Clockwiser (23 page)

We followed them inside and were accosted by a foul stench. Unwashed soldiers, sickness. Death.

A man approached us. “What are you doing here?”

“Please,” I said, “We’re looking for my brother. We’ve heard he was wounded in yesterday’s battle. We want to take him home.”

The man’s stern expression softened. I took that as a sign to continue my plea. “He’s six feet tall, thin, shaggy brown hair.”

“That describes most of the men in this room.” He sighed. “Go on in, look around, but be quick about it.”

I figured he was happy to unload a wounded soldier. No good to the army now, anyway.

All the furniture had been removed or pushed aside, but photographs and paintings on the walls said this was actually a family home when people weren’t shooting at it.

Injured men were lying on every square inch of the bare, hardwood floor. Low moans and sporadic coughing were the only signs of life. Some had their hands over chest wounds; others had limbs wrapped, blood seeping through dirty bandages. All were in some form of agony. The sight made me gag. I tried not to focus on the gruesomeness and the suffering around me, keeping my thoughts on finding Tim.

I muttered, “He must be in here somewhere.”

It felt heartless to step over men in such obvious need, but I forced myself to examine faces only, desperate to find Tim’s.

The stench that floated up was choking, and Nate and I covered our noses with our shirts.

“Brutal,” he said.

Uninjured soldiers moved the patients about like checker pieces--ones with injuries that weren’t life-threatening, ones who needed immediate medical attention, ones who were already dead and ready to be moved out.

None were Tim.

“Where
is
he?” I said.

Nate approached one of the doctors. “Are the wounded taken anywhere else?”

The doctor shook his head. “There are more men in the cellar and some upstairs. Who are you looking for?”

“My brother,” I said. “Timothy Donovan.”

“I recognize the name.” He pushed his round-lensed spectacles up on his nose. “It was my responsibility to collect the names of all the men who arrived here and to register the degree of injury. Yes, Timothy Donovan. He had a very bad leg.”

Had?
“Had?” I whimpered.

“I’m afraid the ambulance has taken him to Sudley Church.”

Oh my God. “He
died
?”

“Oh no, my dear. Sudley Church is the field hospital. Your brother has been sent there for surgery.”

Surgery! My heart beat like a rabbits’.

“Nate, we have to get him!”

I sprinted toward the door as fast as a person could sprint in a room crowed with sick men all over the floor.

Outside, I grabbed Nate’s arm. “What are we going to do? We have to get to him before they operate. This is
1862
. Medicine is archaic!”

Nate took my hand. “Come with me.” We stumbled through the darkness until we reached a horse tied to the furthest post.

“We’re stealing a horse?”

“You have a better idea?”

No, I didn’t. Besides, the horse would probably come straight back once we let it loose at the church.

I pressed my cheek into the back of Nate’s shirt, hanging on for dear life as he heeled the horse’s flanks to gallop as fast as it could down the dirt road in the darkness.

My emotions were all over the map. Fear for Tim, heartache for Nate. Even though my arms clung tight around his waist and my body was pressed into his, I’d never felt farther away.

The little white church glowed like a firefly in the moonlight. Soldiers carried men in and out the double front doors, much in the same manner as at the Stone house.

The horse neighed as we cantered to a stop. Nate helped me down, and we sprinted up the stone steps.

“Can I help you?” A woman said.

She wore a long, cotton skirt with her hair tucked under a white bonnet. She had dark circles under worried eyes. No one was getting any sleep these days.

“Are you a nurse?” I asked. She nodded.

“I’m looking for my brother, Timothy Donovan.”

“The boy with the leg wound?”

“Yes, where is he?”

“He’s in the back room.” The nurse touched my arm and looked gravely into my eyes. “I’m afraid he’s about to have it removed.”

No, no, no!

Nate and I sprinted to the back of the church, past other patients on short benches and pews, awaiting their turn for bad medicine.

I heard him before I saw him. Tim’s voice crying out, “No, please, don’t!” It echoed through the wooden beamed ceiling of the sanctuary.

I threw open the door and nearly fainted. “Stop!”

I freaked out at the sight of archaic surgical tools on the small table beside Tim’s gurney. His leg was bare up to the groin, and a gruesome, raw and bloody wound was just above his knee. This was before penicillin, and an injury that could be successfully treated in modern times required a hacksaw in 1862.

“I’m his sister,” I said to the startled doctor, totally forgetting about my attempt to disguise myself as a man. “Can we have a minute?”

The doctor frowned, his eyes scanning my attire with disdain. Then he muttered through thin lips. “Make it quick. Can’t you see how busy we are? I haven’t slept in three days.”

He left us alone, but I heard him mumbling something about meddling, misguided women on his way out.

“Tim.” I leaned over his cot and took his clammy hand in mine. “I’m so glad we finally found you.”

Tim managed a weak grin. “Me, too. I’m kind of fond of my leg.” His forehead glistened in sweat and I could feel the heat of his fever rise to my face.

“I’m such an idiot, Casey. I’m sorry.”

“Shh, it’s okay.”

I stared at the green ooze on Tim’s exposed leg and imagined the horrible experience he would’ve gone through if we’d been even a few minutes later. It made me nauseous and lightheaded. It occurred to me that I’d subconsciously worried I would shoot back to the present too soon, and now that we’d finally found Tim, I gave myself permission to give into the dizziness and white light I felt coming on.

I took Nate’s arm with one hand and Tim’s with the other. “Hold on, boys. We’re going home.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

CASEY

Tim toppled awkwardly onto Nate’s bed, letting out an agonizing groan as he fell.

Lucinda screamed. In her timeline, Willie disappeared into thin air, and Tim was suddenly in his place, bloodied and filthy.

Nate snapped up his cell from his desk. “I’m calling 911.”

“Tim?” I shook his shoulder. His eyelids fluttered as he moaned, delirious with fever.

Lucinda’s head whipped around as she took in the scene, her hands flailing. “Willie’s gone?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, touching her shoulder. “He said to tell you good-bye and that he thought you were beautiful.”

“He did? Oh!” she moaned. “This is so crazy. Is this Tim?”

I couldn’t blame her for asking. He looked half-dead, bleeding over Nate’s bed, hardly recognizable at all.

Mrs. Mackenzie was at the bedroom door.

“Nate?” she said with bewilderment spread across her face. “What’s going on?”

The last time she saw us, Nate, Lucinda and I were with Willie, not Tim.

“Um, he’s sick,” Nate said. “I’ve called for an ambulance.”

Mrs. Mackenzie walked over to the bed. “Oh my goodness, what happened to him?” She stared at his wound and then his face. “That’s not the same boy you came in here with?” She turned to Nate. “Nate?”

“I’ll explain later, Mom.”

We heard knocking on the front door, and Mrs. Mackenzie left to answer it. I ran after her to direct the paramedics to Nate’s room.

“What happened here?” one of them said. They immediately ran an IV, pushing a big needle into a vein in Tim’s arm.

“We don’t know,” Nate answered. I nodded my head. Playing dumb was the best course of action under the circumstances.

“This is a gunshot wound? What kind of gun?”

No way was I going to say a nineteenth century musket.

Mrs. Mackenzie had squeezed back into the room. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

There was no time to try to answer her.

One of the paramedics said, “When did this happen? The infection looks severe.”

Nate and I shared a look but kept our lips sealed.

“They’re not talking, Ed,” the second paramedic said. “Let’s get this kid to the hospital.”

“I’m his sister. I want to come along.”

They agreed and Nate said he’d meet me at the hospital. I was happy to miss the interrogation he was about to face from his mother. I caught a glimpse of Lucinda before I left. She sat with her hands clasped on her lap, her head down, her long hair covering her face. Her shoulders shuddered with her sobs, and I was sorry I couldn’t be there for her.

I’d never ridden in the back of an ambulance before. One of the paramedics climbed in the back, taking a seat opposite me in front of a row of medical machinery that flashed and blinked. He took Tim’s pulse and listened to his heart, all the while talking to whoever it was that waited for us at the hospital.

The sirens screamed, and I hung on as the ambulance made quick turns.

“Casey,” Tim moaned.

“I’m here.” I squeezed his hand.

“I don’t want to die.”

“You’re not going to die. We’re back now and headed for Mount Auburn.”

“They’re not going to hack off my leg?”

“No.” I smiled. “You’ll live to walk again:”

“Thank you.” Tears ran down my brother’s face and my throat swelled up. His lips tightened around his teeth as he worked to get the words out. “Thanks for coming after me. For not giving up.”

“I’ll never give up on you, Tim. I love you.”

“I love you too, sis.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

CASEY

Three Days Later

Tim had a nasty maze of stitches on his leg that would leave a scar to remind us all of the time we’d almost lost him. But, thankfully, the infection had subsided. My parents hadn’t left his side since the operation, and I’d finally convinced them to go home for a couple of hours to get some rest. It was nice to finally be alone with Tim.

Tim picked at the hospital food on the tray in front of him.

“I didn’t survive the Civil War to die of starvation in a modern hospital,” he said. “You have to sneak me something better. A steak sandwich and a bag of chocolate-chip cookies.”

I laughed. “Consider it done. And don’t mention the war. They might lock you up.”

We’d already cast a lot of suspicion because we were unable to come up with a believable story. How did you properly explain where Tim had been for weeks, our lack of hygiene, and his unlikely wound.

There was a TV monitor hanging from the ceiling and the news report was on.

“Do you want me to turn it off?” I asked.

Tim nodded. Just before I pushed the button on the remote, a story broke about a gang bust in New York. Stories like this were a dime a dozen, and normally I wouldn’t have given it a second glance, if not for the image of one of the gang members with a particular tattoo.

Apparently the story gave Tim an idea.

“I was sucked into a street gang. That’s where I was when I was gone. There was a fight and I was caught in the cross-fire.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s your story?”

“It happened once--at the bank--it could happen again.”

I nibbled on my cheek. It could work. It was a plausible story, and I had a feeling there was a basis of truth there.

Besides, we couldn’t hold the police or my parents off much longer. They wanted answers.

“I’ll let the others know.”

The others being Lucinda and Nate.

I hadn’t seen Nate since the night we arrived at the hospital. Once Tim had gotten out of surgery and we were told he’d be all right, all Nate and I wanted to do was go to our own beds and sleep. He called me the next day, but I didn’t answer. He texted me throughout the day, but I ignored those, too. Gradually the calls and texts dwindled down to one or two, and none as of today.

It wasn’t because I’d stopped loving him. If anything I loved him more, but I couldn’t bear the thought that he’d stayed with me out of a sense of loyalty, because he knew about my life and somehow that made him responsible for me.

I’d miss him, but he deserved to live the life he wanted to live, not one he felt he had to live. I closed my eyes and pushed back the pain.

“Are you okay?” Tim said.