The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (10 page)

His eyes focused on a card attached to a cord strung around her neck with her picture and name. “How did I get here, Doctor Mallory?”

“That’s two questions.” She adjusted the cords on his arm. “Gaelic words and a sapphire brooch. And before you ask, I don’t understand how it works or why. I only know it did.”

He gave a small grunt of amusement but lay still. A magical brooch was one thing he did understand, but he didn’t intend to tell the doctor about Kit’s ruby brooch or where it had taken her.

Another woman wearing the same type of shirt and pants entered the room. “I have his six o’clock meds,” she told Doctor Mallory.

His Angel moved aside, and the other woman wiped off the cord to his arm before sticking something into it. She wrote on her hand as she left the room.

Doctor Mallory leaned over him again, tucked his arm back under the blanket, and he breathed in the sweet fragrance of her skin.

“Your doctor’s name is Ken Thomas.”

“I thought you were my doctor.” He reached out a finger and traced the curve of cheek and chin. A fetching pink bloomed in her cheeks.

“This isn’t the hospital where I work. Ken knows you’re from 1865, although I’m not sure he believes it. My brother, Jack, will be here soon. He’ll believe it, although not right away. He won’t leave you to fend for yourself. I’ve got to go back to my hospital in Richmond, but I’ll return tonight to check on you.”

“If we’re not in Richmond, where are we?” Kit’s brooch had taken her back and forth in time, and to different locations. Doctor Mallory’s must work the same way.

“Winchester, Virginia.”

She turned to leave but he caught her hand. “Thank you for saving my life.”

She smiled. “You’re special to some very important people. The nurse just gave you some pain medication so you can rest. When you wake, Jack will answer your questions.”

Braham drifted off to sleep, dreaming of magical brooches and his Angel of Mercy.

10

Winchester Medical Center, Winchester, Virginia, Present Day

B
raham was awakened
sometime later by a plain-looking woman peeling the sticky patches off his chest, along with most of his chest hairs.

“Ouch. Do you have to take all the hair, too?”

She pushed her glasses up her nose, smiling. “I’ll try to leave you some.”

Another woman standing on the opposite side of the bed said, “We’re moving you into a private room, Mr. McCabe. You’re doing so well, Doctor Thomas thought you were ready to get out of ICU.”

Both women wore identical green pants and shirts. They pushed the bed, with him still in it, out of the room, through a set of double doors, and down a long corridor lined with a dozen numbered doors. In a few of the rooms men and women wearing similar shirts to his shuffled in and out, pushing poles with hanging clear bags also connected to their arms. There were no guards or men in uniform, which eased his mind considerably.

The women guided the bed into room 214. “Here we are, your new room.”

A large window was covered with vertical hanging slats which allowed streaks of sunlight to filter into the room. Outside, far off in the distance, gold and red-leafed trees clustered between buildings with oddly shaped roofs.

Sitting in a chair next to the window was a man with neatly trimmed golden hair. He was concentrating on a rectangular, thin black box in his hand. A purple chambray shirt stretched over muscular arms and shoulders, and the sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He wore odd-looking trousers, and his black boots looked supple from frequent use. And he hadn’t shaved recently.

Braham stroked his chin, listening to the faint rasp of his whiskers. Neither had he.

The man climbed to his feet, setting the black box on the windowsill. “That was quick.”

“We just had to unhook a few wires,” the woman said, attaching Braham’s remaining wires to another box. “The floor nurse will be in shortly,” she told him. “Do you need anything before we go?”

“No. Thank you,” Braham said.

After the women left, another odd, melodic noise had him searching the room to find the source. It wasn’t coming from the box on the wall.

The man pulled a smaller thin black box from his shirt pocket and poked it with this finger. Then he put the black box to his ear and said, “Hey, sis… At the hospital…Yes, they just moved him…What’s up?” He went to the door and looked out. “They’re not here yet…Thanks for the warning.”

The man poked at the box again and returned it to his pocket. From what Braham could see, it was similar in shape and size to Kit’s iPod.

The man looked completely blank for an instant and then he grimaced. “The police will be coming to talk to you some time this morning.”

The man’s chest lifted as his breathing deepened, and his brows drew together in thought. He wasn’t pleased with the news. But why? And why would the police be interested in Braham?

Braham kept a wary eye on the obviously distressed gentlemen. “Doctor Mallory said her brother would be here. Are you Jack?”

The man paused at the end of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes, I am. My sister thinks you need watching. She told me a pretty wild story. If it’s true, I’d advise you to tell the police, when they get here, that you have no memory of who you are or what happened to you.”

Braham cocked his head with interest. “Are you telling me to lie?”

Jack dropped his chin slightly to hide a smile. “I would never advise a client to lie to the police. But in this case, they would believe the truth was a lie, so it’s best not to say anything.”

“Should I hire you to represent me?”

“You could,” Jack said, shrugging. “I have a law degree from Yale, but I don’t practice.”

“I have one from Harvard College, but haven’t practiced for a few years.”

On the bed was a white box, attached to a cord connected to the wall. Jack pushed a button on the box. The head of the bed slowly lifted, making a low, grinding noise.

He adjusted Braham’s pillow. “What year did you graduate?”

“1848.”

From the dark look in Jack’s eyes, he was working hard to keep his temper from rising to the surface. “You
know
it’s impossible, don’t you?”

Braham forced a grin. “I thought you would believe your sister.”

Jack picked up a cup from the bedside table with a small, bent tube angled horizontally out of it. He put the tube to Braham’s lips. “Here’s some water. Take a few sips.” Braham did and found the ice water refreshing. “I neither believe nor disbelieve, but I do know she’s never lied to me before.”

Braham pushed the cup away and Jack returned it to the table.

“What did she tell you about me?”

Jack rested his forearms on the bed’s railing and clasped his hands. “That you’re a major in the United States Cavalry. That you were caught spying in Richmond, and that if you didn’t die from your wounds, the Confederate Army was planning to hang you.”

“And you don’t believe it?”

There was a knock and two men dressed in blue uniforms entered without waiting for a response.

“Mr. McCabe,” one of the men dressed in blue said. “We’re with the Winchester Police Department, and we have a few questions for you. Is this a good time?”

Jack moved away from the bed, standing behind the police but staying where Braham could see him.

“Let’s begin with your full name,” one of the policemen said.

Braham glanced at Jack. “I was telling Mr. Mallory I don’t remember my name, or where I’m from. Or anything else.”

“Doctor Mallory said you told her your name was Major McCabe,” the other policeman said.

“I have no memory of the conversation.”

“The beating you took to your face and head could have caused memory loss.” Although the first policeman’s voice was amiable, his gaze was unblinkingly chilly. “What were you doing before the fight started?”

Braham had never lied before he went to work for Lincoln and Stanton as a secret agent. He had withheld the truth, but he had never deliberately lied. During the past four years he had perfected the art of not answering questions, and it had saved his life more than once.

He gave a weighty sigh. “I don’t remember.”

“You have a Scottish accent. Have you recently moved here?” the second policeman asked.

Braham shrugged. “I wish I could help you.”

The first policeman pulled a card from a pocket inside his notebook. “I can see we’re not going to get anywhere today. Here’s my phone number. If anything comes to mind, give me a call. We intend to catch the person who shot you.”

The other policeman scratched his chin. “I’d like to try something which might trigger a memory.” He left the room and returned a minute later carrying a mirror. He handed it to Braham. “Look in the mirror and tell me who you see.”

Braham studied the image in the looking glass. He had a bandage on his forehead and bruises on his checks. He hadn’t shaved in days, and the stubble finished off his well-crafted image of a fearless and daring spy.

“I see one sorry son of a bitch. But not someone I recognize.”

The policeman placed the mirror on the bedside table. “Thank you for your time. If you do remember any details, we’d appreciate a call.”

The policemen left the room. Jack watched the door for a minute and then let out a breath. “You played it brilliantly. Almost convinced me.”

“If I had given them my name, they might have learned I died in 1864.”

The box in Jack’s shirt pocket made a noise, and he answered it. “Your time traveler told the police he didn’t remember who shot him…No, I don’t believe him…” He handed the box to Braham. “Charlotte wants to talk to you.”

He put it against his ear as Jack had done. Silence.

“Hello. Is anyone there?”

Braham jerked the loud noise away from his ear.

“Hello, Major McCabe. Are you there?”

Braham kept the box several inches away from his ear and said, “Yes.”

“I can’t hear you.”

Jack took Braham’s hand and pushed the box closer to his ear. “Don’t talk so loud, Charlotte.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Is this better?”

Braham whispered, “Yes.”

“Major, don’t talk to anyone else. If you have to say anything, do what you just did and claim you don’t remember. If anyone discovers the truth, it could be a problem. We’re trying to work out a plan now. Will you hand the phone back to Jack?”

Jack put the phone up to his ear and listened. “I can stay until he’s ready to leave the hospital, but it would be easier for both of us if you transferred him to Richmond….Yes….No…. I’ll talk to Ken.”

The blood drained from Braham’s face at the mention of Richmond. He tossed back the covers. A fire burned in his belly, his head hurt, and when he moved, he got dizzy, but he was not going back to Richmond. All it held for him was a date with the hangman.

A look of alarm flashed across Jack’s face. He pressed his free hand against Braham’s shoulder. “Hold on, buddy. You’re not getting out of bed yet.”

“I’m not going back to Richmond and give those Johnny Rebs another shot at me.”

“He doesn’t want to go to Richmond. He thinks he’ll be killed,” Jack said into the black box. “How much of a history lesson do you want me to give him? If he’s going home, he doesn’t need to know the future.”

Going home seemed like a fine idea to Braham. He pulled up the covers.

“I’ll sleep here in the room….Yep, it’s a private suite….Yep, I talked to the admission’s office….Yep, I’ll pick up the tab and recoup my losses when I publish this story…Are you freaking kidding?
Of course I am.
”

Jack put the little black box back in his shirt pocket. “Okay, nobody’s listening but me, and I want the truth. If you’re married and spent the night with my sister, and then your wife showed up and shot you, I want to know. So spill it.”

Braham used the white box to raise the head of the bed higher.

“My name is Major Michael Abraham McCabe. I’m a special agent for Abraham Lincoln. The President sent me to Richmond to meet with a group of Northern sympathizers. I was followed when I left the meeting, and had almost reached my rendezvous point when I was attacked by five Rebel soldiers. I gave as good as I got, but in the end, I was gut shot.

“They carried me up the hill to Chimborazo Hospital. I lay there for two days, in agony and dying. Your sister said she was sent to rescue me.”

Jack scrubbed his face with his hands. “How long have you been a major?”

“Six months.”

“How long have you worked for the President?”

“Since Gettysburg.”

“Why are you lying?”

“I’m not.”

“You and Charlotte didn’t have time to concoct a similar story. You weren’t talking when you got here. I don’t know how it’s possible, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now. After all, I write fiction, and this sounds like the beginning of an intriguing mystery novel. I’ll play along and see where it goes.”

“I hope you get good reviews.” Braham said, smirking.

“I usually do,” Jack said. “Now, crank the bed down. I can see you’re hurting, so I’ll let the nurse know. She’ll give you something to reduce the pain and help you sleep. We’ll talk more when you wake up.”