"Why didn't you tell me then? And why do you tell me now?"
"Others were present then. Besides, I wanted to think the matter over. I am convinced now that Cathy is in no danger from my husband. I wish that I could say I believe her to be in no danger."
Brainard was staring at his aunt. "I hope to God you're right, about Edgar. But look, what I saw—what I shot at last night—that wasn't Edgar Tyrrell."
"There was another visitor to the house last night," Sarah confirmed. "Another presence. Something—came with Edgar."
Joe looked from one of his visitors to the other. "I wasn't in a position to see what was happening. Is that all either of you can tell me? 'Something' came to the house?"
"At first," said Brainard, "I thought it was one of the people trying to collect from me, somehow outside the window. But all I could really see was a—pattern of lights. My nerves were ready to crack, and I took a shot at it." He shuddered faintly.
"Mr. Keogh." Sarah was doing her best to be businesslike. "In the light of what happened last night, of everything that we know now, I would like you to tell me, with complete honesty, whether you think you really have any chance of finding Cathy and helping her."
Brainard nodded and looked hopefully at Joe.
Again Joe looked from one of them to the other. "I don't know that what happened last night really changes anything, except that now one of my people is missing. I hope to be able to tell you in a few days, what I think our chances are of helping Cathy. Meanwhile you don't have to keep us on the payroll."
Brainard continued to look the part of the anxious father. "What will you know in a few days that you don't know now?"
Joe was trying to frame an answer, when his little two-way radio buzzed. The device was lying where he'd left it, on a small table across the room. "Excuse me."
He got to his feet and hobbled over to the unit. A moment later, Maria's voice was speaking from the instrument in his hand: "Boss? We've just heard from Bill."
Joe's two visitors were listening as attentively as he was. "Where is he?" Joe demanded.
Maria sounded enormously relieved. "Don't know exactly, but we were talking to him, and he sounded good. He says he's now definitely on the right track home. He'll he coming up Bright Angel within an hour."
It was almost noon when Bill Burdon, looking somewhat dazed, finally emerged from the depths. John and Maria went about a hundred yards down Bright Angel to meet him, as he appeared against the solemn background of a Canyon almost fully visible, a panorama grand enough to distract any newcomer at least briefly from any task.
"What the hell happened to you?" demanded John, getting angry now that it seemed the missing man was safe.
"You won't believe it." Bill stared at him, then at Maria, shook his head and started past them up the trail. They fell in beside him. When he was a little below the Tyrrell House he stopped again, to gaze up at the odd structure as if expecting some kind of a revelation.
Maria hardly noticed Bill's behavior. She was looking downhill, past an antlike mule-train of tourists on a switchback far below. She was frowning, as if considering something in the distance.
Neither of the men were paying her any attention. John, regarding Bill intently, abruptly remarked: "You didn't have a beard last night." That got Maria's attention back.
Bill only shook his head again. Then he reached out and took each of his discoverers briefly by the arm, as if to assure himself that they were real. He smiled at their solidity.
"Where's the Boss?" he demanded. "I've got a report to make."
An hour or so later, Bill was seated with Joe at a table on the balcony overlooking the lobby of El Tovar, and its massive genuine Christmas tree. Holiday music was playing somewhere, tourists by the hundreds were enjoying themselves, or trying to, and Bill was halfway through the second version of his report. Joe had bought him a drink, and was getting him to start the report over, because the first version had been notably lacking in coherence. Joe's newly purchased cane stood leaning against the table at his side.
Bill's beard was drawing curious glances, because it was now mostly on one side of his face. He had started to shave it off, then decided he had better let it be for the time being, as providing some kind of corroboration of the story he had to tell.
"—and she was just there, camping out to be alone, was the impression I got. Trying to get her head together, like we used to say."
Briefly Bill balanced a couple of Polaroid photos in his strong right hand. Then, with the air of a gambler playing cards which he did not really expect to win, he tossed them faceup on the table in front of Joe.
Joe picked up the photos and examined them. "That does look like the girl who was described to us."
Bill gestured at the pictures. "Oh, that's Cathy Brainard, all right. I don't have the least bit of doubt. She seemed unhappy with her family, and she didn't want to come back to them. At least she didn't want to come back with me. She was very firm on that point, and there was no way I could drag her."
"No, I can see that. So what did you do then?"
"She pointed me in what turned out—I guess—to be the right direction, and I—walked out." Bill paused for a long time. He swallowed half his drink, and grimaced. "Now comes the part you're not going to believe."
Joe sipped from his own glass. "You might be surprised. Try me."
"All right. I found my way—or I thought I found my way—back to the Tyrrell House. Except it wasn't this Tyrrell House. Not the one that's sitting over there on the rim right now."
"Go on," said Joe encouragingly.
Bill said defiantly: "It was the Tyrrell House in the thirties, before it became a museum. And Tyrrell himself was still living there, with his family."
"Wait a minute. You talked to Tyrrell?"
"No."
"What, then?"
"His family. Including—including Mrs. Tyrrell."
Joe was silent for a moment. "You mean the same Mrs. Tyrrell we're working for?"
Bill nodded slowly. "I think it's the same woman, boss. Only the Mrs. Tyrrell who hired us is about sixty years older. And then…"
"Then what?"
"There was a little girl, too, with young Mrs. Tyrrell. Her daughter, I assume. Maybe four years old."
"And?"
"And this little girl had what I'd call a strong family resemblance with Cathy."
Joe smiled faintly at Bill's anxious gaze. "Let's go talk to the old lady," he said.
Leaving the hotel, going west once more along the rim walk, Bill paced slowly beside Joe, who hobbled with his cane. They found old Sarah warming her hands before a fire in the main room of her house.
"Mrs. Tyrrell? I was wondering—can you remember ever meeting Bill, here, before you were introduced last night?"
The old woman looked from one man to the other. "I feared there might be complications," she said at last. "Is there trouble with time now, gentlemen?"
"I don't know," said Joe. Bill, his mouth slightly open, stood looking from one of them to the other.
"Young man," said Sarah, looking at Bill. "I thought last night that we might possibly have met before. But a great many strange things happened to me in the comparatively brief time that I lived with Edgar Tyrrell."
Haltingly, at Joe's urging, Bill told the story of his recent wanderings.
Sarah heard him out. "I suppose that what you say is not impossible, young man. The house as you describe it sounds correct. Perhaps a young man, who seemed out of place, did once drop in when I lived there. Perhaps I was able to advise him as to which way to walk, to get home—before the sun went down."
"And the little girl?" Joe asked.
"I have told you that I had a daughter."
"Where is she now?"
"I don't know. Tell me of my grandniece. That's what I'm paying you for."
Old Sarah's reaction to what the young man had to say of Cathy was definitely positive. Her eyes greedily devoured Bill's pair of Polaroids.
"Oh yes, yes, that's her," she murmured. "And living freely, by herself? Then there may be hope."
A few minutes later Joe and Bill returned to Joe's rooms in the hotel, where they had left John acting as bodyguard for Brainard.
John opened the door for them. "We had a transatlantic call while you were out. From Mr. Strangeways."
Joe paused in the act of pulling off his coat. "What'd he want?"
"He suggested we call our home office, and start Angie looking into other vanishings that have taken place in this area. He thought, and I agree, that over the years there have probably been a fair number."
"Okay." Joe grunted with relief as he settled himself in a chair. "Then ring her up."
In a minute Joe himself was talking to Angie, John's young wife. He asked her to find out how many people disappearing in or near the Canyon had any known connection with the Tyrrell House and its inhabitants.
He added, "Of course even those with no known connection might possibly be Tyrrell's responsibility."
When Joe hung up the phone, Brainard, who had been peering cautiously out the window, turned and called in a low voice: "Keogh?"
"Yeah?"
"That's one of them out there now. One of the men who are after me. Just standing there on the walk, as if he wants to make sure I see him."
Joe picked up his cane and got on his feet. He looked out cautiously, past the curtain that Brainard was holding back a little. "The big guy with the fur collar."
"Yeah."
"Sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. After what these people have said to me I'm not likely to forget what they look like."
"Got a name for this one?"
"This one introduced himself as Preston. Mr. Smith and Mr. Preston is what they told me. Of course I have no idea if those names are really…" Brainard, with a fatalistic shrug, let his words trail off.
"All right. I'll just go say hello," said Joe, and reached once more for his jacket. At the same time he sized up Bill and John, then let his gaze settle on the former. "Bill, you look bigger and uglier. Come out with me and back me up. Don't say anything and don't do anything unless it looks like I really need help. John, mind the store."
Preston, who had heavy, dark eyebrows and a mustache to match, hadn't moved. A second man, sharp-featured, built on a smaller scale but also strong and solid-looking, came from somewhere to join him, as Joe, with Bill staying a step behind, came hobbling out from the hotel. All four of their hands in jacket pockets, Smith and Preston watched their approach without expression.
Joe halted a couple of steps away. "You're looking at my window. Anything I can help you with?"
"I don't think so," said Smith, evidently giving the question serious consideration. His sharp features split in a smile. "If I decide I need a shoeshine, I'll let you know."
The big man in the fur collar took a more direct approach. "You a cop?" he demanded.
Joe shook his head. "Not any more," he answered mildly. "But they're not far away. Smith and Preston, huh?"
Smith turned his head to Preston. "D'ja hear that? I think the gimp is threatening us with cops. Maybe our lawyer ought to talk to him."
Preston gave what was probably a well-practiced impression of a man whose inner rage was mounting swiftly. He spat in the general direction of Joe's shoes. Out of the corner of his eye Joe saw Bill start to step forward and then hold back.
A couple of Park Rangers in their tan uniforms and Smokey the Bear hats were coming along the walk, among the usual gaggle of tourists. The rangers were talking geology, not paying any attention yet to four unhappy-looking men who stood in a loose group. Balancing on his cane, Joe reached out with quick, deft fingers, and snatched the cigarette from between Preston's fingers. He crushed out the glowing end on the furry lapel of the man's expensive jacket, so a fine thin wisp of smoke went up into the air of the winter afternoon. The gesture was quick and unobtrusive, as if he were only brushing away a little dust.
Preston twitched and started, as if the fur had been his skin. He said three foul words in a low, distinct voice. He started to sway forward.
Smith, aware of the Rangers nearby, put out an arm to hold him back. It was more of a gesture than a tug, but it succeeded.
To Joe, Smith said, in a new, dangerous voice: "Tell Brainard he better pay his debts. Paying debts is a law of nature, see, gimp? Sooner or later we all have to do it. Sooner or later."
"I'll tell him," Joe said flatly.
Old Sarah was sitting with her eyes closed, trying to remember. Was it only her imagination, or did a ghost of memory really come teasing back, a strangely-dressed young man who had dropped in at the house on the Rim one warm afternoon in the early thirties?
So many peculiar things had happened to her in the thirties. When you lived with a vampire, when you lived with Edgar Tyrrell, what difference more or less one strange young man?
Had the young man stayed until Edgar appeared, shortly after sunset? Or had Sarah, as she hoped she was remembering, managed quietly to save his life?
But the thirties were gone now, out of reach for her if perhaps not for Edgar. The most important thing, of course, was the modern evidence provided by Bill and his photographs, evidence that Cathy at least was still alive, and not being held somewhere against her will.
Nothing really helpful about Edgar, though. What helpful news could there ever be about him? The only helpful news would be, perhaps, that he was dead; sooner or later the true death came for all, even the nosferatu. But in Edgar's case, in the case of a man who so often did tricks with time—or perhaps, one with whom time so often played its own tricks—not even a confirmed report of death would guarantee that he could henceforward be considered harmless.
Sarah shuddered.
She had never really understood the work to which her husband had devoted his life. The research, the art—whatever the right name for it was—which had fascinated her husband and evidently still obsessed him, beyond all the attractions to which normal humans could be subject.
Sarah had never understood his work. But she had learned to fear it terribly.
Joe, re-entering his hotel room, said to the waiting Brainard: "They're gone for now."
"Thanks."
"Por nada. I don't think they've gone very far."
"I know it."
"But I've at least given them something to think about. I can get in touch with some people I know, try and see if these guys are wanted for anything."
"A temporary expedient. I appreciate it, but…"
"You're right."
Maria Torres, roused from a reverie by someone's voice calling her name, found herself leaning over a balcony at the Tyrrell House, contemplating the depths. Something very alluring was down there…
Daydreaming. She was daydreaming on the job. Maybe this was just the kind of thing the Canyon did to people.
Chapter 11
Half an hour after sunset, on the day after Jake's abortive attempt to start a fight with Edgar, the two of them were in the workshop-cave together, talking calmly and unhurriedly about the job. Jake's right arm still ached when he moved it in certain ways, but other than that it was almost as if yesterday's scuffle had been forgotten.
Edgar was inspecting the day's work Jake had just accomplished. Basically the boss's comments were favorable, though now and then he pointed out some detail with which he was not completely satisfied.
Jake had spent the day mining the deep Vishnu schist in the bottom of the cave for small white nodules. Edgar kept a sizable collection of these on his long workbench and in bins just below it. He used some of the nodules for his carvings. Jake had seen him carry others back toward the secret rear chamber of the cave, putting them down on the floor of the cave just in front of the crevice, as if sooner or later that would be their destination.
The mining itself, working hard rock with nothing but hand tools, had gone very slowly today. To Jake's relief, Edgar didn't seem to care that the process was a slow on
e, only that the search for nodules should be thorough and that Jake should occupy himself with it during most of the daylight hours. Every time he discovered one of the lumps of peculiar white stone, he had to excavate it carefully, undercutting to free it at the bottom. Then he carried it to the workbench, where he sorted all nodules by shape and size.
The bench was a long, crudely built but well-lighted wooden table, running along one wall of the cave beside the entrance. Here a dozen or two of the white nodules of modest size were scattered, a couple of them fixed to the bench in jigs and clamps, obviously in the process of being carved into the likenesses of living things. The white stuff was stone—at least Jake wouldn't have known how else to classify it—but in its feel and texture unlike any other material that he had ever handled.
Edgar told Jake that he, Edgar, had gathered some of the nodules already on the workbench, from the local rapids in the Colorado. Edgar also cautioned him—quite unnecessarily—that such methods of collection were not something that either Jake or Camilla could undertake and expect to survive.
There seemed to be plenty of white nodules here now, as Jake could see for himself. He wondered momentarily whether Edgar really needed or wanted more of them, or if he just wanted to keep Jake busy and out of mischief. Camilla's warning that Edgar really wanted something else from both of them came back to Jake now.
Most of the day Jake had worked with his shirt off, sweating like a pig. The cave was a little cooler than the sunbaked canyon outside, but not much. He took frequent breaks, and at intervals during the hot hours Camilla brought him cold lemonade. He had had the electric lights turned on for part of his workday; he needed them if he really wanted to get a good look at what he was doing, unless the sun was coming in the entrance at just the proper angle. They were still on now, of course. Jake noted that Edgar's vision seemed to be extremely good. The old man could see small details from a distance, and he wore no glasses.
On the job Jake used hammers and pry bars and chisels. Edgar had explosives on hand—Jake had seen the little locked-up shed, just outside the mine—but said he rarely employed them.
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