by Rysa Walker
“Well, maybe. But the jet pack thing was to keep me from breaking my neck. And . . . they don’t want to kill anybody. They want to stop the genocide.”
Connor snorts as he slides my coffee in front of me. “Bravo, Fifth Column. They win all the gold stars.” He pries open the toffee and grabs a few pieces. It smells good, but I don’t have any appetite. I wave it away when he pushes the tin toward me.
“Yeah,” Trey says. “If the best thing you can say about them is that they’re not in favor of genocide, especially when that genocide would apparently include them, since they’re New Cyrists, well . . .” He shakes his head.
What they’re saying makes sense, but I can’t help but feel I’ve painted Julia’s group too cynically. “The religion is part of their heritage. Even knowing the bad side, maybe they want to salvage something. To turn those resources into a force for good?”
They nod, although I doubt either of them is convinced. I’m not even convinced. But going back to what Katherine said earlier, they’re the only allies we have, and we need allies.
“Would Max help you get the key from Bess?” Trey asks. “Honestly. Don’t just say what I need to hear because I’m worried.”
I think for a moment. “If he stayed in the background . . . I guess. Maybe?”
“But you don’t think he will?”
“No. Max seems like . . . maybe he’s jealous of my ability with the key? He wants to play hero. I don’t think he’d be content just providing cover. And I’m worried having him there might spook Bess. I mean, you’ve both seen Max.”
“Yes,” Connor says dryly. “If this Fifth Column gig doesn’t work out, I hear they’re casting for a biopic of the Rock.”
I snicker because there actually is some resemblance in the face, even though Max isn’t anywhere near that large. “The bigger issue is that Julia didn’t want me going after Houdini yet. She didn’t know the key he has belonged to Prudence, but she told me to wait, and I’m thinking that after defying her about London, this would just make things worse. I’ll be careful. And I’ll have the gun.”
They both go a little pale, and I wish I hadn’t reminded them about the Colt.
“What if Bess says she doesn’t have the key?” Connor asks.
“Then I go back to when they left the restaurant in 1905 and take it by force. If that fails, I go back and track down Ira Davenport. Either way, I need this over and done with before tomorrow morning. We’re supposed to meet at Tilson’s place at eleven. I don’t have the address, though. Just coordinates.”
A yawn punctuates the last sentence. I glance at the clock. It’s only eight, but I was up much of the night, and I’m not sure how many hours have been packed into this day.
“It’s okay,” Trey says. “Tilson lives maybe ten or fifteen miles north of Gaithersburg. I have his number. I’ll call, get the address, and meet you there.”
“Or maybe come back and pick me up here? A car ride, a little time to wake up properly, would be really, really nice.”
Connor gives me a hesitant look. “Umm . . . this isn’t something Julia expects Katherine and me to attend, is it? Because . . .”
“No. Julia said you should stay here. Anyone watching the place is used to seeing Trey come and go. Julia even has him listed as a student intern, in case he comes with me to her office. But you and Katherine . . .”
“Yeah. As you can tell from the fridge, I haven’t even been going to the store lately. And I don’t think she should be out this soon given the headaches—”
Trey clears his throat and glances toward the door.
“What Trey is trying to tell you is that she is standing in the doorway listening to every word you say.” Katherine’s sunglasses are the large, dark kind that cover half of her face. They hide the circles under her eyes, but she’s still pale. A black dress—one that actually looks like a dress and not a disaster—is flung over her arm, along with a beaded handbag. “Julia is correct. Connor and I can do more good here, getting background information or whatever else you need.”
She slides the beaded bag across the table. “This one is close to what girls carried back then, but I’ll find something else if it’s too small. I’d rather have people notice you for an odd handbag than because the barrel of a Colt is sticking out the side.”
Katherine seems much more at ease with the idea of me carrying the gun than Connor or Trey is, which makes me wonder if this is a guy thing. Would they be less worried if Trey were the one packing heat?
I take the bag. “I’ll make sure the gun will fit when I’m getting ready.” Another yawn hits. “Sorry.”
“How many hours since you slept?” Katherine asks with a knowing look.
“It was in London, so technically, last night.” I shrug. “I’m okay. Nothing another cup of Connor’s coffee won’t fix.”
Katherine reaches out and takes the purse back. “No. You need more sleep, not less, when doing long-distance jumps. I don’t care how adept you are with that key, travel wipes you out. And I can only imagine the impact of multiple jumps to different locations in a single day. We never did that, even during training. We had a day or two off between jumps.” She shakes her head. “You need your wits about you, and that’s hard to manage when you’re exhausted.”
“But Trey just got here. I don’t think I could sleep yet anyway. And we need food.”
“We’ll get food,” Katherine says. “And Trey can stay until you wind down enough to sleep. But I’m keeping the dress until morning.”
278 W. 113TH STREET, NEW YORK
November 9, 1926, 3:12 p.m.
The rain is coming down hard, much harder than I’d have guessed viewing through the key. This has taken five jumps so far, and I really hope Bess is home and in a mood to talk, because I’m tired of stalking her.
My first jump this morning was to set up observation points for watching Houdini’s townhome. I blinked into a stable point behind the Block House in Central Park on April 4, 1965—a clear spring morning chosen entirely at random—and walked several blocks to 113th Street, where I set up four local points to observe the comings and goings at number 278. Then I caught a cab and set a few more points near the Elks Club, where Houdini’s memorial was held, and a few more outside Machpelah Cemetery.
Most of that was a total waste of time. The initial plan was to corner Bess at the memorial or the burial. According to the New York Times, there were over two thousand people at Houdini’s services on November 4th, but having been there, I’d say that was an understatement. I was never able to get anywhere near Bess.
So I spent the next hour in the CHRONOS version of a stakeout, watching the stable points around the Houdinis’ townhouse from the sofa in my room. Friends escorted Bess home, and there was a steady trail of visitors until early evening when she left for a second memorial at a nearby theater.
That’s when things got interesting. The car carrying Bess had barely rounded the corner when two men appeared on the front stoop in a flash of blue light. While I couldn’t see their faces, I’m pretty sure one of them was Simon. The other guy was taller, thinner, but that’s all I could tell from his silhouette.
Once they were inside, there was intermittent activity on all four floors for nearly two hours. The lights stayed on until about a minute before Bess arrived home, so they were clearly watching her movements. And unless they got really lucky during that last minute, I don’t think they found what they were looking for.
So . . . the Cyrists know Houdini has a key. But how long have they known? Who told them? I’m not sure, but given that they’ve clearly been watching the house, I’m glad I listened when Trey suggested jumping in at a random date to set these observation points.
There was a flurry of police activity at the house that night and again the next morning. I skipped forward a few days, looking for a time when scrutiny died down and Bess seemed to be alone, but after a half hour or so, I said screw it. Waiting for the precise, perfectly right moment to present its
elf isn’t a viable option in a doomsday scenario.
And so I’m here in the rain. I duck under the umbrella as I cross the street, both to shield me from the afternoon shower and from anyone who might be watching via CHRONOS key. A middle-aged woman answers my knock almost immediately. After a quick glance at my face, she says, “Come in. Bess has been expecting you.”
Both the foyer and the parlor off to the right are dark. I don’t get the feeling this is simply because the house is in mourning or even due to the overcast sky. It’s just a dark home—the paneling is dark and the windows are narrow. I doubt it would be bright and airy even on the nicest spring day.
We go up three flights of stairs to a library, and when the woman opens the door, I see Bess seated on the carpet. Papers are strewn everywhere, and she’s replacing books on the shelves. She’s older now, and mostly gray, but her features are still childlike.
“Thanks, Marie,” Bess says without looking up.
As Marie closes the door, I hear an unearthly screech, followed by a high-pitched voice proclaiming, “I am the Great Houdini.”
I jump, turning toward the sound. The outline of a cage against the window reveals that it’s only a stupid parrot. I try to relax, but the adrenaline surge has my body on full alert, and I jump again when Bess slams another book into place.
“Mrs. Houdini,” I begin, “I’m so sorry for your—”
“Did you send them?”
“Who?”
She picks up another book off the floor and waves it toward me before shoving it onto the shelf.
“No, I didn’t send the men who did this. But I saw it happen. I watched through the key the night of your husband’s funeral. Two men with CHRONOS keys broke into your house. I couldn’t have stopped them, Mrs. Houdini—not without alerting them to the fact that I know you have the medallion. And there’s far too much at stake for me to risk that. Did they find it?”
“No. And you won’t, either.”
My stomach sinks. “He got rid of it?”
“I didn’t say that,” she sniffs. “I just said you won’t find it. You fix this . . . you bring him back to me . . . and then I’ll give you the key.”
Bess shoves two more books onto the shelves, thwack, thwack, and reaches for a third.
I crouch down a few feet away so that I’m at eye level with her. “I can’t do that.”
She’s quick. The book is out of her hand and flying toward my head before I realize it. I barely have time to lift my arm. Even so, the force of the blow knocks me off balance and I land on my backside.
“You knew they were planning to kill him!” she screams. “Didn’t you? And you did nothing to stop it! Nothing to warn us so we could take precautions.”
I pick up the book that bounced off my arm—Was Abraham Lincoln a Spiritualist?—and move it out of her reach. She still has plenty of ammo on the other side, however, so I keep an eye on her hands.
“They didn’t kill him, Mrs. Houdini. I don’t know if you remember what Kiernan told you about time travel, but I’ve read historical accounts from this timeline and ones from when there were no Cyrists around to threaten anyone. He died the same day in the very same way both times.”
“Bushwa! Then why did that guy ask him about the key? Before he punched him?”
I have to guess at what the first part means, but I have no idea how to answer her questions.
In both timelines, Houdini died from a ruptured appendix. In both timelines, insurance paid double indemnity because some guy punched him in the gut when he wasn’t ready. Apparently Houdini liked to play the macho dude, something that doesn’t surprise me, having met him. Several biographers said he’d go around challenging young guys to punch him in the stomach, saying he could take anything they could dish out.
And usually he could. Squirming your way out of handcuffs and straitjackets when you’re suspended by your ankles requires some pretty rock-solid abs. But this time, his appendix was inflamed—or maybe it’s because he’d screwed up his ankle in a trick and was reclined on a couch when it happened, so he couldn’t brace himself properly. There are half a dozen different versions and at least as many theories. But it’s the same half-dozen versions in both timelines.
Houdini went on to do the show that night, despite a raging fever. They eventually rushed him to the hospital and removed the appendix. He seemed to be getting better, but then he died early in the afternoon on Halloween.
Same injury, same chain of events. Both timelines . . . at least until now.
“Can you tell me exactly what happened?” I ask.
“I can tell you what he told me. Two guys in their twenties came up to him in the lobby at the Prince of Wales Hotel. He was reading his mail, and one kid asked if it was really true he could take a punch to the gut without flinching. Like always, Harry says yes. The guy punches him. Then he leans over and says real quiet that he’s gonna punch him so hard it’ll kill him if he doesn’t hand over the key.”
He’s here because he wants to see a lynching.
It’s Kiernan’s voice I hear, explaining why Simon was in 1938. And there was something about Cincinnati once. I never got the full story, but Simon enjoys landing in the middle of chaos.
I’m guessing the guy who was supposed to hit Houdini that day—a guy named Whitehead in most of the stories—never got the chance. Simon quite literally beat him to the punch.
“But Houdini didn’t give them the key?”
“He didn’t have the key! I made him stop wearing the thing after we left the hotel in Eastbourne. It wasn’t even in Montreal with us. I told him I couldn’t stand the idea of him going onstage with it. I even went back to the restaurant to give it to you that night . . .”
Bess halts in midsentence, realizing she’s revealed something she shouldn’t have.
“I mean, I thought about doing that, but . . .”
I pull out my medallion, and she dives toward me, grabbing for it.
“No! You have to bring him back.”
“I can’t. I’m really sorry.”
Bess claws at my arm, trying to get the key, and I push her backward. I don’t want to hurt her, but when she comes back again, her fist is cocked, ready to punch me.
Flipping a tiny, middle-aged woman gives me zero joy, but I have no choice.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat as I roll her over and pin her against the carpet. “Are you okay?”
The string of curses she slings at me suggests that her mouth and brain, at a minimum, are still in working order.
Feet are pounding up the stairs. Apparently Bess screaming is something Marie is accustomed to, but maybe not the loud thump of a body hitting the floor.
Bess hears the footsteps, too. “Marie! Call the police!”
The footsteps pause and then retreat. Almost immediately, Bess realizes she’s made another mistake.
“No, wait! Marie! Help!”
The footsteps continue fading out. Either Marie didn’t hear that last bit, or she’s tired of running up and down the stairs.
“Bess, your husband dies on Halloween, 1926, in both timelines. I can’t change that, and I need the key.”
“I won’t be there to give it to you! I’ve changed my mind—”
It takes me three tries to lock in the stable point because Bess wriggling beneath me keeps jarring my arm and breaking my focus. Finally I lock in on the 1905 dress that belonged to Other-Kate right where I left it, flung over the footboard of my bed.
“I really am sorry,” I say one last time, and then I blink out.
EASTBOURNE, GREAT BRITAIN
April 26, 1905, 10:13 p.m.
I’ve only been in the hotel lobby a few minutes when Bess Houdini bursts through the front door, walking quickly toward the restaurant. The maître d’ halts her at the entrance, just as he did me earlier. She plants a palm in the center of his chest and shoves him back. He sputters, reaching after her, but she dodges his hand.
The man is about to follow her until he notic
es me and steps forward to block my path. I decide I like Bess’s approach and simply push him aside.
It feels good. Should’ve done that the first time.
I reach Bess just as she finds the still-uncleared table where Kiernan and I ate.
“Mrs. Houdini!”
She turns toward me. It’s strange to see her face again this soon, twenty years younger, minus the tear streaks and pain of bereavement. In her right hand is a silver chain holding the medallion.
“There you are! Take this thing before my husband changes his mind. He’s a sentimental old fool, but I’ll buy him something else.”
I take the key and stick it in my pocket. “Thank you.”
“I don’t want anything that’s con—”
The maître d’ steps up behind Bess, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Ladies, if you’d be so good as to follow me.”
Bess whirls around and pokes her finger into his chest. It’s a bit like watching an angry Chihuahua turn on a greyhound. The guy actually flinches, holding his hands in front of him to ward her off.
“We have no intention of being so good,” she says, poking his chest a few more times for emphasis. “Go away and let us finish our conversation.”
The man slinks off without a word, and Bess turns back to me, giving an eye roll.
“As I was saying before, if I’d known the thing had any connection to the Cyrists, I’d never have asked Davenport for it. Those people gave me the willies even when I was a girl, with all that talk about the Chosen and The Way and everyone else dying.”
“You have very good instincts,” I say and begin moving toward the exit. Now that I have the key, all I want to do is get out of here, especially knowing that Simon has an interest in it, too.
But Bess grabs my arm. “Last year my mother-in-law consulted a medium before we set sail for Europe. The spirits said my husband is in no any danger for at least two decades. Is that still true?”
I wonder for a moment if this psychic has a CHRONOS key, because that’s pretty darn close. “I’m not a psychic, Mrs. Houdini.”