Chapter 16 Chicago, 1928—Clay
After a quick breakfast, Clay stopped by Archibald’s room to check on him. He didn’t expect Violet to still be there—and honestly doubted Archibald would be, either. When he knocked, Archibald invited him in.
Clay froze.
Archibald reclined on the bed beside Violet—motionless, unresponsive, far too close.
“You can’t sit here and worry yourself sick over her,” Clay said, and the harshness in his own voice startled him. “She doesn’t care about you.”
Archibald glanced up. The pain in his eyes nearly brought Clay to his knees. The words had betrayed him the moment they left his mouth.
“Ye don’t know that.”
Clay crossed to the window, needing distance. Capone’s men were back across the street.
“You know as well as I do that it’s impossible for Violet to love anyone,” he said, forcing steadiness he didn’t feel. “She doesn’t have a heart.”
“Ye’re wrong. Ye don’t know her like I do.”
“Maybe not,” Clay shot back, “but I know her as well as I want to. Whatever she has, it isn’t a heart. It’s a fortress.”
Archibald knuckled away a rogue tear. “I’ve never heard ye talk about anyone like that.”
“Because I’ve never met a soul so utterly devoid of empathy,” Clay snapped. He was coming on too strong, and he knew it, but he couldn’t rein himself in. Violet had treated Archibald like crap, and Clay couldn’t pretend otherwise just because Archibald still cared for her.
Archibald swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.
He swayed.
Clay was at his side instantly, cradling his arm. “Be careful.” He guided Archibald across the room to one of the funky chairs and pushed a small table closer just as the butler appeared at the open door.
“Do you want this tray on that table?”
Clay hurried forward to take the silver tray with its dome lids. “I’ll take that.” He glanced back at Violet. “You shouldn’t come in. Violet might be contagious.”
The butler’s expression stayed polite and blank as he handed it over.
Clay set the tray down and lifted the lids. “Looks like Skye remembered what you like.”
“Bacon and eggs?”
“And fruit, biscuits, and coffee.” Clay spooned food onto a plate and poured coffee. “I assumed you didn’t want to go downstairs, but I wanted to be sure you ate. If Violet wakes up, tug the bell pull. Anita will come.”
Archibald bit into a biscuit, then held it out. “Eat one of these. It’s delicious.”
“I’ve had my quota for the day.”
Archibald buttered another while it was still warm. “Tell Skye how much I appreciate her hospitality.”
Clay’s gaze drifted back to Violet. “Are you sure you want to stay up here?”
“There are interesting books on the shelf over there.” Archibald nodded toward it. “I’ll stay and read. The day will pass quickly.”
“If you say so.”
Archibald’s eyes went distant. “I wish ye’d known her when she was younger. I’ve never seen a woman so alive to being pregnant.” His voice softened. “When ye were born, she’d rock ye for hours. She couldn’t put ye down. It was almost as if she believed ye’d disappear if she let go of ye.”
“She let go,” Clay said, bitterness cutting through the softness. “And I disappeared. What happened to that woman?”
Archibald chewed slowly before answering. “Everything changed when her sister died. Violet left us to take care of Robert. Looking back, I don’t think she wanted to go—but she had no choice.”
“Who the hell made her choose?”
“A man she claimed was a friend from Inverness came to see her,” Archibald said. “They took a long walk. When she came back, she said she had to leave. I don’t know what he told her, but she left that day.”
Clay’s mind latched onto the detail. “Wait. I thought Violet wanted you to live in the nineteenth century with her, and you refused.”
“Visits to another century are great,” Archibald said, voice flat. “Living there permanently wasn’t for me.” He looked wrecked, like a wrecking ball had hit him and kept going.
Clay dropped into the chair he’d used the night before and ran a hand through his hair. “If we were playing Uno, I’d throw down a reverse card.”
“A karmic change of direction?” Archibald’s mouth twitched. “Ye and I could have gone with her. But to this day, I think that man changed all our lives.”
“Did you talk to him? What’d he look like?”
Archibald closed his eyes. “We didn’t speak. The best I can remember is a huge, muscular man with black hair and blue eyes.”
Clay’s skin prickled. “Sounds like Erik the Viking.”
“This man’s eyes were lifeless,” Archibald said, quieter now. “Frozen. Pure evil.”
Clay clutched the chair’s edge. “That sounds like Sten—Erik’s twin brother. He’s dead now.”
“He could still show up in the past,” Archibald said. “I’m dead in yer time.”
“Elliott destroyed Sten,” Clay said, more firmly than he felt. “Supposedly, he can’t show up anywhere ever again.”
Archibald stared at him. “Ye’re sure?”
“Elliott assured me he was dead.” Clay swallowed. “Sten had a disease in his eye. You would have noticed.”
Archibald rubbed his temple, as if that helped. “How would I tell them apart?”
“You wouldn’t, unless you saw the eye,” Clay said. “And it still makes little sense. Violet isn’t afraid of anyone. But maybe… maybe she wasn’t leaving because she wanted to. Maybe leaving was what kept us safe.” He exhaled, the thought tasting bitter. “If that’s true… I’ve misjudged her.”
“When she returns,” Archibald said, “ask her to explain it Barney-style.”
Clay barked a short laugh at the memory. “In its simplest form, as if talking to a child. How many times growing up did you do that to me?”
“Not as many as I should,” Archibald said—and the words were an apology.
Clay stood and gave Archibald’s shoulder a gentle pat. “Marcelle and I need to go find Bastien and get back for the show tonight.”
Archibald’s brow creased. “Please be careful.”
“I will.”
Clay left quietly and closed the door.
He intended to talk to Violet about Sten if she woke up—but he wouldn’t mention any of this to Remy yet. Capone was making them anxious enough. Introducing Sten into the equation would only tighten the noose.
Clay found Marcelle, Remy, and Skye in the foyer.
“What is this?” he said, aiming for humor. “A conspiracy in the making.”
“Oh, it is,” Marcelle said. “You’d better watch out.” She handed him a sheet of paper. “Guard this with your life. It’s Skye’s telephone number, so we can stay in touch.”
Clay tapped the side of his head. “I have a remarkable memory for numbers. It’s East Chicago RAN-2877. Mr. Samuel told me yesterday.”
“I guess you and Patrick competed in college over who was the best mnemonist,” Remy said, dry amusement in his voice.
Patrick’s name drew a quick smile from Clay. “Patrick won, hands down. If you’ve never heard him call a horse race, you’ve missed out on one of life’s greatest pleasures.”
Marcelle blinked. “Who’s Patrick?”
“My college roommate at Georgetown.”
Skye shifted her weight, practical as ever. “I have a question.” She looked between them. “What should I tell the band—and Capone—if you don’t make it back to perform tonight?”
“That Marcelle needed a night off,” Remy said instantly.
Skye gave him a look. “I got that.” Then she turned to Clay. “But what’s your excuse?”
Clay lifted one shoulder. “Tell him I’m not a professional musician.”
Skye snorted softly. “He won’t believe that.”
“If Capone pushes, tell him we got a lead on Marcelle’s brother,” Clay said. “But don’t mention he plays sax or his name. We’ll call later today with a progress report.”
“Doan get so involved you forget,” Remy warned.
“We won’t,” Marcelle said, picking up her suitcase and trumpet case. “After worrying about Bastien for thirty-six hours, I know what it feels like not to know what’s happening. We’ll try to call every couple of hours.”
Remy’s eyes narrowed into a troubled gaze as he looked from Clay to Marcelle. “If you get a lead, nothing will stop you from going after it, and you woan think of the consequences. Just don’t do anything stupid or dangerous.”
“I’m not an adrenaline junkie,” Marcelle said, “and neither is Clay.”
Remy cupped a hand to his ear as if cleaning it out. “What? Do you know Clay’s climbed Kilimanjaro, Aconcagua, Mount Kenya, Toubkal, Everest Base Camp, Kinabalu, and Cayambe? Anyone who’s done that much climbing has to be an adrenaline junkie.”
Skye frowned. “What’s an adrenaline junkie?”
“Clay MacIntyre,” Remy said. “Now get out of here and call as soon as you can. I’ll be on edge until I hear from you.”
Clay started toward the door and stopped. “I forgot. I saw Capone’s men from the upstairs window. We shouldn’t walk out with suitcases.”
“Drive around to the alley,” Remy said. “Marcelle can meet you out back with the bags. If they follow you, come back. You’ll have to go without emergency gear.”
“See you out back,” Marcelle said, hurrying off with the luggage and her trumpet.
Clay shoved through the front door, hunching his shoulders against the early-morning damp as dark clouds drifted over the lake.
He knew the weather would complicate the chase for leads.
Still, he tempered his frustration with the memory of snuggling with Marcelle in the rumble seat—shamefully hoping their lack of progress might buy him another day with her.
He slid behind the wheel of the Ford and suppressed the urge to glance at the watching gangsters. A flicker of acknowledgment would invite them to follow.
Clay took a quick right and pulled into the alley. Relief loosened his shoulders when no one tailed him. Their indifference made him wonder who truly held Capone’s interest: the drummer, the singer, the trumpeter… or the booze stashed in Skye’s basement.
He had barely pulled up behind the house when Marcelle bounded out, luggage and trumpet case in hand.
She scanned the alley. “Looks like the gangsters aren’t interested in you.”
“Must be my boring personality.”
“Fishing for compliments, MacIntyre?” she said, breathless, amused. “Nothing is boring about you. So how do we do this?”