Chapter 59 Mallory Plantation—Tavis
Mallory Plantation—Tavis
Tavis and Aislinn drifted into the clean room, their fingers tightly interlocked, still buzzing from the intensity of the last thirty minutes in the rumpled sheets.
The post-orgasmic haze left them clinging to each other, a bond Tavis needed more than Aislinn.
” In her world, their separation would last mere minutes.
In his case, it could stretch into a grueling week or more.
Rick stood hunched over Braham’s shoulder, a deep grimace etched across his face as he stared at the glowing computer screen. “What’s got you looking like a bulldog chewing a wasp?” Tavis asked.
Aislinn glided toward the drink bar, the scent of freshly brewed coffee already beginning to fill the air. “Coffee, anyone?”
“Aye,” David said.
“Me too,” Rick chimed in.
Tavis’s eyes met Aislinn’s across the room, and he gave her a slow, warm wink. “Make mine extra sweet.” He moved into Braham’s office, joining Rick to peer at the spreadsheet on the monitor. “What are we looking at?”
“Important dates in Alistair and Sheena’s life,” Rick said, a somber note entering his voice. “Between the detailed report Braham received from Meredith’s researchers and information from Skye, we’ve narrowed our window of opportunity: July 15 to July 29, 1927.”
Tavis accepted a steaming cup from Aislinn, their hands brushing for a brief, electric moment. “What are their dates of death?”
“Sheena died on July 20 and Alistair on July 28.” Rick took his own cup, offering Aislinn an appreciative smile. “Braham, here’s one for you.”
Braham accepted the mug from her, his fingers curling around the warmth. “Thanks.” After a cautious sip, he said, “That gives ye eight days to investigate, develop a bulletproof plan, and execute.”
Tavis inhaled the rich, toasted aroma, then took a slow, measured sip. “We need to develop a plan before we leave.” He savored the warmth before sipping again. “If we have to deviate, so be it. But I want a plan to deviate from, rather than desperately improvising in a high-pressure situation.”
The door swished open with a faint whoosh, and Clay and Elliott strode in, immersed in a heated argument about a recent chess match.
Tavis let out an involuntary deep groan.
That’s when the full weight of his heart’s anxiety settled in.
He realized his groaning had nothing to do with his physical joints and everything to do with the gnawing concerns about the well-being of his soulmate and their unborn babies.
“That was a controversial and aggressive plan that sacrificed three pawns to gain counterplay and a lead in development,” Clay argued, his voice tight with competitive energy, his gaze fixed on Elliott.
“Their chess arguments are becoming legendary. I almost don’t want to play either of them,” Braham said.
“I’ll agree it would be a risky opening against a knowledgeable player who understood how to defend against the onslaught,” Elliott said, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. “Ye’re not there yet.”
Clay threw up his hands in theatrical frustration. “What the hell? Knowledgeable player? How often have I beaten you?”
“Only once, and that was when Meredith needed me in a hurry,” Elliott shot back.
“Okay, old man, you’re on.” Clay’s challenge hung in the air, a gauntlet thrown.
“Uh-oh,” Tavis said, leaning in. “Here we go.”
Rick gestured with a thumb toward Clay. “Why the hell is he picking a fight with Elliott right now?”
Braham tsk-tsked softly, the sound barely audible. “He’s not. It’s part of his game strategy to psych Elliott out before they play again.”
“Does it work?” Tavis asked, genuinely curious.
“Hell, no. But Elliott likes Clay to think it does,” Braham confided.
“There’s over a fifty-year age difference between them, and they act like kids,” Tavis said, shaking his head in fond exasperation.
“Ye’re missing the point,” Braham explained, his tone softening with insight. “Elliott is building rapport between them. Clay doesn’t have parents to help him make important decisions. Elliott has decided the job is his.”
The sudden shift in the atmosphere was palpable when Tavis announced, “Archibald is here.”
“But he’s not staying,” Braham said quickly. “I asked Archibald if he’d reconsider, and he said he couldn’t but didn’t explain why.”
“Does Clay know yet?”
“I don’t think so,” Braham replied.
“What could take him away from a life with Clay and his family?” Tavis asked.
“In Archibald’s fractured timeline, Clay is a teenager. And according to him, he and Archibald had extraordinary adventures, and Archibald doesn’t want to lose that.”
“Can’t Clay tell him all about where they went and what they did?”
Braham’s gaze, sharp with a hint of mischief, caught Tavis’s. “Would ye rather be told about sex, or do it?”
“Point taken.”
“Can we drag our focus back to Alistair? My bride is waiting for me,” Rick said. “Is the plan to follow Alistair’s car into Lake Michigan and rescue him once he’s in the water?”
“We need the rescuers to search the lake and find nothing but the car,” Braham said. “If ye whisk him away from the inside of the car, the car vanishes with you. The authorities must believe the current carried away his body.”
“What time of night did he plunge into the lake?”
“Eight o’clock. Pitch black. Tavis, with his SEAL training, needs to be in that water.”
“I’ve taken the Marine Corps Combatant Diver Course. I can be in the water, too,” Rick added firmly.
“What about me?” Clay’s voice was a quiet plea for inclusion.
“Yer job, lad, is to be the eyes on the beach to see who shows up. The vultures might be there to make sure Alistair is dead,” Braham instructed.
“I can do that,” Clay said. “But will Rick and Tavis scoop Alistair from the water, from his reality, and take him into the future without a warning?”
“They’ll have to dance with fate on that one,” Braham said. “It hinges on Alistair’s condition.”
“Can we use two-way radios to communicate?” Clay asked.
“They only have AM radio broadcasting,” Rick said. “Our devices would be incompatible, and if detected and traced by regulators, they’d confiscate our equipment, and that would be a disaster.”
“How about Morse code?” Clay asked, a glint of desperation in his eyes.
“That would work,” Rick said. “But we’d have to send and receive messages from an isolated section of the beach.”
“What kind of equipment do we need to send Morse code?”
Rick stifled a deep laugh. “Just a simple flashlight?”
Clay huffed with mock indignation. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, O’Grady. You guys live for your high-tech gadgets and covert ops gear. I just assumed a battle-hardened Marine and a Navy SEAL would have some kind of special device.”
“Do you even know Morse code?” Rick asked, a challenging glint in his eyes.
Elliott perched on a stool at the refreshment center, watching the action unfold like a spectator at a high-stakes tennis match.
Clay slid into a boxing stance, light on his feet, and executed an almost perfect Ali Shuffle that Remy had taught him.
“Those are fighting words, O’Grady,” he declared with playful menace.
Then, he dropped his hands, a genuine, bright laugh escaping him.
“Archibald taught me Morse code when I was a kid. Whenever we traveled, we practiced in the dark with a flashlight.”
“So, who precisely is pulling whose leg here?” Elliott asked, his chuckle a warm bass note in the quiet room.
“It just goes to show you not to take your chess success for granted,” Clay said, a smug grin spreading across his face.
“Sending Morse code messages with a flashlight doesn’t take as much skill and cunning as outsmarting a Grandmaster,” Elliott countered smoothly. “Now, if ye’ll get back to planning and get out of here, I can work on a reunion for Skye and Alistair—a far more important endeavor.”
“Speaking of Skye, Alistair won’t leave her behind, you know,” Clay said, his tone turning serious, the humor fading from his expression.
“Then don’t tell him the plan,” Rick stated with cold precision. “Just get him out of there.”
“That’s not right,” Clay argued. “He should have a choice in his own destiny.”
Tavis leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “Choice? His choice is to join our parade or become a statistic in a car crash.”
“When you put it that way, he doesn’t have options, does he?” Clay asked.
“We walk in with a plan, the universe laughs, and chaos takes over,” Tavis said. “We have to assume this won’t work, so we need a well-thought-out contingency. What does that look like?”
“He could die before the twenty-eighth,” Rick offered.
“Are you suggesting we use drugs to fake his death?”
Braham shot a meaningful glance at Tavis, a silent question hanging in the air. “Ye can do that. Can’t ye?”
“I won’t risk anything that might accidentally kill him,” Tavis said. “But if you’re talking about a drug-induced suspended state, a temporary slumber? That’s possible, depending on the substance and the delivery. Anesthetic, no. An opioid shot, maybe. An IV, never.”
“An injection. Ye poke, and ye’re done. Simple. Just be sure Alistair doesn’t fall and hurt himself.”
“Can’t do that,” Clay countered, shaking his head. “Whoever wants him pushing up daisies will expect a proper funeral, a final goodbye performance.”
“Ye can stage a funeral,” Elliott suggested.
“Too many moving parts,” Rick said. “Alistair’s fate is sealed. He has to crash into Lake Michigan on July 28, 1927, and vanish.”