Time's Edge

  “So? I’m supposed to avoid talking, remember? Stop making me ask questions.”

  “Oh. Okay. Sorry. You end up teaching at a school up in New England.” I glance down at my hands, dreading my next words. But there’s no way to sugarcoat this, so I just spill it. “Abel doesn’t make it out of Georgia. I don’t have the details, but he’s killed sometime within the next day or so.”

  Delia doesn’t react. Either she was expecting this, which could well be the case, given the events earlier today, or that laudanum stuff is very potent. “Grant?”

  “No clue. Katherine couldn’t find any record of him, and you either didn’t know or wouldn’t tell her when she tracked you down in the 1970s.”

  “The same thing happened to Abel in both timelines?”

  I nod. “To the best of my knowledge, yes. Except we’re going to change it this time around.”

  “How?”

  “That’s the part we haven’t figured out yet, since it kind of depends on how and when he’s killed. The first step is getting you to Watkinsville so we can see what the charges are and whether they’re going to set bail for Abel and Kiernan. They think Abel is your driver, so maybe they’ll release him into your custody if you say you’ll leave the state. I mean, he was trying to protect you.”

  “Have you run that little plan by Grant?” she says disdainfully.

  “He’s not optimistic.”

  “Smart boy.”

  “I’m not optimistic either, but the first steps are still going to be the same, right? We need to get back to Oconee County and see what we’re up against.”

  WATKINSVILLE, GEORGIA

  August 11, 1938, 4:32 p.m.

  “You could drive around a few minutes, and we’d find it, Grant,” Delia says. “It’s not like this is New York or Atlanta or even Athens.”

  “Or just stop, and I’ll go in instead,” I say. “My face hasn’t been punched, so I’m less likely to attract attention.”

  Delia slumps down in the seat, shaking her head. “Right. A stranger asking where the jail is located in a tiny little burg like this won’t attract any attention at all.”

  “We need gas anyway,” Grant says.

  That ends the argument. It’s very likely that this Buick will be used as a getaway car in the next twenty-four hours, and a nearly empty tank would be a definite liability.

  “If that’s the case, no one needs to get out,” Delia says.

  That doesn’t make sense to me until Grant pulls into the tiny station on Main Street and a young man leaning against the wall hurries over to the driver’s side. “Fill ’er up?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Despite the fact that it’s late afternoon, it’s still horribly hot in the car, even with the windows open. A thermostat near the store’s door displays two bathing beauties seated on the Coca-Cola logo—one from 1886 and the other from 1936. According to the mercury, it’s ninety-one degrees. In the shade.

  And I’m thirsty.

  As soon as I open the door of the small store, three sets of eyes latch onto me. Two sets belong to the middle-aged man and woman behind the counter, neither of whom I’ve ever seen. Another man, slightly younger, is perched on top of a large red cooler at the back of the store. He was in the crowd earlier today, but I can’t remember which group he was in—the one trying to beat Abel to a pulp or the one doing nothing to stop it.

  When I start moving in his direction, he hops up, walking toward the window, probably to get a better view of Delia and Grant. I take three sodas from the cooler and grab three Moon Pies and a bag of chips from a nearby shelf.

  “Forty-two cents. You payin’ for the gasoline, too?” the woman asks.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Gonna have to wait a minute then, ’cause Dale ain’t done fillin’ your tank. There’s a bottle opener on the edge of the counter for the Co-Colas.”

  I nod and pop off the caps before asking, “Could you tell me how to get to the jail?”

  The younger guy has resumed his post on the cooler and says, “You drove in from Athens, right? Go back the way you come in, and take a left on Third, a few blocks down. Corner of Third and Water Street. Which fella you hopin’ to spring?”

  “Both.” Even though I try to keep my voice neutral, it comes out sounding a bit defiant.

  He grins, but it doesn’t feel friendly. More like he’s poking fun at me.

  “Only reason I’m asking is ’cause one’s already out. You can prob’ly find him over at the Eagle. Don’t know if he’s stayin’ there or just gettin’ a bite to eat, but Mitchell and some other guy walked him over maybe fifteen, twenty minutes ago.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He doesn’t respond. The woman at the register says, “Three dollars gas, so that’ll be three forty-two.”

  I hand her a five, and she counts back the change. “And a dollar fifty-eight makes five.” Then she pushes the paper bag toward me and adds in a low voice, “Y’all might want to finish your business in town in the next coupla hours, hon.”

  “Frieda.” It’s the other man, who’s been so silent up to this point that I’d almost forgotten about him. There’s a note of warning in his voice, and his wife’s eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t say anything more.

  I give her a quick nod of thanks, grab my purchases, and leave.

  “The jail is a few blocks back, on Third Street,” I tell Delia and Grant as I climb into the car. “We drove right past it. But Kiernan’s already out. The guy inside said he was at the Eagle—sounds like it might be a hotel. He said across the street, but maybe he meant across from the jail. We should stop there first, in case he knows what’s going on with Abel.”

  Grant takes his soda and gulps most of it down before starting the car. I glance back at Delia and see that drinking from a bottle is going to be a challenge for her. “Should I go back in and see if they have a straw?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  I take a sip of the Coke as Grant takes a left back onto Main. “If either of you are hungry, there’s food in the bag.”

  I see the sign for the Eagle Tavern and Boardinghouse on the right about thirty seconds later. It’s an old building, and it looks kind of misshapen, as though sections have been added on over the years.

  Kiernan is halfway to the door when I step inside, so he must have been watching for us. The right side of his face is swollen, both along the lower jaw and around the cut on his cheek, but someone must have found him a shirt. He pulls me into a hug and then leads me to a table with three coffee cups and three mostly empty plates in the center.

  The place is small, and while it isn’t exactly packed, it looks like it’s doing unusually good business for a late Thursday afternoon. About half of the tables are full, and all of the stools at the bar are taken. Most of the occupants keep sneaking looks in our direction.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “I’m charged with disorderly conduct. The judge will rule tomorrow, but Mr. Peele, that’s the attorney I told you about, who handles stuff for the farm? Anyway, he has me out for now, but I can’t leave the county.”

  “So why did you need me to go and get the money?” Thinking about getting the money brings his drawings to mind, and my face flushes. Did he even remember those drawings were in the envelope? Or maybe he wanted me to see them.

  “I didn’t think about calling Peele until I reached the jail. And we’ll need the money anyway.”

  “We got their stuff from the boardinghouse and also stopped by the bank to get their new papers and stuff from the safety-deposit box, in case they need to make a quick getaway. So Delia has some money now, too, if you need more for bail.”

  He winces. “It’s not going to be that simple, I’m afraid. That’s what we were talking about here.” He nods over at the empty plates on my side of the table. “Peele’s willing to represent Abel, if need be, although he’s not exactly enthusiastic about it. Might have to reassess my choice of attorney at some point. I barel
y got to talk to Abel in the truck—just long enough for us to plan a cover story. They tossed him into a cell upstairs as soon as we got to the jail. The judge hasn’t set bail for him, last I heard. And even if we could get him out on bail, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Did you see the crowd across from the jail?”

  “No. We haven’t been there yet. We were on our way, but the guy at the Texaco station said you were here, so . . .”

  He pulls my chair over a little closer to his so that I can see out the window. Across Main Street, a block down on the right side of Third, about a dozen people are gathered. Maybe a dozen more are hanging out in front of the courthouse directly opposite the Eagle.

  “Willis was bailed out just before I was,” Kiernan says. “The guys over by the jail are a bunch of his buddies. Willis is claiming the knife was Abel’s and that Abel tried to kill him. His nephews are backing him up, and so is that fool Jody I was fighting. Mitchell says maybe a dozen others say they saw it, too—although half of them weren’t even there. Mitchell and that guy with the camera—can’t remember his name—they’re telling the truth. Some others, too, but I’m not sure it’s going to make a difference.”

  “But . . . Mitchell’s, like . . . a deputy or something, right?”

  “Not exactly. Georgia State Patrol. They’ve only been around about a year, and there’s still a bit of friction between him and the county officers. Some residents think Mitchell and the state shouldn’t be poking around in local affairs. And the camera guy—”

  “Phillips.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. He works for the Athens paper. Still lives here, his dad’s the town dentist, but Mitchell says the general consensus is that Phillips thinks his”—he gives a wry grin and clears his throat—“his feces . . . have no odor. Not exactly how Mitchell put it, but you get the point. His word won’t count for much.”

  “So what’s the charge?”

  “Hasn’t been decided yet. Willis is arguing attempted murder.”

  “And you think the judge will listen?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know. All I know is that Mitchell is convinced Abel is safer in jail than he’d be if we try to move him. And he may be right.”

  “Then what should we do?”

  “Delia needs to give her statement. So do you and Grant. On Mitchell’s advice, I booked two rooms here—one for me and Grant and one for you and Delia—so bring your things in and leave them upstairs.” He casts a meaningful glance down toward my pocket, where the Colt is hiding.

  Yeah. Probably not a good idea to take that into the jail.

  He glances around and lowers his voice even further. “I told Abel we’d get him out, one way or the other. But Delia needs to tread very carefully. I don’t know what she said. Maybe nothing. But certain rumors are going around about the nature of her relationship with Abel.”

  The man behind the desk—Deputy R. Beebe, according to his badge—is young and thin, with a splotchy complexion. The sweat stains under the arms of his uniform spread out like tree rings, so I’m guessing he’s had a long, hot day. He looks nervous, like he’s wishing this was all over. I know I am.

  Delia gave her statement first, and she’s waiting outside with Grant now, in the chair I occupied for the half hour she was in here with Beebe. Grant and I didn’t talk much, since there was an officer watching us from the desk in the corner. There were no magazines or newspapers. I have a sneaky feeling they do that on purpose. It felt a lot like when I was a kid and my mom would send me to the time-out chair with no book or music, just the command to sit there and think about what I’d done.

  I give Deputy Beebe the cover story the four of us rehearsed in the car. Kiernan and Abel decided on the way to the jail that they’d need to drop the Federal Writers’ Project cover story Delia’s group had been using, because it would be easy to check that with a few phone calls. The new story is that Kiernan and I know Grant, Delia, and Abel because we’re members of the same church up in Boston. Delia is writing a book, so her group has been doing research in Athens for several months. Kiernan is registered to attend the university in the fall—and he actually is registered, if they bother to check. I’m Kiernan’s fiancée, and I’m in Georgia to visit the university, since I’m considering enrolling, too. Kiernan and I decided to drive over this morning to see if we could catch a glimpse of the president here, since it was too crowded in Athens. The CHRONOS keys we’re wearing are religious medals of St. Eligius, patron saint of clock makers—a standard CHRONOS cover story and subtle in-joke, because Eligius foresaw the time of his own death.

  I happily walk over to Beebe’s desk when he asks to see the medallion, taking the opportunity to set a local stable point before sticking it back in the pouch. He looks at me like I’m crazy as I run my fingers in the air above the key, shaking his head at what must look like a weird religious ritual. I’ve set two other points in the front office and one in the restroom, which sits at the back of the building near the stairwell going up to the cell block. Kiernan managed to set one in the corridor between the cells and one in the stairwell going down to the front office. Whether they’ll be of any use remains to be seen.

  After I finish with the cover story and my version of the fight, Beebe starts asking questions, most of them multiple times, in slightly different ways. This is the third time he’s asked about Willis’s hand.

  “No, sir.” It feels weird to call someone this young sir, but Beebe seems like the type who enjoys being in authority, so I follow Katherine’s advice. “As I said before, I didn’t stomp anybody. It’s possible someone shoved me onto his hand. All I remember is some man picking me up and yanking me backward. I was standing near where Delia—Miss Morrell, that is—had just been assaulted, and everything was kind of crazy.”

  “From what I’ve been told, what happened to Miss Morrell was an accident, not an assault.”

  I shrug my shoulders and frame an answer that avoids an outright lie. “I can’t know what that man’s intent was. All I know is that I saw him hit her very hard with his elbow. He knew he hit her, and he didn’t even stop to see if she was okay. Most people would apologize or at least check on the person they’d hit if it was an accident, especially if it was a lady. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

  He doesn’t answer the question, just kind of grunts, but I can tell from his expression that he does agree, even if he isn’t inclined to admit it. “Were you watching when the Negro pulled the knife?”

  He says it as niggra, a slight step above the slur that Willis used but still bad enough to bug the hell out of me.

  “No, sir,” I say through gritted teeth. “No one else was watching either, because that never happened. I was, however, watching when Mr. Willis—”

  “Mr. Felton,” he snaps. “Willis is his first name.”

  “Fine. I was watching when Mr. Felton pulled the knife out of his pocket.”

  “Which pocket?”

  He didn’t ask that the first time, so I have to stop and think for a minute. “His right pocket. He pulled it out, kind of flicked it open, and then he lunged at Mr. Waters.”

  “And you’re sure of that?”

  “Absolutely positive.”

  “Was this before or after Miss Morrell was injured?”

  I sigh, because this is getting really tedious. I suspect it’s standard procedure to ask the same things over and over, but I wish he’d wrap it up. “After. As I said before, at least twice. The fight broke out when Mr. Waters suggested Mr. Felton should apologize. Then Mr. Felton stopped picking on Grant—Mr. Oakley—and started in on Mr. Waters.”

  “And exactly why are you in Georgia, Miss Keller?”

  As I repeat that information for the second time, it occurs to me that there is at least one advantage to life in the 1930s. In my own time, a quick online check of any part of this cover story would expose us as frauds in five minutes flat.

  “Is Mr. Waters also a member of this church?
”

  “Yes.”

  The deputy’s nostrils pinch in a tiny bit at that, and I have to remind myself to keep my expression neutral.

  “What is the nature of his relationship with Miss Morrell?”

  “Are you asking about Mr. Oakley or Mr. Waters?”

  “I was referring to Mr. Waters,” he says, “but you can answer for both.”

  “Mr. Waters and Mr. Oakley are her colleagues. They are also members of our church. I believe Mr. Oakley is her cousin as well.”

  “And there is no . . . romantic . . . involvement between Miss Morrell and either of them?”

  I take a deep breath, reminding myself that the goal is to get everyone out of here alive, not to school this guy on his racist attitudes. Then I paste what I hope is an offended expression on my face. “Well, I would certainly hope not! Like I said, I think Grant is her cousin. And Mr. Waters, well . . . why would you even suggest something like that? Did you ask her that question? No wonder she looked so—”

  “I think that’s all we need, Miss Keller.” He shuffles the papers in front of him. “You’re staying at the Eagle until the arraignment?”

  “Since we’ve been told not to leave the area, yes.”

  “Then we’ll be in touch if we need any more information. Could you send in . . .” He glances down at the paper in front of him and flips back to my statement. “Mr. Oakley.”

  I give him a curt nod and go back to where Delia and Grant are seated.

  “You’re next,” I tell Grant. “Have fun.”

  “Yeah,” he says, glancing around the office. “You, too.”

  Delia’s eyes aren’t as glazed as they were earlier, but the circles below seem darker. She washed up at the hotel, but sitting next to her, I see that her hair is still matted together in spots from the blood. And I suspect the laudanum is wearing off. Her shoulders are stiff, and she’s shaking slightly, like she has chills or maybe she’s on the verge of losing it.

  “Are you okay?”