Perfect Timing (5 page)

“Thanks, Pauline. I always know I can count on you.”

She touched her temple in a mock salute. “Appreciate the attagirl, boss, but you’re wasting time flapping your lips. We got work to do.”

Quincy managed a smile. He’d just pulled his phone from his belt to call the security company when his father entered the building via the personnel door. “Hey, Dad, good to see you.”

Wiry and lean, yet well muscled, Frank strode across the sandy arena, his bowed legs bearing testimony that he’d been in a saddle most of his life. Beneath the brim of his brown Stetson, his hair still shone as black as jet, with only touches of silver at the temples. He paused to pet Bubba and Billy Bob, who were excited to see him after so long. Then he sauntered toward Quincy again.

“What the heck happened over here?” His dark brown eyes reflected concern. “I heard the sirens. Woke me up from a sound sleep. Saw the cop lights clear from my place.”

“Some woman broke into the arena. I found her sleeping in Beethoven’s stall.”

“That took gonads. She’s lucky he didn’t trample her. He don’t cotton much to strangers.”

Quincy quickly gave his father the rundown. “I swear, Dad, if I was the superstitious sort, I might have bought into her story.” With a shake of his head, Quincy laughed humorlessly. “Crystal balls, druids, and traveling forward through time. She has to be a bona fide nutcase.”

Frank nodded in agreement. He looked drawn and years older than he had a week ago, when Quincy had last seen him in Portland. Normally when Quincy studied his dad, he took heart that he had inherited good aging genes and would still be fit and strong in his sixties. But this morning the forecast didn’t seem quite so positive. With Loni’s illness, Clint’s pain, and the grim prognosis, Frank was showing his age.

Since his father contributed nothing more to the exchange, Quincy continued his story. “I have to admit she spooked me a couple of times. She probably made up the bit about our name being changed from O’Hourigan to Harrigan way back when, but her knowing about how Mom died and how sick Loni is?” Quincy shrugged. “
That
was downright eerie.”

“O’Hourigan,” Frank repeated softly. “Why does that ring a bell?” His gaze sharpened on Quincy’s face. “I remember now. I think I’ve seen that name in the old family Bible.”

Quincy’s nape hair stood on end. “You what?”

“You heard me. When my family came here from Ireland during the potato famine, they changed our surname to something that sounded a little less Irish.”

“Are you shitting me?”

Frank swept his brown Stetson from his head and whacked it against his leg. “No, I’m dead serious. You gotta remember that bein’ Irish wasn’t a plus way back then. Changin’ the family name to Harrigan was part of our fresh start in the land of dreams and possibilities.”

Quincy couldn’t quite believe his ears. “Are you saying our surname was once O’Hourigan?”

“I can’t say for certain. I’d have to get the Bible out of the safety deposit box at the bank to check. But O’Hourigan sure as hell sounds familiar.”

It was Quincy’s turn to give his hat a good dusting on his jeans. “That is too weird for words. How in the hell could that woman have known about the name change when I didn’t know about it myself?”

For the first time, Quincy questioned the wisdom of having had the O’Ceallaigh woman arrested. Then he gave himself a hard mental shake and reminded himself that an accomplished researcher could discover almost anything on the Internet nowadays. Ceara O’Ceallaigh was a convincing liar and spinner of tall tales, nothing more. Right about now, the authorities were probably trying to decide which psychiatrist to send her to for evaluation and treatment.

* * *

By the time Ceara was delivered to what her captors called the station, she was violently nauseated and shaking like a leaf. The horseless carriage with flames painted on its doors had traveled at such an incredible speed that the landscape had passed by her window in a blur. She’d been terrified every second, her heart fluttering wildly in her throat, especially when the conveyance sped over roads covered with snow and ice. Equally frightening to her had been the voice of a woman that blared repeatedly from out of nowhere inside the vehicle. In these modern times, did not all individuals have bodies? Ceara found that difficult to believe, but she’d definitely heard a female speaking, and she saw no crystal ball from which the voice might have come.

Once she was at the station, Ceara’s senses were once again blasted by strange sights and sounds. The earth outside the large brick building was covered with a black, hard substance, the likes of which she’d never seen. At home, dooryards and roadsteads were sometimes cobbled with stones, but mostly they were packed dirt.

Ceara nearly parted company with her skin when a woman’s voice shouted from a horn-shaped object attached under a corner eave of the structure. “DV, domicile 1430 Oak Street, ABH in progress. AFA held at gunpoint by AMA. Calling all available cars.”

As Ceara was guided forward by her escorts, she stared stupidly at the horn, picturing a woman hovering in the attic to shout at people outside. What kind of world was this? And what was she going to do now that she was stuck here?

Once she was inside the building, Ceara was bombarded by even more noises—loud voices, humming sounds, beeps, and trilling that made her wonder whether maniacal large birds were nesting just out of sight. She was led through a maze of cluttered desks, at which both uniformed males and females sat, talking into black rectangular objects or interviewing people whose wrists were shackled behind their backs, just as hers were. At the far end of the huge room, Ceara was pushed onto a bench already occupied by others.

An older female with missing teeth and frizzy yellow hair sat beside her. She smelled so strongly of flowery perfume that Ceara’s eyes stung. The woman’s sagging face was coated with a pale substance. Only her eyes, heavily lined with black, her unnaturally pink cheeks, and her bloodred lips lent color to her countenance.

She jostled Ceara with her elbow. “Whatcha in for, sweetheart?”

“’Tis uncertain to me at this time. I havena committed a crime.”

The other woman laughed. Ceara couldn’t help but gape at the woman’s breasts, which were about to jiggle out over the extremely low neckline of her léine. “That’s what we all say, and ain’t it the truth. A woman can’t make an honest living anymore. Half the money I get from my johns goes to pay fines and post bail.”

Ceara didn’t understand what this woman meant. How many men named John could one person possibly know? And why did they give this straw-haired female their coin? Before Ceara could ask, a man dressed in dark blue trews and a pale blue léine approached them. “On your feet, Paula. Time to get you processed.”

The woman pushed up from the bench to follow the officer. Her tight trews, held up by a gaudy studded belt, rode so low on her hips that the crack between her buttocks showed. Even more shocking to Ceara, someone had drawn or tattooed a dragon on her skin with different colors of ink. Just the thought of allowing another person to see that part of her person made Ceara’s cheeks burn, but clearly this woman had done so. It was humanly impossible to draw an image so intricately on one’s own rump.

Soon Ceara was fetched by a female officer who led her to a nearby desk. The woman had dark hair pulled back in a bun and brown eyes that seemed flat and hard. Her manner was brisk as she sat across from Ceara and held her hands over an odd rectangular contraption with rows of buttons on it. Instead of looking at Ceara, she stared at a flat, boxlike object that threw out sky blue light from the front side.

“Name?”

Ceara shifted on the chair. “Ceara O’Ceallaigh.”

“Spelling?”

Ceara slowly recited the letters.

“Shit, what a mouthful.” The woman tapped the buttons. “Address?” When Ceara failed to immediately respond, she glanced up. “Where do you live?”

“Clare, in the chiefdom of the O’Ceallaigh. ’Tis Ireland of which I speak, in case ye do na know of County Clare.”

The woman sighed. “What’s the
address
, sweet cheeks?”

Ceara frowned. “Address? ’Tis uncertain I am as to yer meaning.”

“The street number,” the woman elaborated.

“There is only one O’Ceallaigh Road in me sire’s chiefdom, so there’s no need for a number. The manor where I reside is at the end of it.”

“Look, Ms. O’Ceallaigh, I don’t have time for games. What’s the goddamned house number?”

“’Struth, there is no house number, nor the need for one. There is only one manor.”

The officer rocked back on her chair, startling Ceara so badly that she almost leaped up to keep the other woman from toppling over. “You have to have a house number to get letters and packages.”

“Nay, all heralds know full well where the O’Ceallaigh resides.”

“Heralds?” The officer laughed, but the sound lacked any trace of humor. “All right, fine.” She rocked forward to tap the buttons again. “Zip code?”

Ceara sent her a bewildered look.

“Your postal code?” the officer tried.

“I do na know of what ye speak.”

The other woman shook her head. “Hair down past your ass. Maybe all your gray matter leaked out to provide protein. You a member of some weird cult or something?”

Again, Ceara was mystified.

“What’s your DOB?” the woman asked.

“Me what?”

“Your date of birth,” the officer said with marked slowness.

Ceara’s stomach clenched. If she told the truth, she would never be believed, and yet honesty had been ingrained in her since childhood. “I was born in 1548 on the fourteenth day of March. I just celebrated a name day and am six and twenty years of age.”

“And next you’ll offer me a great deal on the Brooklyn Bridge. Okay, fine. You talk; I’ll enter it, bullshit or not. We’re lined up back-to-back, and I don’t have time for this.”

In Ceara’s century, men stood back-to-back only in battle or while practicing with weapons. She glanced around the room, saw no one in a fighting stance, and decided the woman didn’t mean it literally.

“You were arrested for breaking and entering. What were you doing in Quincy Harrigan’s arena, and how did you get in without setting off the alarm?”

From that point forward, the interrogation passed in a blur for Ceara. She tried to answer each question as honestly as possible, but in the end, her reward was to be escorted into a back chamber, stripped by a female guard, and subjected to all manner of humiliations. After much poking and prodding of her person, she was shoved into a chamber with gray walls and a sloped floor of the same color with a grate at its center. Strange, shiny objects poked out from high on the wall. Below them, cross-shaped handles protruded.

“Take a shower,” the guard ordered. “Here’s a bar of soap. Toss it in the trash bin when you’re finished. With all that hair, you have my permission to use two towels.” She pointed to some shelves at the far end of the chamber where white, nubby cloth was folded and neatly stacked. “When you’re done, come back out here, and I’ll give you some cell scrubs and toiletries.”

Ceara had no idea what scrubs or toiletries were, and she definitely didn’t know how to take a shower. After the other woman closed the door, she stood at the center of the chamber, staring in befuddlement at the silver protrusions. Then, gathering her courage, she stepped closer to one of the crosses, grasped it in her hand, and gave it a hard turn. Ice-cold water struck her in the face. She gasped and choked. Shuddering, she ran the soap over her body, then turned to rinse off. After dispensing with the blast of icy water, she fetched two towels, wringing the water from her sopping braid before attempting to dry her person. Her teeth were still clacking when she cautiously opened the door to peer out into the other room.

“Hurry it up. I don’t have all day.” The plump guard held out a bundle of orange cloth atop which lay a small white towel, a comb, a tiny, long-handled brush, and a small, capped container that squished under Ceara’s fingertips. “Once in your cell, you can brush your teeth and get the tangles out.”

Still shivering, Ceara quickly donned some white underwear and then the orange garments, which consisted of loose-fitting trews and an overlarge léine. She was grateful to at least cover her nakedness. On her feet, she wore blue slippers made of rough, parchmentlike material with stretchy thread stitched around the opening to keep them snug over her instep and heel. As she followed the woman into what was called the women’s cell block, she wondered where they had put her gown and undergarments. First she’d lost her hat and satchel, which held all her precious belongings. Now they had taken her clothes.

Enclosures lined either side of a wide passage. As Ceara walked ahead of the guard, she glimpsed several other females peering out at her from behind bars. They all wore the same orange clothes, but that was all that she had time to notice in passing.

The guard pushed a button on the wall to open Ceara’s cell door. The slide of the bars gave Ceara a start. How could something so heavy move so easily without anyone pushing on it? Perplexed, she walked obediently inside, her heart catching when she heard the steel barrier slam shut behind her.

“All the comforts of home,” the guard said with a laugh. “Sink, toilet, and cot. If you’re lucky, you won’t have to stay long.”

Ceara sank numbly onto the narrow bed. Accustomed to the softness of moss-filled mattresses, she wished fervently to be back at the manor. Coming forward in time to save Harrigan wives had been a fool’s mission. She’d been stupid to think she’d be welcomed with open arms, or that Sir Quincy would be grateful that she had sacrificed so much to be here.

“What did they charge you with?”

Ceara turned to see the older woman with yellow hair standing in the next cell, her wrists hooked limply over a horizontal dividing bar. She looked diminished in the loose orange clothes. Her face was now devoid of false color, her pale blue eyes barely noticeable, and her lips a natural pink. Damp strands of hair the color of old leather dangled limply over her forehead.