Out of Time (31 page)

“I’ve been thinking…” she said. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and she smirked. “Very funny. I think we should tell Charlie we’re leaving soon.”

Simon looked down his chin at her in surprise. “You’ve forgiven him?”

She shrugged. “I can’t really blame him for not crossing King, can I? He was just doing what he had to do to stay alive.”

Simon nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s wise to tell Charlie our plans, however.”

“Might not be wise, but it’s right. He’s been a good friend, Simon. We need to warn him. Who knows what King might do.”

“It’s still a risk.”

Smiling, she scooted down his body and kissed his chest. “Just a tiny one,” she murmured between kisses. “An itty bitty one.”

She slowly eased her way down his chest to his stomach. “Let’s live dangerously,” she whispered, before brushing her soft lips against the sensitive skin.

“Elizabeth,” he started softly, but the rest of his sentence was lost in the feeling of her silky hair brushing against him. He tried to remember what he was going to say, but all coherent thought was gone. Charlie was suddenly the last thing on his mind.

Closing time was Elizabeth’s favorite, and not only because it meant the long work day was over. But there in the quiet of the club, the chores almost finished, when it was just the four of them, she felt a sense of belonging. The stillness of a place usually so bursting with life was all the more remarkable and cherished. A few nights a week, she, Simon, Charlie and Dix would linger at the club, share a drink and the consolation of shared experience. For the most part, she and Simon were no more than a willing audience for Charlie. He’d regale them with stories of the night when he was a boy and saw the last of the great bare knuckle fights. Gentleman Jim Corbett had beaten his idol, John L. Sullivan, in the brawl to end all brawls. He told them where he was when he heard President McKinley had been assassinated. And blushed when he recounted his ill-fated, one-time only, theatrical debut in Jilly Stein’s Traveling Burlesque Show.

Of all the things she was leaving behind, she was going to miss Charlie the most. When she finally told him they were leaving, he hadn’t protested, hadn’t asked them where they were going. They warned him that King might try something and to be careful, but Charlie just heaved a big sigh, nodded and asked if they needed any traveling money.

Elizabeth felt a lump form in her throat. Last night she and Simon had nearly wrecked the place. Their salaries over the next two weeks wouldn’t pay for the damage they’d caused, and here Charlie was offering them more.

“No, please,” she said, and reached out to stop him from digging into his pockets.

”If you’re worried about payin’ me back, you can send it when ya get settled,” he offered.

“No, you’ve given us too much already,” she said and looked over to Dix, who was busying herself with the last of the night’s chores. “Both of you.”

Dixie looked up from the pile of dishes and forced a weak smile to her face.

The big barkeep pulled a ragged handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “Wasn’t nothin’,” he said, trying to hide his sniffles. “You just drop Ol’ Charlie a line now and then, all right?”

Elizabeth’s heart dropped. In four days, if everything went as planned, she’d be home in the future and Charlie Blue would be long since passed. “Sure,” she said, hesitating, before stepping forward and pulling him into a hug.

He returned it fiercely before pulling away and nodding firmly. “You take care, ya hear?” he said and then stuck out his meaty hand to Simon. “You watch over her.”

Simon solemnly shook it. “I will, and thank you.”

Charlie snuffled again and cleared his throat. “Aw, nuts,” he grumbled and turned to rearrange some perfectly well arranged bottles. “I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

“Charlie,” Elizabeth said, casting a quick glance at Simon. “You don’t have any money in the stock market by any chance, do ya?”

Simon hissed her name in warning under his breath, but she couldn’t let Charlie lose everything after all he’d done for them.

“Naw,” he said. “S’all tied up in the club. Why?”

Thank God. “Just curious.”

“We should be going,” Simon said pointedly.

“See you tomorrow,” Elizabeth said, as Simon hurried her to the door.

Once they were outside Simon glared down at her. “Really, Elizabeth. What would you have done if he’d said yes?”

“I know, but I couldn’t leave thinking I could have helped him. This is Charlie we’re talking about. It’s not like I took an ad out in the Times.”

Simon didn’t seem moved. “It was wrong,” she continued. “Very wrong. I’m a bad Elizabeth. Forgive me?”

He sighed and shook his head. “You are incorrigible.” It had been a big risk. There was no telling the ripple effect of one simple change in the timeline. She’d been rash in trying to help Charlie, but she didn’t regret it.

Simon put his arm around her. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

FATHER CAVANAUGH STARED UP at the placid, marble face of the statue of Saint Patrick. He’d always found the countenance soothing and had taken solace from it many times over the years. He would sit in the closest pew and gently run the heavy wood under his palm. It reminded him of the smooth beads of his rosary. He’d rubbed the same spot so often that even the wood oil used to polish the benches couldn’t help. He liked to think of them as a testament to the struggle. Worn, but still strong.

In his thirty years in the priesthood, he’d striven to find the same sort of peace he’d seen in the face of the saint. Not that he counted himself worthy of such things, but even priests had dreams. And nightmares.

“Are you all right, Father?”

Father Cavanaugh startled at the voice of his assistant pastor, Father Peter Fitzpatrick. The lad tried so hard, too hard sometimes, to be all that he thought a priest was. He was earnest enough, and his heart was truly given to God, but he was so young. It was hard to see past the pale, freckled face of the choir boy he’d known those years ago and see the man who stood before him now. Especially today, he thought, as he absently massaged his arthritic fingers. Normally, the signs of age served to remind him how far he’d come, but today they seemed to harken how little time there might be left.

He had heard many late night confessions, but Dixie’s knock on his door in the early hours this morning and the conversation that followed had left him with a difficult decision. Knowledge can be a burden.

He smiled at the young father. The boy would have to be a man to face the things this parish would show him. He wondered if he’d done the right thing sheltering the boy from the darker side of things. He wanted Peter to find his footing before he revealed the truth of what it meant to be pastor in these times. Perhaps he had waited too long.

The younger man’s pale brow wrinkled in concern. “Father?”

“I’m sorry, Peter,” he said, never having broken the habit of using his given name. “Just looking for wisdom.”

That seemed to unnerve the younger man, and he tugged on his ear. It was a nervous habit that always made the older man smile. Father Cavanaugh stifled a chuckle. The poor boy couldn’t conceal his feelings if his life depended on it.

“Is there anything I can do, Father?”

Father Cavanaugh smiled kindly. “No, no. It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with. But I will be rather busy this morning. Several meetings,” he said, waving casually toward the office door. “Would you be a good lad and make sure I’m not disturbed?”

“Of course, Father.”

Father Cavanaugh patted Peter’s shoulder as he passed by. Opening the door to his office, he hoped for a few minutes to plan his opening remarks, but saw there wasn’t time for that.

King Kashian flattened his gloved palms on the desk. “You’re late.”

“You’re late,” the waitress said with a grin.

Simon looked up from his menu. The diner was busier than normal and the din was at a new high. “Pardon?”

She shrugged. “You two always come in at the same time s’all. Breakfast at one in the afternoon,” she said shaking her head and snapping her gum. “You want the usuals? Oh, I asked Fred about getting that Chinese tea stuff you’re always askin’ for. He said, ‘They want chink, they can go across town.’” She looked over her shoulder at the squat, little man behind the counter and gave him a quick wink, before turning back to the table and snapping her gum. “Course, Fred’s an ass.”

Simon chuckled and put down the menu. “The usual will be fine. Thank you, Helen.”

The woman smiled happily, as she always did when he used her name. He’d learned quickly how far a British accent could take him with most women.

Elizabeth waited until Helen left before rolling her eyes. “You really are shameless.”

He merely arched his eyebrows in mock innocence. Elizabeth shook her head and went back to reading her section of the paper. Simon watched her for a moment. How had he been so lucky to find her? Such a marvelous woman. And wearing, he noted with an appreciative smile, his favorite dress. The green set off her hair, and set his mind wandering to rather pleasant places.

“Oh, the Marx Brothers are still playing at the Roxy,” Elizabeth said. “Wouldn’t that be great? To see an early talkie in the theater.”

Simon grunted noncommittally and scanned the front page.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. We only have two days left.”

He shook his head and put down the paper. “It’s too dangerous.” Her face fell and he sighed. “Besides,
The Cocoanuts
is really one of their lesser films. You’re not missing much.”

His comment had the desired effect, and her lovely face went from frowning to astonished. “You like the Marx Brothers? What else haven’t you told me?”

He grinned and went back to his paper. “Many things. Many, many things.”

Elizabeth laughed. “No doubt. I’m gonna use the restroom. Try not to flirt too much with Helen while I’m gone.”

“I would never do any such thing,” he said, pleased she couldn’t see his amusement behind the paper.

The headlines were much the same as they were back home—murder, corruption in the government and an unhealthy obsession with sports. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

“Here ya go,” Helen said, as she returned and poured their first cups of coffee. “Order’s comin’ right up.”

Simon put down the paper and thanked her with a smile. She winked and moved on to her next table. The coffee was dark and thick. Definitely one thing he wouldn’t miss. He leafed through the paper, searching for the crossword puzzle. Doing it together had become something of a daily ritual, but he could never remember what section it was hidden in. Finally, he found it buried in the back with the obituaries.

He quickly scanned the puzzle, looking for cornerstone clues, when Helen returned with their breakfast plates.

“You need anything else?” she asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Just give a whistle.”

He nodded, but his thoughts had strayed. Elizabeth was certainly taking her time. Shrugging it off, he took another sip of the bitter coffee.

When half the cup was gone and Elizabeth still wasn’t back, he began to worry. He tried to concentrate on the puzzle, but with every passing second he grew more anxious. The words on the page blurred under his scrutiny.

Giving in to the apprehension, he slipped out of the booth and walked toward the counter. Helen was there picking up an order. “Have you seen my wife?”

The waitress shrugged. “She went in the ladies’ last I saw.”

He was probably over-reacting, but the seed of doubt had been sown. Simon wouldn’t be able to relax until he was sure. He walked through the storeroom toward the back. The passage was dimly lit by a single exposed bulb hanging too low from the ceiling. It swung back and forth in a slow arc, casting an alternating wave of shadow and light on the door.

Simon knocked and waited for an answer. When none came, he tested the lock. It was open, and he pulled it slightly ajar. “Elizabeth?”

Again, there was no answer, and he opened the door the rest of the way. The tiny room was empty, the faucet left running. His heart tripped and stuttered, before he reined it in. She’d gone out for some air. That’s all, he told himself. “Is there a back door?” he called out to Helen who’d been lingering in the hall.

“Yeah, right back there,” she said, gesturing behind him.

Simon hurried down the short, dark hall and threw open the door. It clanged against the building, shivering on impact. Bright sunlight streamed into the alley, burning his eyes, as he stepped out. His pulse galloped, refusing to be contained.

“Elizabeth!”

He looked quickly up and down the filthy alleyway, determined to find her standing there among the empty packing crates and battered trash bins. She simply had to be there. His mind couldn’t grasp any other thought. He ran to the mouth of the alley and stumbled into the crowd of pedestrians coursing down the busy street. Blaring horns and idle chatter receded like the tide. Blood roared in his ears, deafening everything but the pounding of his heart.

Turning back to the doorway, a single discarded shoe caught his eye. No. Dear God. No. He knew, even before he held it, that is was hers. Frustrating hours spent buying it and precious minutes taking it off flashed in his mind. The leather strap at the back was torn. He clamped his eyes shut, but the images of her struggling, fighting for her life battered away at him. While he’d sat doing the damn crossword puzzle! His fist tightened over the shoe.

Elizabeth was gone.

“Where is he?” Simon demanded.

Charlie’s eyes widened behind the peephole slot. “What’s wrong?”

Simon pounded his fist against the heavy metal. He didn’t have time for this. “Open the bloody door!”

Charlie quickly complied, and Simon grabbed him by the shirt collar. “Where’s King?”

“Professor—”

“Where?”

Charlie’s big hand clamped around Simon’s wrist and tried to pull him off. “Take it easy. What’s happened?”

“He’s taken Elizabeth, that’s what’s bloody happened. Now tell me where he is.”