"Shot at him but didn't hit him?"
"Hit him all right. Shot went right through him, tore the clothes he had on all to pieces. Didn't hurt him any, though." Jake got the impression that in relating this lunacy Camilla was describing something she'd seen herself, or was convinced that she had seen.
Jake decided to let the question of this impossible shooting drop, for the time being anyway. And he let the loaded shotgun stay where it was—for the time being.
"You're baking bread. That must mean you're staying for a while."
Camilla didn't say anything to that. The movements of her working hands were brisk and forceful.
"Why'd you come here in the first place?"
"Didn't have anywhere else to go. Met Edgar in a tavern in Flagstaff, and he was nice-looking—he looked years younger then—and a real smooth talker. He told me how his wife had left him, just walked out. Didn't ask me to marry him. Asked me if I'd come and model for him. I said all right, though I figured he'd expect more than modeling. I was right." Abruptly Camilla stopped talking.
"How come his wife could walk out, but we can't?"
"How do I know? After she was gone, he must have fixed it somehow so no one else could go."
"He sounds like a magician."
"Don't laugh. You haven't seen much of him yet."
"I'm tryin', I'm tryin'. So once you came here and took your clothes off, he wanted something else besides just looking at you."
"At first he did." Camilla shrugged. "For the past year all he's done is use me as a model."
"You've really been here more than a year?"
She glared at Jake, for once seeming to be angry with him. "What've I been telling you? How'm I supposed to get away?"
In response to further questions, Camilla admitted that she still did sessions of modeling for old Edgar, though not as often. "Been almost a month now."
Once she'd put her bread dough aside to rise, Jake got her to walk with him back to the cave. This time he found the switch for the futuristic lights and turned them on himself.
And this time he noticed that there was one more room in the cave, an unlighted chamber far in the back. It was accessible, if you could call it that, only by a crevice as narrow as the one leading to the place across the canyon where Tyrrell supposedly slept.
"What's back here?"
"That's where Edgar does a lot of work. I don't know what he works on, but he spends a lot of time back there."
"Got a flashlight?"
"I think there's one on the workbench." Camilla sounded reluctant.
Jake found the flashlight and used it, trying to peer into the recess. He caught one glimpse of something that made him jump, a moving object that he didn't know what to make of and didn't like. The impression Jake received was of a figure, a ghostly-looking thing as big as a man, a featureless, faceless glowing form that stood for an instant in the light and then moved away, into a part of the half-hidden chamber that he couldn't see. Or had it been not a figure at all, but only an odd reflection of his own light on the strange rocks?
Jake gritted his teeth and tried to find the thing again. No dice. It must have been only a strange reflection of the flashlight's beam, he thought. There was nothing else to be seen now in the blockaded chamber, just another area of the cave, empty except for some marks of cutting with hand tools on the walls and floor. It looked like someone had been working hard in that back room. Maybe there was another way in and out of it, some passage that Jake couldn't see from where he was.
When Jake and Camilla were back inside the cottage, he confronted her again. "So, up until six months ago you slept with him. And now he doesn't care about that kind of thing?"
"Even at the start, when I first came here, I only—went to bed with him a few times. In a way. But what he really brought me here for was to model."
"What do you mean, you went to bed with him in a way? He didn't like to do it the normal way?"
"Nope."
"How, then?"
"Does it matter?" Camilla wasn't eager to talk about that part of her story. "You don't need to be jealous of Edgar, lover. What you've got to be is careful of him."
"You think old Edgar is jealous of me? He's keeping me here so's he can have someone to be jealous of?"
"No. Not that way. But you better believe he's dangerous."
"Well, I'm not that worried. I won't need a shotgun, either, if he tries to give me a hard time."
"What'll you do, hit him with your fist?" Camilla looked scornfully at Jake. "That won't do you any more good than the shotgun. But I's'pose you've got to find out some things for yourself."
Jake could only gaze at her in hopeless puzzlement. "Where's he really sleep?" he demanded at last. "I have to talk to him."
"I showed you where he sleeps."
"Bullshit."
Camilla only sounded worried. "Honey? Edgar's a very unusual man."
He nodded grimly. "That's what you keep telling me. I'm ready to take your word for that."
"He's a very nasty man too. I wish to God I—you and I—could get away."
"Well, honey, we will, just as soon as I get some things figured out. You keep telling me Edgar's the one who's somehow keeping us here. How can that be?"
"He has some way of controlling time. Making doorways in it. Opening and closing them."
"Huh?"
"Jake, I told you, time isn't just time down here. Everywhere else hours and days just go by normally. Not here, not in the Deep Canyon. Down here it's what I call deep time. Edgar's tried to explain to me how it works, some of it anyway, but I don't get it. Maybe you can get him to explain it to you."
"Maybe I can. I bet I can."
Jake spoke those words softly, but his tone must have alarmed Camilla. She said: "Don't think because he looks old you can just twist his arm or beat him up. He's stronger'n any man I ever met."
"Yeah?"
"Take my word for it, honey." She paused, looking at Jake. "You're not gonna just take my word, are you?"
Jake made a large, solid fist, and looked at it. There was no fat on him, and every muscle in his body was hard, from four months of building trails. "Doesn't seem like I'm gettin' anywhere without fighting him. And you tell me that whatever's happened, it's up to Edgar to straighten it out if he wants to."
"Don't just jump in and fight with him, honey." Camilla leaned very close to Jake. "Honey? You hear me? And that shotgun, leave it alone. I tell you, that doesn't mean anything to Edgar. Just make him mad, if he thinks you're ready to kill him."
"What do you mean, a shotgun doesn't mean anything?"
She leaned back and spoke confidently. "All right then, go ahead, try using it on Edgar and see. Don't blame me if it makes him mad."
Jake didn't say anything. He could imagine himself using a shotgun on someone, but only as a last resort, if his life depended on it.
Camilla moved toward him smiling, and they kissed. But even this woman's lips, even her body, could now distract Jake only briefly.
"You haven't seen anyone besides Edgar in all that time?"
She hesitated. "I've seen a couple of people."
"Who?"
No answer.
"Like the person who shot at him with the shotgun."
A nod.
"A man."
"Yes."
"You mean these other people were here and then got out? Where'd they go?"
"Nobody got out." Then Camilla added: "The man who shot at him is dead."
Try as he might, Jake couldn't get any more details out of her about the supposed shooting.
"All right, all right. So, Edgar sleeps in there, does he? That means at sunset he's gonna come out of that cave where you say he sleeps? Come out through that little crack?"
Camilla nodded.
At sunset Jake was across the creek, over on the other side of the amphitheater, watching the little cave from no more than twenty feet away. It happened after the sun was completely down. One moment there was n
o one else in sight, and the next, Jake couldn't see how it was done, Tyrrell was standing there in front of him.
"Camilla's been talking about me, I see," said the old man, looking at Jake with no particular surprise or anger.
Jake was too stupefied to answer right away.
The old man nodded slowly. "All right, maybe it's just as well. Let her talk. Now maybe you'll believe her. I hope you're ready to learn your job?"
Jake ignored that. "I want out of here."
"I have no interest in what you want. I asked you a question about your work."
"To hell with your work. I'm telling you what—"
The open-handed slap came at the side of Jake's head so fast that he had no chance to block it or dodge it. It hit him so hard that both of his ears rang, and he staggered away, almost falling.
In a moment he had got his legs under him again and was coming back. He launched a hard swing with his right fist, aiming for the old man's jaw.
—and in the next instant Jake's arm was caught. Camilla was yelling, screaming something in the background. Jake tried to jerk free, but there was no chance. His right arm felt like some heavyweight wrestler had his wrist in both hands, twisting, but he could see plainly enough that it was only little old Tyrrell, gripping him casually with one.
"I'm not really going to hurt you," the old man told Jake patiently, when Jake had given up struggling. "Because I want you to work, and I still have hopes that you'll be bright enough to learn what you need to learn, with only a little pain."
One-handed, Tyrrell twisted the arm a little farther, not very far, and Jake cried out helplessly and went down on his knees.
"Enough?"
"Enough!"
"Are you working for me? Taking orders?"
"I'll take orders!"
Tyrrell let him go. Then the old man turned half away and started walking, then paused, turned, and motioned for Jake to follow him. "Come along, I'll show you what I expect you to do. By this time tomorrow you'd better have something accomplished."
Jake struggled back to his feet, nursing a wrenched but not disabled arm. The old man's strength just wasn't human.
Tyrrell was waiting to see what Jake was going to do next. Jake wasn't going to do anything.
Tyrrell said: "If you want to live here, you're going to have to work. You've had a day to get used to the idea. Now come along."
Jake was aware of Camilla, watching fearfully from a little distance. But he didn't even look at her. He followed the old man.
Chapter 9
Startled by the sound Bill had made, the girl who sat by the fire turned her head. Slowly she got to her feet, staring warily at Bill. Just beyond the other side of her compact encampment there yawned a chasm; if she were frightened of him, she had no place to run.
Actually she seemed more surprised than afraid. She said to Bill: "Who are my friends? Who sent you after me?"
Doing his best to appear non-threatening, he spoke in soothing tones. "Your father sent me. And your great-aunt Sarah. They both wanted me—us—to try to find you."
"Us?"
"I work for a firm of private investigators."
"My father," said Cathy Brainard. The two words came burdened with an unhappy commentary that Bill could not begin to decipher.
He said mildly: "Well, maybe you don't get along with him, but I can assure you he's been worried."
Cathy took a few seconds to think that statement over. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?" she asked finally.
Bill stood back a step, continuing to try to look relaxed, but ready to make a grab if the reluctant object of his search, so serendipitously located, should make an effort to run past him. He said: "True, you don't know me. I'm just a hired hand, but I'm your friend. My name's Bill Burdon. I can show you some ID if you like."
Cathy considered that, and gave a nervous little laugh. "I'm not sure that a piece of paper or plastic would tell me a whole lot."
"Okay, I thought I'd offer. Tell me, are you about to cook something on that fire?"
She considered again, and laughed again, this time with some real amusement. "I don't know if I am or not. Are you hungry?"
"Yes ma'am, rather. I've been out all night, with one candy bar to eat."
"Out looking for me in the dark?"
"I know it sounds foolish. It didn't start out that way." Bill looked around at the spectacular scenery.
In a moment he realized that Cathy was almost smiling at him. She said, with something like amusement: "Don't tell me you're lost."
"All right, I won't admit it. That would be bad for the image. But I'm really damned if I can see how the whole South Rim and everything on it can disappear like this." He gestured at the surrounding spires and buttes.
To his surprise, Cathy didn't smile. Nor did she answer directly. "I'm getting hungry myself. All right, I can cook up some freeze-dried glop," she said. "There's a spring handy, just over here."
Walking with her when she went to get the water in a little aluminum pot with a folding handle, Bill looked around at her camping arrangements with approval. It was obvious to him, though he said nothing on the point, that she hadn't been here a month, or anywhere near that long. "Nice camp. I can see you know how to do this."
"Thank you."
"How long were you planning to stay?"
"I haven't decided that as yet. You can tell that to anyone who's interested."
"Your father's very worried about you. So's your aunt Sarah."
"Really?" The tone was sarcastic. Then she asked, as if the question really puzzled her: "How did you manage to get in here and find me?"
"Well, there was some kind of—disturbance—at the Tyrrell House last night. I ran downhill in the dark, chasing someone I thought might have been involved."
That had Cathy's interest, all right. "Who?"
"Never got close enough to him to form a good idea about that."
She relaxed slightly. "Probably lucky for you."
Back at the camp with water, Cathy arranged the pot where the little wood fire would heat it nicely, and dug into her pack after the freeze-dried food. "Probably just as well for you," she repeated.
"Why do you say that?"
She shrugged.
For the next half hour they talked mainly about the mechanics of camping, even as they dealt with such matters in a practical way. The food was as good as could be expected.
When the meal was over, Bill said casually: "Thanks. Shall we get started back?"
Cathy fed another bit of deadwood to her fire, and shook her head. "I'm in no hurry to go anywhere. I've still got some heavy thinking to do."
"They're really worried, you know. It's been a month now, after all."
"Oh my God." Her hand went to her mouth, and her eyes searched his. "It's been that long? But of course—I suppose it might have been."
Her surprise sounded so genuine that Bill stared at her in puzzlement. "How long did you think it had been?"
Cathy, scrubbing out her cooking pot with water and sand, only shook her head.
Bill pursued: "It would be nice if you came home with me—came back to your folks, I mean. Of course maybe you don't want to call that home any longer. As a favor to me, just to show them that I've earned my money. Then you can resume your camping trip, for all I care."
"My folks," she said. And suddenly she was angry. She looked around as if she might be trying to find something suitable to throw.
"Or at least tell me why you don't want to come home. Let me say it again, your father misses you a lot."
She blinked at him. "Really?" Now she sounded totally unconvinced, and genuinely angry. "What do you know about my father? You think that—that—" Whatever was upsetting her this time had left her speechless.
"I met him briefly. All I can report is how he impressed me. And your aunt Sarah's really upset."
He thought that Cathy softened slightly at mention of Aunt Sarah. But she gave no indication of changing her mind.<
br />
"Well, I'm certainly not going to try to drag you back against your will."
"I should hope not."
"Well, I'll be going, then, and tell them that you're safe. Or that you were safe when I saw you."
"Yes, you do that, Bill. Think you can find your way back?" A faintly wicked gleam that had begun to glow in Cathy's blue-gray eyes faded again. "I'll come part of the way with you. Maybe I can point you in the right direction."
"Good. Thanks." Bill smiled, thinking that this would at least give him a little more time to try to talk her into coming home. "Oh, by the way. Would you mind if I took a snapshot or two? Just to prove to everyone that I really did find you?"
She considered this. "No, I don't mind."
He got out his camera. "One last question, also?"
"Let's hear it."
"Who do you think those people were, who came to the Tyrrell House last night and got me chasing them?"
"I wouldn't want to guess."
Bill left it at that. He took a couple of Polaroids, and announced that he was leaving.
Cathy, coming with him to show him the way as promised, evidently felt secure in leaving her camp; the terrain and weather conditions seemed to make it safe to leave the small fire unattended.
They hiked for half an hour or so, up and down across country in a direction that seemed doubtful to Bill; but he was ready to admit that he was the one who was lost. Then Cathy stopped and pointed out the way he had to go.
When he took leave of her at last, Cathy stood looking after him, her arms folded.
After fifty paces or so Bill turned back to wave, but his would-be rescuee, already hiking briskly back in the direction of her camp, did not see, much less return, the gesture.
Bill pushed on in the direction she had indicated. He couldn't really believe Cathy's story the way she'd told it. For one thing, she wouldn't have been able to pack in a month's provisions on her back… would she? That freeze-dried stuff was very light.
Before Bill had made any headway in his thinking, or traveled fifty paces more, he was distracted by the sudden impression that something had gone strange about the air, or the light; as if the sun might have dimmed in a partial eclipse, though the sky was cloudless.
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