Island of Time

by Davis Bunn

Genres: Literary Fiction; Time Travel

Synopsis

A mind-bending time heist novel that will appeal to fans of V.E. Schwab's 'Shades of Magic' series.

"There was no murder . . . Because they never existed."

The Geneva branch of Interpol - the international agency tasked with policing magic and the arcane arts - is where careers go to die. Action is rare as Switzerland banned magic seven hundred years ago. That's how Agent Jackson Burnett likes it.

But then reports of an explosion lead Jackson to the home of businessman Bernard Bouchon. What's there is unfathomable: The family and their possessions have vanished into ash.

Jackson's enigmatic new partner Luca Tami, a blind Talent able to perform magic, suspects powerful supernatural forces are at play. The family weren't killed . . . they've been erased from time. With all traces of the family disappearing, the case is hours away from being forgotten.

How can Jackson solve a crime no one remembers happening? He must find a way to remember. He must discover who is behind the spell and why. Dangerous magics are in use, and it's clear those controlling them won't let anyone stand in their way.

 

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Release date: April 1, 2022

Publisher: Severn House

Print pages: 306

Sample

ONE

Jackson Burnett was seated in the ready room, observing the watch officer field-strip a weapon that had never been fired. Jackson was supposed to be off duty, but Interpol’s headquarters in Brussels had appointed him liaison on a possible police action. Dawn was less than two hours away, and the alert had never come. Jackson did not mind. He had arrived in Geneva twenty-two months earlier, after frontline action had reduced him to wanting nothing more than a few safe days. As if quiet hours might make a difference and heal the wounds nobody saw.

Interpol was the international agency tasked with policing magic and Talents, those gifted in the arcane arts. But Switzerland had outlawed all magic seven hundred years earlier. As a result, Interpol’s presence in Geneva was limited to sixteen officers and four support staff. They occupied two floors in a nondescript building a block from Geneva’s main train station. The ready room held a coffee maker, kitchenette, battered sofa set, three scarred tables, and the weapons safe.

Tonight’s duty officer was Krys Duprey, a recent transfer from Brussels. Krys possessed a hard-edged beauty and a wealth of mystery. She was just thirty years old and had already been with Interpol for seven years. Normally, Interpol only accepted seasoned veterans who had served their home force with distinction. Jackson could not recall another agent who had shifted straight from training to a field position, even one in Geneva.

Krys used a soft cloth to rub off the excess gun oil and began reassembling the weapon. Her actions were swift, practiced, and utterly pointless. The Geneva office had not seen a major bust in five years.

Except for Jackson and Zoe Meyer, chief of the Geneva office, the local agents came in two flavors. Either they had failed at their duties or they had applications pending to be relocated. There was no overtime. The chance for advancement was nil. Zoe Meyer was retiring in eleven months. Everyone assumed Jackson was hanging around to be named the new chief. Meyer herself treated Jackson as an unofficial deputy. Jackson saw no need to correct them.

Jackson’s Geneva assignment came in the wake of some very hard years. He had seen postings in several of the globe’s most intensely contested regions. His file was two and a half inches thick, much of it blacked out. He had fought against some of this era’s darkest Talents. He had survived cases in Singapore, Malta, Cairo, Lagos. Two years back, Jackson’s wife had been felled by a sudden illness while he was off on assignment. By the time Jackson had been alerted, his wife was already gone. Afterwards, he had slunk into this backwater posting, wanting nothing more than to be forgotten.

Jackson watched as Krys set the weapon back in the gun rack and locked the door. Then she just stood there, staring at the painted steel surface, her features slack, her eyes blank. Krys Duprey possessed a rare blend of bloodlines. She had been born in Ethiopia to an Egyptian mother and a Canadian father. She was fluent in six languages. Krys was a poster child for the agency’s global reach. Which only added to the mystery of how she had landed in Geneva. Serving the midnight watch in a nowhere office.

She said to no one in particular, ‘I’m dying here.’

There was nothing Jackson could say to make things better, except, ‘Go home.’

Krys blinked and focused. ‘What about your raid?’

‘It’s an hour to dawn. The strike was timed for midnight. It’s not happening.’

When he was alone, Jackson carried his coffee back into the central office. He didn’t mind staying because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He rarely slept more than a few hours. Sitting here was better than in his cramped studio apartment, waiting for another empty sunrise.

He had scarcely settled behind his desk when his phone rang. The read-out said it was the chief, who had been called the previous day to Brussels. The wall clock read a quarter past five. When he hit the connection, Zoe Meyer demanded, ‘Are you still in our offices?’

‘Eight hours and counting.’

‘Good. The Geneva police have been called out to a fire. They’re classing it as suspicious and have asked for our input.’

Suspicious was Geneva cop-speak for possible magical ties. This meant the serious crimes squad would roll out. The serious crimes detectives included Jackson’s principal ally on the local force. ‘Why contact Brussels and not our office here?’

‘Because the request came from the federal government in Bern.’ Zoe Meyer was former Swiss military intelligence, with a grandmother’s build and a cop’s merciless gaze. ‘HQ wants you to team up with a temporary staffer on this call.’

‘Brussels is sending us another agent?’

Meyer answered carefully, ‘Luca Tami is not an agent. He has been seconded to our Brussels office.’

‘Where from?’

‘I am not at liberty to say.’

Jackson pondered this. There was not nearly enough work for the current staff. To have Brussels formally ask the Geneva head of station to make room for an outsider made no sense. ‘We don’t have any cases that could possibly draw that sort of outside attention.’

A voice behind him said, ‘You do now.’

Jackson sprang to his feet, overturning his chair. The Interpol offices were isolated from the outside world by bulletproof glass barriers and portals that were electronically sealed. ‘How’d you get in here?’

The man was an inch or so taller than Jackson’s six-three and had no eyes. The holes were crudely gouged and old enough for scar tissue to fill the space. He pointed behind him with the hand not holding his long white staff. ‘I asked, it opened.’

Jackson heard his boss calling. He lifted the phone and said, ‘Tami is already here.’

The call-out address was on Rue Gambord, a stubby lane rising from the lake’s eastern rim. Jackson took the Mont Blanc Bridge and headed down the lakefront highway. For once he ignored the Alpine peaks glistening silver in the moonlight. Jackson drove and inspected the man seated beside him. At first glance, it appeared that Luca’s pale hands were wrapped around a chest-high white stick. But passing streetlights flashed glimpses of half-seen carvings and a script Jackson could not read. When he stopped for a light, Jackson asked, ‘That thing you’re holding, is it a cane or a wand?’

He did not actually expect the man to answer. Luca had not spoken since they had left the station. But the head came around, and the sightless face met him straight on. ‘Why must it be one or the other?’

Jackson remained as he was, confronting a blistering array of unasked questions. Talents did not ally themselves with Interpol. The seven global Institutes of Magic were determined to police their own ranks. They considered Interpol a threat to their way of life. Yet Jackson now shared his ride with a man sent from headquarters who used a wand for a cane. And doing so in a country that had outlawed all magic seven centuries ago.

Finally, the car behind him hit the horn. Jackson accelerated into the night.

Rue Gambord climbed a steep rise off the highway hugging the lake’s southern rim. Although the city officially ended about four miles back, Geneva’s cops were responsible for patrolling all the villages leading to the French border, which was twelve miles further on.

The Rive Droite district was home to numerous corrupt diplomats and rapacious financiers. Swiss gendarmes stood guard by a set of tall open gates. Jackson showed his badge and was directed into a graveled forecourt. At first glance, the house appeared to have been built entirely of glass. From this perspective, Jackson could see no visible support. The house lights glared overbright, illuminating windows streaked by smoke.

As Jackson cut the motor and opened his door, Luca said, ‘Wait.’

‘What for?’

In reply, Luca rolled down his window and took a long, slow breath.

Jackson felt his hackles rise once more. ‘You can smell magic?’

Luca took another breath, then nodded slowly. ‘I can and I do.’

‘It’s here?’

‘Thick as sulfur. Tell me what you see.’

‘The house—’

‘Not the house. The surroundings. Do you see a sculpture?’

He did. ‘An obelisk – looks like black granite. Maybe thirty feet high. In a pool of water, surrounded by flowers, in the center of the drive. Shaped like a giant black spear.’

Luca kneaded the handle of his cane. ‘Is there anything strange about the lake?’

‘The lake …’ Jackson swung in his seat. The city of Geneva wrapped around the western tip of a lake seventy miles long, curved like a crescent moon. On the lake’s opposite side, the Alps rose in shadowed majesty, silhouetted against a cloudless sky. As he watched, an army of mist spread across the lake, like tongues of silver beasts. He said, ‘There’s a fog coming in from the west.’

Luca replied, ‘It is not fog.’

Jackson watched the mist-figures approach, swirling like slow-motion dancers over the lake’s surface. ‘What is going on?’

Luca reached into his pocket and drew out a phone. ‘Go see to the police.’

‘You’re not coming in?’

‘I can shield you better from here.’ Luca coded in a number by touch. ‘That is what partners do, yes? Watch each other’s back.’

TWO

As Jackson walked up the graveled drive, mulling over Luca’s words, a police officer stepped through the home’s front door and called, ‘Jackson! I hoped it would be you.’

Simeon Baehr was senior detective in the serious crimes division of the Geneva force. Jackson considered him both a friend and a very fine police officer. Simeon’s English was perfect, except when they were together in public. Then he liked to play the Swiss clown. Whenever Jackson tried to respond in French, Simeon held his ears and groaned. Then he called Jackson the butcher.

Simeon clapped Jackson on the back. ‘So good it is, dealing with, how you say it …’

‘An officer of vastly superior intelligence,’ Jackson said.

‘No, no, what is the word I am seeking.’

‘Someone to teach you manners.’

‘A murderer,’ Simeon said, then slapped his forehead. ‘Wrong, wrong. Forgive me. An officer who knows murder.’

Jackson ignored the grins of the police within hearing range. ‘You’re treating this as a homicide?’

‘Why don’t you come inside and tell me.’ As usual, Simeon was dressed in rumpled elegance, sports jacket and gabardines and loosened silk tie. He smirked at Jackson’s outfit of jeans and polo shirt. ‘That is, unless you are concerned about staining your extremely limited American wardrobe.’

Jackson saw no need to respond. He stepped aside as the two crime-scene investigators came padding out. Their paper booties and coveralls were stained black with ash.

Simeon asked, ‘Anything?’

‘Questions only,’ the CSI replied. ‘I have never seen a place so full of mysteries.’

‘No prints?’

‘Not only no prints,’ the investigator replied. He brushed back his hair from a weary face, streaking his forehead with ash. ‘No clothes. No toys in the children’s rooms. No footprints other than our own. No personal items. No documents of any kind. We’ll come back tomorrow and go over everything once more. But I am not optimistic.’

Simeon must have expected this, for he merely grunted and wished the CSI a good night. Now that they were alone, he dropped his jocular shuffle. He pointed to stacks of white disposable protective garments. ‘We must suit up.’

Jackson donned the coverall, hairnet, gloves, and booties. He then followed Simeon inside. They stood in an open-plan middle floor that contained a kitchen, dining area, and a living room whose interior walls were charred and blackened. The floor was covered with a thin veil of ash that lumped and clung to his feet and legs. Simeon watched him bend over to touch the ash, which felt treacly and gooey. Jackson asked, ‘Fire retardant?’

‘The house has a sprinkler system, but it was not activated.’

‘You mean, they had turned it off?’

‘I mean, Jackson, the alarm did not sound. Their system is linked to a professional security agency. They were not contacted. We only know of the incident because neighbors on all sides reported a bomb going off. A silent one. Two passing motorists called in the same report.’

Jackson checked the nearest window. There was no sign of cracking. Even bulletproof glass would have been punctured by such compression. ‘A quiet bomb that doesn’t blow out the walls?’

In reply, Simeon gestured towards the home’s interior. ‘Tell me what you think.’

Jackson’s first thought was a kitchen fire. ‘Do they have a gas range?’

‘La Cornue, top of the line,’ Simeon confirmed. ‘Ninety thousand euros.’

‘So maybe a gas pipe sprung a leak. An open back door could have funneled the force away from the front windows. The fire consumed everything flammable and went out. The security system failed. It happens.’

‘Which was exactly my first thought as well,’ Simeon said. ‘And it is wrong. Incorrect from start to finish.’

‘You know this how?’

‘Because I have never met a fire that has learned how to jump against gravity and ignore an entire floor.’ Simeon turned to the stairs. ‘Come, Jackson. Let me introduce you to the real mystery.’

The stairs encircled a steel and concrete monolith, perhaps fifteen feet to a side, that served as the lone support column for the entire house. Simeon took Jackson upstairs, where the only ash on the white wool carpet came from the footprints of other investigators. All the upstairs rooms were empty of clothing or furniture or personal items of any kind.

Simeon returned to the stairwell and led Jackson down into the cellar. The odor of smoke and ash was thicker there, but Jackson found no evidence of a fire in the landing or the wine cellar or what he assumed was a maid’s chamber. Every room was utterly bare, all the closets empty.

Simeon then led Jackson across the hall and stepped through the final door. ‘Voilà.’

The windowless office was carved from the hillside behind the house and was almost as large as the upstairs parlor. The walls were bare concrete. The room contained the one piece of furniture Jackson had seen in the entire house: a massive desk of polished gray stone.

The ash here was almost two feet thick. Jackson reached down and cupped a handful. It held the same treacly consistency as upstairs. The investigators had plowed several furrows through the muck. Where they had moved, an ash-stained carpet was visible. The ash did not shift or fill in or float in the air. Which was why, Jackson realized, Simeon had not offered him a face mask.

Jackson needed both hands to pull the door around so he could inspect the interior face. The ash clung to the base like glue. The door’s veneer had been burned away, revealing solid steel. Jackson ran his gloved fingers down the surface and asked, ‘Who lived here?’

‘Monsieur Bernard Bouchon ran one of Switzerland’s largest manufacturers of timepieces.’ Simeon was lean and hardened by sixteen years on the force. He was more or less the same age as Jackson and carried himself with an unkempt grace. He spoke the man’s name with an acidic bite. ‘Madame Bouchon owned a successful interior design firm.’

‘What aren’t you telling me?’

‘Bernard Bouchon has come to our attention before,’ Simeon replied.

‘He’s been arrested?’

Simeon tch-tched. ‘Arresting a man as powerful as Bouchon would require me to answer for my actions to the national government in Bern. He has been questioned. Three times. His homes have been searched twice.’

‘The crime?’

‘Dealing in forbidden texts. And artifacts.’ Simeon started along the broadest of the channels through the ash. ‘Come. There is more.’

The path led them past the desk and around what Jackson had assumed was the back wall. Instead, an alcove led to an open safe door that measured at least ten feet to a side. Simeon gestured Jackson inside. When he hesitated, Simeon said, ‘When I said I needed your assistance, Jackson, I was being sincere.’

The vault’s interior was twenty feet square. Floor-to-ceiling steel shelves lined three walls. They were coated with ash that clumped together like melted wax. The ash here was thigh-deep. The investigators had tracked around the sides while working the chamber and taking samples from the ash and dusting for prints. They had been careful to stay well clear of the room’s center because of the imprints. Jackson did not know what else to call them. Three valleys were cut from the ash, as precise as sculptures.

‘Monsieur Bouchon was married with two children,’ Simeon told him. ‘A boy aged eleven, and a daughter, four.’

The imprints formed the shapes of three bodies: one adult perhaps five and a half feet tall, a slender figure a foot or so shorter, and a child. All were frozen silhouettes, snapshots of people sleeping peacefully. All three indentations in the ash formed profiles of bodies half-curled on their sides.

Jackson followed the trail around to where he could grip the shelf and climb it like a ladder. From the higher position, he looked down into valleys so precisely carved he could make out the features on three faces that were no longer there.

The shapes reminded Jackson of a trip he had taken with his late wife to Pompeii. ...