Out of Time: A Time Travel Mystery (Out of Time #1)

by Monique Martin

  He could spend a lifetime trying to understand her and never tire of the challenge. Stories of her threadbare childhood left him wanting to give her the world. Not that she complained about it, to the contrary really, she had the gift to see what she had and not focus on the things she didn’t. He could envision her as a small child sitting in some poxy hotel room making jewelry out of gum wrappers. She’d faced the cards life had dealt her with the equanimity only a gambler’s child could. Even so, he could see the hollow spaces inside her, the missing pieces of her life he’d never been aware of before. But, as she said, Swiss cheese wouldn’t be any fun without the holes.

  It was overly dramatic to say he’d been reborn, but the truth of it was, that’s exactly how he felt. Like he’d stepped into the sunshine for the first time after a life spent underground.

  He found himself speaking freely of things he hadn’t thought of in years. Memories secreted away now spilled out. The summers spent at his grandfather’s knee where he listened to fantastic tales of faraway places. He’d visited them in his imagination, escaping from the cold rigidity of boarding school and the arch pragmatism of his parents. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but he would spend the rest of his life searching for those fantastic places, even if he didn’t quite believe they were real.

  He told her how after his grandfather died, the chasm had grown between his parents and him, and again, when he told them he wasn’t going to be a barrister. One black sheep in the family was one too many, and Simon didn’t have the excuse of being a doddering, old fool. They never let him forget their disappointment. His years at Oxford were empty and lonely. It all sounded so clichéd. Poor little rich boy. But Elizabeth listened intently, without judgment. All these were things he’d never shared, and now, not only was it painless to do so, it was oddly comforting. He wasn’t sure what was more surprising, the ease with which he revealed himself or how much it pleased him that she wanted him to.

  Loving someone and being loved in return was a shock to his system. Like any muscle that hadn’t been used, his heart didn’t always run smoothly. In the quiet of their room, life was bliss, but add in a few outside factors and the mixture became volatile. Fleeting moments of insecurity passed quickly enough, but that Saturday night at the club, something else came to the fore. Unprovoked jealousy spiked to the surface.

  King Kashian was back.

  Simon did his best not to watch the man watch Elizabeth, but it was a losing battle. He tried busying himself with some new sheet music Charlie had bought, when a little man sidled up to the piano.

  He looked to be in his late fifties, but the years hadn’t been kind to him. His legs were bowed and spindly; it looked as if it took a great effort just to cross the room. But it was his face that most struck Simon, etched with deep lines only grief can carve.

  “You’re British, right?” the man slurred.

  Why was it Americans felt the need to ask him what was obviously apparent? “Yes,” Simon said.

  “Good,” the man said with a lop-sided smile. He reached into the breast pocket of his wrinkled coat and took out several pieces of folded paper. “That’s real good. Right and proper.”

  He leaned heavily on the piano and unfolded a few pages of sheet music, methodically smoothing the creases.

  Charlie came up behind him and laid a hand on the small man’s shoulder. “That time again already, Frank?”

  Frank nodded and continued to lovingly smooth out the papers. “Woulda been thirty today.”

  Charlie gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze and looked down at Simon. “Frank’s son was killed in the war. Comes in every year on his birthday, and the player sings this song.”

  Simon felt distinctly uncomfortable. The last time he’d sung, well, to be honest, he couldn’t remember. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a singer.”

  “You in the war?” Frank asked suddenly, his hand jerking with a phantom spasm.

  Simon wracked his brain. This was 1929; he would have been in his late twenties during the war years. As an able bodied Englishman, he would surely have served. “Yes, I was.”

  Frank’s eyes brightened with something more than the bourbon. “Maybe you knew my son? Where’d you see action?”

  He should have seen that question coming. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “The battle of the Marne.”

  The cyclorama at Coney Island had given him a superficial understanding of the battle at best, but it was, he thought sadly, the only specific battle of World War One he could remember. Shameful.

  “Marne,” Frank said softly. The name a curse and prayer at the same time. “First or second?”

  “Second.”

  Frank’s smile faltered as he rubbed the faded sheet music. “Jimmy was there.” He looked at Simon, a glimmer of life, of hope, in his eyes. “Don’t suppose you ever met? Thin as a reed, all arms and legs and hair like wheat?”

  Simon shook his head and felt sick at his deception, but there was no turning back from it now. “I’m sorry.”

  Frank clapped Simon on the shoulder. “S’ok.” He turned unsteadily to Charlie and said, “I’d like to buy this man a drink. Served with my son.”

  Simon shifted uncomfortably on his bench, but he couldn’t very well admit the truth now, could he?’

  “Sure thing, Frank,” Charlie said and held up two fingers to Dix. “But it’s on the house.”

  Frank nodded solemnly. “I thank you.” He looked down at the sheet music, his kindly eyes growing moist with unshed tears. “Mother doesn’t come out anymore. But I do. Honor his memory and all. And I’m pleased to share a drink with you.”

  “Thank you,” Simon said as he took the glass from Dix.

  “But first we sing!” Frank said too loudly. He poked at the sheet music with a gnarled finger and slid it across the top of the piano to Simon.

  Simon wanted to protest, but how in good conscience could he possibly disappoint this man? He looked at the music and realized he was actually familiar with it. “Keep the Home-Fires Burning” was a stirring ballad from early in the war. Vague memories of his grandmother’s voice came back to him. She’d died when he was very small, and he’d all but forgotten her. As he read the words on the page, a latent feeling of loss welled inside him. Like the light of a dying star, the grief reached him years after the fact.

  Simon cleared his throat and set the papers on the music stand. As he played the first few bars, a reverent silence fell over the room.

  He sang the first lines, unsure and nervous, but his voice steadied by the second verse. The poetic recounting of a time when sacrifice was the norm, when men left their lives when called, brought a hush to the crowd. Until the chorus came, when an amazing thing happened. Each man, each woman, joined their voices in the song.

  What had been only a page in a history book was suddenly brought to life. Even ten years removed from the horrors of the war, the scars were still fresh.

  The wave of emotion was palpable as they came to the last chorus.

  Simon played the final note, and the room was completely silent. All around them men and women raised their glasses. Frank wiped a tear from his eye and lifted his. “Thank you.”

  Charlie put an arm around the little man and took the sheet music from the piano. He led him to an empty chair and smiled his thanks to Simon.

  The conversation in the bar slowly started to pick up again, but the feeling of loss still hovered in the room. Never trusting anyone enough not to use a moment of weakness against him, he’d never been one to seek comfort. Now, he unerringly searched out Elizabeth and found her at the bar placing an order. He caught her eye, and she seemed to know exactly what he was feeling.

  Intent on ignoring King Kashian, Simon met up with Elizabeth at the storeroom door and then followed her inside.

  Wooden crates lined the walls, leaving a gap only for the door to the alley. Simon leaned back against a shabby old desk cluttered with papers and sighed. Without needing to ask, Elizabeth moved in
to his embrace. He wound his arms around her and held her to his chest. The feel of her was all the palliative he needed.

  He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, and she leaned back and looked up at him.

  “You play the piano, you sing, any other tricks?” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.

  “Man of mystery,” he reminded her and then he smiled down at her, unsure of how to express how grateful he was to have her in his life. “Thank you.”

  Her teasing expression faded to a gentle smile and she touched his cheek with her small hand. “What for?”

  He paused for a moment and then shook his head. “Everything.”

  Elizabeth’s smile lifted his mood, as it always did.

  She sighed dramatically. “Is it time to go home yet?”

  “Another hour I’m afraid,” Simon said, as he pulled her closer for a kiss.

  They shared a few more longing kisses before it was time to get back to work.

  The hour seemed to pass quickly enough and before he knew it, Charlie made last call. Slowly, the bar emptied. The poor man who’d asked Simon to play for his son had long ago passed out at his table.

  Charlie gently shook his shoulder to wake him. “Come on, Frank. Time to go home.”

  The man mumbled something incoherent and ran a hand roughly over his stubbled chin.

  Charlie patted him on the shoulder and looked over to Simon. “Professor! Gimme a hand, will ya?”

  Simon helped the older man to his feet, but he swayed precariously and leaned against the wall.

  “Ah, a real snootful tonight. Do me a favor, Professor?” Charlie said. “Take old Frank home for me? I let Lester go early. Wife’s ailin’ and I can’t leave the club.”

  Simon frowned. He did feel an odd responsibility for the old man’s well-being. It was a strange sensation—concern for a stranger’s welfare. Before, he wouldn’t have given the man a second thought, but now, it was simply the right thing to do. However, he didn’t want to leave Elizabeth alone with King, and his eyes quickly sought her out.

  Charlie nodded his understanding. “I’ll keep an eye on things. It’s not too far down on Delancy. Four twenty, right Frank?”

  The man grunted and licked his lips. “I can make it.”

  “S’alright. Professor here’s gonna give ya a hand.”

  Simon looked anxiously at Elizabeth, who set down her tray of dirty dishes and walked over to them. “Something wrong?” she asked.

  Simon shook his head and glanced at Frank, who was humming softly. “No, I just have to make sure he gets home. I won’t be long.”

  Elizabeth squeezed his forearm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He looked over her shoulder at King, who lounged idly in his chair. “I’ll be back soon.”

  ~~~

  Once the dishes were stacked and the tables wiped down, she was ready to change. She had to pass by King, whose table was near the door to the stockroom. His eyes continued to follow her, but his expression was dispassionate, even a little bored.

  She shut the door behind her and draped Dix’s robe over her shoulders. She usually felt completely safe changing in the back, but with King in the bar, being totally naked felt, well, totally naked.

  She turned her back to the door and began to undress. She’d barely managed to slip off her costume when she heard the creaking of a door opening. She wrapped the robe tightly around her body and spun around, ready to tell King a thing or two about privacy. But it wasn’t King, and the door to the club remained shut. Then she heard the cough and wheeze, and looked to the other side of the room. A rail thin man stood in the doorway to the alley. His face was sallow, covered with a sheen of sweat. In his trembling hand was a black revolver, the thick muzzle pointed right at her.

  “D-don’t scream,” the man sputtered. His fingers clenched spasmodically around the handle.

  Elizabeth went cold with fear and held up her palms and, insanely, tried to keep the robe from falling open. Modesty even in the face of death. “Okay.”

  The man’s cheek twitched and his blood-rimmed eyes blinked at uneven intervals. “The money. Heard there was money here.”

  It was like a scene out of a movie. A bad movie. She tried to keep her voice as calm as possible. “Take it easy, okay?”

  “The money!” he blurted out loudly with another severe twitch.

  Elizabeth’s mind raced. What the hell was she supposed to do? “All right. Just put down the gun.”

  He shook his head so hard she thought it might swivel off his shoulders. “They said there was money here.”

  His hand trembled so badly, he had to grip the gun with both hands now to steady it.

  Elizabeth was about to say something when the door to the club slammed open. King filled the doorway.

  The next few moments passed in slow motion. The man with the gun panicked. He looked at King and then back to Elizabeth. His shoulders hunched as he braced himself. With a wild look in his eyes, he pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE WORLD MOVED IN liquid time.

  A bright, sparking flash of fire spewed from the muzzle of the gun like a roman candle caught on slow motion film. Elizabeth could have sworn she saw the dark streak of the bullet flying toward her. It was a mutated version of reality, both sluggish and swift, blurring her senses. Before the scream could escape her lips, she was being shoved out of the way.

  She had a vague sense of something rough and bleached rushing toward her. Too late she realized it was one of the wooden crates as she crashed shoulder first into the hard planked box and fell to the floor.

  The thundering crack of the gun’s report filled the small room. A dull thump was quickly followed by a deep grunt from King, and she heard him stagger backwards, his shoes scraping against the floor. Partially obscured by the boxes, King’s broad back hunched slightly as he faced the robber. She heard the gun slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor.

  “Sweet Jesus,” the man whispered.

  She could only see a hint of King’s profile, the smooth contours of his face distorted by excruciating pain. Peering around the edge of the whiskey crate, she saw the intruder’s face. He was ghostly white now, his eyes bulged out of their sockets, bright with a primal fear, and locked onto King. A low guttural sound, deeper and more feral than any animal, rumbled from King. The thief gasped and ran out the back door. King stood motionless for a moment, then he rolled his shoulders and bowed his head.

  Elizabeth pushed herself up on shaky legs. “Are you okay?”

  King flinched at the sound of her voice, as though he’d forgotten she was there. He took a lurching step away from her and leaned heavily on the small desk.

  She rose to her feet and hurried to his side. “Were you hit?”

  He kept his face turned away from hers and merely shook his head. She started to reach out to him when the door to the club banged open.

  “Nobody move!”

  Elizabeth spun to see Charlie, shotgun at the ready. “What happened?”

  “I think King was shot,” she said, trying to keep her heart from hammering its way out of her chest.

  Charlie took a step forward, but stopped short when King spoke. “I’m fine.”

  He kept his face turned away and judging from the way he was hunched over, he was anything but all right. “King—”

  “Leave it,” he barked.

  She turned back to Charlie, but he merely shook his head. He scanned the room quickly until his eyes fell back on King and narrowed with suspicion and tempered fear. Charlie’s ruddy face finally slackened as he lowered the huge, double-barreled shotgun.

  “You all right, Lizzy?”

  She let out a quick breath and nodded. “There was a man with a gun. He ran out there,” she said and pointed toward the alley door.

  Charlie looked gravely at King and then back to her. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  He puffed out his cheeks and ran a hand over his sweaty brow. �
�Good.”

  She managed a weak smile. “We’re okay. King scared him off, I think.”

  Charlie seemed about to say something, but must have thought better of it. “Long as you’re okay.”

  He put the shotgun in the crook of his arm and headed back into the bar. “S’okay, Dix. You can get out from under the table now.”

  Elizabeth waited till she was sure Charlie was gone before turning back to King. She could have sworn he’d been shot. There was no way he could have gotten out of the path of the bullet in time.

  Steeling herself against the bloody wound she imagined she’d find, she tentatively touched his shoulder. He flinched again, but didn’t pull away. “King?”

  Slowly, he straightened and tugged at the edge of his waistcoat as he turned around. His face was implacable, but the strange fire in his eyes burned even brighter.

  “Disgusting,” he muttered. “Drug addicts. Barely worth their own skin.”

  He ran his gloved hand over his vest again and Elizabeth saw a small, scorched hole about the size of a dime next to the bottom button. It didn’t make any sense. If he had been shot, where was the blood? And he certainly wasn’t acting as if he had a bullet in his stomach. And yet, she’d seen the proof, right there in his vest.

  Avoiding her eyes, King quickly buttoned his coat and smoothed the material. “Are you all right?” he asked placidly.

  She wasn’t about to be put off and leaned in closer to try to see the hole. “You’re hurt.”

  He smiled, but it came off as more of a grimace. “You needn’t worry about me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with worrying about another person’s welfare.”

  “That depends entirely on the other person,” he said, his trademark smirk back in place. “That filth from this evening deserves nothing more than contempt.”

  He appraised her for a moment, then strode to the alleyway door. “I’m sure my men will find him. Eventually.”

  A chill went through Elizabeth’s shoulders. He turned back to her, any trace of the incident was washed away from his expression, and he walked toward the bar.