Twin Speex: Time Traitors Book II (20 page)

He had come for her in the darkest part of the night. His movements were so slight, they barely stirred the air. You must come with me now, he had said. You can tell no one. She had protested. Gabriel would worry. And Evelyn… how could she leave her without a word? You must, he had insisted. The slightest ripple, the slightest wake in the timeline, may alert the enemy. Your family can be used against you. They cannot know.

She had gone. Her heart full of them, promising herself she would not be long away.

Sixteen

ETTIE FIRMLY BELIEVED that the best part of this timeline was Beatrix’s wardrobe. The dog trotted beside her, a jaunty tam o’shanter on her head and a little tartan jacket clipped securely about her neck. Bea’s tongue lolled out of her wide smile, and she would, on occasion, cock her head to one side and look up at Ettie as if winking.

For her own ensemble, Ettie had chosen a rather conservative look. She wore a long skirt of dark blue wool that swung just above her ankles. Practical boots encased her feet, and a short gray patterned jacket with a black collar and pockets was buttoned securely over her white shirt. A large felt hat with a black band and matching gray plume topped off the outfit, and effectively hid much of her face.

Since her father’s attack, she and Bea had stayed with a neighbor. Ettie would pop back to her apartment at odd hours to pick up clothes and generally check on the place. Charlie had left her messages at the hospital and her building, but she avoided him at all costs, something that was becoming increasingly difficult to do.

For her forays out of the building, she typically exited from the servants’ door. Returning by that way, however, was unreliable since it locked upon closing. In these instances, she and Hector, the doorman, had worked out a set of signals to let her know if the Earl of Westchester had been to see her and whether he was still around. If Hector’s hat was pushed back on his head, the coast was clear, and she could go in. If his hat was pulled low over his eyes, the earl had come by and could still be lingering in the vicinity.

Over the past few days, Ettie had staked out the apartment in the East Village. Her observation post at the café across the street proved to be a font of information. An establishment of the most local variety, it was frequented by residents as well as storeowners and their employees up and down the tree-lined street. Plainly furnished with wooden tables and chairs, some armchairs and a sofa, it served the best black pudding, baked beans, and fried bread she had ever tasted.

The denizens of this busy avenue gathered here for breakfast and lunch, to catch a quick gossip during their breaks, to greet friends and neighbors, or just exchange a pleasant tête-à-tête. That so august a personage as the Earl of Westchester visited their humble part of town was a favorite subject of casual rumor and chitchat, particularly among the shopgirls.

Ettie never found it difficult to position herself within earshot of these conversations. She had listened with a wounded heart to the account of his relationship with the lady in 2E, an association that had apparently begun some time before he had come into her life. Her own name would come up on occasion as the public face of his romantic adventures, but all the shopgirls agreed that so handsome and wealthy a man could not be held to just one “fancy woman.” He may even have another stashed away in a hidden love nest as yet undiscovered, they often speculated.

She had felt numb, but firmly shoved her bruised feelings aside. Of course this was so. How could it be otherwise? Ettie knew from her own ears that she had been nothing to him but a mission—his target.

If her lips still trembled and her heart still sank at the thought, it wasn’t because he really didn’t love her. If she still dashed an occasional tear from the corner of her eye, it was not because she had thought herself in love with him. Oh no, it was the deception, the lies, she rationalized defiantly. It was the embarrassment of being fooled, of being his dupe, she had convinced herself. But this was all about to change she determined upon entering the airy little café and finding a corner table near the window.

Ettie’s entrance had not gone unnoticed, or rather, Beatrix’s hadn’t. The proprietress’s young grandson had struck up a friendship with the white pit bull and always waited eagerly for their arrival. Today Ettie had promised to leave Bea for a visit. Just a short one, she had told the boy with a laugh, just while she ran over to the building across the street to visit a friend.

Before she was even comfortably seated, the boy had situated himself on the floor next to Bea, and they had exchanged that secret greeting known only to children and dogs. His arm firmly tucked around her neck, the boy asked, “How long will you be, señorita? Will I have time to walk her to the corner and show my friends?”

Ettie smiled a little absently and nodded. “Of course, Pablo.”

A thought struck her and she added, “Can you keep an eye out for the Earl of Westchester? If he should come up the street?”

He furrowed his brow and nodded. “Of course, señorita. But why?”

She looked across the street at the second-story corner window facing the church and pointed. “If you should see him enter that building, hang one of these red napkins from the railing in front of the café.” She noted his confusion and smiled conspiratorially. “It is a little game I play with my friend. We keep count of the times we see famous people and add up the points at the end of each week. Whoever has the most points must buy the other a small gift.” She leaned in closer to him. “Spotting the earl carries several points.”

Pablo, having overheard the shopgirls enthuse over the handsome earl, grasped immediately the import of such a prize. “Of course, señorita,” he repeated.

Ettie patted the dog on the head. “You be good with Pablo. I won’t be more than half an hour.”

They left the café together, but separated at the curb. Pablo and Bea headed to the corner where were gathered his many ragged little cronies, and Ettie crossed to the modest apartment building on the other side of the street.

She had plotted her break-in to the smallest detail. There was no doorman, but the entrance was locked during all hours. The families that populated the three stories of apartments were large and many. Mothers with babies and small children came and went with regularity. Ettie had to wait only a few minutes before a group of young matrons bustled about the stoop counting heads and helping each other carry prams up the stairs. She spotted a particularly harassed young woman and bent over to grasp the front of her pram.

“Here, let me help,” Ettie offered as the woman gave her a grateful smile.

The door was opened, and she placed her back against it to allow the young mother and the rest of the group to push the prams and shepherd their children through. The foyer was tight, and the chaos of crying babies and tired children allowed Ettie to squeeze past unnoticed. She made her way down the corridor to a narrow side staircase. Taking the steps two at a time, she practically jumped up the last few to stand in the hallway breathless and not a little victorious at how well her plan had worked out so far.

The door to apartment 2E stood directly in front of her. She knocked on it firmly. This was mere theater; she knew no one was at home. She had closely monitored the apartment for the last forty-eight hours, both day and night. There had been no change in the position of the curtains, no lights or other indication that an occupant was within. The absence of Charlie had also given her confidence. He had not been seen for several days. The sharp eyes of shopgirls did not lie. Pablo’s assignment had been a precaution only.

One of the mothers came down the corridor. Ettie knocked again. The woman stopped two doors down from her and fumbled in her reticule for the key.

“She’s not in,” the woman said, glancing at her cautiously, her face a polite mask. Ettie knew that look. She had encountered many such like it in this timeline. The woman did not approve of her neighbor. “I think she must be away,” she added, “I’ve heard her speak of other residences.” The woman cleared her throat delicately as if to dislodge her disapproval without actually giving voice to it, but then said with a touch of acid, “I’m not entirely sure they are in truth
her
residences.”

Ettie was prepared. “I’m her niece. My mother sent me to check up on her.” She lowered her eyes as if embarrassed. “My aunt is not a reliable correspondent.”

The woman unbent slightly and smiled sadly at the thought of having such a disreputable relative. She found her key and was still looking at Ettie as she opened her door.

Ettie made a show of rooting around in her bag. “I’ll just leave a little note under her door,” she murmured to herself as she drew out a stubby pencil and a piece of paper.

The woman, now bored with the encounter, merely nodded her head. She pushed her young son ahead of her, walked into her apartment, and closed the door. Ettie breathed a sigh of relief. Still, she had to hurry. Who knew when another resident might come striding down the hallway? Her playacting could work only so many times.

She dropped the pencil and paper back into her bag and pulled out a key. Hector said it was a skeleton key, the type used by doormen all over the city to let forgetful residents into their homes. He wasn’t sure it would work on this particular apartment, but it had not failed him in over twenty years of opening doors.

It slipped in easily, but caught in the lock at the third-quarter of the turn. She jiggled it in the door, cold sweat beading up under layers of clothing. Finally it released, and she heard a click as the bolt drew back. Ettie cast a furtive glance down the corridor before opening the door and stepping inside. She quietly locked it behind her and leaned back against it, letting her heartbeat slow from a galloping thump to a more sedate canter.

She took a deep breath and looked around. The curtains were pulled back so the late morning sunshine illuminated the interior. The apartment was not large, but it was well laid-out, and the two picture windows gave a lovely view of the street and church spire beyond. The combination parlor and sitting room was cluttered in the Victorian style. Fern plants and filmy lace curtains mingled together at the windows. There was a loveseat and two chairs and a chaise lounge with what looked to be a leopard skin throw across the back. A patterned carpet covered the floor, and a pianoforte with a velvet runner and a light layer of dust upon it was pushed up against the wall. There were some paintings hung in a haphazard manner and a holographic image of the Eiffel Tower, but no photographs or knickknacks decorated the room.

Ettie moved away from the door and glanced stealthily out the window. She saw Pablo and Bea on the corner, the center of an admiring group of small urchins. No napkin waved from the railing, so Ettie walked to the middle of the room and silently and systematically began to search it. She didn’t know what exactly she was looking for. She pulled out drawers and slid her hand under tabletops. She looked beneath the lid of the pianoforte and walked the length of the carpet feeling for any lumps or bumps. The room was surprisingly free of anything personal. Ettie began to suspect that the apartment had been rented or purchased already furnished.

After finding nothing out of the ordinary in the parlor, she passed into the kitchen. Here, it was spotless. The cabinets were neatly stacked with plates and bowls and cups, none of them looking like they had ever known a day of use. The icebox was empty, which was a good thing, since it contained no ice and would have left any perishables to spoil. There were no oil stains on the stove, and the pantry was residence to only a sad assortment of old herbs and spices.

Ettie crossed the parlor and entered the bedroom. She stood upon the threshold stunned into an even more profound silence. The room was a nightmarish blend of fluffy boudoir and torture chamber. The bed was not large, but that was the only way in which it was unremarkable. Its frame was a dark solid wood, and it rose above the bed in a vaulted canopy of spires. It looked like a cathedral of the damned. At the top of each corner post was carved an ornate wooden cross, and gargoyles peered down on the mattress below. The bedcover was a silky confection of pink and white; heart-shaped pillows were scattered across its surface and a delicate, sheer negligee lay casually tossed over the footboard.

Ettie walked further into the room and saw an array of whips and chains hanging from the walls. Every surface was strewn with all type of sex toy imaginable. It was as if she had walked into the window display of a porn shop on the sleaziest street in New York City.

Ettie pivoted on her heels to look back at the door, and her blood froze. She had read that phrase many times before, and had always believed it a cheap literary exaggeration—until now. She felt the cold seep out of her bloodstream to spread like a thin sheet of ice across her skin. It was almost as if she could see her breath condense in front of her face and feel the fingers of her hands freeze into balled-up fists.

The painting was both beautiful and horrific. Her image stared back at her through rich colors and sweeping paintbrush strokes. The scene was a lovers’ room, all sexual voluptuousness, but the girl—

Ettie flexed her fingers, feeling her knuckles creak and brought her hands to lie on top of each other over her heart. She saw what the girl’s tormentor could not or would not see. She saw past the pubescent mimicry of desire to the terror and desperation, the overriding need for love and approval.

Her blood began to thaw and move sluggishly through her veins. She walked forward with tears burning her frozen cheeks, and touched the childish face. Her pity was replaced with relief. She heaved an enormous sigh and thought, this is not me.

Shaken, Ettie turned back to the room. There was another door. It was a half door really, the type found beneath a staircase or in the sloping wall of an attic. It had been obscured by a large wardrobe pushed up against the wall. She walked to it almost in a trance, terrified by what else she might find in this horror of an abode.