by D. L. Koontz
After reading and signing the contract, she handed it back. “Thank you, Mr. St. Clair.” She bit her lip as she sought for words to another request.
His eyebrows pulled together. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Shaw? That is my standard commission—”
“It’s not that...” I need fast money to help my friend Rose. “I have an urgent matter that demands a swift payout, faster than what I suspect these investments will bring.”
He frowned. “Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?”
“No, I’m talking about...well...a wager, I guess. A gamble.” She slouched back in the chair and looked away feeling defeated. In doing so, a stack of carefully ironed newspapers caught her eye. “Hold on...” she said, a tone of hope in her voice. “Bear with me a moment.”
The papers represented varied cities and dates. She snatched a few, returned to the table, and flipped through them. Brazil Leaves League of Nations. So what? Nothing there on which to place a wager. Mordecai Johnson Becomes First Negro President of Howard University. Again, not wager-worthy. College Board Administers First SAT Exam. Traffic Lights Slated for Piccadilly Circus in August. Gertrude Ederle May Become First Woman to Swim English Channel. Isadora Duncan Back in Paris. No, no, no, and no.
As she scanned the headlines, Mr. St. Clair was aflutter with the proposition of gambling. She ignored his “couldn’t” and “wouldn’t” declarations.
Then she saw it, an update on the progress of the Tour de France. It began June 20, and would end July 18. One week away. Perfect.
“I’ve got it. Mr. St. Clair, do you know a good place to wager on a sporting event?”
“What? No, I do not...that is to say, yes I do, but no I will not.” He took off his glasses and polished them fiercely with a spotless white handkerchief he pulled from his lapel pocket. “I’m here with you on official capacity, Mrs. Shaw. I could lose my job, my reputation, if—”
“Our official meeting has ended. Let’s say we’re talking on an unofficial capacity right now.”
“If it’s quicker money you need, then perhaps commodities—”
“I don’t want commodities. I want to place a bet on the Tour de France.”
“Mrs. Shaw, that is impossible. I simply could not—”
His words had a refusal, but his eyes flickered as though he also were rapidly calculating odds and potential payoff in his mind, so Libby added a finality to her next statement: “Mr. St. Clair, I’m going to place a wager on the Tour de France. Someone is going to earn a carrying fee and transaction fee for this wager whether or not I win. Now, it can be you, or you can let someone else have it.”
When he said nothing, she went in for the kill. “Say, double the commission?”
He assessed her. Inhaled. Exhaled. Looked around them. Leaned in. “What do you have in mind?” His voice was hushed.
She pulled another one hundred dollars from her bag and handed it to him. “This, on a Belgian named Lucien Buysse to win.”
He stared at the money a moment, then Libby saw a flick in his jaw the moment he decided to do her bidding. “He’s riding with his two brothers. Do you want me to spread—”
“Just Lucien Buysse,” Libby said. “The whole lot.”
Two weeks later, Mr. St. Clair brought Libby her winnings of sixteen hundred dollars and a box of Belgian chocolates. She took six hundred and asked him to invest the rest for her.
Three days later, a stoic and resigned Jarvis agreed to let Libby move, and stay through the winter, in one of the ground-level rooms that offered a private entrance and heat from a steam radiator, and for the young maid Rose to live in the room next door. For agreeing to that arrangement, he secured more than the going rate on the rooms, and a promise that Rose would continue her work and be discrete in her comings and goings.
Chapter Twenty-Two
2016
Andrew stepped into the cool dampness of the cave and smiled. It was good to be out of that furnace of a city. Washington D.C in July was miserable. By late morning the weatherperson had tagged the temperature at ninety-eight degrees, but Andrew doubted the perfectly coiffed meteorologist on TV took into account how much the marble and blacktopping that held the city together absorbed the sun, elevating the heat index to brutal proportions.
Why people chose to live in such temperatures was beyond understanding. Cool-weather locales were best. What he was used to. Most importantly where he would return. Soon.
For now, though, he was content: back in Bedford, back at the cave, and looking forward to a night of pampering at the spa in the Bedford Springs Resort.
He looked at the wall one last time. L.S. 1926. He exhaled a long-building breath of relief.
She survived! He knew where to find her.
The Z.H. 1922 etched near her initials, however, made him pause. Z.H. Yes, he was a good man. Pragmatic. Bit of a roughneck, that one, but good. Would it be possible they might meet? Probably not, given the four-year difference, and knowing what he did of Z. H. That man was too hardheaded to stay in Bedford, or even Pennsylvania for that matter. He’d probably gone west, maybe south, by now.
Libby. His beautiful Libby. Was she adapting? Meeting people? He frowned. How would she make a living? Too bad the bureau in those days didn’t take women. That could provide long hours of interesting conversation if things worked out, given what they knew about the country and the FBI in future years. But no, there were no possibilities for her in the bureau in 1926. Or, in audio translation, for that matter.
And, certainly no Matryoshka Project.
Heck, there weren’t even Matryoshka tapes in 2016 anymore. Another agent had discovered them missing right after her departure.
And now he was being followed from time to time. He’d had a hard time shaking the tail today. What was really going on? Why was the bureau spending money, especially taxpayer dollars, on what seemed like organized chaos? Didn’t one department talk to another, or was everyone out to protect their own turf?
Thank goodness he’d removed Libby from this.
Now his dilemma was: could he, would he join her?
Chapter Twenty-Three
1926
By early August, half the guests were different than those who had been at the Springs Hotel when Libby arrived. Of the familiar faces that remained, it was clear from the flushed skin, stooped shoulders, raspy voices, or chronic fatigue as to why many of them remained. The hope of the medicinal power of ‘taking the water’ seemed to spring eternal.
The healthier among the collected guests participated enthusiastically in the many activities the hotel provided. Besides golf, tennis, swimming, and horseshoes tournaments, the hotel held picnics, riding expeditions and competitions, dances, bonfires, and a revolving door of musical and theatrical entertainment.
Maude Berger had returned to Cleveland, but said she’d be back after Labor Day with a different patient. Unfortunately, Leon Martelli remained, but so did Mrs. Beachum, much to Libby’s delight, particularly after the old woman pulled her aside and announced that her granddaughter had unexpectedly decided not to marry because her fiancé refused to leave Germany. Seems a young British officer had already caught Lena’s eyes.
Davis continued to call dutifully, each time expressing regret he couldn’t get away due to work.
August also ushered in sweltering hot days, prompting Libby to purchase a blue Hawthorne Flyer bicycle and switch her visits to town from afternoon to cooler mornings.
Plus, there was the presence of Brogan Harrow, but she denied to herself that he had anything to do with her change in routine. She had narrowly escaped several encounters with him in the afternoons. After a little spying from around street corners, she discovered he spent most mornings in the office, and afternoons on patrol around town. Each time she saw him, he was helping someone: a farmer loading a truck-bed of animal feed, two children attempting to cross the street, an old woman loaded down with heavy groceries, a young man working on the engine of his car. He’d even stopped two bo
red teens who had been kicking a can and passing a cigarette back and forth, to offer them a coin each for cleaning up the main street through town. Many of his efforts were rewarded with an invite to dinner, or a Sunday afternoon baseball game. She overheard him decline each as though his involvement extended only so far, that helping was appropriate but getting involved was more than he wanted to offer.
No doubt his kindness was just an act anyway. That harsh scar on his face told the real truth, didn’t it? Served as a warning to others—Caution: Interaction may lead to mortal danger. Yes, that had to be why she was so in tune with his whereabouts.
On one particular Wednesday morning she stood shoulder to shoulder with Hardin as he taught her how to mix a sleeping aid with herbs.
“When it comes to plants you have to know what to use,” he said, his focus on the counter where he was busy separating the harvest he’d grown. “Sometimes a root will do, other times you need a leaf or only a stem. It also matters how you use it. This particular plant can be ground up, but others you might have to boil.”
“It’s so fascinating,” Libby said, and meant it.
“I ought to use it myself,” he quipped as he picked up a glass bottle and held it to the light while using an eye dropper to add lavender oil to his concoction.
“Are you having trouble sleeping?”
“Sleep? No, I sleep like a baby no matter where I am. The problem is restfulness. My sleep is not deep. It is filled with pictures. Images that demand attention.”
“Perhaps they’re simply vivid dreams,” Libby suggested. “Or memories that haunt you. Some that weigh on your heart and others that you just can’t seem to grasp.”
When he didn’t respond, she turned to see him studying her. He lowered his work to the counter never breaking his gaze. “You are talking from experience about these memories that haunt?” His voice was pitched low, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “This troubles you?”
How had this turned around to be about her? She couldn’t tell him the truth, but perhaps if she talked in vague terms, she could empty herself enough to feel better. “Hardin, I—” Tread carefully. She rubbed her forehead and shifted her gaze to the counter. The words began to fall from her lips before she could restrain them. “I’ve taken the water...more than taken it. I have changed...profoundly. I left behind a life that I can never get back. Everything about that life was different. I had to leave behind a career as a translator and an investigator. A city I enjoyed. Alexandria. A lifestyle. A husband.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “And, my dearest friend and roommate, Colette Ma. I never got to say goodbye to her.”
When she finished, she looked up to see Hardin’s face, expecting him to offer her chipper words of hope, to say she could always work things out. How could she explain it would be impossible? Would he entertain the thought of time travel?
He straightened his shoulders. “I confess I do not understand your situation, nor the impossibilities you allude to, but I can tell you are certain this is a final change. I am sorry for your loss. If there is anything I can do to help, I will.”
Libby stared at him several heartbeats, overcome by the warmth in his voice and the world of wisdom that shone in his eyes. She forced a weak smile. “Thank you. I promise the same to you.”
“Ah well, I’m afraid no one can help me either.” He ran a hand through his scraggly hair and it flopped and stayed out of place, across one eyes. “You see, Libby, my visions are filled with urgency, as though I’m running to find something or someone. I do not know if they are premonitions, or memories of other lives.”
“Other lives? Like reincarnation? You believe you’ve lived other lives before this one?” Reincarnation didn’t mesh with Biblical teaching, nor with what she’d experienced. But then again, she’d once never given credence to time travel either.
He raised his right hand to his chin, rubbing it while he reflected on her words. “Interesting. But no, I do not believe in such nonsense. In my situation, I wonder if my memories are inherited from my ancestors. Is it actually their sense of urgency? We inherit our ancestors’ hair color, nose structure, physique...why not their thoughts and memories?”
Startled, Libby stared at him. “That’s amazing. I never thought about it.” I don’t think anyone in the twenty-first century has given that serious research either.
They returned to their work, but Libby was left to wonder about what he said.
Late that night, as Libby made notes about the oil blends she’d learned from Hardin that day, a faint, shuffling sound outside her door stopped her cold. She had left the windows cracked to cool the room, as there was no air conditioning.
She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. Nearly one-thirty in the morning. No sensible, and innocent, person would be out at such an hour. An unnerving chill splintered through her core.
The sound came again.
Heart hammering, she turned off her desk light, shot to her feet and crossed the room to her purse. From it, she retrieved her pistol, all the while praying Rose had shut and locked her windows.
She crouched and inched to the window, peering out around the edges of the dark curtain. There was no sound, no activity anywhere on the lawns, except for a large dark silhouette hastening away from the hotel, moving through the low glow of moonlight, then lost in the shadows of the night. His size, the hat, the way the figure moved, she was certain it had been a man.
Convinced the intruder had been right outside her door, Libby shut and locked the window. Perhaps she should have given more credibility to those feelings of being watched that she experienced during her walks to town. Could it be the pale man? Or Leon? Waiting to catch her or Rose off guard. What about the goon that was with the mayor and Gilbert Harris in the woods the first night she arrived? The size and physique fit, and the mayor knew she witnessed him lying about Gil Harris.
She got little rest that night.
Maude returned after Labor Day in early September. On her third evening back, she accompanied Libby to a live performance of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, performed by the Ben Greet Woodland Players on the hotel lawns.
By the time the play ended, the light was changing, darkening the vibrant green world that surrounded them. A small band began to play music, and Libby agreed to join Maude for lemonade on the colonnade loggia above the main entrance. The loggia area looked out on the stretch of grass and was aglow with hundreds of bulbs, strung for this purpose. As they neared the front of the hotel, Libby saw Rose approaching through the crowd of people, and was about to call to her when a voice interrupted.
“Good evening, miss.”
She turned to see the handsome dark-haired police officer from town, the tall one named N.C. Instead of a uniform, he wore a dark gray suit and bow tie. Not for the first time, she recalled Davis’s comment about how well everyone dresses in this era. In 2016, half the audience would have turned out in jeans for a lawn event at a resort.
“Good evening. N.C., wasn’t it?” Anxious, Libby looked around him. “You here alone?”
“Yes, miss, on both accounts. We drew straws on who could come tonight.” He grinned and Libby was surprised that it made him even more handsome, if that were possible. “I got the long straw.”
She still needed assurance. “No Sheriff Harrow?”
“He got the short straw. But, I think he rigged it to lose. He does that for us.” N.C shrugged and pulled out a pocket watch to check the time. “I s’pect he’s home with his wife by now anyway.”
“His...wife?” Libby’s stomach clenched, surprised at her own reaction. By this time, Rose had reached their side and Libby caught her and Maude staring at her. “Oh, I’m sorry. Dr. Maude Berger, Rosella Morgan, this is N.C...I’m sorry I don’t know your last name, or for that matter what N.C. stands for.”
When N.C. saw Rose, his eyes widened, looking dazzled. He yanked off his hat and wedged it between his arm and torso. With a smile that stretched ear to ear, he extended his hand, hesitated, then wiped it on h
is pants and thrust it out again. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Morgan.”
Rose’s face pinkened and she reached to touch his hand for the briefest contact. “Rose.”
He repeated her name like it was the answer to the Earth’s problems.
From the corner of her eye, Libby saw Maude try to hide a smile by tilting her head and reaching up to scratch her hairline.
The moment felt awkward so Libby said, “I don’t think I caught your last name.”
“Oh well...” N.C. sounded embarrassed, and his hands worked around and around the black grosgrain edge on the perimeter of his felt hat. “My last name is Smith. My mother didn’t want me getting lost in the crowd of Smiths that seem to be taking over the country, so...well...” He blushed. “She named me Nebuchadnezzar Charlton Smith.”
Maude raised her brows. “That’s quite a name.”
“What?” He shifted his gaze from Rose long enough to make eye contact with Maude and say, “Yes, ma’am, it is,” before looking back at Rose. “Are you a guest here, Rose?”
The girl appeared flustered by the attention. “No, I work here as—”
“My personal assistant,” Libby said. It was mostly true. When Libby had moved her into the room next door, Rose argued and said she couldn’t take charity. Libby countered that Rose was saving two hours each day by not walking to and from town, and suggested she use that time to sew them both “some smart frocks and hats. That way, it will all even out.”
N.C.’s eyes widened as though impressed, or pleased. Libby couldn’t tell which.
Rose stood taller. Perhaps she’d needed the boost of a new title.
Libby winked at Maude. “Maude and I were just heading to the veranda for refreshments. If you’ll excuse us.”