Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [125]
He took more pictures. Children played in the courtyard, screaming and shrieking, and he wondered how it was possible for genius to function amid such bedlam.
Michelangelo reappeared and handed over a sealed yellow envelope with DAVID DRYDEN printed on it. “It does not indicate you are a priest,” he added. “It is why I was confused.”
“Thank you, Michelangelo. I’ve enjoyed talking with you.” They shook hands, and it was one of those electric moments you get to enjoy if you’re a time traveler. Then Dave gave him a gold coin and watched his eyes go wide. “See you finish his commission properly.”
“Oh, I will, Father. You may be sure.”
Dave waited until he was out of the neighborhood to open the envelope. The message read:
DAVE, COME AT ONCE. I AM IN THE BORGIA TOWER. ACCUSED OF HERESY OR SOME DAMNED THING. THE GUARDS CAN BE BRIBED.
SHEL
SHEL’S converter must have malfunctioned. Or someone had taken it from him. Otherwise, the authorities could not have held him. So there was no point going directly after him. Dave had to make a stop first.
He went back to Shel’s town house, about 1:00 A.M. on the night of the lightning strike. There was no particular reason for that time, except that he wanted to avoid running into Shel. Maybe that would create a problem in the time flow, and maybe not, but he thought it best to avoid any unnecessary twists in the sequence of events.
He emerged in the living room. The storm that had set in that night was raging. And it seemed odd to be standing once again in the house that, he knew, would become a smoking ruin in a few hours.
He walked into the den and went straight to the desk. It occurred to him that he should come back here later to find out who murdered Shel. But he wasn’t sure he’d have the stomach to stand by and watch that. Still, it was hard to see how he could justify not doing it.
Deal with it later.
The key to the desk was kept in a cup, along with some paper clips and rubber bands. The cup, with its Phillies logo, stood on one of the bookshelves beside a framed photo of Shel, Jerry, and their father.
Dave looked in the cup. No key.
Why was he not surprised? Nothing goes well when you’re in trouble. But he needed to get the spare unit.
He dug through the clips and rubber bands. Stood on his tiptoes and checked the shelf.
Damn.
It wasn’t on the desktop. Wasn’t on any of the side tables. Wasn’t on the floor.
He could have gone farther back, maybe a few weeks, but he didn’t want to risk running into Shel and thereby setting up a paradox. So he went into the kitchen and searched the cabinet drawers, where he found bottle openers, bags, tacks, plastic clamps. And a hammer and a couple of screwdrivers.
He carried the tools back to the desk and pushed the larger screwdriver into the space between the top of the bottom drawer and the frame. It was a tight fit, and he had to hammer it in. Outside, a siren sounded over the rumble of the lightning. It got louder for a few moments, passed, and began to fade.
The drawer started to give way. He gave it a final bang, and the frame broke apart.
He started to replay his conversation with Lieutenant Lake: “The killer broke into his desk, as well. Pried open one of the drawers—Whatever the killer was looking for, he found it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The other drawers were untouched.”
He pulled the drawer out. And there was the third converter. The one that Michael had been using. The one he thought a thief had taken.
He slipped it into his cassock. Then, just to be safe, he used its hem to wipe his fingerprints from the hammer, the screwdriver, and the desk.
Then it was time to go.
THE Vatican, even at that remote period, was an architectural marvel. Pilgrims filled its courts and streets. The sacred buildings clustered behind crenelated walls and the Tiber, a