Patrick looked at his wife earnestly. “We’re going to have to make the best of it here. We’ve done all we can, at least for now.”
Then Patrick flinched, and he sat up straight, as a thought struck. “Oh, wait a minute. I almost forgot. What a blockhead I am.”
“What?” Eve asked.
“A letter for you—from Chicago, addressed to Eve Kennedy, your old 1885 name.”
He reached into his inside coat pocket, drew out the letter and read the return address. “It’s from Dr. Long, special delivery. I picked it up in our post office box this morning.”
Excited, Eve snatched the letter from Patrick’s hand, focusing on Ann’s name. “Yes, Chicago.”
“We sent her the telegram just last week, right?” Patrick asked.
Eve brightened. “Yes. I can’t believe she responded so quickly, and special delivery.”
Eve aggressively slid her thumb under the sealed flap and with a little intake of breath, she removed the creamy bond letter from the envelope. She smoothed out the two folds and quickly skimmed the letter. Patrick leaned in, anxious.
“What’s it say?”
Eve made a little sound of surprise. “Oh, wow.”
“Wow, what? Tell me what the wow means.”
She lifted her eyes on him. “You are not going to believe this.”
CHAPTER 26
Eve lowered her voice and began to read Dr. Long’s letter.
Dear Miss Kennedy:
I was surprised to hear from you. Well, yes and no. You were always a bit of a mystery to me, you know. I often had the impression that you were a person out of time and place: your mode of speech, your manner, your wisdom beyond your years. It was as though you were forcing yourself into a role that was not entirely comfortable for you. But I was delighted to have you as a friend and as part of my staff.
After you left, many patients were disappointed, and they communicated that to me and to other nurses. I dare say, some of the nurses seemed put off by it and jealous. No matter.
And when you vanished that night so long ago—December 1885, wasn’t it? Well, the mystery grew and became the stuff of legend, didn’t it? Even poor Dr. Eckland, that dear man, was perplexed and disturbed by your vanishing act. You know how he loved Shakespeare. I recall him saying, “Dr. Long, how is it possible for Eve to simply disappear, just as the Fool in King Lear did, and no one can explain where she has gone? I find the entire thing quite extraordinary.”
And, Miss Kennedy, whatever happened to our hero, the very handsome and close-to-death Detective Sergeant Patrick Gantly? He vanished too, didn’t he, never to be seen or heard from again.
Yes, I did have a conversation with Jacob Jackson and Daniel Fallow, when I learned you had fled in the hospital ambulance. (Strictly against the rules, mind you.) Both men were rather mum at the time, and both seemed truly frightened and agitated. They would only say that you had left town quite mysteriously.
Two days later, I visited Evelyn Sharland’s room and found John Harringshaw there. He would not leave her bedside for any length of time. I asked them if either had heard from you.
In Mr. Harringshaw’s guarded manner, I suspected an intrigue, and at that time, I believed he was instrumental in your and Mr. Gantly’s escape from the City. I believed that for a long time—for many years in fact—until one night in 1908 when I heard a timid knock on my office door. Who walked in, but a rail thin and sickly Jacob Jackson.
I knew of his alcoholism and of his deteriorating medical condition. He stood before my desk, very contrite, head down, hat brim held tightly in both hands. Mr. Jackson then proceeded to tell me your incredible story. He told me everything in great detail, as if it had happened only yesterday. He was still disturbed by it. His hands shook as the words came sputtering out.
He said, “I know I’m about to meet my maker, Dr. Long, and I must get this devil of a thing off my chest.”
To my surprise, he excused himself, returning a few short minutes later with a lantern. He carefully and fearfully placed it on my desk and then quickly backed away as if it might leap out and attack him.
Mr. Jackson told me that on that dark night in Central Park when you lit the lantern, you and Detective Gantly slowly faded into a kind of blue mist and then completely vanished into thin air. Both he and Mr. Fallow stood quaking in their boots, staring, petrified at what they had seen. For a time, they searched the area but found nothing.
When it was clear that you and Detective Gantly were gone, they snatched up the lantern and ran for the hospital wagon. On the way back to the hospital they made a vow never to tell anyone what they had seen, fearing they’d be locked away in Blackwell Island’s Asylum.
As I stared at the lantern sitting there on my desk, Jacob Jackson told me that he had hidden the thing in his tool shed behind his house since 1885, afraid to destroy the thing and afraid to light it. He told me he wanted to be free of it. With that, he left my office and we never discussed it again.
Eve raised her eyes to see Patrick staring back at her, his eyes burning with interest.
Their waiter drifted by to ask if everything was all right. Patrick ordered a whiskey.
After the waiter retreated, Patrick stared hard, then inclined again toward Eve.
“Why did you stop reading?”
“I need a minute. It’s a bit overwhelming. Do you know what this means?”
“No, not yet. Does Dr. Long have the lantern?”
Eve adjusted herself in the chair, cleared her throat and continued reading the letter.
I’m a scientist, Miss Kennedy, and I have worked very hard to be a good doctor, and a respected doctor in a man’s world of doctors, many of whom still consider me to be a foolish woman and an impediment to be circumvented. Fine, all well and good. As you know, I accepted all that long ago when I obtained the job as the first female ambulance surgeon in New York at the Gouverneur Hospital.
I do not believe in ghosts or mediums or fairies. I do not believe that people time travel, despite the entertaining story The Time Machine by H. G. Wells, which I read sometime before the turn of the century. However, something told me that there was a possibility I might see or hear from you again at some point in the future. So what was that belief? Intuition?
You said in your telegram that you wanted to know if either Jacob Jackson or Daniel Fallow had spoken to me about the rather extraordinary event that happened in 1885. I suspect, Miss Kennedy, that you want to know if I have the lantern. I’ll not beat about the bush. In short, yes, Miss Kennedy, I have it. I kept it. I also suspect that you are in some sort of trouble, although for the life of me I cannot imagine what that trouble might be.
Miss Kennedy, I will only tell you where the lantern is if you come to Chicago and meet me. Frankly, I want to see you and speak with you. There are many things I wish to learn. Perhaps you’ll think that unfair of me. Perhaps it is, but I am getting on in years and, I must admit, I care much less about what people think of me now than I did many years ago. I am sixty-nine years old, Miss Kennedy. My eyesight has diminished, and my knees are starting to fail me. I shall not mention my heart, other than to say it is getting a little weary.
My entire life has been dedicated to medicine, and there are times, on holidays and on cold nights here in Chicago, when I think about what the great beyond holds for me. I have no family, at least none I will speak about here. My mother and sister have passed. I am quite alone in this world, except for some cherished friends and maybe a secret or two which perhaps I might share with you when you come.
Don’t misunderstand. These are not complaints, and I have no regrets. Let me just say that I long to see an old friend, or perhaps, Miss Kennedy, I want to see your face. Perhaps you will have aged as I have; perhaps not. Perhaps you will impart knowledge of events I know nothing about and cannot even imagine.
When I was a young woman, I would have scoffed and had no time for such fanciful notions as time travel. But now, I wonder. Wasn’t it Socrates who
said, “Wonder is the beginning of wisdom?”
Will you come to Chicago to see me, Miss Kennedy? I have listed my address below and you can always reach me at Augustana Hospital, telephone number also enclosed.
From your telegram, I suspect there is some urgency in the matter. Perhaps you’ll want to send a telegram to the hospital.
And yes, as I said, I do have the lantern, and I will be happy to return it to you. I will be waiting to hear about your fascinating life with great anticipation.
With fond regards,
Ann Long
Eve lowered the letter just as the waiter arrived with Patrick’s whiskey. Patrick tossed it back in a gulp, replacing the shot glass gently on the table, his mind spinning out new plans and possibilities.
“Well, isn’t the world just filled with surprises?” Patrick said.
Eve pondered the letter. “This scares me.”
“Why? I would think you’d be thrilled.”
“A part of me is thrilled and relieved. A part of me wonders if Dr. Long wants more than just to see me.”
“You mean, she might want to return with us to the future?”
“Her future, our present.”
Patrick shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it. She sounds more like a woman who is seeking answers. I’d send her a telegram today. Once you hear back from her, take the first train to Chicago.”
“And what will you do while I’m gone?”
“Search for Maggie. What else?”
“And if you find her?”
“I will find her, Eve. Make no mistake about that. I will surely find her and get her away from Big Jim one way or the other.”
And then Patrick’s thoughts stalled.
Eve saw alarm on his face. “What is it?”
“Don’t turn around. Don’t move.”
“What?”
“Guess who just came in.”
“Who?”
“Big Jim and a friend, a gentleman. Don’t turn around, Eve.”
Patrick glanced away as Big Jim and Addison Casterbury, led by the portly owner, passed the table and were seated at a private table near the back of the room.
Eve recognized the man with Big Jim and felt a knot of fear lodge in her gut. She whispered, “That’s Addison Casterbury.”
“Irene’s brother?”
“Yes… What are they doing here together?”
Eve’s shoulders tensed, her mouth twitched, and she and Patrick wrestled with thoughts and emotions.
“We should leave,” she said.
“Not yet. They won’t recognize you.”
Addison casually glimpsed the room, checking out the women. Eventually, his eyes settled on Eve and her breath stopped. She snatched her glass of water, trying not to look self-conscious as she drank. To her relief, Addison’s gaze offered no recognition, just an obvious attraction. Big Jim said something, and Addison’s attention was diverted. Eve let out an inaudible sigh. Her Colleen disguise had worked.
“I can’t believe those two are together,” Eve said, speaking under her breath. “Why? Why would Big Jim be with a rich and influential guy like Addison?”
Patrick crossed his hands on the tabletop. “I have no idea.”
Patrick had seen Big Jim mostly at a distance as he’d followed him. Here he got a good look at him. He’d known men like Big Jim when he was growing up on the Lower East Side. They were sullen bullies, and they were mean. Patrick could see that Big Jim had good wads of muscles on his shoulders and a powerful barrel chest, despite the paunch.
His essence, his posture, was one of seedy, indolent brutality. He was a born antagonist, a natural bad boy, a primitive animal that women might be attracted to when they leveled their sultry eyes on him. Maggie had surely been one of those women, and now she was trapped.
It made Patrick angry, and it sharpened his resolve.
“What do we do, Patrick?” Eve asked.
“You go on to Chicago and get that lantern. I’m going to follow up on Addison Casterbury and find out why he and Big Jim are pals. Something doesn’t smell right.”
“Do you think Irene’s in danger because she was with me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I should go see Duncan. Maybe I can warn him. By now, he’ll be out of the hospital and back in his apartment.”
“Warn him about what?”
“That Irene may be in danger.”
“No. Too risky. No one can know who you are. I don’t want any more of Big Jim’s roughscuffs coming after you. Let me follow up with him. Give me his address and I’ll learn what I can about Irene and Addison.”
Eve took Patrick’s hand. “You’ll be careful, won’t you, Patrick? I don’t want any more of Big Jim’s roughscuffs coming after you either.”
“Don’t worry. My advantage is that Big Jim doesn’t know who I am. I’m going to keep it that way. You go get that lantern and hurry back to New York. By then, I hope to know where Maggie is. We’ll grab her and then run for it. Since we can’t text, we’ll have to use telegrams and the phone.”
Eve kept her face in tight control, but she felt a storm brewing in her chest.
CHAPTER 27
Two days later, on Saturday, December 12th, Eve and Patrick left the Hoffman House in a cold, misty rain and taxied to Grand Central Terminal. Eve purchased a first-class ticket and a private Pullman berth on the New York Central 20th Century Limited to LaSalle Street Station in Chicago. The journey would take a little over 20 hours. Eve and Dr. Long had communicated by telegram, arranging to meet at a popular Chicago restaurant for dinner on Sunday evening.
Standing on the platform, Patrick tried not to appear worried as the train left the station and he waved goodbye to his beloved wife. Eve pressed her nose to the window, waving back, her heart sinking. Why were they always parting?
He mouthed the words, “Don’t worry. I love you.”
She blew him a kiss as the train hissed clouds of steam and the whistle moaned out its departure.
After Eve was gone, Patrick left the terminal and headed to the 30th Street station of the elevated railroad to catch the downtown train to Greenwich Village. As he walked, Patrick had a flashback to when he was eighteen, when the Village was home to both the first streetcar and the first elevated rail line. The Ninth Avenue Elevated Railway, or El, began operation in 1868 and originally ran from Battery Place to 30th Street on a single steel track, with cables powered by steam engines.
The El became known as “the One-Legged Railroad,” and as it expanded, it allowed New York City to expand as well. During the thriving years of the industrial revolution and the mass immigration in the decades following the Civil War, the City swiftly grew northward and its people were carried there by the El. The El also allowed quicker transit above the congested Lower Manhattan streets, which were filled with horses, carts, streetcars, and people.
Patrick boarded the elevated El and clung to a pole as the train rumbled down to the Village. The car was crowded with well-dressed men in dark suits and derbies, shabby men with wide-brimmed hats, stylish women who worked in the ladies’ shops, and workmen in dusty laborer’s clothes. The cigar smoke was stringy and the air moist with humidity. The sweet and sour body smells twitched his nose. He noticed that the ladies’ low-hemmed dresses were damp from the rainy streets, and their eyes were shut or focused ahead, ignoring the wandering eyes of men.
Patrick took it all in with great pleasure. There was a visceral familiarity here, in this early twentieth-century city. The smells, the sounds, the air, all awakened in him old memories, being closer to his life in 1885. He felt more attached to them, more alive. He breathed them in with relish.
He’d been living in the modern world for less than a year, and he was still having trouble adjusting. He had difficulty with the language, the food, the culture, and the people. They all seemed to have come from another world, and indeed they were from another world.
Patrick didn’t often mention his homesickness to Eve;
he didn’t want to whine or be a burden. But there were times, deep in the night, when he wished he could return to his world, to his people, and to his culture, as flawed as they were. He sometimes wondered if his body, mind and emotions would ever adjust to the world of the 21st century.
In fact, he was frequently exhibiting signs of stress. He sometimes had spotty recall about facts and places, probably caused by stress. He had started clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. Eve suggested relaxation techniques and wearing a mouth guard when he slept. He practiced her relaxation techniques but dodged the sleep guard. He’d also developed hyperhidrosis, excessive perspiration due to stress. He often took three showers a day.
Time travel was jarring, disorienting and, often, just plain terrifying. Here, now, in 1914, his breathing came more easily. His body was more relaxed. He did not clench his teeth or sweat excessively, despite anxiety about finding, and then possibly losing, Eve.
And he had to admit that even though his plan to steal Maggie away from Big Jim was a very dangerous game, at least he was back doing work he had always loved—being a detective. He was living as the man he had been, using his skill and instincts, his intelligence and his wits to survive and achieve goals. Yes, if he and Eve were forced to live in this time, it might not be so bad.
The El arrived at the corner of Greenwich Street. Patrick glanced out to see a stone marker between the third and fourth floors of a brick building abutting the intersection. Charles Street and Greenwich Street were carved into it. The sign would be difficult to see and read at street level, but for the passenger on the Ninth Avenue El, it was a welcome indicator of the train’s location and progress.
Patrick left the train, descended the platform stairs and made his way toward Christopher Street. Another thought arose. If he had remained in 1885 and not time traveled to 2017, he would be 64 years old. What would his life have been like?
Patrick found the address, a four-story narrow red brick, with a zig-zagging fire escape and tall windows, with most curtains drawn. One window was wide open, on the fourth floor. As soon as Patrick entered the building, he sensed danger. It was a learned, experienced sensation he’d felt many times in his police career. It was a rubbing, gnawing thing that put his system on high alert.
The Christmas Eve Daughter - A Time Travel Novel: The Sequel to The Christmas Eve Letter Page 18