Time Out of Mind (78 page)
Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
more cause, was Mrs. Belle Walker. Belle didn't even try to blink. She stared transfixed, not at the camera lens but
at Anthony Comstock himself. He saw the fear and a cu
rious pleading in her eyes. The picture taken, he watched
her as her knees went soft, and she sought the support of
a wall as she made her way back to the tea service. As soon
as she could decently leave, Belle rushed to the Oyster Pier,
where she told her husband of her fear that the life from
which he'd rescued her might today have been discovered.
Frank Walker, who was normally not allowed within a yard of her unless he first bathed in lye soap and hot water, took
her in his arms without protest from Belle. He knew of her background, of course, having been a most enthusiastic pa
tron during his oat-sowing visits to New York. Although
the Spanky of later years was a bit more sharp tongued
than he would have liked, and a good deal more righteous,
Frank had no great cause to regret making her his wife. The
whippings and paddlings she could be induced to give him
at least once a week, and the soaring sexual arousal that
came out of them, to say nothing of two children, seemed
well worth the price.
all this and proceeded to make the first of two cardinal
errors. He found Comstock at the post office, where the
crusader was preparing to mail his cameras back to the
Kodak company for developing and refilling. It was his
honor, he said, to be the husband of Mrs. Belle Walker, a
woman whose character has been an adornment to Green
wich since the day of her arrival. Comstock asked if she
could possibly have adorned New York in a different man
ner before attaining the happy state of being his wife. What
ever her past, Frank answered, admitting nothing, you
understand, Belle Walker had more than proved herself to be a foe of all that is iniquitous. It was she, he announced
proudly, who wrote the letter advising Comstock of the
lurid past of the unfortunate Carrie Todd. Comstock lifted his nose. He pointed out to Frank Walker that informers,
however salubrious their result, do not stand high before
the Almighty and went on to cite several examples, notably
Judas Iscariot and the accusers of Mary Magdalene.
Then Frank Walker made his second error. He attempted
to bribe Anthony Comstock. Comstock replied that if any
one should pay it should be he, and if Frank would wait
while the postmaster made change, the Society for the Sup
pression of Vice would gladly pay thirty silver dimes for the information Belle Walker provided and then call their
accounts even before God and man. That insult, and the
realization that he'd made a catastrophic mistake, moved
Frank Walker to violence. He threw a looping right hand
at Comstock's jaw but managed only to fracture his hand
against the top of Comstock’ s ducking head.
Belle Walker was exposed in the next week's issue of
the
Graphic.
The story cited highlights of her arrest record
together with a woodcut of a photograph from the files of
the New York City Police. It also gave the date of her birth,
which preceded by eight years the one she'd claimed to
those who knew her. Belle, by that time, was in seclusion,
having spent one night in the Stamford town jail awaiting
the bondsman. She had been charged, not with any unexpiated vice offense, but by Comstock himself with sending
lewd, lascivious, and obscene matter through the mails. The
evidence Comstock offered was the very letter in which
Belle used illegally vivid detail to describe the past activ
ities of Carrie Todd.
the end of her tether. The continuing presence of Anthony
Comstock, the leering stares of other boorish townsmen
who took to wondering which pretty bird might next be
flushed, the thought of some oily New York policeman
even now putting a glass to her likeness, all paled before
the greatest worry of all.
Tilden had disappeared.
Nine days
had passed since he'd said he had an errand to run. Nine
days since the day of the tea-stained dress. Nine days since
Tilden told her he'd been a fool and a blockhead, though
he would not say how, promising only that he'd tell her
when the moment was right and wine poured and they sat
before a fire with their son on Tilden’ s lap.
“
If you were to ask me”—Laura Hemmings took her
hand—“I'd say he intends to marry you.”
“
No.” Her eyes filled, with tears as she shook her head.
“He will not do that. He never speaks of it, but Tilden
could never forget where he found me. What would he say
to his family, his friends?”
“
Ask me again,” Laura insisted, “and I'd say it is on
that score he knows he has been a blockhead. Two of his
closest friends already know and they, both John and Nat,
would be the first to give their blessing.”
Margaret would not be consoled. She would not be en
couraged with a hope that could be dashed so soon and
cruelly. What if her worst fears about Tilden lying broken
and delirious in a hospital somewhere, even dead in a road
side ditch or lying unknown and unclaimed in some mortician's ice house, what if these were not the worst fears at
all? What if the state she'd been in these past weeks had
driven him to seek a respite of laughter and gaity? What if
he had noticed the tiny lines that were beginning at her
mouth and eyes, or was repulsed by the shiny ribbons that
the birthing of Jonathan left on her belly? What if he had
found another woman, just as he found one more amiable
than Ella, and was even now lying with her?
I know that look.” Laura Hemmings frowned. ”I should
slap your face for it.”
”
I don't know what you—”
“
Every woman thinks in terms of rivals the minute a
man's behavior becomes in any way odd. Tilden would
never betray you.”
Margaret wanted to believe Laura.
“
Is there any word from John Flood?”
“
He has his friends looking for Tilden. Even Teddy Roo
sevelt, he says, is coming down from Albany to join the
search. John tells me to buck up, but I know that he too fears the worst.”
“
All will be well, my friend. I promise.”
”
I cannot bear this, Laura.”
“
It will pass.”
“
And if it does, then what?” Margaret slipped her hand out of Laura's and turned away. “Shall we live as before?
The people in this town are not blind or stupid, Laura. They
have only to look at Jonathan to know that he is Tilden's son. And that I am his mistress. And am therefore a liar.
And possibly one of Comstock's whores. Even now, every
where I go, men stare at me, wondering.”
“
They stare at me as well,” Laura answered. ”I flatter
myself that it is because I'm pretty, though not nearly so
pretty as you.”
“
They don't look at you the same way,” Margaret said
stubbornly.
Laura stuck a finger in her ear as if to clear it. ”I beg your pardon?”
‘
They admire you. They don't wonder about you.”
Laura Hemmings considered pointing out to Margaret
that she'd had more men in more different ways than Margaret had logs in her winter woodpile, and that was count
ing bark chips. If anyone should be sensitive to stares,
look-agains, and don't-I-know-you questions, it was she
and not some doe-eyed apprentice who to this day would
scarcely know a dildo if she tripped over it. But she chose not to say it. Margaret's fears, she realized, had far more
shadow than substance, and a reasoned approach to them
would accomplish nothing at all. What Margaret needed
was Tilden's gold band upon her finger and his arms around her body, preferably in a place a thousand miles from New
York. That is if there is indeed a Tilden anymore. No one
simply falls into a hole for nine days. Certainly not a Tilden
Beckwith. A thousand miles. My God, that's it. Evanston.
Margaret, and little Jonathan with her. Evanston. But how
to manage it?
“
Margaret.’,’ Laura Hemmings tugged at her. “You need
a holiday and I need a favor. I am going to insist that you
do it for me.”
Seventeen
H
arry Sturdevant chopped at the last shovelful of hard-
packed snow that had threatened to block Corbin's drive
way entrance and tossed it into a dormant azalea bush. He rested for a minute, his arms folded across the shovel han
dle, deciding whether to attack the driveway itself as long as he was there. When he was a boy he'd have gotten as
much as fifty cents for the whole job. But he doubted
whether he'd get anything from Jonathan except a lecture
about heart attacks. That did it. Let the ingrate clear his
own blasted driveway.
As he turned back toward the house, his eye caught a
movement fifty feet up Maple Avenue and on the other
side. Sturdevant peered through the slanting gray veil. He saw a man there. Not a young one, judging from his pos
ture. Not the one he'd seen in the library, either. This one
was dressed in dark clothing, to the extent that Sturdevant could see fabric under the film of clinging snow. He could
easily have passed for a shadow, or a small juniper, if he
hadn't shifted his position. He wore a homburg, which
looked rather silly on him because a snow cone had formed on its crown. Against
one leg he held what Sturdevant assumed to be a uselessly furled umbrella. Sturdevant won
dered how long he'd been standing there. It surprised him
that he felt no particular alarm. On the contrary, he had a
sense that it was the man in black who seemed scared half
to death. Sturdevant lifted his chin and gave a
questioning
shrug. The man stiffened, then snatched up the thing he
was holding and held it across his chest. Now Sturdevant
was
alarmed. Unless his eyes had tricked him, he'd caught
a glimpse of the outline of a rifle stock.
There didn't seem to be much to do but wait. If the man was content to stand there with the snow in his face and a
rifle in his hands, Sturdevant decided he'd rather hope for
a car to come along than to make a sudden dash for cover.
That spry he was not. But the man suddenly lurched for
ward as if he'd read his mind. He moved almost drunkenly. A part of Sturdevant knew who the man was as soon as he
saw him move. By the time half the distance between them
had been covered, Sturdevant was sure.
“
Hello, Tillie,” he greeted the man who was now peer
ing stupidly into his face. “You want to be careful with that thing.”
There were times when Raymond Lesko was sure he was
dead, and others when he thought he was probably home asleep. The sickening pain in his head and the woolly dry
ness of his mouth were not altogether unfamiliar to him.
Too much garlic in the clam sauce and too many beers topped off with a bottle of dago red had done it in the past. Too drunk to wake up and too thirsty to fall asleep,
so you lie there in the dark with crazy thoughts going
through your head. It's the time when everyone finds out
what it's like to be insane.
