by D. L. Koontz
When his visions cleared, he determined his next move, and realized with a start, it would forever change lives. But, he determined it was the right thing to do.
The only thing to do.
He emptied the pistol of all but one bullet.
Moments later, another shot sounded from the barn that afternoon, and Nathan exited, staggered a few yards, dropped to his knees, and wretched.
By that evening, the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Hudd were labeled a murder-suicide. Gretchen was taken to Doc Henshaw’s for a broken arm, split lip, and internal bruises.
After the bodies were removed from the property, the sheriff snapped his notebook shut, slapped Nathan on the back, and said he’d missed the meeting, but if he hurried he could be home in time for dinner with his wife.
“Pot roast,” he said as they ambled to his motorcar. “My favorite.” He tucked into the seat and, before closing the door, said, “This,” he gestured toward the farm, “is best left where it happened. Tomorrow, be at the office a half-hour before anyone else arrives. We need to discuss the choices you made here today.” He nodded and pulled away.
Within two days a man from the bank placed a For Sale sign on the edge of the farm proper, and it struck Nathan that the property began to smile with hope, as though heedless of the events it had hosted there.
After three days, the community forgot about Jasper Hudd, and any questions about his death were wafted away by colossal sighs of relief. The town seemed to agree, without a word being spoken, that there was nothing to be gained from splashing the details across the newspaper or wasting tax dollars on an investigation. The curtain had dropped, the story had ended.
In the immediate aftermath, Nathan tried to return to the rhythm of the life he’d had, but in that odd manner that life moves on and circumstances seem to fit together the way notes work together in a symphony, and one chapter closes as another begins, he received a new assignment that convinced him that what he’d done had been right and that to have taken any other action would have been wrong.
Still, guilt consumed him. Gretchen, Anabelle’s descendant, had merely progressed from one life of insecurity to another. She had no family now. Despite whatever relationship she’d had with her step-mother, the news of her death appeared to have devastated her: her walk, her posture, the blank expression on her face when he’d escorted her from the Hudd house—all signaled the tenacious denial of the violently bereaved.
About a week later, Nathan sat alone on his porch one evening, wrestling with remorse and looking out past the lawn and the grove of trees beyond, when a flock of honking geese hurried into a V formation to glide across the sky. He marveled, as he always had, how geese pull together to get where they’re going. They survive by helping each other, his father had once said.
The next morning he drove to Doc Henshaw’s house where Gretchen had been staying until other arrangements could be made. Problem is, no one was coming forth with any arrangements.
When she asked him what he wanted, Nathan shrugged, as though bracing his shoulders to bear more weight, and spoke his piece.
They were married that afternoon.
The next day he waited for his restlessness to subside and relief to come, but it never did.
Chapter Sixteen
1926
“Thank you, Davis,” Libby said.
The shoes pinched her feet, the dress was too short, and the cloche hat too tight, but Libby felt dressed appropriately enough in her period costume to carry off a debut in what she accepted would be a lifetime masquerade ball. Her new reality. She needed to absorb and conform in every way to 1926. The more she made herself a part of this time the less she’d fumble or stand out.
The dress was made of teal silk charmeuse, and its lines, as Davis had warned, were column-like. It hung straight from the square neck and shoulders, and gathered low on the hips rather than at the waist. Box pleating completed the lower third. The cloche hat was almond colored, rimmed with pleated teal ribbon and covered her forehead and ears, allowing wisps of auburn hair to frame her cheeks. The shoes were a T-bar heel pump of almond patent leather, and added another inch and a half to her height. Gloves, a small purse, and silk stockings completed the outfit. When he’d handed her the clothes, he said he told the saleswoman to toss in several undergarments, but that when he saw her reaching for a corset, he intervened and directed her instead to the latest fashion—a French brassiere. With a mumble and a lowered gaze, Libby had thanked him sincerely for intervening.
Davis also brought from town a pearl-encrusted hand mirror. Libby perched it on one of the duffel bags, stood back, and circled in attempt to catch as full a view as possible. Impossible. The light in the cave was dim. Still, she could see enough to know that in her own time, she would have been assumed to be dressing for the 1920s. She hoped the people who were an actual part of this period would agree.
Libby caught Davis watching her, his smile affirming he liked the change. He’d waited outside the cave while she changed and re-entered only when beckoned. Then, he’d waited patiently, seated on his usual cave rock, while she practiced walking in the stiff, uncomfortable shoes.
“Perfect,” he said. “And, no tattoos to explain. That’s good. Your only problem will be keeping the young blokes at bay.” His words suggested he was teasing, but his voice held no humor, and the delivery, along with the inflection, carried both praise and wistfulness.
Libby shrugged. “These styles don’t suit me very well.”
“That’s because you have a good figure. Curves. Nice gams. Trust me, these styles make women happy, but not men.”
Her cheeks heated, and she suddenly felt as if she wasn’t getting enough air. He was smooth. She ducked her head, unable to hold his gaze. She had the strangest urge to pat herself to make sure every stitch and every hair was in order under his scrutiny. Where was this ridiculous girlish reaction coming from? He was, after all, nothing more than a kindred spirit—someone who also had reinvented himself. But, would she ever experience that warmth again, after she relocated at the Springs Hotel amidst people from another time?
“Oh!” He turned and grabbed another muslin bag he’d brought back from town. “I thought you might want these. For your alone time.”
She opened the bag to find a pair of jeans, two large work shirts, and a pair of felt slippers with leather soles.
The pants were ugly, stiff (no spandex!), and made for a man, but resembled modern jeans enough that she smiled. “Thank you, but why are they for alone time?”
He forced a weak smile. “You’ll learn soon enough. People generally dress quite well compared to modern standards. Women mostly wear dresses. Perhaps knickers when they golf or ride horses. The exception would be the rare professional woman in the upper middle class who has become a doctor or attorney. That sort. Sometimes you’ll see poorer women on farms in men’s pants. But it’s rare.”
“So I will wear this dress every day?” Libby asked, confused.
He chuckled. “No, you’re going to be among the affluent, remember? You’ll need more clothes. Once you’re situated at the hotel, I’ll have the manager arrange for a local seamstress. She can provide you tailor-made clothing. In the interim, there’s nothing surprising about repeating clothes for a few days. Even among the rich. Society hasn’t yet adopted that modern American obsession with wearing something different every day.”
Her stomach clenched. “You talk about money like it’s no problem, but I have none.”
He was still wearing the tweed jacket he’d donned for town. He reached into it and pulled a small envelope from his left lapel pocket. “You do now.”
Inside, Libby found layers of paper money. Even money was different, from the future. This paper currency featured different pictures and was at least 40 percent larger than modern bills.
“Five hundred dollars,” he said. “Accounting for inflation, that would convert to about six-thousand dollars in 2008, the year I traveled back. Probably closer to sev
en-thousand in 2016.”
“I can’t accept this,” Libby whispered, closing her fingers around the money and handing it back.
“You have to. You have no choice. Besides, it’s a loan.” He leaned in, parking his forearms on the V of his legs. “That will be more than enough to invest and pay expenses till winter. Room and board. New clothes. A cinema now and then. After that, we’ll see how your investments are doing.”
Libby slumped onto a stuffed duffel bag opposite him, probably looking anything but a well-bred lady. “My investments?”
“When I get back to Pittsburgh, I’ll talk to my broker. Thomas St. Clair. He frequents the Springs. I’ll have him ask for you. You can give him directives.”
“Directives?” With shaky fingers, she pinched the folds of her skirt.
“How he should invest your money, of course.”
“I don’t know anything about stocks.”
He tilted his head. “Yes, you do. More than anyone from this time. You have foreknowledge, remember?”
“Which you told me to be careful about using.”
He brushed that off with a wave. “This is the one time you should capitalize on it. In this period...like every time in history, I imagine... money equals better health and living. You already have to get by without modern medicine, central heat and air.” He broke with a smile to point at her feet, “Comfortable shoes...things you heretofore took for granted. If you had to struggle to make money in this time that is so unfamiliar to you, the limitations would be daunting. Acute. Get your finances secured first. Make that your work. You can branch out later.”
Libby stared at him, dismayed. “But, investing couldn’t be as simple or as certain as all that. Why wouldn’t everyone do it?”
“People outside the hotel don’t have the money to invest. Most have modest or insecure incomes at best. At the hotel? They don’t know what to invest in. Ever heard of the radio?”
“Of course.”
“How about a Jordan car, or the Heany Lamp Company, or Kirk’s Jap Rose soap?”
Libby shook her head.
“See? You have foreknowledge of what will last. Radio is a good investment. The others are not. These people,” he gestured toward the outside of the cave, “don’t have awareness of what is going to happen. I can’t tell them, and you mustn’t either. Be careful what you share about the future. People will think you’re odd. You’ll be considered aberrant, perhaps deviant. Remember, this is still the age when female hysteria is considered real, and a viable reason to institutionalize a woman.”
Libby gasped. “An insane asylum?”
His smile broadened. “Now you know why my wife loves me. She knows I have a more opened-minded view and respect for women.”
Before she realized what she was saying, Libby murmured, “There are dozens of reasons to love you.” Where had that come from? She bit her lip, regretting her words. He had rescued her. That’s all. People brought together in crisis situations tended to form unusually tight—and generally short-lived—bonds. She’d learned that at the bureau.
He stood, acting nonplused. “Tell you what, while you change into those jeans, I’ll build a fire. We’ll dine under the stars tonight.” He winked. “Spend the evening in a crash course on the Roaring Twenties.”
Libby and Davis ate slowly, sitting on duffel bags by the fire, savoring the food and the quiet dusk creeping over the mountainside around them. Davis had cooked sausage and potatoes, brought from town, and supplemented it with cheese, and a wine he said was from his own homemade brew. Libby’s head was so aswarm with questions, she didn’t know where to start, nor how to change the topic from the food to what waited her on the morrow. He solved the dilemma.
As he poured more wine into her metal cup, he said, “Your accent. Is it from your time overseas?”
“I can shake it if I concentrate. Do you think it will be a problem?”
He waved her words away as a non-concern. “We’ll use it to your advantage. Most people will assume you’ve been in Europe. In that case, you couldn’t be expected to know all the nuances of American life. That will help explain any missteps.”
He set his empty plate on the ground and poured himself more wine. “Fortunately, the Red Scare that gripped the country after World War I is mostly a thing of the past. Still, be aware of lingering immigrant concern. Emphasize, when you get the chance, that your parents are American.”
“I’ll be careful,” Libby said, savoring the wine and his advice with equal fervor.
“Is it safe to assume you’ve studied American history?”
She nodded. “Aunt Isabel was adamant I study hard. History, geography, politics.”
“Then you may remember this is an age of inventions ...” He grinned as though just thinking of something humorous. “...although, ironically, sliced bread, the invention by which all other inventions are measured in the future, doesn’t arrive until a couple years from now. But, other inventions abound, along with art, flamboyance, excess, satire. It’s the jazz age. Expect to hear that music everywhere. Vaudeville is big, as are silent films. Next year, 1927, the first part-talkie motion picture is released.”
“The Jazz Singer.”
“Very good. But remember, you don’t know that yet. Let’s see,” he said, strumming his fingers on his right thigh. “Calvin Coolidge is president. Boxing, the biggest sport. Gene Tunney captures the world heavyweight championship from Jack Dempsey later this year. Babe Ruth is an American sports hero, too, although his Yankees lose the Series this year to the St. Louis Cardinals, so you don’t know that yet either. The 20th Tour de France, takes place this summer. It is the longest one in history, by the way, and—”
“The Tour de France? You have a good memory. How is it that you recall that event?”
“Ahhh, well, I love wheels and speed. Cars, motorcycles, even bicycles. The route for this tour traces closely the borders of France. It is the first time the tour starts outside Paris. A Belgian cyclist Lucien Buysse wins.” He shook himself, as though trying to remove the historic spreadsheet from his mind. “Where was I? Ah, yes, some current events. Mount Rushmore National Monument recently opened, and last year was the trial of Thomas Scopes.”
Libby shot him a puzzled look.
“Taught evolution rather than creationism.”
“Ahh.” She nodded, satisfied. “Tennessee, right?”
“Correct. Clarence Darrow defended Scopes and therefore Charles Darwin’s scientific theory of evolution. Let’s see, other things you may hear in parlor talk...Sinclair Lewis and F. Scott Fitzgerald are publishing. Henri Matisse and Pablo Picasso have a following in the art world.”
She closed her eyes, trying to absorb it all.
Davis continued his tutelage. “As for Hollywood, Douglas Fairbanks, Charlie Chaplin, Rudolph Valentino, Gloria Swanson, Greta Garbo, all film favorites. ’Course, Valentino dies in two months, but again, you don’t know that yet. Charles Lindbergh is still carrying the mail at this point, but next year he’ll do his famous solo flight from New York to Paris. But you—”
“—don’t know that yet,” Libby interrupted with a smile, meeting his gaze.
Davis offered a conciliatory grin. “That’s right.”
Libby’s mind swirled with what she remembered of the Twenties, what she needed to learn, and awareness that could trip her up. She had so many questions and so few assurances. She felt like an archaeologist excavating at a dig, so enamored at the excitement of what she might find, that she forgot to secure her basic necessities.
“Am I overwhelming you?”
She looked up to see his brows furrowed. “A little. I’m grateful for this information, but right now I’m more concerned about how I’ll survive, day to day.”
“Of course. You can learn current events from the newspaper, can’t you? Okay, let’s discuss money. Always a necessity.” He shifted, as though almost embarrassed by his next words. “As a woman, you will have a hard time finding good, paying work. Even if
you secured something professional...say, teaching, or government work...or even interpreting if you moved to a larger city, you’ll find women are not compensated near what men are. You’ll have a hard time securing a safe and comfortable standard of living. The FBI, of course, was reconstituted in 1924 under J. Edgar Hoover, but is not openly receptive to female recruits yet.”
“Sounds dismal.”
“Dismal, but not impossible. As I said earlier, we will need to secure your finances a different way. This is an era of booming stock market fortunes. Before the war, investors tended to choose preferred stocks which paid a steady return each year. But businesses and industries are exploding with growth now, so you’ll want to zero in on common stock. They pay dividends which closely reflect a business’ growth and profit.”
“So radio is a good investment.”
He nodded, then brushed a hand down his cheek and across his lips, a pensive look. “Automobiles are booming too, so think about what goes into them. Gas. Steel. Tires. Glass. Rubber. All growing markets. I wish I could remember other examples from my economics classes in college the way I do radio. In 1929 radio stock splits five for one and hits a high of over a hundred dollars per share. That means that a share purchased at the beginning of the decade will be worth nearly four hundred times its original cost.” He added, in a tone that ringed practicality rather than smugness, “I’ll be a very wealthy man.” His voice dropped and he gazed into the fire. “I’m rather lucky.”
She smirked. “You call this lucky?” She hadn’t meant to change the mood, to sound snarky.
He shrugged, returning her gaze. “It’s up to you, isn’t it? You can call it a loss and dwell on anger and blame. Or, you can look at it as an opportunity.” His tone grew serious, almost challenging. “I guess it depends why you came here in the first place.” He looked at her expectantly.
Libby grimaced, but said nothing, instead wondering why she suddenly felt confronted.
The silence lingered, made her uncomfortable. What was he asking?