Downtime

by Tamara Allen

  “Mr. Nash?” Ezra pulled me from my dazed perusal with a firm grip on my arm. “You look a little pale. Please don’t worry. We will get you home.”

  Contending with a headache and lingering nausea, I found myself searching for a single thread of evidence that would unravel all the lies he’d been feeding me. One shred of proof. A plastic cup. A candy bar wrapper. A dropped coin with a twenty-first century—hell, even twentieth century—date stamped on it. “You’ll get me home? When?”

  “Tomorrow?” Ezra suggested, after an inquiring glance at the others.

  “And until then?”

  “Yes….” Ezra looked at Derry. “Do you think she’ll mind?”

  “Need you ask?” But Derry was grinning, so I assumed we weren’t in too much trouble even if she did. “He’ll stay with Henry.”

  “Kathleen will not so much as allow him into the parlor in those clothes,” Ezra said. “I’ll loan him something suitable.”

  “Loan him your room as well,” Henry said. “You’re the one who conjured him.”

  These guys knew how to bruise an ego. “I can stay in a hotel. And you’re not stuffing me into one of those monkey suits. There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing.”

  “I think it would be better if you stayed with us,” Ezra said, amusement fading. “And Henry’s right. You’re here because of me.”

  “He’s here thanks to all three of us,” Derry countered. “And I still think this weather’s had a hand in it. Look at that sky. Crimson as blood. There’s no good in it.”

  “It’s only an atmospheric phenomenon,” Ezra said as if he’d reiterated it several times already. “I suppose—well, I suppose he should stay with me, after all.”

  I smiled thinly. “Your enthusiasm is touching. Just drop me off at a hotel. I’ll take it from there.”

  Ezra looked marginally abashed. “Mr. Nash, I do realize we’ve disrupted your life to a degree—”

  “Try a hundred and eighty. How the hell you did this, I don’t know, and I feel pretty confident I don’t want to. I’m sure there’s some explanation that doesn’t go against all the laws of physics, but I’m too damned tired to burn off any more brain cells thinking about it. I’d just like some dinner and a place to crash. Sofa, bed, floor, I don’t care.” I would have preferred the hotel, but being a little short of whatever coin was legal tender in this nightmare, it appeared I didn’t have a choice.

  My little speech stymied their powers of comprehension. Derry leaned toward Ezra. “Crash?” he murmured.

  Ezra shook his head. “An interesting sort of English, but I think I gather the gist of it.”

  “Kathleen won’t like the pistol,” Henry predicted.

  “And we’ll none of us mention it,” Derry said. “Now, Ezra, you loan him something to wear and he’ll stay with me tonight. No one shall mind him on the bus, I think, and Kathleen will give him a bite to eat. There’s ours,” he added, and suddenly we were all lurching down the steps into the raucous miasma of humanity that reminded me of a few Third World countries I’d been to. Ezra grabbed my arm and hauled me aboard what looked like a trolley car pulled by horses. Henry dropped onto the only vacant seat with a sigh of relief, only to be promptly pulled to his feet by Derry while Ezra gave me a push to sit. Henry’s peevish protest that he’d been on his feet all day was cut off by Derry’s heartfelt admonition. Apparently I looked as tired as I felt.

  Wheels on cobblestones made it difficult for me to nod off. I floated somewhere between dozing and sleeping, hoping when I did wake, I’d be somewhere familiar. There were plenty of recognizable things in this world, but all the small differences added up to a big off-kilter picture. The lonely feeling of waiting it out in the warehouse seemed intensified. Fortunately, it wasn’t very long before Ezra tugged at my sleeve. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Dead on my feet.”

  “Mr. Nash, do you need a doctor?”

  “No doctors. Need a bed.” Yawning, I stumbled off the trolley after him and tried to get out of the way of people rushing aboard. Apparently manners weren’t a thing of the past. They’d never existed at all. “Which way’s home?”

  The neighborhood seemed clean and quiet, mostly row houses that reminded me of the Brooklyn neighborhood where Reese lived. I wrapped a hand around the cell phone in my pocket and wondered if Reese had tried to call me again. I wouldn’t be retrieving any messages for a while.

  We walked a couple of blocks farther and Derry finally swung past a gate to sprint up the steps of one house in particular. I noticed the handwritten sign tucked in one corner of a window, which read, “Rooms to let. Single gentlemen.”

  So none of these guys were married. Not much of a surprise. But there was a distinctly feminine touch about the place, from the scrubbed clean steps to the flowering boxes at the windows. I’d hardly started up when Derry turned and whispered loudly enough for us to hear, “I’ll distract her, but for the love of St. Michael, be quick or she’ll know we’re up to something.”

  “I’ll have him presentable in ten minutes,” Ezra said—and before I could assert that I was already damned presentable, he was pushing me up the steps and into a dim hallway. He reached for a low-hung chandelier with two tiers of red glass globes and twisted a small knob. The jets sprang to life, brightening the hall, and I could see flowers—on the marble-topped table, in a corner vase, and even on the wallpaper. I rubbed an already itching nose and hoped that was the extent of the indoor garden.

  Ezra steered me to a steep flight of carpeted stairs and I couldn’t suppress a groan. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “Just one floor up,” he said cheerfully, giving me another little push. There were three rooms on the second floor, and we went into the first. Still cocooned in the detached certainty I was only dreaming, I stood in the dark and listened to Ezra’s boots on the wood floor, followed by the sound of a match being struck. A lamp on the bedside table threw the room into soft illumination. Despite being nearly too tired to keep my eyes open, I looked around. Gleaming brass, plump pillows, and a quilt in shades of blue drew me like a magnet. Before I could drop onto it, Ezra turned me toward a window seat crowded with throw pillows and books, some of which he hastily moved aside so I could sit. “Take off your clothes, Mr. Nash.”

  Chapter 3

  Now there was an invitation I seldom refused. Unfortunately, in this instance it meant trading what I was wearing for clothes I suspected would be far less comfortable. I allowed myself a rueful smile as he turned away. “What’s the plan if I don’t pass inspection?”

  “You needn’t worry.” Ezra took my jacket as I shuffled out of it. “Kathleen has a soft heart for strays. We’d better put your pistol away—”

  “I’ll hang on to it, thanks.” I removed the gun and holster, pulled off my sweater and shirt, and kicked off my shoes. Unbuttoning my jeans, I gave the bed a wistful glance. I would’ve given anything to hit the sheets. “We can’t just skip this? Forget about dinner. I’ve already eaten….” Though, oddly enough, I did feel hungry. “Just let me crawl into bed. Kath’ll never even know I’m here.”

  He turned from an open wardrobe. “She’ll know.”

  I snorted. “What, is she psychic?”

  “Concerning the state of things under her roof, yes, I think she is.” He draped a brown suit over the pile of books. “This should fit. I’ve no more than an inch over you and you’re perhaps a little broader in the shoulders….”

  He trailed off and I grinned to myself. It was always gratifying to get a reaction. Even if I didn’t have any real interest, piquing theirs was half the fun. I stole a look around, but the expression on his face was less animal lust and more puzzled curiosity. He invaded my space and hooked a finger in the waistband of my briefs, giving the elastic an experimental tug. “Remarkable. Are they as comfortable as they look?”

  So much for impressing the natives with my godlike physique. “As comfortable as briefs can get, I guess.” I plucked the dress shirt out of his hand and turned to the
oval mirror.

  “Briefs? They’re certainly that.” I heard it in his muttered remark and caught it in his face as he watched me in the mirror: admiration. I’d take that. He handed me the pants with what I sensed was some reluctance and I hauled them on. The vest offered no challenge, but the tie was another matter. After I’d fumbled with it for a few minutes, Ezra sighed. “Derry will be in a corner by now, Mr. Nash. Let me help you.” He went to work on it with nimble fingers. “Men don’t wear ties in your time?” he asked, sparing me a good-humored glance.

  “They do. Just a little less complicated than this thing.” I tugged at it. “Jesus. Leave me a little breathing room, will you? The collar’s bad enough.”

  I heard the laugh he tried to choke back. It was in his voice as he spoke. “I do apologize for not having the requisite cowboy apparel at hand. Though you looked less the cowboy and more the crossing sweep when you first arrived.”

  He was having a little too much fun. I grimaced at the shoes—more like boots—that he handed me. They looked too small and they were, but not unbearably so. I smoothed down the vest and strapped my gun back where it belonged. The clothes were a little snug, but I didn’t look half bad. Derry came up while I combed my hair and, looking me over, let out a breath as if he’d been holding it for the past fifteen minutes. “You’ve got him turned out well, Ezra.”

  “Neat as ninepence.” Ezra handed me a hat and a pair of gloves. “What did you tell Kathleen?”

  “That Mr. Nash is a friend of yours who’s come to visit, not knowing you’ve left Mayfair behind and taken rooms in our humble home.” An impish gleam in his eyes made Ezra laugh.

  “All right, then. I’ll give her his night’s lodging and hope it’s only the one night.”

  “Yes,” Derry said with a grimace. “I’d rather not tell her any more tales, if I can keep from it.”

  “We shall make sure of it,” Ezra said, and started downstairs ahead of us. I tried the hat on and unfortunately it fit. As for the gloves, no—I had my limits.

  Derry studied me with a fascination that didn’t mask the guilt in his face. “You won’t think the worst of us, will you, Mr. Nash? Truly, there was no harm meant. It’s something of a habit I’ve fallen into—”

  “Summoning demons?”

  Derry chuckled. “No, no. Visiting Ezra and Henry at the museum, ’round about closing. You see, it’s Ezra who catalogs the odder bits and pieces, and that book caught my eye. I’d asked him what it was, nothing more. There seemed no harm in asking and I could make neither head nor tail of it.” He sighed. “God forgive me, it’s my damned curiosity. I’ll rot in purgatory and it seems blessed unfair, when it’s the wicked things that are always the most interesting by half.”

  Derry was a guy I could like—the sort who would drink you under the table, then turn around and lend you cab fare home without ever asking for a penny back. “You couldn’t read Latin so Ezra decided to do a little showing off?”

  “It was Henry doing the showing off, and Ezra was fair set against it. But Henry couldn’t get the knack of it, you know, and—well, we were having a bit of a laugh over that and he took it poorly.” Derry’s expressive face screwed up in an even guiltier grimace. “So he egged Ezra on until Ezra had to prove he could do what Henry couldn’t. To be sure, we didn’t follow it to the letter. There were patterns to be drawn and the like. We just stood about while Ezra read aloud and….” His voice dropped. “There was a rush of heat like nothing I’d ever felt. The very air shimmered, as it will on a hot day, and there you were….” He stared at me and his face abruptly softened, gray eyes warm. “And here you are, God love you. Lost, hungry, and clapped out, to boot. We can talk it over while you’re having a bite to eat.”

  I didn’t want to admit I was feeling a little shaky, but apparently I didn’t have to. He took my elbow, no doubt to make sure I didn’t go tumbling down the stairs, and we went to the back of the house, into a bright kitchen. I was home again—not in New York, but back in Indiana, lying on the porch swing, reading comic books, and basking in the smells coming through the screen door. The black-haired woman at the stove might’ve been my mom, I mused for the brief moment her back was turned.

  And I’d thought I was homesick an hour ago.

  The woman expertly eased a fat, fragrant loaf of bread from the oven and set it on a small iron trivet on the stovetop. The table already creaked under platters of food, and Derry ushered me toward it. Ezra was out of his seat even as Kathleen turned to set the weight of a suspicious stare on me. Her eyes were gray like Derry’s, but where his were warm and friendly, hers were cool as a winter sky.

  Ezra clapped me on the shoulder, a supportive gesture, and I got the feeling that even with the extra cash, Kathleen was not too thrilled with my dropping in unexpectedly. “Kathleen, may I present Mr. Morgan Nash. Mr. Nash, Miss Kathleen Neilan.”

  I shoved the gloves into my pocket, dragged off the hat, and held out a hand. Her eyebrows lifted, but she accepted my hand briefly, then pulled away before I could get enough of a grip to shake. Not an appropriate greeting, I guessed. But I wasn’t up on nineteenth-century etiquette, so it would have to do.

  “Good to meet you, Miss Neilan.”

  Her gaze took me in from head to toe. “Leaving in the morning, are you?”

  “That’s right—ma’am.” There was no way to leave off the ma’am with this woman. “I appreciate the bed for the night. And the meal.” I gave her my most winning smile.

  It didn’t melt her a fraction of an inch. “Sit down, Mr. Nash.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I settled into a vacant chair between Derry and Henry and looked over a meal that rivaled Thanksgivings back home. I wondered how many “single gentlemen” lived in the house. Kathleen had made enough food for a dozen empty bellies, but only familiar faces were present at the moment. As soon as she sat, four heads bowed down and, catching on, I played along.

  Kathleen’s version of grace was brief and direct. “Bless this meal, which You in Your goodness have provided. Bless this house, Lord, and all who dwell in it.”

  I stole a peek across the table at her and caught her doing the same as she magnanimously included me in her prayer. She stared at me, as frankly assessing as ever, before she closed her eyes to finish saying grace. When she raised her head with a faint but satisfied smile, the others immediately reached for the nearest platter.

  Waiting my turn, I realized that everything was being passed first to me. I ladled a spoonful of soup with a whole lot of potato and what I hoped was beef and took a thick slice of bread. It didn’t look too bad and, trying not to dwell on how meat was processed in this day and age, I gave it a try. It didn’t taste bad either, apart from being a little heavy on the salt. But I had less of an appetite than I thought. Worn to the bone, I could only sit and listen to the talk around me.

  And that talk, I sensed, was more nervous than it might have been otherwise. My kidnappers—and they were kidnappers, as far as I was concerned—clearly had no desire to let Kathleen in on the secret. That was fine by me. I had enough to worry about. As tired as I was, I’d be sleeping like a log, something that didn’t seem too wise under the circumstances. I wanted to hang on to my gun and my senses as long as I could, until I knew for sure I wasn’t in any danger of being disposed of.

  I might be too tired for conversation, but I wasn’t too tired to at least visually profile my kidnappers before I made myself any more vulnerable. What stood out was their remorse, particularly Derry’s. Every time he looked at me, it was with avid concern. I knew a sweetheart of a guy when I saw one. I put him at around forty-five, and those years had not all been gentle on him. His fair skin had been weathered by sun and calloused by work, but the hair that fell in thick black waves nearly to his shoulders was barely touched by gray, and the energy he exuded made him seem younger. He wasn’t fat, as I’d first thought, but built like an ox, stout and solid. And he didn’t find dressing up any more comfortable than I did. He’d taken off his tie and l
ooked like he wanted to shed the coat as well, but didn’t, to please Kathleen.

  Whether Kathleen was pleased, I couldn’t tell. Her face didn’t give away her every thought, as Derry’s did. The trace of a smile curved her slim mouth and reflected in her eyes, and from the snippets of conversation I caught, she was a woman of few words. I wondered why she was unmarried. She wasn’t much past forty, her face unlined, a little thin but still classically attractive. Her hair framed her face like black smoke, the better portion of it tamed in a thick bun. She was dressed in a wine-colored gown without a frill to it, her only jewelry garnets gleaming from the pendant at her breast and the ring on her right hand. She wasn’t the cuddly sort, but I didn’t think she was entirely a cold fish.