by D. L. Koontz
As Libby approached, Hardin turned toward her. He didn’t look anything like the men she’d seen thus far. In 2016, he would have been referred to as eccentric, or a free spirit. His salt and pepper hair was shoulder length and unkempt, and a bushy moustache edged three sides of his mouth. Wire spectacles rested on his nose, and his jacket and pants didn’t match. He wore a lopsided bow tie with an artistic flair to it, but no vest. He stood at least five inches shorter than Libby, and reminded her of Albert Einstein, which in turn made her wonder if Einstein was even old enough to look like this yet.
“May I help you?” His smile was pleasant. His hazel eyes glittered a warmth she liked.
“I was told...by a friend...that you could make special mixtures for customers.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I’d like something for my face. A mixture of frankincense and jojoba oil if you can do that.”
His face lit up. “Certainly. Anything else?”
She ticked her wishes off with her fingers. “For allergies, a mix of lemon, lavender, and peppermint.” She paused to think. “Let’s see, to ward off bug bites, could you mix some witch hazel, lavender, and peppermint?”
“Might I suggest some melaleuca in that insect repellent as well? It just arrived, from Siam.”
He had melaleuca from Thailand? “Yes, of course,” Libby smiled. Success. She was communicating well with this man. Then again, where, how, and when had she learned so much about plants and oils? She couldn’t remember, so she shrugged away the concern that snaked through her.
He took a few steps to his left, lifted a portion of the counter that was attached by hinges, and beckoned her to enter. “Would you like to see my products? It’s such a delight to meet someone who appreciates the natural healing arts.”
Libby left the drug store with a small box that contained her jars of oils and lotions, with barely enough time to make it to the restaurant. She and Hardin—he insisted she call him that and return as often as she could—had spent the time talking and comparing uses of the oils he stocked. Despite owning the entire store of mostly manufactured products, he’d made it clear the back left portion of the establishment, where he mixed his knowledge into glass jars, was his favorite. He’d offered to teach her the finer art of mixing the oils, and she’d readily agreed to stop in again before long.
As she hurried past the shoe repair shop, she noticed a crowd gathering beside an alley between two buildings, three doors from the restaurant. Two men wearing navy blue shirts, pants and caps, with pistols in holsters that crisscrossed their upper torso, stood talking to a gentleman who was busy jotting notes in a palm-sized notepad. Police. A vehicle marked “Ambulance,” was parked nearby, along with what looked to be a body fully covered by a blanket lying on the ground. No body bags in this day.
Curious, Libby stopped to assess the scene, standing behind other pedestrians who appeared equally curious. Several yards into the alley, she saw a crude chalk outline on the ground.
The uniformed man talking was quite handsome, in a rugged sort of way. He stood just under six feet tall and looked to be about her age.
“That’s right, Sheriff,” he said, nodding his head of dark hair. “That’s what Mrs. Snell said. That the victim, a Gilbert Harris, rented a room from her for three weeks now, and that he was fine when he came down for breakfast at eight o’clock. But when he didn’t return with his paper by ten like he does every day, she began to worry.”
The sheriff, clad in brown trousers and a tweed jacket with leather at the elbows, kept jotting notes on his notepad. Wisps of chestnut-colored hair showed beneath the edges of his brown fedora hat. Libby couldn’t see his face because his head was tilted as he wrote, his features cast into shadow by the brim of his hat, a brim that attested to too many days in the sun and rain.
The other uniformed man, about five-nine in height with caramel hair, shook his head. “No signs of bullet wounds, Sheriff. Looks like a clear case of strangulation.” His voice rang with confidence, and Libby got the impression he was trying to impress the other two.
Someone in the crowd gasped at the suggestion of strangulation, prompting the sheriff, without looking up, to motion for the uniformed men to disperse the crowd. The caramel-haired officer jumped into action, raising a stopping hand to the handsome officer and saying, “I got this, N.C.” He stepped toward the street to shoo away bystanders and gawkers. “Folks, let’s move along. We’ve got this under control.”
Before she could stop herself, Libby felt her feet moving toward the two men that remained near the body.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she spoke to the sheriff as she came to a stop, but noticed the handsome officer, N.C., smile and remove his cap.
“I was—” she said, but the sheriff looked up from his tablet, and the moment jolted her.
She gasped.
His face caused her such a visceral reaction, she felt disarmed, robbed of breath.
She fought the urge to back away.
His face was familiar, acutely and achingly so. Scores of confusing images of that face—in different lighting, different seasons, different moods—crashed into dozens of disorienting emotions pounding in her chest.
How could that be?
She searched her mind, trying to find something, anything that might explain this sensation.
Nothing. Visions skittered, but remained blurred and out of reach.
He appeared equally stifled. She could see it in the startled look in his eyes, the sudden twitch in his cheek, the hitch in his breathing.
Libby used the stagnant moment to search his features for some sort of memory. His hair was more bronze than chestnut, like a light coffee color. He looked somewhere between thirty and thirty-five years old. Around six feet tall. Muscular and stout, with a quality of stillness and self-awareness to his presence that daunted her.
His blue eyes pierced into hers, but it was the scar on his cheek that grabbed her focus. It twisted savagely, robbing him of warmth and stamping him with a distinctly dangerous edge. It had to have been a deep gash once or else so poorly doctored it never healed correctly. What sort of heinous altercation had he been involved in?
The moment lingered.
Something passed between them.
Something significant. Alarming. As if her whole life had been coming to this meeting.
The reason was in her memory, she was certain, but it raced away, refusing to be caught. Then again, how could it be part of her memory?
She watched him swallow and crunch his brows before he murmuring, “Ohonte, oròn:ya.” As soon as spoke it, he jerked back, shaking his head as though not understanding why it had come out of his mouth.
As dread crept through her, Libby whispered, “Who are you?” at the same time he asked it of her.
His gaze held her in a grip, as he answered the question first.
She sucked in a quick breath at his answer, throwing her hand over her mouth. That voice! She resisted the desire to turn and run. The name...had she heard correctly? “What did you say?” Her whispered tone sounded frightened, unnerved.
N.C. turned from his work and piped in before the sheriff could respond. “This is Brogan Harrow. Sheriff for the county.”
But that can’t be!
The name was wrong. Wasn’t it?
She could have sworn she’d heard the sheriff voice a different name. Had she merely thought she heard it? Anxiety flooded through her, and she began to shake. She pressed her palms into her sides as though to grapple herself.
“Are you well, miss?” N.C. stepped closer to her but hesitated as if undecided what he should do.
She swallowed. Even though this moment had taken mere seconds, they must think her addle-headed. “Yes, yes of course, I am. I just thought...well, never mind.” She pulled her shoulders back and smiled. “My name is Libby Shaw.”
The sheriff’s jaw grew rigid as his eyes continued boring into her. He wiped a palm over his chin as though gaining his composure.
“My apologies for the confusion. May I help you?”
“What? Oh, yes...” She better collect her wits or they’d be bundling her off to the insane asylum. Play your role, Libby. She inched her head taller and spoke. “It’s...” When her voice cracked, she tried again. “It’s just that I wouldn’t be so quick to jump to the conclusion of strangulation.”
The sheriff blinked. Nothing on his face or demeanor changed. “You wouldn’t? And why is that?”
She took a deep breath and gestured to the ground with her free hand. “Well, the chalk outline of the victim suggests a fetal position as though caused by a degree of pain or startling discomfort in the lower torso. Rather than the thrashing limbs scattered here and there one would associate with a struggle. Don’t you think?” She didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “And then of course there are the facts that he ate breakfast according to Mrs. Snell, and he’s not holding a paper. Therefore, death would have occurred following breakfast but before getting his paper, thus very close to breakfast. If those facts are confirmed, then together this suggests death occurred due to something ingested.”
The sheriff continued to study her with such interest she found it hard to breathe. She shrugged a shoulder and shifted her stance, moving her small box from her right hand to her left. “It’s just my impression of course.”
“Of course.” His lips uttered the words, but as before, he made no other movement.
Again, she felt awkward under his gaze. And confused. And afraid. And like she ought to flee. Was he waiting for her to recognize him?
Should she?
As quick as the thought struck, she dismissed it. Of course she didn’t know anyone from the 1920s. Perhaps they each had a doppelganger. Did people in this period even understand what a doppelganger was? Her thinking switched to the discomforting suspicion that he probably wasn’t used to women speaking up, or at least, speaking out. Yes, that had to explain the moment. Ugh, she had a lot to learn. She should exit now.
“Please excuse me, I’m late for lunch.”
The sheriff nodded hurriedly, as though trying to refocus. “Of course.” He blinked and tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss Shaw.”
N.C. stepped forward. “Miss, are you sure you’re fine now? I could walk you—”
“No...no really, I’m quite fine. That won’t be necessary.”
As she walked away, she closed her eyes and grappled for a deep breath of air, as though she’d been held under water for far too long. She smacked directly into a solid body. A very large, solid, male body. She opened her eyes in time to discover he was surprised too.
He dropped his gaze to make eye contact, mumbling, “I’m very sorry, Miss—” His sentence died there, and Libby saw why. This was the heavy-set bootlegger she’d encountered on her first night in 1926. He stiffened as though waiting to see what she would do or say, but then N.C.’s voice called out, “Mayor Drenning, over here.”
The heavy man hesitated one moment more, then responded, “Coming.”
This was the mayor? As though she were tethered to him with a rope, she followed.
N.C. said something to the mayor and they walked to the body. N.C. bent down and pulled the blanket back.
Libby sucked in her breath. It was the scrawny bearded guy with the eye patch that had been with the mayor at the still.
“Never seen him before,” the mayor said. His lips were thin and he flattened them, making them almost invisible, as he appeared to assess the body. “Must be a drifter. I better get to the office. Good job, men.”
Libby watched, incredulous. Never seem him before? The mayor was lying. She opened her mouth to speak when a hand touched her arm. She turned to see Davis.
“Come on,” he said and tugged her through the crowd toward the street.
She pointed behind her. “But, I was just...I have to...that bootlegger...”
“I heard. I got here in time to hear you explain to the police why the guy wasn’t strangled. Impressive, but you need to stay out of it.” He led her around the corner before letting go, and offered his arm instead. “Now then, let’s get some lunch.”
She hesitated, looking at his arm. Her sense of duty warred with the realization that she needed to stay uninvolved. For now. She sighed and fell in line beside him, matching his pace. “I guess I haven’t had a very auspicious start.”
“What makes you say that?” he asked, his tone guarded. “This morning you demonstrated some serious self-defense moves that pitted you against another guest and will keep the maids talking all summer. Then, you gave Jarvis the impression you are my mistress. Now you’ve upstaged the local police and alerted the mayor to the fact that you know he’s a bootlegger.”
She remained quiet.
He offered a smile and, without breaking their stride, patted her hand where it rested on his arm. “Libby, I’m not sure the Roaring Twenties are quite ready for your roar.”
Chapter Twenty
1926
Davis dropped the last of Libby’s purchases on her bed and turned to her. The late afternoon sun sent rays of light through the window, a stark contrast to the dark thoughts he harbored in his heart.
“Promise me you’ll return,” she whispered. She clamped her lips together, chin trembling.
“I will. Soon. Meanwhile, I’ll send that documentation to you.” At lunch he’d told her the room was paid for the month. After that, she’d have to set up an account. For that she needed identification, but Social Security cards weren’t issued until 1936. He planned to have a fake birth certificate created by a discrete acquaintance in Pittsburgh, which would allow her to establish credit and obtain a driver’s license.
“Thank you.” Her voice was soft, laced with dejection.
“For now, keep a low profile,” Davis advised. “Spend time acclimating to the place. The people. The culture. Your Australia story is a perfect cover.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “It allows you to be different.”
She nodded quickly. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said with a weak smile that suggested she didn’t believe her own words.
He retrieved a small piece of paper from his jacket pocket. Two lines of letters and numbers, followed by an address. “My telephone numbers. Top is work. The other, home. But, they’re for dire emergencies only; there’s nothing private about them.” And, they were fake; but he could always pretend he wrote the numbers incorrectly if it came to that. “Meanwhile, I’ll call you every few days.”
“I understand.”
“If you need to send a telegram, ask for Kip Winders at the telegraph office. He’s the young man I tip generously, and often, to keep my privacy.”
Libby looked like she was swallowing a sob. In the next instant, she threw her arms around him, buried her face in his chest, and held on as if he were a branch suspended over a cascade of rapids in a river into which she’d fallen.
Startled, he patted her back and wished he could offer more.
After several moments, she pulled back.
Blast it. Davis reached out and cupped her cheeks in his hands, thumbing away tears. “Take it slow. You’ll be fine. It will be challenging, but from what I’ve seen, you have the mettle for it. You’re not the missish type. And, drink the medicinal water. It’s important for full restoration of health and memory.”
She covered his hands with her own, and nodded.
He stepped back, breaking their contact. “Now rest. Promise me you’ll go to dinner tonight and join life. If you don’t, all this will have been for naught.”
“I suppose. It’s just—”
“Libby, live in the now. If you straddle two worlds and two timeframes, you will end up nowhere. This is your life going forward. Find your horizon and start toward it.”
She nodded again.
He kissed her on the cheek and exited, shutting the door behind him.
Davis turned the motorcar left from the Springs and headed to the old Arandale Hotel. It was good he was relocating, because he question
ed his own objectivity at this point.
Libby had repeatedly said Andrew was coming back. Good, perhaps then they could put all the pieces together and resolve Matryoshka.
Confound it! He banged each word into the steering wheel. The woman was an enigma.
Longing swirled in his head for his Harley and the head-clearing euphoria the open road had provided him in the early 2000s. What he wouldn’t give for that speed now! Instead, he pulled to the side of the road and pulled a fine Cuban cigar from his pocket. Illegal in the twenty-first century, but not now, so he imbibed in them generously. There had to be some perks to living in the Roaring Twenties. And this certainly was a fine one. Another was a good shave. In a real barbershop. In this timeframe, men received the royal treatment at a good establishment. None of that ridiculous unisex hair treatment they had in the future.
He pulled back onto the road, cigar draping from his mouth. The monstrosity of the motorcar required two hands on the wheel, so blast it with any ashes that fell on his suit. He needed this reward.
If Libby Shaw had to be eliminated, he could do it. No problem. It’s not like it would be the first time. But, it would put him in that dark place again. He hadn’t been there since two years after his first wife died, when he’d fallen for Mira, that double agent in Budapest in 2007. If he could eliminate Mira, he could do the same with Mrs. Libby Shaw Grey.
Was that even her real name? She probably had more aliases than he did. Regardless, she was too easy to talk to. He’d fallen victim to the comfort of talking with someone from the future. That’s all it was.
Wasn’t it?
Get a grip, he admonished himself.
She said she spoke multiple languages. No doubt one was fluent Russian. And, he noticed she hadn’t carved her initials in the cave. Was she defying Andrew’s request? Sending a signal to someone else?
He banged the steering wheel again.
Or, perhaps she truly was innocent and just caught up in something she didn’t remember. After all, his memory had suffered after taking the water.