by kc dyer
The crowd watched in silence as Hamish’s face went a shade of deep scarlet that I recognized with a pang of dread. “There mus’ be a mistake,” he repeated, his hand closing to a fist. “This is no Gail Thingummy. This is mah Sunshine—mah wife to be.”
He raised a hand to the guard and there was a gentle sizzling sound for a moment before Hamish slid to the ground.
“Strap him up, too, Sammy,” said the police officer, holstering his Taser as Hamish groaned and tried to sit up. “We’re gonna need two gurneys for this lot.” He looked up at the crowd, still standing in silence. “Now’t to see here, folks. Move along to your flights, now—move along, tha’s right.”
“Holy smoke,” I said, and took a great gulp of air.
I realized I’d been holding my breath through the entire ordeal. Susan—I couldn’t bring myself to call her Sunshine—and Hamish. Maybe there was trouble in paradise, after all.
“Hey, wasn’t that…?” began Jack, staring after the police, but I pretended not to hear and hurried down the long airport hallway.
At the gate, a couple of airport employees were dismantling a Visit Scotland display. Several large posters—including the one for the Nairn Games—lay partially furled on the ground beside a large plastic claymore and a collection of gray Styrofoam stones. The workers stood together beside the largest of the standing stones, having a heated argument over which screwdriver they needed to finish the job.
Just then a group of perhaps eleven or twelve dark-haired young women came milling through the door from the Customs area. They giggled at the sight of the stone circle, and in the end, one of the workmen took pictures for them as they all flashed a peace sign.
Every woman clutched a copy of OUTLANDER in her hand.
Jack skirted the largest of the stones, dropped his computer bag onto a chair, and turned to me, his expression puzzled.
“About that fella…” he began, when his mobile phone rang, deep inside a coat pocket.
“Odd,” he said, fishing around for it. “Who’s callin’ me at this hour?”
“Is it the police again?” I asked, feeling a moment’s irrational panic.
“Nae, my guess is they’re busy enough with that blonde woman for the moment,” he muttered, grabbing the phone at last.
It stopped ringing just as he pulled it out of his pocket.
“Unknown number,” he read. “Damn—I hope it’s not one of those ‘You have just won a free cruise’ calls.”
He smiled at me apologetically and pushed the button. “I’ll just check if they left a message …”
After a few seconds listening, all the natural color drained out of his face. Ear pressed to the receiver, he reached with his free hand for the arm of the chair and sank down. A moment or two later, he pulled the phone away from his ear and touched the screen.
The airport demolition crew packed up their tools, and gave up, leaving the tumbled circle of stones standing by the airline gate. As they drove off, a Thank you for Visiting Scotland banner blew out of the bin on the back of their gently-beeping golf-cart and lay crumpled on the floor beside the archway.
“Are you okay, Jack?” I asked, sitting beside him. “Is it bad news?”
Wordlessly, he hit the replay button and held it up to me. The message began to run again before I could get the phone to my ear.
“…el Gibson, calling. I’ve just read yer book, mate, and I want the rights. They’re to go to no one else, got that? I’ve a script treatment in mind already—it’s clear as day in m’head; clear as day. I need this book, Findlay. It’ll mean my redemption, man. I’ve taken so much shit over the years—it’s time for me to atone. The Braveheart shall rise again, as God is my witness! Call me, babe.”
I stared at Jack, open-mouthed. He took the phone from my limp hand, and brushed his lips against my cheek. “Fancy a trip to California?” he murmured. “I might need to talk to a fella.”
There was nothing I could think of to say.
They called our flight, and as we walked toward the gate that marked the way to our airplane, he took my icy fingers in his warm hands.
And I swear on my tattered, worn and well-loved copy of OUTLANDER, as we stepped hand-in-hand through that stone circle, I felt the air begin to hum.
The End…of the beginning.
Acknowledgements
How lucky am I?
Well, I’ll tell you. I realized just the other day that the production of this book has been, from start to finish, only in the hands of friends. To clarify, I’ve always had a very friendly working relationship with the publishers and staff of the traditional houses who have produced each of my earlier books. But this one? Different. I wrote this book for friends. It was beta-read, edited and copy-edited by friends. The cover was designed and shot and photo-shopped by friends, and the text was digitized by a friend. I can’t tell you the name of whoever digitized the text for SEEDS OF TIME or A WALK THROUGH A WINDOW. But I have eaten dinner with every single person who worked on FINDING FRASER. Every one is an industry professional, all at the top of their game.
And me? I am one lucky writer.
So thank you, Kathy Kenzie, for being my regular writing buddy, for encouraging this book and holding my hand every step of the way.
Thank you, Pamela Patchet for being a weirdo-magnet (especially in elevators!) and the BEST storyteller evah. Sharan Stone could never have existed without you. It is not lost on me that I likely, in fact, qualify as principle weirdo…
To Laura Bradbury for talking me into this publishing adventure in the first place, and offering sweet support from afar.
To Tyner Gillies, for word-racing me through part of the first draft (though NOT for the chicken suit you made me wear when I lost…).
Thank you to my editor Eileen Cook and copy-editor Mary Ellen Reid for eagle eyes and razor-sharp talents. [NOTHING gets by these women!]
To Martin Chung for photographic genius and a brilliant eye for detail.
To Lee Edward Födi for cover design and expertise. The force is strong with this one…
To digital wizard Crystal Stranaghan, the tech genius behind both book and websites.
To Rob MacDonald for good sportsmanship – and the kilt! – and to Tricia Barker for making the connection.
Thanks also to Peter Dyer, Alicia Kingsland, Meaghan Dyer and Jurgen van Wessel, who each played their own part in coping with Having A Crazy Writer in the family.
To the Scoobies for keeping it weird.
To Julie Kentner and the other denizens of the CompuServe Books & Writers forum; friends, supporters and flag-wavers from the start.
To Diana Gabaldon and Jack Whyte; friends, mentors and abettors in this project. Two more generous writers I could not name.
And a final, special word of thanks to all my SiWC family. This book could never have come to be without the cameraderie and craziness behind our annual gathering; and you, my friends, must share the blame!
kc dyer resides in the wilds of British Columbia in the company of a wide assortment of mammals, some of them human. She likes to walk in the woods and write books.
Contact kc [or Emma!] at kcdyer.com or FindingFraser.com.
If you liked this story, please review it at Amazon.ca, Amazon.com or Goodreads.com.
Thanks for reading!
Other books by kc dyer:
Seeds of Time
Secret of Light
Shades of Red
Ms. Zephyr’s Notebook
A Walk Through a Window
Facing Fire
Table of Contents
Part One: The Departure
Part Two: The Retracing
Part Three: The Finding
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