Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
Time Out of Mind (47 page)
Vanderbilt, Jr., and settled into the pursuit of his wife's
social ambitions, Ansel Carling developed similar, if more
modest, tastes. He now had the Central Pacific Railway's
letter of introduction to add to that of the British East India
Company, and these he brought to Jay Gould, who at that
time owned the Metropolitan Railway Company, parts of
several other lines, plus the Western Union Telegraph Com
pany and the
New York World
newspaper as well. Gould
was much impressed by Carling’ s buccaneer spirit and even
more so by his lineage, Gould himself being a former gro
cery clerk from upstate New York. Gould hired him and
eventually made Carling his executive assistant. The two
men being equally unencumbered by business scruples or
compassion, understood each other well.
In 1885, Cyrus Field secretly began buying up shares in
the Manhattan Elevated Company in an effort to gain full
control and to squeeze out Gould and Sage. As before, he
did this through Beckwith & Company. By early 1886,
Gould realized what Field was doing but bided his time,
waiting month by month as the stock price was slowly
driven up by Field's purchases. As the share price climbed higher, Field was obliged to buy on margin. Gould rubbed
his hands. When the moment was right, and Field was be
lieved extended to the breaking point, Gould and Sage
dumped their stock on the market, forcing the share price
down sixty points below the one Field was obliged to pay.
Field was bankrupted. Utterly ruined.
Both Tilden and his father had been aware that their
friend was playing an extremely dangerous game. If Gould knew what Field was up to, and they had to assume he did, Gould would certainly do all in his power to learn precisely
the right moment to strike. Through bribery or blackmail
he would doubtlessly try to subvert some clerk at Beckwith
& Company into telling him which transactions in Man
hattan Elevated stock were those of Cyrus Field in disguise.
To safeguard against this, Tilden chose to keep all such
records at his home. He knew that Gould would learn about
this as well, but he was not greatly concerned. Short of
commissioning a burglary, Gould would have no access to
them. Tilden never imagined, of course, that Jay Gould
would simply commission Ansel Carling to seduce his wife.
John Flood into a defensive stance. It rang again and Flood
touched his palms to his ears. ”'Jesus,'' he shouted over the
sound, “I'll never get used to those things.” Tilden crossed
to the telephone whose clumsy box of oak and brass hung
on the living room wall near its entrance.
“
Hello, who is there?” He spoke loudly into the fun
neled mouthpiece. “Yes, Nat, I hear you. Yes.”
couldn't imagine why he'd use that contraption when he
could as well open a window. But wherever he was, what
ever he was saying, Tilden’ s face was turning black as thunder as he listened.
“
How many men are there,” Tilden asked, “and how many with him?”
He nodded, satisfied.
“
I'm grateful, Nat. Thirty minutes at the most. Stand
them a round if you must but try to hold them there. I'm
breaking off now so I can dress.” Tilden replaced the ear
piece on its hook.
“
Carling?” Flood asked quietly.
“
Yes.” Tilden stepped past him toward his bedroom. “He is at the Hoffman House with some of his friends.”
“
I'll be going with you.”
“
No, John.” Tilden pulled off his shirt and slipped out of his trousers. From an armoire he'd already cleared of
Ella's clothing he selected a suit of evening dress. “Nat
Goodwin will watch my back if there's a need. He also has
that
Wild West Show
fellow, Cody, with him at the bar.”
Tilden fumbled with his studs and John Flood moved to
help him. “Goodwin's no brawler, lad, and he's a bantam
weight at best. I'd better work your corner.”
“
No.” Tilden shook his head. “When this is over, I do
not want it said that I needed the man who gave John L.
Sullivan all that he could handle to deal with the likes of Ansel Carling. There's more pride in that than I intend to
leave him with.”
Flood grunted doubtfully. “See that he doesn't leave you
with your head stove in from behind or with a sword cane's
blade between your ribs.”
“
You're a good friend, John.” He turned to receive the
jacket Flood was holding for him.
“
Good enough,” the fighter asked, “to say aloud it's
cruel of you to have had no thought for Margaret in all that's happened?”
“
I've ached for her, John.” Flood saw his face soften at
her name. -''Whatever thoughts I've had, she's there be
neath them.”
“
How would she know that, lad?” he asked gently.
Corbin, his hand still flat against the projected image of the
newspaper page, nodded sadly.
“
Jonathan?”
Corbin jerked.
“
Jonathan,” Gwen asked, “is something happening?”
I'd better go,” he whispered. He straightened and
turned, then suddenly winced at the shock of bright fluo
rescent lights. Harry Sturdevant pushed back his chair and
reached for his arm.
“
Wait.” Corbin waved him off. “Wait. It's all right.”
The maelstrom of his mind began to slow and his inner eye
watched as unconnected thoughts and fleeting memories
settled one by one into sequence. Corbin knew where he
was. The library. And there was no need to go after Carling.
He'd done that. It was over.
Nor was there a need to berate himself for his neglect of
Margaret. He'd dealt with that as well. He must have. Be
cause he remembered walking with Margaret when the
child, his own child, was almost full grown in her and she
was asking him to tell her again about the house that would
be hers in Greenwich and about the grand new life they
would begin there together. They were walking down Fifty-
eighth Street in the snow and he was saying how her house
would be the second in all Greenwich with electric lights inside, and she laughed when he told her about Mr. John
son, the president of the Edison Electric Company, who not only had the first electric house but who even had an electrified carriage with battery-powered light bulbs on it in
cluding one that hung on a long pole in front of the horse and made him cockeyed.
No. No, hold it. That conversation wasn't on Fifty-eighth
Street. It was up at the Claremont Inn where he'd moved
her once her belly began to swell, and gave her a new
name, and waited for the house to be ready. A new name.
Yes.
“
I think I will choose the name Charlotte. It is a name
I have always admired. There is a certain gaiety to it, do
you not think so, Tilden?”
“‘
Then may I suggest Whitney for a surname. It smacks
of wealth and substance. I will be Harry Whitney while we stay at the Claremont. Men named Harry are always good
fellows. I will be a salesman. Of baseball equipment. That
will explain why I am not there most nights and, selfishly I confess, it will give us an excuse to spend more time at
the Polo Grounds. ” `
Charlotte Whitney. Corbin nodded, his fingers rubbing
his eyes. Grandmother Corbin's name. Charlotte Whitney Corbin. He'd accepted last night, in Sturdevant's den, that Margaret Barrie and Charlotte Corbin were probably the
same woman. But accepting it was not the same as knowing
it.
“
Come on, Jonathan.” Gwen took his elbow. “Let's get
some air.”
“
No.” He leaned against the microfilm cabinet. “Just let
me stand here for a minute.”
A few pieces were still floating down. Like leaves. Or more like snowflakes because some seemed to melt in the
air. And there remained a great open space between the time Tilden left for the Hoffman House and the time he
and Margaret sat around deciding what names they'd put
on the Claremont Inn register. But he knew most of it, he supposed. He certainly knew what he'd done to Ansel Car
ling, and he remembered Carling's threat to ruin him and
to cut up Margaret's face. Was that why he hid her at the
Claremont? To keep her safe from Carling?
Fights. More fights. Not with Carling this time. But with whom? There were two thugs, maybe hired by Carling, and
he was fighting them on a dark street at night, and losing,
going down, and then he's fighting one of them again and it's daylight but indoors with many other men watching. In
a prize ring? Some back room? Corbin couldn't tell. He
would try to see it and then there would be still another
brawl, involving different men, sort of superimposed on top
of it, and during this new fight broken glass was falling all around him.
Corbin shook his head. He almost whistled. That was at
least three major fights, all with fists. He found himself
hoping that Tilden had one hell of a cut man or at least
was smart enough to carry something inside his hands.
Corbin shut his eyes, the better to see and sort out all
these different people Tilden was hammering, and being
hammered by. But when he did, another part of his brain
threw still more fight scenes on the screen. Here's one
where they're all in business suits. And Tilden’s older,
much older, but still popping away. Didn't they ever leave him alone?
Then, on top of all the others, Corbin saw himself. He
was younger, about twenty, and he was in another dark
place and there were two other men. Tough men, although
they could have been his father's age. He didn't
know
them, but he hated them and was enjoying what he was
doing to them. He was hurt and bleeding, but not as badly
as he was hurting them.
Corbin knew this dream. He'd had it before. And he also
knew it wasn't real. It was a revenge fantasy he'd created years before to help him deal with a beating he took from
two men who attacked him for no reason in the parking
garage under Chicago's Drake Hotel when he was home
on Christmas break. It wasn't even a mugging. They took
nothing.
Corbin shook that vision away. It embarrassed him. That
vision had him winning, methodically shattering the knees and elbows and finally the heads of those two men, but he
knew it hadn't happened that way. He'd barely had a
glimpse of them before it was he himself who was helpless
on the cold concrete floor.
Think about Margaret. Why the name change? And why
the move to the Claremont? Corbin knew he'd gone to her,
maybe right from the Hoffman House, because he was
afraid for her after Carling said what he'd do, and because Williams seemed to know about her, too—Williams. Oh,
Christ! Now who the hell is Williams? Someone connected
with Jay Gould. Right. Anyway, Tilden went to Margaret
and either that same night or soon after he asked her if
she'd have his child. Let's see. Christmas. Grandfather Jonathan was born on Christmas Day of 1888. That means
conception was the end of March. Yes. It fits. Margaret
must have agreed. She must have stopped using those little
vinegar sponges of hers right away. It's funny that old Til
den lets me see some things and not others.