Harig narrowed his eyes, then turned toward the boy.
From Joe’s bird’s eye view from the tree, the kid looked to be about twelve-years-old. His hands and feet were tied with thick twine. His small chin tipped upward at the sound of Harig’s deep voice, “You want to come along, do you?”
The boy stumbled backwards, obviously caught off guard. The kid must have thought Harig was long gone.
Joe opened his briefcase, shuffled through its contents. Perspiration gathered above his brow.
“What are you doing?” Alexandra asked. “Are you going to help my brother, or not?”
“I’m having a few problems up here if you don’t mind. Just give me a moment.”
Frantically, he searched through the briefcase for a weapon. Anything. His pulse raced, blood pounding in his throat. A quick glance over his shoulder told him he didn’t have much time. Harig was dragging Alexandra’s little brother toward the horse. Damn.
An armored man. A horse with an age-old saddle. Handmade plows and a barn made partly of wattle and daub. How could this be?
Think, Joe, think.
How was he supposed to think with images of the cold steel of the sword tucked in the sheath at the Harig’s side? If this wasn’t some god-awful nightmare, then he was in trouble...big trouble. But he had little time to worry about how he came to be here. Dream or not, helping the boy was all that mattered.
Pushing papers aside, Joe took quick inventory of what he had to work with. He saw the brushed steel of the toilet plunger and realized Alexandra had something to do with the assortment of modern weaponry stuffed inside his briefcase. Not only had she taken apart the plunger and packed the steel handle, she had thrown in everything a cop might find on any punk in a New York subway. If he ever got out of this tree, he was going to hug her.
He jammed his pockets full, and then wedged the briefcase between two thick limbs. By the time he looked down again, Alexandra was throwing rocks at Harig’s backside.
Clank.
The giant turned. “Who goes there?”
Joe’s face twisted into a grimace. He peered down at Alexandra. “Are you insane?”
“Somebody had to stop him.”
“That rock,” Joe said, pointing in the direction she threw it. A queasy feeling enveloped him. “Please tell me that wasn’t my transportation home.”
A wry smile curved her lips.
Forget the hug, he decided. He was going to strangle her!
Joe returned his attention to the boy who was now wriggling and kicking, trapped within Harig’s arms. But all that youthful flailing about failed to stop Harig from mounting his horse.
Joe moved to a lower limb.
Harig jerked on the reins and headed their way. A wave of prickling fear swam down Joe’s spine as the big man neared. Alexandra disappeared into the growing darkness.
Joe wondered if he was on a movie set. That made perfect sense. Movie people used Central Park as their backdrop all the time. But instead of film crews and equipment, he saw endless wheat fields and meandering cows.
His heart pumped spastically and his pulse roared in his ears. An absurd thought struck him. For one brief second, he’d thought maybe he’d truly come through time as Alexandra said they would; a time without electricity, a time when kings ruled and evil men named Harig wore armor and destroyed innocent lives.
But any sane, rational being knew that traveling through time was illogical. None of this made sense. Things like this did not happen. Period. He was a professor, a scientist. He observed facts and the relationships among those facts. Every day he dealt with theories and principles that attempted to explain how and why something happens or happened.
Nothing could explain this. Not in a million years could he make sense of what he was seeing with his own two eyes.
Harig steered the fidgety horse forward. “Show yourself,” he called out in a deep throaty voice, “or are you a cowardly one?”
Sticks and stones may break my bones. Joe remained silent. Harig resembled an army tank with biceps as round as telephone poles. His armored chest looked like a steel-covered barrel. If Harig came any closer, Joe figured he’d have no choice but to jump. He tested a lower limb with his foot. The branch snapped.
Harig responded to the sound. As he passed the manor, he tossed a flaming torch onto the rooftop. Digging his heels into the horse’s flank, he headed for Joe. The kid thrashed about, hitting and kicking.
Joe rolled his eyes. Damn. He’d caught the man’s attention all right, and now his life was going to be cut short; very short, he thought upon seeing Harig’s sword at closer view.
Joe slid the BB gun from his pocket, checked to see if it was loaded. Laying low on the tree branch, he snaked slowly across the limb, looking for a better aim. The cape twisted about his arm, making every movement more difficult. The fabric, heavy and cumbersome, managed to get snagged on a branch. The gun dropped from his hands and disappeared into the weeds below.
As sure as the sun would set tomorrow, Joe was going to die. He wasn’t made for this sort of stuff. He was no Clint Eastwood. He was a dead man.
Harig was only a few feet away. Not only did Joe smell death, he saw it in Harig’s cold, lifeless eyes.
Despite his growing despair, Joe reached into his back pocket and grabbed the can of pepper spray he’d retrieved from his briefcase. The directions read, “Easy aim feature makes this model ideal for emergency use.” Perfect. A smidgeon of hope helped to counteract the fear threatening to take hold of him.
He pulled the lid off.
Harig was directly beneath him. When he looked upward, their gazes locked. Joe squeezed down on the nozzle, accidentally spraying the stuff into his own eyes. He spit out every curse word he could think of. The can dropped to the ground. Joe spit and coughed, trying to get the bitter acrid taste out of his mouth. He nearly lost his hold on the branch. His face felt as if it had just taken a direct hit from a blowtorch. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
The metal man laughed.
The branch sagged beneath Joe’s weight, bringing him too close for comfort. Through the better of his two eyes, Joe could see that the kid had managed to wrest his hands free from the ropes. Without hesitating, Joe reached down and grasped onto a handful of the boy’s shirt, hauling the kid upward.
Harig grappled for the boy’s feet, clutching air instead. The kid was quick and agile, and once his fingers latched onto a branch, he scrambled up the tree like a monkey. But the boy’s added weight was too much for the limb on which Joe balanced. The branch creaked, then snapped in two, sending Joe sprawling atop Harig. Together, they fell to the ground with a thud.
The man’s armor dug into Joe’s skin, making him wince. As he fought to get untangled from metal and rope, he tasted blood and dirt. The horse’s reins became ensnared between their bodies. The animal’s eyes rolled back in fear as it reared up, giving Joe mere seconds to roll out of the way. Harig’s armor prevented him from moving as quickly. The big man roared out a great sound like that of a mythical beast right before massive hooves crashed down upon his chest, silencing him in an instant. The animal broke free and galloped off, leaving its rider with droplets of blood splattered across his scraggly beard and face.
Joe came to his feet and listened for signs of life, hearing instead only his own raspy breathing as nauseating spurts of adrenaline coursed through his veins. His gaze never left Harig’s bulky form, a large shadowed heap of metal. This had to be a movie set. Nothing else would explain the horrid realness of it all. At any moment the director would appear and yell, “Cut!”
No such luck. Only the pounding of his heart and the high-pitched chirping of myriad crickets could be heard. Even the boy, whose life had been spared for now, was quiet among the higher branches of the oak.
Everything about Harig’s armor looked inconceivably authentic, from the mail leggings and quilted thigh protectors to the knee plates and greaves covering his shins. Even through stinging, watery eyes, Joe could
see that Harig’s well-used gauntlets were of quality craftsmanship with iron plates riveted to fabric. With a shaky hand, he reached out and touched Harig’s throat. No pulse. Sighing, he peered upward into the twisted branches, hoping to spot the boy in the shadows. Instead, the sharp crackling of fire drew his attention.
“Alexandra!” he called out.
Where was she? The house was covered in flames and Alexandra was nowhere to be seen.
“Watch out!” the boy shouted from behind.
Joe whipped about, pushing the cape over his shoulder and out of his way. Harig wasn’t dead after all. He was alive and well and his face was a maze of angry lines. The beast of a man had been trampled beneath the hooves of a gigantic horse, but it hardly slowed him. He was like the terminator and it was beginning to look like nothing but a cask of molten metal was going to stop him. Maybe not even that.
Harig grunted, sliding his sword easily from its sheath.
Once again Joe figured he was a goner until Alexandra appeared seemingly out of thin air. “Put ’em up, mister, or I’ll shoot!”
Harig and Joe both looked her way.
Standing in a stiff-legged John-Wayne stance, she held the BB gun with both hands, steady and confident.
Joe no longer thought he was a dead man, he had no doubt whatsoever. Obviously Alexandra had watched one too many late-night cowboy movies over the last few days.
Harig took a step in her direction.
She didn’t hesitate. She aimed, shot, then ducked as little metal pellets ricocheted off of the big man’s armor.
“Ow!” Joe said, clutching his arm. “What are you doing?”
A crash sounded behind her, drawing their attention to the house. Flames shot up from the roof and great billows of smoke followed. Without another word, she dropped the gun and ran off, leaving him alone to face Harig.
Harig looked unbothered by her disappearance, obviously uncaring as to whose life he took first. He turned back to Joe, and slowly raised his sword. He also raised his upper lip, revealing a row of chipped, discolored teeth.
Forced to decide between the last of the artillery in his possession, the pocketknife or the lighter, Joe opted for the Bic.
His hands shook, making it difficult to light. He flicked his thumb over the flint once more, and then again. Seconds felt like hours, and then click a tiny flame appeared. “Fire,” he said to Harig in an excited, if not slightly deranged voice.
It was working.
Harig was entranced. At least until the flame fluttered and fizzled out completely.
Joe took two steps backwards, holding out a hand. “Why don’t we talk about this. No need for any violence.”
Grinning, Harig stepped toward him, easily plucking Joe up by his collar, having no care to chat for a while.
Joe’s feet left the ground. The cold steel of Harig’s blade touched at his jaw. Joe had never considered himself a deeply religious man, but he reached inside his shirt, pulled out his medallion, and kindly asked God for a little help.
A few uneventful seconds passed. His feet still hovered inches from the ground, but nothing happened. Joe dared to peek through one eye, surprised to see Harig’s eyes grow round with fear, maybe even terror. As if he had been bitten by a snake, Harig released his hold, letting Joe drop to the ground before he scrambled away, tripping on his own feet as he ran off.
Gazing heavenward, Joe took a deep breath, drawing in a lungful of thick, woodsy smoke. Confusion along with relief swept over him.
Alexandra!
Joe sprinted for the fiery building, shouting Alexandra’s name as he went. Reddish orange tongues of fire leapt out at him as he neared the entrance. He knew Alexandra well enough to know she’d gone inside. She was stubborn and strong-willed. Nothing would have stopped her from entering the fiery building if she thought her grandfather might be inside.
Hastily, he ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt, then dipped it in a nearby trough. Using it to cover his nose and mouth, he ran through the door, moving quickly through the thick blanket of smoke. “Alexandra, where are you?”
“In here!” he heard her call from a distance.
He followed the sound of her voice, relieved to know she was alive. The thickest of the smoke floated above her head. Desperately, she clawed at the thick twine that bound her grandfather’s hands to the bedpost. She’d already removed the rope from his legs. The old man was unconscious, his bearded chin bent forward upon his chest.
Joe handed her the damp cloth. “Breathe through this,” he said, nudging her aside so that he could use his pocketknife to cut the last of the ropes. After the ropes fell loose, Joe bent to one knee, heaved the old man over his shoulder, and stood. Alexandra followed him out of the bedroom and into the smoke-filled hall. Flames snapped. Something popped.
Alexandra grabbed hold of his arm, nudging him forward. A portion of the roof collapsed behind them, startling them both. Unable to see through the smoke, Joe used the wall to guide him back to the main room where he’d first entered.
Alexandra hesitated when he led her toward the flames. “It’ll be okay,” he told her between coughs. With his free arm, he drew her tight to his side, flipped the cape over their heads and pulled her through the flames.
They literally flew through the charred door, jumped off the porch, and rolled to the ground. Joe held tightly to the old man, protecting his head, which left him helpless to ease the brunt of Alexandra’s fall.
He rolled to a stop and sat up, feeling bruised and battered. Alexandra was easy to find because the woman was on fire! Jumping to his feet, he grabbed Alexandra about the waist and rolled her in the dirt until the flames were doused.
“Are you burned badly?” he asked.
“No,” she said breathlessly.
They gulped fresh air as they watched her home cave in like a bad soufflé. Adrenaline carried Joe onward. He crawled to the old man’s side and put his head against his frail chest, relieved to hear the faint beat of his heart. “He’s alive.”
As the old man was pulled further from the crackling blaze, he coughed and gasped until Alexandra came to his side and cradled him close. She whispered into his ear, telling him all would be well.
Joe’s insides filled with relief. Everybody was alive, including Alexandra’s brother. Using his pocketknife, he cut the ties of his cape. He examined the garment, surprised to see that there were no burn marks. The cloak had been a burden in the tree, and yet had turned out to be quite useful. He laid the cape across the old man’s frail legs.
“Looks like he’s going to be okay,” he told Alexandra. “How about you? Were you bruised in the fall?”
“Nay,” she said, rocking her grandfather in her arms. “I am well.”
“I’ll check on your brother then.”
She nodded.
As Joe approached the big oak, he felt strangely disembodied, numb. Maybe logic was kicking in, reminding him that the events of the last hour had to be figments of his imagination, the result of too much research and too little sleep. He’d never been the daydreaming type. He never once had an imaginary friend. Haunted houses and tales of ghosts failed to frighten him when he was young. Vampires and monsters did not exist. But all the logic in the world was not bringing him back to Central Park.
He squinted upward into the shadowed darkness of the massive oak, impressed by the boy’s agility as the kid jumped easily from one limb to the next. “Are you hurt?” Joe asked.
“Nay,” the boy scoffed, tossing the ropes that had bound his legs. “I could have escaped without your help.”
The corner of Joe’s mouth turned upward. It was good to see that the boy was unharmed. Ungrateful brat, or not, it felt good to be alive.
The boy pointed over the hills. “Harig shan’t have gotten far. You should have no trouble catching up to him. You are going after him, are you not?”
“Not me,” Joe said with a faint chuckle. “I’m going home. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you could toss me my briefc
ase over there.” He pointed to his leather case propped within the high branches.
“Garrett, thank the Lord you are well,” Alexandra said as she walked up behind Joe, following his upward gaze.
“Where is Grandfather?” the boy asked her. “Is he dead?”
“Nay, he is faring well.”
“You should not have run off and left Grandfather to fend for himself,” Garrett scolded. “Where were you hiding?”
While Alexandra told her brother how Grandfather’s stones had taken her through time, Joe glanced at the moon and the stars, glad to see that the constellations looked the same. At the very least, he was still on Earth.
“I knew it!” Garrett said. “Grandfather spoke the truth all along.” The kid pushed his long straggly hair out of his eyes and focused his gaze on Joe. All excitement left his face.
Joe figured if he stared back at the kid, he would look away. But this was no ordinary kid. The boy hardly blinked.
“He looks questionable to me,” Garrett finally said. “Where’s his horse?”
Alexandra plopped a hand on her hip. “He has no horse.”
Garrett frowned. “’Tis not right for you to claim him as The Chosen One. He is too old. What kind of warrior would travel all this way to do battle only to watch foolishly as the enemy runs off with hardly a scratch?”
Alexandra sighed. “It matters not how old he is. He is our Hero...he is The One. And you, little brother, cannot change that simple truth.”
Joe’s newfound happiness at being alive was short-lived as he listened to them argue. He was in his prime for heaven’s sake. He’d be thirty-four in another week, but he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of knowing his age. He’d never been overly fond of kids...they made him nervous...uneasy. And Alexandra’s brother wasn’t helping to improve his opinion of them.
“Do not listen to my brother,” Alexandra told Joe. “You saved our lives and we are forever grateful.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Joe said. “I don’t even know why Harig ran off.”
A Knight in Central Park Page 7
