Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
Time Out of Mind (25 page)
“
Describe the bar.”
”
I don't know. A bar. Carved wood. Brass rail. The top
wasn't wood. Maybe marble. What good is this?”
I don't know. A bar. Carved wood. Brass rail. The top
wasn't wood. Maybe marble. What good is this?”
“
Trust me. Was there a mirror behind the bar?”
“
No.”
”
A bar without a mirror?”
“
There was a painting, I think.”
“
Are you remembering or are you seeing? Try to see it.”
Are you remembering or are you seeing? Try to see it.”
“
The painting's the same—wait a minute. It's a mirror.
But it's high. You look up and you see those big nudes on
the wall behind you.”
“
Excellent.” Sturdevant leaned closer. “Now, Jonathan,
I want you to hold it right there. Put both palms flat on the
bar. What do you feel?”
”
I told you. Marble.”
“
Keep your hands there but move them sideways until
they slide off either end.”
”
I can't.”
“
Why can't you?”
“
There's something big at each corner. A big lamp. With
fur. A lamp with a stuffed animal holding on to it.”
There's something big at each corner. A big lamp. With
fur. A lamp with a stuffed animal holding on to it.”
“
What kind of animal?”
”
I don't know. A dog?”
“
Could it be a bear?”
“
Yes. A small bear.”
“
What is the actor's name?”
”
I don't...” The words faded on Corbin's lips.
Gwen reached for his arm. “Are you all right, Jonathan?”
“
Yes.”
“
Jonathan? You are Jonathan, aren't you?”
“
Oh yeah. Yeah. I'm okay.”
“
Did something just happen? Did you get his name?’'
“
Ella.”
“
Who's Ella?”
“
Her. The woman in the snow. Her name is Ella.”
“
For Pete's sake, where did that come from?”
“
The actor. Ella doesn't like him. He's been divorced.
More than once. Ella doesn't think the Osborne should have
let him in. But she doesn't like the Osborne either. Too far
from everything. Too close to the Negroes. I think I'd like
a drink now.”
The actor. Ella doesn't like him. He's been divorced.
More than once. Ella doesn't think the Osborne should have
let him in. But she doesn't like the Osborne either. Too far
from everything. Too close to the Negroes. I think I'd like
a drink now.”
“
Jesus H. Christ!” Raymond Lesko whispered, adjusting
the lens of his Nikon. Tilden Beckwith I. No middle name.
No initial. He took several close-ups of the face, then one
each of Huntington Beckwith and Tilden II.
Wait a second, he thought. Where does Corbin’s twin get
off calling himself Tilden the first? Only kings and popes
do that, mostly after they're dead. This guy doesn't look
like the kind of jerk who'd king himself. He probably
didn't. The brass plate came later. Put there by someone
who wanted to make a point of the relationship. Which
couldn't have been easy. Because Tilden the second who
got on the elevator before doesn't look a goddamned bit
like Tilden the first. Old Huntington comes a touch closer
but still no cigar. And what tiny resemblance there is has
a funny look to it, like—Lesko stepped back. That was it.
That's what looked odd to him before. The artist had
painted a portrait, and then sometime later it was touched
up. Cheekbones were softened and other features were subtly altered in order to give Huntington’s face at least some
hint of a family resemblance to the guy who looks like Corbin. Jonathan T Corbin. No period. What does the T stand for, Corbin? Do you even know? Ask me, one will get you five it stands for Tilden.
off calling himself Tilden the first? Only kings and popes
do that, mostly after they're dead. This guy doesn't look
like the kind of jerk who'd king himself. He probably
didn't. The brass plate came later. Put there by someone
who wanted to make a point of the relationship. Which
couldn't have been easy. Because Tilden the second who
got on the elevator before doesn't look a goddamned bit
like Tilden the first. Old Huntington comes a touch closer
but still no cigar. And what tiny resemblance there is has
a funny look to it, like—Lesko stepped back. That was it.
That's what looked odd to him before. The artist had
painted a portrait, and then sometime later it was touched
up. Cheekbones were softened and other features were subtly altered in order to give Huntington’s face at least some
hint of a family resemblance to the guy who looks like Corbin. Jonathan T Corbin. No period. What does the T stand for, Corbin? Do you even know? Ask me, one will get you five it stands for Tilden.
The last portrait of the series, working backward, was
that of Stanton Orestes Beckwith. Founder. First president
of Beckwith & Company. There, thought Lesko, was that
resemblance again. A little harder to see because of this
guy's big muttonchop whiskers and a fleshier face but it
was there. A lot more, at least, than with those two char
acters on the end. Also a middle name, the last Beckwith
to use one. What did this family have against middle names
all of a sudden?
that of Stanton Orestes Beckwith. Founder. First president
of Beckwith & Company. There, thought Lesko, was that
resemblance again. A little harder to see because of this
guy's big muttonchop whiskers and a fleshier face but it
was there. A lot more, at least, than with those two char
acters on the end. Also a middle name, the last Beckwith
to use one. What did this family have against middle names
all of a sudden?
A sudden flash of memory hammered that thought from his mind. Lesko quickly sidestepped back to the portrait of
Tilden I and touched his finger to the brass plate—1944
again. Corbin’s twin is born in 1860 and dies in 1944. Same
year as half the Corbins in Chicago. What'll you bet, he
asked, it was the same month, give or take? And then, also 1944, old snake-eyes Huntington Beckwith moves into the
corner office.
Lesko backed away and stared up into the cadaverous
face of Huntington Beckwith. It was you, you old bastard.
Wasn't it? You and your jerk son over here. You knocked
them all off. But you missed the one that was still in the
oven.
face of Huntington Beckwith. It was you, you old bastard.
Wasn't it? You and your jerk son over here. You knocked
them all off. But you missed the one that was still in the
oven.
Far to his right, Lesko heard the swish of the hotel's
revolving doors. He would have paid no attention except
that, from the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a pair
of hotel employees snap to attention as they had when the old man entered. Once again, the hairs pricked at the back of his neck. He heard rapid footsteps brushing across the carpet behind him, but was careful to keep his face to the
wall until they'd passed. Lesko turned. He watched as a
small man, also in a black coat, strode distractedly into the
elevator used twenty minutes earlier by Tilden the second.
If Lesko had been less tired, less preoccupied with the faces
on the wall, he might have realized that the man would
stop and abruptly turn on entering the elevator. But more
than tired, Lesko was stunned. There was no question in
his mind that a massacre of some proportion had occurred in March of 1944. He had not, he was sure, found the last
of the bodies, either. You don't do a job like that without
finding the need to tidy up a little around the edges as well.
It was as that thought percolated in Lesko's mind that the
small man spun around, snapped his fingers at the elevator operator, and waited impatiently for the doors to slide shut. He stiffened as they did. Because for a full second the eyes
of Mr. Dancer locked onto those of Raymond Lesko.
“
Let me finish my summary,” Harry Sturdevant suggested,
“and if you don't mind, I'd like us to forgo anything al
coholic at least until we've had some dinner.” Sturdevant
was concerned about the propranolol still in Corbin's sys
tem. Although he saw no real danger to Corbin's health, the combination could easily befog what were apparently
some very tenuous perceptions.
“
Jonathan had a big brunch,” Gwen Leamas reminded
him.
“
As a matter of fact, I'll get to that. First, however, let
us get back to Tilden and Ella, assuming those names are
correct. In mid-March of 1888, also an assumption, Tilden
caused Ella's death in an act that was apparently less than
premeditated. Ella, it seems, had a lover who was the father
of her child. She tried to get to him at the Navarro and
died trying. Tilden seems to have known that they were
lovers—”
Corbin shook his head. ”I think he had just figured it
out.”
“
When? That very evening?”
“
Margaret—” Corbin stopped himself and took a long
breath. ”I don't know whether I'm making this up or not.”
“
Tell me anyway, Jonathan.”
”
I think he had no idea how long a woman carries a baby.”
“
Many Victorian men and women had no idea of such
things. There were one or two books on the subject, but
their authors were routinely arrested for peddling smut. You
mentioned Margaret. How did she come into it?”
”
I think she tried to tell him. As gently as she could, she tried to drop hints that he was away, I don't know
where, when the baby would have to have been conceived. I think he finally caught on and confronted Ella and that's when she told him.” Corbin paused again. It struck Stur
devant that he was becoming visibly angry.
“
About Ansel Carling?”
“
There was more than that. I don't know exactly. Some treachery involving his business and also involving Jay
Gould.”
“
Jay Gould was certainly no stranger to business treach
ery. But let's leave that for the moment and stick to the
sequence of events. After you took your satisfaction from
Ansel Carling at the Hoffman House, and after he threatened Margaret, do I gather that you became concerned for
her safety and decided to move her out of harm's way?”
“
And to have his baby,” Gwen added.
“
Which baby?” Sturdevant asked. “You mean another
one?”
“
He wanted a son of his own,” she answered. “He
would set Margaret up in Greenwich and give her a whole
new identity if she'd bear him a child.”
He wanted a son of his own,” she answered. “He
would set Margaret up in Greenwich and give her a whole
new identity if she'd bear him a child.”
“
How the devil would you know that? Is that all these
scribblings about the house in Greenwich and teaching box
ing and baseball?”
Gwen nodded. “Jonathan told me. I tried to be Margaret
as long as I could.”
as long as I could.”
“
To Jonathan's Tilden.”
“
Yes.”
“
Jonathan,” he asked, “how much of this conversation
do you remember?”
Jonathan,” he asked, “how much of this conversation
do you remember?”
'' Almost none of it. ”
“
Do you or don't you recall asking Margaret to have your child?”
Do you or don't you recall asking Margaret to have your child?”
“
No,” he answered softly. “But I know I did.”
“‘
Let me get this straight. When you're in a dream state,
and you replay a recurring scene such as your pursuit of
the woman Ella or apparently your brawl at the Hoffman
House, you can recall it vividly afterward.”
Let me get this straight. When you're in a dream state,
and you replay a recurring scene such as your pursuit of
the woman Ella or apparently your brawl at the Hoffman
House, you can recall it vividly afterward.”
Corbin nodded. “Even during it. I mean, when it's hap
pening, I still feel like I'm mostly still me.”
pening, I still feel like I'm mostly still me.”
“
Exactly.” Sturdevant leaned forward. “But when this
Tilden person comes out during your waking moments and fully takes over your consciousness, you're saying that you
have no recollection of that.”
Exactly.” Sturdevant leaned forward. “But when this
Tilden person comes out during your waking moments and fully takes over your consciousness, you're saying that you
have no recollection of that.”
”
I remember it for a few seconds. Then it
breaks up and fades.”
“
As with an ordinary dream upon waking.”
”
I guess. Yes. Except that I've had Gwen to tell me what
happened.”
“
Over the past twenty-four hours, according to Gwen,
this takeover has been complete on several occasions and
partial on several others. Is that correct?”
“
Partial?” Corbin glanced questioningly at Gwen. ”I
don't think so.”
“
As an example, Gwen mentioned the large breakfast
you had this morning and the unusual, for you, dishes you
tried to order.”
Corbin shook his head blankly.
“
You've never had kippers before,” Gwen reminded
him. “When I've ordered them you've said 'Yuck' and told
me they looked like fish mummies. And you've never had
much more than coffee and toast for breakfast.”
”
I guess,” Corbin answered. ”I don't see how this matters. I was hungry. I wanted some corned beef hash and
eggs.”
”
A large breakfast,” Sturdevant explained, “was char
acteristic of a nineteenth-century man. Neither the large breakfast nor the initial choice of menu was at all charac
teristic of Jonathan Corbin. The same may be said of your
desire for a bumper of mulled wine the night before or your
appreciation of the spires of Saint Patrick's which, inciden
tally, were not completed until after 1888. The obvious sug
gestion is that this Tilden's tastes and therefore his
consciousness are subtly intruding upon your own more
often than you know. The odds are that it's happened a
great many times when Gwen wasn't there to record it.”
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