The Runestone Incident (The Incident Series, #2) Read Free

that why you’ve held off on signing the divorce papers? To blackmail me into doing this?”
    He leaned back in the visitor’s chair, his arms clasped behind his head. If there had been room in my cramped office, he probably would have put his feet up on my desk. “Well, when you disappeared, we all thought you were dead, and there didn’t seem to be any point to signing the papers. Then when you showed up alive and well after five months, telling tales about the past, it occurred to me that the Time Machine would be just the thing to confirm Farfar’s story.”
    “I can’t get you a STEWie run.”
    “It would be quick, isn’t that true?”
    “What would?”
    “Going into the fourteenth century. Time zips by in the past but drags in the present, no? It’s a turtle here but a hare there when you compare clocks.”
    “Something like that,” I said. So he did know something about the rules of time travel, because that was another one of them. Each hour spent in the past corresponded to only 133 ticks of the second hand on the lab clock. No one quite knew why.
    “So we could get this pilot filmed and be back the same day, couldn’t we, Jules?”
    “The answer’s no, Quinn,” I said firmly.
    He leaned forward and took my hand. “Julia. The sooner we settle matters, the sooner I can sign the divorce papers. And do my best to keep Sabina’s story from going public, of course. Hey, do you want a spot on my new reality show? It could be arranged.”
    At this point I might have been asking myself what I ever saw in the man, but I knew. He was a charmer, with his easygoing ways and handsome grin. His grand plans—like flipping houses in Arizona—and now this…well, it was just his way of doing things. He had hated his job as an accountant for the town’s electrical plant, the sameness of it day in and day out, but had given it a try for our sake, and I understood that. He had ultimately failed and, drawn by online photos of Phoenix bungalows and cactus gardens basking in perpetual sunshine, had left town with Officer Jones. I couldn’t bring myself to hate him, not even now. He was a disappointment to me—no more, no less.
    “No, Quinn,” I said, letting go of his hand. “I can’t get you on a STEWie run. Not for a story passed down in your family, and certainly not for a reality show.”
    He went on as if I hadn’t said anything. “I’m thinking of calling it History’s Dirty Secrets . I even have a tip on where I can get backing for the show. Wouldn’t it be something if I can prove that Farfar was right and that the Vikings really did come to the US? Once we film that, it’ll set the ball rolling, and we can move on to the JFK assassination, the Roswell Incident, and other mysteries…I’m full of ideas.”
    I tried a different approach. “Look, I don’t know that what you have in mind is even possible. Big questions and important people are often the hardest to tackle. It’s just how time travel works.”
    He grinned at me and got to his feet, cheerfully unhooking the frog umbrella from the chair back, not looking discouraged in the least by my refusal. Listening had never been one of his stronger characteristics. “Take the weekend to think about it, Jules. I’ll be in touch. I’m staying at Lena’s Lodge—unless you’d be willing to let me sleep on the couch?”
    “I don’t think so.”

3
    I was dialing the phone before the door had closed behind Quinn. Helen answered after the second ring. The no-nonsense historical linguist had been on many a STEWie run, including the Pompeii one. She was well known for having proven that Shakespeare did write his plays, by returning from a run to Bishopsgate in 1590s London with some well-shot footage. She was a senior professor with research interests that included, in addition to Shakespeare, classical Latin and Greek. She was also a good friend.
    I told her everything.
    “I hope I did the right thing in sending Quinn away, Helen,” I said,