LAST TIME: "Well," Stymie said diffidently, "I did see something... I think I did, anyhow. I can't be sure about it, but... It looked to me like there was a picture of somebody painted on the side of the dirigible."
"Doctor Almanac?" I said.
Stymie shook his head. "No, not him. I didn't get too good of a look, but the shape of the head was a lot different. To me, it looked like... It looked like the guy from your movie. You know, Doctor Reverso. Mag DeMilby, Junior. But I could be wrong."
"Yes," I said. "Perhaps you were mistaken. I don't believe for one second that you were, of course, but we can take a sort of vain and fragile comfort in the possibility. It might last five or ten minutes. Because if you saw what you saw, this thing just got even more confusing than it already was."
Stanley used some language that he normally refrained from in the presence of women and children.
I heartily agreed. And I made up my mind to have a very frank chat with Percival Doiley as soon as I could get my hands on him...
But before that could happen, I had to make sure my merry band of plucky urchins were as far out of harm's way as possible. We arrived back in the city late in the afternoon. Stanley bade us a grateful and relived farewell and went back to police headquarters to face whatever music was on the hit parade as a result of our calamitous excursion.
I escorted Stymie, Anonymoushka and Prudence back to my aerie atop the Benway Building. Doctor Unknown greeted us with the news that the mutated Maurice Almanac was still at the bottom of the elevator shaft and had not, as far as could be determined, regained consciousness.
"I don't think that's going to last, though," he said. "But I think we still have about 36 hours before we have to worry about it."
"That's good," I said. "Maybe by then I will have cleared away some of the extraneous nonsense, though I am not sanguine. How is Patience doing?"
"Almost completely recovered, it seems," Doc said, shaking his head. "Her recuperative powers are astonishing, and you're talking to someone who does not astonish easily. I'm not detecting any kind of supernatural energies in or around her and Prudence, but there's obviously something going on that defies analysis."
I just nodded. Patience and Prudence were a riddle I had no intention of trying to solve. I had one or two ideas, but they would remain forever unconfirmed, unless the girls decided to share their story with me. The likelihood of that was remote.
"Listen, Doc," I said, "I have been through the wringer lately, and I need to recharge a little. If you wouldn't mind keeping an eye on the circus out here, I'll just duck into my quarters for a little meditation."
He said he wouldn't mind, and I repaired to my private apartment on the 65th floor. There, I assembled the tools I would need for my own personal brand of communion with the universe: A bottle of very expensive Scotch and a glass tumbler. I stretched out in an easy chair, divested myself of my hat and mask, and poured.
"You shouldn't just throw your hat and stuff on the floor like that," came an unfamiliar voice from behind me.
I sighed heavily. There would apparently be no respite from the freakish insanity, even here in my holy of holies. I gulped down the contents of my tumbler, savored the taste and the burn, and stood up, turning around to face whoever it was that had breached my supposedly unbreachable security. I figured I might as well just install a revolving door to save wear and tear.
Standing there in the entrance to my kitchen were two young women. The one on the left, who had long strawberry blonde hair, appeared to be about nineteen, while her companion, a short-haired brunette, looked to be in her mid-twenties.
"You should at least hang it up on a hat rack or something," said the blonde. "They have stuff like that in this time period, don't they?"
"Don't be rude, Vionna," said the brunette. She had a rather genteel, understated Irish accent.
I noticed that my visitors were dressed a bit oddly. Both of them were hatless and wore faded blue dungarees, soft shoes that appeared to have rubber soles, and short-sleeved t-shirts. The brunette's shirt was dark blue and unadorned, while the blonde's was bright yellow and bore an intriguing slogan: Free Pussy Riot!
I poured myself another drink and said to the blonde, "I don't doubt there would be a riot if that was being offered, but you should try a more discreet form of advertising. You're liable to get thrown into the clink if you walk around in public wearing that."
“Huh?” she said, scratching her head.
The brunette laughed and said, “I told you that wouldn’t go over well in 1933.” Then she turned her attention to me.
“Good evening, sir,” she said. “We’re very sorry to intrude like this.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” I said. “It’s getting to be like Zenith Central Station in here. I won’t even try to deny that I’m the Black Centipede. That’s why you’re here, right? You’re looking for the Black Centipede?”
You may note that I seem very nonchalant about the whole thing. That’s because I was certain these two women were not a threat. I have a grossly overdeveloped danger sense, and they weren’t even registering on it.
“Let me explain,” said the brunette. “My name is Mary Jane Kelly and my friend here is Vionna Valis. We have come here from the year 2014.”
“Yeah,” said the other one. “We’re here because the White Centipede has been playing around in the time stream. He got his hands on a time machine and he’s been going back and forth trying to change history. We’re making sure he doesn’t succeed. It’s getting kind of confusing. We’ve already met you once in the past, but it won’t happen to you until 1937. But that isn’t why we’re here in 1933, not exactly.”
I just nodded and drank more Scotch.
“You see,” Mary Jane Kelly said, “you are about to face a very unusual threat. This is someone Vionna and I will encounter many years from now. I cannot tell you too much about it, but I can say that the White Centipede may attempt to tamper with the events you are about to experience. With regard to this individual you are about to meet, I have a warning: Do not kill him. He must not be destroyed because his continued existence is crucial to the future of the world. In the original time stream you figured out a non-lethal way to stop him."
"Okay," I said. "So far, I see what you're saying. I've always believed time travel is possible, and if it is, I'm just the kind of person who would find himself on the receiving end of some. But I face unusual threats every couple of weeks, and hardly a day goes by that I don't meet someone whose death would improve the world immensely. So, what am I supposed to do here? Refrain from killing anyone?"
"No, no," said Mary Kelly. "It wouldn't be a bad idea, but I know how you are. You'll know which one I'm talking about when you meet him. I'm not here to tell you what to do. I'm just planting a seed. A lot of seeds, actually. Just remember that: A lot of seeds."
"You and I have met before," I said to her. "Earlier this year, in fact."
She nodded. "Yes, you've told me all about it. Rather, you will tell me, about 80 years from now. I don't remember it myself."
"Let me tell him about the book, Mary," said Vionna, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.
"Why would he need to know about that?" Mary asked.
Vionna shrugged. "I don't guess he does. But what could it hurt?"
"Go ahead, then, if you must," said Mary.
"What book?" I wanted to know.
"The book I wrote," said Vionna. "It's called Vionna and the Vampires, and it's all about what happened when me and Mary met this individual that you're about to meet. Oh, yeah! That's how come he needs to know! Because if he kills you-know-who, not only will the world be destroyed, but there won't be any case for me to write about and there won't be any book."
"If the world got destroyed," Mary pointed out, "then the absence of the book wouldn't matter."
"Not to you, maybe," Vionna shot back. "But I would know."
"What about the book?" I interjected.
"Well, see," Vionna said, "in the future, where we're from, you are an old man and you're writing your memoirs. There have been two books worth of them so far. So I decided that if you could do it, so could I, so I did, and that was Vionna and the Vampires. The reason why I want you to know and remember about it is because one day in the future, when you start writing your memoirs, you can mention how I came to you today and told you about the book, and maybe you could recommend that your readers buy a copy."
Mary was shaking her head.
"You know," I said, "you could have just gone to me in the future, your present, and asked me to give you a plug. It wasn't necessary to pierce the veil of time."
"I know that," Vionna said. "But since we had to come here anyhow, and it was on my mind, I figured I might as well kill two birds while the sun shines. See, in the future, there is a thing called the internet, and on it, the guy who edits your manuscripts has what is known as a blog, and sometimes he posts little stories and things that don't actually fit into the books. Right now he's doing this one about Doctor Reverso, and I figure Mary and me have landed right in the middle of that whole thing. So, when it gets to be 2014, be sure and include this part in the story when you tell him about it, so it will get posted and people will see it. He can even include a link to Amazon dot com so people can buy the book."
"A what to what?" I asked. I was completely lost, and had no hope of rescue. I drank some more Scotch.
"Never mind that," said Mary Kelly. "We've done what we came here to do. Just remember what I said about the seeds. When the time comes, you'll understand. We must be on our way. We have more holes to patch in the wake of the White Centipede."
"Yeah," said Vionna. "In fact, we're going to Hollywood a few months ago to prevent the White Centipede from killing you. You probably remember this character called..."
Mary Kelly clapped a hand over her friend's mouth. "Don't tell him that!" she exclaimed. "Do you want to rupture the time stream even further?"
"No," said Vionna, swatting Mary's hand away, "I guess not. Well, so long Mister Centipede! We'll be seeing you. Don't forget about our book when it gets to be 2014."
"I won't," I assured her. "I promise."
She touched a button on her wristwatch, there was a flash of light, and they were gone. I took a deep breath, sat down, and finished off my tumbler of Scotch. This was shaping up to be quite a day, one I would long remember, in great detail.
One thing that can be said of the Black Centipede is that he always remembers his promises. He seldom honors them, but there are exceptions. And so, while I'm thinking about it:
www.amazon.com/Vionna-Vampires-Moriarty-Lord-Book/dp/1495948617/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1392691882&sr=1-1
CLICK HERE FOR WHATEVER THE HELL IS NEXT
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