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

by Monique Martin

  Charlie inched forward and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Did he hurt ya?”

  “No,” she said and wriggled out of his touch. She looked over at Simon. “I didn’t do it to save my own hide, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. I know you don’t think much of me, but I’m better than that.”

  Simon forced himself to look at her, but didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Then why, Dix?” Charlie asked. “Why’d you do it?”

  “For you,” she whispered.

  Charlie blinked in surprise. “Me?”

  “After work, he’d come by. Sometimes here, sometimes on my way home, and he’d ask me things. About them. I didn’t say nothin’ at first, but then he said there’d be a price to pay if I didn’t. I couldn’t let nothin’ happen to you, Charlie.”

  “You should’ve told me,” Charlie growled. “Wasn’t your choice to make. Don’t ya see what you’ve done?”

  “I did it cause I love you, Charlie.”

  Charlie looked thunderstruck, and took a step backward.

  “And so Elizabeth pays with her life?” Simon spat.

  Dix patched together what little pride she had left and set her jaw. “You woulda done the same thing. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t.”

  Even the truth in what she said couldn’t salve the sting of betrayal. He’d been a fool to trust them, to trust anyone.

  Charlie leaned against the bar, stunned. Whether it was from what she’d done or why she’d done it, Simon didn’t care. They were wasting time. “Where’s he taken her?”

  “I don’t know,” Dix said. “Really. I don’t know.”

  “Charlie?” Simon said. “Tell me where he lives, or I’ll walk out that door and question everyone I see until I get an answer.”

  The barkeep heaved his big chest and seemed to come to a decision. He walked around to the back of the bar and reached under the counter. “You ever shoot before?”

  Simon looked at the pistols in Charlie’s hands. “Only rifles.”

  Charlie nodded grimly and shoved the revolver across the bar. “Good enough. I got these after the break in. Figured they might come in handy,” he said and tucked a Colt into the waistband of his pants.

  Dix jumped forward and gripped his arm as he tried to walk past. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

  Charlie took her by the shoulders. “You go to your sister’s in Hoboken. I’ll call ya when the coast is clear.”

  “Charlie,” she pleaded, but he shook his head and walked around to Simon.

  Simon picked up the revolver and wrapped his fingers around the heavy metal. “This won’t stop King.”

  “We’re gonna have to get through a lot before we even get close to Kashian.”

  Charlie stood at the ready and Simon shook his head. “I can’t ask you to—”

  “You ain’t askin’, but I’m goin’,” Charlie said. “Come on, I got a car round back. You’re gonna need all the help you can get, Professor.”

  Simon felt a quick rush of denial, but Charlie was right. He did need help, and for once he had to be man enough to admit it. He nodded sharply and started for the door. The sooner they got to King’s, the better. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie turn once more back to Dix. “You get to your sister’s,” he said, then gently touched her cheek. “You shoulda told me.”

  With one last look, he joined Simon in the doorway, and the two men headed off to face King Kashian.

  ~~~

  Charlie’s Studebaker swerved through the late, afternoon traffic, snaking its way uptown. The oppressive heat wave was back, and Simon felt a trickle of sweat run down his cheek. Through the dirty car window, he could see a storm brewing in the distance as it crawled its way down the coast from the north. Both men sat forward in the car, shoulders hunched, muscles corded, minds racing.

  The cars around them belched thick, black exhaust that coated Simon’s throat. He swallowed down the oily taste that clung to his tongue and burned his lungs. Gray buildings and black trucks passed by in a blur as Charlie maneuvered them through the jammed street. The once frenzied city now seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace, and Simon leaned forward, silently urging them to move faster.

  “We’ll park it around back,” Charlie said, as he ducked the car into an alley off Park Avenue. “I know the desk clerk. He runs a book out of the back room, so you let me do the talkin’.”

  Simon nodded and checked the gun in his jacket pocket. He tested the heavy weight of it, resting the grip in his palm. He flipped open the cylinder and ran his fingers over the back of the shells. Six bullets. That would have to be enough. Flicking his wrist, the cylinder snapped back into place, and he slipped the gun back into his pocket.

  They entered the upscale residence hotel through the back door. Charlie waved a hand, signaling for Simon to wait, and then peered around the corner and into the lobby. The gray marble floor was studded with elaborate columns, an echo of a Roman coliseum. Oddly appropriate, Simon thought, as they prepared to step onto the floor. A well-dressed couple left their key with the clerk on their way out through the revolving door. The room was empty. It was time. Charlie nodded once, and with frightening ease shed the urgency that had surrounded him and casually walked to the desk.

  The clerk was a hard looking man with thinning hair, slicked back with too much brilliantine. There was an upturned scar at the corner of his mouth that made him look like he was perpetually smirking.

  “How’s it, Mack?” Charlie said.

  The man’s scarred lip twitched. “What you doin’ here, Blue?”

  Charlie wasn’t fazed by the cold welcome and grinned. “Got a hot tip on the seventh at Pimlico. We do a little business?”

  Mack’s eyes landed on Simon and narrowed.

  “Don’t worry ’bout him,” Charlie said. “He’s all right.”

  Mack didn’t seem convinced but nodded and shoved away from the desk. Simon and Charlie followed him into a little room.

  The dim light from a large radio dial glowed in the corner, as the always incongruous “Yes, We Have No Bananas” crackled through the static.

  Making sure the door was closed behind them, Mack took a small pad from the breast pocket of his uniform jacket. “How much?”

  Charlie casually walked past him. “It’s a good one. You might wanna lay down a little something. Dexter here,” he said, nodding his head toward Simon, “He knows the track doctor.”

  Mack’s face lit up and he took a step toward Simon. “You do? That’s—”

  Once Mack’s attention was turned, Charlie took out his gun and hit him hard on the back of the head. Mack slumped to the floor, unconscious before he hit the ground. The radio played on softly in the background.

  Simon stared down at the crumpled form and felt a sick sort of satisfaction. One less obstacle in his way.

  “He’s got a head like a brick. He’ll wake up soon enough,” Charlie said and eased open the door. “We gotta move, Professor.”

  Simon clenched his jaw and nodded. He was ready to do whatever it took to get Elizabeth back. His hand strayed to the gun in his pocket, as they hurried down the short hall to the elevators.

  The doors were already open as the car sat on the ground floor waiting. The operator nearly fell off his stool when Charlie and Simon stepped inside.

  “Penthouse,” Charlie said.

  The man righted his red felt bellboy cap and stood up looking like a defiant organ grinder’s monkey. “Who’re you?”

  Simon pushed him against the paneled wall. “Never mind that. Get this thing moving.”

  The little man shook his head and was about to protest, when he felt the cold barrel of Charlie’s gun press against his neck.

  Simon let go of his lapel. “Now.”

  The man nodded quickly and worked the levers to close the door and start the car. The lift dropped abruptly with a grinding sound and then began its ascent. Simon stepped back from the operator, never taking his eyes off him. When they reached the
top floor, he dug down into his pocket and pulled out his gun. As the doors opened, they moved forward in tandem, guns at the ready.

  The opulent foyer was dark and empty. The light from the elevator spilled onto the marble floor.

  Charlie turned back to the operator. “Don’t do nothin’ stupid.” The little man nodded and took shelter in the corner of the lift. Simon moved stealthily across the floor into the foyer. He and Charlie exchanged quick glances. Simon slowly turned the handle and threw open the heavy double doors.

  Ready for anything, it was a shock to find absolutely nothing. The long entry hall was deserted, lit only by a single wall sconce. Slowly, shoulder to shoulder, they inched their way down the dark, empty passageway.

  The apartment was exactly as Elizabeth had described. Simon could almost hear her voice and he paused, nearly causing Charlie to run over the back of him. He shook off Charlie’s questioning look and kept moving. He couldn’t afford to think about how much he missed the sound of her voice, the feel of her. God only knew what was happening to her.

  Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself again and edged past where Elizabeth had said the Rubens drawing should have been. Nothing but a scratch and a bent hook remained. Outlines of picture frames stood out in pristine white, ghostly images surrounded by the stains of age. Slowly, they made their way down the hall, checking each room as they went. Each one was empty. Finally, they reached the end of the hall and Simon saw the door he knew must lead to the room with the Egyptian artifacts.

  Fully expecting it to be locked, Simon was surprised when he tried the handle and found no resistance. This room was empty too. No people, no artifacts. Nothing. It had been stripped bare, and judging from the scraps of brown paper on the floor and the hooks hanging askance on the walls, they’d left in a hurry.

  “Damn it,” Simon growled. If they weren’t here, where the hell were they?

  Charlie laid a comforting hand on Simon’s shoulder. “We’ll find her.”

  Simon kicked a leftover box and watched it skitter across the floor.

  “Come on,” Charlie said, and stepped back into the hall.

  A shot rang out like the crack of a bullwhip. Charlie was thrown back by the impact and landed with a thunderous bang against the door jamb. He clutched his shoulder and staggered to the floor, falling into the middle of the hallway.

  Simon sprang forward and tried to grab Charlie. Another shot rang out and ricocheted off the marble floor just inches away. Simon jerked his hand back inside. That damned elevator operator must have gone for help. They should have tied him up.

  “Jesus,” Charlie moaned, holding his shoulder.

  Simon took a deep breath and stepped out into the hall, firing before his feet were set. The recoil from the gun was stronger than he’d expected, so his shot strayed into the ceiling. He recovered quickly and fired again, aiming blindly. The report of the gun was thunderous and echoed down the long hall.

  Simon saw a hulking figure at the end of the corridor. He was no more than a shadow backlit by the light of the elevator. The thug tried to lunge out of the way, and Simon fired again. This time, he hit his mark. The bullet tore into the man’s thigh. He lurched, but didn’t fall.

  Just as Simon was about to fire again, another shot boomed from behind him. Simon spun back around and saw smoke drifting from the muzzle of Charlie’s gun, before it clattered out of his hand. Simon turned back toward the gunman, ready to fire again, but the shadowy figure jerked back and fell to the floor. His gun slipped from his lifeless fingers and skittered across the marble.

  Simon stood frozen for a moment. The man didn’t move. He was dead. Finally, Simon broke from his fugue and turned to Charlie. “Are you all right?” he asked, as he knelt at his side.

  Charlie grimaced and put his revolver in his pocket. “I was shot. What do you think?”

  In spite of it all, Simon laughed.

  “Sure, laugh at the bleeding man.”

  “Can you stand?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said, but he couldn’t make it without help.

  Simon steadied him and then saw the elevator doors closing down the hall. “Hold on to something,” he said and ran forward. He sprinted down the corridor and through the foyer, managing to wedge his arm between the doors just before they closed. He shoved them open again and pointed his gun at the cowering elevator man. “I should shoot you right now. Don’t give me another reason.”

  The little man tried to press himself into the wood paneling.

  “Go and help my friend,” Simon barked and pulled the stop lever. “Now!”

  The man scurried out of the elevator and down the hall. He tried to support Charlie’s bulk, and they shuffled back with excruciating slowness. They stepped over the dead thug sprawled at the mouth of the foyer. The man’s chest was bright crimson, a blossoming stain spreading out onto the cold floor beside him. Finally, they made it to the lift, and Simon waved his gun toward the controls. “Hurry it up. Is Mack awake?”

  The man trembled as he shook his head.

  “Is there anyone else down there?” Simon asked.

  “No. Just Vic,” he said, nodding his head toward the dead man.

  “Good. Now, get this thing moving.”

  The trip down to the lobby seemed to take twice as long as the trip up. Charlie was bleeding badly, but gathered himself well enough to walk unassisted as they slipped out the back door.

  Simon helped Charlie to the car. “We need to get you to hospital.”

  The barkeep shook his head. “Not in the city. King’s men’ll be all over it.”

  Simon put his gun back into his pocket, vaguely aware that he had four bullets left.

  Charlie opened the driver’s side door and managed to heave himself up into the seat. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his gun. “You might need this.”

  Simon nodded and took the gun. He slipped it into his waistband.

  “Better make sure it’s not cocked,” Charlie said with a smirk.

  Simon quickly pulled the gun out. It was uncocked. With a relieved sigh he put the gun back in his jacket pocket.

  “Can’t be too careful.” The brief moment of levity faded and with it Charlie’s smile.

  “I’ll be all right. I got some friends in Yonkers owe me a favor.”

  Simon was torn. Charlie was in no shape to drive, but night had fallen and he was no closer to Elizabeth. If anything, he was further away.

  Sensing his dilemma, Charlie shook his head. “You do what ya gotta do.”

  Simon heaved a sigh. How could he ever possibly thank this man? No matter what he said, it would pale in comparison to the debt he owed. A debt he could never repay.

  “Give Lizzy a hug for me,” Charlie said, and stuck out his hand, fingers drenched in his own blood.

  “I will,” Simon vowed and gripped his hand tightly, moved as much by Charlie’s faith as his courage.

  A wealth of understanding passed between the two men in the silence of the deserted alley. Charlie pulled his hand away and started the car with a grimace of pain. Simon stepped back and eased the door closed. Charlie put the car in gear, and with one last look, drove off into the night. The car turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Knowing he couldn’t linger there any longer, Simon headed back to Fifth Avenue.

  The city moved on, oblivious to the drama that played at its very heart. In a little over forty-eight hours the eclipse would come. Simon patted his pants pocket. The watch was secure. The gun was loaded. But his last chance to find King and Elizabeth had evaporated with the empty room upstairs. Or had it? With a new purpose, he fell in with the foot traffic, shoved his bloody hand into his pocket and started for St. Patrick’s.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ELIZABETH OPENED HER EYES. White hot pain pierced her head like railway spikes. She tried to think, but her mind was still wrapped in gauze. She blinked against an ungodly bright light that sliced through the louvered blinds. All she knew was she had to shut those damn things. But
when she pushed herself up, the raging headache was joined by a wave of gagging nausea. She fought to keep from retching and the effort drove the ten penny nails deeper into her brain.

  She took a deep breath to try and stem the upsurge of bile, but the stale odor of rotting fish and thick, salty air had other ideas. She coughed and cradled her head. Her tongue felt tacky with a thick paste, and she could barely manage to swallow.

  Dying on the spot seemed like a good idea, but she settled for not moving. She stilled in mid-movement, caught in an awkward position, half upright, and one hand curled over the top of her head, pressing cool fingers against her throbbing temple.

  Slowly the fog in her head began to lift, and she dared to sit up the rest of the way. Either this was the worst hangover in the history of man, or she…. Slowly, it came back to her. Memories swimming upstream. She had been washing her hands when the door opened behind her. Just when she was about to politely remind the woman that the room was occupied, two huge men filled the doorway. One clamped a sweaty hand over her mouth before she could scream. The other thug grabbed her legs, and they carried her down the hall. She’d fought as best she could, finally managing to get a leg free and kick the thug at her feet in the groin.

  She’d flailed for a moment, getting in a few more shots, but he was too strong and had grabbed her ankle in a vice grip. She thought he’d torn her Achilles tendon. Looking down at her legs, she saw the red marks from his fingers just above her shoeless foot. Leaning down to massage her ankle, another wave of nausea made her reconsider the move.

  They’d dragged her into a car. She vaguely remembered one of them muttering something about “getting the stuff and shutting her the hell up.” Then the world faded into darkness. Until she’d woken up here. Wherever here was.

  The room was small but plush. A silk duvet covered the single bed. A small, mahogany vanity with an ornate, brass-framed mirror stood to the side. Two wingback chairs upholstered in midnight blue velvet sat on either side of a small table. A crystal carafe of water and a single glass sat waiting for her.