She summoned all the power in her lungs and yelled straight into his hand.
“Var tyst!” he said again, and Addie realized he sounded frightened. “Please don’t scream!”
She forced herself to look up at him. His face was twitchy. Bags hung under his bloodshot eyes.
“I didn’t want to frighten you.” His accent bloated his vowels. “But I can’t have anyone coming here. No one. Do you hear?”
“Let me go!” Addie’s words were muffled by the man’s palm. She lifted one foot and smashed it down on his work boot.
“Ow. Look, I’ll let you loose, I swear. I got a daughter your age. If I ever saw a fella holding on ta her the way I’ve got you, I’d rip out his teeth with pliers.”
Addie’s eyes darted back to his face. Of course. That’s who he was.
“Wait. Why are you here?” Then, more forcefully, he added, “Did someone send you?”
Addie nodded.
“Who? Don’t shout. If its who I think, then we can trust each other.” Gingerly, he lifted his palm from her mouth.
“Reg,” Addie croaked. “Reg Powell sent me. You’re Frida’s dad, aren’t you?”
The man let her go. In an instant, she backed away from him, all the way to the wall. Every muscle hurt, as if she’d been in a fight.
In the silence, Lady Macduff’s voice floated down from the stage, confronting Macbeth’s hired assassins.
“‘Where is your husband?’” the murderer demanded.
“‘I hope, in no place so unsanctified where such as thou mayst find him.’”
Addie eyed the man guardedly. He had dropped down on the couch and clasped his hands between his knees. Frida’s dad or not, he had just escaped from jail. And he was in for murder. Keeping her eyes fixed on his face, Addie inched toward the door.
“What’d he send you down here for?”
“To make sure the closet was locked.” The door was within reach now. If he made a move, she could yank it open. “Frida gave me the key because the police came. She didn’t want them to find it on her.” It felt reassuring to tell him the police were here. If he tried anything, she could run out the door and get them. She’d been on Frida’s side when that cop was bullying her, but now she wanted the police on hers. Peterson seemed less threatening, sitting on the couch like that, but ... had he really killed someone?
“Police? When?”
“They’re here now.”
He smoothed his mustache nervously. “What are they doing?”
“Questioning Frida.”
Peterson's head jerked at a clatter from the stage above. “My girl’s a match for any of those timber lackeys. She’ll shriek the place down if they try anything. Like a factory whistle, that girl’s lungs.” His eyes darted to the door. “They fixing to search the place?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t hear anything about a search warrant.”
“Warrant! You think they bother with warrants? It’s war, like Big Bill said. Full-out war between us and the timber barons. The cops just dance to their tune.”
Addie edged closer to the door, frightened by the spike of anger in his voice.
Peterson’s eyes followed her. “I know what you’re thinking, miss. But you’re wrong. I seen the papers, just like you, where they painted us dirty killers. But you know what we were fixing to do up there in Everett? Free speech campaign.” At her blank look, he said, “Talk about the eight-hour day. And those sheriffs men were waiting for us on the dock. It was them fired the first shots. Got Abe Rabinowitz in the back of the neck—back of the neck!” His voice trembled. “That’s the warrant they showed us.”
“You didn’t shoot them?”
“Some of the fellows returned fire. And two of them sheriff’s men went down, to five of ours, and others missing, maybe drowned. So now the rest of my pals are waiting on trial while Tom Tracy’s on the stand. You and I both know there’s not much hope. That’s why I ran.” He jerked his thumb at the ceiling. “But that boy, he’s a newspaper writer. He’s gonna get the word out about what really happened, turn people’s minds in our favor.”
Addie blinked. “Did you shoot them?”
“I didn’t have a gun then.” Peterson glanced at the rucksack that lay on the floor at his feet, then back at Addie. “That’s where maybe you can help me.”
She reached for the doorknob. “I can’t get a gun for you!”
“I ain’t asking you to.” Peterson looked straight at her. “I’m asking you to get rid of the one I got.”
Addie stared at him incredulously. “Get rid of—”
“You’ve got to. The cops can’t catch me with a piece!” He crouched down and picked up his rucksack, yanked the strap from its buckle, and emptied the whole thing onto the floor. Something heavy clunked onto the cement. A second later, Peterson picked up a pistol and pressed it into her hand. “Please.” He touched her shoulder. “You’ve got to hide it. If they catch me, tell Frida where it is. She can get rid of it after they’re gone.”
Addie fought the urge to drop the gun like a hot potato. Peterson could be lying. He had a gun now. Maybe he’d had it on the Everett dock, too. Maybe he really was a murderer. What then?
“Hurry!” he urged. “If they come down the stairs, they’ll see you!”
She looked at him uncertainly, teetering between trust and distrust.
“Please. If you don’t hide it, I’m dead. Not just a fugitive, but a fugitive with a gun.”
“Why do you have it, then?”
“Holy God! Why do you think? So what happened to Abe don’t happen to me.” There was a trace of pleading in his eyes. “I haven’t been tried! No one’s found me guilty, so how can you?”
That did it. She opened the door and slipped out quickly, turning the key in the lock as she left. The gun in her hands was as cold as the cement under the thin soles of her shoes. She tried to shove it in her pocket, but it was too big, so she held it down against her skirt, rolling the fabric over it.
Then she hurried back up the steps by the falconheaded god. The rehearsal seemed be breaking up, and, thankfully, no one noticed as she slipped through the wing and backstage.
She found Reg, back in costume, searching for something in one of the boxes. He looked up with a harassed expression. “I thought you’d come right back. What did you do? Stop off at Western Union and send a telegram? You’re still on props, you know.”
Addie crouched down beside him. Keeping her hand low, she pulled out the gun.
Reg drew a sharp breath. “You stupid girl!”
Addie ignored him and slid the pistol carefully down into the jumble of swords and daggers.
“Why not a Lewis gun, while you’re at it?” He reached out, but Addie grabbed his wrist. “Leave it!” she ordered. “We don’t have time to find a better place.”
Reg met her eyes and yanked his hand away, then slammed the prop box shut. The first of the actors were wandering backstage now, chatting and complaining about needing a smoke or a drink.
“Didn’t you hear?” Andrew caught sight of Addie. “Break time while the coppers do their job.” He pulled a pipe out of his pocket.
Meg Turner burst through the curtain. “First Janie, now this!”
“They’re looking for an escaped criminal,” said the actress who played Lady Macduff. “One of the Wobblies. How exciting.”
“Good luck to him, I say,” Meg Turner declared.
Reg had slid up to sit on top of the box. The whole thing had obviously thrown him off balance. Andrew seemed to notice, for he kept a considering eye on him as he lit his pipe.
“We’ll start again in twenty!” Meg shouted after the departing actors. “Andrew, you’re timekeeper.”
“Right, Madam Director.”
“Take the pipe outside, would you?” Reg told Andrew. “It smells like wood pulp.”
Andrew gave him an unfriendly look and shrugged. “It’s your theater.” And he drifted out after the others.
As the last actor disap
peared, Reg turned to Addie. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
“That’s all right.” She sat down beside him, unsure of what else to say.
He gave her a rueful smile. His dark brows stood out against his skin, drawn together in worry. “It’s not your fault Peterson’s a fool. What’s that crazy Swede doing with a weapon?”
“He was worried he’d be shot if the police caught him.” Addie paused. “Are you really writing an article about the men in prison?”
He hesitated. “Well, yes,” he said after a moment, and sat up straighter. “I know what you’re going to say, but there’s no way so many of them can be guilty, no matter what you think of their ideas. Someone shot and killed two deputies—no one’s talking about who shot first, but the prosecutors and the press aren’t too particular. They just want the whole pack of them convicted. It isn’t right.”
“You think Peterson’s telling the truth?”
“Actually, I do. But I need to talk to some other witnesses. Some of the men in jail—I think I’ve got an in there.” He grinned fleetingly. “For Gods sake, don’t mention that to my mother.”
Addie met his eyes, smiled, and shook her head. For a strange, silent moment, they just sat there, side by side, as if waiting for something, until the creak of the floorboards broke the spell.
Detective Bryant stepped through the curtain.
“What’s this?” he demanded, pointing at the crates. Addie’s mouth went dry.
Reg looked puzzled and annoyed at the same time. “Prop boxes,” he said.
“I’ll have a look then, if you don’t mind.”
“Help yourself.” Reg pushed himself off the box and stood aside. “But we don’t usually keep fugitives in them.”
“Reg!” Addie said. The cop shot a look at her, and she put on an ingratiating smile. “He’s so silly sometimes.”
“Stand up,” Bryant said.
“What?”
“Stand up, miss.”
Addie realized she was clutching the sides of Banquo's and Macbeth’s box. Flustered, she let go and got to her feet.
Bryant tipped it open, and daggers, walking sticks, and swords cascaded to the floor. Addie couldn’t help jerking her head as the pistol hit the ground, half expecting it to fire on impact.
Reg’s gaze flickered across her face and away again.
“What the—” Detective Bryant exclaimed. He hadn’t noticed the pistol yet, but that didn’t make Addie’s heart beat any slower. “What’s this? City arsenal?”
A shaft of light fell across the confusion of props as someone opened the stage door.
To Addie’s relief, it was Mrs. Powell, flanked by a flushed and indignant Meg Turner.
“What’s all this hardware for?” Bryant demanded.
“It’s for Macbeth, a tragedy by William Shakespeare. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” Meg Turner snapped. “And what do you mean by upending our props? I thought you were looking for a fugitive! What do you think your commissioner will say about this if we make a complaint?”
Bryant was down on his hands and knees, searching among the clutter. Addie’s heart thumped against her ribs as he spotted the pistol and lifted it up for all to see. “Recommend me for a promotion, prob’ly,” he said. He smiled sardonically at Meg Turner. ‘And I do, as it happens, know the story of Macbeth. For one thing, I know there’s no call for any of the characters to be handling a 1911 Colt semiautomatic hot off the pawnbroker’s shelf.”
Emma Mae stared at the pistol. “But—I’ve never seen that before in my life.”
Meg bristled at the detective. “You put it there yourself!”
“Hush, Meg! What a ridiculous thing to say!”
“Well, Emma, what am I supposed to think? Are they so desperate to convict that—what a surprise!—a pistol conveniently turns up at my theater?” She looked about to explode.
“My theater, Meg,” Mrs. Powell corrected.
Reg looked studiously innocent. Emma Mae’s gaze lit on him and sharpened with suspicion. Oh, Addie thought. He hadn’t told his mother about Peterson.
“Whose is this?” the detective demanded.
“Well, I don’t know,” Meg said. Emma Mae shook her head in bewilderment. Reg just shrugged.
“So none of you have the faintest idea how a loaded gun got into this theater?” Bryant looked incredulously from one of them to the other. “What if I go downstairs and get that little cook of yours? Peterson’s daughter?” A sadistic gleam lit up his eyes. “I have a feeling that, with a little persuasion, she might decide to help us after all.”
Addie regarded him with loathing. He really was a bully. “I know how the pistol got here,” she said with sudden decision.
Everyone turned to stare at her.
“It’s my friend Whaley’s.”
“Who?” Reg asked.
“Whaley. I told you about him.” She hadn’t, but it didn’t matter. Reg wasn’t going to contradict her. “He lives with my family. I stole it from him this morning,” she continued with all the conviction she could muster. “He’s always liked shooting and now he’s all raring to get out and fight in the war and I can’t stand it, so I just took his gun.” An image of Whaley standing on the curb outside the recruitment center flashed in her head. If only it were that easy! She talked faster. “And when you asked me to do props, Mrs. Turner, I thought what a great place to dump the stupid thing—in the prop box.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Bryant said, “interfering with our men-at-arms.” But he looked disappointed. Addie hung her head to conceal her flash of triumph.
“Good job, Miss McNeal.” Meg Turner chuckled. “I’ll sign you up for the anti-militarismunion.”
But Mrs. Powell was livid. “Don’t you realize how dangerous this is? I can’t have firearms lying about! What if one of the actors picked it up and it went off?”
“I know. I’m sorry.” She was right, Addie thought unhappily. It was pretty irresponsible.
“They’re not stupid, Mother,” Reg said.
“I beg to differ.” Meg sniffed.
“Don’t know how to shoot, more likely.” Detective Bryant sneered, and his mustache nearly disappeared up his nose. “All right, miss, tell your friend he can collect this at the Twelfth Street Precinct, if he can confirm your story. And no more nonsense. You should be proud of him.” He looked at Meg and said dryly, “Parting is such sweet sorrow. I’m done here, if my colleague is.”
“I’m done.” Sergeant Price emerged from the wing with Frida in tow. She looked all right, so Addie guessed that the interrogation hadn’t been too awful. “Miss Peterson has been very forthcoming,” Price added firmly. “I think we can leave her alone for a while.”
Bryant considered this. “Maybe. But don’t be going anywhere, will you, Miss Peterson?”
Frida opened her mouth, and then, with a glance at Price, shut it again. “No. No, I won’t.”
The police officers left, and when their steps grew fainter on the stairs, Addie dug the key to the janitor’s closet out of her pocket and handed it to Frida. The girl slipped it back into her apron with a guilty look at Emma Mae. “Mrs. Powell,” she said, “I swear, I didn’t mean to—”
Emma Mae stared at her. “Mean to do what?” she cried. “I don’t understand anything!”
Reg put his hand on his mother’s shoulder. “It’s not her fault, Ma. It’s mine.”
“What now, Reg?” his mother said in despair. “You’ve mixed yourself up in something, haven’t you? Again?”
Reg looked slightly abashed. “He’s here, Ma. Frida’s dad. We can explain, but I guess you’d better come and meet him for yourself. You want to make the introductions, Frida?”
The girl nodded and rushed off toward her father’s hiding place. Emma Mae put a hand on her chest, as if to slow her heart, and followed her without a word.
Reg caught Addie's eye, and she could tell he was ashamed of not telling Emma Mae but also sort of proud of what he
’d done. It was just a quick look, but she felt as if she’d had a whole conversation with him. It was the way she felt with Whaley a lot of the time. But different, too.
Meg Turner watched them all go. “So that’s what's been going on,” she said thoughtfully. Then she turned to Addie. ‘And you, Miss McNeal, are a fast thinker. You’re welcome to work with me anytime. But right now, you look as peaked as that poor idiot Janie. Go splash your face and comb your hair. Emma’s apartment is open. Make us a pot of tea and come running back. I’ll gather the troops. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
“All right.” She did want to splash her face and collect her thoughts.
“And—Addie, is it? May I call you that?” Addie nodded. Meg Turner’s voice was unexpectedly kind. “I was serious when I said I could use a new assistant. If you’re at liberty to work, that is.”
“Oh,” Addie said, surprised. No—stunned. If she’d been in her own time, it would have been a dream come true, but now...“Thanks,” she mumbled, and turned away.
By the time she pushed open the door to the apartment, she felt cold to the bone, despite the heat still radiating from the big iron stove.
“I know when this is,” she said to herself. “And I know how I got here.” She went to the large sink and turned the spigot. Cold water gushed out, spattering as it hit the ceramic. “I just don’t know why.”
She scooped the water into her hands and drenched her face.
Suddenly she was shaking. Shaking, with the water dripping off her nose—the water that wasn’t hooked up yet to run through those pipes, that hadn’t been hooked up for years.
Two sheets of reality crashed together, like tectonic plates. Fear rippled through her the way the seismic wave had rippled the floorboards in her room.
Hurriedly, she pulled the silver mirror out of her pocket and focused her gaze in the glass. She had to get home.
She stared and stared. But nothing felt different. Her face in the glass was pale and splotchy. She could feel this other time, the time that wasn’t her own, all around her still. It wasn’t working.
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