Chapter 22
Damn it—despite our caution, we must have been followed. I exchange a glance with Adrian, who frowns in consternation.
All of George’s attention is on his employer. “You want me to send him on his way, Miss Cleo? Or invite him in for a…”—he cracks his knuckles—“…private chat?”
My instinct is to go for the first option. But we’re protected here, surrounded by Cleo’s men. So long as the man isn’t carrying a bomb, perhaps we can take advantage of the situation.
“Can we question him?” I ask Cleo.
She arches a brow, but shrugs. “Sure thing.”
“Search him carefully,” Adrian tells George. “These guys are dangerous.”
“I know my business.” George departs, moving with surprising grace for such a large man.
Cleo rises to her feet, and we hasten to as well. “George will bring him to our private room in back.”
We follow her through a doorway discreetly hidden by one of the long drapes hanging at intervals on the rear wall.
The room beyond startles me with its plainness, after the elegance of the speakeasy outside.
The walls are bare brick, the floor covered by a large, somewhat threadbare rug.
A couple of rough tables with mismatched chairs await occupants, a half-empty rum bottle on one.
There’s also a desk with a telephone, a rough cot, and a radio.
Adrian regards the cot dubiously. “Don’t tell me you’re sleeping here.”
“That’s for the boys, if they need a rest.” Cleo pulls the chairs from their places at one of the tables, lining up three side-by-side with the fourth one facing them. “My current apartment is two blocks over, on 110th. Once we’re finished with this sap, I’ll take you there to clean up.”
She picks up a tumbler from the desk, along with a lighter and a cigarette case. She hands the lighter to Adrian, pours herself a measure of rum from the bottle, and places the cigarette between her lips. He politely lights it for her, then another for himself. “Sterling?”
I shake my head. “I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do I, usually. But it used to settle my nerves in the service, and at the moment, I need a bit of settling.”
“You are in trouble—I knew it.” Cleo takes a seat in one of the three chairs. “Sit down—they’ll be here any second.”
Sure enough, we’re barely in our seats before the door opens and a man nearly as large as George comes in.
He steps to the side, hand casually on his pocket in a way that makes me suspect he has a gun there, and George enters gripping the shoulder of a much smaller man.
The captive is White, small and thin, his brown eyes burning with an emotion I can’t place. Not anger, but something else.
George shoves him roughly into the remaining chair, facing us. “Don’t move,” he warns, “or my friend here will make you sit still.”
The other big man pulls his gun out of his pocket, holding it trained on the prisoner. Satisfied, George says, “We took these off him.”
He reaches into his own pockets and takes out a revolver, a wicked-looking knife, and a pair of brass knuckles. The knife is a normal shape, rather than a clock hand like the one we found in poor James.
James. Had this man killed him? My hands squeeze into fists; if he’s responsible…
Then what? Would I kill him in turn? Give up my oath to never take another life? Or just sit by like a coward and let others do it for me?
“Thank you, George.” Cleo takes a sip of her rum and turns her attention on the prisoner. “Tell me your name and why you’re following my brother and his friend.”
The man in the chair looks directly at me, that odd fervency still in his gaze. Then he turns to Cleo. “You’re sitting with an abomination, you know that?”
“Me?” I exclaim. I can’t remember what I did during the last year, but surely calling me an abomination is a bit far.
George leans over and casually delivers a slap that leaves a dark red mark on the man’s face. “Answer the lady.”
Though the blow is open-handed, it obviously hurts. The man shakes his head as if to clear it. “Bill Irvin, and I ain’t following your brother. I’ve got no beef with him.”
“You have a funny way of showing it, considering you just blew up the building I was in,” Adrian says coolly. Cleo shoots him a look.
Irvin shrugs. “I ain’t against taking out one of you Timekeepers, but that thing—” He nods in my direction. “—can’t be allowed to live.”
What the hell? “Why are you calling me a thing? And what the devil is a Timekeeper?”
The fervent gleam in his eyes is replaced by surprise. “Shit. We’re too late.” He shakes his head. “In that case, I’m truly sorry, friend. But trust me, this will be an easier end than what’s coming for you.”
He bows his head, as if in prayer, and begins to mumble. George gives his shoulder a shove. “Speak up!”
Irvin lifts his chin slightly; his eyes are squeezed tight, a look of concentration on his face. His stream of words becomes slightly more audible, and I strain to catch what he’s saying.
“…One Who is to Come, take this flesh, this offering I give, let my life become a sacrifice to Your glory, wake and show Your face to these unbelievers…”
“Say your prayers later, friend,” George says, and cuffs him on the back of his head.
Irvin’s skull caves under the blow, George’s hand sinking in as if he’s punched mud rather than bone. Even as he lets out a horrified shout, Irvin’s face splits open.