Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy) Page 8

  "You can sit over there," said Emilie, pointing to the straight-back chair near the hearth.

  He shook his head. "Nay, mistress. I think not." He took a position near the door. There was nothing about the situation that could be deemed normal and it was his intention to be prepared for any happenstance.

  "Oh God...." Her words were exhaled on a sigh. She looked from one man to the other. "This is going to be tougher than I thought."

  "Just spit it out," said Rutledge. "If we're going to make it to JFK, we'd better--"

  "We're not going to JFK."

  "You mean you're not going?"

  She shook her head. "Nobody's going to JFK because there is no JFK." She laughed, but there was the sound of panic in her voice. "In fact, there are no airplanes, no automobiles, no computers. You name it and you won't find it here."

  "What manner of object is a com-pu-turr?" asked Andrew.

  Zane whirled toward the other man. "What's with you, McVie? You been living in a cave for the past twenty years?" McVie...Andrew McVie...why does that name sound so damn familiar?

  "Don't you understand?" Emilie's expression was as intense as her tone of voice. "This isn't Crosse Harbor and it isn't 1992. We've gone back in time."

  Zane's gut twisted. It was worse than he thought. She'd obviously lost her mind. He stood. "Listen, it's been a lousy morning. Why don't you lie down on the bed and get some rest. McVie can take me into town to the doctor. A broken arm's no big deal. I'll be back before you wake up from your nap--"

  "Listen to me, Zane!" Her voice filled the room. "Look around you! This isn't the world you knew." She gestured toward McVie who was standing, eyes watchful, near the door. "This is his world!"

  Zane met McVie's eyes. "Do you know what she's talking about?"

  McVie shook his head. He tapped the side of his head with his forefinger in a gesture Zane recognized.

  Unfortunately so did Emilie and she let out a shriek of exasperation.

  "Where are the electrical outlets?" she demanded, poking Zane in the chest. "The telephone? Refrigerator? Have you heard a car go by or seen an airplane or motorboat? Where's the bathroom, for God's sake, Zane?"

  Sweat broke out on the back of his neck. "You told me last night that they were restoring the lighthouse," he said, evading the issue. "They just haven't gotten around to everything yet."

  "That's right," she said, meeting his eyes. "It will take another century or two to finish the job."

  He stormed through the lighthouse as a dark cloud of fear settled itself around him. "You're wrong," he said, overturning tables and kicking open doors as he searched for proof. "You don't go to sleep in one century then wake up in another." There had to be another explanation, some simple answer that they were overlooking.

  Emilie was hard on his heels as he made his way up the winding staircase toward the lookout tower. "Remember the cloud cover that blew in on us? You said you'd never seen anything like it before...."

  "Shut up!" he roared. "This whole thing is nuts. You're nuts!"

  She laid a hand on his forearm. "I'm scared too," she said, her voice soft. "It's normal to be--"

  "It's bullshit," he said, pulling away from her.

  "No, it isn't, Zane. You know it isn't."

  "I'll prove it to you." He pulled himself up into the lookout tower, trying to ignore the sharp waves of pain radiating from his forearm to his shoulder and across his chest. "Most of the lighthouses today are automated."

  "Not this one," said Emilie, popping up at his side.

  "Bet me."

  Emilie's heart ached for him. He was a man accustomed to being in control and this was a situation over which neither had anything resembling control. Beads of sweat poised over his upper lip and he held his arm at an odd angle, almost as if the appendage belonged to somebody else. Under normal circumstances Zane's arm would be set by now and he'd have access to the painkillers almost everyone took for granted.

  "This is a trick," he said, staring at the oil and wick that served as a beacon. "Some kind of practical joke."

  "Look toward the west," she said quietly. "Toward the harbor. That's not the Crosse Harbor we left behind."

  He didn't want to look. There was something in her tone of voice, some deeper note of truth that was scaring the hell out of him.

  He turned slowly, bracing himself, then looked around.

  Maple trees, heavy with leaves, crowded the shore. The sky was a rich, deep blue streaked with a few high cirrus clouds. The water was clear, the air was fresh, the whole thing was impossible but in his gut he knew Emilie was right.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" she whispered, coming up behind him.

  He nodded. There was a certain wild magnificence to the sight before him but he refused to acknowledge it. Still he found it impossible to turn away from the sight. "What year?"

  "I'm not certain." She paused for a moment. "Around 1776, as near as I can tell."

  His body jerked as if struck a blow. "How do you know?"

  "Thomas Paine's Common Sense. I found it near the trundle bed."

  Her face seemed lit from within, almost incandescent with the thrill of discovery and it occurred to him that this woman wasn't like anyone he'd ever known. She wasn't afraid or angry or any of the hundred other emotions anyone else in their position would be feeling. The notion of being torn from the life she knew and thrust back in time seemed to fill her with excitement, as if she'd been waiting all her life for this moment.

  Last night with her in his arms, he'd felt they were on the brink of a new relationship but he'd never imagined it would be anything like this.

  "Zane." She moved into his line of vision. "Are you--"

  "I'm okay," he said, not entirely convinced of that fact. "I just wish I'd paid more attention to high school history classes."

  "I may not remember all the dates, but I paid close enough attention to everything else." Again she touched his arm and images from the night before seemed to shimmer in the air between them. "Think of it, Zane. The Revolutionary War is going on and we're the only people on earth who know how it's going to end."

  #

  Andrew McVie had heard more than enough and he stepped from the shadows.

  "Aye, 'tis talk like that that has led many a man to an early grave."

  Emilie and Zane turned around to see him standing at the top of the stairs, brandishing a wicked-looking knife. "Oh, not again." Emilie motioned toward the weapon. "Come to your senses, Andrew. We're on your side."

  He narrowed his eyes and looked from one to the other. "Lass, your countenance is most agreeable but I fear there is still much about you and your companion to cause me great affliction."

  "You heard what I said, didn't you?" The Mistress Emilie fixed him with a look from those huge green eyes of hers and it was almost his undoing.

  "You spoke of war," he said, knife at the ready should they try to make an untoward escape. "What is it you know about the engagement?"

  Mistress Emilie met her companion's eyes then looked back toward Andrew. "I know that your cause will be victorious."

  "And how is it you know to which cause I pledge my allegiance?" He'd been right to hold the couple in suspicion and now the redheaded woman was about to betray her true convictions.

  She hesitated.

  "Aye, lass, it's as I thought. A noble ruse, I must admit, but one that will know an unhappy resolution."

  "Wait a minute!" said the man with the inexplicable name. "What did you say your name was?"

  It occurred to Andrew that he'd been a fool and more to have given his rightful name to these strangers. "McVie," he said with reluctance.

  "That's it!" Zane Grey Rutledge looked unconscionably pleased with himself. "You're the one who saved George Washington from an assassination plot."

  It took Andrew but an instant to react. He put the knife between his teeth, grabbed the redheaded woman, then held the knife to the softest part of her throat. "How is it you know anything about me?" he asked in
a tone that brooked no argument. "Anything less than the truth and the lass will know the sting of my blade."

  Zane lurched forward, ready to do battle, only to have the full fury of his broken arm drop him to his knees at the first swing of his fist.

  "Touch her, McVie, and I'll kill you."

  If Emilie felt anything more than surprise at the situation, she hid it well.

  "I know this is difficult for you to believe, Andrew, but we're from the future."

  Andrew's laugh echoed in the empty tower. "Witches no longer cast their spell in the colonies, Mistress Emilie. Not even in Massachusetts."

  "This isn't witchcraft or fortune-telling," she persisted in that oddly accented voice of hers. "We had an accident--"

  "I know," he broke in. "On your boat."

  "Well, not exactly." He released his hold on her then spun her around by the shoulders so he could see her face. "It was a balloon accident."

  He knew he must resemble the village idiot with his mouth agape but her words were so preposterous that he could do naught but laugh. "You speak nonsense."

  But she was not to be deterred. "I speak the truth. Zane and I were floating in a hot air balloon." She paused. "Have you heard of such things?"

  "Aye," he said, even though naught but a fool would believe man or beast would ever sail in one.

  She went on. "Anyway, we encountered bad weather and crashed to the ground." Her laugh was uneasy and it made him suddenly uncomfortable. "Only thing is, we misjudged our destination by about two hundred years."

  He felt the way he had the last time he attempted to drown his prodigious sorrows in a tankard of ale at the Bunch of Grapes. "So you say you come from the future--from the year nineteen hundred and seventy-six?"

  Emilie's mouth turned up in a smile. "Well, nineteen hundred and ninety-two, but who's counting?"

  Andrew was. Every single unbelievable year. "I suppose you have proof of this phenomenon?"

  She looked toward Zane. "Do you have anything?"

  He shrugged. "I'm naked under this blanket, Emilie. How about you?"

  "I don't--" She stopped. "Wait a minute. I think I do have something...."

  Andrew watched with great caution as she reached into the waistband of her breeches and withdrew a heavily embroidered purse much like the ones the good women of his acquaintance carried on their person.

  Emilie looked at the purse and tears of wonder sprang to her eyes. The faded silk threads were vibrant, pulsing with rich color. The worn spots on the outer edges were plush with texture. If she'd required more proof of their situation, this was it. She felt Zane's eyes on her as she untied the ribbon then withdrew a one-dollar bill.

  She handed the single to McVie. "This should do it."

  McVie took the bill from the redheaded woman. There was a linen-like texture to the note that felt substantial to his work-roughened fingers.

  "Take a close look," she urged.

  "Federal Reserve Note," he read from the top of the currency. "The United--" He blinked. Surely his eyes were playing tricks upon his brain.

  "The United States of America," said Emilie. "And that's George Washington right there looking back at you."

  It was more than Andrew could comprehend. "General Washington?"

  Emilie smiled wide. "President Washington. The first president of the United States of America."

  "This is--I cannot...." His words trailed off as he stared again at the currency in his hand. Indeed the portrait of the white-haired man did seem to bear more than a passing resemblance to the likenesses he'd seen of His Excellency, the General. He read off a string of letters and numbers near the upper right-hand corner then looked twice at the words beneath. "Washington Dee Cee. What does that mean?"

  "District of Columbia," said Rutledge. "The capital of the fifty states."

  "It's on the Potomac River," offered Emilie. "Near your Maryland and Virginia."

  Her words were lost on Andrew. "Fifty states?"

  "Thirteen colonies became fifty states," said Emilie, eyes shining. "From the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific."

  A green seal was positioned beneath the name of the nation's capital and within that seal were the words Department of the Treasury 1789.

  Andrew dropped the bill as if it had suddenly caught fire. His chest felt tight, making it hard to draw sufficient breath into his lungs. He looked again at the redheaded woman and her tall companion. It would explain so much about them. Her strange attire, the king's ransom in precious metal that bedecked her person, the odd manner of speech they both affected.

  There was no denying Rutledge's fury when the Mistress Emilie related the story. The man had had the look about him of a wild animal caught in a trap. Andrew knew the feeling of being caught in circumstances not of his own design and, despite his better judgment, he well understood Rutledge's agitation.

  But what then was he to make of Mistress Emilie? Andrew recognized something of himself in the redheaded woman as well and that threw his mind into a whirlpool of confusion.

  The patriots had been engaged in the battle against British tyranny for more than a year and still had not achieved a victory. His Excellency, General Washington, had sent numerous missives to the Continental Congress in Philadelphia, begging the good men of conscience to provide more troops, more food, more weapons to aid in their cause.

  Andrew had seen the swift horror of Lexington and Concord. Little had happened since to raise the spirits of the patriots.

  "You spoke of the General," he said, choosing his words with great deliberation. "Of some danger--?"

  "A plot to assassinate him," said Mistress Emilie. "In my day you are thought of as a hero."

  He was many things but a hero was not among them. "And what is it that I have done to deserve such praise?"

  She told him quickly of a masked man, garbed all in black, who had risked his own life to save the commander of the Continental Army.

  "When did this happen?"

  "In the summer of 1776."

  Andrew grew quiet. July was all but gone. "Can you put a date and place to this event, Mistress Emilie?"

  "I wish I could, but there has always been a degree of uncertainty attached to the event." She hesitated, dropping her gaze in a most uncharacteristic fashion.

  "Mark me well, mistress. I am not a man afraid of harsh news."

  "The truth is that I have no news, Andrew. From that moment forward, you exist only in speculation." Her smile was gentle and for a moment he was reminded of his Elspeth. "I have always imagined that you retired to a life in the country with a wife and children and lived to be a very old man."

  Her words struck a chord deep inside him, hidden away in that place where love had gone to die. For the past few years he had not felt himself long for the world. When Elspeth and their son had died, they had taken with them all that was fine and good in the world, leaving him behind to mark the days until he met his Maker.

  Some men joined the militia because the fires of independence burned hot in their breasts. Those men became generals, leaders of men. Andrew had joined because he had nothing of value to lose. They made him a spy.

  He looked at Emilie who was standing near her companion. "How is it you come to know the ways of this time to such a degree?" Were he to find himself in Plimoth colony at the time of its beginnings, he would be without a clue as to proper behavior. "Sorcery, perhaps?"

  "Nothing so exotic. I earn my living--Zane!"

  Rutledge suddenly doubled over, clutching his right arm against his chest.

  "He's in pain," she said, eyes wide as she looked at Andrew. "Can we fetch a doctor?"

  "I cannot risk such an enterprise," he said. "My presence here cannot be revealed."

  "I can risk it," said Emilie. "Tell me the best place to moor the rowboat and I can find my way into town."

  "Over my dead body," said Rutledge, gritting his teeth. "I'm fine."

  McVie slid his knife back into the waistband of his breeches and approached. "You
are a fortunate man," he said, looking at Zane's right forearm which had sustained a fracture. "If the bone had broken the skin, the cause would be lost."

  "You're the local hero," Zane growled, "not the doctor."

  "A physician would tell you same as I, Rutledge. You and your arm would be parting company."

  Zane gestured toward McVie. "Keep him the hell away from me," he said to Emilie.

  "We have to set that arm, Zane."

  "I'll do it myself."

  "You're talking like a fool."

  "I'm not the one who says a balloon dropped us into the middle of the Revolution."

  Emilie started to laugh. She couldn't help it. Maybe it was lack of food or the jet lag to end all jet lag. She didn't know. But whatever it was, the whole thing suddenly struck her as so absurd, so funny, that the laughter bubbled up and it wouldn't stop.

  It took Zane all of about five seconds to catch the wave. He laughed until his sides hurt as much as his broken arm.

  Emilie was draped over the bench, tears of mirth rolling down her cheeks, while Zane leaned against the wall and roared. McVie stood in the doorway, his expression perfectly dead-pan. Each time they looked at him they laughed all the harder.

  "I'm starving," said Emilie, holding her sides. "Let's call out for a pizza."

  "Great idea," Zane managed. "Think it'll get here in thirty minutes?"

  "Oh no!" cried Emilie, wiping her eyes. "I left the water running in the kitchen."

  "I can go you one better," said Zane. "I left the Porsche running."

  Andrew watched them patiently from the doorway. He knew the words they spoke were English but the meaning behind them was impossible for him to comprehend. All this talk about por-shuh and peet-zah--what manner of world did they come from?

  He glanced out the window then cleared his throat. "It grows dark soon. We should tend to business while we can."

  Both Emilie and Zane grew abruptly silent as reality once again rushed in on them.

  "We have to do something about your arm," Emilie said at last. "The longer we wait...."