Blake tried to stand, but stumbled as if he were drunk and he fell to the floor. His cheek lay against the cold hard wood, the scent of oil-based paint coated the room.
Otto laughed.
“Takes a while to adjust to this…time zone,” he said.
Blake crawled toward the window and lifted himself up to the view. What strength he had left returned, but slowly.
Brick chimneys were positioned on slanted rooftops across the street, and below them were fairly quiet streets with the occasional Model T that rumbled by. Women dressed in black coats and hats and pushed black prams with large tires. From this height, men were only recognizable by their narrow-brimmed black hats and the coattails that flew behind them.
Blake felt his skin turn pale and clammy, His arm and hand throbbed to the beat of his pulse. Once again he was as far from Addie as he had been before they’d met. He slipped from the edge of the window to the floor. “I need a doctor.”
Otto laughed, smug at his win. “You can find that on your own after I’m gone.”
Chapter 44
Fresh air helped. As did moving about.
What didn’t help was half the bar yelling, “Otto!” when they walked in. He was a celebrity in this New York neighborhood.
“My friend has had a long journey and needs a good meal. What can you get him, Harvey?”
The bartender eyed Blake suspiciously. “You sick?”
“No, he’s not sick. Just tired. He needs to eat. What does Rose have back there today?” Otto slapped Blake on the back and gave his shoulder a shake.
Blake stifled a groan. Waited until Harvey disappeared into the kitchen before he brushed Otto’s hand from his shoulder. He felt his arm swelling against the bandages. He passed Otto to head out the door—he needed to find a doctor or a hospital.
“Where are you headed there, Blake?”
Blake kept walking until Otto stepped between him and the door.
“To the doctor,” Blake said.
“Ah. Yes. The arm. Pity that had to happen. You need food, though. Everyone does after they make the trip. The doctor, of course, wouldn’t know that. He might even keep it from you based upon your wound.”
Blake relaxed his resistance. Reluctantly. He couldn’t tell if Otto was telling him the truth or not, but he was too weak to fight.
“You okay, Mr. Albrecht?” A clean-cut young man in a navy sailor’s uniform stepped up with his chest puffed out and arms slightly back. A bleached scent of detergent stirred with the faintness of beer.
“Dickie! So good to see you. How’s your mother?” Otto patted Dickie on the shoulder and kept his body in Blake’s path.
“She’s fine, now, Mr. Albrecht. Thanks to you. I don’t know what we would have done if you — well, if you hadn’t helped us after my Dad left.” Dickie pumped Otto’s hand, then leered at Blake with a slight lip curl. “Do you need any help with this?”
“No, thank you, son. We were just about to take a seat. Weren’t we, Blake?” Otto slapped Blake on the shoulder once.
Blake nodded, the searing pain in his arm forced a bead of sweat that dropped down his cheek.
“He doesn’t look so good.”
“He just needs a good meal, that’s all.” Otto looked over Blake as a caring father would, and kept his arm wrapped around Blake’s shoulder.
Blake’s hatred of Otto boiled and burned inside of him.
“You’re always helping someone aren't you, Mr. Albrecht?”
“Just trying to do my part,” Otto said with a proud smile. “Help me, if you would please?”
Dickie guided Blake to a nearby booth and Blake dropped to the seat. Dickie walked back to his stool at the counter but maintained a brown-eyed stare at Blake.
Blake thought Dickie might be jealous of the attention Blake received from Otto.
“You’ll feel better after you eat, even with that hole in your arm. There’s a doctor’s office a few blocks from here. You can go see him after we’re done. In fact, it’s not far, so I’ll walk you half-way. You still have the money I gave you?”
“You’re helping me, now?” Blake asked. “I thought you wanted me dead.”
Otto leaned toward Blake’s ear and whispered, “I said I wanted you to suffer, not die. No, I’m going to leave you here in fairly good health so you’ll be fully aware of what you don’t have. And what I do have.” Otto leaned away when Harvey returned with two plates of salty ham and mashed potatoes.
Blake mistakenly reached for his fork with his right hand and he winced. Harvey’s lip plumped out in an overtly skeptical manner. A dish shattered in the background of the noisy kitchen and Harvey left the table in a rush.
Blake took the fork in his left hand and ate small bites at first, unsure how it would affect him. He didn’t much feel like eating, but he quickly found that the food strengthened him. It was partially what he needed, at least. Apparently, Otto didn’t want him to die. At least not physically.
Otto paid the bill with two small coins and they stepped into the cold winter sunshine. “I know you don’t think it right now, but I’ve done you a favor by bringing you here. No better time to be alive.”
Otto stopped next to a young boy calling out the day’s headlines in his prepubescent voice. He bought a paper from him, then folded it to highlight the date and handed it to Blake.
“Just in case you were wondering,” he said.
January 5th, 1920
Blake nearly lost his footing, but steeled himself against the growing weakness in his body. Hang on until you get to the doctor, then you can collapse.
“You’re finally going to get what you deserve,” Otto said. “You tried to take something valuable from me, so I’ve taken something valuable from you. It’s very simple.”
Blake noted that Otto’s voice wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t even intimidating. He didn’t have to be. He’d won. This was a trot around the winner’s circle.
“Your arm is getting a little worse for wear there, sport.”
Blake studied the spreading wet spot on his sleeved and wounded arm. The splotch doubled in his vision and he tried to blink it back to just one.
“You’ll have to get a job to support yourself,” Otto said, and nodded to the money hidden in Blake’s pocket. “If you remember your history lessons well enough you can make a fortune here. Hopefully, you paid attention in school since there’s no room to cheat once you’re here—no Internet for research.” Otto winked at him.
Blake ignored Otto’s comment and thought only of ways to get home to Addie. The option that lay before him wasn’t an easy one, not with just one good arm. He’d have to find a way to take Otto out, then go back to the painting and find his way home. Assuming he could find that red cord that Otto had buried, before Wentworth’s emotions took him over.
Blake wasn’t convinced that Otto really held the gift of time travel, at least not on his own. On their way here, Otto was too dependent upon following the thread someone else had laid before him. He knew who that someone was.
Still, what if he got back to the painting and couldn’t find the cord? What if the painting didn’t work for him the way it worked for Carolena, Grace, and Otto? What if he ended up lost in time like Grace’s cousin? He’d never find Addie again.
Blake thought about today's date—the same month and day as it was at home. John and Campbell had verified that. That meant that John and Campbell were here as well.
He wondered if Otto knew that they had landed in the same place where John and Campbell lived. He knew they wouldn’t have corresponded with Otto over the years.
After several blocks of walking against the wind in silence, Blake had completely lost his strength, and had a chill he couldn’t shake. Otto led them into Keramic Supply Company, an artists’ supply shop. Camel’s hair brushes, palate knives, and a seemingly endless supply of paint. Blake sat in an empty chair at the end of an aisle and held his arm close. His surroundings blurred and swayed as though they slipped from their axis
. He gazed out the window and tried to figure where, exactly, they were in New York, where a hospital might be. His line of sight drifted to the bright copper cash register that shown like a new penny, then to the woman who stood behind it. She squinted with lips pursed and studied Blake too closely for his comfort, he decided.
A stranger in a strange land, he realized there was no one to vouch for him if he got into trouble. He managed a smile to the woman and swiveled toward Otto who was lost in his narcissistic world of self-made glory.
“Now you know why many of my forgeries go unquestioned,” Otto said, oblivious to Blake’s suffering. “The composition of the paint is authentic to the time, and of course I’ve perfected the aging process.”
Otto picked up several bottles of each color and took them to the front desk. “Why, Claude Monet is probably using this same paint, right now,” he said and laid down several coins for his purchase.
“Thank you, Madam,” Otto said politely, and tipped his hat.
The saleswoman smiled at Otto. Though the same smile fell off key when her eyes fell to Blake.
“Imagine the stir I’ll cause if I can find my way back to the 1600s. There will be all sorts of new discoveries from the masters,” Otto whispered. He tugged Blake’s good arm and they re-entered the main and crowded thoroughfare.
“I thought you respected fine art too much for that, Otto,” Blake said. He stifled a cough. Otto was going to flood the market with forgeries that would fool the most skillful experts.
“It would be a new challenge for my gifts, to see how far I could take them. Enjoy your new life, Blake,” Otto said. “You’ll have everything anyone could dream of having. Except for the one thing you really want, of course.”
Otto clutched his bag of authentic early 1900s paint. “You see I’ve lived that life. I’ve had everything anyone could ever want. Except for the one who left me, my one great love, the one I needed most in the world. I know firsthand the pain you’re going to suffer.” He backed away. “Don’t worry. Addie will be safe with me.”
Blake’s fury surged and he charged Otto and grabbed him by his collar. “You leave Addie alone,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Careful, Blake,” Otto sang. “All I have to do is yell for the police. Think about it. You don’t have any identification, no one to vouch for you. With all that money in your pocket, a bullet hole in your arm, and no way to prove who you are, they’re going to think you’ve stolen it. So they’ll take it away from you and leave you with nothing. You’ll die in jail.”
Blake noticed strangers who stared and whispered at them. He loosened his grip.
“That’s better,” Otto said and smoothed his coat. “And now you understand why I gave you that money. Doctor’s office is one-half block that way.”
He nodded up the street, bowed slightly, turned, and left.
Blake stood alone in the crowd and watched Otto stroll in the direction of Wentworth’s atelier, the steel tip of his umbrella marking off every other step. Blake clutched his fists hard. He read the street signs on each corner, got his bearings, and walked in the opposite direction of Otto. He knew what he had to do.
Chapter 45
So, Otto wasn’t going to kill Blake. Unless I didn’t work with him. Or maybe he would anyway.
Several hours earlier, Philippe had walked me into my own home, took away my purse and phone, and now paced back and forth in the kitchen while he argued with his brother Nicholas on the phone. I read the dynamics of their relationship and saw that the two of them carried on an age-old war rooted in sibling rivalry. Nicholas had his father’s approval, Philippe did not. I didn’t think Philippe had missed out on anything all too valuable, but childhood wounds rarely listened to logic.
Philippe had closed all the drapes so that I couldn’t see out, but when I stood in the salon I could feel the thick stillness the snow had left outside. It was too late, cold, and icy for runners or other pedestrian traffic, no passersby for me to signal. Philippe also noted that Otto had the exterior trim painted while Blake and I were in hiding in France. So, the windows had been painted shut. They’d obviously been planning this for some time.
“If you had any thoughts of opening the windows to signal someone, think again,” he said.
On his way through my own front door, Philippe pointed out that there were also new double locks on the doors, and that all the glasses, knives, and silverware were gone. There were no escape routes, and no weapons. Otto had been planning this for a very long time, and he obviously had support.
I stared at the backside of my front door while Philippe locked it from the hallway. Then I glanced around the room. Nothing was of comfort because what I needed most was some way to help Blake.
Blake.
I closed my eyes and raised my hands, palms turned outward. There was nothing to touch, nothing I could read, but I reached anyway and with the hope that I could sense where he was, and if he was okay. All I could feel was my own fear pounding away inside my heart. My mind was full of what-ifs that explored the worst possible scenarios. I wished I had Grace’s or Alexa’s gifts. Just a small piece of them such that I could see how he was, where he was, and how this would all work out.
But…nothing. I couldn’t sense my way out of a wet paper bag right now.
Like a well-worn habit, my feet launched into their old pacing routine, first through the library, then through the salon and the kitchen, and then all over again. The routine that had so often given me peace now gave me nothing but annoyance.
I sat on the edge of the suede couch in the library, and fought hard against the crumbling of my world. Fear and hopelessness appeared on the wrong side of the barriers I’d put in place to insulate me from Otto. They soaked the vulnerable places within me and I felt my strength disappear.
Every man I’d ever loved had been taken away from me at some point. Last life, this life, the timing didn’t matter. My existence was stuck on repeat.
And with the devil, no less. There had to be some way to make it stop. I didn’t yet know what that was.
I tipped over, buried my face into the couch, and sobbed.
In a home as old as mine, there was usually a draft. Though Otto eliminated that problem, and the stillness made the library feel like a coffin. As did my circumstance. No physical way out. No phone, no tablet, or computer. I mentally searched through the house. Could I have tucked an old phone away somewhere? No, I always donated older phones to the women’s shelter.
Everything inside of me ached with the burning torture of failure. Everything I’d spent my life running from had finally caught up with me. I’d always held on to a wisp of belief that I could find my father and grandfather again, but now I knew I couldn’t get to them. I believed that Jack and I would find one another again. That we could live a happier ever after this time. That trended the wrong way now, as well.
I felt a familiar darkness descend into the next room and I slid off the couch, onto the floor, with the hope that I wouldn’t be noticed. With my knees close to my chin I watched the opening to the library.
Slowly he peeked around the corner and spotted me, his alarmingly dark brown eyes betraying his grandfatherly appearance. I disliked him immediately. His blue-and white-striped button-down shirt was rumpled and littered with vomit.
“Do you know where she is?” he asked with a bony finger pointed in my direction.
“No.” I stifled my gag reflex. He reeked of sick and death.
“I’ll bet you know her. You even favor her.” He squinted and glided toward me. “I think she put something in my oatmeal.”
I surmised that he must have been wealthy and mistakenly married a gold digger. Before Blake entered my life, I was haunted by ghosts all day long and half the night. When Blake came along, his protectiveness kept them far at bay. For the first time in my life they left me alone. Now that he was gone, they were back, and I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. I ran my hand across my forehead and over my left eye, and the press
ure that built there. This was no time for a migraine—this man had to go.
“Have you tried the hospital?” I said quickly with a hand out in front to stop him. “She might be there.”
He considered it. “Jenny?” he called and walked into the salon.
I exhaled and lowered my forehead until it rested in my hand. My old pre-Blake, ghost-infested life had returned with a new force. The old man would be back, and I wondered how many more ghosts would pack their way in to my hermetically sealed nightmare.
I wiggled my toes against the tiny paper that sat between them. The numbers wouldn’t do me much good without a phone.
The air pressure shifted and Frank strutted into the room and sat in the chair across from me.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asked with a sneer.
“Do you know where he is?” I asked.
Frank gave a slow nod. Then he crossed his legs in a way that was oddly reminiscent of Otto when he sat in the same seat.
“If you want to get back at Otto, helping me would be a good way to do that,” I said. “And need I remind you that if Carolena finds out that you’ve harassed me, you’ll regret—”
Without notice he was behind me, an etheric knife at my throat.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said. “I’ll do as I like.” Even Frank was behaving like his old, pre-Blake self again.
He drew the knife around to the side of my neck, grabbed a fistful of hair from the top of my head, and cocked it to the side. I felt the cold steel, a nick, then a warm trickle. I gasped and raised my fingertips to touch the wetness where it traveled past my collarbone. I examined my fingertips. Bright red blood. Not much more than a shaving accident would cause.
“I understand,” I said, uncertain how much damage he could do. “Think of your mother, Frank. She misses you. Maybe you’d like to see her again. Maybe there’s a way to work that out…”
His grip on my hair relaxed an inch.
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