Chapter 6 Chicago, 1928—Marcelle
After hurtling through the universe in a quantum bubble, Marcelle hit the ground hard.
For an instant, pain stole her breath. The shock ran up her legs, instantly buckling her knees.
In a desperate scramble for stability, she lunged sideways, her fingers scraping against the coarse grit of a brick wall.
The truth spun around her as the last wisps of the stinky fog vanished. She wasn’t in her townhome anymore. It was twilight, and she was outside. But where?
A cool breeze sifted through the bare branches of the trees lining the sidewalk, and the musty smell of nearby water made her nose twitch. Was it from the Chicago River or Lake Michigan?
Where was Bastien? She tried to keep her anxiety in check and her voice steady as she turned in a circle, calling, “Bastien. Where are you?” When he didn’t answer, her anxiety ignited, a hive of bees swarming and stinging in her gut.
What was the last thing she remembered? Bastien was in her bedroom helping her with the brooch’s clasp. He opened the stone, and she read the inscription. A fog immediately enwrapped them.
How did she get from there to this part of Chicago and how was she going to get home.
While mentally mapping her route, she spotted a man who looked like Bastien standing on the street corner, talking to another man.
Before she could call out to him, a black car screeched to a halt.
Three armed men bailed from the vehicle and shattered the air with a rapid-fire barrage, spewing every round in seconds, annihilating the silence, and riddling their targets.
If the shooters saw her, they’d turn their guns on her. She had to hide. Her eyes darted around frantically. It took only a split second to duck into a recessed doorway of a closed pharmacy and crouch down to make herself invisible.
Doors slammed with brutal force.
Tires shrieked as the vehicle tore away from the curb and vanished around the corner.
Her breath stuck in her chest, and a cold wash of fear spilled down her back.
Bloody silence.
Her jaw clenched tight as she waited… and waited. Fear, like a strangler’s hand, closed around her throat, throttling the very air from her lungs.
A hand pressed on her shoulder, and she lurched toward a wooden door, catching herself with outstretched arms. More adrenaline flooded her bloodstream.
Fear, a sweat-soaked nightmare, clung to Marcelle’s skin as she fought to suppress a gag reflex triggered by the acrid stench of burnt smokeless powder.
A woman’s soft velvety voice barely broke through Marcelle’s terror. “We need to leave before the police arrive.” The woman took her hand. “Let’s go.”
Terror had blown an icy hole in Marcelle’s chest, and she couldn’t move. “No! They… shot… my brother.”
“Did he work for Capone?”
“No.”
“Good. Because I know the two men on the ground, and they both worked for Capone. He’ll take care of this.”
“Who?”
“Capone.”
“We can’t leave. We have to tell the police what happened.”
“Shush!”
Marcelle drew a startled breath. “You shushed me!”
“Don’t make me do it again. The cops can see what happened. Can you identify the shooters?”
Marcelle shook her head.
“Neither can I, and that’s the only information they want. We can’t get involved. They’ll want our names, and I won’t tell them anything. We’ve got to go now.”
Marcelle refused to leave the scene without knowing for sure. “I have to see their faces.” She braced to stand, but her legs became dead weights, betraying her as she pitched backward, slamming against the unyielding door.
“Come on, I’ll help you.” The woman offered Marcelle her hand.
Still gripped by terror, Marcelle grasped the woman’s thin hand and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.
Together, they slowly approached the dead men lying on the blood-splattered sidewalk.
Bullet holes had ripped their bodies, making them grossly deformed.
Even in death, their mafia-inspired slicked-back hair remained perfectly styled.
Her queasiness intensified, and she got lightheaded, but she breathed through the waves of stomach pain and managed not to throw up. “It’s not Bastien,” she said on a slow exhale.
“Come on, doll,” the woman said with urgency. “We’ve got to get out of here before someone sees us.”
Marcelle’s panic eased a bit. “We can’t leave.”
“I told you. We don’t want to get involved. It’s not good for our health.” The woman led her away, and they turned down an alley.
Marcelle had no choice but to trust her, at least until she found Bastien. “Where are we going?”
“I work a couple of blocks from here. We’ll be safe there.”
“Safe?” That was a magic word, and right now that’s what she wanted most. Marcelle stopped and leaned against the building. Her breathing was still too fast. Her hand brushed the flask secured in the pocket of the lacy garter. A shot of whisky might shock her body back into rhythm.
“I need… a drink.”
“So do I, and I know where we can get one.”
Marcelle held up a finger while she tried to slow her breathing to a normal rate. But the machine gun fire didn’t just echo in her mind. It hammered against her sanity, transforming her breath into a ragged, desperate fight to survive a memory.
Her hand shook as she removed the hip flask and took the first sip.
The smoky heat was a brand against her tongue, its burn a powerful emotional buffer against her fear.
She extended the silver flask to the woman, the metal catching a sliver of the moon.
The woman remained a silhouette in the alley’s gloom.
But the rich, floral aroma of her skin drifted, an unsettling paradox in the musty air.
The woman tilted her head back to let the whisky slide down her throat. “That’s the best whisky I’ve ever tasted. What is it?” she asked in a soulful, breathy voice, returning the flask.
“Woodford Reserve.” Marcelle took another necessary gulp.
The raw spirit’s intense burst of flavor ignited a warmth that almost melted her fear and anxiety.
Almost. Her breathing was nearly normal now, thanks to the high-octane liquor.
“Wish I had an endless supply. I’m going to need it to clear my head.
I’m so shaken up, I don’t remember what year it is, where I am, or if this is even real. ”
“It’s 1928, and you’re in Chicago. It’s real, and the two dead men are proof of that.” The woman took another drink and handed the flask back. “Big Bill is still mayor, and Calvin Coolidge is still in the White House.”
“I’ve never seen anyone shot.” Another chilling wave of terror washed over her as she imagined her parents’ last moments, senselessly killed on a Chicago street by a teenager consumed by crack cocaine.
“I hid in a closet for a week after witnessing my first shooting,” the woman said. Her voice carried a rough edge of memory. “The second one only scared me for three days. My heart’s beating fast now, but I don’t need to find a closet to hide in anymore.”
Marcelle leaned back against the wall, her grip tightening on the flask. “I could hide for a month.”
The woman gave a faint, understanding smile and raised Marcelle’s hand, tilting the flask slightly. “Take another drink.”
Marcelle hesitated. The whisky shimmered at the lip. She could easily drain it, but she knew it wouldn’t fix anything—wouldn’t steady her hands or slow the pulse pounding beneath her ribs.
“Since we’re sharing this excellent whisky,” the woman continued, “I should introduce myself. I’m Skye Marshall.”
Even in her fogged state, Marcelle let out a small, rasping chuckle.
Skye cocked her head, dark brows lifting. “What’s so funny?”
Marcelle handed over the flask. “I thought you were telling me you were a sky marshal.”
Skye blinked once, then frowned. “What’s that?”
“A lawman who rides in passenger planes,” Marcelle said.
Skye’s mouth quirked. “I’ve never flown in one. I had a chance once, but it didn’t work out.”
Marcelle straightened, rolling her shoulders against the wall. “Well, Skye Marshall, I’m Marcelle LeBlanc.”
“Is that French?”
“I’m Cajun. South Louisiana.”
“New Orleans…” Skye said softly, almost reverently, like a prayer she hadn’t meant to say out loud. “The birthplace of jazz.”
Marcelle’s lips lifted in a faint smile. “But jazz grew up in Chicago.”
“So did I,” Skye said, a dry laugh escaping her. “And I haven’t been anywhere else.”
Marcelle repacked the flask in the holder, surrendered to Skye’s direction, and together, they wended down the dimly lit alley like synchronized swimmers.
Skye seemed to know where she was going and what obstacles to avoid—trash piles, broken bottles, and stray cats.
Marcelle stepped into Skye’s footprints but stopped when panic set in again.
“I’ve got to find my brother. I don’t know where he is, and that makes me nervous. He’s a veteran and can take care of himself, but he’ll be worried about me.”
“At least they didn’t shoot him, and if he’s a soldier, he’ll know how to find you.”
Bastien had taught her to keep going, even in tough situations, because quitting wasn’t an option.
She had to get through tonight somehow. Tomorrow, she would look for him and figure out why she was here and how to get home.
Did that mean another trip through the mist?
If that’s how she got here, it was the only way home.
But that was impossible. She didn’t have the brooch.
Bastien would look for her, so she had to stay visible. If that meant playing her trumpet on the street, she’d do it. But first, she needed to earn money to buy one.
Skye flicked her wispy bangs. “You’ve had enough to be scared about tonight. I’ll help you find him tomorrow.”
Skye’s willingness to help was as strange as it was amazing. “Why are you helping me? I’m just a girl you found huddled on the street.”