The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (53 page)

“Yeah, she said Ernest received a telegram last night from one of their friends in Germany. The guy is leaving for the U.S. in a couple of days, and Ernest really needs to meet with him beforehand. They can’t delay the trip any longer. She said they’re leaving for Gare de l’Est soon, and asked if you could possibly meet her for coffee at Le Petite Rose to say goodbye. It’s apparently a café in the station.”

“Well, damn,” I swore.

“What’s wrong?” Molly asked, bringing the coffee pot and another cup over to the sitting area. “I thought you liked Hadley?”

“I do,” I said quickly. “That’s not the problem. I mean, I know we don’t have any spare time on our hands. In fact, it’s quickly waning. It’s just…well, the Hemingways leaving is decisively the end of any hope we might get the rest of
Blue’s Canyon
.”

Molly gave me a questioning look.

“Wanna try?” she asked mischievously.

“Right,” I replied with a sigh. “Because we have time for that when we’re planning a prisoner escape in three hours.”

“We could do it,” Molly declared. “You know how I love a good felony first thing in the morning. Always starts my day off right.” She grinned broadly. “The question is, are you up for two heists before noon?”

I weighed our options.

“Even if we could get Hadley over here, and Ernest was somehow already on his way to the station, the manuscript won’t be in their apartment. Hemingway will have it with him,” I hedged.

“Exactly,” my roommate said, excitement creeping into her voice. “They’ll have it with them at the station. Call her back. We might be able to pull this off.”

As always, Molly projected confidence into her words. I, however, was dubious.

Molly’s big blue eyes narrowed to slits, a sure sign she was deep in thought. “You could swipe it from their luggage at your coffee date. Or I could. Either way.”

“It’s worth a shot,” I decided. “We might as well try.”

“Exactly!” she repeated. “And in a few short hours, you and I will be back on the island. With Gaige. And maybe even a complete manuscript of
Bluebells
—”

“
Blue’s Canyon
,” I corrected.

Molly sipped her coffee, her squinty thinking face still in place.

“Worst case, we’ll be sitting in our own jails cells in a few hours,” she decided. “You know, locked up with a suitcase full of Hemingway’s tighty whities.” Molly shrugged, as if that didn’t sound so bad. “Either way, we have a very eventful day ahead of us.”

“That sounds just peachy,” I muttered, pushing the thought from my head.

Molly was definitely right about one thing: we couldn’t have packed more scheming and heisting into our morning if we’d tried. It made me nervous, but I didn’t voice the thought. Knowing my roommate as well as I did, it was a guarantee that she’d see it as a challenge to defy. Molly had never met a limitation she couldn’t push. Two of her favorite words were “Challenge” and “Accepted”.

AN HOUR LATER
, I fastened my locket around my neck and slid my camera inside the runner pocket of my dress. If everything went according to plan, we would not be returning to the townhouse. Anything I intended to take back to the island had to come with me. I wanted to say goodbye to the team at customs, but we couldn’t risk telling the alchemists our plan. Instead, I wrote quick notes to Naomi and Felipe to thank them for everything, and to tell them I hoped we’d see each other again.

A brief feeling of sadness fluttered through me—a new reaction to leaving a run. I’d never before grown so attached to customs agents.

That’s the beauty of time travel,
I assured myself.
You’ll see them again. Maybe you’ll come back on a vacation trip.

I crossed to the full-length mirror, to be sure I looked okay without the skills of the alchemist stylists. The girl staring back at me looked damned close to the one I’d been seeing after Felipe and Naomi worked their magic. Most importantly, the bruises and lacerations were gone, thanks to my boosted immune system.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, is Stassi the fairest of them all?”

I spun to find Molly, arms folded over her chest, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk on her painted red lips.

“Ha, ha,” I replied with an eye roll.

“You ready?” she asked.

“As I’ll ever be. Do you have everything?”

“If you mean the exploding bandages and mind-erasing serum, then yes.”

“It doesn’t erase minds,” I scolded, already feeling guilty about messing with someone’s memory.

“Potato, potato,” Molly replied with a grin, pronouncing both the same way. She held up a small black handbag. “Isn’t it crazy that our prison break kit fits inside here? We might need to raid the alchemists’ batcaves more often.”

The distant ringing of the telephone came from downstairs.

“Just ignore it,” I said. “There is nobody we need to talk to right now. We literally cannot detour at all, there’s no time.”

“You sure?” Molly asked. “It might be Charles. This is the last chance you have to say goodbye….”

Sadly, she was right. But I couldn’t say goodbye to Charles. Not only because the mere thought of it made my heart hurt, but also because I couldn’t explain where I was disappearing to.

“It’s better this way,” I told her, trying to convince myself it was true. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. “Come on, we need to go if we’re going to catch Hadley.”

The phone was still ringing when I shut and locked the door for the last time.

We arrived at Gare de l’Est an hour before the Hemingways’ train left. Through the plate-glass window of the café, I saw Hadley and Ernest sitting together at table in the back corner. His head was bent over a folio, his hand flying across the pages. Hadley was staring off into space, looking impossibly bored, and more than a little irritated by her husband’s lack of attention.

Such a lonely life,
I thought sympathetically.

“They still have their luggage. That’s a good sign,” Molly muttered, pointing towards the stack piled up beside the Hemingways’ table. There were two train cases sitting atop two old-fashioned suitcases—the kind without gliders. On the very top was a battered leather briefcase.

Molly and I exchanged glances.

“Think it’s in that one?” I asked quietly.

“It probably is. Or it might be,” she hesitated before squaring her shoulders. It was odd to see Molly in action on a run, though I should’ve expected her take-charge, take-no-prisoners approach. “Try to find out for sure which bag has the manuscript. I’m going to hang back. Once they hand the bags over to the porters, you distract them, while I make the grab on the platform. Unless you have any other ideas?”

We hadn’t exactly planned out the details. I let out a long, slow breath and shook my head. “No, I can’t think of anything. Wish me luck.”

A bell tinkled as I pushed open the front door to the café. Hadley’s eyes darted in my direction, and her expression lit up when her gazed landed on me. She jumped to her feet and waved me over.

“Stassi,” she breathed, engulfing me in tight hug. “I am so glad you came.” Drawing back, Hadley held me arm’s length and studied my appearance. “You look well! I am so glad, I heard how terribly ill you were.” She hugged me again. “Ernest, dear, look who has come to say goodbye.” Her tone was unabashedly annoyed when she addressed her husband.

Several beats of awkward silence passed, while Hemingway continued to scribble furiously in his notebook.

“Ernest,” Hadley snapped.

This time he glanced up, clearly exasperated by his wife’s interruption. Hemingway’s expression softened when he saw me.

“Anastasia, how nice to see you.” He closed the notebook, the pen still inside to mark his place. Ernest stood and offered me his seat.

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I can pull over another chair,” I began, looking around the café.

Molly entered through the front door, a black hat and dark glasses obscuring her features. I had no idea where the disguise came from, or why she was even wearing one when she hadn’t met Hadley or Ernest in person. My roommate settled at a table near the entrance that provided an unobstructed view of the entire café.

“No need,” Hemingway was saying. “I want to run to the newsstand before we board. How is your brother?”

“It seems that he will be let out very soon,” I vaguely replied.

“Wonderful!” Ernest boomed. “Man wasn’t meant to rot away in a cell. We all knew he had nothing to do with those killings, I’m pleased the damnable police finally came to their senses.”

“I’ll pass along your kind thoughts,” I promised.

Ernest—
Ernest Hemingway
—set down his writing and clasped one of my shoulders.

“I’m so glad we were able to see you before we left, if only to say goodbye,” he declared. “I apologize that I must dash so quickly, but I feel a headache coming on and need some powders for the journey. I do hope you will still be in France when we return from Germany, we can catch up then.”

Hemingway placed a quick kiss on each of my cheeks, grabbed his notebook, and started for the door.

“Will you be back to help me with the luggage? Or do you expect me to schlep this all on my own?” Hadley called after her husband.

It was as though the brightest star of luck was shining down upon me.

“I can help you, Hadley,” I offered quickly.

Ernest paused and consulted his pocket watch. He glanced over his shoulder to us. “That is very kind of you, Anastasia. Much obliged,” he told me. To his wife, he said, “I will meet you on the platform.”

I settled into his vacant seat as Hemingway exited the café. I briefly wondered if I’d ever see him again.

“I apologize for his atrocious manners,” Hadley said, drawing me back to the present moment. “We had a tiff this morning, and he has been in a foul mood ever since. But telling you about our squabbles is boring, and I do loathe boredom. How are you feeling? How is your dear brother faring in that terrible place? I read in yesterday’s paper that his bail has been denied. Do you really think he’ll be released?”

“I’m confident that he won’t be there much longer,” I replied. “And I am feeling much better. Thank you so much for all of your care and concern, I am quite appreciative.”

Hadley waved off my gratitude. “Can I get you a coffee? Or tea, perhaps?”

“No, thank you. I’ve had my fill of caffeine already today,” I said. “Depending on how things go with Gaige, I am not certain we’ll still be here when you return. The lawyer is hopeful that we can have this mess cleared up shortly, despite what the papers say, and then our father is anxious for us to return home to the States.”

“That is so good to hear about your brother. And I’m quite glad you came.” She reached across the table and patted my hand.

For the next twenty minutes, Hadley and I exchanged small talk. I asked about her plans while in Germany, and she gave me a list of sights to see once Gaige was released. I tried unsuccessfully to bring the conversation around to the manuscript. Every time I mentioned Hemingway’s writing, her expression turned sour, as if the topic left a bad taste in her mouth. Finally, she sighed heavily.

“I wish we had met earlier, Stassi. Goodness knows I could have used a close friend here this last year. I find you to be a breath of fresh air, and perhaps even a kindred spirit.” Hadley paused, and it dawned on me that she was right; we’d both known great loneliness. When she continued, her voice was steadier than it had been. “Now, see here. Write down your address, both here and in Baltimore. That way I can write to you. I really would like to keep in touch.”

The lump in my throat made it hard to swallow. For the umpteenth time, I had to quell the horrible feeling of betrayal making my insides squirm.

This is the job,
I reminded myself.

I wrote the actual address of the townhouse and a fictitious one in Baltimore on a piece of paper, and handed it to Hadley.

“Please, do write,” I said, with a bright smile to hide my regret that any letter she wrote would go unanswered. The thought occurred to me that a transporter could pass along letters between us, though I doubted the syndicate would find that to be an acceptable use of its resources.

Hadley stood and began to gather the luggage. I followed suit. When she moved the briefcase to the tabletop to collect the larger bags below, I took the opening.

“Be careful with that one,” Hadley warned, when my fingers closed around the handle.

“Does it contain your family jewels?” I teased as I lifted it. The briefcase was startlingly heavy, as though containing bricks or gold bars. Momentary worry fluttered through me—a manuscript wouldn’t weigh a fraction of the case’s heft. I eyed the other pieces of luggage.

Hadley scoffed. “No, something much more valuable. Well, more valuable to Ernest, anyhow.” She rolled her eyes. “He cares more about his precious pages making it safely to Germany than he does me.”

I weighed her demeanor and opted against sympathy. She was like Molly, in that regard.

“I’ll guard it with my life,” I said solemnly.

Loaded down with all of the Hemingways’ Germany-bound possessions, Hadley and I set off in search of the correct platform. Molly was still sitting by the café’s entrance, sipping coffee from a small mug. She’d removed her sunglasses, but still wore the hat low, shadowing her face.

“Will you be checking all of the luggage with the porter? Or should this one stay with you, so Ernest can work on the train?” I asked, holding up the briefcase as we passed Molly’s table. My roommate nodded subtly to indicate that she caught my not-so-subtle message.

“Oh, I am sure he wants it in the compartment. And so, we will check it. Then he will have to talk to me.” Her laugh was brittle, and I once again thought about how terribly lonely Hadley’s life must be. I might just inquire about the transporters.

Ernest was waiting for us on the platform. His relief upon seeing the briefcase was palpable.

“That one stays with me,” he told the porter who hurried over with a cart.

No, no, no
.

“Really, Ernest,” Hadley implored. “Don’t be silly. You have done nothing but work lately. Once we reach Germany, you will do nothing but work. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for a couple of hours without it.”

“I have a deadline, Hadley,” Hemingway protested. “Besides, luggage is always being lost in transit. I cannot afford to lose that briefcase.”

“Sir, I can assure you—” the porter started to say, his frosty tone indicating just how offensive he found Hemingway’s comment.

“It stays with me,” Hemingway said flatly.

The porter loaded the rest of the luggage onto his cart and handed a claim ticket to Hemingway with a curt nod. I had the briefcase clutched tightly in my hands, wracking my brain for a way to prevent it from boarding the train along with Hadley and Ernest.

“Please give your brother my best,” Hemingway said again to me. “If there is anything I can do to help, provide a character reference or the like, you will let us know?”

“Of course, thank you.”