Justin nodded. He had run into a similar problem a few months earlier when doing a term paper on the rabies vaccine. While he found hundreds of articles published in the past fifty years, he found relatively few from the 1880s, when the vaccine was first developed and used on humans. Even the best libraries could not offer everything.
"So what do you know about Wyatt?" Justin asked.
"I know mostly what's contained in that letter and what my grandfather told me when I was your age."
"What's that? Did he give you any background on this guy?"
"He gave me a little but not nearly as much as we'll need," Chuck said.
"What did he tell you?"
"He said that Benjamin and Wyatt were born into a family of eight children but were split up after their parents died in a hotel fire. Relatives adopted Benjamin and three of his sisters. Strangers took in the rest. A shipping magnate named Hiram Fitzpatrick adopted Wyatt as a two-year-old and raised him as his own son."
"That was nice of him," Justin said.
"He didn't stop there either."
"What do you mean?"
"Hiram made sure that Wyatt had the best education money could buy," Chuck said. "After enrolling him in private academies in Galveston, he sent him to Harvard and Wharton. I guess the old man wanted an educated son to run his company."
"Did your grandfather express an opinion on Wyatt's guilt?"
Chuck shook his head.
"He didn't. He knew little about Wyatt and even less about the case. He was born five years after the trial and knew only what he had been told by his father years later."
"Didn't anyone try to prove Wyatt's innocence?"
"I think Benjamin did," Chuck said. "He returned to this country as soon as he heard that his brother had been charged, but he never had a chance to influence the courts or even see the accused. Wyatt was executed the day Benjamin arrived in Texas."
Justin looked at his father with renewed interest. Maybe messing with history wasn't such a bad idea after all. He grabbed the copy of the lawyer's letter and read it again. He stopped when he reached the reference to a deathbed confession.
"This letter doesn't say who confessed to the crime. That's a pretty big omission. Did your grandpa say anything about that?"
Chuck sighed.
"He never said anything to me, but he once said something to my father when he asked about the case. Grandpa said the killer's name was Mack or Max or something like that."
"So let me get this straight," Justin said. "We're going to try to prevent a murder without even knowing the name of the murderer?"
Chuck nodded.
"That's right."
Justin lowered his gaze.
"It gets better," Chuck said.
Justin looked up.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we don't know something far more essential," Chuck said.
"What's that?"
Chuck put a hand on Justin's knee.
"We don't know the name of the victim either."
CHAPTER 13: CHUCK
Galveston, Texas – Saturday, April 21, 1900
Chuck glanced at his son the moment the train approached the rickety trestle, which looked as sturdy as a house of cards. If Justin didn't like riding a wobbly choo-choo more than three hundred feet in the air, then he certainly wouldn't like riding one across two miles of open water.
Or so Chuck thought. Sitting in the facing seat, Justin appeared anything but apprehensive as the commuter train from Houston began its slow eastward trek across Galveston Bay. He stared lazily out the window at the vast expanse beyond.
"What are you thinking about?" Chuck asked.
"I'm just thinking about the sun," Justin said. "I've seen it set over water hundreds of times, but I don't think I've ever seen it rise. I'll bet the sunrises on the Gulf side are pretty cool."
"I'll bet they are."
Chuck smiled sadly as he watched Justin rediscover nature. This is what he had missed over the years. He had missed watching his son observe things for the first time, including things as seemingly unremarkable as a sunrise over water. He vowed never again to let a career or anything else come between himself and his only child.
Chuck wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Even at six in the morning, he could feel the stifling heat and humidity of the Gulf coast. He wondered how civilization had managed to remain civil without modern air conditioning.
He glanced at a woman and a girl sitting across the aisle and saw that they too were wilting in the heat. The thirtyish woman cooled herself with a silk fan while the girl, who appeared to be no more than six, sighed and fidgeted in her seat.
Chuck couldn't believe that women wore corsets, girdles, and layered, ankle-length dresses in a climate suited for bikinis. Then he remembered that they didn't have a choice. Men set the rules in this society and enforced them rigidly. Propriety trumped comfort seven days a week.
Chuck thought about rules and society as the train reached the island and continued its journey toward the city. Whether making friends, conducting business, or saving relatives from the gallows, he would have to abide by the established norms of 1900 and not the looser, less formal, arguably more rational standards of 2016.
He looked again at Justin and smiled. The kid had made a near-seamless transition from laid-back California surfer boy to Southern dandy and seemed to revel in tipping his hat, opening doors, and using words like "lovely" and "ma'am." The ladies of Galveston were in for a treat.
Chuck got a glimpse of some of those ladies and other residents of the city when the train pulled into Union Station a few minutes later. Dozens of people lined the long platform, including belles, businessmen, and boys in knickers.
Chuck also saw more than a few sailors and men who looked like they had just come from the docks. He had expected as much. Galveston was a center of maritime activity and a seaport of the first order. No city in the world, in fact, shipped more cotton.
When the train came to a complete stop, Chuck grabbed his bag, followed Justin out of the car to the crowded platform, and beheld a flurry of human activity. Porters unloaded boxes and bags while visitors and passengers scurried about in a dozen directions.
Chuck took it all in for a moment and then led his son into the four-story redbrick station. He looked for a map of the city and finally found one tacked to a bulletin board. When he examined it closely, he saw that finding his way around Galveston was going to be an adventure. Many of the roads, including the first dozen or so avenues, had two names.
He pulled out a slip of paper bearing the name of a hotel a train passenger in Houston had recommended and led Justin through the depot's doors to one of the busiest streets in the city. Whether one called it the Strand or Avenue B, it was the road that led to the Bayside Hotel and the kind of rest Chuck Townsend had sought for days.
Chuck glanced at the slip and then looked down both sides of the street.
"What are you doing, Dad?" Justin asked with a hint of amusement.
"I'm trying to get my bearings."
"Are you looking for the Bayside?"
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"I know where it is," Justin said. "It's six blocks away."
"How did you figure that out?"
Justin beamed.
"I just looked at the signs on our new ride."
"Our what?" Chuck asked.
"That."
Justin pointed to a horse-drawn wagon. The sign on the side bore the name, address, and three-digit phone number of the Bayside Hotel. The sign on the back read: JUST SIX BLOCKS FROM UNION STATION.
Chuck laughed.
"I guess I left my keen powers of observation in San Francisco."
He put his hand on Justin's shoulder.
"Six blocks in a buggy sounds good to me," Chuck said. "Let's go for a ride."
CHAPTER 14: JUSTIN
Justin was as tired as his father, but he wanted no part of a nap – or at least not one th
at kept him inside a hotel room for most of a sunny spring day. So at eleven thirty he gave Chuck a nudge and convinced him to go on a walk around town in search of adventure.
They found it at the intersection of Twenty-Fifth Street and Broadway, where several thousand people gathered to dedicate the Texas Heroes Monument, a bronze statue of the goddess Victory that stood atop four granite columns. Created by Italian American sculptor Louis Amateis, the monument commemorated the Battle of San Jacinto, where soldiers under General Sam Houston defeated the Mexican army in 1836.
Justin stepped on a bench, surveyed his surroundings, and smiled. The crowd looked like a convention of extras from The Music Man. He stepped down and looked at Chuck.
"Pretty impressive, huh? It's hard to believe all these people came out to see the dedication of a statue. I haven't seen this many people at a Lakers game."
Chuck laughed.
"Neither have I."
"I don't get it though," Justin said. "I mean the statue's nice and all, but it's not that nice. Don't these people ever go to the beach?"
Justin started to make another observation but stopped when he caught a hot glare from an Army veteran a few feet away. The uniformed officer, who looked old enough to be Sam Houston himself, apparently didn't care for the young visitor's irreverence.
"Let's step over here," Chuck said as he pointed to a bare patch of grass nearby. He put an arm on Justin's shoulder and guided him to the semi-private spot.
"What's the matter?" Justin asked. "Did I say something wrong?"
Chuck pulled his son close and spoke in a low voice.
"You didn't say anything wrong," Chuck said. "You asked an honest question, one that would have made perfect sense in 2016 or in any other state. But this isn't any other state. This is Texas. Wars and warriors are touchy topics down here. I'll bet half the men over fifty-five in this crowd fought in the Civil War – for the wrong side. You should choose your words carefully when speaking to them – or even around them."
Justin nodded.
"OK."
Justin couldn't take issue with the advice. He would have to choose his words carefully when speaking to anyone. He wasn't on a movie set filled with modern-day actors. He was in a turn-of-the-last-century community with turn-of-the-last-century views, knowledge, and prejudices. For a time traveler in such a setting, caution would always be advised.
He glanced again at the old soldier to check for lingering stares. When he didn't see any, he shifted his attention to a group of dignitaries that had gathered around a podium near the base of the monument. Governor Joseph D. Sayers had just begun his address.
Justin listened to the speech for several minutes and then turned toward a woman who said "Get your hands off me!" in a clear but muted voice. He saw her step away from a dapper man at her side.
Justin watched the college-age woman as she glared at her companion and then at him. Even from twenty feet he could see that her anger had not abated.
"It looks like the governor's going to blather for a while," Chuck said. He looked at his son. "Do you want to leave?"
"No. Not yet," Justin said. "I want to stay a little longer."
"All right."
When Chuck returned his eyes to the governor, Justin returned his to the angry woman. In the process, he noticed a few things he hadn't picked up the first time.
For starters, the woman wore her hair differently than most of her peers. She let her long, wavy black locks fall to her waist. Most other women piled their hair high, opting for the bouffant, pompadour, and chignon styles of the Gibson girl.
She also wore a white "pouter pigeon" blouse, a pink trumpet skirt, and a straw boater hat. Unlike the women around her, who favored gaudy dresses and elaborate headwear, she was unpretentious. With a pleasing face and expressive eyes, she was also strikingly beautiful.
As a college student in Southern California, Justin Townsend had seen attractive women every day. He had seen them at school, at parties, and everywhere else. Until Caitlin Bennett walked out on him, he had even seen them at his breakfast table.
None of the girls he had known in high school and college, however, measured up to this one. Miss Get Your Hands Off Me was not just beautiful but naturally so. Justin let his mind wander until his increasingly observant father brought him back to Earth.
"What are you doing?" Chuck asked.
"I'm just people watching."
"People watching or girl watching?"
Justin felt the blood rush to his face.
"You noticed?"
"I'm a reporter, remember? I notice everything but advertisements for hotels."
Justin smiled.
"I guess you do."
"I can't blame you for looking around," Chuck said. "There are a lot of lovely ladies in this crowd, including one who doesn't appear happy to be here."
"She does look kind of ticked," Justin said. "I wonder why she's mad at him."
"Who knows? Maybe he criticized her cooking."
Justin turned again to his right and saw that the dapper man, who appeared to be in his mid- to late thirties, had drifted off. He spoke to another man a few feet away, leaving his raven-haired beauty to sulk alone.
Justin then looked at the woman herself and kept looking until she met his gaze. Sadness and despair had replaced the anger in her eyes. When he offered an empathetic smile, she frowned, turned around, and walked away. A moment later, she was gone.
The collegian shifted his eyes to the podium, where the governor waxed poetic about the nine hundred men who had secured Texas' independence. He admired how Sayers was able to hold the attention of the huge crowd without the benefit of a microphone, but he found himself unable to get into the speech. All he could think about was the girl.
"I see your distraction has left the premises," Chuck said. "Are you ready to go now?"
Justin nodded.
"Yeah. I've had enough of crowds and speeches for one day."
"Are you ready for some lunch?"
"I was ready an hour ago," Justin said.
"Good," Chuck said. "Let's get some of that glorious Gulf seafood I read about on the train, preferably at a restaurant that's away from the ruckus. We have a lot to talk about."
"Such as?"
"Such as how we're going to keep Wyatt Fitzpatrick from a hangman's noose."
"Do you have any ideas?" Justin asked.
"I do. The first thing we have to do is learn more about our infamous relative."
"How do we do that? We can't exactly knock on his door."
"We won't have to – at least not yet," Chuck said.
"I don't understand."
"Then let me explain. Mr. Fitzpatrick is a co-owner of one of the biggest passenger shipping lines on the Gulf coast. He's been a fixture in the industry for years."
"So?" Justin asked.
"So there's a library near our hotel that probably has a file on this guy."
"We're going to a library?"
"We are. We're going to the Texas Maritime Library when it opens Monday morning. If we're lucky, we'll have our subject's life story by dinner."
CHAPTER 15: CHUCK
Monday, April 23, 1900
Charles Townsend liked libraries. Though he relied on search engines and databases as much as any reporter, he preferred to gather information the old-fashioned way – by browsing the stacks at the brick-and-mortar institutions that many considered obsolete.
He knew he would find something on Wyatt Fitzpatrick at the Texas Maritime Library and a lot more on his passenger line. What he didn't expect to find at nine o'clock on a Monday morning was a librarian who looked a lot like his ex-wife.
The woman wrote on a manila envelope as she stood behind a long reception desk. She lifted her head and smiled when Chuck and Justin approached.
"Good morning, gentlemen," she said. "Can I help you?"
"That depends," Chuck said. "Are you familiar with all of the collections here?"
"I am."
&nb
sp; "Then we've come to the right person. We're gathering information for a book and would like it if someone gave us a tour of the place."
"I'd be delighted to show you around," the librarian said. "I just need a moment to put this in the mail."
"We'll wait."
When the woman left to mail the envelope, Chuck looked around the lobby and saw that it was lightly occupied. On one side of the room, a sailor examined an oil painting that covered much of a wall. On the other, two elderly men in chairs went through the day's papers. A second librarian processed books at the far end of the desk.
Chuck returned his eyes to the painting, which portrayed a schooner in a storm. It was an impressive work, one that no doubt cost the library a fortune. He imagined being a crewman on the imperiled sailing ship when a pleasant voice interrupted his daydream.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," the first librarian said. "The postman usually makes his rounds about this time of day."
"No worries," Chuck said.
The librarian cocked her head and stared at Chuck as if he had said something strange – which, of course, he had. When an appropriate response apparently failed to come to her, she offered a warm smile and a slender hand.
"I'm Charlotte Emerson, director of the library."
"I'm Charles Townsend," Chuck said.
Chuck laughed to himself as he shook her hand. He couldn't remember the last time he had used his christened name in an introduction. Then again, he couldn't remember the last time he had met someone like the woman in front of him.
Though her light brown hair was a few shades darker than Megan's, she had the same creamy skin, high cheekbones, and kind blue eyes. Were it not for her crisp white blouse and long gray skirt, Chuck might have mistaken her for the woman he had loved and married.
Chuck let the pleasant thought linger in his mind until he suddenly became conscious of his obligation to introduce his son. He started to speak when Justin beat him to the punch by stepping forward and extending a hand.
"I'm Justin Townsend."
Charlotte shook Justin's hand.
September Sky (American Journey Book 1) Page 7
