A Question Of Time

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A Question Of Time Page 12

by Fred Saberhagen


  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 having changed her mind.

  “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.

  After a few moments of looking about him, he had to admit to himself that he could pin down nothing really wrong with sky or sun. But both were disturbingly different.

  * * *

  Still more or less following the directions given him by Cathy, and pondering what seemed strange alterations in weather and time of day, in half an hour Bill Burdon came in sight of El Tovar. So suddenly and unexpectedly did this discovery occur that he endured a moment of serious disorientation. On topping what he had thought was only a minor ridge, he found himself actually standing on the South Rim after all. At the same time the unmistakable landmark of the great log hotel popped into view, less than half a mile to the east.

  With a sense of relief, mingled with shame at having got lost like a rank tenderfoot,
Bill strode toward Canyon Village.

  … and yet today the central building looked somehow different, strangely smaller, than the hotel he’d seen at close range only last night.

  Thoughtfully he scratched his chin—and then stopped in his tracks. He could distinctly remember shaving, just yesterday morning, before setting out from Phoenix. And yet now he had, he swore he had, what felt like a three days’ growth of beard.

  Shaken, Bill walked on. Then again he paused, squinting even though his eyesight was ordinarily excellent for distance. Now he could make out a handful of antique cars, of thirties vintage, in the shrunken and unpaved parking lot beside El Tovar. No other vehicles were to be seen.

  Bill rubbed his eyes. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe it was just the heat-shimmer of the atmosphere making the automobiles look strange. But—heat-shimmer in December? Come to think of it, the air did seem unseasonably warm…

  * * * * * *

  He hiked on, entering a portion of the rim-trail that took him briefly back in among the pine and cedar, out of sight of El Tovar and its attendant marvels. During this interval he managed to convince himself, despite the continuing warmness of the air, that he had really managed to find his way back to the mundane world he had left last night, in late December of 1991.

  But in a few moments the trail brought him out of the woods again. There, unarguably there, was El Tovar—but, disturbingly, a diminished version of the hotel he thought he could remember from last night.

  All Bill could do was push ahead.

  He passed, and recognized, the Bright Angel trailhead, though the fences in this area looked different than the fences he’d passed last evening, and there were fewer guest cottages overlooking the Canyon than he seemed to remember.

  Moments later, Bill arrived at the Tyrrell House.

  It was a warm day, yes, all right, a summer afternoon—with the sun threatening to set much too far to the north for December—but Bill didn’t want to think about that just now—and he had first unzipped his jacket and then taken it off.

  Some tourists, their numbers much diminished from those of yesterday—as Bill recalled yesterday—were moving toward Bill along the rim trail, which now ran at a somewhat greater distance from the house than he remembered. Today’s sightseers, Bill had to admit, were dressed for summer. If he looked at them carefully, and allowed himself to think about what he saw, he would have to admit something much more disturbing. They were very strangely dressed indeed. You would have to say they were costumed, like people out of his grandfather’s photo album from the thirties … Some of them, who glanced at Bill, also appeared to be impressed by what they saw.

  Bill turned his back on the costumed sightseers. His feet dragged to a stop in front of a building that had to be the Tyrrell House. No doubt about it, this was the same house. He could recognize the familiar outlines of the structure, practically unchanged from yesterday evening.

  But …

  Today the front door of old Edgar Tyrrell’s dwelling stood ajar. From just inside, Bill could hear children’s voices, toddlers it sounded like. At least a pair of them.

  The area just in front of the house was no longer paved with a Park Service sidewalk, as he was sure that it had been last night. Now there was only a little unpaved footpath worn in the hard earth, leading to the front door.

  Even as Bill stood gazing at that door, it opened wider. Out came a young woman and a little girl of four years old or so, in toddler’s overalls. The young woman was garbed in a thirties dress, and a wide-brimmed gardening hat.

  The little girl, thought Bill, had remarkable eyes. Their soft blue-gray reminded him much, very much, of the eyes of the girl named Cathy whom he had just left.

  Both of them looked at the strange man who had paused near their front door.

  “How do,” said Bill to the young woman, in his best mild country manner, and bobbed his head.

  “How do,” the young woman answered softly, as if perhaps she thought straight imitation was the safest course. Then she did a mild double-take as something in Bill’s appearance appeared to register with her. “Can I help you?” she asked slowly.

  “I didn’t know,” he said after a pause, “that anyone lived here. Beautiful place to live.” That was certainly inadequate. “Oh, my name’s Bill Burdon, by the way.”

  The young woman studied him for another ten or fifteen seconds. Then she introduced herself: “I’m Sarah Tyrrell.” Pause. “If you’re looking for my husband, he won’t be back until after dark.”

  Chapter Ten

  On the morning after Bill Burdon’s disappearance, Joe Keogh was awakened in his hotel room by a discreet tapping on the door. Cursing, Joe reached for his watch and learned that the time was eight a.m. He rolled off the bed, only to find himself barely able to stand. His twisted ankle had swollen and stiffened since last night, notwithstanding the fact that he had eventually applied icepacks. He was worse off now than when he’d taken off his shoes and thrown himself down on the bed barely four hours ago.

  The tapping was repeated, and Joe muffled his curses and somehow hobbled to the door. Last night at the Tyrrell House he’d taken the next-to-last shift of waiting for Bill to call in again. Eventually, some time after midnight, he had abandoned that vigil and, at his client’s urging, got John to help him back to his own room.

  He reached the door, and called, “Who is it?”

  “Maria.” The answer was barely audible, but Joe could recognize the voice. He relaxed and let her in.

  The young woman, who had been up practically all night, naturally enough looked tired, but she said that in a couple of hours she’d be ready to go again. There wasn’t much to report, she added, since nothing had happened at the Tyrrell House after Joe’s departure. While delivering these remarks Maria was taking off her boots and unrolling her sleeping bag on the sofa.

  “Mrs. Tyrrell didn’t offer to let you sack out over there?”

  “Nope. In fact a little while ago she started hinting pretty strongly that I ought to go to my own hotel room, if I had one, and get some rest. Of course I said I had one.”

  Joe grunted, and stumped over to the window. Last night’s clouds and fog were gone, and the sun, now about half an hour high, was having things its own way. At least, he thought, we ought to get a look at the scenery today.

  Two seconds was all he could spare for scenery just now. Joe ran fingers through his hair. “I’m going to have to talk to John.”

  Maria, on the point of disappearing into her sleeping bag, hesitated. “Want me to get him on radio?”

  “I’ll do it. You’d better get some rest. We’re going to need you later.”

  But Maria delayed again. “Boss? When do we go looking for Bill?”

  “Soon. I promise, you won’t miss out on that.”

  “And how come that person, or those people, whoever it was, was able to get past us last night?”

  “I have some ideas on that. Ideas I want to talk over with you and Bill—as soon as he gets back.”

  “Sure.” Maria, sounding really tired, had put her head down again and was already drifting off.

  Trying to let her sleep, Joe moved into the next room, where he soon reached John on the radio.

  In five minutes John Southerland was also in the suite. He had nothing further to report regarding Bill. “Brainard was unhappy to see me leave. But I figure we’re working for Aunt Sarah, and she seemed all in favor. Say, where’d Mr. Strangeways get to?”

  “England, he said.”

  “What?”

  “You heard. I have no real explanation. Why don’t you get some sack time while there’s a chance?” Maria’s faint snores came drifting from the other room.

  “At the moment I’m more hungry than tired.”

  “Okay, order up some room service. For three, I guess. I like pancakes.”

  Moments later, Joe was shutting himself in the bathroom. There he swallowed a couple of aspirins, and enjoyed—if that was the right word—a s
hower, conducted largely while balanced on one leg.

  Emerging in fresh clothing, he found both Maria and John sleeping, she in her sleeping bag and John, boots off, stretched out on the floor, where he had wasted no time in creating a kind of padded nest with jackets and chair cushions. Joe, keeping as quiet as possible, established himself in a chair, where he silently cursed his injured ankle.

  Staring at the phone on the little table at his elbow, he contemplated getting in touch with his home base in Chicago. John’s wife Angie ought to be minding the office, and there might possibly be a thing or two that she could do to help.

  Before Joe could make up his mind about the call, room service arrived, inevitably awakening his colleagues. Maria roused herself and stretched, catlike. “Strange dreams…” she murmured, her expression one of remote dissatisfaction.

  The two younger people were glad to join Joe in an experience of white linen and what looked like silver, with food and coffee suggesting anything but proximity to the wilderness. Joe, with one foot propped up on cushions, consumed a delicious though unavoidably gloomy breakfast, then ordered an extra pot of coffee.

  From time to time he glanced at Bill Burdon’s unused sleeping bag, which lay accusingly in a corner of the room, still rolled up.

  Over breakfast the three discussed the situation. They’d had only the brief and somewhat garbled radio messages from Bill, assuring them that he was all right, though having trouble finding his way back.

  Maria said: “That just doesn’t sound right to me. From the way Bill described his background, his experience, I’d expect him to be able to find his way home from the North Pole.”

  Joe looked at his watch. “I think it’s still too early to call in the Park rangers. He said he might have to wait for sunrise to start back, so let’s give him a little longer. You two finish eating and get some rest. If we don’t hear from him by ten o’clock or so, we’d better start looking.”

  Observing the difficulty with which Joe hobbled about the hotel room, Maria suggested that maybe he ought to see the local doctor. But he shook his head, reluctant to do that. He didn’t think any bones were broken, and there was probably little any doctor would be able to do for him, except tell him that he ought to rest. He sat down with his foot propped up on the bed. At least the swelling wasn’t any worse. John and Maria offered contradictory advice as to whether heat or cold would be best to apply at this stage.

 

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