Time Out of Mind (52 page)
Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
“
That's an excellent suggestion, Mr ...”
Lesko pretended not to notice he was being asked his
name. “The next thing you do is check with the county tax
assessor's office. It's easiest if you have a street but a name
is enough. They'll have a record of how many times the
house has been bought and sold and who owned it. Another
good bet most people don't think of is the Water Depart
ment. They'll know when they first turned on the water for
a particular house. If they had electricity, it's even easier.”
“
You'd make a good detective,” Sturdevant observed.
“
Yeah. Well, look, I gotta run.” He turned away toward
the chair on which he'd left his coat. “Good luck finding
those ladies.”
Yeah. Well, look, I gotta run.” He turned away toward
the chair on which he'd left his coat. “Good luck finding
those ladies.”
Lesko waved off Sturdevant’ s call of thanks and headed
back toward the information desk. At a pay phone nearby
he opened the Greenwich directory to Beckwith. There
were two listings, only one of which showed a Round Hill
Road address. Lesko made a note of both. Returning to the
rack of atlases, he found a Hagstrom street map of Fairfield
County and, fishing out a dime, made a Xerox copy of the
page showing both Round Hill Road and Maple Avenue.
He then blew a kiss toward Carol Oakes. Lesko stepped
through the automatic doors.
back toward the information desk. At a pay phone nearby
he opened the Greenwich directory to Beckwith. There
were two listings, only one of which showed a Round Hill
Road address. Lesko made a note of both. Returning to the
rack of atlases, he found a Hagstrom street map of Fairfield
County and, fishing out a dime, made a Xerox copy of the
page showing both Round Hill Road and Maple Avenue.
He then blew a kiss toward Carol Oakes. Lesko stepped
through the automatic doors.
Letting Sturdevant see him might not have been ideal,
he knew. But maybe it helped move things along. Harry Sturdevant seemed like one of those very deliberate types,
aside from being an amateur. He'd be in that library for
ever, getting all bogged down in the historical romance of
what he was trying to find out instead of zeroing in on who,
what, when, and where. And who did what to who. Whom.
Maybe now he'd make a couple of those connections
quicker. Lesko had, for sure. He knew, for example, that
Sturdevant was already aware of the connection between
Tilden Beckwith and Jonathan Corbin. Sturdevant also
seemed aware that a woman named Margaret was in the picture, but it apparently came as news to him that this Margaret and Corbin's great-grandmother were the same
person. It might even be news to Corbin, although Lesko
somehow doubted that. It sure wasn't news to Dancer and
the Beckwiths.
Lesko looked up at the sky as he unlocked Mr. Ma
kowski's car. It was still mostly clear. But far to the west
he could see what looked like a misty mountain range.
More snow maybe. He hoped so. The Corbin guy always
gets so much more interesting when it snows. But for now,
speaking of interesting, maybe it's time we had a chat with
those nice folks up on Round Hill Road.
”
I think you're being silly,” Gwen Leamas said to him as
they walked slowly past shop windows toward Maple Av
enue.
“
Your uncle doesn't have to know everything,” he told
her. “Like you said yesterday, some things are private.”
“
But you're talking about one obscure gossip item this
Colonel Mann printed almost a hundred years ago.”
“
It hurt her,” he said quietly. “And it frightened her.”
She took his hand. “Jonathan, should I start worrying
about you all over again?’'
“
What do you mean?”
“
You do understand she's long dead, don't you? You're
talking as if she isn't.”
”
I know she's dead.” Most of the time, I know that.
”Gwen”—he gave her a squeeze—“there's so much buzz
ing through my head that I couldn't possibly know except
through Tilden Beckwith. When I talk about these things
out loud, and you get that worried look like now, and your
uncle looks at me like I'm a laboratory rat, you can under
stand if I get self-conscious. I'm also tired of people scrib
bling every time I open my mouth. That's another reason I didn't want to talk about Colonel Mann.”
“
Will you tell me if I don't scribble?”
“
It's not that big a deal.”
“
What if I look blithely unworried? How's this?” Gwen twisted her face into a wide-eyed simper, her front teeth
protruding over her lower lip.
Corbin tried not to laugh. He turned his head away to
ward the street. A car went by. Something about that car. Oh, shit. Cut it out. He turned back toward Gwen Leamas,
whose face was determinedly frozen into that same idiotic
expression. Corbin surrendered.
ward the street. A car went by. Something about that car. Oh, shit. Cut it out. He turned back toward Gwen Leamas,
whose face was determinedly frozen into that same idiotic
expression. Corbin surrendered.
'‘There really isn't much to it.”
“
Tell me anyway. Just tell me a story and this time don't
give a thought to how you know it.”
Tell me anyway. Just tell me a story and this time don't
give a thought to how you know it.”
“
There was a newspaper called
Town Topics.
He ran it.
Like your uncle said, he was a very pleasant-looking man
who used to carry sugar for horses, but he was a real bas
tard underneath.”
There was a newspaper called
Town Topics.
He ran it.
Like your uncle said, he was a very pleasant-looking man
who used to carry sugar for horses, but he was a real bas
tard underneath.”
”
A blackmailer.” Gwen nodded.
“
He'd pay household servants, for example, for tidbits
about their employers. If the information was juicy enough,
he'd go to the people involved and extort a lifetime sub
scription out of them for thousands of dollars. The problem
got so bad that employers would deliberately drop little made-up stories in the hearing of their servants. If one ap
peared in print, the servant would be fired.’'
He'd pay household servants, for example, for tidbits
about their employers. If the information was juicy enough,
he'd go to the people involved and extort a lifetime sub
scription out of them for thousands of dollars. The problem
got so bad that employers would deliberately drop little made-up stories in the hearing of their servants. If one ap
peared in print, the servant would be fired.’'
“
And one of Tilden's servants sold him out?”
”
I think it was Ansel Carling. But remember, this Col
onel Mann was also a double-crosser.”
“
Go on.” Gwen walked with him.
“
Tilden and Margaret went to the World Series that
year—1888, I guess. It seems to me it was the Giants
against the St. Louis Browns and the first four games were
in New York. Anyway, after the fourth game an issue of
Town Topics
came out with a blind item that said—see, I
even remember this—‘What scion of a respected Wall
Street firm, lately and suspiciously widowed, has been attending the world championship series of baseball in the
company of a lovely but soiled dove who is very much in
a delicate condition?’ There was never much doubt who he
was talking about because whenever he'd run one of these
blind items, all you had to do was look over at the adjacent
column and you'd see a harmless and legitimate reference
to the same person by name. Margaret used to read
Town
Topics.
Everybody did. So she opens the paper and there
in one sentence she not only sees herself identified as a
prostitute but she sees doubt expressed openly about the
circumstances of Ella's death.”
Tilden and Margaret went to the World Series that
year—1888, I guess. It seems to me it was the Giants
against the St. Louis Browns and the first four games were
in New York. Anyway, after the fourth game an issue of
Town Topics
came out with a blind item that said—see, I
even remember this—‘What scion of a respected Wall
Street firm, lately and suspiciously widowed, has been attending the world championship series of baseball in the
company of a lovely but soiled dove who is very much in
a delicate condition?’ There was never much doubt who he
was talking about because whenever he'd run one of these
blind items, all you had to do was look over at the adjacent
column and you'd see a harmless and legitimate reference
to the same person by name. Margaret used to read
Town
Topics.
Everybody did. So she opens the paper and there
in one sentence she not only sees herself identified as a
prostitute but she sees doubt expressed openly about the
circumstances of Ella's death.”
“
What happened then?”
‘
They just laid low. They were already staying at the
Claremont Inn.”
“
But you said she was hurt and frightened. Was she
frightened of Tilden?”
“
No.” Corbin shook his head. “The soiled-dove refer
ence hurt her, mostly because of the child she was carrying.
I can see her crying and taking Tilden's hands and putting
them on her belly, and I can see him holding her and prom
ising that everything would be fine once they got her to Greenwich and that he'd take care of Colonel Mann. That's
the part that frightened her. I'm not sure they ever talked
about whether he killed Ella, but she was afraid he was
going to kill this Colonel Mann. But he wasn't. Mann was
easy to fix because all you had to do was pay him and he'd never mention your name again. That was a point of honor with the colonel, ridiculous as it sounds. The real problem
was Carling.”
”
I gather Tilden then had at him a second time.”
Corbin shook his head and was silent for a long moment.
“It gets mixed up here. There seem to have been a whole
series of violent fights. After the one in the Hoffman House,
maybe two weeks later... now, see, this is also after Tilden
went to see Margaret and asked her to have his child, but
that had to have been a very personal meeting because Tilden doesn't let me see it, except I can see where John Flood
is urging him to go to her—”
“
Whoa!” Gwen Leamas stopped him. “What do you
mean, Tilden doesn't let me see it’? You sound as if you
think Tilden’s still around.”
”
I think he's part of me.” Corbin met her eyes.
“
But do you think he's a living person? Living inside you right now, I mean.”
But do you think he's a living person? Living inside you right now, I mean.”
”
I don't know,” Corbin answered. “Your uncle seems
to think he is.’’
I don't know,” Corbin answered. “Your uncle seems
to think he is.’’
“
Correction. Jonathan.” Gwen Leamas frowned. “Uncle
Harry believes, and I believe it too, that you're carrying an
unusual number of your great-grandfather's genes and
therefore his memories. That's not the same as believing
that he's still alive.”
“
You keep telling me that I've become Tilden when I've
been with you.”
You keep telling me that I've become Tilden when I've
been with you.”
“
You've become
like
him. It's those memory genes, nothing more.”
You've become
like
him. It's those memory genes, nothing more.”
“
Fine.” He shrugged. ·
'
“
Do you
believe
that, Jonathan?”
“
Sweetheart”—he touched her cheek—“I'll believe
whatever helps me handle all this. But for the record, no.
No, I do not believe Tilden Beckwith is still alive inside of
me.”
Corbin gestured with his head toward Maple Avenue,
still a half block ahead, and started Gwen walking again.
still a half block ahead, and started Gwen walking again.
How'd I do? he asked himself.
Fine, he answered.
Twelve
Gwen took Corbin's hand and tugged it to break the
thoughtful silence of the last half block.
“
I'm sorry I lectured you, Jonathan,” she said. ”I guess
I'm getting a bit spooked.”
“
It's okay, hon.” He squeezed back and let her see a
smile. “Glad to have you in the club.”
“
Where were we, anyway?”
”
I kind of hoped we were getting ready to change the
subject.”
“
Just one more loose end.” She made a kissing sound
to appease him. “You said Tilden was going to confront
Colonel Mann, or perhaps Ansel Carling, but you thought
there was some other violence in the meantime.”
“
There's a lot. But it all runs together.”
“
Well, who else did he beat up on?”
Corbin was silent for a long moment. Gwen saw that he
was wincing. “Nobody always wins, sweetheart,” he said
at last.
“
Good evenin' to you, sir.”
Gwen felt his hand crushing hers as it tightened into a
fist.
“
You look like a gent what'd have a match to spare.”
Two men. One in a grimy pea jacket. The one speaking
wore a heavy fleece-lined coat.
wore a heavy fleece-lined coat.
Tilden had just stepped into the glow of the Osborne's
electric lights when he heard the voice and hesitated. Had
it not been so late, had he not still been wrapped in the
warmth of these last few hours spent with Margaret, he
would have tightened his grip on his cane and passed them with a shake of his head. They would, he knew, have ex
pected no more for their impertinence. Had it not been for
the memory of Margaret's tears, her tender solicitude in
answer to his neglect of her, he would have wondered why
two such men should be abroad at night in this part of town. Coarse and common men. White men, yet coming from the
direction of the Negro section to the west where no white
men ever went, save policemen and rent collectors. Had
Margaret not asked him for a week's grace in deciding upon
his proposition, a week without contact, a condition which weighed heavily upon his heart, he would not have paused and fumbled absently at his pockets for matches he did not
carry.
electric lights when he heard the voice and hesitated. Had
it not been so late, had he not still been wrapped in the
warmth of these last few hours spent with Margaret, he
would have tightened his grip on his cane and passed them with a shake of his head. They would, he knew, have ex
pected no more for their impertinence. Had it not been for
the memory of Margaret's tears, her tender solicitude in
answer to his neglect of her, he would have wondered why
two such men should be abroad at night in this part of town. Coarse and common men. White men, yet coming from the
direction of the Negro section to the west where no white
men ever went, save policemen and rent collectors. Had
Margaret not asked him for a week's grace in deciding upon
his proposition, a week without contact, a condition which weighed heavily upon his heart, he would not have paused and fumbled absently at his pockets for matches he did not
carry.
Other books
Freckle Juice by Blume, Judy
Pledging to Die (An FBI/Romance Thriller Book 11) by Morgan Kelley
Dead on Arrival by Lori Avocato
Sisterchicks on the Loose by Robin Jones Gunn
The Secret of Chanel No. 5 by Tilar J. Mazzeo
Fortune and Fate (Twelve Houses) by Shinn, Sharon
Dark Dreams: Sexual Violence, Homicide And The Criminal Mind by Hazelwood, Roy, Michaud, Stephen G.
Warriors: Omen of the Stars #6: The Last Hope by Erin Hunter
The Killing Blow by J. R. Roberts
Barack Obama and the Jim Crow Media by Ishmael Reed
