Murder in the Zone (Ch13)
A ordinary soldier's dance turns deadly when Dr. Andersen comes to town.
Previous Chapter | Chapter One | All Chapters
Please subscribe! I’d love to have you.
Over there! Over there!
Send the word! Send the word over there!
The Yanks are coming!
The chorus of male voices, whose force and volume could only be rivaled by the gods on Mount Olympus itself, shook the great hall of the YMCA building. Theda resisted the urge to throw her hands over her ears, and it wasn’t because of Over There, the popular tune that seeped out from under the closed doors of barber shops, bars and other places of male gathering that found its way to her ears at least once a day in Philadelphia. No, it wasn’t the song, it was the cacophonous confusion of bodies crammed shoulder to shoulder that scrambled her senses. Danger could easily snake its way to her, evading her eyes and ears until it was too late.
Horseshit, she cut off her own thoughts. Your paranoia is taking over. Check it.
“Do you like to dance, Miss Evora?” Jackson’s voice was innocent enough, but the needling undertone snapped her out of her mind and back to the packed hall.
“As a matter of fact, I dislike it intensely, Private Jackson.”
“Is it because you’re terrible at it?” He raised his brows and they disappeared under his hat’s brim,
God, I hate this guy and his simple country boy nonsense! She scowled in his direction which only made him slightly smirk in a way that made her want to rip his hat from his head and tear it to pieces. Jackson had been appropriately polite to her mother when he and Billy Rankin had arrived to collect them for the dance. He took Margaret Evora’s hand lightly in his and didn’t fall prey to the gaff she’d seen other young men embarrass themselves by, which was attempting to be overly formal, like bowing to her mother or, even worse, attempting to kiss her hand. And of course, he already knew Dr. Evora, who slapped Jackson’s back and ensured her mother the girls will be in safe hands with this one.
Someone grabbed her shoulder from behind and gave it a squeeze. Theda whipped around so fast that one of her hair pins came loose and cartwheeled to the ground, springing a dark tendril. She clutched her purse to her thigh, fingers caging the pistol through the deep red velvet fabric.
She exhaled into Violet’s bright eyes, her cheeks flushed a lovely pink from the heat of the room and, Theda was sorry to see, the proximity of one Billy Rankin. Over Violet’s shoulder she caught Jackson’s eyes as they flickered back to her face where he had been staring at her purse. Calm down, she told herself. Don’t read into it.
“Did I just hear you ask my sister to dance, Private Jackson?” Violet squeezed Theda’s shoulder again, their silent communication signal for I know you hate this but endure it for me. “I’m sorry to say, but my sis is a bit of a two-left footer.” Billy guffawed at the not-funny joke. Theda stayed her hand that either wanted to draw the pistol and let one fly or reach under his hat and grab a fistful of hair.
Violet threaded her arm through Billy’s and gazed up at his beaming face. “Would you care to dance, Miss Violet? Your father tells me that you cut quite a rug,” he drawled.
“I’d be delighted.” And they disappeared into the crowd.
Over a mix of bare and hatted heads, a massive American flag decorated the wall behind the stage where the military band was seated on risers. Theda watched as Violet and Billy made their way to the dance floor. More than one soldier stopped in his tracks and admired Violet, to the annoyance of the girls on their arms. Over There was beginning to wrap up.
Johnny get your gun
get your gun
Johnny show the hun who’s a son of a gun…
“You know, there’s a coat check where you can leave your coat and purse,” Jackson said over the music. “You may be more comfortable. Sure is hot in here!”
“No! I mean, it’s alright. I’m perfectly fine.”
“That purse looks a little heavy. What you got in there, a boulder?” He removed his hat that just about covered a hint of smile.
“I have a two-by-four. A girl never knows when she needs it when in the company of obnoxious men!”
“You mean Billy? He’s certainly met his match in your sister, I would say. Look at them go.”
A flash of Violet’s hair broke through the crowd and a cheer bellowed, drowning out the ending of Over There. Violet could pick up the steps of any new dance only after one time and perfectly execute it, and she was currently showing off those skills to the crowd which backed up in reverence to the pair’s skill. Then the music changed to a slow number. A few couples followed the lead of Violet and Billy and started the One Step, creeping around the floor in perfect rhythm. The men were certainly getting their fill of Violet, pushing the others a side to get a glimpse, and avoiding the daggers darting from the eyes of their dates.
“If you have two left feet, she’s a Ziegfield Girl.” Jackson elbowed her gently, right above her purse.
Theda pulled away and collided with a body that didn’t yield to her force. Startled she looked up into the pale face that paid her no attention, but whose light-blue eyed stare was fixated on Jackson. “Hello, Private. Glad to see you out and enjoying yourself.”
Jackson straightened up and dropped his arms to his sides. The golly-gee expression melted so fast that it was as if a cold breeze had wiped it from his face, replacing it with a hard stare. He’s a different person. He’s not some country bumpkin. This is who he is.
“Sargent Peterson,” he pronounced. Three men filled the space behind Peterson, all with the same disgusted expressions. And then it occurred to her. In the car on the way here, there was a decisive chill between Billy and Jackson. The first day when they met on the train and when they had brought the women to the temporary house, there was an easy comradery between the two, the typical easy friendship that men share. But tonight, that ease had been replaced by a standoffishness that bordered on formal. If she hadn’t been so involved with her own thoughts, she would have paid more attention to it.
Jackson’s eyes flickered to the newcomers then back again. He didn’t salute.
Peterson smirked, folded his enormous arms, and half turned to watch Violet and Billy. “Rankin is sure having a good time,” he said brightly. “She’s a peach, but he always finds them, doesn’t he? Next to him the rest of us look like mules. Having fun?” He asked Theda.
“Riley’s overrun with mules lately, Sargent Peterson,” Jackson said.
Peterson laughed and offered Theda his hand. “I’m Hank Peterson,” his eyes traveling down to her shoes then back to her face. She took his hand but stepped backwards, and not to escape from those weird, white eyes. Blatantly ogling a woman who is clearly with another man was certain to force a fight.
She placed her hand in his and squeezed as hard as she could. Peterson’s eyebrows met in the middle, and he dropped her hand fast. “What’s your name?”
“Theda Evora.”
“Evora? The doctor’s daughter? Heard you were coming to town. And I’m guessing Rankin’s got the other daughter. You two always ran in pairs,” he said to Jackson. “Up ’til now, that is.”
“What do you want?” Jackson said quietly, “sir,” he added with none of the crisp intonation that word usually warranted.
Peterson smiled at Theda, flickering his eyes to Violet and Billy, then back to Jackson. “I always thought you played second fiddle to Rankin,” he said.
One of the other men stepped forward. He was smaller than Peterson and had terrible tobacco-stained teeth, and his breath reeked like the weed. Theda recognized him from that first day on the train. His name is Cyril Something-or-other.
Cyril drew back his lips, showcasing the large space between his front teeth. He heaved and projected a muddy stream of tobacco juice that missed Jackson’s boots by an inch. “Naw, Sarge, Jackson’s still the second fiddle. Rankin’s got the peach, and he’s got the pit right here!”
Jackson’s left hand shoved Theda to the side and behind while his right fist simultaneously slammed into Cyril’s cheek with a flat SMACK!, the remainder of brown-tinged spittle flying from mashed lips.
The men dissolved into a mix of khaki, boots and cursing. A short, stocky soldier waded in uttering a string of come on, fellas, let’s not ruin the dance here…until he, too, got an elbow to the lip and started swinging. Girls yelped from the sidelines. Tobacco-Teeth Cyril tried to push past her, but she dug her heel into a grove on the floor and turned a shoulder into his side, sending him back with a little yelp. Jackson, who had just ducked a punch from Peterson, grabbed Cyril by his trench coat and whirled him around for another haymaker to the face.
Theda shuffled backwards, unable to pull her eyes away from the swinging of fists. She stifled the urge to laugh hysterically when Jackson threw Tobacco-Stain across the room, narrowly missing the now-not-dancing Violet and Billy. Violet’s rouged lips opened and closed like a goldfish, and Billy stood by, clearly annoyed that his Bolshoi Ballet caliber performance was ruined. Not even helping Jackson? This is going to be some awkward ride home.
Incredibly, Jackson was able to fight off multiple guys at once. She had seen fighting like this before when the anarchists traveled in lines of Model Ts, chugging along the country roads far outside of Philadelphia to distant fields where dead bonfires waited for a fresh flame. The men stripped to the waist, their chests running with sweat, circling each other as the sun escaped to shadows and the fires birthed a fresh light. It was part sport in that the number of wins were carefully committed to memory, but lessons were being taught in street combat, especially when fighting off more than one opponent. Black-haired men practiced the moves learned in far-off lands where blood-soaked revolutions turned the world inside out. Interesting, she thought when Jackson pulled both Cyril and the other soldier together, one massive hand on each of their shoulders, shoving them together so hard their heads hit and down they went like two marionettes with snipped strings. He doesn’t fight like some country kid who’s had a fist brawl or two. He’s been trained.
It was easy to spot because she had been trained by those black-haired men.
Theda turned her head to survey the crowd. All eyes were glued to the brawl. Then an extraordinarily handsome black soldier stepped in her line of sight. He reached out a hand, gently touching her elbow. “Missy, you best get out of here. Ladies lose their pearly whites when fists start flying. I’ll walk you out.”
“Thank you, sir, but I assure you, I can take care of myself,” she peered over his shoulder searching for Jackson.
A sly smile raised one corner of his mouth. “It’s a real Philadelphia-style rumble, isn’t it?”
She froze. The band started up with an out of rhythm blast but found their timing a beat later with a popular Souza march.
His eyes hardened and he said, “The Russian enjoyed your father’s watch, until it betrayed him.”
A roaring in her ears muted the cacophony and for a terrifying moment she felt on the verge of fainting. “Who are you?” She rasped.
“There’s someone here who needs to talk to you. No one’s going to hurt you, but you’re in danger. Not from who you think. Come outside. Now.”
He gestured for her to go first, and she had to stop herself from the instinct to run. Maxim had told her enough times that running was just an invitation to be chased. It was best to remain calm, and so she walked a few steps ahead of the soldier and to the front doors.
The cold air cleared her nose of the stuffy heat and scent of sweating male bodies. Behind them, a group of young women clomped down the wooden steps in their high heels, giggling in unison.
“Did you see her shoes? Spiffy! Have to send to New York for shoes like that. And what a dancer!”
“Oooo, but he’s a brick, isn’t he? Both those boys!”
“Mother told me to stay away from soldiers because they only want one thing. But he can have it!”
The laughter flowed in their wake like silk scarves, dissipating with last autumn’s leaves that skittered down the dirt road. Theda’s heart felt like it was going to explode. She and the soldier were alone in the eerie light cast from the massive illuminated sign that said ARMY CITY.
“You a cop?” She bit off the last word.
“No. I’m here with a friend, who…” he turned his head toward the line of parked cars and she followed his line of sight. Then she saw it.
She whipped her head back. “He followed me all the way here? Why?” She began to walk toward him, slowly and deliberately, holding eye contact and squaring her shoulders in the way that Maxim said would throw off any predator who expected a woman to cower. She reached inside her purse and wrapped her hand around the pistol.
But the soldier’s eyebrows dropped, and he stepped one foot into the street. Peeking from his uniform trousers were dress shoes, shined into black mirrors. He’s not a soldier.
“Where is he?” he muttered. “He was in the car.”
“I’m here, Mr. Conlin,” said a weak voice, and even without seeing the pale man who had grown ancient since her last sight of him emerge from the black street, Theda would have known the owner of that voice. As if plucked from her nightmares, he shuffled toward the middle of the street, a spectral villain from a dime store novel. The hair at the nape of her neck rose and her breath shortened.
“Stay away,” she whispered and his head swung in her direction, sunken eyes searching.
“Doc, go back and sit in the car,” the soldier started into the street, but the white-haired man he raised his hand. Stop.
“Please give this to Miss Evora. Then you get in the car. Get in the car and drive away as fast as you can.”
A sound joined the wind. Roaring up from the heart of Army City was a black Cadillac Phaeton, its head lamps blinding.
“Now,” he reached inside his coat.
Oh God, he’s got a gun! With shaking hands, Theda fumbled open her purse, shoving her hand into it and pulling out the pistol. She almost dropped the gun, but managed to hook her index finger onto the trigger. She thumbed the hammer back with a the click! She lifted the pistol to eye level, thrusting her arms out stiff, gripping the gun with both hands.
The soldier was now halfway between her and the man with the white hair, who was slowly, as if in a film where the projector was running at half speed, pulling something small from his inner coat pocket. The soldier turned back toward Theda and his eyes widened. “No!” he yelled, rushing to the man.
The Phaeton’s head lamps flashed on and off. The light caught the man with the white hair and, to Theda’s astonished eyes, he almost looked translucent. She blinked, and the vision cleared.
“Get in the car, Patrick. Take it.” He handed that small something to the soldier who grabbed it. He went to put his hands on the elderly man, who shook his head. “Go. Now.” He pushed him in the direction of the yellow car.
The Phaeton screeched to a halt, half turning in the road, the smell of burnt rubber driving Theda back to the wall of the concert hall behind the entrance stairway, where she slid down, catching her coat in a dozen places, the black car slipping from her range of vision. She held out the gun, locking her arms and attempting to stop them from shaking, a line of unpunctuated words ran through her mind, the voice Maxim’s. Hold steady. Don’t let your fear point the weapon. Watch your target. Don’t fire until you want to fire. But his voice faded and she was alone. She raised herself a tiny bit and peeked over the staircase.
The Cadillac’s front passenger door and two back doors opened and three men popped out dressed in dark hats and coats with thick scarves pulled over their noses.
The soldier ran to the yellow car and pulled the door open, his face a mask of desperation. “Doc!” he screamed.
But the man with the white hair just raised his hand to the men from the Phaeton. His horrid red mouth raised in a small smile. He waved at them.
The man from the front seat contemplated the white-haired man, then lifted his right hand. The long barrel of a Colt revolver winked under the streetlights.
“No!” The soldier screamed as three shots popped off. He yanked the yellow car’s door open and jumped in. The lamps flashed to life, and the car pulled out and into the street, its long, yellow nose topped with the round hood ornament displaying the words MARTIN WASP.
Theda yelped. The shooter’s head turned slowly in her direction.
The man remained standing with a serene expression, as if contemplating the fragrant buds on a spring apple tree. For a moment that would be frozen in Theda’s mind for many years afterward was the colorless image of the white-haired man slightly swaying as if a photograph had magically turned real. The front buttons of his black coat had burst apart, revealing a white shirt with red blossoms whose petals elongated until they entwined. His knees gave and he knelt on the pocked dirt of the street like a traveling preacher in an ecclesiastical swoon. He pitched forward, hands not even raising to soften the blow, and when his face hit the road, his body shuddered once, releasing the last of the electrical currents of life. Then he lay still, the tendrils of auto exhaust blurring the body.
The Wasp’s engine revved, its head lamps lighting the hidden face of the shooter, who was now looking directly at Theda. She lifted the gun, aiming it at the black hat. The Wasp revved the engine again. The shooter swung back, aiming the gun straight at the Wasp’s windshield. He fired.
Ping! Ping! Something struck over her head. Bullets! They shot at me! But that wasn’t it. The two men from the back seat raced to the prone body, each taking an arm and hauling him to the Phaeton. His head lolled grossly to the side and a thin line of red spittle fell from his open mouth. The men folded the body inside.
The Wasp to sprang forward. And then she saw. The windshield was completely intact. The bullets over her head had ricocheted off the windshield.
The Phaeton’s driver hit the gas, and swerved, just getting away from the Wasp, who nicked the back fender with a crunch! Both cars sped in the opposite direction, their engines fading until the street was quiet again.
“Damnit!” Asa Jackson stumbled into the unlit alley behind the YMCA Hall. His habit of always noting the entrance and exits had come in useful again. The brawl had grown from the original four to almost twenty men, and that was his cue to get the hell out of there and get those girls back to Dr. Evora’s house. If there was one thing that Dr. Andersen had drilled into their heads, it was don’t get arrested. Being arrested meant being locked up, and the chances of being able to return to one’s own time were damaged. The military police would be showing up soon, and he didn’t want to be around when they did. He hoped that if anything, he could explain the situation to Dr. Evora, who would then defend him and keep him out of trouble for the short time he had remaining at Fort Riley.
Jackson adjusted his askew uniform and touched his eye where that Peterson had landed a pretty good blow. He rounded the back corner of the building, trailing his fingers over the wall. Just before he got to the end, he heard a man scream No! over three shots.
“Jesus, now what?” he peeked around the corner and sucked in his breath.
It was Doctor Andersen standing in the middle of the street. Jackson’s eyes grew wide as he watched the doctor crumble. The yellow car he had seen in New York, he couldn’t remember what the hell it was called but it was some old car’s name, drove in a semi-circle behind the doctor. He couldn’t see who was driving it, but he had a good idea who it was. What the hell are they both doing here? They said they were going somewhere else, somewhere to pick up the cure for all the shit that’s about to come down here. He watched the doctor’s body in the street. Get up. Come on, get up, Doc. Please. But the doctor was dead. He knew that even before he hit the ground.
Voices behind him. “Shit,” he tried to see who was coming up the alley but it was too dark. Sounds of cars engines and wheels squealing came from the street as he tried to see down the wall, but it was no use. Go to the street. See if you can help the doctor. No other choice.
He rounded the corner. The doctor’s body was gone from the street. It was as if he had imagined the entire thing, but that was impossible. He had seen him. Seen him buckle forward.
A sound from near the entranceway. Jackson stopped short, shocked, as he watched Theda Evora lower the pistol, then proceed to shove it back into her purse.
Patrick Conlin could not catch his breath. He wondered if he were sick. He’d been breathing foul exhaust from the doctor for the last two weeks and maybe it had finally wrapped its arms and legs around his lungs and was ready to squeeze until he was strangled. Conlin drove, not knowing where he was going, just driving the dark streets of Fort Riley. When he began to calm down, a plan formed in his mind. He remembered that for miles and miles there was nothing on the road back to New York City. He'd find a place to rest tonight, then tomorrow he was going to high-tail it the hell out of this crazy place and go home to the city, where he was going to go back to 1946 where he belonged.
He glanced to his side at the now empty passenger seat. The smell of sickness still lingered in the car. If it weren’t so damn cold he would have cracked all the windows but he couldn’t stop shivering and he knew it wasn’t just from the outside temperature. His mind kept playing the scene over and over. He should have grabbed the doctor and hauled him into the car, leaving that Miss Evora to whatever fate she was courting.
On the passenger seat was the large envelope with those papers. From the Archivist, Andersen had said, but he didn’t know this person and at the moment, had no desire to be mixed up with this any further. He was now approaching the outskirts of the base, where he and Andersen had come through that first day. He noticed the train station was close, and he pulled into the empty lot. No train coming tonight, boys.
He grabbed the envelope and shook the papers out onto his lap. There were photographs of people he didn’t know, papers and such. He dug in his pocket until he felt the smooth metal of the old lighter and flicked it on, careful not to get near to the older papers or too near the ceiling.
What the heck was all of this? And what did it mean? His eyes were tired. So tired. He dropped the pile back in his lap, getting ready to douse the light and forget about it for tonight, when he looked at the first page.
He sucked in a sob, closing his eyes against tears.
It was the front page of a Kansas newspaper called the Manhattan Mercury dated March 3, 1918. Dr. Andersen’s mug shot, the same one Conlin had seen in the apothecary on that first day when he was buying the morphine tablets, was splashed across the front page, along with the headline:
PHILADELPHIA FUGITIVE FOUND DEAD IN STREET
He knew. Knew he was a dead man and knew the date and even the damn place. And he let it happen. His hand trembled slightly, shaking the shadows across the papers. His eyes skimmed the article, and he went dead cold.
“…an accomplice, a negro, height approx. 5 feet, 11 inches, is still at large, driving a yellow automobile. If you see this man, contact…”
He looked at the date again. It was tomorrow’s paper. But the doctor was just killed. How could the paper, some little town paper, get the story that fast?
Only if it were planted ahead of time. Thrax saw us. He knew how to hunt us. But he let me live. Why?
He had to leave. Tonight. There wasn’t a chance in hell that after it was out that he could drive around town without anyone noticing him. He shuffled the papers back into the envelope and clicked the lighter shut, the flame’s ghost imprinting his sight as his eyes readjusted to darkness. He felt an almost joyful exhilaration as he started the Wasp. I’m going home, baby. Where I belong. He grabbed the shift and threw the car into drive.
But then something fell from inside his tunic sleeve. It was the little leather pouch the doctor had handed to him moments before his life ended. With his foot still on the break, Conlin picked up the pouch and turned it in his hand, feeling the soft leather and the hard item inside.
Give this to your father. That’s what he was supposed to do. Deliver this thing to Theda Evora and have her pass it along to her doctor father, presumably, so he could somehow stop what was about to burst into life at Fort Riley, Kansas: a flu pandemic that would kill millions.
He held in his hand a key to change history, although they were always told not to change history. All he had to do was drive. Drive east and throw this little pouch out the window and let the world unfold and the books would remain the same.
He eased his foot off the break and the Wasp gently slipped into the night.
Read the next chapter here:
“clicked the lighter shut, the flame’s ghost imprinting his sight as his eyes readjusted to darkness“
Lovely writing.