Twin Speex: Time Traitors Book II

by Padgett Lively

Ettie smiled a little absently and nodded. “Of course, Pablo.”

  A thought struck her and she added, “Can you keep an eye out for the Earl of Westchester? If he should come up the street?”

  He furrowed his brow and nodded. “Of course, señorita. But why?”

  She looked across the street at the second-story corner window facing the church and pointed. “If you should see him enter that building, hang one of these red napkins from the railing in front of the café.” She noted his confusion and smiled conspiratorially. “It is a little game I play with my friend. We keep count of the times we see famous people and add up the points at the end of each week. Whoever has the most points must buy the other a small gift.” She leaned in closer to him. “Spotting the earl carries several points.”

  Pablo, having overheard the shopgirls enthuse over the handsome earl, grasped immediately the import of such a prize. “Of course, señorita,” he repeated.

  Ettie patted the dog on the head. “You be good with Pablo. I won’t be more than half an hour.”

  They left the café together, but separated at the curb. Pablo and Bea headed to the corner where were gathered his many ragged little cronies, and Ettie crossed to the modest apartment building on the other side of the street.

  She had plotted her break-in to the smallest detail. There was no doorman, but the entrance was locked during all hours. The families that populated the three stories of apartments were large and many. Mothers with babies and small children came and went with regularity. Ettie had to wait only a few minutes before a group of young matrons bustled about the stoop counting heads and helping each other carry prams up the stairs. She spotted a particularly harassed young woman and bent over to grasp the front of her pram.

  “Here, let me help,” Ettie offered as the woman gave her a grateful smile.

  The door was opened, and she placed her back against it to allow the young mother and the rest of the group to push the prams and shepherd their children through. The foyer was tight, and the chaos of crying babies and tired children allowed Ettie to squeeze past unnoticed. She made her way down the corridor to a narrow side staircase. Taking the steps two at a time, she practically jumped up the last few to stand in the hallway breathless and not a little victorious at how well her plan had worked out so far.

  The door to apartment 2E stood directly in front of her. She knocked on it firmly. This was mere theater; she knew no one was at home. She had closely monitored the apartment for the last forty-eight hours, both day and night. There had been no change in the position of the curtains, no lights or other indication that an occupant was within. The absence of Charlie had also given her confidence. He had not been seen for several days. The sharp eyes of shopgirls did not lie. Pablo’s assignment had been a precaution only.

  One of the mothers came down the corridor. Ettie knocked again. The woman stopped two doors down from her and fumbled in her reticule for the key.

  “She’s not in,” the woman said, glancing at her cautiously, her face a polite mask. Ettie knew that look. She had encountered many such like it in this timeline. The woman did not approve of her neighbor. “I think she must be away,” she added, “I’ve heard her speak of other residences.” The woman cleared her throat delicately as if to dislodge her disapproval without actually giving voice to it, but then said with a touch of acid, “I’m not entirely sure they are in truth her residences.”

  Ettie was prepared. “I’m her niece. My mother sent me to check up on her.” She lowered her eyes as if embarrassed. “My aunt is not a reliable correspondent.”

  The woman unbent slightly and smiled sadly at the thought of having such a disreputable relative. She found her key and was still looking at Ettie as she opened her door.

  Ettie made a show of rooting around in her bag. “I’ll just leave a little note under her door,” she murmured to herself as she drew out a stubby pencil and a piece of paper.

  The woman, now bored with the encounter, merely nodded her head. She pushed her young son ahead of her, walked into her apartment, and closed the door. Ettie breathed a sigh of relief. Still, she had to hurry. Who knew when another resident might come striding down the hallway? Her playacting could work only so many times.

  She dropped the pencil and paper back into her bag and pulled out a key. Hector said it was a skeleton key, the type used by doormen all over the city to let forgetful residents into their homes. He wasn’t sure it would work on this particular apartment, but it had not failed him in over twenty years of opening doors.

  It slipped in easily, but caught in the lock at the third-quarter of the turn. She jiggled it in the door, cold sweat beading up under layers of clothing. Finally it released, and she heard a click as the bolt drew back. Ettie cast a furtive glance down the corridor before opening the door and stepping inside. She quietly locked it behind her and leaned back against it, letting her heartbeat slow from a galloping thump to a more sedate canter.

  She took a deep breath and looked around. The curtains were pulled back so the late morning sunshine illuminated the interior. The apartment was not large, but it was well laid-out, and the two picture windows gave a lovely view of the street and church spire beyond. The combination parlor and sitting room was cluttered in the Victorian style. Fern plants and filmy lace curtains mingled together at the windows. There was a loveseat and two chairs and a chaise lounge with what looked to be a leopard skin throw across the back. A patterned carpet covered the floor, and a pianoforte with a velvet runner and a light layer of dust upon it was pushed up against the wall. There were some paintings hung in a haphazard manner and a holographic image of the Eiffel Tower, but no photographs or knickknacks decorated the room.

  Ettie moved away from the door and glanced stealthily out the window. She saw Pablo and Bea on the corner, the center of an admiring group of small urchins. No napkin waved from the railing, so Ettie walked to the middle of the room and silently and systematically began to search it. She didn’t know what exactly she was looking for. She pulled out drawers and slid her hand under tabletops. She looked beneath the lid of the pianoforte and walked the length of the carpet feeling for any lumps or bumps. The room was surprisingly free of anything personal. Ettie began to suspect that the apartment had been rented or purchased already furnished.

  After finding nothing out of the ordinary in the parlor, she passed into the kitchen. Here, it was spotless. The cabinets were neatly stacked with plates and bowls and cups, none of them looking like they had ever known a day of use. The icebox was empty, which was a good thing, since it contained no ice and would have left any perishables to spoil. There were no oil stains on the stove, and the pantry was residence to only a sad assortment of old herbs and spices.

  Ettie crossed the parlor and entered the bedroom. She stood upon the threshold stunned into an even more profound silence. The room was a nightmarish blend of fluffy boudoir and torture chamber. The bed was not large, but that was the only way in which it was unremarkable. Its frame was a dark solid wood, and it rose above the bed in a vaulted canopy of spires. It looked like a cathedral of the damned. At the top of each corner post was carved an ornate wooden cross, and gargoyles peered down on the mattress below. The bedcover was a silky confection of pink and white; heart-shaped pillows were scattered across its surface and a delicate, sheer negligee lay casually tossed over the footboard.

  Ettie walked further into the room and saw an array of whips and chains hanging from the walls. Every surface was strewn with all type of sex toy imaginable. It was as if she had walked into the window display of a porn shop on the sleaziest street in New York City.

  Ettie pivoted on her heels to look back at the door, and her blood froze. She had read that phrase many times before, and had always believed it a cheap literary exaggeration—until now. She felt the cold seep out of her bloodstream to spread like a thin sheet of ice across her skin. It was almost as if she could see her breath condense in front of her face and feel the fingers of her hands freeze int
o balled-up fists.

  The painting was both beautiful and horrific. Her image stared back at her through rich colors and sweeping paintbrush strokes. The scene was a lovers’ room, all sexual voluptuousness, but the girl—

  Ettie flexed her fingers, feeling her knuckles creak and brought her hands to lie on top of each other over her heart. She saw what the girl’s tormentor could not or would not see. She saw past the pubescent mimicry of desire to the terror and desperation, the overriding need for love and approval.

  Her blood began to thaw and move sluggishly through her veins. She walked forward with tears burning her frozen cheeks, and touched the childish face. Her pity was replaced with relief. She heaved an enormous sigh and thought, this is not me.

  Shaken, Ettie turned back to the room. There was another door. It was a half door really, the type found beneath a staircase or in the sloping wall of an attic. It had been obscured by a large wardrobe pushed up against the wall. She walked to it almost in a trance, terrified by what else she might find in this horror of an abode.

  She opened the door and walked in. A small window dimly lit what looked to be a cramped dressing room. The vanity with its large mirror had a theatrical feel as it was covered with bottles and pots of makeup and face paint. Racks were hung with all manner of clothing, and the shelves were stuffed with shoes, wigs, and even prosthetic noses. Ettie bent to pick up a patched and ragged coat that had been discarded on the floor and remembered Marta’s words: “They said a vagrant, some homeless person, had seen Mister Odell go in before he said…”

  Ettie was abruptly jerked from her semi-catatonic state by a knock at the door. She held her breath and searched her memory. Yes, she had locked the door behind her. She dropped the coat and walked quickly into the bedroom, throwing a glance out the window. She saw a red napkin hanging on the railing and Pablo staring up at the apartment. His little face was scrunched up in concern that she might miss sighting the Earl of Westchester and gaining several points on her friend.

  “Shit!” she exclaimed under her breath.

  The knocking had stopped, and her stomach clinched sickeningly as she heard the rattle of a key in the lock. Ettie looked frantically around the room for a weapon and, with a short, semi-hysterical laugh, realized they were not in short supply. Grabbing a heavy truncheon from its hook on the wall, she squeezed in behind the bedroom door where she had a limited view of the parlor through its hinges.

  Ettie heard the door open and sucked in her breath as she saw him walk into the middle of the room. His back was to her, but she easily recognized the broad shoulders and careless grace of Charles Drake, Earl of Westchester. She pressed herself hard against the wall when he turned, and her heart lurched into her throat as he walked toward the bedroom. He stood just within the doorway, separated from her by only inches. Her eyes bore into the solid wood of the door in a futile effort to see through it. She dared not breathe.

  A gloved hand gripped the bedroom door and pulled it back. Ettie’s pent-up breath was released in a mighty swing of the truncheon. She saw the wide, surprised look in his eyes as the blow connected with his shoulder and sent him crashing back into the dresser. She gripped the heavy bat and ran toward the apartment door.

  Ettie had almost reached it when two short arrows whizzed past her and burrowed into the doorframe next to her. She stopped abruptly, her chest heaving. She felt the muscles between her shoulder blades contract and waited with bated breath for the next one.

  “Ettie,” he said in a low, constrained voice she barely recognized. “I want you to put the bat down and turn around slowly.”

  “No!” She was terrified and her voice shook. “If you’re going to shoot me, just shoot me in the back. I’m not going to face you helpless while you kill me!”

  “I’m not going to shoot you at all,” his voice was gruff with emotion. “I would never… I’m not going to kill you. I just…” He cleared his throat. “I just need you to be calm and put down the bat.”

  She didn’t turn around. “Put down the bow, or whatever it is, first. Kick it over there.” She nodded to a potted fern that was just within her peripheral vision.

  He did as she asked, and she saw from the corner of her eye a small crossbow-like weapon skitter across the floor. But still she hesitated. “You could have something else. I… I can’t know.”

  “Ettie.” His voice was tense, yet weary. “I’m unarmed. Right now you could attack me with that thing, and I would have no way to defend myself. Trust me.”

  “Trust you!” She turned abruptly, practically choking on the words.

  He stood in the middle of the room, his hands empty at his sides. His hat had been knocked off when she’d hit him, and she noted through the fine tailoring of his jacket that his left shoulder was drooping. His face was pale, and his jaw was clenched in pain. The fine brown eyes were both hard and pleading. He held that look for several seconds more before stumbling backward and fainting upon the sofa.

  *

  “His pulse is steady, but he still looks pale.” Clem stepped back from the sofa and snapped shut the small pocket watch she held in her hand. She cocked her head to one side in a delicate, birdlike gesture of confusion. “There’s nothing broken, and the blow didn’t dislocate his shoulder. Honestly, Ettie, I think he’s suffering more from lack of food than anything else. He may even be a little dehydrated.”

  Ettie was standing on the other side of the sofa looking down at the stricken man. But at this, her head jerked up to stare intently at the girl. “What do you mean?” she asked sharply.

  “Well,” Clem began hesitatingly, “…I mean, he’s weak, and certainly the blow didn’t help. From the looks of his skin, I’d say he’s had very little to eat or drink in the last few days.”

  Ettie looked down at him again, a worried frown creasing her brow. They had stripped him down to his trousers and bandaged the injured shoulder, all without him waking or even fluttering an eyelid.

  “Then we should get him to the hospital. If he’s dehydrated, he’ll need some intravenous fluids, or something.”

  Clem shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. They will definitely ask questions if we come driving up to the emergency entrance with an unconscious Earl of Westchester.”

  “Well, we just can’t leave him here!” she snapped, then pushing the heels of her palms into her eyes quickly apologized, “I’m sorry.” She dropped her hands back down to her sides and looked across the sofa at her friend. “I don’t know what that woman will do to him if she finds him here like this. He’s a bad guy, Clem, but I don’t want him dead.”

  Truth be told, Ettie wasn’t sure what she wanted. After seeing Charlie faint, she had almost joined him in unconsciousness, so great was her relief. She had stood for several minutes, trying to regain some measure of composure. When his breathing deepened and his limp body slid over sideways, she ventured to search his pockets for the apartment key.

  Her unease at being there with an injured man was heightened by the fact that she didn’t know when or if the unknown woman would return. With the key in hand, she had rushed out of the apartment and back across the street to the café. She was accosted almost immediately by Pablo.

  “Did you see him?” he had asked excitedly, “Did you see him?”

  “Yes, Pablo. Thank you. I’m sure to win.”

  He smiled and nodded his head decisively in a strangely adult gesture of acknowledgement.

  “But now I need another favor.” She sat down at one of the tables and felt her legs begin to shake beneath her long skirts. Beatrix sensed her distress and rested a heavy paw on her thigh, looking up at her with unblinking yellow eyes. Ettie pulled out her palmavox and the slip of paper Clem had pressed into her hand that night at the hospital. “I’m going to need you to watch Beatrix just a little longer,” she had told him as she dialed the number.

  It had taken the girl less than an hour to arrive at the little neighborhood café. Pablo kept Bea while Ettie and Clem cautio
usly reentered the apartment to find Charlie still out cold on the sofa where Clem now stood assessing his condition.

  “I think we have to wake him,” Clem said. “There is no other way. We can’t carry or even drag him out of here.”

  “But how?” Ettie asked. “If it wasn’t for his breathing, anyone would think him dead.”

  Clem rummaged around in the large leather bag she had brought with her and pulled out a vial of…

  “Smelling salts,” she pronounced triumphantly. “My aunt got them from the doctor when she complained of feeling faint, but she never uses them. Too strong… she says they burn her nose.”

  Ettie looked uncertain, but Clem was determined and anxious to be out of there. Once they had gained entrance into the apartment, Clem had gone first into the bedroom in search of something that could be made into bandages and a sling. The sight of that room and, most particularly, the portrait, had produced in her an intense feeling of urgency. A brief explanation from Ettie regarding the painting and the woman to whom the apartment belonged, only added to her anxiety. Clem didn’t want to stay there even one second more than was necessary.

  “Listen, Ettie,” she insisted, “we don’t know when this woman will return. We can’t stay here, and neither can he. I really believe the earl is too weak to harm us.”

  Ettie wasn’t really worried about that. She felt certain that, given what had passed between them, Charlie didn’t want to hurt her. But Ettie wasn’t at all sure she was up to finding out what he did want from her. She knew Clem was right about this though; they had to get out. She nodded and agreed, “All right.”

  Clem sat down on the edge of the sofa and slowly waved the vial under Charlie’s nose. At first, it seemed to have no effect, but then he stiffened and wrinkled his nose, turning his head abruptly away.

  “Lord Westchester,” Clem pronounced in firm tones, “Lord Westchester, you have to wake up.”

  She waved the vial again under his nose. This time he started violently and swatted her hand away with his good arm. “Wha… what!” he exclaimed, but still wouldn’t open his eyes.