Found in the Past
“Dad!”
Grace stops humming a Joni Mitchell song as she twirls across the floor and runs her fingers along the spines of American Revolutionary soldier rolls and hardcover family histories published by vanity presses. Having abandoned the book of phallic sketches, Grace pulls out a particularly old volume from a high shelf, blowing off a layer of dust before carefully lifting the cover. The dust sends her sister into a coughing fit.
“Look at this!” Grace continues, her voice hushed with reverence. Fanning away the dust, she taps the cover, first for Mr. Casey’s attention and then for Ronan’s. “It’s handwritten. I can’t even imagine how old this must be.”
Her excitement is contagious, and my heart loves her enthusiasm. I suppose that’s true of all librarians and archivists when it comes to the people we serve.
But the four-year-old quickly loses interest, fidgeting restlessly. A moment later, he’s yanking on the nearest velvet curtain and standing on tiptoes to see out the window into the courtyard behind the archive.
“Can we go outside now?” he asks, tugging on Ingrid’s shirt-tail. “The rain stopped. Please, Papa?”
I seize the opportunity, my mind racing with plans. “Why don’t you girls take Ronan to explore the walled garden out back?” I suggest, keeping my voice warm and inviting. “There’s a pretty little goldfish pond and some swings under the big oak trees where Ronan can play and a labyrinth hedge where a bunny hangs out. And if you’re quiet around the fishpond, you can sneak up on the three fish. Ronan, they’re bigger than your chest and very old.”
“Like you?”
I choke, then laugh, though Mr. Casey is the embarrassed one.
“Yes, old like me. The white one is Carmen, the black one is Othello, and the orange one is Aida. You’ll have to tell me your favorite giant fish when you come back inside.”
“Can I have one?”
“Ronan!” Mr. Casey shushes him and motions for the girls to take him outside. “Sorry ’bout that,” he apologizes after the three close the door.
Through the windows, we can see Ronan already running for the swings with Ingrid, and Grace pirouetting in the grass while belting out her Joni Mitchell tune to the clearing skies above her. Mr. Casey leans to one side for a better look.
“They’ll be fine,” I assure him. “The courtyard is closed in, and the carriage house out back is where my husband and I live.” Suddenly tired, I sink into the nearest chair.
“Is he here today, ma’am?”
“Not at the moment. And you can call me Maeve. Maeve von Windlach.”
“Mrs. von Windlach.” He thrusts his hand into mine. “Nice to meet you.”
We grin at each other as if we’ve been best friends for years, and in a way, we have been. If he can feel the bond between us, I can’t tell, but I feel it as if it were yesterday and he was my savior in a small gossipy town where I didn’t fit in.
Gently, I place a hand on his arm as he helps me to my feet. “Mr. Casey, if you don’t mind, I need your help with something. Would you join me for a moment?”
As Mr. Casey nods, his eyebrows arch inquisitively. “Of course, Ma’am. Lead the way.”
I guide him deeper into the archive, past rows of towering shelves, to the hidden door that blends seamlessly with the surrounding woodwork. With practiced ease, I open it, revealing a dimly lit room beyond where Spencer and I have been working. The room actually takes up a fourth of the first floor of the archive, but only if you’re counting windows outside can you tell. The area inside the secret library is five to ten times its size from outside—an old priesthood trick that dominates the laws of physics.
As we step inside, Hoyt Casey’s eyes grow large, taking in the shadowy space filled with even older books, strange artifacts, and a large table covered in maps and documents. Arcane symbols and intricate diagrams line the walls, while shelves groan under the weight of ancient tomes and curious relics. I usher him away from the maps of North America after the pole shift, including one I drew myself based on Edgar Cayce’s predictions of Earth changes. One day, Veronica and her supporters will find it helpful in crossing what will then be the former United States.
I let the heavy door close behind us, the soft click echoing in the quiet room. I take a deep breath, steadying myself before turning to face Mr. Casey. What do I tell him? Do I say too much or too little? How will I know the difference? Will I change the future by taking action? By not taking action?
“Mr. Casey,” I begin, my voice low and serious, “there’s something important I need to discuss with you. It’s. . .delicate, and I need your help.”
His brow furrows. “Of course, Ma’am. What’s going on? I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
I gesture to a cushioned settee chair at the cluttered table and take a seat opposite him. The old-fashioned lamps cast a warm, flickering light across our faces, deepening the shadows in the corners of the room. Everything hinges on these next few minutes.
“I need a lawyer, Mr. Casey,” I say, locking eyes with him. My intensity makes him sit up straighter. “Someone I can trust. I need to take care of some legal matters urgently, and I can pay you very well if you can be discreet and fast. Can you help me with that?”
Mr. Casey’s expression shifts from concern to surprise. “Um, well, I’m honored, but you probably want someone here in town—”
I cut him off gently but firmly. “No, Mr. Casey. It has to be you. I can’t go into details right now, but I need to make sure certain. . .assets and knowledge are protected. It’s vital for my daughter’s future for a time when she’ll have to go into hiding and will need to stay off the grid. And it has to be done within two weeks.” I pause, my voice softening. “I don’t want any of the locals minding my business. You’ll understand one day.”
Settling into his seat, Mr. Casey leans forward, his elbows on the table between us. He studies a picture frame on top of a scattering of astrology books. His gaze darts from the young dark-haired woman in the photo to my face and back. “You?” he asks.
I know what he’s thinking—that the photo must be doctored to be that full of color and not turning already, turning a reddish hue as the unstable chemicals in photographic paper begin to break down. It’s a good thing Siobhan hadn’t noticed it deeper in the archive on Spencer’s walnut desk or she might have recognized me.
“Yes, that’s me. My husband took it when we were in Lisbon years ago.”
He picks up the frame to examine it more closely. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The colors are stunning. And you were beautiful.” He jerks his head up. “Still are, ma’am.”
“So, will you do this job for my husband and me? You’ll be well compensated.”
“All right, Maeve.” He sets the photo on the table between us, upright, facing him. “Just let me know what kind of paperwork you need, and I’ll get it ready for you as soon as possible. But are you sure there’s nothing more you can tell me? This sounds. . .urgent. This kind of thing usually takes a few months.”
“Oh, no. That won’t do.” I shake my head a little too hard, and the comb holding back my gray hair tumbles to my lap. I steady myself with a deep breath as I pin my hair back in place. “I don’t have the luxury of that kind of time, Mr. Casey. I need you to start on the paperwork as soon as you get home. I’ll send you details, but I need you to set up a foundation for my daughter. I’ll transfer the funds to the foundation, and I want you to build a compound for preppers—”
“Preppers?”
“You know. Like survivalists?” For a moment, I can’t remember what they were called in the 1970s.
The lines between his eyebrows deepen. “You mean like the people who build bomb shelters and talk about the world ending?”
I force a laugh. “Yes, like that. There’s some land in Virginia I want you to buy so you can set it up. Build it out of boxcars so it’s a small fortress. Invest the funds so your son can take it over one day and stock it with food and weapons.”
“Maeve? You’re scaring me. Is this for real or one of those live-off-the-land projects I’ve read about in gardening magazines?”
I pat the back of his hand. “Nothing for you to worry about. You know how the world is, though. I just want to have a place for my daughter if she ever needs it. This is my form of insurance. Oh, and if you should ever need it, it’s there for you and your family, too.”
“Um, okay.” He doesn’t seem sure, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for answers among the strange artifacts. “There’s no way I can get it built in two weeks. I was taking a few weeks off, but I’m not some kind of bionic man with superhuman abilities.”
“You don’t have to build it yet. There’s plenty of time for that. But not plenty of time to shift my assets to you. I’ll mail you some of the paperwork. It can’t be traced back to us or to my daughter. That’s why I need you to handle this matter for me.”
“Ma’am, are you in some kind of trouble?” His voice is laced with genuine concern now, his legal mind clearly trying to piece together the puzzle I’m presenting.
Neither of us speaks for a moment.
“Mr. Casey, have you heard of the Witness Protection Program?”
He nods, his expression growing more serious. “I read about it last year. It’s new, isn’t it? They give new identities to people in danger so they can testify against criminals with some expectation of safety. Are you. . .or were you. . .a witness in a criminal case?”
“Not quite. But it’s like that.” I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a near whisper. “Mr. Casey, I don’t have much time because my husband and I are in very poor health. We have days, not years. Our daughter is safe for now—we haven’t seen Veronica in twelve years so we could protect her—but I need to make sure she has as much protection as I can give her for the rest of her life.”
I can see him counting backwards, guessing my current age and how old my daughter might be. His brow furrows deeper, the pieces clearly not fitting together in his mind.
“When we. . .when Spencer and I are no longer here, I need you to handle our estate for us. Everything here is in my name, so I’ll give you power of attorney. Close down everything here at the archive. Bury us in the courtyard. Take the goldfish for your son—”
“Ma’am, that’s. . .this. . .this is really strange.” His voice wavers between confusion and concern, his eyes searching my face for signs of delusion or desperation.
I can’t tell if the look in his eyes is pity for a woman gone senile or if it’s suspicion that he’s about to be scammed. But I know an older Hoyt Casey quite well, and I know what he suffered through before now, back when his first wife died unexpectedly, before he met Linda and gave his two adolescent daughters a stepmother to help him take care of them and a little brother to follow them like a stray puppy.
I lean forward, my eyes meeting his. “Mr. Casey,” I begin softly, my voice barely above a whisper but enough that it echoes in this room, “I know what it’s like to worry about leaving a child behind.” I pause, watching as a flicker of pain crosses his face. “My daughter is no longer a little girl, but the thought of my daughter being left alone, without a safe place to go if she needs it, for any reason. . .it keeps me up at night. I can’t bear the idea of her struggling, feeling lost and abandoned.”
My words hang in the air between us. I see his jaw tighten, his own memories clearly surfacing.
“I’m sure you understand,” I continue gently, “how important it is to plan for the unexpected, to make certain our children are protected, no matter what happens to us. That’s why I need your help, Mr. Casey. To give my daughter the security she deserves, even if I’m not here to provide it myself.”
His expression softens. He takes a deep breath as he nods but it takes a second try before he can speak. “Yes, then,” he says, even though uncertainty pierces every syllable. “It’s unorthodox, but I’ll do it. For a mother who wants to protect her child, I’ll do it.”
My shoulders sag slightly with relief, but the tension doesn’t leave my jaws. I need a day or two to think through what I need from him and the exact words to express myself, so I don’t risk diverting my younger self’s future and to ensure that he’ll be her guardian angel. My guardian angel.
“Thank you, Mr. Casey. I knew I could count on you. You and I will exchange a few packages in the mail, and then I’ll need you to return in exactly two weeks from yesterday. There’s personal business I need to settle, and I can’t do it without your help. And it can’t wait.” Again, I reach across the table, placing my hand on his arm, the paisley fabric of his shirt under my fingertips. “I know this is asking a lot, but trust me, Mr. Casey. The timing is critical. You’ll see why soon enough.”
Mr. Casey nods and places his other hand over mine. “I’ll be here, ma’am. Whatever you need, I’ll make sure it’s done.” His voice carries a newfound resolve, tinged with a hint of protectiveness.
“And please don’t discuss this with anyone. Not a law partner. Not even your wife.”
“You can count on my discretion, ma’am.”
“Thank you. I’ll put a list of assets and other documents in tomorrow’s mail to your address in Country Club estates and—”
“Country Club estates?”
He’s confused, and I’m confused why he’s confused. I glance at his business card on the table in front of me, at the address in tiny font. Not Country Club estates. A post office box.
The phone in the main room beyond the hidden door cuts through the silence as we stare at one another. I start to move but feel the onset of dizziness.
“Mr. Casey, would you mind answering it for me? Ask them to wait until I get there. It may be my husband, and I hope he hasn’t had trouble on the road. I’m afraid I can’t move quickly enough without risking a bout of vertigo. I’m not sure if it’s my inner ear or my heart.”
He stands immediately, concern on his face. “Of course, Ma’am. I’ll be right back.”
As he leaves the hidden room, I take a deep, shaky breath, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. The post office box.
Damn it. Why didn’t I think of that?
He had an office in town, and usually chatted up the locals at the post office on his morning coffee break. I strain to hear the muffled conversation from the other room, a sense of unease growing in the pit of my stomach.
After what feels like an eternity, Mr. Casey returns, a puzzled expression on his face. “That was odd,” he says, closing the door behind him. “Whoever called was looking for someone named Mister Ricks. I told them there was no one here by that name, and they hung up before I could say anything else.” He pauses, studying my face. “Ma’am? Maeve? Are you all right?”
Mister Ricks. He’s misunderstood. It’s not Mister Ricks, but Mythryx. Spencer’s soul name in the priesthood.
After forty-five years of bouncing through time, we’ve been found.
Here. In the past.
The realization hits me like a punch in my gut, and I struggle to keep my composure. The room suddenly feels smaller, the air thick with tension. Mr. Casey’s concerned gaze bores into me, and I know I must act quickly to protect not only my future self but also the man standing before me, unknowingly caught in a web of time and destiny.
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