Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
Time Out of Mind (82 page)
“
You will take that back, sir.” Roosevelt took a step
toward him.
His child and his lady, then.” Gould waved him off,
then touched his fingers to his temples. This conversation was becoming annoyingly familiar.
“
And the affairs of Beckwith and Company?”
That, sir, is a matter of business. I will yield nothing.
From Mr. Beckwith's own mouth I am invited to do my
worst. If it pleases me to do so, I shall take him at his
word. In any event, I will not have you calling me to ac
count every time some ordinary transaction of mine hap
pens to affect the fortunes of Tilden Beckwith.”
Fair as well,” Roosevelt answered. “And he will, of
course, continue to support Cyrus Field if it pleases him to
do so.”
sevelt watched, the smaller man's shoulders began to
quiver. A hand groped at his trousers pocket, finally producing a handkerchief too late to stay the spasm of cough
ing that was overcoming him. The cough had a terrible,
desperate sound. It put Teddy in mind of the dry sucking
of a pump whose hose did not quite reach the drowning
fluids. Gould turned away from him and stayed hunched
against one of his tapestried walls until he was sure the fit
had subsided. When at last he righted himself and dabbed at the tears on his cheeks, Teddy saw a pair of eyes that
seemed reddened by much more than the pain of his chest.
The eyes seemed haunted.
Cyrus lives in Ardsley,” Gould said in a choked whis
per. “‘You have agreed that Beckwith will stay away from
Ardsley.”
Teddy agreed that it was so.
“
He never comes here.”
“
Who never comes here? Field?”
“
It is nothing.”
Teddy narrowed his eyes. “What in heaven's name is it between you and Cyrus Field? I know Tilden tried to ask
you this, but why can you not just leave the man alone?”
unmuscled arm
waggled at a plant stand at the far side of the room. “That
variety,” he said. “It is named for me, you know.”
Immortality. The word formed from nowhere in Teddy Roosevelt's mind. Ask about Cyrus Field and you learn
about orchids. Talk about orchids and you soon begin to
find, as others have observed, that Jay Gould sees his very
soul in them. His soul as he wishes it could be. It is said
that there is a certain fine madness in every man. Gould's
own madness, and certainly his obsession, seemed to be his orchids. But where was the tie with a sick old man named
Cyrus Field? He must come to me, Gould had said to Til
den. He must come to me and I will raise him up. Re
demption? Redemption was the word Tilden used as they bathed him at the jail in Ardsley. Teddy had barely listened
at the time, putting it down as the raving of a fevered brain.
But perhaps Tilden had seen a great truth in his two weeks
of darkness. Perhaps he saw that in a frightened dying cor
ner of his own fevered brain, Jay Gould believed the raising
up of Cyrus Field, a builder, a giver, a better man by
leagues, would bring about his own redemption.
Did Tilden ask you ...” Teddy's voice was kindly in
spite of himself. “Did Tilden ask why you don't simply go
to Field and offer your hand?”
If there was an answer to that question, Jay Gould could not bring himself to give it. The haunted look was again in
Jay Gould's eyes. If he turns me away, they seemed to be
saying, then what is left for me? Teddy had no way of
knowing what thought, that or another, was in this man's
mind at that moment. But he thought he knew nonetheless. And he knew a madness, more desperate than fine, brought
on by a lifetime of denied humanity, was there.
“
Good day, sir,” Gould whispered.
that pity once felt should be spoken.
Go*od day, sir,” Gould repeated. The blood-sprayed
linen square remained in a hand made anxious by the knowledge that another seizure was building inside him.
The eyes were becoming wet again, but harder as well.
“
Good day,” Teddy answered. He turned and strode to
ward the library door.
“
I'm bound . ..” Gould swallowed a cough. “I'm bound to say that your interest in this matter baffles me.”
Teddy stopped. “Tilden is my friend.”
“
Your friend, indeed. Is he a true friend? One who
would never play you false?”
Roosevelt opened the door without bothering to answer.
“
Ask him this, then. Ask your true friend to look you
in the eye and tell you plainly that he did not murder his
wife.”
Eighteen
“
Yes,” the man in the homburg whispered. “Yes, I
know you, don't I?” A measure of the old man's fear fell
away as he peered closely at the face of Harry Sturdevant. Harry saw relief in his eyes as well. And, he thought, per
haps a hint of disappointment.
“
I'm Harry Sturdevant, Tillie. It's been a few years.”
He pulled the glove from his hand and offered it, hoping
to lure the other man within grasp of the large bored rifle
he carried. But the old man scurried three steps backward.
On the last, his heel found a shard of ice Harry had chopped
from the driveway and he slipped, falling heavily on his
hip.
“
Stay back,” he croaked as Sturdevant reached toward
him. The man who bore Tilden Beckwith's name struggled
to his knees, the Weatherby's bore waving in Sturdevant’ s
general direction. Sturdevant straightened and relaxed. A
look of sudden horror returned to the old man's face. Fran
tically, he patted one hand against the pocket of his coat,
then reached inside and pulled free a bottle of Glenlivet
Scotch, whole and unbroken. He waggled it at Sturdevant.
The horror vanished. He looked pleased with himself.
“
This is for him,” he said. “It's his brand, you know.”
“
For
him,”
Sturdevant repeated blankly.
For Tilden Beckwith. Glenlivet is his favorite. I never in my life heard him have to ask for it because everyone knew. Other people would have to say what drink they
wanted, but not Grandfather Tilden.”
“
Yes,” Sturdevant answered, staring. “Yes, I remem
ber.” He turned and glanced up toward the house. A
shadow moved behind the living-room curtains. When he
turned again he saw the hollow-eyed old man squinting past
him through dim late-afternoon light and the falling snow.
“
He's in there, isn't he?” The voice fell again to a whis
per. “He's come back.”
'Tillie—”
”
I saw you with him, you know. I saw you yesterday at
the Plaza. You were having drinks and talking, and I bet
his drink was Glenlivet. You were so much older than he
was. When you knew him before, you were younger. Now
you're older. But he didn't change at all.”
Sturdevant shook his head. “Tillie, that was not—” He
stopped himself. There didn't seem to be much use in ex
plaining the truth of it. If this man had been following Jon
athan, which was the way it sounded, he must have known
perfectly well that Jonathan had a name and that name was
Corbin. Another thought struck him. “Tillie, have you had
other people following us? Did you have someone waiting
for us outside my house this morning?”
“
Not me. That wasn't my doing.”
”
I see.”
“
It was always Ella. I would say, Don't do this, or, I
don't want to do that, and she would just slap me and go
and do it anyway.”
“
What sort of things would she do, Tillie?”
“
Lots of things. Is he in there?”
“
No. He's gone out. And you are not going to walk into
that house with a loaded gun.”
It's not to hurt him. It's just to keep him from hurting
me until we have a drink and talk. None of it was my
fault.”
“
What, Tillie? What wasn't your fault?”
“
Ella hit him. He struck Father and Ella hit him with
her cane. And then they told me to go away, to go to Florida, and they sent Bigelow to Chicago after the others. But
he came back for Bigelow and now he's back for Ella.”
Sturdevant suddenly felt cold. Deathly cold. The storm
reached beneath his coat as if it had fingers. “Ella,” he
repeated softly. “Ella killed him.” He did not phrase it as
a question.
He knows that, doesn't he.” There was that relief
again. “He told you.”
mind fought against accepting the words he was hearing
and the monstrous truth to which they were giving shape.
“The Corbins,” he whispered finally. “They tried to kill all the Corbins.”
The old man nodded distantly. He stared into a space beyond Sturdevant’s shoulder as if watching a scene that was being played there. “He came back for my father too,
you know. He was waiting for him when he died. Right
there at the bed. Father saw him. Ella tried to tell him it
was only the minister. He didn't even hear her. He started
screaming and crying and trying to crawl up the headboard
and then suddenly he just sort of melted there. They
couldn't close his eyes, did you know that? They had to
use thread or they wouldn't stay shut.”
And Bigelow”—Sturdevant tried to form a question
that would not betray his ignorance of that person's exis
tence—“The man Ella sent to kill the Corbins
...
he too
saw Tilden when he died?”
to wait for Bigelow. He was alive again then. He was young
again.”
He didn't tell me about that,” Sturdevant said carefully.
“He said only that he found Bigelow. He did not say when
or where.”
alive again
and
young again
called up the picture of a living though not so young
man who was the image of Tilden Beckwith down to the
last fine detail of his face. A response formed on the old
man's lips, but it froze there. His mouth fell slowly open,
and his eyes stared past Sturdevant with the expression of
a silent moan.
Uncle Harry?” He heard Gwen's voice calling behind
him.
“
Ohhh!” The old man backed away, tears spilling on
his cheeks.
“
Are you okay?” He heard her voice again. Sturdevant raised a hand in reply, but he did not take his eyes from
Tilden Beckwith II or from the trembling finger that was
tightening over the rifle's trigger. He knew without turning
what this wreck of a man was seeing. He was seeing an
other dead person made newly young. He was looking at Gwen Leamas standing framed in the doorway of a Vic
torian house and wearing a long, white Victorian gown. But
he was seeing Charlotte Corbin, a graceful old woman who was murdered in Chicago forty years before. He was seeing Margaret Barrie.