Wiggins picked-up the phone and punched in the numbers to the bank.

As Brick made his way around the bakery and to the waiting car on the next street, the police helicopter flew in low, passing over the besieged bank and on its way to an open field just north of town.

Brick stood at the trunk of the car stripping to his tee-shirt and white boxers. He kept his shoes on. Getting into the black and white and putting it into gear, he gently made his way around the bakery shop, onto the main road, and then slowly turned into the bank parking lot.

Stopping about thirty feet from the front door and turning off the ignition, Brick sat behind the wheel, and waited patiently for his five passengers to appear.

As he waited, Brick reverted to an old habit, often used to relieve stress. He whistled softly, almost under his breath.

The tune was Careless Love.

When the two robbers exited the bank building about two minutes later, the first thing that Brick noticed was that they seemed to be a lot smaller than he would have expected—shielding themselves behind their female hostages as they were.

So much death—from such small men.

Watching them make their way across the lot, a slow and faint smile crossed Brick’s face.

With a sigh, Brick pulled the secured pistol from under the dash and carefully removed the tape from the grip, tossing it to the floor in a ball. Then he swung the cruiser door slowly open, and unwinding his large frame from the driver’s seat, carefully exited the vehicle, the sixteen-shot Beretta casually dangling by his right side as he stood and faced the slowly advancing men.

The robber on Brick’s left, seemingly the older of the two, pulled-up short—his heartrate quickening as he saw the large pistol in the hand of the police officer. His eyes widened in surprise at the sudden turn of events.

His partner took several more steps before he too stopped, pulling his hostage up tight against his body, and pushing the barrel of his pistol hard into the side of the woman’s head. The muscles of his forearm bulged as he death-gripped his handgun. His hostage stiffened her body in fear, her eyes wild in fright.

Brick was the first to speak, his tone even and controlled, no hint of a smile crossed his face.

Put your guns carefully on the ground boys. We don’t want them going off accidentally by dropping them. Then let the ladies go, and step back three paces. You do that, and I give you my word that you’ll live to see the inside of a prison cell. Disobey me, and you die right here in the parking lot.

Are you out of your mind, you son-of-a-bitch? the older of the two asked.

Most of the time—yes. But not today. Do as I say.

Why should we do as you say, asshole?

Brick’s own forearm grew slightly larger as his grip tightened on the Beretta.

Because I don’t like to hurt people.

Brick would always recall the next few moments as happening in the slow-motion cadence of a nightmare. Every sound was blocked from his ears, as his vision funneled down to a narrow tunnel—focused solely and directly on the robber just to his right. That man had seemed the more nervous—and the more desperate. He had to be taken out first, as his hostage was the woman holding the baby.

Brick’s arm came up quickly, although it seemed to take forever. He could see the robber’s mouth form a word as the man shouted to his partner, but he could not hear any sound. It was like watching a movie with the audio turned off, he mused, as his arm continued its upward arc. The robber clutched his victim even harder and closer to his body—only one eye peeked out from behind the woman’s head.

Brick focused on that one eye. His sight bore into it. Not for a split second did his vision waver from his target as his pistol attained the apex of its arc. His finger tightened, increasing the pressure on the trigger.

Brick was surprised when the gun went off.

He was less surprised when the robber fell dead on the concrete, his left eye-ball neatly blown out the back of his head, along with several ounces of brain-matter and small bone fragments. The woman hostage screamed once and then fell to the ground next to the dead man—merely fainting. Her child and she were physically unhurt in any way.

Brick had never looked at the pistol’s sight, or indeed his own arm as he fired.

He felt a slight tug on his tee-shirt as a bullet passed through the loose material on the left side, just above his waist-line. Robber number two, witnessing the sudden death of his partner, was now in full panic mode, and fired at brick blindly from behind his hostage. He shot his pistol three more times—striking the pavement twice, and Brick only once, the bullet creasing Brick’s left thigh about three inches above the knee—barely deeply enough to draw blood.

Brick again calmly raised his pistol and sighted down his arm, aiming his gun exactly between the second hostage’s eyes. Then he looked the woman directly in the eyes as he jerked his own head one time toward the right. Nearly instantly the hostage did the same, opening up for a split second a clear shot at the robber. Brick’s pistol barked again, and a nano-second later the second robber was also cascading to the pavement as a bullet entered the front of his forehead just below the hairline, and exited the back of his head, making a pinging sound as it continued on its way and struck the side of the brick bank building. Like his partner, he spewed brain matter and blood in a large fan-shape behind. Also like his partner, he was dead as he hit the ground.

The second hostage remained on her feet as the killer’s legs twitched out his final attempt at movement—and then he lay still.

Cops seemed to appear from everywhere, rushing to the aid of the woman and her baby. One hurried to Brick’s side and asked him if he were all right.

I’m fine, Brick answered. Take care of the woman and her child.

His eyes locked with the remaining hostage as she slowly made her way toward him. She was a young Native-American woman. Slim and beautiful, she wore faded jeans and a white blouse. A nod to her heritage, she sported a turquoise and silver necklace around her neck. Well-worn boot heels clicked on the concrete as she walked toward Brick. Her dark eyes bore into his.

Nice shooting, cowboy.

I thought you were never going to get out of the way, Brick replied with a grin.

Sorry. This was my first hostage situation this week. I kind of had to stop and think about it for a while.

What were you doing at the bank anyhow? Everybody else in town is home watching the news today.

Well, silly me. I wanted to buy my best guy a birthday present, so I stopped off to get some money.

My birthday isn’t until next week.

So I wanted to shop around a little.

When are you going to move in with me anyhow? Then I’ll have a better idea where the heck you are.

Well, Brick, that’s just exactly the reason I haven’t. I’m not sure I want anyone keeping tabs on me.

Rosie, that’s not what I meant and you know it. Sometimes I get the feeling you don’t completely trust me.

I don’t completely trust any man. They’re not honest.

Honestly woman—you going to kiss me, or what?

She did.

Wiggins made his way through the crowd.

Doesn’t anyone ever listen to me? What the hell happened to the plan?

The best-laid plans of mice and men, Brick misquoted—are meant to be changed every now and again.

Wiggins glowered at Brick. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

When I saw Rosie was one of the hostages, I knew she’d give me a clear shot.

"You know this person?

Yeah.

Yeah? What about the other guy?

Lucky shot, Brick replied. It would have had to been lucky inside the car too.

You lucked out, is that right? Am I to understand that’s your explanation for what I saw here today?

Brick shook his head affirmatively. Two head-shots with two rounds, and I threaded the needle with both. It just doesn’t get much better than that.

Wiggins took a step back. I’ve known you a while Brick. Long enough to speak my mind to you. You’re a cocky bastard. I don’t much like cocky bastards. People die around cocky bastards. I like my officers to follow my orders. You could have gotten three hostages killed here today. It’s only by the grace of God that there isn’t an innocent on the ground dead right now. You got away with it today. Maybe you won’t tomorrow—or next week.

You saying you want my resignation, Chief?

No. You’re too damned good. I’m saying I want you to start following my orders.

Got it Chief. Anything else?

Yeah. Put your pants back on, and get over to the clinic. I want you to have that leg of yours looked at.

It’s just a scratch.

"I’ll decide what’s a major or minor injury—if you don’t mind very much. Now get your ass going." Brick did as he was told and began moving toward the squad car.

Oh—and Brick . . .

Yeah Chief?

Thanks.

Welcome.

As Wiggins turned to head back to the bakery, the wailing sound of a siren came to their ears. Wiggins stopped in mid-stride to listen. Brick joined him. Guess someone didn’t get the message. No one here requiring an ambulance.

Something’s wrong, Wiggins replied. "No one called for an ambulance."

The pitch of the sound changed abruptly as the approaching emergency vehicle made a sharp turn several blocks from the bank, and skidded to a stop just off a side-street.

The siren stopped.

What’s up there? Brick asked.

I don’t know, Wiggins answered. But I don’t like the looks of this. I don’t like the looks of this at all.

CHAPTER THREE

Mercer Island, Washington

Wednesday,

Present Day

I awoke with a start. Not since my boozer days had I experience the disquieting sensation of almost complete and total disorientation in the morning. Trouble was—I hadn’t been drinking.

Slowly, memory returned to me as I looked at the bloody knuckles and bruises on my right hand—and felt the stiffness and pain in my fingers.

My contemplation was interrupted by the ringing of the front door-bell. I didn’t jump up. I was in no hurry to answer it—pretty sure I knew exactly who was going to be standing on the other side.

As it turned out—I was wrong.

I threw open the door, ready for round two. Instead of facing an adversary however, as I expected, the beautiful young woman on the other side rushed forward and into my arms. There were no tears, and no sobbing either. That would not have been this lady’s way. Instead, I had the distinct feeling that the hug was reassurance—for me. The one emotion she couldn’t mask however, was the pain on her face.

Johnny—I am so sorry, she said, as she pressed her head against my chest.

Me too Linh, I replied, softly patting her on the back. Truth was, I had never been very good at comforting folks. Funerals were always a problem for me for just that reason. I never knew what to say. Fortunately, this time it wasn’t a death.

It just seemed so.

She broke off the hug, stepping back a couple of feet. I eyed her for several seconds. She didn’t say a word. I could tell that it was going to have to be me to get the conversation going. Did he send you over here? I gently asked.

"I think you know better than that, Johnny. No one sends me anywhere I don’t want to go. Especially Matt McCabe."

I cocked my head slightly, waiting for her to continue. As I did, the memory of the afternoon before flashed briefly through my mind. My fist smashing into Matt’s face. It was a damned good punch too. I was pretty sure he was going to need some hurry-up dental work right after. He staggered back a few feet but didn’t go down. The kid always did have a cast-iron jaw. My second punch was an improvement on the first. This time he hit the floor—hard. I gathered up the front of his shirt in my left hand, as I hauled him up off the carpet, readying for another blow to his face. He put up no fight. No resistance. I knew he could have fought me to a standstill if he had wanted to.

It was only the sound of Linh’s voice, shouting my name from the doorway of the kitchen that stopped me from turning Matt’s nose into a bowl of bloody snot soup. I released my grip on his shirt, letting him slip back to the rug. He remained in a sitting position, discreetly staring at the floor, while I worked on swallowing my rage and getting it back into the pit of my stomach where it belonged.

Linh rushed to his side, shooting me an accusing look as she wrapped her arms around her husband’s shoulders.

What the hell is going on? she screamed at me. Not answering, I spun on my heels and headed for the door. I needed some fresh air pretty badly at this point. As I did so, I caught a brief flash of another face across the room. The face of the watchmaker’s grandson. The face of Joshua McCabe.

And it was smiling.

He’s gone Johnny, Linh continued, snapping me back into the present. He left last night with Joshua.

Do you know where? I asked.

No. But I know why.

Don’t tell me Linh. Let me guess. To meet his father and grandfather. I didn’t state it as a question. I said it as a fact.

Yeah Johnny. Pretty much. It seems Joshua has been in contact with them for a while. According to Joshua, they are both time-travelers, same as Matt. Only a couple of small differences.

Which are? I asked.

Which are—they age, where Matt doesn’t. They can only travel within their own biological lifetimes, and according to Joshua, they are both getting pretty old. That’s why they wanted to contact Matt now. They probably rightly figure that soon they’re going to be dead.

And they want a group-hug, kiss-and-make-up session before they go croakers? I asked sarcastically.

A little more to it than that Johnny. They want to show Matt how to get back to 1952. They want to show him how to fix the ‘accident’ that happened to him. They want to set him free.

And with freedom comes responsibility, right?

"Right Johnny. And with freedom comes decisions—free agency, and all that jazz."

You already know then, don’t you Linh?

Sure Johnny. He didn’t exactly tell me, but I think I always knew. You aren’t the only one around here that’s a detective, you know.

I smiled weakly. I know Linh.

It’s what you overheard yesterday, isn’t it Johnny?

"Yeah. When I was walking up the driveway, you spotted me from the kitchen window and waved me in. So that’s just exactly what I did. Opened the front door and walked in. Just in time to hear Matt talking it over with Joshua. I didn’t hear all the details—the ones you