Chapter 23
The sun’s heat yanked Bastien awake. For a split second, he didn’t know where he was—then confusion curdled into panic, and he bolted upright.
The bedroom—striped wallpaper, roller shades, hooked rugs—felt staged, like a museum display meant to be observed rather than lived in.
Bastien barely noticed. His thoughts were already racing, looping the last twenty-four hours in jagged bursts, always circling back to the same image: Marcelle’s face as the fog took her.
He needed that to be true.
The thought steadied his hands as he inspected his residual limb, searching for any sign that stress or exhaustion had taken their toll.
There was none. He rolled on the gel liner, seated the socket, and locked it in place.
The click was final, grounding. The battery was low—but he had time. He had to.
He dressed with deliberate speed—tailored trousers, a rumpled shirt, black patent-leather shoes—leaving the formalwear behind in a neat pile. Elegance could wait. Marcelle couldn’t.
After a quick stop in the bathroom across the hall, he stepped into the living room, drawn by the smell of coffee. “Smells good,” he said.
Tony handed him a cup. “How’d you sleep?”
“I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, and I just woke up a few minutes ago.”
“I was afraid you’d stay awake all night worrying about your sister.”
“Life in the Army taught me I’m no good to anyone if I’m exhausted and can’t think straight.”
“I’m glad you figured that out.” Tony pointed at the kitchen table.
“Sit down. I have biscuits for breakfast.” He refilled his cup and sat down across from Bastien.
“I’ve gone over the notes I wrote years ago, starting with the night Patrick walked into the saloon, and I served him a beer.
I conveniently forgot the dangerous part. ”
“Was that the fight with the German boxer?”
“No. The night a killer ran loose in the city. Ma, Phin, and I moved into a big house on the Upper East Side with Patrick, Remy, Gabe, and their family and friends. I didn’t want to go, but Patrick and Gabe insisted. We weren’t safe here.”
“Did they catch the man?”
“Yes, but not before the man kidnapped Isabella.”
Bastien was so shocked he almost spilled his coffee. “Isabella Ricci?”
Tony nodded. “There was a dinner party, and Teddy Roosevelt was there. His men guarded the house but couldn’t stop the killing of an officer or Isabella’s kidnapping. They searched all night, and when they found her, they all went home.”
Learning about a kidnapper and murderer changed Bastien’s mind about his time here. He had to prepare for trouble for himself and Marcelle.
“Who owned the house?”
Tony shrugged. “I guess Elliott Fraser.”
Bastien sipped his coffee. “Did the murderer target anyone specific?”
“Everyone was in danger.”
“You said they caught him?”
Tony nodded. “I heard Isabella cut off his dick, and then they took him back to the future.”
Bastien spewed coffee across the table. “Jesus Christ!” He wiped up his mess. “I thought she was doing a fellowship in internal medicine and pediatrics. Sounds like an odd thing for a doctor to do.”
“I don’t think the man hurt her, but he threatened to. She escaped the brownstone by swinging from one fourth-floor balcony to another. Then she climbed to the roof and down the escape ladder.”
“Gutsy girl.” Bastien tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Do you think you can find the mansion again?”
Tony scratched his neck as he stared at the ceiling. “I never went back, and it’s been decades. As best I remember, the house was across the street from the Metropolitan Museum.”
Bastien sipped from his cup before reaching for a biscuit in the breadbasket. “I need to go there. Fraser might have sold it, but I have to try. It’s the only lead I have.”
“You can’t go looking like that. You need new clothes. I’ll take you to a store where you can buy a new suit.”
“I don’t know how much of a suit I can buy with twenty bucks and a few coins, but at least I can get a pair of pants and a jacket.”
“Don’t worry about the money. Before Patrick left, he gave me enough to pay my expenses for a year. I didn’t need most of it, so I bought several stocks he recommended. I’ve done very well and paid tuition for my daughter to go to New York University for college and law school.”
“Law school? Impressive. Patrick and Remy changed your life.”
Tony sat back in his chair and plucked at his chin. “If I hadn’t met them, I would’ve been a bum going from one fixed boxing match to another until I got so beat up, I wasn’t good for anything except sweeping out saloons. Now I have enough money and a daughter who’s a lawyer.”
“I’m sure you’re very proud of her. What’s her name?”
“Kaitlyn Kenzie McSorley.”
Bastien sat up straight. “You named her after Kenzie McBain?”
Tony looked worried. “Is that bad?”
“Not at all. The McBains would be happy to hear that.”
Tony broke into a relieved smile. “Good. When Kaitlyn was born, I wanted her to be as smart as David’s wife. Kaitlyn even has red hair like hers.”
Tony had a shock of flaming red hair liberally streaked with gray, a deeply etched face that told a story, and a larger-than-life personality. Given the immutable law of the apple and the tree, his daughter required a name that didn’t just signify power but also wielded it.
“I look forward to meeting her.”
“Good.” Tony checked his watch, already planning. “I’ll call Kaitlyn and ask her to meet us for lunch. That should give us time to buy you new clothes and still make the reservation.”
He hesitated. “Are you going to tell Kaitlyn who I am?”
“Not before you meet her.” His answer was immediate.
Bastien searched Tony’s face. “You told her about the time travelers?”
“I wanted Kaitlyn to know about them and how I bought the bar. You know, in case something happened to me, and they came back. When she was small, she’d come home from school and ask if Remy was here. She always asked about him. Not Patrick, not Gabe. It was always Remy.”
“Do you know why?”
“His drumsticks. They have his name written on them and the words ‘Best Drummer This Side of the Mississippi.’ She thought that was so funny. He became her favorite. Every time she comes to the saloon, she reads the newspaper articles.”
“Even now?”
“Even now.”
“After thirty-two years, you’re still so appreciative of what they did. I don’t know how to repay you, but I’ll find a way.”
“There’s no need, Bastien. It makes me happy to repay Patrick, Remy, and Gabe for all they did for me.”
“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I will. The stock market will crash in 1929, and people will lose everything. Make sure your stocks are in companies that will survive, like Coca-Cola, Archer-Daniels, Deere, Federated Department Stores, and U.S. Steel.”
“That’s unimaginable. I’ll start preparing for it. What was the date?”
“October 29, 1929. It’s called Black Tuesday.”
“I’ll mark the date on my calendar, so I won’t forget. Now, how about I find clothes you can wear to go shopping?”
“I can wear these pants and my shirt. All I need is a jacket.”
“I can give you one to wear, but don’t you think the salesman will be curious about the quality of your clothes and ask questions?”
“Maybe. Possibly. Okay, then, I’ll wear whatever you have.”
An hour later, with orders placed and instructions given for the saloon to open on time, Tony led Bastien out the back door. The alley smelled of garbage and yesterday’s near beer. “I bought part of the adjoining building,” Tony said, reaching for a handle. “Turned it into a garage and storage.”
He hauled the wide door up. Sunlight spilled over the black Chevrolet, its glossy paint catching the light, twin headlamps staring back like watchful eyes. The car was immaculate—polished, cared for, loved.
“What a beauty,” Bastien said, circling it, fingertips skimming the cool metal.
Tony’s mouth curved with pride. “Bought it two years ago. Mostly, I use it to drive to Midtown—to see Kaitlyn.”
Bastien opened the passenger door and slid inside. Supple leather and a faint scent of oil and soap greeted him. “Does she live alone or with roommates?”
Tony settled behind the wheel and brought the engine to life. It purred. “Two roommates. Both teachers.” He pulled out into traffic, steering with practiced ease as he filled the ride with talk about the saloon—deliveries, regulars, the minor problems that came with keeping the place running.
Midtown rose around them, louder and brighter—stone-faced buildings looming over brick storefronts darkened by soot.
When Tony eased the Chevrolet to the curb in front of Bergdorf Goodman, Bastien stared up at the windows.
“This store’s still here in the twenty-first century,” he said.
“I’ve never been inside, though.” He glanced at Tony.
“We’re not shopping just for me, are we? ”
Tony shut off the engine. “The owners just moved to this location a few weeks ago. I haven’t been inside the new store.
And I need a new suit.” He shrugged and reached for the door handle.
“Kaitlyn’s been on me about it—says a man should own at least one good one.
But I hardly ever go anywhere fancy.” He snorted softly.
“But first, we’re going to the barbershop next door. ”
Bastien dragged a hand over the stubble on his jaw.
“Good idea. I could use a shave.” He paused, then added more carefully, “And when we get to Bergdorf, I’ll need some privacy to change.
My prosthesis isn’t from this era. If a salesperson sees it, they’ll ask questions I can’t answer—and I don’t want to draw that kind of attention. ”
“I’ll help with that. What about shoes?”
“For now, I’ll wear these. They’re sturdy with good heel height and feature shock-absorbing soles. The last thing I need is to be a little wobbly.”
“Maybe later I can take your shoe to a shoemaker and get him to make a pair just like yours.”
“We can try.” Bastien recognized the need to make several adjustments, but his priority was finding Marcelle.
Concerns about shoes were secondary. Then he thought about Remy and Patrick coming here to search for their friend Aislinn.
If they made the effort for her, would they do the same for him?
And if they did, how would they ever find him?
“Tony, how did Remy and Patrick know they’d find Aislinn in New York City?”
“They asked the brooch to take them to her. Later, when Isabella got kidnapped, that’s what Pete did, and they rescued her.”
Bastien leaned back, the pieces clicking into place. “If Remy discovers I’m missing, he can ask his brooch to take him to me.”
“As long as he knows you’re missing. Will he?”
“Our band is supposed to perform in New Orleans. He’ll know I’m missing.”
“But how will he know you’re missing because a brooch carried you away, and not for some other reason?”
“Remy won’t stop until he finds me,” Bastien said. “He’ll go to Marcelle’s apartment in Chicago. If he searches the place, he’ll find the brooch I threw across the room. Then he’ll understand.”
Relief hit him in a sudden wave, loosening the knot that had been grinding into his neck and shoulders since the fog took them. His purpose sharpened. He would find Marcelle and give her the hope she needed to believe they could go home.
Remy was coming.
“What I don’t understand is how the time works,” Tony said. “If it’s only been a few months since Patrick and Remy were here, but it’s been thirty-two years for me, does that mean you’ll have to wait that long?”
Another shudder restarted the painful tightness. “I don’t know how time works either, but when Remy came here in 1896, how long had their friend Aislinn been missing?”
“A few days, I think.”
That news released his tension again. The yo-yo effect might just kill him. “That means Remy should be here in a few days.” Bastien smiled warmly and clapped Tony on the shoulder. “Thank God, you found me last night.”
Tony grinned. “If Remy, Patrick, and Gabe are returning, I’ve got to plan a celebration. You said it’s only been a few months since they had those famous boxing matches. Maybe they’ll agree to a rematch.”
Bastien laughed for the first time since he and Marcelle had gone through the fog. “If they don’t, we’ll have to encourage them.”