“I’m glad for you, that you’ll soon be home. And I’ll keep my fingers crossed that you’ll live in peace there.” She sounded very forlorn.
“Thank you,” he smiled, and covered her hand with his own.
She shifted on the ground and swore when her burnt foot scraped across the grass.
“You won’t walk on it for some days,” he said, peering at the damaged skin. It was swollen and hot to the touch, and his gentle probing made her flinch. “We’ll have to wait until you can put weight on it.” He frowned at that; those ruffians might well decide to return, as might the soldiers. He’d move their camp on the morrow.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said. “I don’t want you to be caught. I’ll be fine on my own.”
He snorted at this total untruth, shaking his head. “I can’t leave you alone, lass. We’ll wait until you can move. Mayhap I can see you on your way.”
She bit down on her lower lip. “I don’t think you can, I don’t think I have anywhere to go. My home is lost to me.”
He considered various reasons for this; mayhap she’d dishonoured her family, or was running from an abusive husband. Or maybe she was from somewhere far away, and had set out for new lands. She was not from here, of that he was certain, letting his eyes travel down those blue-clad legs. She noticed, and gave him a tight smile.
“Jeans; everyone wears them where I come from.”
“Djeens,” he repeated, “well, you must be from very far away.”
“You could say that again,” she mumbled, hunching together.
*
With a little sigh, their fire collapsed into a heap of smouldering embers, and for some moments Matthew busied himself with adding some more fuel to it.
“So,” he said once the fire had recovered from its near death experience. “Your turn.”
Alex chewed at her lower lip, wondering how to explain. “I was born in Seville, Spain.” She looked at him and decided to tell him in one fell swoop. “In August, 1976.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You heard me, 1976.” Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have told him quite so abruptly because if his mouth fell anymore open, she’d not only fit an apple but a whole melon into it. She could totally sympathise with his reaction. She cleared her throat, fiddled with a loose button on her shirt. He shifted on his seat, and when she peeked at him he was staring at her. She gave him a tentative smile, and to her relief he smiled back – albeit a rather weak smile.
“What day in August?” he said, surprising her. She counted days in her head. Today was the eleventh of August, and in thirteen days she’d be twenty-six. Probably more or less ancient in these times, she shuddered.
“The twenty-fourth, but that’s okay, I don’t expect a cake and gifts.”
He laughed, a soft sound, and moved to sit a bit closer, his eyes intent on her face.
“How?”
Well, at least he was still sitting beside her, not running away from her in panic – that had to be a good sign, right?
“I have no idea.” She told him of the car and the thunderstorm, of the hole that opened below her. He gawked at her.
“But…” he began, closed his mouth and exhaled before trying again. “But, no, you can’t do that! It’s impossible!” He swallowed. “Unless…” he broke off.
“Unless what? You think I’m some sort of witch?”
“Are you?” He averted his eyes, and she could swear he was praying under his breath.
“Of course not! And this is just as unbelievable to me as it is to you, okay?” She hugged her legs hard, looked at him from under a curtain of hair. “I keep on hoping it’s some sort of dream, so will you please pinch me hard enough to make me wake up?” He did, and she yelped, glaring at him. “Ow! I already knew I was awake – unfortunately.”
Matthew took a deep breath, took two, his eyes never leaving hers.
“I’m telling you the truth, okay? Who would make something like that up? God’s idea of a joke, right?” She laughed shakily, and to her relief he joined in, before leaning towards her, eyes alight with curiosity.
“Tell me then, what’s it like, there in the future?”
So Alex did, spending the coming half-hour describing a life that made him at times gape and just as often laugh, insisting she had to be pulling his leg.
“No plague?” he asked, impressed.
“No,” she said, “and people don’t die of the measles.”
Matthew threw her a sharp look. “And him? The man by the spring? Is he from your time as well?”
“Obviously,” she muttered. “What will they do to him?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t speak Scots, did he, and his clothes…” He looked at her jeans.
“I should have helped him.” Not that she’d really wanted to, not after his comments regarding Italy.
“How? One lass against a troop of soldiers? And he didn’t seem to care much for you, had I not been there, I think he would have hurt you – badly.”
“Probably.” Alex suppressed a tremor or two.
“Why?”
“I have no idea.” Which was, after all, the truth.
“But he said, about Italy and—”
“Look; I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” She stared him down, eyes never leaving his until he shrugged and went to find some more wood.
*
“Matthew?” Alex got to her feet. “Is that you?” She scanned the outer rim of their weak circle of light, certain she’d heard something. There; a shape grew out of the slope, transforming into a man when he came closer. At his heels tagged another man, and Alex recognised them from before. Shit.
“Where is he?” the older man hissed.
“Who?” Alex backed away from the brandished knife.
“Your man, the one who did this to me.” He pointed at the long, slashing wound down the side of his face.
“Not here.” Alex bit back on an exclamation when she put too much weight on her injured foot. Well, at least she had two good arms, should it come to that. She raised them, hands like blades. The younger man scowled and rubbed at his arm. She’d gotten him good with her previous karate chop, and she’d guess he had a bruise the colour of an aubergine all across his biceps. Still; she’d prefer it if Matthew were to come back A.S.A.P. She shuffled backwards, keeping the little fire between her and the two men.
“Grab her,” the older man said to the younger. “Take her and we’ll be off.”
“Try,” Alex growled.
The man laughed, clearly unimpressed.
“But…” the younger man said, throwing worried looks into the darkness that surrounded them.
“Do as I say. Once we have the lass, he’ll not risk us hurting her, will he?” He leered in the direction of Alex. “And we won’t – not as long as she’s accommodating.”
You wish; she’d poke his eyes out before she let him touch her. With a reluctant mutter the younger man moved towards her, carrying a length of rope. Alex licked her lips.
A stone hit the older man squarely on the back of his head. He staggered and fell to his knees.
“Da?” the other man rushed towards him. Yet another stone came whistling through the night and landed with a dull ‘thonk’ on the father’s head. The man toppled forward, howling when his hands sank into the embers of the fire.
“Da!” the young man said. “Da, your poor, poor hands!” He batted at the smoking sleeves with his hands, yelping when he burnt himself.
“I told you,” Matthew roared from somewhere up the slope. “I told you to get yourselves gone and not bother us.” He strode into the light, loomed over the two ruffians. “Go, and this time don’t come back.”
“No, no,” the younger man stammered. “We won’t, aye?” He helped his father up to stand, and without a backward look disappeared into the August night.
“Bloody hell,” Alex said. “Is life always this exciting round here?”
“Nay, in general not.” He scowled in th
e direction of where they could still hear the would be robbers’ progress. “Such as them should hang, attacking lonely travellers and women.”
“Well, they picked the wrong guy to mess with this time, didn’t they?” Alex sank down to sit.
“We should get some sleep,” Matthew said. “Do you need help back into the cave?”
She shook her head. She’d buried the leaking phone in a feeble attempt to leave some trace behind should John in the future get her text, and she didn’t want Matthew to see her stark writing on the wall – she’d more or less gouged the letters into the surface. She’d even stolen a holey stocking from his bundle, hoping that the wool would protect the fragile metal casing from the vagaries of time.
“I’d prefer to stay outside. Will that be dangerous?”
Matthew laughed. “No, I don’t think so. They’ll not be back, will they?”
“Not unless they’re very, very stupid,” Alex said.
Alex lay with her back to him, eyes lost in the dark skies above. One day, and it felt like an eternity. How was she to stand a whole life here?
“John,” she whispered to the night. “My John.” No; don’t cry, Alex Lind. She stuffed her hand into her mouth and bit down. Hard.
Chapter 6
The receptionist looked up when Diane and John entered the office next morning.
“Thank heavens you’re here,” she said in what was probably meant to be a discreet whisper but carried far too well. “There’s a gentleman here to see you. He’s been here since eight – and he was here yesterday afternoon as well. I think he’s upset.”
“Upset?” Diane rubbed a hand across her face.
“He says he’s Mr Sanderson’s partner.”
“But…why didn’t you call me? Yesterday?”
“I tried,” the receptionist said.
Diane pulled out her phone. “You did?”
“I’ll just…” John pointed in the direction of his office. “I have a backlog of e-mails to get through.”
“Oh, no you don’t; we talk to him together.”
“Yes,” the receptionist nodded, “he specifically said he wants to see you both.”
“Bloody hell.” John threw a glance in Diane’s direction. “Well, come on then, let’s get this over with.”
The man who was waiting for them swivelled when they entered. Where Sanderson had been big and bulky, along the lines of a rugby player gone to seed, this man had the looks of a ballet dancer or a fencer, thin and graceful with startling blue green eyes in a tanned and well cared for face. His skull was shaved, and his upper lip was bisected by a hairline scar, creating the impression that his thin mouth had two cupid bows, one overlapping the other.
“What happened?” he said. “Where’s Diego? He’s been gone for two nights! And I’ve tried to contact you, but —”
“I’m sorry,” Diane said, “but who exactly are you? Mr Sanderson has never mentioned that he has a partner.”
The man’s scarred mouth twisted. “Why should he? But trust me, I’m his partner, both in life and in business.” His voice was like smooth chocolate, cultured and without an accent. He regarded them with what could have been amusement, if it hadn’t been for the assessing look in his eyes as they rearranged their faces into expressions of commiseration. “I’m Hector, Hector Olivares. So, what happened?”
His eyes never left John as he retold what had happened, from the moment they got to the crossroads to when Sanderson disappeared. Afterwards, Hector tented his hands in front of him and stared out the window with an unfocused gaze. Hector cleared his throat, turning those disconcerting turquoise eyes back to John.
“Where exactly did this happen?”
John frowned. “How exact?”
“As exact as you can make it.”
John went over to Diane’s desk, indicating that Hector should come along.
“There,” he said after a while, pointing at a zoomed in map on the computer screen. “It’s a very odd crossroads, with the little track bisecting the road at an exact ninety degree angle.”
Hector nodded, mouth setting into a grim line. “Yes, they’re always very exact, the time nodes.”
“Time nodes?” Diane scoffed. “What would they be?”
Hector raised his brows at her tone and directed himself to John.
“Time nodes are points at which every now and then the fabric of time rips apart, through earthquakes, freak weather or volcanic activity.” Hector made a dismissive gesture. “The volcanic activity generally precludes anyone actually falling through the holes. You burn to death instead.”
“Of course,” he added in a tone as casual as if he were discussing the price of milk, “there are other ways to travel from time to time, but they require magic – black magic – while the time nodes, well, they’re natural cracks in time.”
“Natural?” John croaked. Was he supposed to guffaw? Call the closest mental asylum?
“Don’t worry,” Hector said with a crooked smile. “It only happens to one in a million or so.” He tugged at the sleeves of his dark cashmere jumper and walked over to the window. “Porqué? Why did this happen to you? I told you to be careful.”
“Be careful?” John said. “He knew this could happen?”
Hector levelled a dark look at him. “Diego didn’t fully believe me.” Hector sighed and turned away. “And now he’s fallen into somewhere else.”
“And Alex?”
Hector looked as if he couldn’t care less. “She’s obviously dropped through time as well.” He put a hand on John’s shoulder in a brief pat. “Don’t expect her to come back. They never do.”
“Well,” Diane cut in, “first of all Mr Olivares, we don’t know what has happened to either Alex or Mr Sanderson, and secondly, I must say I find your theory entertaining but totally incredible. Time nodes – really!”
Hector shifted his shoulders under his jumper; one moment he was a slight, somewhat effeminate man, the next he looked as dangerous as a starved tiger. Diane stood her ground.
“And anyway, how on earth would you know one can fall through time? Unless you’ve done it yourself, of course.” She threw John a triumphant look, as if saying See? Got him.
“Oh, I have,” Hector said. “Several times, as a matter of fact, flung from one time to the other.” Something dark settled over his face. “And all because of Mercedes Gutierrez Sanchez, time travelling witch that she is.”
“Mercedes?” John took Diane’s hand in his; he didn’t like this, not at all. He tried to laugh, but somehow it got stuck halfway up. “That’s ridiculous!”
“Is it? Is it really?” Hector shook his head. “What would you know?”
Hector left shortly after, having wheedled a promise out of them to drive him out to the crossroads the day after, insisting he had to see the place where Diego had disappeared.
“I’ll pay you of course,” he’d said, bowing with certain irony in Diane’s direction. “Just as we’ll pay for the work you did for Diego – assuming you’ve got something to deliver.”
John sank down onto the sofa and stared at Diane. “Please tell me you still believe there’s a perfectly rational explanation to all this, please, please, tell me you’re laughing your head off at what that rather sinister man just told us.”
“Of course I am,” she said, “but he was very matter-of-fact, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah, he was. And what was all that crap about Mercedes flying through time?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” she said with a teasing grin. “I’ve thought for years that there was something very strange about her. I suppose dropping through time nodes would have a disruptive impact on your sanity,” she said sarcastically.
John gnawed at his lip. “She was pretty ageless, wasn’t she?”
Diane shrugged. Good genes, she told John – and a skilled hairdresser.
*
The silence lay like a smothering blanket in the car as John drove it back towards the crossroads the next day.
Hector sat in absolute stillness, hands folded over crossed legs, and studied them from his position in the backseat. Diane was keeping up a constant conversation with John, no doubt in an attempt to distract him, but as far as Hector could see it wasn’t working very well, John’s shoulders tense under the red wool of his sweater.
He wondered how much of the previous night Diane had spent verifying his identity, and mentally he tipped his hat at her; Diane Wilson was thorough and not easily intimidated, and those were qualities he appreciated – particularly in people working for him. He met her eyes in the rear view mirror, sharpened his gaze until she looked away. Hector went back to regarding the speeding landscape. In the front seat Diane was saying something in a low, intense tone, and without turning his head he tuned in.
“…so of course there must be some sort of explanation,” she said to John. “It’s just that we haven’t found one yet.”
Good luck to them. He’d spent most of his extended life attempting to unravel the logic behind his own fate. He’d thought he’d found it when he met Diego, a divine compensation of sorts for all the previous fruitless years. He gnawed his lip. The only reason Diego had hired Diane Wilson’s company had been to get at Alexandra Lind, an opportunity to get her alone and browbeat her into telling them what had happened to Ángel. Now it had all gone wrong: no Alexandra Lind, and no more Diego. Hector fisted his hand and caressed the thick gold ring that adorned his ring finger.
Hector took his time studying the barren surroundings. There was nothing here, nothing that would help him learn where Diego had ended up. Ignoring his audience of two, he walked out to stand in the exact centre of the crossroads, and there he crouched to lay his palm against the warm asphalt.
“Adios, Diego.” Poor bastard, he’d never cope in a world without fast food and modern amenities. He straightened up and rubbed at his bruised thigh, courtesy of that panicked jump out of the studio window a couple of days ago – stupid thing to do, he’d been far too distraught about Diego to make much of a cat burglar. Still; he had to try. He needed one of those paintings, and even more now that Diego was gone from his life.
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 6