The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “I understand you have something we want.” The words roll smoothly off the tongue of a striking sophisticate.

  Bryce has not been back in this time long, but he would say the woman models the latest designer clothing. He glances at Kat who gives an almost indiscernible shake of her head.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bryce remarks.

  “Oh, come now,” the woman laughs.

  “And just who are you?”

  “Ah, well, that is none of your concern.”

  “They’re not Salva,” Kat blurts.

  “If that’s any consolation,” the woman smiles tolerantly. “But, I’m afraid we can be just as reckless. Although I should like to think it is not our style.”

  “Honestly, you’re scaring these poor folks half to death. What do you want?” Bryce says, giving Lacy a malevolent glare, which makes her instantly drop her head. He moves his disdain to the tall, graceful woman with a European accent who has the neck of a swan. She is unaffected.

  Bryce doesn’t miss the manicured nails, silky jet-black hair, and gold and diamond jewelry that must have cost a fortune. A sketchy impression of a woman Jane’s dad described once comes to mind. A woman at an estate sale Art Peterson said seemed out of place. She asked if he had a daughter and sold him an antique box with a key hidden inside.

  “The key, and we will be on our way.”

  Bryce’s mouth drops open, but he quickly covers his shock.

  When the woman gets no response, she expounds, “Must we resort to ransacking this lovely old house? It would be such a pity. I understand you have a safe somewhere?”

  At this point, Lacy recedes a tad more. The heel of her shoe overturns a vintage tin milk churn on the hearth. She catches it in the awkward twirl of a distortionist just before it clatters noisily to the floor.

  “For Heaven’s sake, go outside Lacy,” the woman snaps irritably.

  “Hold it right there.”

  All eyes turn to Kat, who has somehow managed a firm stance with her feet planted and body erect. Wyatt, glued to his mother’s side, gives a little whimper before he stands too. He slips behind Kat with a wad of her sweater pulled to his mouth.

  “Kat!” Bryce’s attention falls to Kat’s hand.

  “We’ll be all right,” Kat shoots a purposeful glance at her small pistol, her finger on the trigger mechanism. “It’s loaded and I know how to use it. Through that door. No, not that one. Over there. And, not a peep, or I swear,” she growls.

  The two women’s eyes grow large and simultaneously form lethal slits. The tall, graceful one drops her voice to a threatening rumble. “I hope you know what you are doing.”

  “Go on. Now!” Kat seethes with outrage as Bryce draws protectively by her side. At his firm touch, Wyatt grows a little stronger.

  The party of five moves to the back of the house to a large storage closet under the servants’ staircase.

  “In there.”

  “What?” the women chirp in protest.

  “One shot and my men will be all over you,” the sophisticate warns.

  “Don’t try me. Wyatt, honey, I need you to do something brave for maman. Go upstairs—”

  “I know what to do,” Wyatt’s voice is surprisingly steady.

  Bryce opens the door and feels a rush of cool, musty dampness. “You heard what she said. In there.”

  The area is surrounded on three sides by red brick walls and being used to store holiday decorations. It is said the room under the stairs served as a hiding place during the Revolutionary and American Civil Wars. The door is near invisible, obscured by heavy paneling on the outside. Not knowing what else to use, Bryce grabs up a string of Christmas tree lights from a cardboard container and ties the most threatening of the women’s wrists and ankles.

  Lacy, whose expression has transformed to one of beseeching victim, shivers with fear. “I don’t like to be tied. I’ll die, Miz Kat.”

  “Tie her. Hurry!” Kat’s face is pale and the lines around her mouth are uncharacteristically cold. Her revolver is pointed solidly at the intruders, ready to fire at the slightest move and do damage. She had fretted something terrible when Uncle Hal gave her the small handgun two weeks ago and made her promise to keep it in her purse. His instructions were, “If you have to use it, shoot to kill, Kat.”

  Bryce makes short time in getting both women gagged and pushed to the floor against the far wall.

  “I got it, maman.”

  Bryce takes the doctor’s bag from Wyatt. With a nod of approval, “Good job,” he herds both Kat and Wyatt out into the hall and bolts the door by using a hidden locking mechanism. “Let’s get out of here. We don’t have much time.”

  Chapter 66

  WITH IRON RESOLVE

  Racing down the hall and through the kitchen, Kat stops to grab a flashlight from a drawer by the back door and shoves both light and pistol into her purse. She yanks the shoulder strap over her head and swings it behind her. In a moment of clarity, she switches the sensor floodlights out back to off and sets the security alarm. The noise will alert them to any movement inside the house and notify police.

  Together, Kat, Wyatt, and Bryce slip out into the chilly night air.

  “I put the box in there too, Mr. B,” Wyatt whispers, motioning to the doctor’s bag. In their brief time together, Bryce McKenzie had earned the boy’s nickname, Mr. B, having won his affection.

  “Quick thinking, Wyatt,” Bryce whispers back. He is impressed by the boy’s resilience and draws close to Wyatt’s ear, “Remember those stories I told you about the American Indians and how they moved quietly through the wilderness? We are going to do the same. Not a peep. Follow me.”

  Scanning the property, Bryce scuttles along a row of shaggy cedar trees for cover. They dash into the woods, staying off the main path. He slows his pace a little to allow Kat and Wyatt time. They are working hard to keep up.

  “Okay?”

  Kat and Wyatt bob their heads in response.

  When they are well out of range, Bryce pauses and listens for any sounds of pursuit. “We’re good, this way and watch your step.”

  Their progress is sporadic. Georgia woods are a diverse mix of plants and critters. It is difficult to maneuver, especially in the southern coastal region that is crowded with pointy Spanish bayonet, saw palmetto and wax myrtle. Running vines, gnarled roots and large, coarse bracken fern can cause a person to lose their footing. They are traveling parallel to the river. From exploring the property, Bryce knows there is a deer trail close by. The narrow path, worn from decades of use, makes the going easier.

  “Wait here.”

  Kat and Wyatt instinctively crouch.

  “The boathouse,” Kat whispers.

  “Yeah, I need to check it out. I’ll be back in a sec,” Bryce says. “Here, hang onto this for me, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt takes the medical bag without a word. His small hand brushes Bryce’s sleeve, but he does not cling onto him.

  Peeling off to the left, Bryce moves silently to a fallen tree that extends over the riverbank and out into the water. He darts underneath, scraping his head and almost knocking his hat off. Straining to see, he glimpses the dim reflection of a tin roof — Sea Oaks’ Boathouse. Light reflecting off the water indicates it is high tide and the current is flowing in the right direction. It is his best chance at getting Kat and Wyatt out of danger.

  Squatting down, he pauses briefly to absorb his environment like White Owl taught him. He is intensely aware and relieved to hear only the peaceful chorus of a typical Georgia night. Bryce runs his hand down his leg to the side of his brogan where the key buzzes with the rapid repeat of his pulse.

  “First things first,” he grunts and turns back.

  Under woodsy cover, Bryce quickly guides Kat and Wyatt along the sandy shoreline of the Altamaha River. During the summer months, the Sea Oaks’ Altamaha River Club is crowded with visitors who rent colorful paddleboats, kayaks and canoes to explore a landscape teeming with wild
life. Since it is off-season, the snack bar is closed and some watercraft and other recreational accessories are stowed in a shed.

  “Over here,” Wyatt rasps, “Paddles are over there.”

  “Perfect,” Bryce says, “Smart boy.” The sturdy dark-brown canoe will act as camouflage. Kat and Wyatt help Bryce drag the heavy fiberglass shell, designed to sit three, to the water’s edge. Just as Bryce claims two decent paddles from a large wooden box, the muffled wail of the house alarm zings through the air. All three cringe and jerk their heads in the direction of the Old Homestead.

  “What do we do now?” Kat pants, her arms wrapped a little too tightly around her son who wriggles to get free.

  “We keep going.”

  “I know how to paddle a canoe,” Wyatt says, straightening his shoulders and pleased with himself.

  “Nice! I do too,” Bryce smiles. “You would make White Owl very proud. And that’s not an easy thing to do,” he chuckles. Ruffling Wyatt’s hair, he takes the doctor’s bag out of the boy’s possession and steps back.

  “Time’s a wastin’.” Bryce tries to make light, while he scans the riverbank to his left and right. His ears are perked for the slightest sign of an ambush.

  “You’re not!” Kat says in a voice seized with panic. She suddenly knows what’s up and her heart nearly jumps out of her chest. “It’s too early. Jane has several years to live, before, well—”

  “Look, I have put you guys in terrible danger. They want something I have, the Celtic key, and they won’t give up until they get it. It’s best to take myself out of the picture. I was going to eventually, you know.”

  “You can’t be ready.” Kat is so uncomfortable she thinks she might make a scene. Moisture burns her eyes and the pain in her jaw is excruciating. “Maybe there’s another way.”

  “You need to take Wyatt as far away from here as you can. Don’t stop until you find a safe place. Then, contact your family. Call your uncle. He’ll know what to do.”

  Kat can read the concern on Bryce’s face, “You’re scaring me.”

  “Good. Scared is your best defense.”

  “But we are accomplices,” Kat squeaks. The meaning of her words and fear for Bryce rip at her judgment. The thought of losing him pierces her heart.

  “Listen to me,” Bryce says. Kat’s shoulder vibrates under his hand.

  Bryce is betting the prominent McIntosh family of Sea Oaks won’t be tampered with or terrorized. “Whoever these people are, they will avoid any incident that would bring negative exposure and public backlash.”

  He continues hurriedly, “In less than a minute there will be no evidence to prove anything. It all goes with me. That woman and her goons can search all they want.”

  “What?” Wyatt croaks, taken aback. Crossing his arms tightly over his chest, “You’re not coming.” The fact he needs Mr. B to help him paddle the canoe quickly converts to, he needs Mr. B, period. The man has become his idol.

  “No, I’m sorry, buddy. I wish it were different.” Bryce bends down to Wyatt’s level. “You are a brave young man, a warrior, and right now your maman needs you. I trust you will protect her with your life.”

  Bryce’s words register with the boy and his gaze shifts to his mother.

  “Can I rely on you, sir?”

  Wyatt’s confident nod comes with tears streaming down his cheeks, “Yes sir.” There is only the slightest tremor in his answer.

  Bryce’s stomach lurches at the thought of what’s ahead. He is reminded of total separation, of an airless vacuum on the brink of nothingness. It washes over him in a sweaty shock wave. Time travel for the third time could be a total disaster, taxing his body to the max. He could very well be marching to his death.

  “Well, we’re not going until we know you are on your way,” Kat says firmly.

  “I don’t want the boy to see.”

  “I’m strong enough, Mr. B. I know how to keep my mouth shut too,” Wyatt adds. He is not sure he understands completely, but he plants his feet in a stance that says he is willing to fight for his position. His expression is severe for someone so young.

  Kat and Bryce’s eyes meet. Unspoken words pass between them. There is not enough time to say all they want to say to each other.

  “Okay then,” Bryce takes a deep breath. “We’ll need cover. This could cause a bright flash that might give away our position.”

  They travel the short distance to the boat shed. The door is locked, so they circle to the back.

  “This’ll do. Here, take these,” Bryce says, digging in his pocket.

  “No! I can’t. You’ll need them.” Kat’s eyes grow wide, and she pushes Bryce’s hand away.

  “C’mon, take four, then. It’s the least I can do.” Bryce selects the most valuable bills in his wad. “We’re wasting time. Take it.” His fingers linger on Kat’s. “I have enough to get by. Gotta admit, they are worth a heck of a lot more here,” he grins.

  Bryce puts his medical bag to one side and bends to loosen the leather strap on his boot. He retrieves the square of green silk with pink rosebuds that wraps the key. He prays he is still dialed into 1863. He prays he will make it alive.

  Both Kat and Wyatt throb with worry, fright, doubt, and anticipation.

  “It will be all right, I promise,” Bryce says. Who is he kidding? “Only takes one quick touch, easy-peasy. I’ll need a good grip on this bag. It will come in handy.”

  “Your belt. Let me,” Kat says. Quickly undoing Bryce’s belt, she loops the handle of the bag to his side, and secures the buckle again. “It won’t support the weight, but this and hanging on should keep it with you.” Kat’s hands linger near his waist and she rests her head for a second on his chest.

  “Here now,” Bryce whispers. With his one free hand, he holds out his ticket to 1863. “You’ll have to help me open it, Kat.” He gingerly places the bundled fabric with the key in Kat’s upturned palm. “Please, for God’s sake, don’t touch it whatever you do.”

  Kat does as she is told, while Wyatt stands white-faced by her side. With trembling fingers, she treats the fragile material like it is the Shroud of Turin. The noxious black trigger that will shoot Bryce through space gleams in the moonlight that peeks through the canopy of trees.

  The silence of their unity and intentions form a dense, smothering cloud that cannot be penetrated. It is just the three of them and in an instant it will only be two.

  “How can I ever—”

  “Shhh,” Kat smiles bravely.

  “Thank you,” Bryce mouths words that don’t mean enough. He clears his throat. With iron resolve and a final gasp, he clutches the Celtic key for the second time in his life.

  “I love—” he blurts, but his voice is cut off.

  The instant whine of crushing atmospheric pressure engulfs him in a blinding tempest of blue-white light. Before the blackness, there is a blood-curdling scream. It’s too late. The reverberation is sucked out just as the cells in his body explode into a trillion pieces, scattered like dust in the wind.

  Chapter 67

  MIND-NUMBING JOURNEY

  The horrific whirl and mind-numbing journey cannot be measured in minutes or hours. The distance cannot be equated to miles or even the far stretch of light-years. It is an anomalous expansion and contraction in an abyss as infinite as the universe, yet it retains a structured beginning and end.

  Consciousness stirs and Bryce moans to life. With eyes closed, his brain slowly swells with shards of memory that spread like hairline cracks in a broken windshield. He smells pine and the fragrance of sweet earth and decomposing leaves. Assessing his body, he instantly feels something hard poking him in his right shoulder blade and lower back — small rocks or perhaps a tree root. Reaching out one hand, he tests solid ground with his fingers. Something wet and entirely miserable covers him. His sharpening reason identifies rain. It is drizzling a fine mist.

  Rolling over, his boot brushes a solid object and he forms a fuzzy thought of his medical bag. No, his bag is buckl
ed to him. With clammy exertion, he undoes his belt and the weight of it drops.

  Sitting up, “Shit,” he bleats at the spinning turmoil of vertigo it causes. He throws his hands at the sensation and cups his head. My hat! “Damn thing.” The ridiculous thought makes him want to laugh. He opens his eyes to blackness, close and thick.

  Gulping cold air that stings the lining of his lungs, he waits a second or two for the nausea to lessen. He reminds himself his symptoms are the side effects of time travel. He’s okay. He has done this before.

  Bryce awkwardly gets to his knees and sweeps his arms outward. A dense cover of fast-moving clouds blocks the moon and he cannot see much of anything. Perhaps he can feel his way to a tree, something to help him stand and get his bearings.

  Crawling forward, his hand comes in contact with a soft mass. Bryce’s heart seizes at the eerie touch.

  “God A’mighty, Wyatt! What did you do?” he chokes. The child is sprawled on the ground in front of him.

  Bryce’s stunned brain shifts with precision to a trained reaction and he immediately forgets himself. Wyatt is too still. Quickly running his hands up the body, Bryce reaches the boy’s chest.

  “He’s not breathing,” he reports in a tone reserved for hospital emergencies.

  Bryce moves to Wyatt’s face and puts his ear to the boy’s mouth. Vigorously rubbing his hands together to create heat, he checks for obstructions and lifts the boy’s small wrist for a pulse. He has to believe there’s a chance. Making sure Wyatt’s head is in the right position, he pinches his nose shut and delivers two rescue breaths. When he gets no response, he begins rapid compressions on the boy’s chest. A reminder from a CPR coach, “You can’t hurt dead,” races through his mind. He knows the process can break ribs.

  By the count of seven, there is a jagged cough and first struggle to live.