Bryce’s head snapped up. “Yes.”
“He used to be an excellent pianist, almost concert level. No one knows exactly what happened in the camps, but…” He shrugged. “Well, you saw his hands.”
“You must be careful,” Jessie urged. “He has been home for several years now, but the government may still be watching him.”
Bryce was only half listening. He was remembering Leslie’s face when she reached down and kissed the grotesque hand that had caressed her cheek.
Leslie had said to come at five. Bryce deliberately timed it so he was there at four-thirty. The suit and tie of the day before had been replaced by jeans, a short-sleeved sports shirt, and tennis shoes. He looked down at the ragged shoes. Compared to the hundred-and-fifty-dollar shoes his mother had given him last Christmas, these weren’t much, but then somehow in CONAS, jogging and tanning salons had not fared so well.
As he started up the walk, he noted with satisfaction that Paul Adams was sitting in the rocking chair where he had been the day before. Bryce knocked softly on the screen, then stepped inside. A book sat unopened on Paul’s lap, but the head turned and the eyes watched him steadily as he walked up to him.
“Mr. Adams? Hello. I’m Bryce Sher…uh…Carrol. I’m a friend of Leslie’s.”
It was no mystery from whom Leslie had gotten her eyes. His were the same deep green flecked with brown and were filled with the same bright alertness. The previous impressions of a broken shell of a man were certainly not confirmed by the piercing look he was getting now.
“May I sit down?”
There was a quick nod, half a smile, and he started to rock again.
“I’ve come to take Leslie on a walk. Guess I’m a little early.”
“It’s warm today.”
The richness of the voice caught him by surprise. It was deeper than the other Paul’s. Bryce shook his head. The other Paul. This Paul. It was crazy. They were the same man. Then he shook his head again. He was staring at the hands. If a man was the product of what happened to him, this was not the same man.
“Doing some reading, I see,” he said, looking at the book.
Paul nodded, looking down, and the hands gathered in the book. It was old and scarred, but there was no title on the leather, either on the front cover or the spine. One twisted thumb began to rub along the cover, back and forth, back and forth. Again Bryce found himself staring. They—whoever “they” happened to be—must have broken every bone. The palms were twisted and deformed, the fingers bent and twisted, the knuckles bulbous knobs. Could these misshapen lumps ever have played the piano?
Bryce’s head came up as he realized the rocking had stopped. He looked away quickly, embarrassed to have been caught staring. Suddenly the revulsion welled up in him like bile, and he lifted his eyes to meet the other’s gaze.
“They say you were a marvelous pianist,” he said softly. “I wish I could have heard you.”
There was a quick impression of surprise followed by a long pause, then the deep richness of the voice spoke again. “It was a long time ago.”
“Which would only make the memory sweeter now,” Bryce replied.
There was another slow nod, then the rocking began again.
“Why?” Bryce burst out. “I can understand prison. I understand work camps. But why your hands?”
For a long time there was no response, and, embarrassed again, Bryce nearly stood up and left to wait for Leslie out front. Then Paul Adams spoke, very softly. “Evil men,” was all he said.
Bryce sat back. “Evil men did this to you?”
There was a quick shake of the head.
“What?”
“Evil men hate beautiful things.”
And in a sudden flash of insight Bryce understood. “They hated you because you played the piano?”
The gnarled old hands opened the book, pushing it slightly toward Bryce. He leaned over to see better. It was filled with short lines of poetry handwritten in a beautiful script.
“Music and words,” said the voice. “Beautiful things in a sea of ugliness. They could not bear it.”
“I understand.” And he did. More powerfully than he ever had before. And the anger that had started the previous evening with Leslie suddenly was a hard, tangible ball in the pit of his stomach.
Bryce jumped as one of Paul’s hands swung over and rested on his knee. Bryce looked up in surprise and was even more startled. The eyes, sunk deep in hollow cheeks, were peering at him, and they were filled with triumph. There was no other word for it. His eyes were filled with a blazing triumph!
Paul Adams leaned back. “But they cannot break the fingers of your mind.”
A sudden sound brought Bryce’s head around. Leslie was standing in the doorway to the house, staring at them, her eyes round and wide and glistening with tears.
They were sitting in a small park a few blocks from her home. They had talked little as they had come, she answering his questions about her day briefly and noncommittally. Bryce sat on the grass. Leslie was in one of the swings of the playground, not moving, just smoothing the sand with the bottom of her foot.
Finally she looked up at him. “How long had you been there?”
“About five or ten minutes.” He stopped. “How long were you there?”
She lowered her eyes, the dark lashes almost hiding them. “I heard voices. I…I shouldn’t have listened.” Suddenly tears welled up again, and she shook her head, angry with herself. “I’ve never heard him talk about it before,” she whispered. “He will with Mama, but never with me.”
He wasn’t sure how to answer that, so he just watched her.
“What did you say that got him started?”
“I asked him about his hands.” He looked away. “They’re horrible.”
She closed her eyes. “I know. I have nightmares about them.”
They sat that way for almost a minute, both lost in their own thoughts. He finally looked up when he realized she was looking at him steadily.
“Who are you?”
That visibly startled him.
“And I’m sorry,” she cried, “but John B. Carrol, or John H. Carrol won’t do anymore. Who are you?”
Bryce felt his stomach drop.
“Are you from the government?”
He shook his head quickly. “No. I’m not John Carrol, and I am not from the Ministry of Education or any other government agency for that matter.”
“Why should I believe you?” she said bitterly.
“My name is Bryce Sherwood. I’m…I’m from a long ways from here. Boston, to be exact.”
“What are you doing here? What do you want?”
He sighed, knowing that he could no longer lie to her, but knowing also that he could hardly reveal but very little. “Like I told you yesterday—I met you a long time ago. I’ve never forgotten. I wanted to meet you again, so I used the letter to find you. I’m sorry. It was stupid.”
“How can I believe you? How do I know you’re not lying now?”
He stood to face her, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Because you were there when I talked with your father.”
That stopped her. She blinked quickly, remembering. “That’s the only reason I’m here talking to you now,” she said, then instantly she was fierce again. “But I’ll do anything to stop him from being hurt.”
“I am not here to hurt him. Or you.”
She looked away, torn with indecision.
“Leslie, I’ll tell you what. You’re worried that I will hurt you or your father. Well, all you have to do is call the Ministry of Education and tell them I was using false papers. You can have me taken out at any time. I’m now as vulnerable as you.”
She didn’t turn back, just kept smoothing the dirt with her foot over and over. “Do you want to know the crazy thing?” she finally said softly.
“What?”
“As we were leaving today, when he called me back…”
“Yes?”
“He asked
me if you could stay for dinner.”
Now Bryce was staring. “You’re kidding!”
Suddenly her eyes were brimming with tears. “Four years. It’s been four years since we had someone for dinner. Mama won’t believe it.”
“So what did you tell him?”
She smiled through the tears, and suddenly she was so lovely Bryce had to force himself not to reach out and touch her cheek.
“I told him you steal silverware and that we don’t have that much to lose.”
Chapter 20
Captain James Rodale, district commander for the Hartford District of the Internal Security Division, was awed. Here he sat, in the heart of Washington, in the office of the Minister of Internal Affairs. Out one window was an impressive view of the presidential palace that housed the prime minister. Out another stood the National Assembly Building.
Nearly as intimidating as the presence of the minister himself was the personage of the third man in the room. Colonel Anthony Burkhart, Chief Director of ISD for all of CONAS— it was a name that every ISD agent throughout the world knew and respected. His picture hung in Rodale’s Hartford office next to that of the prime minister. Now Rodale was in his presence.
The three men watched the minister’s secretary pour coffee and waited until she exited. Then the minister turned to Rodale. “Okay, Captain, let’s hear what you’ve got.”
Rodale stood, cleared his throat, and looked first to Burkhart and then to the minister. He gave the report of his findings in quick, terse sentences. He also summarized his conclusions, ticking them off quickly. When he finished, the other two men sat quietly for a moment, sipping their coffee. Finally, the minister took a silver cigarette box on his desk, offered it to Rodale and Burkhart, then took one himself.
When all three had lit up, the minister sat back, inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke out in a cloud over his head. “You really think Sherwood didn’t kill the captain?” he asked finally.
Rodale shook his head emphatically. “Everything points to the Lamberts as the killers. First, we know that the body was carried in their truck. Second, the son was seen at the place of burial. Third, the Lambert boy had a rifle of the same caliber that killed the captain. And fourth, the Lamberts are on the list of suspected resistance people in the Bollingbroke area. There were some things we found in the motel that would be enough to send them to prison. Maybe the captain stumbled onto something when he came looking for Sherwood.”
He paused, but neither man spoke, so he went on. “Sherwood is a puzzle. He drops into the picture from nowhere. No one in the village knew him, we’re pretty certain of that. We have those odd attempts to make a phone call the night before. And yet we’re certain he is traveling with the Lamberts now. The driver of that itinerant worker bus identified them as the three who got on his bus in a little village south of Bollingbroke.”
He shook his head. “Like I say, Sherwood is a puzzle.”
The minister nodded, then straightened and looked directly at him. “How would you like to come to work for Colonel Burkhart, Captain?”
Rodale started, staring at the minister, then at the head of ISD.
Burkhart smiled. “We’re bringing your investigative team down too. We’d like you to stay in command of them.”
“Yes, sir!”
The minister looked to his head of ISD. “Anthony, tell him what’s happening.”
Rodale leaned forward, watching the colonel closely, thrilled to be part of something that had “big” written all over it.
“We know who Sherwood is,” the colonel said abruptly, then smiled faintly at Rodale’s surprise. “More importantly, we know where he is.”
“Really? That’s great, sir!”
Burkhart accepted that without expression. “He showed up here about a week after the New England thing using false papers from the minister of education. We got positive ID on him day before yesterday. He’s taken up with a teacher out in Hillsburg, a little town in Virginia province.”
The minister took another deep drag on his cigarette, then blew the smoke gently upward. “The teacher is the daughter of Paul Adams.”
Rodale had just started to pick up his coffee cup. He set it down slowly. “The Paul Adams?”
Both men nodded, and Rodale gave a low whistle.
“That’s why you’re here,” the minister said. “We’re going to put a blanket of surveillance over Sherwood so tight he can’t even untie his shoelaces without us knowing what color they are…“ His eyes narrowed and bored in on Rodale. “And so loose that he won’t have the slightest—and I emphasize, the slightest—suspicion that we are on to him.”
“I understand, sir,” Rodale said slowly, realizing that he was about to either make or break his career.
“Good.” The minister stood abruptly. “I’ve got another meeting, so I’ll leave you two to work out the details.”
Burkhart nodded.
The minister smiled down at the director of ISD. It was a pleasant smile, but when he spoke his voice was like a sudden blast of air rolling off the Arctic tundra. “Let’s find out what our friend is up to, shall we?”
It was Thursday, September 22, three weeks to the day since Bryce had skidded his car into a wall of light and his life into another dimension. He was thinking about that as he chewed on a blade of grass outside the Hillsburg Secondary School, watching the last of the uniformed students filter away from the campus. There had been no more sign of Gorham since the root cellar, and though something inside Bryce fiercely resisted giving up hope, nevertheless that hope was dimming every day, and the possibility of being locked in this time and place for the rest of his life was becoming more and more a reality.
He looked up, then stood quickly. Leslie was just coming out with another teacher. Both had an armload of books and papers.
“Hi.” He waved to the other teacher, then took the books from Leslie.
“Hello.” She smiled up at him warmly and slipped her hand through his arm.
It was the only thing that made the thoughts of staying bearable. In the last ten days, his relationship with Leslie had blossomed. In fact, he had kissed her last night for the first time. At first she had pulled back, startled and surprised, then suddenly she had put her arms around his neck and kissed him back, softly and without reservation.
It had not come easy, for somewhere deep inside her was the suspicion, the lingering fear, that somehow he brought danger to her family. And at that thought, Bryce frowned. He was intimately involved with the resistance movement and there was a dead ISD captain buried somewhere in the Connecticut woods. If they found Bryce and connected him with Paul Adams in any way…
Maybe it was best to pack it up and head west with Jessie and Neal. They were pressuring him with increasing insistence now. So far he had stubbornly put them off, unable to face the thought of leaving Leslie, even if it was the best for her. Neal had finally suggested he bring the Adams family with them, but Bryce thrust that aside immediately. The risks of being caught were high. Paul Adams would go directly back to the men who had shattered his hands. And thus with each day, Bryce’s dilemma and frustrations deepened.
Suddenly he realized Leslie was looking up at him with a quizzical expression. He forced a quick smile. “What?”
“What in the world were you thinking that had you so far away?”
He gave her a long, searching look. “I was thinking about how different things would be now if you hadn’t agreed to have dinner with me that first night.”
She laid her head against his shoulder and just nodded, squeezing his arm. They walked on for several moments in silence, then she said, “Mom wants to know if you can stay for dinner tonight.”
He shook his head, causing her to look up in surprise. “Only if your mother will let me buy some of the food.”
“You know better than that.”
Bryce nodded glumly. He had already tried it before and lost. The Vera Adams of this dimension was just as sweet and kind and hardhead
ed as the Vera Adams of the other. She had adamantly refused to let him help out with the food budget and also refused to let him help with the dishes afterwards.
“She will be eternally grateful to you for what you have done for Daddy,” Leslie said softly. She squeezed his arm. “And so will I. You’ve done enough to earn dinner at our house for the rest of your life.”
Bryce pushed back from the kitchen table, groaned, then patted his stomach and rolled his eyes. “Just lay me on a stretcher and carry me straight to the mortuary.”
Leslie pulled a face at him. “Well, that’s a wonderful compliment for the cooking.”
He ignored her and just kept looking at her mother. “And let it be written on my tombstone: Here lies Bryce Sherwood. He ate the pie, gave a sigh, and died with pleasure in his eye.”
Vera laughed, but Leslie just groaned. “Oh, brother! Now you can carry us all out on a stretcher. That was awful.”
“That kind of poetry certainly would never have gotten you in trouble in the work camps,” Paul Adams agreed dryly.
“Well, I liked it,” Leslie’s mother said firmly. “Thank you, Bryce.”
He smiled at her warmly, amazed at how quickly he had come to feel completely at home with her. He still found Paul Adams a little overpowering. Even during light conversation, Bryce’s eyes would stray to the twisted, misshapen hands, and all that this man represented would well up again. But with Vera he felt perfectly at ease.
Leslie’s mother pushed back her chair, then stood. “Paul, why don’t you and Bryce go in the living room? Leslie and I will get the dishes done.”
Bryce stood and picked up his plate. “I think it’s about my turn to do some dishes around here.”
“No,” Vera said firmly, taking it from him.
Leslie nodded as she stood and began clearing the table. “You and Daddy go out and talk. We’ll just be a minute.”
Paul Adams got up slowly, his eyes twinkling. “You are not a good influence in this kitchen, young man. Next thing you know, these two are going to start expecting me to do the same.”
“Both of you, get!” Vera said, shooing at them with a dish towel.
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