Chapter 5 Mallory Plantation—Remy #2
“If ye lads are already bickering, it doesn’t bode well for this trip,” David said.
Elliott’s phone dinged with a text message. He read it and said, “Meredith and Kenzie found Alistair and Sheena’s wedding pictures. She’s emailing copies to David so he can print headshots for ye.”
“We’ll need age progression pictures,” Clay said. “If they’ve been there for a while, they won’t look like their pictures.”
“I’ll do what I can. Do ye want headshots of Bastien and Marcelle?”
“For Clay’s use,” Remy said. “And the pictures of the Robertsons are only for us. I doan plan on flashing them around and giving gangsters the wrong idea. They didn’t like their talent pilfered by competing speakeasies. We’re going in low-key, looking to put a band together to take on the road.”
Elliott’s face telegraphed concern. “Won’t that aggravate some gangsters?”
“It might. We’ll need to be careful. There’s a story about comedian and singer Joe E.
Lewis being attacked by Capone’s lieutenant, ‘Machine Gun’ Jack McGurn, in 1927.
Lewis wanted to move his act to the New Rendezvous Café.
Supposedly, McGurn and his men mutilated Lewis.
They cut his throat and tongue and left him for dead.
Capone was fond of Lewis and was upset about the assault.
Instead of punishing McGurn, Capone provided for Lewis’s recovery. ”
“Good thing ye two aren’t comedians, actors, or singers.” David’s phone dinged, and he checked his message. “Roisin’s finished altering yer suits. She’s bringing them here.”
Go-time was approaching too quickly for Remy. Adventures usually took days to plan. Even his trips with Elliott involved weeks of research. But now, Elliott, David, and Braham expected him and Clay to leave within the hour.
“I’ve got to put a medical kit together,” Remy said.
“Don’t ye have any prepacked kits?”
“It’s safer to pack before a trip. I doan want to get there and discover I’ve got a bag of expired drugs.”
“What weapons do ye want?” Braham asked.
“I’ll take two of those state-of-the-art Sig Sauers. Clay doesn’t want one.”
Clay cocked his hip against the stainless-steel table and folded his arms across his chest. He held Remy’s gaze, blue eyes steady, brows lifting just enough to pose the challenge without saying it outright. “You assume I don’t want a weapon.”
“Do you?” Remy asked.
Clay shrugged one shoulder, casual but not dismissive. “Considering where we’re going—yes.”
Clay’s mouth twitched. “I’d prefer a small-caliber gun.” He tipped his head, thinking. “What do you have?”
“A Derringer,” Braham said, producing it from a drawer and setting it on the table.
Clay’s eyes lit with interest as he leaned forward to inspect it. “Doc Holliday carried a Derringer.”
“So did John Wilkes Booth,” Remy muttered. He shot Clay a sideways look. “Whatever you give him, doan give him bullets. He’ll shoot himself—or me.”
Clay straightened, offense sharpening his posture. “What the hell? I could outscore you in a shooting competition.”
Remy whipped around, the room tightening instantly. “If that’s a bet,” he said, stepping closer, “I’ll take it.”
Clay grinned, unmistakably pleased. “You’re on.” He glanced toward the door. “Where’s the shooting range? I haven’t seen one.”
Braham slid the Derringer into Clay’s hand. “Ye doan have time for that.”
“It’s over by the new barn,” Remy said, already moving. “I’ll meet you there in five.”
“Stand down, soldier,” Braham snapped, cutting through the moment. He fixed them both with a hard look. “I’ll set up a competition later this spring. And be prepared—these younger lads might beat yer asses.”
Remy waved him off without looking back. “Whatever.”
“If we’re not having a pistol competition, I’m taking a quick shower.” Clay disappeared into the men’s room.
Remy unlocked the medical supplies cabinet, and his mind instantly shifted into focus.
He concentrated on the supplies he needed for his medical bag.
He took extra time because he had to plan for multiple casualties.
All Remy could do for the victims was medicate, stabilize, and prepare for evacuation.
It would have been easier to take a picture of the inside of his bag, but Charlotte wouldn’t like that.
She wanted a detailed list. She didn’t care what he took as long as he kept a record for reordering.
After gathering all his medical supplies, he included four prepacked Dopp kits and packed everything into a duffel.
The archaeologists finally moved the sarcophagus that Tavis and David had stolen from the Met in 1896 into a small, temperature-controlled room.
They planned to return the coffin once they had finished their studies, which could take a few years.
At least it was out of the clean room. Having a casket sitting in such a conspicuous spot gave Remy the creeps.
Roisin had left his black wool, double-breasted suit with wingtips and spats, a black fedora, a white pleated silk shirt, and a polka-dot tie on the table. He fingered the tie. “Fuck! Polka dots?”
“Stop complaining. When ye get to Chicago, go to Marshall Field’s and buy suits, shirts, and ties. That’s where Capone shopped,” Braham said.
“I’m a drummer. Not a gangster. Where’s Clay?”
“Still in the locker room, and Roisin asked if ye’d please return the suit without bullet holes.” Braham held up a bulletproof vest. “Take care of this, too.”
“I’ll do my best.” Remy carried the vest and clothes into the locker room and found Clay standing in front of the mirror, straightening his tie.
“I look like a gangster.”
“Do you feel like one?”
Clay shook his head. “Still feel like a journalist, but a journalist would never look like this. I’ll be your band’s agent instead.”
“You look like a successful one.” Remy stripped and jumped into the shower. Twenty minutes later, he’d transformed from a law-abiding EMT into a 1920s-style gangster. “Why’d I get a polka-dot tie, and you got a respectable striped one?”
Clay set his phone down with deliberate care, then lifted his fedora and settled it onto his head, adjusting the brim just so.
“Guess Roisin likes me better.” He flashed Remy a shit-eating grin—quick, unapologetic—and didn’t wait for a response.
The door swung open as he walked out, confidence trailing behind him like cologne.
Remy tsk-tsked. “And after all I’ve done for her.” He tied the polka-dot tie in a four-in-hand knot and had to admit he liked the look, especially with the hat. Even with the bulletproof vest, the suit jacket fit perfectly. He returned to the clean room. “Where are my guns?”
Braham handed Remy a right-handed shoulder holster, a leg holster, a Sig Sauer for each, and six magazines. “Is this all ye want? No missile launcher or AR-15?”
“I doan want to start a war. I just want to stay alive in the middle of one.” Remy pushed the slide of one gun back to see if there was a round in the chamber. Satisfied, he holstered it and did the same with the other Sig.
“Come here,” David said. “I want to show ye some pictures.” David held up black-and-white printouts of Bastien, Marcelle, Alistair, and Sheena. “Take these.”
Remy studied the four faces. He saw Bastien in Marcelle’s deep-set eyes, but Marcelle had something his friend lacked. Hers were haunting. He looked at the Robertsons’ pictures again, and the air in the room suddenly felt thin and sharp, like a razor’s edge. A cold warning.
David gave him an odd look. “What’d ye see?”
“Nothing.” Remy shook it off. “Got a chill. That’s all.”
“Ye’re intuitively aware of pain and suffering in others. Consider the chill a warning and tread lightly. Did ye pack enough supplies?”
“If I packed more, I could open a clinic.” Remy returned to the photographs and memorized the faces of Alistair and Sheena.
Alistair had long bangs and short sides, the Beatles’ signature look in the 1960s.
Sheena styled her light brown hair in a classic Mary Tyler Moore teased bubble flip.
He almost laughed at himself because he knew something stupid like Mary Tyler Moore’s hairstyle.
How could he not? He used to watch the reruns of her shows with his aunt.
“I doan need these.” He handed the pictures back to David. “I’ll recognize them.”
“Take them anyway,” David said. “They might have changed a lot.”
“You know the Robertsons could be dead by now, right?”
David pushed back from the desk and folded his arms. “Aye. I realize that, but the brooch wouldn’t have abandoned the couple in the past and let them die before help arrived.”
“You have more faith than I do. After what Erik did, all bets are off.”
David huffed. The lines around his eyes were etched deeper, and a new weariness slumped his shoulders, a weight Remy hadn’t noticed before. There was only one explanation for this—Erik’s betrayal.
“Do you think I’ll see him in Chicago?”
“By him, I guess ye’re referring to Erik,” David said. “Ye might.”
“If I do, I woan hold back. I’ll tell Erik he’s a son of a bitch.”
Elliott chose that moment to enter the office from the men’s locker room.
“Ye can’t say anything, Remy.” Elliott sat in Braham’s chair and crossed his legs.
“If ye meet Erik years before he saves James Cullen’s life and ye tell him we know his true identity, it might change how he interacts with my son. ”
“But that’s already happened. JC isn’t going back to 1885 for a do-over. And besides, we told Erik he died in the Badlands, and nothing changed,” Remy said.
The door swished open, and Clay sauntered in.
“It all changed,” Elliott said.
Clay stepped into Braham’s office. “What changed?”
“Life for all of us changed when Erik disappeared.”
“He probably planned to go as soon as he found Violet,” Clay said. “But I don’t understand why Erik couldn’t find her. All he had to do was ask his brooch to take him to her.”
“Which means he knew and lied to her, to us,” Remy snapped. “I’m glad they aren’t all-knowing.”