Perfect Timing

by Catherine Anderson

  It was Quincy’s turn to give his hat a good dusting on his jeans. “That is too weird for words. How in the hell could that woman have known about the name change when I didn’t know about it myself?”

  For the first time, Quincy questioned the wisdom of having had the O’Ceallaigh woman arrested. Then he gave himself a hard mental shake and reminded himself that an accomplished researcher could discover almost anything on the Internet nowadays. Ceara O’Ceallaigh was a convincing liar and spinner of tall tales, nothing more. Right about now, the authorities were probably trying to decide which psychiatrist to send her to for evaluation and treatment.

  * * *

  By the time Ceara was delivered to what her captors called the station, she was violently nauseated and shaking like a leaf. The horseless carriage with flames painted on its doors had traveled at such an incredible speed that the landscape had passed by her window in a blur. She’d been terrified every second, her heart fluttering wildly in her throat, especially when the conveyance sped over roads covered with snow and ice. Equally frightening to her had been the voice of a woman that blared repeatedly from out of nowhere inside the vehicle. In these modern times, did not all individuals have bodies? Ceara found that difficult to believe, but she’d definitely heard a female speaking, and she saw no crystal ball from which the voice might have come.

  Once she was at the station, Ceara’s senses were once again blasted by strange sights and sounds. The earth outside the large brick building was covered with a black, hard substance, the likes of which she’d never seen. At home, dooryards and roadsteads were sometimes cobbled with stones, but mostly they were packed dirt.

  Ceara nearly parted company with her skin when a woman’s voice shouted from a horn-shaped object attached under a corner eave of the structure. “DV, domicile 1430 Oak Street, ABH in progress. AFA held at gunpoint by AMA. Calling all available cars.”

  As Ceara was guided forward by her escorts, she stared stupidly at the horn, picturing a woman hovering in the attic to shout at people outside. What kind of world was this? And what was she going to do now that she was stuck here?

  Once she was inside the building, Ceara was bombarded by even more noises—loud voices, humming sounds, beeps, and trilling that made her wonder whether maniacal large birds were nesting just out of sight. She was led through a maze of cluttered desks, at which both uniformed males and females sat, talking into black rectangular objects or interviewing people whose wrists were shackled behind their backs, just as hers were. At the far end of the huge room, Ceara was pushed onto a bench already occupied by others.

  An older female with missing teeth and frizzy yellow hair sat beside her. She smelled so strongly of flowery perfume that Ceara’s eyes stung. The woman’s sagging face was coated with a pale substance. Only her eyes, heavily lined with black, her unnaturally pink cheeks, and her bloodred lips lent color to her countenance.

  She jostled Ceara with her elbow. “Whatcha in for, sweetheart?”

  “’Tis uncertain to me at this time. I havena committed a crime.”

  The other woman laughed. Ceara couldn’t help but gape at the woman’s breasts, which were about to jiggle out over the extremely low neckline of her léine. “That’s what we all say, and ain’t it the truth. A woman can’t make an honest living anymore. Half the money I get from my johns goes to pay fines and post bail.”

  Ceara didn’t understand what this woman meant. How many men named John could one person possibly know? And why did they give this straw-haired female their coin? Before Ceara could ask, a man dressed in dark blue trews and a pale blue léine approached them. “On your feet, Paula. Time to get you processed.”

  The woman pushed up from the bench to follow the officer. Her tight trews, held up by a gaudy studded belt, rode so low on her hips that the crack between her buttocks showed. Even more shocking to Ceara, someone had drawn or tattooed a dragon on her skin with different colors of ink. Just the thought of allowing another person to see that part of her person made Ceara’s cheeks burn, but clearly this woman had done so. It was humanly impossible to draw an image so intricately on one’s own rump.

  Soon Ceara was fetched by a female officer who led her to a nearby desk. The woman had dark hair pulled back in a bun and brown eyes that seemed flat and hard. Her manner was brisk as she sat across from Ceara and held her hands over an odd rectangular contraption with rows of buttons on it. Instead of looking at Ceara, she stared at a flat, boxlike object that threw out sky blue light from the front side.

  “Name?”

  Ceara shifted on the chair. “Ceara O’Ceallaigh.”

  “Spelling?”

  Ceara slowly recited the letters.

  “Shit, what a mouthful.” The woman tapped the buttons. “Address?” When Ceara failed to immediately respond, she glanced up. “Where do you live?”

  “Clare, in the chiefdom of the O’Ceallaigh. ’Tis Ireland of which I speak, in case ye do na know of County Clare.”

  The woman sighed. “What’s the address, sweet cheeks?”

  Ceara frowned. “Address? ’Tis uncertain I am as to yer meaning.”

  “The street number,” the woman elaborated.

  “There is only one O’Ceallaigh Road in me sire’s chiefdom, so there’s no need for a number. The manor where I reside is at the end of it.”

  “Look, Ms. O’Ceallaigh, I don’t have time for games. What’s the goddamned house number?”

  “’Struth, there is no house number, nor the need for one. There is only one manor.”

  The officer rocked back on her chair, startling Ceara so badly that she almost leaped up to keep the other woman from toppling over. “You have to have a house number to get letters and packages.”

  “Nay, all heralds know full well where the O’Ceallaigh resides.”

  “Heralds?” The officer laughed, but the sound lacked any trace of humor. “All right, fine.” She rocked forward to tap the buttons again. “Zip code?”

  Ceara sent her a bewildered look.

  “Your postal code?” the officer tried.

  “I do na know of what ye speak.”

  The other woman shook her head. “Hair down past your ass. Maybe all your gray matter leaked out to provide protein. You a member of some weird cult or something?”

  Again, Ceara was mystified.

  “What’s your DOB?” the woman asked.

  “Me what?”

  “Your date of birth,” the officer said with marked slowness.

  Ceara’s stomach clenched. If she told the truth, she would never be believed, and yet honesty had been ingrained in her since childhood. “I was born in 1548 on the fourteenth day of March. I just celebrated a name day and am six and twenty years of age.”

  “And next you’ll offer me a great deal on the Brooklyn Bridge. Okay, fine. You talk; I’ll enter it, bullshit or not. We’re lined up back-to-back, and I don’t have time for this.”

  In Ceara’s century, men stood back-to-back only in battle or while practicing with weapons. She glanced around the room, saw no one in a fighting stance, and decided the woman didn’t mean it literally.

  “You were arrested for breaking and entering. What were you doing in Quincy Harrigan’s arena, and how did you get in without setting off the alarm?”

  From that point forward, the interrogation passed in a blur for Ceara. She tried to answer each question as honestly as possible, but in the end, her reward was to be escorted into a back chamber, stripped by a female guard, and subjected to all manner of humiliations. After much poking and prodding of her person, she was shoved into a chamber with gray walls and a sloped floor of the same color with a grate at its center. Strange, shiny objects poked out from high on the wall. Below them, cross-shaped handles protruded.

  “Take a shower,” the guard ordered. “Here’s a bar of soap. Toss it in the trash bin when you’re finished. With all that hair, you have my permission to use two towels.” She pointed to some shelves at the far end of the chamber where w
hite, nubby cloth was folded and neatly stacked. “When you’re done, come back out here, and I’ll give you some cell scrubs and toiletries.”

  Ceara had no idea what scrubs or toiletries were, and she definitely didn’t know how to take a shower. After the other woman closed the door, she stood at the center of the chamber, staring in befuddlement at the silver protrusions. Then, gathering her courage, she stepped closer to one of the crosses, grasped it in her hand, and gave it a hard turn. Ice-cold water struck her in the face. She gasped and choked. Shuddering, she ran the soap over her body, then turned to rinse off. After dispensing with the blast of icy water, she fetched two towels, wringing the water from her sopping braid before attempting to dry her person. Her teeth were still clacking when she cautiously opened the door to peer out into the other room.

  “Hurry it up. I don’t have all day.” The plump guard held out a bundle of orange cloth atop which lay a small white towel, a comb, a tiny, long-handled brush, and a small, capped container that squished under Ceara’s fingertips. “Once in your cell, you can brush your teeth and get the tangles out.”

  Still shivering, Ceara quickly donned some white underwear and then the orange garments, which consisted of loose-fitting trews and an overlarge léine. She was grateful to at least cover her nakedness. On her feet, she wore blue slippers made of rough, parchmentlike material with stretchy thread stitched around the opening to keep them snug over her instep and heel. As she followed the woman into what was called the women’s cell block, she wondered where they had put her gown and undergarments. First she’d lost her hat and satchel, which held all her precious belongings. Now they had taken her clothes.

  Enclosures lined either side of a wide passage. As Ceara walked ahead of the guard, she glimpsed several other females peering out at her from behind bars. They all wore the same orange clothes, but that was all that she had time to notice in passing.

  The guard pushed a button on the wall to open Ceara’s cell door. The slide of the bars gave Ceara a start. How could something so heavy move so easily without anyone pushing on it? Perplexed, she walked obediently inside, her heart catching when she heard the steel barrier slam shut behind her.

  “All the comforts of home,” the guard said with a laugh. “Sink, toilet, and cot. If you’re lucky, you won’t have to stay long.”

  Ceara sank numbly onto the narrow bed. Accustomed to the softness of moss-filled mattresses, she wished fervently to be back at the manor. Coming forward in time to save Harrigan wives had been a fool’s mission. She’d been stupid to think she’d be welcomed with open arms, or that Sir Quincy would be grateful that she had sacrificed so much to be here.

  “What did they charge you with?”

  Ceara turned to see the older woman with yellow hair standing in the next cell, her wrists hooked limply over a horizontal dividing bar. She looked diminished in the loose orange clothes. Her face was now devoid of false color, her pale blue eyes barely noticeable, and her lips a natural pink. Damp strands of hair the color of old leather dangled limply over her forehead.

  “They say I committed a B and E,” Ceara replied.

  “Breaking and entering? Whoo! You don’t look the type. I had you pegged as a working girl.”

  Weariness lay on Ceara’s shoulders like leaden weights. “Pray tell, what is a working girl?”

  The woman laughed, the sound raspy. “Ah, come on, honey. It’s plain as the nose on your face that burglary is a sideline for you. I saw that getup you had on. Pretty smart of you, actually. I’ll bet all those skirts and laces turn men on. The harder they have to work for something, the more they’re willing to pay.” She cocked her head. “You’re a pretty little thing even without makeup. Does the fresh, innocent act work good for you? What’s your usual take each night?”

  The questions were incomprehensible to Ceara, who was too exhausted, confused, and frightened to puzzle them out. She tossed her towel and jail-issue toiletries on the foot of the cot, then leaned sideways to curl up on the rock-hard mattress. The gray wool blanket was scratchy against her skin. An acrid smell burned her nose. She supposed it was a cleaning agent of some sort, but definitely not lye, which was most often used at home. Tears gathered in her eyes. She blinked, trying her best to get rid of them.

  “Not very friendly, are you?” The woman grunted. “No point in wallowing in your sorrows, honey. You’ll be out on the streets again before you know it. You got the money to post bail?”

  A hard knot formed at the base of Ceara’s throat. Her father had given her some money, but she doubted it would be of any use to her in this time. Besides, it was still in the stall at Sir Quincy’s arena. “Nay,” she said tightly.

  “Well, shit, that sucks. Ah, well, maybe you can get a bondsman to take a chance on you. I’d float you a loan, but I’m a little short on cash myself.”

  Ceara appreciated the woman’s desire to help, but she doubted she would ever see the light of day again. She had done naught except land in Quincy Harrigan’s precious arena, but that was apparently a serious crime in this century. With no money to bribe her way to freedom, she might grow old in this cell and eventually die. The thought terrified her. At home, it was not uncommon for people to be incarcerated all of their lives for stealing a wee bit of bread.

  How would she survive? She was in a strange place, in a time that was not hers, and they hadn’t even allowed her to keep her satchel. All her mementos were lost to her.

  The journey had drained her of strength. Her limbs felt as limp at wet linen. Her father had warned her that the trip would take a harsh toll on her body. He’d even said that she might arrive stripped of her special powers. She’d had no opportunity to attempt to use her gifts, and now she was too exhausted to try. She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, but the woman in the next cell wouldn’t stop talking.

  “You got an odd way of speaking,” she said. “Is that part of your act, or are you from another country?”

  “Ireland,” Ceara said, injecting no expression into the word. Ireland. God’s teeth, how she yearned to go back. But that was impossible. Journeying forward was possible for druids, but no one had ever managed to reverse the process. Ceara wasn’t certain why that was so, but she had understood the consequences before deciding to come here, and now there was no way to undo the mistake. “’Tis a lovely place, me Ireland.” She heard the wistfulness in her voice. “I already miss it sorely, and I havena been gone for a full day.”

  “I’ve never stepped foot off American soil,” the woman said. “But I’ve heard Ireland is nice. If I ever get rich, my first trip will be to New Zealand, though—no offense to Ireland. Lord, the pictures of that country are amazing. I’d give my right arm to visit there. Hell, maybe I’d even try to stay.”

  Ceara had never heard of New Zealand. Feeling dizzy and half-sick, she recalled her amazement when she and her mum had seen the United States in the crystal ball, and she wondered dimly whether explorers had discovered even more new lands over the last few hundred years. “Mayhap ye’ll be blessed with riches and go there one day,” she said.

  “Mayhap? You do talk strange, girlfriend. No matter, I kind of like you anyway.”

  Ceara thought of the treasures in her satchel—her grandmother’s betrothal ring; a lock of her mum’s hair; her ivory-backed brush and comb, given to her by her aunt; and the carving of her beloved horse that had died, fashioned for her by the young man she’d once adored. Ah, and she mustn’t forget the traveling prayer, which she had committed to parchment, just in case everyone had it wrong and druids could travel backward in time. Oh, God in heaven, there were so many little things in that satchel, pieces of home that meant the world to her. Favorite recipes. Notes of family events and history.

  Now, because of Quincy O’Hourigan’s temper, was she destined to lose all of it and die behind these bars? She’d never bargained for this. Yes, she’d come forward knowing that she would never see home again. But to lose everything? She curled into a tighter ball and surre
ndered to her tears.

  “Buck up, sweetheart,” the woman said. “This is just a pit stop. They don’t have room in here to keep all of us for long, and in this miserable economy, the county budget is trimmed to the bone. It costs a lot to keep people in jail.”

  Ceara barely heard the woman. The pain in her chest grew so intense that she felt as if she might burst from the pressure.

  * * *

  Frank Harrigan accompanied Quincy over to the house to meet with the tech team from Hawkeye Security. Nona Redcliff, a slender and athletic woman of Native American descent with hair as black as Quincy’s own, was crew leader and now part owner of the company. Quincy refused to deal with anyone else. Nona was a genius with computers and surveillance equipment. According to Frank, she also had good horse sense, which was Quincy’s dad’s way of paying the highest compliment.

  Today Nona wore her usual faded jeans and lace-up hiking boots, her only concession to company standards being a beige uniform shirt tucked neatly into her belted waistband. When Quincy shook hands with her, he was impressed once again by her neatly trimmed nails and the strength of her grip. She was a lady who always got right down to business, and he liked that about her. She was also attractive in a rugged, no-nonsense sort of way. He’d almost asked her out for dinner once, but then he’d decided to err on the side of caution. Mixing business with pleasure seldom worked out well—at least, not for him.

  “So what’ve we got?” she asked, her dark brown gaze fixed on Quincy’s. A thick black braid hung over her right shoulder. “I understand there was a B and E early this morning?”

  Quincy nodded. “And it’s bewildering as all get-out. My forewoman has gone over the arena with a fine-toothed comb and found no evidence of forced entry. I’m positive every door and window was battened down last night, and that the security system was activated. Both Pauline and I make a tour every night to double-check.”

  “Did you eyeball the ceiling?” Nona asked. “Sometimes they’ll cut through the roof and drop into an enclosure.”