When the Walls Fell (5 page)

Slowly, he opened the lid to his own Pandora’s box and a plague of personal demons was released. Picking up the watch, he held his only hope in his hand. The last time he’d held it, the watch had wielded him, controlled his fate. This time, he would wield it.

***

Simon tied the ivory cravat around his starched, white collar and looked at himself in the mirror. A gentleman of repute stared back. The tailor had outdone himself. Calfskin button boots settled just beneath the cheviot, dark grey twill of his trousers. A pristine, white shirt with stiff cuffs accented with sterling silver links stood out brightly against the pearl silk waistcoat and gloves.

Through his cutaway coat the money belt bulged above his hip, but there was nothing to be done for it. He’d been forced to acquire smaller denominations than he’d wanted and the result was an unseemly lump. Luckily, the weather in San Francisco hadn’t changed in the last hundred years and his Chesterfield overcoat would still be de rigueur for early spring.

Money wasn’t his only weapon, he thought as he slipped a 1905 Colt vest pocket pistol into his pocket. It was a small caliber gun, but the little magazine held six bullets. If he needed more than that, no gun, he feared, was going to be enough.

With only minutes to spare, he shrugged on his overcoat and pulled the felt-banded brim of his hat down. A spider’s crawl of anticipatory dread inched up his spine, but he willed it away. Elizabeth needed him, whether she knew it or not, and he wasn’t about to let her face whatever dangers awaited her alone. Armed with certitude of purpose, he opened the watchcase, stared down at the moon inset and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. The paralyzing, blue light sparked out of the watch and up his arm. The world around him shivered and he was plunged into darkness.

Chapter Five

E
lizabeth struggled against the strange disconnected feeling until she felt her head definitely connect with something. Something… leafy? Managing to right herself, she stared at the offending bush before remembering to check for any witnesses. Thankfully, she was alone. Very, very alone. Damn you, Simon.

She’d spent the last day and a half trying to soak up the reams of information Travers had given her and trying not to think about what she was leaving behind. Besides, if everything went well, it would be like she’d never left. Except for the arguing and gargantuan emotional chasm they’d have to cross. She’d leap the Great Divide when she came to it. Right now she had a job to do, a Simon to save and twigs to get out of her hair. So much for the two hours she’d spent wrangling it into her best Gibson Girl imitation.

Victor Graham was a wealthy businessman and that meant he traveled in elite circles. Travers had meticulously given her a crash course in Victorian and Edwardian society. Just the word society had been enough to make her pulse race. Living with Simon had given her a glimpse at how the better half lived, but they weren’t exactly on the social circuit. The closest she’d ever gotten to consorting with the horsey set was getting tips from the touts at the track. She was part of the great unwashed and had the dirt on her cheek to prove it. Thank God, Travers had insisted she stuff that kerchief into her sleeve. She glanced quickly around and spit into it before wiping her cheek.

A smooth start. Taking a header into a hedge and spitting. Her head pounded and her stomach was a little wiggly, but it was a heck of a lot better than the headbanger’s ball she’d suffered through last time. Taking a deep breath she felt her ribs squish her innards.

The corset she could have done without. Torquemada had nothing on whatever sadist invented it. Compressing her breasts into some sort of one-eyed, monobosom monster, squeezing the life out of her stomach and thrusting her hips backward, it successfully contorted her body into what society of the early twentieth century deemed an acceptable shape. It was all she could do not to rip the dang laces and start the bra-burning age a few decades early.

Not being able to breathe was the least of her worries. She’d managed to arrive without passing out. Point one for her, although, she hadn’t managed to move from that spot. Quickly, she took stock of her surroundings. Large oak trees canopied expansive, outlandishly colorful flowerbeds. Flaming oranges and deep reds swirled in complicated patterns amongst a vibrant purple like some tapestry gone mad. Enclosing the entire thing was a large, boxwood hedge, with whom she was already well acquainted.

This looked like the right place. Travers had said that if everything went well she’d arrive in the garden of Mrs. Eldridge’s safe house. It was secluded from the street, thanks to her friend the hedge, and she could appear without scaring the living bejesus out of anyone. Herself notwithstanding.

Satisfied she was in one piece, and having stalled longer than was necessary, Elizabeth took a well-measured breath and headed for the front path. All she had to do was utter the simple code phrase Travers had given her and Mrs. Eldridge would give her whatever else she needed.

As she edged up the walkway, the mansion loomed even larger. Gothic and imposing. Steeply pitched gables and sharp arched windows made it look more like a cathedral than a home. The fleeting image of being held prisoner inside one of the pinnacle towers flashed in her mind. But she was no Rapunzel and her knight currently had his head up his ass. Just as she was having serious second thoughts, the front door opened and a young man and an elderly woman stepped out onto the porch.

“I’ll be sure to give Mother your regards.” The young man bounded down the stairs and nearly crashed into Elizabeth. “I beg your pardon,” he said quickly taking off his goggles and cap. “Are you all right?”

“I’m…I’m fine,” Elizabeth managed. “Thank you.”

He smiled disarmingly. “The thanks is all mine,” he said and then turned back to the elderly woman. “Where have you been keeping her?”

The woman, who simply had to be Mrs. Eldridge, lifted her pince-nez and arched an eyebrow. “In the garden, it appears.”

The young man turned back to her and laughed. “You have,” he said and waved a hand in the general direction of her hair, “an intruder.”

Elizabeth patted at her hair.

“If you’d allow me?” he asked, and before she could protest, plucked a leaf from her hair.

“That was embarrassing,” Elizabeth mumbled.

He turned on that smile of his again. “I think it was rather becoming. And I’ll cherish it always,” he said as he stuffed the leaf into his breast pocket. “Maxwell Alexander Harrington the Third, your humble servant,” he added with a bow.

The older woman sighed and lowered her glasses. “You are incorrigible.”

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, not taking his eyes off Elizabeth. “Love does strange things to a man.”

“Ignore him,” the woman said. “Riding in that new motorcar of his has scrambled his brain.”

For a long moment, he didn’t react, just simply stared at Elizabeth. It should have been discomfiting, but he exuded an earnestness no amount of brashness could cover. Handsome by any standards, he was the very definition of the All-American Boy--tall, easily over six feet, sun-streaked hair and a dimple in his chin you could crawl inside.

“And your manners,” the older woman prompted. “How you could possibly be a relation of mine is beyond me.”

“She’s my distant aunt,” he said by way of explanation.

“And growing more distant with every passing moment.”

Elizabeth liked her immediately. She was Helen Hayes with attitude. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “No, no. Maxwell was just leaving. What can I do for you, dear?”

Elizabeth’s throat went dry. This was the moment of truth. “Mr. Holland sent me.”

A brief flicker of surprise and then recognition crossed the woman’s face before she smiled as though Elizabeth had just complimented her prized petunias. “Oh, isn’t that lovely,” she said coming down a few steps and holding out her hand. “I haven’t heard from him in ages. Won’t you come inside dear and you can tell me how everyone’s doing?”

Just like that Elizabeth was being shuttled into the house.

“Another of your secret liaisons, Aunt Lillian?” Max said trailing behind.

Mrs. Eldridge never stopped escorting Elizabeth inside and merely said over her shoulder, “Goodbye, Maxwell,” and promptly shut the door behind them. Once they were a few feet into the entry hall she squeezed Elizabeth’s arm gently. “Welcome to 1906, dear.”

***

Simon’s dizzying journey from intangible to tangible ended abruptly, punctuated with a hard fist connecting flush with his chin.

The vague light of consciousness dimmed as he stumbled backwards and collided with something. The painful grunt in his ear told him that something was a man. Loud, garbled voices he couldn’t understand reverberated around him causing the sharp pain in his jaw to radiate up to join the timpani in his temple.

Simon took a tentative step forward and shook his head trying to clear it. His vision was still blurry, but he had enough faculties left to know that one blow was usually followed by another. He tried to steady himself for the next attack and realized there wasn’t one man standing in front of him; there were six. All of them wore identical, over-sized, dark blue silk sacks and trousers and shocked expressions. Braided queues of black hair peeked out from beneath their flat-brimmed hats.

Tendrils of sandalwood smoke wafted between them and Simon’s eyes followed them back to the source. Lines of Joss-sticks billowed with incense. Bright red banners fluttered in the breeze down the narrow cobblestone street.

“
Gangui
!” one of the men cried. “
Gangui
!”

As his muddled brain instinctively recognized the phrase, the last piece of the puzzle slipped into place. Dear God, Simon thought. I’ve landed in China.

Chapter Six

“
G
angui
!”

The men who surrounded Simon were confused and frightened. Judging from their expressions and what he knew of Chinese mythology, they seemed to think he was some sort of demon. Simon rifled through his mind searching for some way to press his advantage. Surely, it wouldn’t last long.

Even before that discouraging thought had taken root the leader stepped forward and quieted his men with a harshly barked order. Once sure they feared him more than any demon, the leader turned and gave Simon an exceedingly discomfiting appraisal. The vague shadow of fear lingered in his eyes, but keen logic was winning out. The initial shock of Simon’s arrival was wearing off and the incongruity of a Chinese demon appearing as a white man, all irony aside, begged questions Simon didn’t want asked. The man lifted his chin in defiance and spoke to Simon in what was clearly a challenge.

When Simon didn’t reply, the shadow of fear disappeared completely from the man’s eyes, replaced with the spark of advantage gained. Simon’s heart beat faster. The odds of survival were getting worse with every passing second. The leader asked the question again and then turned to address his men. Whatever he said rallied them and they laughed, nervously at first, but with growing confidence.

As the leader turned back, Simon did the only thing he could. He pulled the pistol out of his pocket and took aim squarely at the man’s head. The laughter died. After a brief flash of surprise, the leader narrowed his eyes in a quick study of his opponent. His gaze flicked over the pistol and Simon could almost see him calculating the odds of triumph or defeat. Six bullets. Six men.

Simon held the pebbled grip in his hand already feeling the sweat forming in his palm. His arm was steady enough, although from this distance they could rush him before he got off more than two shots. Forcing his mind to clear as best he could, Simon met the leader’s gaze. In a silent trial of wills they stared at each other. Simon felt the other men’s eyes boring into him, but he didn’t dare look away.

The leader held Simon’s gaze with smooth confidence, content to wait for him to falter first. But Simon held fast and the tension grew between them. Adrenaline coursed through Simon’s veins. When the man’s mouth creased into a small smile, Simon gripped the gun more tightly. His finger gently took up the slack in the trigger.

The penultimate moment dangled on the precipice until finally the leader broke eye contact. Prepared for a veiled signal to the men, Simon held the gun steady.

As if Simon weren’t even there, the leader turned his attention to someone behind him. Simon dared a quick glance back and saw an injured man just rousing to consciousness. The leader spoke to the man in Chinese, and while the words were foreign the intent was a promise that whatever Simon had interrupted wasn’t over. With one last look to Simon and a brief nod ceding this round, the leader ordered his men to leave.