September Sky (American Journey Book 1)

by John A. Heldt

  Wyatt tipped his hat and started to say, "Good morning, ladies," but didn't get the first word out before he heard a sound he would remember for the rest of his life – a blood-curdling scream.

  CHAPTER 59: CHUCK

  Monday, August 20, 1900

  In one respect, Chuck's second visit to the Galveston police station was a lot like the first. He stated his business, badgered the first cop he met, and cooled his heels while he waited to meet the deputy chief of police.

  In another respect, it was night-and-day different. When Chuck finally got his audience with Patrick O'Malley, he didn't find an officer who wanted to help him solve a burglary. He found a man who was hell-bent on punishing Wyatt Fitzgerald for the murder of his sister.

  "You're not his brother. You're not his lawyer," O'Malley said to Chuck at the front desk. "In my book, that makes you a nobody. Now please excuse me."

  "All I want to do is see him," Chuck pleaded.

  "Not today, mister. Not today."

  Chuck was furious. He had as much right to visit Wyatt as anyone. Then he remembered he was in 1900 Texas and not 2016 California. The rights and privileges he had enjoyed as a beat reporter who had interviewed many prisoners were simply not in play.

  Even so, he couldn't allow himself to give up. He felt responsible for allowing this to happen and helpless as he considered the possibility that history might, in fact, repeat itself. So when he saw O'Malley turn his back on him and walk away, he decided to play hardball.

  "Is that badge of yours just for show, Chief?"

  O'Malley stopped, turned around, and slowly returned to desk.

  "What did you say?"

  "You heard me," Chuck said. "I want to know if you intend to treat Wyatt's defenders like you would those of any other inmate. Tell me what you think."

  O'Malley fumed.

  "You want to know what I think? I'll tell you. I think your friend liked to play sick games with women and got angry with my sister when she had finally had enough. Rose was strangled, Mr. Townsend. She was killed in the prime of her life. I believe Mr. Fitzpatrick is responsible and am going to do everything in my power to keep him here until his case goes to trial."

  "You don't believe he's responsible," Chuck said. "You don't at all. You know that Wyatt, despite his unusual tastes, loved your sister and would have never done anything to hurt her."

  "What I believe no longer matters. Mr. MacArthur has already filed murder charges. Your friend is going to stay here until he is brought to trial or until someone can convince the state to drop the case."

  "That's why I'm here," Chuck said. "I believe I can prove Wyatt's innocence and maybe help you find the person or persons responsible for Rose's death. All I want is fifteen minutes with the accused. Then I'll get out of your hair and let you do your job."

  O'Malley stared at Chuck for several seconds, as if considering his options, and then turned to face an officer who filled out forms at a desk a few feet away. He summoned his colleague to the front and returned his attention to the difficult man who had walked into the station.

  "This is Officer Young. He will escort you to the jail."

  "Thank you," Chuck said. "I appreciate it."

  "You have fifteen minutes, Mr. Townsend. Don't waste a single one."

  Chuck followed Officer Young through a door and down two corridors that led to the jail. He signed a log sheet; left his hat, jacket, and other belongings on a table; and then followed two other policemen into a room that contained a dozen cells. A moment later, he found himself behind iron bars with a man accused of killing his fiancée.

  "How are you doing?" Chuck asked the inmate, who sat on the end of an unmade bed with his face buried in his hands.

  Wyatt lifted his head and stared at Chuck.

  "How do you think I'm doing?" Wyatt asked. He turned away when moisture filled his eyes. "They killed my Rose. They killed my sweet, precious Rose."

  "Who killed Rose, Wyatt? Who killed her?"

  "I don't know," Wyatt said. He met Chuck's gaze. "I don't know."

  "The police report says that a maid found Rose minutes after you left your room. It says that she had been strangled. Who could do such a thing?"

  Wyatt sighed.

  "If I knew the answer to that, Charles, I would not be here."

  Chuck sat on the cell's other bed and stared at Wyatt. He couldn't believe that the broken man in front of him was the same confident captain of industry he had dined with on Thursday.

  "The authorities have already filed charges."

  "I know," Wyatt said. "They say I not only committed this act but planned it. They want to hang me. They want to hang me for killing the woman I loved."

  Chuck knew they did – or at least he knew Levi MacArthur did. He knew that the prosecutor who blamed Wyatt for his wife's suicide would do everything in his power to send the co-owner of the Gulf Star Line to the gallows.

  "Has Silas seen you?" Chuck asked.

  Wyatt nodded.

  "He visited this morning, along with my attorney. They tried to convince a judge to free me on bail but didn't succeed. The court considers me a flight risk."

  "I see," Chuck said. "Have they notified other family members?"

  "Yes."

  "That's good."

  Wyatt stared at Chuck.

  "This is what you warned me about, is it not?"

  Chuck nodded.

  "It is. I thought I had influenced my surroundings enough to change the course of events, but it's clear that I hadn't. What's important now is doing something to remedy this injustice."

  "What do you suggest?" Wyatt asked.

  "I suggest we do what someone apparently did not do the first time. I suggest we prove your innocence by proving that someone else committed this crime," Chuck said. "Has your attorney come up with a strategy?"

  "No," Wyatt said. "He's still gathering facts."

  "I understand."

  "It doesn't look good, does it?"

  Chuck shook his head.

  "No. It doesn't," Chuck said. "It doesn't help that you checked into the hotel using a phony name. Nor does it help that no one saw another person enter or leave your room. I won't lie to you. You're in a tough spot, but you're not in a hopeless spot. All we need is more information."

  Chuck looked at the officer outside the cell and then at a wall clock.

  "I have only a few more minutes, Wyatt. Can you think of anything that might help me clear your name and get you out of here?"

  Wyatt shook his head.

  "Think harder," Chuck said. "There has to be something."

  Wyatt sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them a moment later, he looked at Chuck like he was his one and only hope.

  "There is one thing."

  "What? Please tell me."

  "Whoever did this knew Rose and me well enough to know how we spent our weekends," Wyatt said. "If you truly want to prove my innocence, my friend, you will start there. This was no random act by a stranger."

  CHAPTER 60: CHUCK

  Wednesday, August 22, 1900

  Standing next to his wife of forty days, Chuck watched closely as six pallbearers, including the deputy chief of police, carried Rose O'Malley to her final destination. Each of the men wore a red-rose corsage as a tribute to a beloved daughter, sister, friend, and librarian who had made a mark on her native Galveston like few other women.

  When the bearers placed the casket near the edge of the open grave and stepped back, Chuck took a moment to scrutinize some of those in attendance, including a few he considered suspects in the murder of a beautiful woman and the framing of an innocent man.

  They included Levi MacArthur, who stood next to several community leaders, and Max Beck, who stood next to his family. Like Silas Fitzpatrick, who occupied a space near the mayor, they appeared genuinely saddened by the passing of a woman they all knew well. Unlike Silas, who had lobbied everyone from judges to the governor to get Wyatt freed on bail, they didn't seem to mind that the woma
n's accused killer continued to languish in a jail cell.

  Chuck looked deeper into the crowd and saw another figure of interest, a man he had viewed with deep suspicion for months. Though Chuck had no reason to believe that Thomas Mack had murdered the deceased, he had every reason to believe that he knew something about the crime. The private investigator, like so many others, it seemed, was a man with secrets.

  Chuck had made little headway in two days in his drive to prove Wyatt's innocence. He had spoken to the suspect's attorney, the arresting officer, and even some of the staff at the Stratford Hotel, but he was no closer to solving the crime than when he had started.

  As a priest read the first six verses from the twenty-third Psalm, Chuck gazed again at the assembled mourners and let his mind drift. He thought about what Wyatt had said in his cell and about a timeline that was tighter than a drum.

  The murderer would have had no more than five minutes to enter the hotel room undetected, kill Rose, and leave the room without drawing the attention of others. Pulling off a crime like that would have required knowledge of the suspect, familiarity with the hotel, and strength. Whoever had murdered Rose had done so swiftly and without incurring much of a struggle.

  Chuck returned his attention to the graveside service, the mourners, and the woman at his side. He had done what he could to comfort her in the past four days but knew there was only so much he could do. Charlotte had lost not only a friend and a colleague but also a de facto sister, a person she could count on and confide in – a person that simply could not be replaced.

  Chuck then looked to his left and saw another challenge in the form of a son who was fighting his own demons. Justin had said little since learning of Rose's death. He had instead holed up in the beach house and kept mostly to himself.

  Even Emily hadn't managed to draw Justin out of his shell. In three separate visits to the beach house, she had been unable to get him to say more than a few words.

  Chuck also thought about people who were not in attendance. A few far-flung relatives, including George O'Malley, Rose's globetrotting younger brother, and a beloved aunt in Ireland, couldn't be reached until the eve of the funeral. Many others, including several college friends and Goldie Gates, couldn't be reached at all. Goldie had not provided Charlotte with her sister's address in San Antonio.

  When Chuck looked at the mass of mourners one last time, he thought again about how much he disliked funerals. He hated them, in fact. Though they could be beautiful celebrations of a life well lived, they were all too often just the opposite. They were painful reminders of human mortality and the cruel and random nature of the world itself.

  He couldn't see mourners finding solace in Rose's achievements any more than they could find it in her recent happiness. People didn't find solace in the murder of a wonderful woman.

  Chuck hoped that the hundreds around him would not have to experience a day like this again – or at least anytime soon – but he knew that they would. They most certainly would.

  Somewhere off the coast of West Africa, nature was conspiring to bring a whirlwind of pain. Death was already knocking on a thousand Galveston doors.

  CHAPTER 61: EMILY

  Saturday, August 25, 1900

  As Emily Beck went through a bedroom closet in a house on Nineteenth Street, she noted the little things – a brush covered with red hair, a theater program, a library bookmark, and an issue of National Geographic Magazine touting the glories of California.

  To most people, the items would have been nothing more than disposable knickknacks. To someone who loved and admired Rose O'Malley, they were priceless reminders of a vivacious, achieving, fun-loving woman who always had one foot in the past and the other in the future.

  They were also things that Charlotte Townsend couldn't bring herself to touch. One week after the violent murder of her best friend, she had found it nearly impossible to do much more than breathe. So on the morning she had left with Chuck for a weekend of reflection at the Sea View, she had asked Emily and Justin to pack Rose's belongings and take them to her family.

  Emily sat on Rose's bed, flipped through the pages of the magazine, and stopped at an article about mountains, beaches, and giant trees. Like her late friend and colleague, she had more than a passing interest in the state with the Golden Gate.

  "Have you found something interesting?" Justin asked.

  "I've found several interesting things, including this magazine," Emily said. "It has a long article about a place you know well."

  Justin walked over to the bed.

  "May I see it?"

  "Of course," Emily said.

  Justin gently lifted the periodical from Emily's hands. He looked at the table of contents on the cover, frowned, and handed the magazine back to its finder.

  "This is old information."

  "It was published four years ago, Justin. How much can a state change in four years?"

  "It can change a lot. Trust me."

  Emily frowned as she watched Justin return to a chest of drawers. She didn't know why he was more sullen than he had been even before the funeral, but she was determined to find out.

  "I can see that something is bothering you. Tell me what."

  "No," Justin said.

  He continued to empty a drawer with his back turned to Emily.

  "Is it Rose's death? If it is, I would understand."

  "It's not Rose's death."

  "Then what is it?" Emily asked. "Please tell me why you're troubled."

  "I can't," Justin said.

  "You can't or you won't?"

  "What difference does it make?"

  Emily slid off the bed.

  "It makes a lot of difference, Justin Townsend."

  "No. It doesn't."

  Justin started on another drawer.

  "Why doesn't it?"

  "Why? I'll tell you why," Justin said. He rose to his feet and turned to face Emily. "It doesn't make a difference because even if I tell you what's bothering me it won't change the outcome."

  "What outcome? What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about our outcome," Justin said. "I'm talking about why I can't ask you to marry me and go to California."

  Emily stepped back. She knew they would face challenges keeping their relationship alive after he left for Los Angeles, but she didn't consider any of them insurmountable. After four days of intense lovemaking, she had assumed that there were no obstacles they couldn't overcome.

  When Emily saw the hurt on Justin's face, she stepped forward. She walked up to him, grabbed his hands, and gazed at him with sympathetic eyes.

  "I don't understand what you just said," Emily said. "But if you're asking me to marry you, then you already know my answer. I told you I would follow you to California."

  She kissed him lightly on the lips.

  "I would follow you to Timbuktu."

  Justin took a deep breath.

  "Would you follow me to the future?"

  "The what?"

  "The future," Justin said.

  "The future?"

  "Yes. The future. Would you follow me to the twenty-first century knowing you could never come back? Would you follow me knowing you could never see Anna again? Would you?"

  "What?"

  "I'm from the future, Emily!" Justin said. "I came here from the year 2016. I walked through some sort of magic tunnel in Los Angeles and popped out in 1900. I'm not from this time."

  Emily let go of Justin's hands and stared at him as if he were a complete stranger. Stunned, fearful, and speechless, she stepped backward until she bumped into the bed and fell onto the mattress. When Justin stepped forward, she held out a hand.

  "Don't come any closer," Emily said.

  "Emily?"

  "I mean it. Don't come any closer, Justin, if that's really your name."

  "It is my name."

  "You're from the future?"

  "I'm from the future," Justin said.

  Emily closed her eyes and counted
to five. She could not believe her luck with men. She had gone from an arranged marriage to a philanderer to the Man from Mars in less than a year.

  "I don't believe you."

  "Really?"

  "That's right," Emily said.

  "OK. I'll prove it then. Ask me a question."

  Emily glared.

  "When were you born?"

  "January 5, 1995."

  "You're lying," Emily said. "Where did you grow up?"

  "Mission Viejo."

  "Never heard of it."

  "It's still a cattle ranch," Justin said.

  "Who's the president?"

  "Barack Obama."

  "Who?"

  "Never mind," Justin said.

  "I think you're making this up."

  "Why would I make anything up?"

  "Because you're a man," Emily said. "Men lie."

  "So we're back to that?"

  "Yes."

  "You really don't believe me?" Justin asked.

  Emily glared.

  "I don't believe a word."

  Justin frowned and sighed.

  "OK. I hear you."

  Justin grabbed Emily's hand and pulled her off the bed.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  "I'm taking you to another room," Justin said with an edge in his voice. "If you don't believe me, then maybe you'll believe someone else."

  CHAPTER 62: JUSTIN

  Justin pressed a button on his father's cell phone and watched a clip he had seen a dozen times. The young man on the high-definition screen was almost as compelling as the one he saw every day in the beach-house mirror.

  "That's you?" Emily asked.

  "That's me on a cruise to Mexico," Justin said. "Given what your father does for a living, I thought you might like this video."

  "What do you call this device?"

  "Most people call it a cell phone or a smartphone."

  "You mean it can make telephone calls too?" Emily asked.

  Justin nodded.

  "It can where I come from."