"You're not lying to me again, are you?"
Justin shook his head.
"I didn't lie to you earlier, Emily. I came from the future. I came from a time so different than this it would make your head spin. I've wanted to tell you for days, but I didn't know even where to start. That's why I've been so quiet and distant lately."
Emily looked at Justin with humble eyes.
"I thought it was because you didn't want to marry me."
Justin put his hands on Emily's shoulders as they stood in the middle of a bedroom usually occupied by Charles and Charlotte Townsend.
"No. Nothing could be further from the truth," Justin said. "I do want to marry you."
"Then why don't you?"
"I can't unless you agree to come with me to 2016."
"Why must I leave? Why can't you stay?" Emily asked. "You've told me many times that you like it in Galveston. We can be happy here. Why can't you stay?"
Justin sighed.
"I could stay if I wanted to, but I don't. I want to return to my time. It may not be perfect, but it's better. It's where I belong."
Emily gently removed Justin's hands from her shoulders and walked to the bedroom's only window. She pulled back the curtains and stared blankly at the front yard.
"I can't give you an answer today, Justin. This is much too sudden."
"I understand."
Emily turned away from the window and faced her suitor.
"I'll give you an answer well before you leave. That's all I can promise."
"That's fair," Justin said.
Emily smiled sadly and returned to the time traveler who wanted to return to his time. She kissed him on the cheek, grabbed his hand, and pulled him toward the bed.
"Emily, what are you doing?"
"It's not what you think."
"Then what are you doing?" Justin asked.
"I'm leading you toward a comfortable place. I want to be comfortable when you tell me why you are here and why you want to return to this time of yours."
Emily let go of Justin's hand, sat on the bed, and patted the mattress.
"Please sit, Justin. Let's sit and talk," Emily said. "We have a lot to discuss."
Forty minutes later, Justin played yet another video. This clip showed Charlotte, Rose, and Emily helping patrons at the front desk of the Texas Maritime Library.
"That's me!" Emily said.
"That's you," Justin replied.
"How was your father able to take these pictures without drawing attention to himself?"
"He was able to do it by using a device that doesn't draw attention to itself. My dad probably put the phone on one of the tables in the back of the room and let it sit there like a deck of cards."
Emily frowned.
"It's hard to look at Rose. I miss her so."
"I do too," Justin said.
"Has your father shown Charlotte this 'video,' or whatever you call it?" Emily asked. "Has he told her who you really are?"
Justin nodded.
"He's shown her and told her everything."
"How about the others?" Emily asked.
"He told Wyatt back in June and Rose the day before she died."
Emily turned away when her eyes started to water.
"Are you OK, sweetheart?" Justin asked.
Emily nodded.
"I'm all right. I just need a moment."
Justin's heart sank as he watched Emily deal with the death of her friend and colleague. He knew she couldn't compartmentalize her pain any more than he could and wanted to give her all the time she needed to recover from her periodic bouts with grief.
"Maybe we should get back to packing Rose's belongings."
"No," Emily said as she turned to face Justin. She wiped an eye. "We have until tomorrow to pack her things. I want to know more about your time travels."
"What do you want to know?" Justin asked.
"One thing I'd like to know is why you really came to Galveston."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that your father didn't come here to write a book. He hasn't done any research at the library since June and hasn't, to my knowledge, written a word about what he's learned," Emily said. "Charlotte told me last week that she has never seen him write in anything but a diary."
Justin threw his arm around Emily as they sat upright against an oak headboard. After thinking about what she said, he turned to face her and sighed.
"You're observant, Miss Beck," Justin said. "My father didn't come here to write a book. I didn't come here to help him write a book. We both came to Galveston to prove that an innocent man didn't commit a murder for which he was later hanged."
"You mean Wyatt?"
Justin nodded.
"He's a very distant relative."
"How do you know that he didn't kill Rose?" Emily asked.
"I don't."
"Yet you believe he's innocent?"
"I do," Justin said. He looked at Emily. "Do you think that Wyatt killed Rose?"
"No. I don't. But what I think doesn't matter. All that matters is that Levi thinks he killed her. He won't let up unless a jury acquits Wyatt or someone proves he's innocent."
"That's what we're trying to do."
"Do you have any evidence that would support his case?" Emily asked.
"No. All that we have is a letter from Wyatt's natural brother Benjamin. He apparently heard about a deathbed confession in 1926 that was made by the person who actually killed Rose."
"Who's the real killer?"
"We don't know. We didn't even know who the victim would be until a week ago," Justin said. He grabbed Emily's hand and waited until she met his gaze. "You have to believe me when I say that there was no way we could have prevented this."
"I believe you."
"We tried to prevent the murder before it happened, but we couldn't. We didn't have enough information to go on," Justin said. "Now we don't even have what little information we brought with us. The letter from Wyatt's brother was stolen in the burglary."
"Surely you remember more details."
"We do. We know that the real killer was named Mack or Max."
Emily slumped against a pillow.
"My father's name is Max."
Justin nodded.
"He's on our short list of suspects. So is Levi MacArthur and Thomas Mack, our friendly neighborhood stalker. He's really high on my list."
"I don't know Thomas Mack, but I do know my father," Emily said. "He would never kill a friend of mine or have her killed. He would never kill a woman."
"Are you sure about that? Nothing would make it easier for him to acquire the Gulf Star Line than to knock Wyatt out of the picture," Justin said. "He even made a thinly disguised threat about 'circumstances' changing when I visited your house the first time."
"I don't care what he said. He would not kill Rose."
"What about Levi?" Justin asked. "He still blames Wyatt for his wife's suicide. What better way to pay him back than to kill his fiancée and put him on death row at the same time? As the prosecutor in this case, he's in a perfect position to get revenge."
"That doesn't mean he's a killer."
"So you're defending Levi too?"
"No. I just don't think he did it," Emily said. "Levi may be a philanderer and a liar and a very bad kisser, but he's not a murderer. He's too much of a coward."
"He wasn't a coward when he tried to put your father in jail. That took brass."
"Can we talk about something else?" Emily asked.
"OK. We can," Justin said. "I'm sorry for getting you worked up. I'm just feeling pretty bad about failing Rose. I want to see Wyatt cleared before we have to leave."
"That's the other thing. Why do you have to leave next month? Why can't you stay through the fall and help Wyatt as best you can? Why can't you stay a little longer and be with me?"
Justin sighed and looked away.
"It's not an option, Emily."
"Why is it not an option? You're keepi
ng things from me again."
"I'm not," Justin said. "I'll tell you exactly why we have to leave next month. There are two reasons."
Emily folded her arms and stared at the end of the bed.
"What's the first?"
"The first is that our ticket back to 2016 will expire soon."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that a gypsum crystal we used to travel though time loses its power in less than a month," Justin said. "If we don't take it back to that tunnel in Los Angeles by September 18, then we'll be stuck here forever."
"How tragic," Emily said with obvious sarcasm.
"Please try to understand my position."
Emily frowned.
"I'm sorry. My 'petulant side' is back."
Justin kissed her on the cheek.
"That's the side I love the most."
Emily forced a smile.
"What's the other reason you have to leave so soon?"
Justin took a breath and looked away. He knew he would have to mention the storm at some point, but he had hoped it would be later rather than sooner. He didn't look forward to telling Emily that her town and perhaps many of the people she knew and loved would soon be obliterated.
"The other reason is that we don't want to be here when a hurricane hits."
Emily looked at Justin with concern in her eyes.
"Please continue."
"A hurricane is going to hit Galveston, Emily, and it's going to hit soon. It'll strike this town with the force of a hundred tornadoes and turn even brick buildings into rubble."
Justin felt Emily slacken in his arms.
"What about the people here?" Emily asked in a tentative voice.
Justin sat up and leaned forward. He wanted to see her face when he told her what she didn't want to hear.
"Six thousand people are going to die," Justin said. "Most won't be identified. Many will be buried where they lie – or burned. The carnage will be worse than you can possibly imagine."
"What about my family?"
Justin tightened his hold on her when he heard her voice crack.
"I don't know. I don't remember the names of the victims in the newspaper articles I read. I can't get the names either. The articles were stolen too."
Justin sighed.
"All I know is that the part of Galveston that faces the sea will be wiped clean. That means the Midway and the bathhouses and the hotels will all be destroyed. So will some schools and an orphanage and hundreds of homes."
Justin kissed Emily on the side of the head.
"I won't have a place to stay in two weeks, Emily – and neither will you."
CHAPTER 63: CHUCK
Thursday, August 30, 1900
Chuck sipped his chicory-laced coffee, gazed at the nearly empty dining room in the nearly empty house, and tried to remember how it had looked not so long ago.
At the last library-staff breakfast, the room had been a noisy gathering place for happy people who were doing things and going places. Two weeks later, it was a quiet shell of its former self – a chamber filled with sadness, memories, and regret.
Chuck looked at a dusty china cabinet, a crooked picture on a wall, and then at a grandfather clock that hadn't chimed in days. Rose O'Malley hadn't been around to wind the clock, as she had done every Monday for months, and Charlotte Townsend hadn't had the heart to do it in her absence. She hadn't had the heart to do a lot of things since her friend, colleague, and confidante had been lowered into the ground.
"Are you going to be OK?" Chuck asked.
Charlotte lowered her coffee cup and stared at Rose's empty chair before turning her attention to the man seated at her side. She looked at her husband like a dispirited child might look at a comforting parent.
"I'll be all right," Charlotte said. She took a deep breath. "I just need another day or two to adjust to the way things are."
Chuck placed his hand on hers.
"Take all the time you need, Charlotte. There's no need to rush through your grief."
Charlotte smiled sadly.
"I appreciate your patience, Charles, but I think we both know that's not true."
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean is that we need to focus on other things," Charlotte said. "We need to focus on saving the lives of the people we love before we go through this again."
Chuck didn't bother to offer even a feeble objection. He knew she was right. In the time that remained to them in 1900, they would have to do what they could to free an innocent man from jail and warn others of a storm that would change the city forever.
"You're right."
"Have you made any progress on Wyatt's case?" Charlotte asked.
"No," Chuck said. "Neither have the police. At my insistence, they checked the whereabouts of Max, Levi, Thomas Mack, and even Silas. All four have solid alibis. Mack and Silas weren't even in Galveston. Mack was in Corpus Christi visiting his brother. Silas was in Austin meeting with legislators. All of this makes me wonder whether I've been wrong all along."
"I don't follow."
"How well do we really know our friend, Charlotte? How do we know that the police don't have their man and that justice is not in the process of being served?"
"You don't believe Wyatt killed Rose any more than I do."
"I didn't yesterday," Chuck said. "Today I'm not so sure."
Charlotte stared at him.
"Wyatt didn't do it," Charlotte said with the kind of conviction Chuck hadn't heard in days. "He may be a man with peculiar tastes and unorthodox ways, but he is not a killer. I watched him fall in love with Rose. I watched him change from a self-absorbed cad to a selfless gentleman who talked about marriage and children. He could no more have killed Rose than he could have killed his own mother. He loved her as purely and completely as I believe you love me."
Chuck smiled weakly.
"That settles it then. If Wyatt loved Rose as much as I love you, then there's no way he could have killed her," Chuck said. He squeezed Charlotte's hand. "I don't really think he killed her, but what I think is not important. What I can prove is. If I do nothing else in the next few days, I must at least convince the police that someone else could have committed the crime."
Charlotte looked at him thoughtfully.
"Is there anything you could have overlooked? You've seen the police report, Charles. Surely there is something that stood out, something you can use to dig a little deeper."
Chuck took a moment to recall what he had read. He couldn't remember anything in the report that raised any flags, but he did remember thinking that the statement by Beatrice May, the sixteen-year-old maid who had found Rose dead in her bed, seemed incomplete. The police had apparently not asked the girl some questions that he would have asked, including what she had witnessed before she had seen Wyatt leave the scene of the crime.
"Maybe there is," Chuck said.
"What is it?"
"I'm not sure exactly. I just know that I need to pay another visit to the Stratford. I think it's time I had a chat with the person who may be able to clear up this whole mess."
Chuck lifted Charlotte's hand and kissed it.
"Get your purse, Mrs. Townsend. We have a cleaning girl to see."
CHAPTER 64: CHUCK
The sitting room in the Stratford was not as fancy as those in the major hotels, but it was comfortable and quiet. That made it more than sufficient as a venue to interview a frightened witness who seemed to have little interest in revisiting a morning that had shaken her to the core.
"How are you doing?" Chuck asked.
Beatrice May glanced nervously at Charlotte and then at Chuck. All three sat at a small table in a corner of the otherwise unoccupied room.
"I'm doing all right, I guess."
"I assume the manager told you who we are and why we wanted to talk to you."
"He did," Beatrice said.
"I won't take up much of your time, Miss May. I know that you've spoken to the police and to reporters and
are probably tired of answering questions about the crime, but I have to ask you to do it again. I'll need your full cooperation if I hope to prove that Mr. Fitzpatrick is innocent."
"I understand. I'll do my best."
Chuck looked at the fidgety black girl and sighed. He didn't doubt her willingness to do the right thing by telling the truth, but he wondered how helpful anyone could be when asked to provide information that might run counter to a narrative that the police, the press, and her image-conscious employer had taken as gospel.
"I'm sure you will," Chuck said. "Let's get started then. The first thing I want to ask you is how you began your shift that day. I understand you came to work around seven."
Beatrice nodded.
"I came to work at seven, just like I always do."
"What did you do between seven and eight?"
"I swept and mopped. I swept and mopped the lobby floor. That's all any of us are allowed to do before eight. Mr. Miller, the manager, won't allow us to even knock on the doors until then."
"I see," Chuck said. "When you were sweeping and mopping, did you see anything unusual? Did you see or hear anything you don't normally see or hear between seven and eight?"
"No, sir. I just saw what I always see."
"What about when you went up to the second floor to start cleaning the rooms? Did you see anything out of the ordinary up there?"
"No, sir. I saw the same old things."
"How does the process work?"
"How does what work?" Beatrice asked.
"When you go up to the second floor to clean, how do you know which rooms to enter and which to leave alone? Are there procedures or rules you have to follow?"
"Oh, we have rules. We have lots of rules."
"Tell me about them," Chuck said. "Can you just walk into a room?"
"No, sir. We can't do that. We have to knock first."
"What if no one answers?"
"Then we knock again and say, 'Maid service.'"
"What if they still don't answer?"
"Then we try to open the door," Beatrice said. "If it's locked, we get our key. If it's unlocked, we open it. Mr. Fitzpatrick's room was unlocked."
Chuck nodded.
"Did you see any other guests enter or leave their rooms?"
"No. Everybody was sleeping, I guess. Only one other room was open. That was the room next to Mr. Fitzpatrick's room. That's the only one I cleaned before I …"
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