A Twist in Time dvtt-3

by Susan Squires

  They’d lost her. “Great.” He’d thought Casey was invincible. Looked like he was wrong.

  “What’s even better is that is that I had to spend time cleaning up the trail she did leave.” Casey spit onto the concrete. “The hospital called the police because it looked like the guy was a victim of an attack. They confiscated a nasty-looking sword with blood all over it. She told them he was taking part in some battle reenactment and the blood was fake. Of course an event like that would have to get a permit, so it didn’t take long to find out she was lying on all fronts. That got everybody excited.” Casey shook his head. “I had to call Felton over at the FBI again to get the sword back and take over the case. Don’t want the thin blue line tangling things up.”

  “You got a drawing of him circulating? Someone’s got to recognize a half-naked medieval guy.”

  Casey glared at Brad’s questioning his competence. “Not sure what he is. We sent the clothes and the sword down to Stanford for analysis.”

  The tarp sighed to the concrete floor in big folds. The men gasped at the great golden gears studded with jewels. “I thought you said the clothes were from the Middle Ages.”

  “The professor down at Stanford said on first glance he thought they were Dark Age.”

  “When was that?”

  Casey frowned at him. “Education a little narrow there, Steadman? You should have gone to the Point. Dark Ages were roughly a.d. 500 to 1000. Rough times. Coupled with the Nordic or Germanic language witnesses report he spoke, looks to me like we have a Saxon or a Viking on our hands.” The workers dragged the rollers into place and hooked a cable to the base of the machine.

  Brad flushed. Lucy had fallen for a primitive Viking, the kind who pillaged all of Europe? The original terrorists. Saxons weren’t much better. They just got there earlier. Brad lost it. “Great. He’s probably the one who sabotaged the machine just to get the diamond and you can’t find them even though he sticks out like a sore thumb in modern San Francisco.”

  “We’ll find them,” Casey said through gritted teeth.

  “And you think that, why?”

  Without another word the colonel whirled away and strode to the elevator.

  Thursday

  “Rise and shine,” Lucy said, bringing a bowl of oatmeal into the Viking’s cabin, along with another dose of Vicodin and Keflex. She’d found an alarm and set it to get up and dose him with Vicodin in the middle of the night. The alarm meant he’d been crouched on the bed ready to attack or defend by the time she opened the cabin door. But at least he’d been awake enough to recognize her and relax into a disgusted grunt instead of taking a swing at her.

  “Gd mergan,” he muttered now, pushing himself up. She’d heard him giving small, unconscious groans as he tried to get comfortable in the middle of the night. She was afraid the Vicodin wasn’t getting all the pain. But she was already giving him two seven-fifties. She couldn’t give him more. And this bottle was going to have to last. It said no refills and Jake had said no doctor. If Galen had still been in his own time, he’d have had to live in terrible pain for weeks and weeks, or until he died from infection. How did people live with such hardship? She didn’t like seeing him in pain at all.

  She set the oatmeal on the nightstand. First things first. “You need to pee? Urinate?” she asked in English because she didn’t know the Latin for it. Not happening. He looked blank. She gestured at the door to the head in the corner of the master cabin. “Privy? Bathroom?”

  “Baeth?”

  “Not exactly.” But close. Another word that seemed the same in both the English he spoke and her own version. He must have gotten the connection between bath and toilet, though. He got out of bed carefully and made it to the door to the head, giving her an X-rated full frontal view and then a long look at the muscles moving in his back and those round and totally lovely buttocks. He disappeared inside the head. Thank goodness. After a while she heard the toilet flush. He was a quick learner. There was a shower in there, but he probably shouldn’t get his bandages wet. She’d give him soap and a wet cloth and let him wash himself. What to do about his hair? The sink in the galley, maybe.

  He came out, X-rated all over again, seeming unconcerned about his nudity. She wished she could be. “You have a fine mirror. It is glass and not polished metal?” He was back to Latin.

  “Yes. Glass.”

  “Everything here is glass, even the grand halls.” He sat heavily on the bed and maneuvered his way to sit against the pillows as she pulled the covers up to his hips. She was probably fifteen shades of red.

  “I must go to buy food and clothes. Stay here.” It made her a little nervous to leave him. A horrible thought occurred. What if he got bored sitting here with nothing to do and went outside? He was weak, but he’d made it outside to pee last night. She looked around. Okay, well, there was the flat-screen television on the wall. What did parents call it? The electronic babysitter.

  She found the remote as he wolfed down his oatmeal. This might be a shock. She stopped his spoon in midair and took his bowl. “Wait. Look at this.” She motioned with her head to the screen on the wall and pointed the remote at it. The television flickered to life. He stiffened, his eyes wide as the images settled into a morning newscast. The good-looking guy and the perfectly coiffed girl were talking about the traffic. “It’s okay,” Lucy murmured. He didn’t look soothed.

  “What is this magic? Are these the things that are, or that will be?”

  “This is like . . . like a mirror. But it shows what . . . happens far away.” Drat her Latin.

  He seemed to get it, though. He nodded thoughtfully. “You are wicce.”

  Even she knew that Old English word. “I am not a wicce. All people here have these. They are called ‘televisions.’ ”

  “I will call it ‘far-seer.’ ”

  That kind of said it. And it was poetic, too. Way better than “television.” “This,” she held out the remote, “changes the . . . the painting.” “Painting” was as close as she could get. She showed him volume and the channel control. Fear in his expression was replaced by curiosity. He took the remote and waved it as he pushed one of the buttons. An old western movie appeared. Indians chased a wagon train that had begun to form a defensive circle.

  “Hors,” he said approvingly. “Waegen.” He raised his brows at her. He was testing to see whether she understood the words in Old English.

  She nodded, smiling. “Horses and wagons, yes.”

  “Deathcwealm?”

  Whoa. She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  He shrugged, looking past her at the television. Well, she didn’t need to be nervous about leaving him. She was definitely of secondary interest. “Keep the door . . . locked.”

  He didn’t answer but nodded, never taking his eyes from the screen.

  “Don’t bother to see me to the door,” she muttered, and headed for the hatch.

  Chapter 8

  Lucy drove the Chevy slowly up the dirt road to Highway 37 past the little convenience store Jake had told her about. She’d brought about a thousand dollars of Jake’s cash, but she resolved to spend as little as she could and get back to the boat as fast as she could, before her Viking could get into trouble.

  She hit the Target in Novato with a long wish list. Conditioner. Jake’s provisioning was pretty basic when it came to hair care. Some hair dye to get rid of the too-conspicuous red. Scissors to cut hair and bandages. There were razors in the bathroom, so she didn’t need those. Boxers. She guessed at a size 34 or maybe 36. He was a big guy. Better too big than too small and gaping open, God forbid. She picked up a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, because you didn’t have to know sizes. Extra large was close enough.

  For herself she found some Nikes for traction on wet decks, some jeans, and four or five long-sleeve and elbow-length-sleeve stretchy tops she could layer. A jacket and some socks, undies, and some bras and that would pretty much do her. She also got a sleep shirt—she wasn’t big on pajamas or flan
nel nightgowns, and the little camisoles with short-shorts looked way too skimpy to wear around a Viking who was probably used to raping and pillaging.

  She rolled her lips between her teeth. She wouldn’t think about that. But she did. The thought of cutting his flesh or shooting him made her ill.

  Pepper spray! That would take his mind off any raping and pillaging he might have in mind but not cause permanent damage. Not something they sold at Target, though. No Internet research on her missing iPhone, either. She’d have to ask.

  She wound her way over to the pharmacy part of the store. She scooped boxes of gauze bandage and rolls of tape into her cart. The shelves had about fifty kinds of disinfectant. When it came down to it, she didn’t know anything about caring for wounds. His were still draining. Her fresh bandages were wetly pink and yellow this morning. That couldn’t be good. She needed some help. But she couldn’t go to a doctor.

  Pharmacist! She couldn’t ask too many questions without arousing suspicion. But she might be able to get some help. She went up to the counter that said Pickup over the window.

  A young Asian woman with long hair and a name tag that said “Pharmacist” looked up from her computer screen. “Can I help you?”

  “Uh, sorry. What would you recommend for cleaning wounds? My . . . my husband . . .” Conjugal images rose in her head and had to be thrust forcibly down. “My husband has some stitches in a cut, and I was wondering what to use to keep the area clean.” She wouldn’t mention just how many stitches. Or the drain.

  “I like hydrogen peroxide at half strength. Just mix it with water. Finish with Betadine.”

  “Thank you.” Lucy smiled in relief. Too bad she couldn’t ask when to take the stitches out. She’d just get told that his doctor should decide that. But there was one thing a pharmacist would absolutely know. “The doctor gave him Vicodin seven-fifties, but he still seems to be in pain.”

  “Add some ibuprofen. The combination is really effective.” She continued to stick labels to pill bottles. “I can’t believe doctors don’t routinely prescribe a cocktail. It’s really accepted therapy at this point. But no worries. Give him four over-the-counter strength at a time along with the Vicodin. Have him take it with food. That stuff does eat away at your stomach lining.”

  “If I can get him to take it at all. I had to threaten him last night.”

  “Men!” The pharmacist rolled her eyes. “So macho.”

  “Oh yeah.” Who was more macho than a Viking?

  “He’s probably afraid of getting addicted. Tell him from me,” she said with a wicked smile, “that as long as the drugs have something to do, like relieve pain, he won’t get addicted. He’ll stop taking them naturally when he doesn’t need them anymore. Their whole purpose is to let him sleep so he can heal. And don’t let him chase the pain. Steady doses, that’s the trick. Doctor’s orders.” She winked. “He won’t know we’re talking Doctor of Pharmacy.”

  Lucy had to chuckle. “Thanks.” She waved and returned to aisle three to scoop up extralarge bottles of hydrogen peroxide and Betadine, a huge bottle of ibuprofen gel caps for fast action, and a big bag of cotton balls. This Target didn’t have perishables, so she’d hit a grocery store on the way out of town. So much for one stop.

  She moved to the registers. The girl who rang her up was hefty, with a blotchy complexion and too many earrings. “Know where I can get some pepper spray?” Lucy asked as casually as she could. Now she’d be up to three stops.

  “Gee, no,” the girl said. “What do you need that for?”

  “I live alone in a kind of out-of-the-way place. You just feel better with some protection.”

  The girl glanced to the boxer shorts Lucy was putting into the bag. Oops, the living-alone thing was maybe not the most believable choice of lies. “He gets out of line, does he? I had one like that. Pepper spray’s good. But I’ve got no idea where to get it. Why don’t you go online?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I will,” Lucy muttered. Over Jake’s dead body. And maybe hers.

  “That’ll be four hundred and sixty-six dollars. Debit or credit?”

  “Cash, actually.” She counted out twenty-four twenties from her roll.

  The girl’s eyes were big. Oops again. “Don’t see cash for anything over twenty bucks anymore,” she murmured.

  “My mom had a fetish for paying cash. Got it from her mom, who lived through the Depression. I guess for me it’s kind of a genetic aversion to credit cards.”

  The girl made change. “You know.” She cleared her throat. “You can leave him. There’s a hotline that will find you a place to stay where he can’t get you. Just call information and ask for the Family Violence Center.”

  Lucy smiled, sad as that made her feel inside. “You’re very kind. Maybe I’ll call.”

  She left feeling guilty. That girl had been in an abusive relationship and made it out. She found the courage to be generous to others. Lucy hadn’t had it tough at all. Her life had been pretty okay. So she’d traveled in time and was on the run with a man from 912 who might enjoy raping and pillaging.

  But on the whole, things could be worse.

  Are you crazy? Strange as it was, she had the strongest feeling she was in the right place, doing the right thing. She found herself standing in front of the newspaper box outside the Target exit. Why didn’t she feel more panicked about the whole situation?

  Of course she was panicked, underneath. She was just too tired to feel it. That was all. She flicked quarters into the machine for a copy of the Chronicle. Better look for news of the time machine and any search for her and Galen. She wanted to just sit on one of the benches near the store entrance and scan the paper immediately, but she had to get back to the boat before Galen got up to anything. She loaded her bags in the Chevy’s trunk and tooled out of the parking lot. Besides, why should she panic? No one was going to come looking for them in a marina down a dirt road in this backwater. They were safe, as long as he didn’t kill anybody or something.

  Tempted as she was to just go straight back to the marina, vacuum-packed meals weren’t especially attractive. If Galen was going to get his strength back, he needed to chow down. What did Vikings eat? Fish probably, and pretty simple food. No kung pao chicken. There was a Safeway a few blocks down.

  The two little fridges were going to be packed. . . .

  Galen waited until he heard the growl of her “car” recede before he got out of bed. The far-seer was fascinating, but there were more important things to do at the moment. He wanted his sword. She must have brought it in from the car. She would not leave so precious a thing where others could steal it.

  He shoved himself up, cursing his weakness. Had they done something to him in that place of glass and steel to make him weak? But then, he had lost much blood by the time the men had pushed him onto that rolling metal cart. By all rights he should be dead. He leaned against the wood of the passageway, limping past the indoor privy. He knew full well that she had hidden the sword from him. She wanted him to remain in her power.

  He opened each cupboard, each drawer in the kitchen, whether it seemed large enough to hold a sword or not. They held strange boxes or slick-feeling bottles not made of glass. He found the place where pots and pans were kept, glass tankards for drinking, and the bowls out of which he had eaten stew last night. One cupboard contained small, round canisters brightly painted with pictures of food, including round red fruit with tiny stems he did not recognize. Then he found it. A drawer with many knives. He sucked in air suddenly sweet with satisfaction. He picked the biggest knife and concealed it in the sling over his forearm. Not his sword. But good.

  He pushed into the sitting area with a soft, long bench chair and another far-seer, the table and bench that he had collapsed upon when he first came down the ladder, and beyond that . . . another passageway. It must lead to the place where she slept, since she had not slept in his bed, though it was plenty large enough for two.

  He opened a door in the passageway. It led down to a r
oom filled with the smell of grease and much metal in convoluted shapes. He peered around in the dim light from the open door. He could not tell for certain the sword wasn’t there, but he could not find it. Back up in the passageway, he found another door to a shallow closet that held boxes of strange metal tools, and spare rope, boxes of soap. He pawed through everything. No sword,

  Too bad. The closet would have been a likely place for her to store the sword. At the far end of the passage, he pushed into the room she had taken for her own. It was tiny, with barely room for a narrow bed on one side. A little box-table like the one beside his bed held a lamp. There was a chest under the bed. He pulled open the drawers. Bedding, but no sword. He looked around. Across from the bed was another cupboard. Inside on a hook on the door hung the shirt she had worn last night that left her legs bare. He could not resist. It seemed to draw his hand. The cloth was almost furry, soft to the touch. He could imagine it against the white skin of her arms and her breasts. He lifted the cloth to his face and inhaled. It smelled exactly the way she had smelled when she leaned over him to fix his sling last night. But now there was the added scent of soap. She had bathed just before she donned this garment. How he would like to bathe her. He imagined his palms, slippery with soap, sliding over the generous mounds of her breasts. . . .

  No sword, though. Where had she hidden it?

  His eyes fell on the bed. Knowing that she slept there made his loins tighten. He could imagine her, soft with sleep, her long, dark lashes brushing her cheeks. He would love to wake her, his weapon needy to bury itself in her body. . . .

  Back to the bed. The mattress was about six inches thick laid over the wooden drawers.

  She wouldn’t have put it in the most obvious place, would she? He leaned over and felt under the mattress.