7
A QUESTION OF TOMORROW
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
This is not the customary Human Target story. It is a variation on the series, featuring the Christopher Chance who died in 1927, with our Chance literally along for the ride. The writers of the series believed it was important for earlier incarnations of CC to be recognized. (See Season 1's episode "Christopher Chance".) This is my take on what might happen if our Chance and CC-1927 were to connect across time.
The method I use for these men to work together may at first seem awkward to read or difficult to comprehend. Please don't give up.
When they are speaking out loud, I use double quotes ( " ).
When communicating mind-to-mind, I use single quotes ( ' ).
Feel free to skip to the last chapter, once it's posted. Perhaps you'll find it sufficiently intriguing to prompt you to read the entire story from the beginning.
Reviews are most welcome regarding this spin-off of our beloved show.
PROLOG
San Francisco, California
(the present)
Grunting with effort, Winston squeezed through the too-small gap left between the passenger door and the power pole their vehicle had slammed into. He splashed through the puddle they'd skidded to a stop in. It never rains in California, says the song, but when it did, streets became oil-slicked toboggan runs interspersed with ankle-deep pools of run-off.
Chance couldn't help grinning. Guerrero had wriggled through the same opening with the ease of an eel, laptop clasped to his ribs like a kid's favorite teddy bear. Carrying her purse and shoes, Ilsa had exited the rear door as if stepping down from a throne. She stood on the opposite side of the street, someone holding an umbrella over her as she opened her cell phone. Satisfied everyone was safe, he was about to climb out himself when he heard the groan of tortured metal. A moment later, the power pole they'd hit crashed into the street.
Definitely time to move. Chance slid across the rear seat, preparing to exit through the same door as Ilsa. As his foot left the car he heard someone yell "Chance! Wait! The power line - "
C R A C K !
Chance's foot splashed into the spreading puddle at the same instant one of the severed cables, twisting and gyrating like a maddened anaconda, flopped into the water. Chance felt every muscle in his body seize, then the world went black.
... ... ... ... ...
From a viewpoint several feet above where his crumpled body lay, Chance watched people scramble to the rescue. He wanted to tell them not to bother. He rather enjoyed the sense of freedom drifting above the street brought. He couldn't feel the rain. Couldn't feel anything, really, except for a floating sensation. Kind of like riding inside a soap bubble.
He watched Ilsa. Although white-faced, she spoke to the 911 dispatcher as if giving a lecture on business ethics. Guerrero, fingers flying over his laptop keys, had hacked into the power company's computer and transmitted a cut-power order to the neighborhood substation before any of the horrified onlookers thought to look up Pacific Gas and Electric's emergency phone number.
One of the stickball-playing kids Guerrero had swerved to miss handed Winston a length of wooden broom or rake handle. Using the handle, Winston snagged the writhing power line and swept it from the puddle. It fell near the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians, and continued to twist and sputter until Guerrero's cut-power order abruptly killed it.
He watched a man in jogging garb drag his body from the water and begin chest compressions. Don't bother, Chance wanted to say. I see an old friend I want to say hello to. He's standing in the most beautiful light….
In the distance, sirens wailed.
CHAPTER 1
Saint Paul, Minnesota
Wednesday, August 12
1925
Chance awoke with the most gawd-awful hangover he could remember ever suffering. His mouth felt like a desert arroyo in August. Tasted like a cesspool. His eyes refused to focus. His head pounded as if Satan himself were inside it, hammering on an anvil.
When his vision steadied enough to let him see across the room - not his room, he realized - his gaze found a woman standing with her back to him. Tall, slender, dark hair. Wearing some kind of filmy kimono or dressing gown.
"Ilsa?"
The woman turned and answered, but Chance was focused more on his own voice than her reply. It sounded deeper than usual and somehow gravelly. Great. If a hangover wasn't enough, he was also catching a cold.
Now that she faced him, he saw it wasn't Ilsa with whom he'd apparently spent the night. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He'd think about it later. A tomorrow question. A right-now question was more important.
"This may sound cliché, but…who are you? And where am I?"
"I'm Masie. And you're at Nina Clifford's. Where else?"
That tells me everything.
Chance squirmed, trying to sit up without having his head topple off and go rolling around the room. Nothing worked right. How the hell much had he drank? What had he drank? Good liquor never left him feeling like this. He didn't remember a thing.
When he at last got himself propped against the brass headboard, he scrubbed his palm across his face to jump-start his memory. Accompanying his usual overnight crop of whiskers was a fully grown mustache.
His fingers paused, examining the brushy growth. It felt real, not part of a disguise.
"How long have I been here?"
"Long enough you'll have to pay for an all-nighter, Honey. I hope you got cash, you know Nina's rules. No IOU's."
"Pay…?" Chance echoed. "All-nighter?" It sounded like he'd somehow woke up in a whore house. And nothing the woman said explained the mustache. When did he decide to grow one?
"Where's my wallet?"
His voice still sounded strange. His usual perfect coordination simply didn't exist. Trying to sit up, he had to think about each movement. When Masie handed him his pants, his hand stopped an inch and a half short of the garment when his fingers closed.
He tried again, this time successfully. Then he almost dropped them.
They looked like something from a costume shop. Good quality wool, although somewhat worn. A fine pinstripe woven into the fabric. Loose, almost floppy legs with turned-up cuffs. No belt loops. You didn't need a belt with wide black suspenders. Button fly? Who put a button fly in dress pants? They looked about three inches too short.
"These aren't mine."
"Well, Honey, they don't fit me," Masie said. "And they didn't come strollin' in here on their own. You may be a booze-hound, but you're a clean booze-hound. Nina doesn't tolerate unwashed mopes."
He found the wallet in a front pocket after pulling a small silver bottle that gurgled from one of the rear ones. The term hip-flask came to mind.
The wallet was fine leather, maybe ostrich skin. It folded in thirds and opened to a complicated arrangement of flaps holding the contents in place. He found scraps of paper with notes scribbled on them, a document embossed with some kind of official seal, several business cards for Twin C Detective Service. When Masie's toe began to tap, he curtailed his exploration and concentrated on extracting the odd currency.
The billfold contained a generous mix of twenties, tens, and fives - all of an out-of-proportion size, all printed with pumpkin colored ink on the reverse. He would have called it funny money except it felt absolutely authentic. Was he in a foreign country? Would the…lady accept it?
"How much?"
"Same as always, Honey. Twenty-five smackeroos."
He thumbed out a twenty and a five, then added a second five, which Masie tucked between her breasts.
"Thanks. Now get dressed and am-scray. The maids've done every room but this one."
Am-scray? Oh, yeah. Scram. Pig-Latin. His grandfather had taught him the trick and called it their secret language.
Something white sailed through the air and landed atop his legs when his reflexive grab missed. It was the strangest garment he'd ever seen, a combination of knee-length drawers and attached short-sleeve top that buttoned from neck to crotch.
Union suit, something in the recesses of his mind supplied. Summer weight. Winter ones were wool with long sleeves and ankle-length legs. The Forty-niners wore them. Miners, not the football team. Gramps must've mentioned it, once upon a time.
Okay, I get it, Chance mused. This is a dream. I didn't really wake up with a pounding head, in a strange bed, with someone else's wallet and clothes. I just dreamed I woke up. I'm still asleep, with Carmine curled up on the end of the bed where he isn't allowed but sneaks up anyway.
He felt with his foot for the 75 pounds of snoozing dog he was sure he'd sense even in his sleep. Oddly, his toes didn't reach the end of the bed.
No matter. I'll just go along for the ride and see where it takes me. At least Masie hadn't - so far - morphed into Baptiste or performed any other nightmarish transformations. The way she watched him, though, smiling in anticipation, made him distinctly uneasy.
"Um…a little privacy here? And where's the bathroom?" Damn, he hoped he didn't dream he found it and….
… … … … …
Carrying the rest of his clothes, Chance made his way to the end of the hall. The furnishings in the rooms he passed, visible through open doors on either side of the hall, left no doubt what sort of establishment he hadn't yet woken up in. At least it was a high class brothel. He'd seen worse.
The bathroom was done in black and white and smelled of pine disinfectant. White pedestal sink. Black and white geometric print shower curtain. A shower stall he yearned to stand in and rinse for an hour. Tiny white and black hexagonal floor tiles. Nothing too strange there, but the toilet looked like a prop for a Charlie Chaplin movie.
The bowl with its black enamel seat was three-fourths the size he was used to. A pipe connected the bowl to a rectangular porcelain tank mounted on the wall at eye level. A chain you pulled to make it flush dangled from one side.
Great reproduction pieces, Chance thought. Or they would be if I weren't dreaming all this.
He used the john and pulled the chain, setting off a gurgling swoosh of water and a knocking of distant pipes. Then he moved to the sink, and the black lacquer framed mirror above it.
What he saw made his knees buckle. He clutched the sink to keep from dropping to the floor. The face wasn't his.
Nor was he dreaming. A shock that severe would jolt him from the soundest slumber. He forced himself to look in the mirror again, hoping the image he'd glimpsed was the product of an alcohol-fogged mind. Or a damn good disguise he'd forgot to remove before climbing into bed. In a brothel.
Not his. The face was as Irish as they came, with hair, eyebrows, and neatly barbered mustache the color of an Irish setter's burnished coat. Freckles across the nose and cheeks gave it an entirely too youthful look, as did the nice square chin with its dimple. A few acne scars, but good teeth - which needed a morning brushing even more than his body craved a good hot shower.
In the cabinet behind the mirror he found Dr. Lyon's Tooth Powder but no brush, a tin of aspirin, and a half-full bottle of Listerine. Gratefully he swallowed four aspirin, and rinsed his mouth with a hair-raising jolt of Listerine.
Someone rapped gently on the door.
"Christopher, Masie said you're acting rather strange. Are you okay?"
No.
He unlocked the door. A slender, middle-aged woman in a navy calf-length dress-suit gave him a motherly smile. Her snow-white hair was piled atop her head and secured with hammered silver combs. Her ears twinkled with diamonds, as did her bosom, wrists, and almost every finger on each hand.
"Do I know you?"
"Oh, my, you certainly did tie one on, didn't you? Did you spend the entire advance I gave you?"
Recalling the thickness of the wallet in 'his' pants, Chance said, "I don't think so."
The woman clucked her tongue. "Far be it from me to tell you your business, Duckie, but you know how desperate Althea's situation is. It might behoove you to…cut back on bootleg hooch until the problem is resolved. Get something good from my cellar next time."
"I'll do that," Chance said. "I'm gonna head straight home and get right on…Althea's problem." If he could determine what Althea's situation was. Hell, he didn't even know where home was. Or who this woman - he guessed the madam - was. Was she his - or someone's - client?
Her gaze sharpened, rather like a cat's who'd spotted a careless rodent. "Whatever's happened to your brogue? Have you been taking speech lessons?"
He'd never spoken with a brogue in his life, unless it was part of a disguise. Had he just blown a cover he'd forgotten he was maintaining?
"Mrs. Clifford?"
A voice calling from down the hall saved him from answering. A smooth as honey, deep-for-a-woman's voice that set every fiber in his body vibrating. One of Mrs. Clifford's ladies?
"There's a boy here with some gowns you ordered for the girls. Do you want me to pay him?"
"I'll be down in a minute. I want to inspect them first." She turned back to Chance. "Don't forget to collect your shoulder holster on your way out." She studied him again. "You do look rather peaked. Shall I telephone for a taxicab to take you home?"
What address would he give the cabbie? Then Chance remembered the business cards for Twin C Detective Service tucked inside his wallet. Those at least told him where to find 'his' business, but he didn't want anyone to catch him examining them.
"No, thanks…Mrs. Clifford. I think I need to walk. Let me finish dressing and I'll get out of your hair."
Now she looked truly puzzled. One be-ringed finger lifted toward her pompadour. Then her face cleared and she shook a finger at him.
"You sheiks and your silly lingo. Out of my hair. That's a good one!" Shaking her head, she started down the hall, sturdy heels thunking.