Time's Enemy: A Romantic Time Travel Adventure (Saturn Society Book 1) (21 page)

“On Hopewell Lane, offa West Fourth. Cute little house, though Lord knows how she afforded it on what Irving paid. They tore it down when the highway came through. ‘Course, she was long gone by then.”

Tony gripped the chair’s arms. “What happened to her?” Heart attack, stroke, cancer?

Henderson’s eyes grew watery. Or was it Tony’s imagination? “In thirty-three, the second time he came... She disappeared again. That time, for good. They found a piece of her dress down by the river... lots of blood, but no one knew what happened. Mabel thought maybe she was mixed up with the mob. Never saw hide nor hair of your great-grandpa again, either.” He stared at the wall for a long moment, and when he resumed speaking, his voice shook. “God, I miss her.” Henderson slowly turned his head to face Tony, his brown eyes calculating and accusing. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me...”

“What?” Tony almost came out of his seat. “I mean, no. There’s not! My grandpa—” What had happened to her?

“Thought it was your
great
-grandpa.” Henderson’s wispy hair trembled, his body otherwise rigid.

“It was,” Tony insisted. “But—”

“She said she could go back in time, and he could, too. Didn’t believe her, no one did. But I always wondered, ever since she showed me that quarter
he
gave her when they were stranded in that attic. And now, seeing you after all these years, not a hair on your head changed...” Henderson shook his head, slowly, deliberately. “That wasn’t any great-grandfather. It was you.”

“T
HE NEW BOOK ARRIVED TODAY
.” Theodore held up the volume as Charlotte entered the Society House. “1924” shone in gold lettering on the cover. “That fellow who jumped in last week? An Enemy.”

“H- he is?” She reached for the chain hanging beneath the neckline of her dress and fingered her quarter through the fabric.
Please, don’t let it be Tony.
Ever since she first saw him in the Book five years earlier, it had been a constant fear that he’d return, and Theodore would find him.

Theodore slung the book onto the vestibule desk, and Charlotte worried the quarter as he thumbed through the pages. The date on a photo he flipped past read 1991. “How on earth do we get these images?” she asked. And who determined who got into the book in the first place?

“From their contemporaries, or those of our number in the past who’ve observed their misdeeds.” He glanced sideways as he flipped another page. She forced herself to drop her hand.

Couldn’t let him see her nervousness, her fear. “Where’s the justice?”
Don’t let it be Tony...
“How can you simply believe, just because the image is in the book?” She’d voiced the question before, but this was the first time he’d brought in a new book and announced that an Enemy was near, an Enemy that might be—

“Ours is not to question why.” His voice grew louder with each familiar phrase. “Our successors, in their wisdom, provide us with this information so that we may prevent dire consequences to their time, our time, the very fabric of time!”

Charlotte pressed herself against the wall. She couldn’t just stand there, not when it might be Tony Theodore was after. “But- isn’t that condemning a man without the benefit of investigation?”

“The investigation has been done! Do you have so little faith in your future peers?” Theodore pressed the book open to page 94. “There he is.”

Charlotte leaned over the book.
Fred Cheltenham.
She suppressed the urge to sigh in relief.

“Another fortune hunter,” Theodore spat.

Charlotte forced her breathing to slow as she studied the page. Cheltenham had been—or rather, would be—born in 1950. The picture was dated ca. 1984.

Theodore jabbed his finger at the photo. “Do you find it acceptable that this vile cur of a man gets rich by changing the past?”

Charlotte shrank away from him. “No sir.”

He leaned forward, clutching the edge of the desk with both hands. “Do you prefer to look aside and allow this man to misuse his gift with no regard for the harm it does to others?” His voice boomed like a traveling revival preacher’s in the Society House’s foyer.

Charlotte squeezed the quarter in a fistful of dress.

“Do you think it’s all right for this man to play God? To amass wealth at the expense of others? To allow the formation of time disruptions, regardless of the cost?” His breath reeked of onions and fried foods.

“N- no sir.” She released the quarter. “Of course not.” Charlotte dropped her hands and fumbled with a bit of skirt. This wasn’t just about right and wrong, it was about Nellie Mae. But Theodore was right in his conviction to prevent others from sharing his wife’s fate.

“Do you not agree that those who break the rules should pay?”

Charlotte straightened. “Of course.”

He was right. They could not permit people like Fred Cheltenham to use their knowledge of the future in selfish, rash ways that allowed more time bubbles to form.

As a student of physics at the university, she knew better than most that the threat went beyond the displacement of an object here and there, or even people. Enough temporal distortions, and the fabric of time itself could unravel, resulting in chaos, the breakdown of linear life—possibly even the destruction of the universe.

It was the Saturn Society’s duty to prevent that.

The thought chilled her, but strengthened her resolve. She drew up straight, and tried not to think about Tony, or how her rescuer might have earned his page in the Black Book. “H- have you invited Mr. Cheltenham to the House, sir?”

The flush seeped out of Theodore’s face. “I have. He has declined our offer of hospitality. He knows what he’s doing. But I am not the person to bring him in. Perhaps Dr. Caruthers.” He sat at the desk, yanked a drawer open, and pulled out a thin booklet. The Society directory.

Ben Caruthers, the Society Watchkeeper from Cleveland and a renowned surgeon, shared Theodore’s passion. Like Fred Cheltenham, Dr. Caruthers was white, and might more easily convince Mr. Cheltenham to come to the Society House.

Charlotte suppressed the compulsion to curl her lip as Theodore flipped through the small book. Dr. Caruthers was also a skirt chaser whose oily gaze lingered too long on her whenever he came to the Dayton House, making her feel like a specimen on display for his pleasure, and for his taking.

Charlotte wouldn’t be taken. She recalled the night before, when she’d gone on an automobile ride in the country with Louie Lambert. A shiver ran up her body at the memory of the deliciously wicked feeling when he slid his hand up her leg.

She might be taken by Louie. But not by Caruthers.
Never.

“Ah, here we go.” Theodore pressed his finger to the booklet in his palm.

Dread swelled beneath Charlotte’s bosom. “Perhaps I could approach Mr. Cheltenham.” She didn’t like the idea, but offering to help would mollify Theodore.

It worked. “Yessssss.” He drew the word out “Excellent idea, Charlotte. My observations tell me he’d be more open to an overture from a lady.” He clapped the directory shut as a narrow grin spread across his face, the closest he came to a genuine smile.

What had she gotten herself into?

The sounds of Al Jolson from the phonograph drifted out into the darkened laundry as Charlotte pushed the door to the back room shut, leaving the speakeasy behind. Fred—as he’d insisted she call him—gripped her hand as if he were afraid she’d reconsider leaving with him.
Not to worry.
She had a job to do. They crept around washtubs and wringers, until they reached the front door.

Charlotte grabbed the door handle—Fred wasn’t even gentleman enough to get it—but an arm swung out from the dark corner, blocking her. “Hold there a minute,” a man whispered.

“What—” Fred began.

“Shh!” The man pressed them against the wall while a streetcar rumbled past, its wheels splashing in the puddled street. Then he dropped his arm. “Can’t be too careful. Go on now, quickly.”

“Ah, the feds,” Fred said. As Charlotte flung open the door she caught a glimpse of his grin in the light of a nearby streetlamp. All of this was a novelty to him. He’d already told her prohibition would be repealed within ten years.

She stepped from under the eave, the drizzle instantly coating her dress.

Fred hesitated. “Damn rain’ll ruin my suit,” he grumbled.

“Surely you can easily afford a new one,” Charlotte said. That suit probably cost more than her Papa made in a month.

Fred let out a big laugh. “That’s true.”

The laundry door opened, and the watchman leaned out. “Hey! Beat it, you two!”

They ambled down the sidewalk, staying under the storefront awnings as much as possible. “Hell, I can buy you a new dress... a whole closet full!”

Charlotte suppressed an unladylike snort as they stopped beneath an awning at the corner of Seventh and Main. She already had a closet full of dresses—though most had been purchased on credit, while she looked for a job. She’d find one eventually. She certainly didn’t need Fred Cheltenham’s charity. But she made herself give him a broad smile.

“Did I tell you I’m a dentist?” he asked.

“Yes, you did.”

He peered at her mouth. “I could fix your teeth, you know.”

The boor.
“That’s nice.” She fisted a wad of soggy skirt. Time to do what she must. “Did you have a place in mind to go?”

He took her hand. “Well, since I’m not from around here, I thought... maybe we could go back to your place?”

Charlotte stifled a gasp. The nerve. Did he think her no better than a street trollop? Perhaps the nicest girls didn’t congregate in the back room of Bushmiller’s Laundry, but still... She swallowed her retort as logic returned. Morals were undoubtedly looser in 1984. Insulting as it was, Fred’s suggestion made her job easier.

She injected enthusiasm into her voice. “Why... that’s a capital idea!” The perfect opportunity. “But my father would question my bringing a strange man—”

“I’m staying at the Gibbons Hotel—”

“Oh, goodness no. My sister’s best friend works there. I couldn’t take the chance she’s on tonight... why, the talk! I know someplace better.”

“And where might that be?” His eyebrows bounced up twice as a suggestive smile shot across his face.

“My employer’s, right down the street.” The fabrication slid into place as she spoke. “A lovely house. They do some sort of research there, and often entertain overnight guests.”

“Research?”

“Some psychiatric thing, I think. They’re quite secretive about it, but the pay’s good, so I don’t ask. No one’s in tonight, so it would be the perfect place for a little...” She stroked her finger down his hand. “...dalliance.”

Fred slid an arm around her shoulders. “Then let’s go.”

Revulsion rose in her gullet for playing the coquette. Sure, she let Louie take a few liberties, especially when the drink flowed freely at some of those racy parties he took her to. Fred wasn’t an unattractive fellow. But she was Louie’s girl.

The drizzle stopped, so they walked the rest of the way. She resisted the urge to squirm when Fred’s arm slipped to her waist. If Mabel or Papa knew! She tried not to think of Louie, or how angry he’d be if he found she’d allowed another man to see her home. But it served the Society’s purpose.

Besides, Louie would never know. This was his poker night. Thanks to the rain, the street was deserted, so she need not fear someone she knew seeing her.

“What exactly do you do at this research place?” Fred asked.

“I’m a secretary.”

“Hard to believe a pretty girl like you isn’t married by—how old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-one. I just graduated from university. Too busy studying to find a husband, I’m afraid.” Which had been true, until she’d met Louie at an off-campus party.

“What did you study? Literature, I’ll bet.”

Charlotte laughed, genuinely this time. “Physics.”

Fred eyed her, his brows pressed down. “No shit? Why’re you a secretary, then? Surely you can find something better.”

“I would love to find a position in research and development, but no one wants to hire a woman.” She turned up her hands, glad for the excuse to slip from under Fred’s arm. “They all figure I’ll quit to get married and have babies.”