But Walter Wolfe had plans for the something that was almost the Ziro Machine but not quite. And Ziro Labs is pulsing like an open wound for no obvious reason.
“I have to go,” I say, backing away from the board.
“What?” Vee follows. “Why?”
“I need to check something out.”
“At Ziro? I’ll go with you.”
I stop at the bottom of the stairs, and Vee nearly collides with me. “You can’t,” I say. “It’s dangerous.”
She snorts. “You sound like your mother. Never stopped me before.”
“No.” I put my hands on her shoulders, holding her in place. “If there’s something going on, you could get killed. If I get killed, I’ll come back. I’ll be right here. Literally. At the same table where this always starts. And I promise to ask for your help. Right away. I promise.”
She studies me, and I ache for the years I’ve put between us. So instead of giving her room to argue, I pull her into a hug. She tenses for a moment before she pulls me close too, squeezing fiercely.
“Be careful,” she says.
“I will.”
My phone rings as I’m waiting at the crosswalk. A bus rumbles by, and I wave at the driver. I pull the phone from my coat pocket.
“Hello?”
“Morgan?” It’s Ezekiel. “Where are you? I just got home and you’re not here.”
Shit. I glance at the time and it’s later than I thought.
“I have to swing by the lab.”
“The lab?”
“I forgot something.”
“The presentation is the day after tomorrow. You need rest.”
“I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
I drive faster than strictly legal across town. The sun is down, and the shadows under the lights are long as I pull into my usual parking spot at the lab. I keep my head down as I go through the lobby, waving to the security guard and making a mental note to send a gift basket to our HR team for not hiring skeevy losers like Leo and Bobby.
At the elevator, I choose the down button. The sublevels for the labs are where we developed the compressors for the Ziro Machine. The walls are ballistic-rated because the first attempts caused a few meltdowns. I bypass the first sublevel. It’s where most of the day-to-day work happens. Someone would have noticed a time machine. But farther down, in the third basement level, that space has mostly been abandoned. It’s where we built prototypes and where Ezekiel and I used to venture down periodically to test reconfigurations. But since the machine design was finalized late last year, I haven’t been down this far.
That doesn’t mean no one else has, though.
When I step off the elevator, I’m greeted by the sound of footsteps, somewhere far down the hall. I hesitate, ears straining, but the sound fades. Only the minimum number of lights for emergency exits are on. There’s no evidence that anyone is or has come down here.
As I turn the corner, though, I catch a glimpse of a well-tailored suit before the man wearing it goes through the door at the end of the hall, and my stomach knots up.
Ezekiel?
But he’s at home.
This is ridiculous. I’m chasing ghosts and conspiracy theories. Walter Wolfe has not built a time machine in our basement.
But then the door starts to glow.
Okay, not the door per se. But a blueish light emanates from beneath it, filling the far end of the corridor. Something hums, like the revolutions of an engine. Nothing is supposed to be down here. Could it really be a time machine?
