He had found it.
For long minutes he was transfixed. Transfigured. He returned to the days-the nights!-he had spent in her embrace, every loving kiss remembered, the fleeting touch, the shared intimacy of one soul mate with another.
At first his hands trembled too much for him to properly take the painting and replace his fake with the original. Alex settled himself with a deep breath, and then began the substitution. The wood backing felt identical to him. In the shifting candlelight, he saw how closely the brush strokes had been computer duplicated.
He tucked the original safely in the large, flat satchel. Working with more assurance now, he turned the fake toward the wall and placed the cloth covering over it. No one would ever know the substitution had been made. Through the years, down the centuries, his fake would be authenticated. And why not? The provenance was complete. No one could possibly know or expect a duplicate of such painstaking skill had replaced the irreplaceable.
Alex reached inside his blouse for the time controller. He had been in France long enough. He experienced a moment of regret that he had not been able to speak with Leonardo on his deathbed to record the history's greatest painter's last words, but this was nothing compared with the trophy he carried back. He started to press the red button that would signal Timeshares when he heard noises.
Fumbling, he ripped his blouse. He spun around, sure he had been caught as the studio door slammed open and crashed into the wall. A gust of wind from the storm outside blew him back a step, causing him to knock over the candle.
In a flash of heat that scorched his back, the cloth over the bogus Mona Lisa Mona Lisa exploded into flame. Alex grabbed for it, but a new explosion of fire drove him back. He watched in horror as fire devoured the bogus painting he had just placed so carefully. He staggered away as new waves of heat scorched his arm. Clutching the satchel holding the real painting, he made his way through the conflagration to the open door. exploded into flame. Alex grabbed for it, but a new explosion of fire drove him back. He watched in horror as fire devoured the bogus painting he had just placed so carefully. He staggered away as new waves of heat scorched his arm. Clutching the satchel holding the real painting, he made his way through the conflagration to the open door.
"What is this? What has happened?" Salai grabbed him in both arms, arms like matchsticks and yet strong and protective, as he was pulled out into the stormy night.
At his back he felt the heat from Leonardo's studio going up in flames. Against his blistered face hammered fat, cold raindrops.
"You saved my painting," Salai said. "But why this one? This is not what I would have risked my life to save."
Alex looked over his shoulder and saw that Salai had discovered the original Mona Lisa Mona Lisa. It had tumbled from the satchel to the street.
"No," he croaked. "Mine." He wasn't going to allow Salai to keep what he had risked so much to obtain. His lover's picture!
Then he sucked cleansing air into his lungs and blood rushed back to his brain. He could not take the painting from Salai. History would change if the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa were absent from the world of art and culture. Careers would never be made detailing the smile, the background, renovating it and hanging it in the foremost museum in the world. Salai had to keep the original now that the fake had been destroyed in the raging fire. were absent from the world of art and culture. Careers would never be made detailing the smile, the background, renovating it and hanging it in the foremost museum in the world. Salai had to keep the original now that the fake had been destroyed in the raging fire.
In the distance fire bells rang and horses' hooves clattered on the cobblestone as volunteer firefighters rushed to quell the blaze. Alex knew he had only seconds. He stood, ripped open his blouse to expose the time controller with its mocking red button, then he lunged for the painting. To hell with history! He had to possess her!
He crashed to the ground as Salai stepped back and beckoned, "Night watch! Here, come here! This man is a thief! An arsonist! He tries to steal my artwork!"
A half dozen armed men rushed toward them. His chance at gaining the painting had passed.
"He stole my painting. He . . . he started the fire to cover his theft!" Salai pointed accusingly at Alex.
With a wild grab, Alex pulled the satchel close. Masses had to balance. Then his finger crushed down on the red emergency recall button. For a ghastly instant, Alex thought nothing was happening. The night watchmen grabbed his arms and pulled him upright-and he kept rising. He rose and tumbled and fell hard to a cold floor amid a cascade of fiery sparks, ashes and dirt.
"Goddamn," came the angry outburst. "You didn't come back with the same mass you left with. Now I have to clean up all the dirt."
Stunned, Alex sat up on the floor and look around him. Tiny fires consumed bits of wood from Leonardo's studio. The dirt and ash came from his surroundings. Panicked, he looked around, worrying that a watchman might have lost a hand in the temporal translation. He sank back, clinging to his satchel.
"I failed," he sobbed. Then he gained control of himself. He had failed to retrieve the painting but he had the sketches. In his satchel were all of Leonardo's sketches of his precious La Gioconda. It wasn't the same but it would have to do.
He huddled on the floor, barely aware of Timeshares technicians standing around him.
"Get the camera rolling, Billy Ray. Is it rolling? Good."
"Camera?" Alex looked up into stern faces. "There's no reason for that. You saved me. I panicked and hit the button and didn't have the proper mass and-"
"It's just part of the return debriefing Jacob and I do," Billy Ray said. Alex wasn't so sure from the tone. "You look a mess. We need to find out what happened."
"I didn't mean to unbalance the mass. I . . . I panicked and hit the button."
"That's why we call it a panic button," the other tech said, his tone friendlier. "What happened?"
Alex stumbled through a story he made up as he spoke. He tried to keep to the truth as much as possible but he couldn't tell them he had tried to steal the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa and had started a fire that might have burned down an entire town. He forced himself to keep from looking at his satchel with the sketches in it. Those were all he had. and had started a fire that might have burned down an entire town. He forced himself to keep from looking at his satchel with the sketches in it. Those were all he had.
"Why are you asking me all these questions? You didn't before. I time traveled before and you didn't debrief me."
"It's like this, Dr. Carrington," Billy Ray said. "The bond you posted for the excursion turned out to be . . . irregular."
"We're sure that it's only a mistake," Jacob cut in, "but we need to get the financing squared away as quickly as possible."
"The grant money-"
"Nonexistent. You made it all up and somehow got it past our financial department."
"I'll make it right. I have resources."
"We're checking on that."
Alex sat cross-legged on the floor in the stainless steel chamber. In his current present only minutes had passed. He had been returned to a time only slightly removed from when he had left to prevent more time anomalies. That meant Timeshares hadn't yet plumbed the depths of his financial legerdemain. When they did, he would go to jail for fraud. Forgery. A lot of other crimes he only vaguely understood that had been listed in the contract he had signed.
If they found the sketches, he was in real trouble.
"I need to rest. We can straighten out the misunderstanding tomorrow. I'm a tenured professor and the university will back me on the research project, even if there is some glitch with the grant authorization." He found refuge in academic bureaucratese and this easy professional sounding spiel caused the time techs to look at one another and back off.
"Jacob," Billy Ray said, indicating they should leave Alex. The instant they left, he was on his feet and out an emergency door leading into the depths of the building. Within minutes after he found the main lobby, he was summoning a cab in front of the glass-fronted Timeshares laboratory. He gripped the satchel fiercely.
He wanted to paw through the contents to open the false bottom but waited until he caught a cab and was a block from the company office. One clause had been specific and he had gone back in time with the intent to violate it-no artifact gathering. He might tell them they were his sketches. They were idiots. How would they know he hadn't done the finely wrought preliminary sketches from the world's most famous work of art?
"Take me to Sotheby's," he called to the driver. The quicker he got the money situation settled, the less likely they were to inquire about his trip. It would be a relief for Timeshares, collecting their money. He was buying their silence. That was it, but he needed money now now to stifle inquiry. to stifle inquiry.
It was best that he sold the sketches immediately, all except one or two for his own collection. If fate denied him the painting, then he could take some solace in the sketches made early in the sittings, the ones closest to the Lisa he loved so well.
The cab squealed to a halt in front of the auction house on York at Seventy-second Street. He paid with the handful of coins left from his excursion before the cabbie could protest. Alex knew he was a mess, dressed in torn, sooty sixteenth-century clothing, but time was of the essence. He was certain any one of Leonardo's sketches would more than pay for his trip. Perhaps he only had to sell one and could keep the rest.
"To commemorate my love," he said, getting an odd look from the guard at the door as the cabbie shouted at him from the street. The guard took a step forward but Alex seized the upper hand, saying, "I have just recovered sketches done by Leonardo da Vinci that I wish to sell."
The guard hesitated. He was probably no art lover but had heard of Leonardo. He motioned for Alex to stay where he was and then spoke softly into a microphone pinned to his left epaulet. A second discussion took place, a long one.
"I'll come back," Alex said uneasily. The cabbie yammered into a radio, telling his supervisor a fare had stiffed him.
"That's okay, sir. I got permission to escort you to an interview room. What do you have to sell?"
"I'll discuss that with an art expert."
"Painting?"
"Charcoal sketches. Pen and ink." Alex frowned as this information was relayed. He waited long seconds and was on the point of bolting and running when the guard punched in the cipher code and escorted him in.
He started to enter the main lobby, but the guard directed him down a corridor leading parallel to the outer wall. The guard strode briskly, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to be certain Alex was following.
"In here, sir."
Alex stepped in. The guard closed the door behind him. The click of the lock made him jump, but he was in the room with two well-dressed men. One stood in the right rear corner and the other was already seated at a long polished cherrywood conference table.
"We are most anxious to see what you have brought us," the elder of the pair said without preamble.
Alex dropped his satchel on the floor beside him, then worked open the secret compartment cradling the precious sketches. He placed them on the table in a long line. Thirteen sketches. He hadn't known how many there were until now. He realized he ought to have held back the best of the lot, but it wouldn't hurt to get an appraisal. Simply showing the sketches did not oblige him to sell.
"What are these?" The man drew out a jeweler's loupe and bent over to examine the sketch closest.
"You tell me," Alex said, "what the original sketches for the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa are worth." are worth."
"This is extraordinary. Period paper, assured lines mimicking da Vinci, well-crafted forgeries."
"Forgery?" Alex shot to his feet and leaned forward. "These are the original sketches." He held his temper in check or he would have blurted that he knew they were authentic.
"It is a crime to attempt to sell art forgeries. I assure you, Sotheby's will prosecute to the fullest extent of the law."
"These are legitimate. Leonardo did them himself!"
"Not of the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa. Even a first year art history student knows there were no sketches of his masterpiece."
Alex started to protest, then clamped his mouth shut. There weren't any because he he had stolen them. Salai had little interest in the painting or the work that had gone into it, so he would never mention the sketches, thinking they were lost in the fire. had stolen them. Salai had little interest in the painting or the work that had gone into it, so he would never mention the sketches, thinking they were lost in the fire.
"A word of advice. If you attempt art fraud, age the paper. This is new. Well, only a few years old."
"Fifteen. Less," Alex said, realizing another flaw in his scheme. Actual sketches would have aged over centuries, not years.
"Sir." The man at the corner of the room stepped forward and held out a PDA. The appraiser dropped his loupe into his jacket pocket and sighed.
"There's another arrest warrant out for you, Dr. Carrington."
"How'd-" He felt faint and collapsed into the chair. Cameras had recorded him from every angle. Even if he had come dressed in proper business attire, they would have run facial recognitions on him. Somewhere, in some database, his picture would pop up. He had never tried to live as an anonymous hermit.
"It seems you swindled some company or other out of a considerable amount of money in return for their services."
"Timeshares," he said. "That proves these are real. I didn't pay Timeshares and they're-"
"Dr. Carrington, be quiet. Every word is being recorded and can be used against you. Art fraud and simple swindling will only get you a few years in jail. Relic temporal relocation is a crime with a twenty-year mandatory sentence."
The man with the PDA punched in a few numbers and said, "The police have arrived."
The outer door unlatched and two uniformed officers crowded in to arrest him. Alex gathered the sketches of the lovely La Gioconda and smiled ruefully. At least he would have them to put on the wall of his jail cell-if they allowed him to keep the evidence against him.
Been a Long Time Matthew P. Mayo
Matthew P. Mayo's novels include the westerns Winters' War Winters' War; Wrong Town Wrong Town; and Hot Lead, Cold Heart Hot Lead, Cold Heart. His latest nonfiction book is Cowboys, Mountain Men, and Grizzly Bears: The Fifty Grittiest Moments in the History of the Wild West. Cowboys, Mountain Men, and Grizzly Bears: The Fifty Grittiest Moments in the History of the Wild West. Matthew has had short stories and poetry published in a variety of anthologies, and he edited the popular anthology Matthew has had short stories and poetry published in a variety of anthologies, and he edited the popular anthology Where Legends Ride: New Tales of the Old West Where Legends Ride: New Tales of the Old West. He and his wife, photographer Jennifer Smith-Mayo, divide their time between the coast of Maine and the mountains of Montana. Drop by for a cup of joe at www.matthewmayo.com.
It happened so long ago I mostly have forgotten the why, let alone the how or the who.
Or maybe it happened today.
I don't really know. But I'll tell you what, I can't for a second forget that I'm not where I'm supposed to be. Every minute of the day I feel as though I've been caught shuffling along the main street of some dusty little poke of a town with my drawers down around my boots, horses flicking their ears and swishing their tails, and me with my whatsit wagging, and up on the boardwalk there are mothers grabbing their kids' faces and pulling them into shops and here comes the sheriff again . . .
Or at least that's what it's like until I wake up. And every time I wake up I'm in some louse-crawly bed by some busted-pane window overlooking that same dusty main street. And on the floor is a cracked porcelain thunder pot, crawling with flies and stinking.
I drop back to the shuck pillow and sigh. I've been here so many times before. The here here is always this town-today's town, yesterday's town, tomorrow's town, all the same. You see, from day to day I can't recall much of anything. The only thing I really have are slugs of memories that seem solid, waiting for me to build on. But once my attention settles on 'em, they're gone. So really, I have nothing. is always this town-today's town, yesterday's town, tomorrow's town, all the same. You see, from day to day I can't recall much of anything. The only thing I really have are slugs of memories that seem solid, waiting for me to build on. But once my attention settles on 'em, they're gone. So really, I have nothing.
I started trying to figure it out by keeping a diary. Thought I'd write in it every day, that was the idea. I must have bought it in the mercantile. Actually, I may have bought it this morning. I can't be sure. Anyway, I figured I'd finally licked it, knew just what needed doing then, and that I'd be able to find my way home-wherever that was. So I jotted down what I know: It is high summer, mid-July, 1871, Territory of Colorado, town of Lodestone.
But the next day, might have been this morning, the pages and pages I'd written about that day were gone, all those words and thoughts and pencil scratches-gone. The pages were clean like there never were words there. The only thing I had was the memory memory of having spent all that time writing in the damn diary to begin with, and even that was fuzzy, as if I'd been on a three-day spree. Which makes me wonder if I only of having spent all that time writing in the damn diary to begin with, and even that was fuzzy, as if I'd been on a three-day spree. Which makes me wonder if I only think think I remember writing it all down. You see how it is with me? Don't know if I'm coming, going, or if I'm anywhere at all. I remember writing it all down. You see how it is with me? Don't know if I'm coming, going, or if I'm anywhere at all.
I don't think that people actually recognize me from any previous visits, but I do think they sense that something's off about me. Like the smell of a dog when he walks in and settles down by your chair. Somehow you just know that rascal's been up to something. Then you find out he was seen carryin' off your neighbor's prize hen.
But it's more than a fresh-blood smell, it's that feeling of wrongness rising off the little savage like a bad idea. That's what I think folks sense off me. And I can tell they feel that way even though I've been in town but a few hours. Hell, sometimes it's only a matter of minutes before I get the looks. That's when I think I might be better off alone.
Each morning I vow to saddle up and set off early for the hills to do some prospecting, some fishing in the streams, but somehow the day always gets away from me and I never quite make it out of town. I'll wake up the next morning and I'm right back in a nasty ol' shuck bed. And that's the way it's been for as long as I can remember-which admittedly ain't too far back.
At least the name I have sticks with me, probably because it's an easy thing to pull from one day to the next. It's not my real name, of course, I know that much. I can't remember the real one, but this one'll do. I chose it because of the two letters someone sewed onto each piece of clothing I'm wearing. Inside the shank of each boot, in the collars of my shirt and vest, in the waist of my trousers, the beat and battered topper I wear on my head, someone embroidered a "T. S." on everything. Wasn't me who did it, because I can't sew worth a bean and these letters look like they were done by a professional.
A Chinese laundryman asked me my name once when I'd had my duds laundered in some little mining town that, come to think on it, looked a lot like this town. Couldn't have been that long ago because I still remember it. Maybe it was today, just after breakfast. Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, the laundryman.
He'd tapped the black initials on the shirt with a fingertip, his finger going up and down like a little bird pecking for information. First thing I know I said, "Tim Shaw. Mr. Tim Shaw," and that's who I've been since, Tim Shaw. I say it fast and it feels right somehow, like it means something, and that one day the meaning'll come to me. So I've been dragging that name with me from day to day like an old satchel I can't open, but with something I know is good inside.
Sometimes when I'm telling it to a riled-up sheriff or a livery owner or a saloon floozie, I know for certain it's not my name. I get a feeling, like when I bite a fresh apple and it's crisp and the tang of it sets off a memory. Same thing happened to me earlier today, with a beef stew and four plump dumplings bubbling at the mercantile.
"Oh, but don't that smell good," I said to the old lady counting out scoops of coarse meal into cloth sacks.
She stopped long enough to measure me up and down over those little nose glasses of hers. "It's my husband's dinner."
I'm afraid I took another peek into the pot. I couldn't help it, sitting as it was right there in the middle of the little store, on top of the potbelly stove. The dumplings were even taking on that sheen, like sweat on a pretty girl's face when she's been asked to dance by every lad in town and she hasn't said no all evening. I tell you that stew was a sight.
"Oh, all right." The old lady's voice startled me.
I looked up from staring at the heavenly stew, and I felt my face go red like a struck thumb. "Ma'am?"
"The stew." She'd come out from behind the counter with a bowl, a spoon, and a ladle. "Worth two-bits to you?"
"Why, yes ma'am. But your husband . . ."
She'd already plunged in the ladle and lifted out two of the most heavenly dumplings oozing underneath with dark gravy. I even saw a nub or two of carrot poking up.