The Show (Northwest Passage Book 3) Read online

  She filled her hands several times with water and splashed her face until the pain and irritation began to subside. Sensing some progress, Grace checked her eye again and found residual redness but no renegade lash. Mission accomplished. She rinsed her hands, grabbed her purse, and turned toward the door. It was time to give one of those hand dryers a whirl.

  As Grace stepped closer to the door, however, she noticed that the hand dryer had disappeared. No box with a button protruded from the wall. She turned around and saw other changes. No changing station hung from the far wall. Small baskets filled with white linens now occupied the left side of each washbasin.

  Grace ran out of the restroom and noticed that the familiar plastic sign, with its universal symbol and raised surface, had disappeared. A smaller, simpler sign, no bigger than a business envelope, had taken its place. WOMEN now announced themselves in polished brass.

  Dozens of people still roamed the lobby, people dressed for the occasion, but they roamed between four ornate walls, not tables offering beer, wine, and cheese. There were no tables offering beer, wine, and cheese. There was no concession stand. Grace felt her stomach turn as she ran across the room toward the entrance of the auditorium.

  She opened the doors to the darkened chamber and moved quickly to the walkway that ran parallel to the last row of seats. She stared at the movie screen and finally saw something familiar. Mary Pickford stood in a purple field and threw her arms to a purple sky. For the first time in two minutes, Grace began to believe she was sane.

  The moment didn't last. She noticed more differences as she moved along the walkway. Far fewer people sat in the lower section, and a male usher, not a young woman, greeted her at the base of the stairs. She ignored the hired help and quickly ascended the steps.

  When Grace reached the balcony, she scanned the upper section and again saw half as many people. None of those in the front row or sitting in the end seats looked familiar. She walked briskly up the balcony stairs to the halfway point, where she had sat with Joel, but arrived to empty seats. No impatient husband awaited her. No husband awaited her.

  Grace ran back down the stairs to the walkway, ignored the usher who asked her to slow down, and made a beeline for the lobby doors. If Mary Pickford flirted with a suitor in black and white, or even purple, Grace didn't notice.

  She bolted through the doors to the edge of the lobby and again scanned the room. She saw groups of people leave the theater. She did not see Joel. So she opened her purse and pulled out a device she had only recently learned to use: a cell phone. Dialing the only number she knew, she called Joel. Joel did not answer. No one answered.

  Grace's stomach began to turn like a lathe. She ran to each corner of the lobby in search of her husband but came up empty. She shouted his name through the door of the men's room, but no one answered. When she asked a couple standing nearby if they had seen a man fitting Joel's description, she got blank stares.

  She ran to the windows in the front of the theater and got another shock. Model Ts and other period automobiles lined Pike Street on both sides. A barbershop stood where Bob had once sold burgers. A thrift shop had replaced Taco Tuesday.

  Grace frantically pushed her way past a group of exiting moviegoers to an information counter, where she frantically asked the clerk if she could speak to a manager. He not so frantically told her he would find one in a minute.

  "I can't wait," she said. "Something's not right. I need to speak to someone now!"

  "Hold on, miss," another man said. "There's no need to shout."

  "Yes, there is a reason. I can't find my husband! Nothing looks the same. Something is wrong," Grace screamed as she started to cry. "Something is very wrong."

  "What seems to be the problem," a uniformed policeman said.

  Grace looked at the cop with a mixture of relief and horror. He was the authority figure she wanted but he was dressed like an authority figure from the Edwardian era.

  "You have to help me. You have to help me," she said.

  The cop in the military-style uniform stuck his left hand out, as if to warn others to stay away, and then put his right on Grace's back. He slowly eased her away from the information counter and a crowd that had formed around the scene.

  "Let's go over here and talk about it," he said.

  "No. No. I don't want to talk about it. I want to find my husband!"

  She turned her head back toward the information counter and saw the back of a dark-haired man who wore a suit like Joel's. She broke the hold of the officer and raced to the counter.

  "There you are! Oh, thank God, there you are."

  When Grace reached the man, she hugged him from behind.

  "Oh, don't leave me, Joel. Don't leave me!"

  The man snapped back and turned toward his attacker. He pushed her away.

  "Get a hold of yourself, miss."

  Grace looked at his face and saw that he was not her husband of two years, the one she had invited out on a special evening, the one who could rescue her from this nightmare.

  "All right, you come with me," the policeman said as he grabbed her arm.

  Grace resisted and pulled free of his grasp. Then she saw a stack of newspapers in a metal stand against the wall and ran toward it, plowing through another group of people along the way. When she reached the stand, she pulled a paper from the top and scanned the front page. When she saw the date in the upper right corner, she ran back to the cop with tears in her eyes.

  "Please tell me this is not today's date. Please tell me it's 2002!"

  The policeman in the old-fashioned uniform looked at her like she was a strange and exotic animal – an animal that had gone mad, an animal that required careful treatment.

  "Today is October 5, miss, a Saturday," he said calmly. "October 5, 1918."

  Grace did not ask for elaboration. She did not say another word.

  She simply looked at the crowd and fell to the floor.

  CHAPTER 31: ALISTAIR

  Seattle, Washington – Monday, October 7, 1918

  Alistair Green thought of lunch as he walked down the hallway. He liked lunch. He craved lunch. It was his favorite meal of the day, a meal he did not want to skip visiting someone he did not know at a hospital halfway across town.

  The lunch lover, however, was not one to disappoint a friend. So when Dr. Jasper Hubbard requested his presence at his earliest convenience, he put early ahead of convenient and rushed to Seattle General. Dr. Hubbard greeted him with a hand and a troubled expression near the nurse's station.

  "I apologize for the intrusion, Alistair," Dr. Hubbard said. "I know you're busy, but I didn't know what else to do. The patient, a woman named Grace Smith, insisted on seeing you. She will not speak to anyone else. The police brought her here Saturday night. She apparently fainted after creating a disturbance at the Palladium."

  "I still don't know what this has to do with me."

  "Perhaps you can find out. I'm certain there is an explanation for all of this."

  "I certainly hope so."

  Alistair Green, history professor and dean of the College of Arts and Sciences at the university, followed Dr. Hubbard through the door to Room 205. Once inside, he placed his overcoat on a rack and took his first measure of a young woman who glared at him from her bed.

  "I'm Professor Green. I was told that you wish to speak to me."

  "I do."

  "Well, how can I help you?"

  "I want to go home," Grace said as she burst into tears.

  "Where is your home?"

  "Seattle."

  "We're in Seattle."

  "Not my Seattle. Take me back to the theater. Please!"

  "I told you, Miss Smith, that the Board of Health has closed the theaters, at least for a few days," Dr. Hubbard said. "There is nothing we can do about that right now."

  Alistair already knew about the order prohibiting all public assemblies in King County. The Sun had reported the ban in great detail in Sunday's edition. Groups could not gath
er in theaters, churches, restaurants, or pool halls until further notice.

  "Is there something I can get you, dear?" Alistair asked. "Is there something you want?"

  "I want my babies!" Grace thundered.

  Alistair shook his head and glanced at the doctor.

  "What's going on here?"

  Dr. Hubbard pulled Professor Green aside.

  "I should probably show you something," he said. He pulled a small, unusual-looking card from the pocket of his white coat and handed it to Alistair. "The police found this in her purse. It is some sort of license."

  Alistair examined the document. It bore a photo of the woman in the bed and the Seattle address of one Grace Smith. The Washington Department of Licensing had issued the card.

  "I've never seen anything like this in my life," Alistair said.

  "Look at the dates on the card."

  Alistair reexamined the item. When he saw the birth date of the woman in question and the expiration date on the license, he jumped back. He returned the card to the physician and stared at him with wide eyes.

  "Is this some sort of joke?"

  "If it is, I'm not party to it," Dr. Hubbard said. "Miss Smith here says she's from the future."

  "I am from the future," Grace said angrily, "and I want to go back!"

  "It appears that whatever she has lost from this experience, she has not lost her spirit."

  Dr. Hubbard spoke to Alistair in a lower voice.

  "The police know nothing about her. They contacted the family at 2321 Wenatchee Avenue but learned that no one fitting her description lives in the area. She is a mystery to us all."

  "How is her condition?"

  "She appears to be normal. I can find nothing wrong with her physically, which, sadly, raises another issue."

  "And what is that?"

  "We cannot keep her here, not now. We're being overrun with patients suffering influenza. We've transferred most to other facilities but will eventually have to take on more. We simply cannot spare beds for perfectly healthy people."

  "Yes, I know about the contagion. The women's dormitory at the university has been pressed into service and has already reached its capacity."

  "The problem," Dr. Hubbard said, "is that I cannot bring myself to discharge a patient suffering such delusions. I've made calls to two psychiatric facilities but have not yet been able to make suitable arrangements. Until I do, perhaps you can learn more about her circumstances."

  "I'll see what I can do."

  "Thank you. If you need anything, please ring one of the nurses."

  Alistair watched Dr. Hubbard place the license in a purse on a small table near the door and exit the room. He then walked to the door, shut it, and turned to face the patient, who appeared as defiant as ever.

  Anticipating a lengthy discussion, Alistair collected a chair that had been placed against the wall and moved it to the side of the bed. He sat down and took a moment to assess the feisty young woman who had requested his presence.

  "How is it that you know me, Miss Smith?"

  Grace, arms crossed, glared at her questioner.

  "You're my uncle."

  "I'm your uncle. OK. That's a start."

  Alistair rubbed his hands together and tried to imagine where this was going.

  "And which of my adventurous brothers is responsible for bringing you into the family?"

  "Benjamin. He is the father of my mother."

  "I see. I'm your great-uncle then. So are you Edith's daughter or Lucille's?"

  "Lucy's."

  Grace continued to stare at Alistair but did so with less fire in her eyes.

  "And who is your father?"

  "William Vandenberg."

  "Interesting," Alistair said. He brought a hand to his chin and chuckled to himself. "Tell me, Grace . . . may I call you Grace?"

  "You may."

  "Tell me, Grace, why is it that I don't know you?"

  "You don't know me because I haven't been born."

  Alistair smiled. He did not know the roots of this lovely creature's delusion, but he knew that his attempt to find out was proving far more interesting than his weekly bridge game at the Faculty Club. He repositioned his chair and made himself comfortable.

  "Let me tell you one of many reasons why I'm skeptical of your story. Lucille Green, my niece, your 'mother,' is eighteen years old. She lives in Falmouth, England, with her family and has not, to my knowledge, been married or had children, much less children who appear to be at least her age, if not a few years older."

  Grace sighed and unfolded her arms. She looked at the floor for a moment, as if trying to decide how she wanted to proceed, before lifting her head and returning to her interrogator.

  "I asked for you because you're my only connection to this time and place. I have never met you. I know only of you. I know only that my mother and my aunt came to Seattle in 1918 to attend the university and to start a new life in America."

  "How did you know they are coming here? They are planning to leave England as soon as the war is over and it is again safe to travel commercially."

  "I know because I'm from the future."

  "Yes, yes. So you say," Alistair said. "Is there anything else you can tell me about our family or the future? It would perhaps help your credibility."

  Alistair expected the substantive part of the conversation to end there. He knew that even a well-educated lunatic could go only so far. He was surprised when Grace answered his question.

  "Your wife is the former Margaret Sprague. You met her at the exposition in aught nine and married shortly thereafter. You adopted a girl named Penelope, or Penny, and live on a ten-acre estate northeast of the city."

  "You're quite correct – on all counts, I might add. I'm impressed. But that is knowledge that you could have obtained rather easily from discussions with my colleagues or even from public records. Why don't you tell me something that only the daughter of Lucille Green would know?"

  Grace looked away for a moment and shook her head, as if put off by the idea that she had to further establish her credentials. When she finally spoke, she did so deliberately.

  "You have been in this country for many years and have returned to England only twice – in 1905, I believe, and in 1912. You were in New York, awaiting your passage, when the Carpathia arrived with the survivors of the Titanic."

  Alistair sat upright in his chair.

  "You saw many of the passengers leave the ship, including a young girl carrying a small porcelain doll. The girl dropped the doll as she moved through a crowd, and you picked it up. You made several attempts to find the girl and return the doll to her through port authorities, but you could not find anyone willing to help you. So you took the doll with you to England, where you again attempted to learn the identity of its owner."

  Grace turned away to watch a nurse bring a glass of water to an elderly patient in the next bed. A half-pulled curtain divided the room. When the nurse left the room, she continued.

  "You tried to reunite the doll with its owner but were unsuccessful. So you kept the doll, bought a similar one in a London shop, and brought both to Falmouth. You gave the first doll to Lucille but did not reveal how you came by it until you wrote her a letter for her sixteenth birthday. The doll wore a dark blue dress, which covered a small imperfection on its right thigh. I know this because my mother gave the doll to me on my sixth birthday. It was one of my most treasured possessions."

  Alistair asked no more questions. He instead stared blankly at the woman with the unbelievable tale, a woman who bore an unmistakable resemblance to his nieces, and reminded himself that time travel was the stuff of science fiction.

  CHAPTER 32: MARGARET

  Kenmore, Washington – Tuesday, October 8, 1918

  "She can't stay."

  Margaret Green quickened her step as she tried to keep pace with her husband of nine years. She wanted this discussion just as surely as he did not.

  "Give it a few days. That's all I ask
."

  "Give what a few days, Alistair?" she asked as she caught him by the back door. "You bring a strange woman home with you and you expect me simply to set another plate at the table?"

  "What you really mean to say is a strange, attractive woman. Am I correct?"

  Margaret released his arm and stopped. She could offer a thousand reasons why Grace Smith should not occupy the guest residence on their estate near the northern tip of Lake Washington, but none could hold up to the only one that mattered. She sighed and lowered her eyes.

  Alistair Green, forty, returned to his 32-year-old wife and placed his hands on her shoulders. He then moved the hands to her face and gave her a gentle kiss.

  "I love you, darling. You know that," he said. "This is not about how I feel about you or anyone else. This is about showing compassion to someone who has no one else and does not deserve to be thrown out on the street or placed in a psychiatric ward."

  Margaret looked at her husband with suspicion and awe. She understood why he had been a debating champion in college. She understood why he had advanced so quickly as an academic. He could persuade a peacock to give up its feathers. But that did not mean he was right.

  "I understand your position, Alistair. I admire your willingness to help someone in need. But why must we be the ones to carry her burdens? I'm sure there are many others in the community who could provide the assistance she needs."

  "I'm sure you're right. I know you're right. But this is not simply about providing a lost soul with good Christian charity, Margaret. She knows things. She knows things about me, about us, and about my family in England that she could not possibly know unless . . . unless she had indeed traveled through time."

  "You can't possibly believe that rubbish. She also told us that she was married. But did you see a ring on her finger? Did you see any evidence that she is who she says she is? Did you see anything to suggest that she is anything but an accomplished liar?"

  Alistair stepped away from his wife and walked across the porch to a pillar that supported the roof. He placed one hand on the support and gazed at his property, an expanse of orchard, garden, and grass that ran to the edge of a forest two hundred yards to the west.