The hall lighting was dim, the staircase narrow. He heard the muted cry of a baby. He smelled bacon and coffee. From two flights up, a lilting melody danced from a violin.
Patrick edged toward the stairs, gazing up into the murky distances of the upper floors. He laid a hand on the wooden banister and started up, stairs creaking beneath his boots. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He nudged back the bill of his bowler hat and ascended, every sense awake.
Reaching the fourth floor, he heard something shatter. He heard a thump. He looked right at apartment 43, Duncan Beaumont’s apartment. He heard a low, muffled voice. It was not a friendly voice. He heard another thump, as if someone had fallen.
Patrick eased his way toward the apartment door, casting glances about to see if curious heads were poking out of other apartment doors. He saw no one.
Patrick gently pressed an ear against the door. He heard the low, gruff voice again. He could just make out the words.
“Are you going to tell me where she is, you goosecap, or do you want more of the same?”
No response.
“You are a dumb boy, aren’t you?”
Patrick heard a slap, a cry and a whimper.
Patrick decided to act. He pulled himself to his full height and rapped on the door.
Silence.
Patrick knocked harder.
“Who is it?” came a harsh voice.
Patrick went into a thick Irish brogue. “It is Father O’Neil, from the hospital, come to see how Mr. Beaumont is feeling. Will ya let me in now?”
“Go away. He doesn’t want to see you.”
Patrick knocked again, waiting, body tensing.
“I said, go away!”
Patrick persisted. He knocked again.
When the door swung open, Patrick cocked a fist. The face he saw before him was tough, bony and narrow. Patrick punched that face hard in the nose.
The man stumbled backward, hands to his nose, falling on his ass.
Patrick swiftly entered, shook out his sore hand and shut the door behind him. He quickly scanned the room. Duncan was cowering in the back corner, near a radiator, his nose trickling blood, eyes darting about, frightened, like a cornered mouse.
Duncan’s downed attacker was a pro and he responded quickly. While holding his bleeding nose with one hand, he pulled a knife from his coat pocket and then grabbed hold of a chair and pulled himself up, knife poised and threatening.
Patrick offered an ingratiating smile. “And a good day to ya, son. May the good Lord be with ya.”
“I told you to get out of here, you daft priest, if you are a priest. And what priest thuds a man in his nose for nothin’?”
“Ah, but you just frightened me for a second with that face of yours. Please forgive me, Lord,” Patrick said, folding his hands and looking heavenward.
“I told you to get out of here.”
“So ya did, my son, so ya did. But the Lord has his work to do and I have mine. Yes, I do. So here I am to check on this poor lad, and from the looks of it, it seems you two are having a bit of a scuffle.”
“I will cut you, priest, so help me God, if you don’t leave, and leave now.”
“Now why would ya do such a thing, son? Have you no respect for…”
The man cut him off. “No! I have no respect for you, priest. Now get out. Now!”
Patrick saw the chair. As the bad man stepped to his left, as if to block Duncan, Patrick made his move. He surged forward, snatched the top rail of the wooden chair, lifted it, and swung its four legs, jabbing them at the attacker.
The man was startled by the aggressive, unexpected move and stepped back. Again, he recovered, with a dark, sinister grin.
“Priest, do not play with me. I will cut you, make no mistake, and I will leave you bleeding in the gutter with the rest of the trash.”
Patrick stared into the man’s narrow snake eyes and saw pure evil intent.
“Well, my son, I believe you have the blackest of hearts, don’t ya? Well, I’m a forgiving man, just like the good Lord himself, and I will give you but one more chance. You drop the knife here and now, my son, and I promise not to drive you back toward the open window and shove your sinning soul out into the cool morning air to smash on the street below. Now, when you fall to your death and splatter on the street, I guarantee the devil will be a-waitin’ for ya.”
The man must have seen the hard glare of truth in Patrick’s eyes. He wavered, but only for a few seconds. He laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, and he threw nervous glances toward the open window.
“I don’t see a collar on you, priest.”
“Of course you don’t, my son. Your black soul blinds you to the goodness of things. Now, what will it be? Will you drop the knife, or will you go straight to the devil?”
The man’s eyes shifted toward Duncan. “I will stab the boy first.”
Patrick knew not to wait. Always attack first. Fast and sure, he did attack, surging forward, thrusting the four wooden legs at the man. He backstepped, eyes shocked round circles.
The man broke for Duncan, but Patrick blocked him with the chair. The man skipped right, but Patrick was there, the four sharp legs spoiling his move. Patrick drove forward, enclosing the sweating man, pinning him. Before the agile man could free himself, Patrick launched ahead, shoving him toward the open window. The man backstepped, struggling for balance. He was only inches from the window ledge, cool air rushing in.
Below, came traffic sounds: a car horn, the hollow moan of a boat whistle. The violin above playing a lively waltz.
The man still gripped the knife, his eyes now stung with fear. He glanced behind, faced Patrick again, and measured his expression.
“Will you drop the knife, son, or will ya fly off to meet the devil?”
The man made one last attempt to break free, but Patrick caged him firmly, wedging him against the window ledge with the chair legs.
“I’ll say a prayer for ya, son.”
Patrick did not want to kill this man. Patrick didn’t want to kill any man, and shoving this wicked man out the window was not practical. It was a last resort. Although it was a gray misty day, it was broad daylight. Neighbors would appear, look up and speculate about which floor and which window. The police would be called. Patrick and Duncan would have to run for it, and Patrick didn’t know if Duncan was up to it, and Patrick didn’t know the neighborhood. Was there a back door? Was there an alleyway? He didn’t know, but he should have looked. He should have checked the place out before he mounted the stairs and went blundering into Duncan’s apartment. The old Patrick would have investigated the area. The new one was rusty. He’d rushed in too fast without a plan. He was too emotional because Maggie was involved; because Eve was involved.
Patrick and the bad man hovered in a tense silence, waiting.
Finally, to Patrick’s relief, the man dropped the knife.
Patrick grinned. “You did the wise thing, my son.”
“You go to the devil, priest.”
Patrick slowly lowered the chair. “Will you leave us in peace now, my son?”
The man grinned, darkly. “Sure I will, priest.”
“Perhaps I’ll see you in the confessional soon?”
“You can count on that, priest. You and me will meet again, that I can promise you.”
Patrick swung the chair to the floor. Just then, the bad man reached into his left coat pocket and Patrick knew what he was going for. Patrick launched himself at the man, connecting to the man’s face with a hard right. The blow drove him back, smashing him into the wall, just inches from the open window.
Patrick pressed the attack, lunging forward, hooking the man in the belly. The impact doubled him over. Patrick slammed a left into his jaw and a right under his chin. The bad man slammed into the wall again, his eyes bulging. As he slid down to the floor, the air left his lungs and his eyes grew glassy and blank. His body sagged and slumped to the right.
Duncan struggled to his feet, face pa
le, body trembling. “Who are these animals? These horrible sick animals?” Duncan asked, voice quivering.
“I’d wager he’s one of Big Jim’s bully boys. I’d also wager he has a second weapon. They always do.”
Patrick kicked the knife away, crouched over the man and padded him down. Sure enough, in the left coat pocket, Patrick found a chrome-plated derringer with a pearl grip.
Patrick pocketed the derringer and tossed the knife aside. He looked up at Duncan.
“Are you a priest?”
“No, Duncan.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I’m Eve Gantly’s husband.”
Duncan stared, processing the words. “A nurse at the hospital said she brought pills that saved my life.”
“Yes, Duncan. Let’s talk about it later. Do you have rope, wire?”
“No…”
“A tie? A long string tie?”
“Yes.”
“Get it. Hurry.”
Minutes later, Patrick had the bad man’s hands tied securely behind his back.
Duncan stood over Patrick, spots of blood on his cream-colored shirt. His eyes were still spooked, his hands shaking.
Patrick arose, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
“Once he wakes up, this won’t hold him for long. We’ve got to go.”
“Go?”
“Yes, go. Take whatever you need. You can’t come back here.”
“I can’t leave.”
“Duncan, don’t be stupid. When this guy wakes up, he’ll kill you. If he doesn’t, somebody else will. Now let’s go.”
Duncan glared down at the man. “I wish you would have killed him. They beat her up, you know.”
“Beat who?” Patrick asked.
“You should have killed him.”
“Who did they beat up, Duncan?”
“Poor Irene. That big man beat her up and her brother did nothing to stop it. They should all die for that.”
Patrick was stunned. “Irene Casterbury? Did Big Jim beat up Irene Casterbury?”
Now Duncan could hardly contain his rage, as he squeezed his hands into fists. “Yes! Yes… she was taken to the hospital. I saw her there.”
“Why, Duncan?”
Duncan’s red-rimmed eyes held Patrick. “They wanted to know where that woman is. Where your wife is. She was Irene’s friend.”
Patrick sighed. “Of course…”
And Patrick was glad Eve had left town.
The man on the floor groaned. To Patrick’s surprise, Duncan kicked him in the gut.
CHAPTER 28
At eight in the morning on Sunday, December 13th, Eve checked into her room at the Morrison Hotel on Clark and Madison Streets, a hotel that had been suggested to her by Ann. Ann had also suggested two respectable lady’s boarding houses, but Eve had decided on the hotel. It had 519 rooms, and the one item that had sold Eve was the private bath, an amenity which had not yet become commonplace in the hotel industry.
Eve found some bubble bath packets in a rose porcelain soap dish. She turned on the gold facet, sprinkled half a package into the full stream and undressed while the water churned and foamed. The train trip had not been difficult, but she was still not used to people smoking in the dining car and in the lounge, and she’d developed a persistent cough because of the smoke. She’d also had to fend off an obnoxious and irritating salesman who had repeatedly invited her to dinner and “a libation” in the lounge.
Ten minutes later, Eve was inside the warm tub, contented and engulfed in bubbles. As she closed her eyes, an image of Patrick slid into her inner vision. She would be glad when this whole adventure was over, and they were safely back in their own time in their own place and in their own bed.
And then thoughts of the lantern intruded. What would she say to Ann about the time travel adventures? How much could she say? Would Ann want to time travel to the future?
And then Eve’s body took over. The water felt luxurious and relaxing and it lulled her into a peaceful trance. She sank further into the tub and fell asleep.
At six o’clock that evening, Eve emerged from a taxi at State and Randolph Streets, wearing a long tapered woolen coat, black embroidered shoes, and an elegant plum dress and hat. She took in the tower clocks, awnings, trolleys, cars, wagons and crowds of people. Eve had never been to Chicago in her own time, and she was charmed by the 1914 architecture, shops and restaurants. She liked the good energy of the people.
She entered Angelo’s, an Italian restaurant with a Pompeian theme of Roman columns, colorful frescos of nymphs and shepherds, white table cloths and gold-tinted chairs.
The fastidious, thin-mustached Maître d’ led her to a cozy table on the right side of the already bustling restaurant. There, for the first time since her last time travel journey to 1885, Eve caught a glimpse of her dear friend, Dr. Ann Long.
Ann stood as Eve approached, and Eve saw the expanding surprise in her eyes. Of course, Eve had not aged at all. Ann Long, on the other hand, was a thin, gray-haired woman with a pocked face mapped with lines, the pockmarks a result of smallpox Ann had contracted when she was a teenager.
In her dark, conservative dress, with a bit of lace around the neck, Dr. Long appeared like a woman from a past age. If Eve was honest, she’d say that Ann Long appeared older than her 69 years. To her experienced nurse’s eyes, Dr. Long did not look healthy and she did not appear to be physically strong.
But Ann’s smile was warm and welcoming, and her blueberry eyes twinkled with pleasure. She did not hug Eve, but simply offered a thin hand and a cordial “Hello, Miss Kennedy. It is so pleasant to see you again.”
Eve handed Ann a gift box, artistically wrapped in evergreen paper with a lavish red bow. She’d purchased it that afternoon at Rothchild’s Store on South State Street.
“It’s a ‘hello again’ and a Christmas present,” Eve said.
Ann took the gift with a pleased, small smile. “Well… how nice of you. I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you.”
“Not to worry. Forgive the sentiment, but seeing you again is gift enough,” Eve said.
After they sat and menus arrived, Ann gently unwrapped the gift, lifted the lid, and parted the white tissue paper. Inside was a floral, rose-colored silk scarf. Ann’s face opened in extravagant pleasure as she removed it from the box and held it up.
“Oh, my, how lovely it is, Miss Kennedy. How wonderfully beautiful. Oh, I’m so sorry I have nothing for you in return.”
As Ann returned the scarf to the box, she said, “This dinner will be my gift, Miss Kennedy. It will be my Christmas present to you.”
And then they fell into easy conversation about Eve’s train journey and about the New York weather. Eve relaxed, enjoying Dr. Long’s clear, creamy speech and warm, formal voice.
Ann ordered veal chops sauté with pizzaiola, and Eve chose spaghetti with Romana sauce and meatballs. A carafe of dry red wine was on its way.
After the waiter glided off into the crowded room, Ann leaned back and studied her old staff member. She smiled wistfully.
“It appears you have found the fountain of youth, Miss Kennedy.”
“You can call me Eve, Dr. Long.”
“All right, then you must call me Ann. Shall we jump right into it, or should we dance around it a bit?”
“Well first, I’d love to know how you like Chicago, Ann.”
Ann surveyed the room as the hum of conversation hovered and the lighting suddenly dimmed, adding a romantic atmosphere. Table candles began to glow and flicker, and the smell of the Italian food was ubiquitous.
“I like the people of Chicago,” Ann said. “I like this town, I think, even more than I liked New York. Do you know that I have even taken an interest in baseball? I actually attended a game at Weeghman Park. The game was between the Chicago Federals, or Chi-Feds, as they say, and the Kansas City Packers. I admit to having a wonderful time, especially since the Chi-Feds won.”
“I never thought of you as a baseball f
an.”
“And that is not all,” Ann said with enthusiasm. “Last summer, a younger colleague told me that I should go to 63rd Street and King Drive and fly over the city in a dirigible. She said it was the most thrilling experience she’d ever had. Well, at first, I was terrified at the thought. But then, as the days passed, I gathered up my courage and I did it. Yes, I did. I flew in a dirigible over Chicago, from the South Shore to the mouth of the Chicago River. It was so exhilarating. It lasted for 25 minutes, and it was not inexpensive, of course. It cost $25 per person. Well, the price almost changed my mind for me. But I swallowed my parsimony and my fear, and I did it.”
“I am impressed. Again, that doesn’t sound like the woman I knew in 1885.”
Ann shifted in her chair, suddenly serious.
“Eve… as I said in my letter, my heart will not last much longer. As such, I decided I wanted to do some things I’d never even thought about doing before, and you know what? I wish I had done them sooner. I wish I hadn’t been so absorbed in my work for so much of my life. I wish I had discovered baseball sooner, and dirigibles, and the beach at 58th Street. I believe I would have been a better woman, a better doctor and a happier person. Yes, I do believe that.”
Eve saw the earnest glint in Ann’s now sad eyes.
Ann made a vague gesture with her hand. “And then again, maybe it also had to do with this awful and terrible war that is spreading around Europe like a firestorm. There have been pro-Germany marches here, and there are some who want us to get involved in the war. Thankfully, President Wilson is against it. But, oh, how I wish that little Bosnian Serb had not assassinated Archduke Ferdinand and his dear wife, Sophie, in June. I fear the worst. I fear that it won’t be long before the entire world will be engulfed in some devastating war.”
The wine arrived. The very upright waiter, with a bushy black mustache, filled their glasses and then hurried away.
Eve sipped her wine, looking at Ann over the rim. Ann stared back, strangely.
“Perhaps you know what will happen, Eve. Perhaps you know things that no one else in this world knows. Do you know if the entire world is about to go to war? Perhaps you know many other things, as well. I suspect so. I have thought much about it since Jacob Jackson set that lantern on my desk and told me his incredible and unbelievable story. But now, here you are. Here you sit opposite me, and you have not aged since I saw you last, some twenty-eight years ago.”
The Christmas Eve Daughter - A Time Travel Novel: The Sequel to The Christmas Eve Letter Page 19
