"Why is that?"
"Because then I could put this off to shared insanity and check the lot of us into a psychiatric ward. But this is solid evidence. I can't ignore its reality. I'd hoped it would go away, but the dream last night and what happened upstairs just now . . . it's only escalating. What's to be done?"
"Let's see what you recorded first."
The show was as promised. It was a smaller version of the catastrophe at El Castillo, at another location. The image was less clear, but some parts were sufficient for recognition. "My God, that's Stonehenge." Richard's mouth went dry. The fragment of Sharon's message . . . but what did it mean? Was this what she'd seen there? And how had that sent her flying off to the Yucatán?
The oddly familiar storm faded, fuzzily replaced by—he couldn't quite make it out, like a badly managed handheld camera trying to focus on something too far in the distance. Unfortunately, the picture firmed up and became clear.
It was bad. Like a Hieronymus Bosch painting come to awful life.
Richard had known Bosch, had known the grotesque allegories in his nightmare paintings were based in truth. The artist had seen such horrors in his mind, God help him, interpreting and expressing them in his own way. They were enough to scare the hell out of anyone, which was the intention.
Things writhed on the screen, things with pale eyes and grasping claws, things made of darkness, possessing bottomless appetites, that delighted in making pain, things that had no business on this Side of Reality. These were not flat depictions on wood, not disturbing, but ultimately harmless renderings by a long-dead artist.
These existed.
And they were aware.
They seemed to look right at him. Hungry.
The image mercifully dissolved, went black.
"If," said Bourland, the color gone from his face, "if that is what got broadcasted into the poor maid's mind, then I don't blame her for running away screaming. I was rather tempted myself."
"But you didn't." Richard hadn't meant to say that aloud.
"How could I when Michael's in—what is going on here?"
This was definitely Sabra's pigeon, though he would help if he could. Somehow or other they'd have to try explaining to Bourland and hope he would prove open-minded enough to accept. He was well aware of Sabra's strong psychic connection to the boy, but overlooked it or perhaps rationalized it away as feminine intuition. He'd never interfered with her talks with Michael, evidently trusting her completely. She was a most dazzling woman, and he cared for her, but would that be enough?
"Richard?" Bourland had gotten no answer. "Thinking of Sabra? Oh, don't be surprised. You always look like that when she's on your mind. What about her, then?"
"Only that she'll talk to you about this."
"It's related to her?"
"In a way. I think. I'm as puzzled as you are."
"But you have more pieces, else you'd be sleeping in like anyone with sense instead of coming over here at this hour of the morning. You had that dream, too. The one that frightened Michael so. The one that frightened me."
"You—"
"Yes, I admit it. Like nothing I've ever in my whole life had before, and God spare me from another. Woke me up in a cold sweat, then I heard Michael crying down the hall—"
"He didn't say he'd been that frightened."
"Oh, come on. What thirteen-year-old is going to admit to his macho uncle that he cried because of a nightmare?"
Richard stared. " 'Macho uncle'? Really, Philip, what in God's name are you telling that boy?"
"Not me, it's all him. He worships you. Of course he'd never let on, that wouldn't be the done thing for him, but it's there. I suppose he could have a worse role model in his life, but I can't think of anyone."
A look between them, then an abrupt breakdown to a soft chuckle. Brief, but enough to break the tension.
Then Bourland fixed him with a much too neutral eye. "Who's Richard d'Orleans?"
It had been a long time, a very long time since Richard had last been caught off guard like this. He didn't even try to cover and lie. Not much point to it, really. "Someone I used to be. He no longer exists."
"And why is that?"
"You know the type of work I've done and can do. Sometimes it's necessary to drop one's past and begin again."
"I had you checked out. Thoroughly. Back when we first met."
"I wouldn't have expected you to have done otherwise."
"Yours is an interesting but not improbable background with impeccable, even enviable references. But not one mention of anyone named d'Orleans."
"Because of the nature of the work then. I . . . offended . . . the wrong types once upon a time, and the powers that be deemed it necessary to my survival that I should be someone else ever afterwards. It turned out for the best, though." Damn, would he have to hypnotize Bourland again? It was one thing to calm a friend down, quite another to rearrange his memories. Richard hated doing that.
"And in the fifteen years I've known you you never once cracked the least hint, yet for Michael you threw it out almost casually. More important, he knew."
"Philip . . . I can't explain Michael's knowledge. It surprised me, but after all this time, it seemed harmless. On the other hand, you're reminding me that perhaps it was unwise to have relaxed."
"Oh, don't worry, I'm not backing you into a corner about it. Your secret's safe. God knows fifteen years ago I was a different man as well. My concern's for Michael. I don't want him ending up in some crackpot mind-reading or remote-viewing program for a bunch of soulless black-ops types."
Richard's jaw momentarily dropped. "Just what sort of rubbish have you been watching?"
"Never mind. Blame it on lack of sleep. I'm usually much more rational than this."
But your fear for Michael's future is real enough. Which was at the bottom of it for both of them. All of them.
His cell trilled. He checked the incoming number. "Sabra," he said to Bourland, hitting the button. "Yes? You all right?" Why had he asked that first thing?
"Not really." She spoke loudly, as people do when surrounded by noise. There was some kind of row going on. "The snow's gotten worse."
"You can't dig out?"
"I did that ages ago. I'm on my way in but there's a hell of a snow storm on 400."
"Where are you?"
"I'm coming up on the exit to 401. It's not that far ahead, but I'm having a hard time staying on the road. The wind's very bad."
"Then pull over. There's nothing here that can't wait."
"Yes. I called to let you know."
She sounded breathless and busy. In the background Richard heard the fast thump of her windshield wipers and on top of that an unpleasant howling. "Sounds like a hurricane from this end. Find a petrol station or something and stay there until it's blown over."
"I'll do that . . ."
"What's wrong?" Bourland asked.
"She's driven into a storm near 401." His alarms were blaring, full volume. This is not right. Not at all right.
Bourland turned, looking out the broad window behind his desk. The view was that of a tranquil winter day, very overcast, but last night's wind was quite gone. "Richard . . . she's not that far north . . ."
But he'd already gotten it. "Sabra, wherever you are pull over now. You hear? Right now."
Her voice, garbled by static. Nothing intelligible came through. It was too much like Sharon's message for his peace of mind.
"Uncle Richard?" Michael was at the door, still in his pajama pants and hockey shirt, hair tousled, his expression somber. Had he grown a bit since Sunday? He looked so young. Vulnerable.
"Just a minute . . . Sabra, you there? Say again."
Tears on Michael's face. Tears streaming down.
Richard's guts swooped, and he pressed the earpiece hard against his skull, vainly trying to hear better. He thought she was shouting, but the static worsened between them. Please God, just let it be a signal fade out.
"Uncle Richard,
you have to—"
"Sabra? Hello? Answer!" He struggled to keep his voice calm. It was just a strong wind. Nothing more than that.
"You have to call for her. She's in trouble."
"Sabra! Say that again."
"Dad, call an ambulance." Michael went to Bourland. "It's important. She's—"
Her voice. Shouting now, but Richard still couldn't understand the words. He looked at Bourland, who was staring at his computer screen. "What is it?"
Neither of them answered. Michael had gone still.
Richard came around the desk to see.
The computer screen showed gray and black movement. Snow and shadows? Bulky shapes emerging and retreating, a smear of white as they passed. Cars. Headlights.
Then he was there, pulled into the vision, standing on the side of a snow-crusted highway. Heavy flakes churned around him in the tearing wind, thicker than fog. Richard could feel them going right through his body, yet he saw himself as solid.
Cars, lots of them. The morning rush in full swing, even here, even in this weather, everyone driving far too fast, or so it seemed to one held stationary. Their tires hissed on wet pavement, hummed on the icy patches. A straight stretch of flat road was behind him, ahead, an overpass.
He saw her. Her car approaching. She was on the phone, her other hand on the wheel, fighting it as the wind buffeted the sides of her vehicle. She seemed unaware of him.
He spoke her name into his cell phone. Dead air.
The snow seemed to laze down now, everything slowing like a film running at the wrong speed.
She flashed by in increments. He saw her through clear patches on the car's side windows. In stages she spoke into her phone, scowled, and discarded it, gripping the wheel with both hands. She pressed back in the seat the way one does when slamming hard on the brakes, her lips parted, eyes wide with fear.
Then normal time kicked in.
The backwash of her passing vehicle hit him, along with the stink of exhaust. He blinked against it, arm instinctively up to protect his face from debris.
Snow whirled madly about her car, as though possessed of its own cyclone. The brake lights flared and died, flared again as she fishtailed all over the road. Other commuters hit their horns in protest, getting out of the way. Sabra sped up.
With the brakelights still on.
No.
She rocketed forward, faster, faster.
The wind screamed around her, a miniature blizzard.
Ahead, a patch of ice showing like a black lake across the width of the road.
Her front tires hit it at an angle. She made a long, agonizing spin, skidding sideways . . .
Hitting something. He couldn't see what. At that speed her car simply flipped right over.
And kept going. It seemed to fly, carried by the wind—
To smash into the unforgiving concrete of an overpass.
Chapter Five
Normandy, the Past
"If that's how he swings a blade, then it's just as well he's destined to take orders."
Richard's face burned, but he was turned away from Dear Brother Ambert and pretended not to hear the jibe. He struck extra hard at the straw-padded practice post with his wooden sword and felt the impact jolt up his arm with numbing force.
Too much. It knocked the sword from his hand.
Ambert doubled over, hooting.
Richard fought down a burst of rage mixed with red-faced humiliation. He knew a direct challenge to Ambert would only lead to a beating. His oldest brother had four more years of skill and fighting experience over him. And taunts. He was very good with those.
"Pick up your weapon," ordered the fight-master, who was working with Edward, Richard's next eldest brother. "Ignore him and do your drills."
The practice area within the curtain wall of Castle d'Orleans was muddy from last night's rain. A layer of straw had been thrown down, but was uneven in patches. Richard's sword lay in one of the bare spots. Just his bad luck. He cleaned off the grip as best he could and went back to work on the post, striking it again and again to strengthen his arm. At fourteen, he was as tall as his brothers, but lean as string. The fight-master said he'd not yet reached his full growth and muscle, but constant practice would fill him out.
Richard wanted that more than anything and pushed himself hard, but some days absolutely nothing seemed to work. It was as though his own body was at war with him, and all he could do was trip or knock things over, or both. In the last six months he'd shot up over a handspan in height. He was misplaced elbows and knees, overlarge hands and feet, awkward lengths of shin and arm and always hungry. When not on the field, he haunted the kitchens, charming the cooks out of extra food between the usual meals.
He grinned as the sweat began to run on him, pretending the post was Ambert.
Something wet slammed into the side of his face with bruising force. He lost balance, sliced downward, missing the post, and staggered like a drunk. A sizable dollop of mud clung to him and dribbled cold down his neck.
Ambert burst into laughter again. He'd thrown the missile. Quick as spite, he stooped and grabbed up another handful and cast with deadly accuracy. He caught Richard square in the chest and it hurt. There'd been a large stone in that one. He grunted, losing the sword again, and abruptly sat down in the mud.
"There he is, champion to the swine! All hail!" Ambert executed a mock bow and erupted into laughter again.
Before he could make a third strike Richard was on him. His aim was also good; he bodily tackled his brother, and they rolled and splashed messily into the broad puddle from which Ambert had supplied himself. He kicked and punched full force, but Richard was too angry to feel it, busy delivering as much damage as he could in the brief time he had before they'd be pulled apart.
Around them the younger pages yelled encouragement, the older ones made quick wagers, and the armsmen hesitated between laughter and interference. If two of the Duke of Normandy's sons chose to fight each other, then let them be. Taking sides now could prove dangerous later on. Ambert was touchy about being helped unless he called for it. He always won, anyway.
Richard's fists seemed to be working together for a change, though, and as quickly as things were going he became aware of their adverse effect on Ambert. His brother grunted and cursed, and when he did hit, it wasn't with his usual vindictive strength.
A third party entered the fray, shouting and trying to grab hold of Richard. Without thinking he lashed out and clouted Edward solidly in the belly, toppling him. Then there were three angry brothers rolling in the mud trying to commit bloody fratricide.
As if by magic Richard discovered his speed and used his training. For every blow he got, he delivered two more in return, and he didn't care who he hit so long as flesh gave way and pain resulted. He was like a hammer in the smith's hand, force and mastery and direction, and having a decided effect on what had once been unyielding iron.
He was dimly aware of commotion around them and of a sudden slackening in the fight.
Then he was on top, straddling . . . Ambert . . . and pulping his face. Edward . . . was lying over there, moving slowly, favoring his sides.
The first, the very first, thrill of true exhilaration ran through Richard's young body, his heart pounding so heavily he thought he might die from it.
I won! I beat them!
Then the fight-master waded in and dragged him off. He gave Richard a shake and growled his name, but it was not necessary. Richard was in control of himself, gulping in the giddy air of victory. He'd never felt this way before, almost burning from the triumph. Did anyone else see it?
Apparently not. They were busy looking after Ambert and Edward. As with other rare successes in his life, Richard would have to savor this one on his own.
Perhaps not entirely. Once his brothers were on their feet again they each shot him a look. Ambert's was suffused with hate and an implied promise of revenge later on; Edward's was . . . surprise. That was different. In the past those two
more or less worked together. He limped over.
Richard braced for further assault, but none came.
Edward merely smiled, a grim smile, but unexpected. "So, the babe of the family's become a man at last."
Had that been said by Ambert it would have dripped with venom, but there was nothing malicious here.
"You fought well, Dickon." Edward glanced over his shoulder to Ambert, who was vainly trying to swipe mud from his clothes. "Don't turn your back on him. He doesn't forget insults."
A look between them. Abrupt understanding on Richard's part. He had acceptance. A very small portion of it to be sure, but still . . .
"Come and wash that muck off before you are declared champion of the swine."
He should talk. They were both filthy.
Edward led the way to a long trough by the smithy, dipped a bucket in, and poured water over his head, scrubbing the worst from his face. He had an eye swelling and going dark, but grinned through it. "Your turn."
Richard half expected to be hit with the bucket. But that did not happen. He was thoroughly doused with a full measure of water and then another. After all the exertion in the summer heat it felt delicious.
"This will do. We'll swim in the lake later to get it all off. Come on, then." He trudged back to the practice field.
"You hurt?" Richard ventured to ask.
"Not much, but from now on I'll leave it to others to keep you two apart. I've had my fill."
"Didn't mean to hit you."
"I know. This was Ambert's doing."
Ambert still bled from his nose, which looked to be broken. He threw down the rag he held to his face and charged Richard.
Who braced, fists ready to beat him again.
But Edward stepped between, catching another clout to his ribs as he caught Ambert. He took it and did not release his hold.
"I'll kill the little bastard!" Ambert shrieked, trying to struggle free.
Edward swung him around and threw him against the practice post, knocking him breathless.
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