“It’s simply the way it is,” he said. She was glaring at him now, and he looked out the window, into the dark where gaslights flickered at the top of their lampposts. He felt Miss Sanchez watching him.
“Weren’t you raised to think that black people are less than white?” she said. “But you don’t treat Mrs. Washington as if she is less than you are. You don’t think she’s less, do you?”
“Of course not. She’s God’s child, as am I. As are we all.”
“But doesn’t it bother you, to see what people endure?”
He had seen plenty of what people endured, but he did not want to burden Miss Sanchez with what he had seen during the famine, in prison, or afterwards in New Orleans. What he had said in anger at the cathedral about the famine was enough.
“Of course human suffering troubles me,” he said. “But this is how it has always been. The weak and the strong, the poor and the rich. Your world is like this also, is it not?”
Miss Sanchez sank into a chair looking suddenly exhausted. The clock had chimed two o’clock in the morning a few minutes ago.
“Yes, there is slavery in other parts of my world,” she sighed. “Maybe my world isn’t much better. There’s starvation, war, child prostitution.”
The last words sent a surge of fury through Seamus. The evil in the world was real, and he had seen some of it face to face. And its victims were always the small, the poor, the powerless and the weak. Her pain over the subject of slavery and her talk of a world where the institution did not exist made him wonder. If things could be better, different, then there was hope. And maybe that was something.
Miss Sanchez rubbed her eyes. She had such a hopeless look. He squatted next to her chair. “Then you and I must do what we can to improve this one, eh?” he said softly.
“Starting with a good night’s sleep,” she said and rose. “I’ll look in on Henry before I turn in.”
Henry was ensconced in a guest room. He had been so grateful to Seamus for allowing him to stay that Seamus had felt ashamed that he had not done so sooner. The boy had always been so cheery and had never asked to stay before, and Seamus had simply assumed he was content in his current state. It had been thoughtless of him.
It made Miss Sanchez happy that the boy was in the house, full of food and sleeping in a real bed. It gave Seamus a little feeling of unexpected contentment to think of Mrs. Washington, Miss Sanchez and Henry all sleeping under his roof together. It was almost like when his brothers and he had shared a bed when he was a boy. When the boys were asleep, one beside him and two with their heads down at the other end of the bed, he would lie awake in the dark, thinking night thoughts. Their slow, even breathing and the warmth of their bodies had been a comfort in the dark. His sisters had been in their bed at the other end of the room, and his parents through a sheet that hung as a divider. He had never felt alone then.
He usually tried not to think of his family. He could never see them again, and as far as he knew, they thought he was dead. He had lost them forever.
And once Miss Sanchez and Henry were gone, his house would be empty once more. The pleasure of their presence was only temporary.
Miss Sanchez popped her head in the door. “Tell me, why do you hate McCullen so much? You said you invented the peroxide engine and he stole it. Is that what it was?”
He nodded. “In a nutshell, yes.” He wasn’t about to tell her his long and complicated history with Oren McCullen, in Ireland, in Mountjoy Prison, or at Tulane. He would have his fill of the man in the morning.
Chapter 12
“There you are! I knew you would be coming to pay me a call,” said Oren McCullen.
Seamus closed the office door behind him and shook McCullen’s hand.
“Of course I had to come by. I have a few things to discuss,” said Seamus.
“I thought as much.”
McCullen looked genuinely pleased to see him, and looked him up and down in approval. The man was ten years Seamus’s senior, which put him in his mid-thirties, shorter than Seamus, but more powerfully built. He was handsome, though he looked more weary than when Seamus had seen him last. He knew better than to think that it had made McCullen softer.
McCullen motioned to a wooden chair and Seamus took it, setting his hat on the empty chair beside him. McCullen took a seat behind his desk, which unlike Seamus’s desk, was nearly empty but for a few items which were set neatly at the corners. Seamus remembered the arguments in their shared laboratory at Tulane over where Seamus had put one item or another. McCullen had even teased him after the explosion, saying that now the entire building looked like Seamus’s side of the laboratory and that he should feel at home.
“It’s good to see you again, Seamus,” said McCullen in Irish Gaelic. The sound of his native tongue gave Seamus a surge of startled pleasure which faded as he met McCullen’s eyes.
“You miss it?” Seamus asked, also in Gaelic. They both knew what he meant.
“Neither of us can go back, now can we?” said McCullen, his face pained. “Aside from a few of the Irish barmaids and street women, you’re the only one I can speak our language with.”
Seamus considered denying McCullen the pleasure and insisting on English. But he didn’t know how thick the walls were, or if one of McCullen’s workers would walk in at any moment. Gaelic would be best.
“So, what do you think of the engine?” asked McCullen. He was watching him too intently, and an idea occurred to Seamus. McCullen cared what he thought. He wanted Seamus’s approval and admiration. It had been a personal weakness in his partner, and Seamus wondered how he could use it to his advantage.
“It’s marvelous. I took it apart, of course,” said Seamus.
“Of course. I knew you would before I allowed you to purchase it.”
“Then why did you send me one? And why did you sent your concierges over afterward to take it away?”
McCullen shrugged. “Rules are rules.”
“Then you know why I’m here?”
“You want to know how it works, of course. You never could resist a mystery like that. How does the engine work? How did McCullen do it?”
“You did it by stealing my peroxide engine designs.” Seamus couldn’t help himself. He knew he had to keep McCullen happy if he had any chance of getting an engine and getting Miss Sanchez back home. But the theft of their work violated every ethical principle he held. They might both be former convicts, but they didn’t have to be thieves.
“We worked on it together,” said McCullen, his voice placid.
“Then you should have brought me in on the project to work on it with you.”
“The peroxide engine never could produce enough energy to do what these do and you know it.”
“So how did you modify it? What is the substance in that little tube inside and how does it work?” Seamus asked.
McCullen leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, ankle over knee. He looked like he was about to take a catnap.
“Would you like some brandy?” McCullen asked.
“I don’t think I’ll be here long enough for that.”
“Come, come now Seamus. I know your mother didn’t raise you to refuse hospitality, kindly offered.”
Seamus was about to tell McCullen that he had never met his mother, nor had any idea how she had raised him to behave, but he stopped himself. “Very well, then. Yes, I would greatly enjoy some.”
McCullen opened a cabinet and removed a cut crystal decanter and two matching glasses. He filled them and handed one to Seamus.
“So how did you do it?” Seamus asked. “The peroxide engine worked, but you did more. You went beyond anything we had done before.”
McCullen had pleasure in his expression. Seamus was on the right track. McCullen’s pride had not changed.
“
Perhaps I’m a little bit jealous,” said Seamus. “I have no idea what you did, even after looking at it for hours. I couldn’t figure it out. But then, I didn’t have the entire engine to study, only a piece.”
McCullen gave a little one-shouldered shrug, as if to say that what he had done was nothing out of the ordinary. “Tell me what you did to figure it out,” said McCullen. He turned a little to the side, but Seamus knew that he had his full attention.
“Well, I tried to make a sonic map using zed waves.”
“That aluminium recording device of yours?” asked McCullen.
“The same. And I took it apart. It’s the blue tube inside that’s the key to the mystery.”
Seamus and McCullen sipped their brandy. How many times had they shared a drink together? How many pots of tea had they shared in their laboratory? How many drinks of whiskey before that? And in Mountjoy Prison, how many tin cups of murky water?
Yet here they sat, both prosperous, though McCullen was vastly wealthier than Seamus. Two escaped prisoners, living by their wits. But unlike McCullen with his theft and dangerous machines, Seamus lived a clean life. Well, except for a few extra drinks, a few evenings with dockside women and a few games of cards here and there.
“Ah yes. The blue tube,” said McCullen. “And you couldn’t understand it or the piece to which it is attached?”
“I told you that I couldn’t understand it.”
“I always thought you were my equal, old friend.”
The remark stung, and Seamus stiffened before forcing his body and face to relax. McCullen knew that he was dying to know about the blue tube, no matter how he acted or what he said.
“If you aren’t going to tell me what it is, why did you have me here?” Seamus asked.
“Just a visit.”
“Nostalgic for your old friend?” Seamus knew McCullen was up to something. He was glad he had agreed to speak Gaelic. Though he was getting nowhere, perhaps with patience and reminders of his past, McCullen could be softened. It was unlikely, but he had to try. “I doubt you miss my company so much that you’d allow me to dismantle an engine, have your men come to my home and then deny me knowledge of the device just to drink brandy with me.”
“You aren’t so appealing as all that, no,” said McCullen. “Though I’ve heard you’ve caught the eye of a lady or two on the riverboats.”
“Listening to gossip, McCullen? Like a common fishwife?” Seamus said it lightly, not wanting to genuinely anger him. But he also didn’t want his personal life examined too closely.
“I know you can’t afford that fine house of yours on a professor’s salary. Without the money you make gambling, you’d be living in a different neighborhood, rubbing shoulders with the other stinking Irish flooding into New Orleans.”
“You and I once stank a bit,” said Seamus, his tone still light. Irish prisons were not known for allowing prisoners to bathe with any regularity. “I wouldn’t be too harsh on our countrymen. They want the same as we do. They are just like us.”
“No, Seamus. They are not like us.” McCullen was dead serious. “Their minds are different than ours.”
“If you mean our mechanical talents, then we should be thanking the good Lord for giving us what we have and using it to make things better for those who can’t do so for themselves.”
“Then we are of an accord,” said McCullen. He set down his glass and leaned in. “Come and help me make the world better. Come work with me.”
“You mean, on engine design? But you already have a working engine.”
Seamus didn’t dare mention the explosions, the danger that these engines seemed to present. If he stated that the engines were somehow faulty, McCullen would interpret that to mean they were failures and might throw him out for the insult. He would lose his chance to send Miss Sanchez home.
“True. But you could work for me. As a concierge,” said McCullen.
“A concierge? Changing out engine cores and doing maintenance on the devices?”
“It pays well. Better than your professorship.”
Seamus thought of the fine clothing that the concierges had worn at his house. But he’d be waltzing in hell before he worked as McCullen’s employee.
“I don’t need your money.”
“Of course not. If you need money, you head to the riverboats. With your way of watching the cards, a few hands of bourre and you have what you need. The legendary good luck of Seamus Connor. Though of course, that’s not your real name.”
Now they were on dangerous ground. A few words to the wrong people, and Seamus would be in irons on his way back across the ocean. Seamus could, in turn, reveal McCullen’s past. They were essentially at an impasse, but money tipped the scales in McCullen’s favor. He might have enough money to buy his way out of any difficulties, should Seamus start talking and reveal what he knew. Seamus did not think McCullen would betray him. He had money and power here in New Orleans and it was simply not worth the risk of losing it all.
“I don’t like you keeping tabs on me, Oren. Why do you care what I do? You have the engines, wealth beyond the dreams of avarice and my peroxide engine designs. There’s nothing more for me to offer you.”
But both of them knew it wasn’t true. With a pang, Seamus thought of their former friendship, the good times they had spent together. And the bad. He remembered the day he and McCullen had secured a position at Tulane, entirely under false credentials, of course. McCullen had gotten Seamus a position, saying that they came as a team and he wouldn’t work without his partner. That night, they had gone back to the room they shared in a drafty boarding house and had drunk an entire bottle of good whiskey. They had laughed and pounded on the wall good-naturedly at the sounds of the street girl next door, plying her trade. Within a week, they had rented better quarters in a better section of town.
McCullen was lonely. He wanted Seamus’s friendship again, but on his terms, with Seamus in a subservient position. Well, he could think again.
“I’m not interested, Oren. I wish you well in your endeavors, but I do not want to work in your employ. I will, however, be happy to see you at your party tomorrow evening.” Seamus had one more chance to discover what the blue fluid might be and he was going to take it. He got up from his chair.
McCullen likewise rose. “Will you be bringing your pretty lady friend? Miss Sanchez, is it?”
How did he know about Miss Sanchez? He hadn’t seen her himself, surely. One of his men must have reported back to him. Seamus couldn’t very well tell McCullen that Miss Sanchez was his cousin. The man knew his background too well.
“You do have eyes and ears everywhere,” Seamus said, trying to keep a little admiration in his voice.
“Indeed. I would love to make her acquaintance. A Spaniard, is she?”
Seamus would love to see Miss Sanchez give McCullen one of her withering looks for that, but as she was not here, he said, “She’s Castillian.”
The lie would give her passage into society and would allow her to mingle with wealthy white people. Miss Sanchez had told him that her grandparents were from Mexico, but though Mexican women could mix in some levels of society, they were denied others. A Castillian she would have to be. He would have to delicately inform her of this when he got home. He sensed it would be a touchy subject.
“I am looking forward to making her acquaintance,” said McCullen.
Chapter 13
Felicia sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the low battery warning on her mobile phone screen. For some reason, she wanted it to keep its charge as long as possible. She knew it was silly to care about it, but she dreaded the screen going black. She couldn’t charge it, of course. And in 1857, it was a useless object, even fully charged. Well, the Professor could have fun taking it apart and poking around inside. But other than warping the correct order of
technological advancement, the phone was worthless.
She looked through her pictures, stopping at a shot of her nephew. She wanted to memorize his face, and the faces of everyone else she loved. She scrolled through her voice mail list and played the week-old messages from her mother and sister. Their voices comforted her. They meant she belonged somewhere, with people who loved her in a world that made sense. She had family, but also friends, a career, a future. Here, there was nothing. She set the phone on her bedside table.
The gold hands on the small porcelain clock on her dressing table said that it was almost noon. Seamus was punctual about lunchtime, always wanting it served in his laboratory at noon sharp. She had noticed that he didn’t much care when breakfast or supper were served and seemed surprised when she or Mrs. Washington summoned him for those meals. But lunchtime mattered to him.
Felicia had been in Seamus’s house for two days and she wondered about the Professor. He had a complete lack of organizational skills both in his laboratory and on his person. His clothes and person were clean, but his pockets were stuffed with odd bits of things and his hair was often a wild mess. He had a habit of pacing and gesticulating when he was agitated or had an idea. But he also would descend into brooding silences, deep in thought. She hoped he was thinking of how the McCullen machine could get her home and left him alone at those times.
Perhaps the reason the Professor liked lunch to be exactly on time was to have a predictable way to break his day into parts. She wondered if he was the type of person who would forget to eat if not reminded. He seemed to forget most other things if they were not the object of his immediate focus.
He had gone to the university the previous day after his visit to McCullen and had gone again this morning. He had classes to teach, and Felicia wished she could have gone along to listen. But a woman in class would have stood out too much, even if she posed as his cousin.
The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series) Page 10
