Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

He’d find her sooner or later. Not that he had the slightest notion of what to say when he did. His stuttering apology last night only drove her further away. What could he say? How could he keep her only at arm’s length when the feeling of her by his side was all he thought about?
    He shoved his hands into his pockets and felt the cool, embossed metal of his grandfather’s watch. His fingers ran over the surface. Odd, how in only a few days it had become a talisman. An anchor to reality. But it was nearly meaningless without her. He gave a short painful laugh. What wasn’t?
    As he neared the end of the block, he mentally mapped out his next move. Take the subway uptown and work his way back. Surely she wouldn’t leave the city. No. He had the watch. She’d come back to him, if for no other reason. Cold comfort.
    He was about to reverse his course when he felt someone watching him. He turned around quickly, scanning the crowd, hoping to see a glimpse of her. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
    No Elizabeth. Who’d been watching him? He was sure he’d felt the weight of someone’s eyes on him. In the shadows of a doorway stood an old woman, arms wrapped under a black shawl, dark eyes boring into him.
    Then he noticed the hand-painted sign that adorned the window next to her—Rosella: Spiritualist and Medium. Undoubtedly, one of the many charlatans that had found a way to profit from people’s suffering. A legacy of the first World War.
    After the war, after any time of great sorrow, people looked for answers. So much loss led to questions about life, death and what lay between. Some turned toward religion, and people like Aimee Semple McPherson came into power. Some turned away from everything, and others turned toward the slightly less ordinary.
    Spiritualism had been reborn. Finally out of the back rooms and dark alleys, the movement was big business. From the average housewife to the cream of society, nearly everyone embraced the prospect of speaking to a lost loved one.
    Simon eyed the old woman with undisguised disdain. His years in the occult had led him to more than his share of impostors. He’d even, for a brief time, considered following in Houdini’s footsteps and spending his life debunking those who’d gain from other’s pain. But he’d had his own battles to fight and had forgotten about it, until now.
    “You have lost something?” the woman said, in a thick Italian accent.
    It hardly took a clairvoyant to see that. “I know your type,” Simon said. “Don’t waste your time on me.”
    Rosella narrowed her eyes. “Ah, but your time is not your own, is it?”
    Simon felt a cold shiver, but ignored it. Vague remarks were the hallmark of her kind. The subject’s imagination was key in any deception, and he wasn’t about to be drawn in by her games. “I don’t see—”
    “You do see, what will be,” she said and then spat on the sidewalk. “La malvagità disegna vicino. Near to the one you love.”
    Despite his misgivings, he found himself struck by her warning and took a step closer. “What evil?”
    She reached out a wrinkled hand to stop him, her withered fingers feeling something unseen between them. “I am mistaken,” she said quickly and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her narrow shoulders.
    “What do you see?” Simon said more fiercely. Did she sense the same danger he did? “Tell me what you see.”
    “Nothing,” she said, keeping her eyes to the ground. “I see nothing.”
    Her frightened denial unnerved him even more. “You said you saw evil. Coming nearer—”
    “Go,” she said, turning and opening the door behind her.
    Before Simon could get in another word, she slammed the door in his face. The locks clicked into place and the shade was hastily drawn.
    He raised a hand to knock on the door, but stopped in mid-motion. It was absurd. This little charade was undoubtedly all part of her scheme. Tantalize the customer with an indistinct warning and leave them begging for more. He wasn’t that much of a fool.
    Turning on his heel, he walked down the crowded street berating himself for having wasted the time. He rounded the corner and headed toward Old Saint Patrick’s. He tried to put the incident out of his mind, but the old woman’s warning lingered like a circling hawk in the sky.
    He spent the rest of the afternoon searching for her. Charlie hadn’t seen her, and the small tremors of anxiety he always carried with him grew until he was