Ghosts of Culloden Moor 10 - Macbeth

by L. L. Muir

  He’d forbidden her to call an ambulance for him ever again, to just let him go. But the next time he passed out, she didn’t know if she could do what she’d been told.

  By the time they got to the Salmon Street Fountain, she was pooped, and she didn’t think it had much to do with the exercise. If her grandpa suddenly decided he wanted to rent a bike and take off, she couldn’t stop him. She was done.

  There were three tables set up under the trees. She had the Scot park her grandpa at one of them while she went to the bike rental guy to get the chess pieces. The old gentlemen Grandpa usually played with weren’t around, so she was going to have to play him herself.

  She hated chess. It seemed like a Scottish game.

  When she returned with the board and pieces, the blue t-shirt was sitting opposite the wheelchair. Her heart jumped with hope. “Do you play?”

  Seoc winked at her and waved her close. “I’ve told yer grandfather I’m a bit green at it. He assures me he hasn’t played in ages, and he doesn’t remember all the moves.” He leaned closer to her and whispered even louder. “I don’t believe him for a moment.”

  “Smart man.” She grinned at both men then pulled the thin blanket from the gym bag she always hung behind the wheelchair. “While you two duke it out, I’m going to shut my eyes.” She spread the blanket on the springy, soft grass and stretched out on her stomach.

  Grandpa had a babysitter, and that babysitter was a doctor. What could a nap hurt?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Cat never dreamed.

  A lot of people say that, but what they really mean is that they don’t remember their dreams. In Cat’s case, though, she really didn’t dream. When she wasn’t jumping up to hit the alarm button in the morning, she would hold very still when she awoke and try to remember the last thought she’d had. But it was always the same, always the last thing she’d been thinking about the night before. Nothing ever happened in between. Not even when she started sleeping lighter—ready to jump out of bed if an alarm sounded next to her grandpa’s bed, or if he rang the dinner bell she left on his tray for times when he needed help, or just needed company, in the middle of the night.

  She just wasn’t wired for dreams. Or maybe she’d programmed her brain that way. Career, later. Fall in love…later. Dream big…later.

  But this time, when she pressed her face against the soft cotton of the quilt and her conscious mind clicked off, she did dream.

  She was lying on a blanket in the middle of a wide field in Scotland. The grass was soft. It was tempting to just keep sleeping even though a heavy ground fog kept covering her up. She wasn’t suffocating or anything. Just…getting lost beneath it.

  To her left, King Macbeth—or at least the actor who played him in a recent movie—sat in a wire chair and played chess with her grandfather, who was also sitting in a flimsy wire chair. Grandpa’s color looked better in spite of the creepy atmosphere.

  “Catherine has it wrong,” the old man said. “I picked up my first cigarette when I was in the Service. I just never told her that.”

  “I see.” It wasn’t King Macbeth sitting across from him anymore. It was just Seoc.

  “So, tell me about the battle.” Her grandfather moved a chess piece and tapped the top of a square clock sitting next to the board.

  Seoc shook his head sadly. “It was doomed from the start. Over in forty minutes. But that was when the next horror began. Everyone I’d patched back together, every man who could be saved, was cut down, run through. We’d already beat the Hanoverians in every battle, so when they finally won something, the Duke of Cumberland, either from battle fever or the evil in his soul, ordered that no quarter was to be given. No wounded were spared. I begged and pleaded for them. I tried to stand in the way and talk sense into the English soldiers. But they soon tired of my harping and slayed me as well.”

  “You were there?” Her grandpa’s voice shook with awe, but he moved another piece, tapped on the clock, and waited.

  “I was.” Seoc said it with a straight face.

  “In 1746? The Battle of Culloden? You were there? And you died?”

  “I was, my friend. And I did.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Seoc made a chess move and tapped the clock. “What would you say, Alonzo Dabelko, if I told you I am the Angel of Death, here to take you home?”

  Cat tried to scream, tried to sit up so they could see her above the swirling mist, and stop saying such things. But something held her down.

  ~

  Seoc heard a muffled squeak and looked over. Catherine was still asleep, but faced downward on the blanket and rocking from side to side. A nightmare, sure.

  He slipped off his chair and knelt beside her, then carefully rolled her onto her back. “Wake up, lass. Wake up.” He shook her shoulder and patted her face. “Wake now, Catherine.”

  Her eyes flew wide and she recoiled, then she jumped to her feet. “You!”

  “Ye were having a nightmare, lass. Forgive me for manhandling ye—”

  “What does Culloden mean?”

  His stomach lurched. He thought the lass had slept too deeply to overhear any of his conversation with her grandfather. “Culloden?”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “It’s the name of a moor in Scotland. Why do ye ask?”

  She stepped closer, laid her hands to either side of his head, and leaned over him. “Tell me you’re not the Angel of Death.”

  The Angel of Death? What could have possibly made her say such a thing? He knew that nightmares could feel very real for a good while after he woke, but he usually knew them for dreams before he was ever out of bed. The lass hadn’t had time to recover, that was all.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but was distracted by how fearfully she watched his lips, waiting for his answer.

  There was her terror. Could he lessen it by denying it? Or by confronting it?

  He pressed a hand against one of hers, then turned his head and kissed her palm before answering. “What would ye say, lass, if I told you…I am?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  For a long, drawn out moment, Cat stared into the blue eyes of Death, and all she could think was, shouldn’t they be black?

  Her hand tingled where he’d kissed her and it returned her to reality. She’d been having a nightmare, that was all. And the Scot was just teasing her for asking him such a stupid question. But still, he shouldn’t be saying that kind of thing with her grandpa sitting five feet away! And she’d warned him to keep his negative thoughts to himself.

  If she’d brought her taser along, she would have been tempted to use it on him again, and she told him.

  He bit his lip, but said nothing. His expression was unreadable when she shooed him off the blanket and started packing up. Thankfully, her grandpa didn’t complain when she announced they were going home.

  “I need to start some soup,” she explained while she rolled up the blanket and tucked it into the bag. “You always like my soup.” That was her way of telling him he was going to eat some whether he wanted to or not.

  He’d only taken a bite of his scone, then played with it until he had a chance to slip it to the Scot, who sneaked it into the trash along with his own empty plate. If he was a doctor, he would know that it was important for the old man to keep his strength up.

  Did that mean he wasn’t a doctor?

  She fought to keep her face from revealing her thoughts while she waited for him to return the chess game to the bike guy. But seriously, what kind of doctor jokes around about being the Angel of Death?

  Could his callousness have come from being on the battlefield.

  Even so, he should have been more considerate. Hadn’t he seen firsthand how fragile Grandpa was? That a negative thought the size of a feather could knock him down?

  An unlucky flat tire on the wheelchair made it impossible for her to get her grandpa onto the train and into their apartment. Otherwise, she would have suggested to the Scot that the
ir little outing was over and it was time for them to part ways. There was also the matter of the duffle bag he’d left behind.

  At the time, she’d been glad he would have to return with them. Now, she almost regretted it. But, seriously, it was like Fate made sure she had to keep him around!

  A little shiver ran up her spine.

  Fate? Angel of Death?

  She couldn’t believe she was even entertaining such silly thoughts. The guy wasn’t the Angel of Death. Fate was something for the movies. And when she really thought about it, she figured she’d just over-reacted to having her first dream/nightmare.

  Her real-world worries were simple. Life and death. She and her grandpa were alive. That’s all that mattered. Now all she had to do was keep the seeds of negative, Scottish ideas from planting themselves in Grandpa’s brain.

  Lots of people had survived stage four cancers. Some had healed themselves naturally. It was possible. With all that chemo and radiation behind him, maybe her grandpa’s body was ready to bounce back, ready to fight.

  No one could say for sure, least of all a doctor that didn’t know anything about cancer.

  What did he treat on the battlefield, anyway? Wounds, that’s what.

  If he really was a doctor.

  They sat uncomfortably close on the train, but since her grandfather’s wheels were locked in place and a good five feet away from them, she decided to take advantage.

  She leaned toward the Scot and whispered. “Which are you? A doctor? Or Death? Huh?” She gave him a dirty look. “It’s not like you can be both, right?”

  His lips made a little grimace and he said nothing. She could tell he regretted something, but what? That Angel of Death comment? Or telling her he was a doctor? Her heart tripped. Was it the kiss he regretted?

  She turned her head away and watched her grandfather. He was dozing. A frown kept twisting his forehead—like he was having a nightmare.

  “Grandpa!”

  He started awake, looked over, and forced a smile. The look he gave the Scot was something altogether different. It was like…relief that the guy was still there.

  Well, that was just great. Now she couldn’t just toss his bag into the hallway and close the door on him when he went out to fetch it.

  She leaned sideways, but didn’t look directly at the man whose baby-blue t-shirt no longer made her think about kissing him. “Look. I don’t want you talking to him, do you hear? After we get to the apartment, I’d appreciate it if you’d make some excuse and go. I don’t want him thinking I’ve kicked out his new best friend. Okay?”

  His large muscled arm stretched forward and his warm hand rested on her knee. He gave her a gentle, but firm squeeze. “Nay, lass.” He kept his voice low too, like he didn’t want the old man to hear them arguing.

  She would have to think fast if she was going to be able to ditch the guy and get her grandpa into the building by herself. Maybe she should walk to the back of the train, call the cops, and have them meet them at the train stop.

  A glance out the window proved it was too late. The short ride was over. The enemy was stuck to her like glue. She’d have to wait for the right moment to make a move. If she just dialed 911, they wouldn’t have any idea where she was, and the guy would probably take her phone away before she had a chance to speak.

  So much was promised in that gentle squeeze.

  The train stopped. She stood up and faced him. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I have come to help ye, lass. And I will help ye all I can. But I can do nothing if ye send me away. I’ll be forced to tell Alonzo the truth.”

  She touched her lips without thinking. The Scot noticed the movement and smiled.

  “Not that,” he said. “I’ll tell him who I really am. And ye doona wish him to hear it.”

  “Still going with the Angel of Death story? Are you kidding me?”

  She still didn’t know who he was. But she knew what his crazy talk could do to someone fighting for his life. And he knew it too.

  She sighed. “So, you’re blackmailing me?”

  “So it seems.” At least he didn’t sound cheerful about it, so maybe she could still convince him to go away and leave them alone. He had seemed so reasonable, so genuinely kind, before. She couldn’t imagine what had changed.

  Once again, she watched his arms strain to get the wheelchair moving, but he was careful not to jiggle the delicate passenger any more than he had to. They were still a block from home when her grandpa started whistling a tune that matched up perfectly with the rhythmic squeak of the traitorous wheel. A mild breeze ran its fingers through the trees overhead that lined both sides of the street, and she took a little snapshot in her head—as long as she could edit out the large man forcing himself into the picture.

  A moment to remember. A moment when her grandfather felt happy enough to whistle, and had the strength to do it.

  You see, she wanted to say. He’s improving. You were wrong.

  The whistling faltered, weakened, then stopped.

  The Scot picked up the tune and whistled loud and clear. She glanced at her grandpa, expecting him to look a little disappointed. But the man was beaming, as pleased as if he were able to whistle so well himself.

  A rare emotion hit her chest like a medicine ball and she realized why, all day long, every positive thought she’d clung to had been chased out of town.

  She was jealous.

  Since the second he’d climbed through their window, all Seoc Macbeth had to do, in order to win her grandpa’s heart, was to wear a kilt and roll his r’s every now and then.

  The fact that she understood what she was feeling and why she was feeling it didn’t stop her chest from burning or her thoughts from turning mean.

  “I wouldn’t think a Scot would know that song,” she snarled.

  The man stopped whistling. “All soldiers ken the tune, lass.” And to prove it, he started whistling it from the start while his eyes laughed at her.

  “Someday I’m going to murder the buuugler,” sang her grandpa. “Someday they’re going to find him dead. And then I’ll get that other pup…the guy who wakes the bugler up…” The last bit was sung by both men in unison, like a couple of drunks stumbling home from a long night, and it galled her like nothing before.

  The rest of the song was an irritating whistle, far too loud and cheerful. By the time they reached the front door, she had her fingers in her ears. With a warning glance, she told both men to pipe down before she used one hand to enter the code. The Scot tried to get her goat by humming then, but she just smiled that fake customer service smile she had honed for years. And she went on smiling when it was obvious he didn’t care for it.

  Poor baby.

  On the elevator, he turned to her, scowling. “Do ye always smile like that?”

  She smiled harder. “Yes. I do. Being happy is a choice, right? So I choose happy.”

  “Ye don’t ever have sad days—that is, when it isn’t just your body ridding itself of unwanted emotion?”

  She stopped smiling, but only for a few seconds. “Sad is a choice too, right? Bad days, sad days. It’s all a question of attitude. I get sad, I just choose not to stay that way.”

  He snorted.

  She snorted back.

  And the elevator fell quiet.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Once they were all inside the apartment again, Alonzo asked Seoc to park his wheeled chair near the bathroom.

  “Don’t lock the door,” the lass warned him.

  The old man winced. “Then promise you won’t come looking for me if I happen to take my time.”

  “I promise,” she said. “I’m going to start the soup.”

  Seoc made a silent offer of aid, but Alonzo shook his head and hobbled inside alone.

  The evening was upon them. In Seoc’s mind, the clock began ticking in earnest.

  “Seoc!” the man hollered from behind the door.

  He hurried to it, but his hand paused a few inches from
the handle. “Aye?” He would not go inside unbidden. Not after Alonzo had warned the lass to leave him be.

  “You’ll stay, won’t you?” came the worried voice.

  “Aye, my friend. I’m going nowhere.” He waited a few seconds to see if the old man had more to say, but there was only silence.

  At the end of the hallway, he scooped up his duffle bag, took it into the living room, and pushed it into a corner and out of the way. There was room to walk around the bed without tripping on it, and it couldn’t be seen cluttering up the place.

  He sat on the couch and tested its cushions.

  “What are you doing?” Catherine stood near the end of the kitchen table with a large wooden spoon in her grasp.

  “If ye must know, I’m testing the couch.”

  “What for?”

  “Yer grandfather has asked me to stay.”

  “Of course he has.” She turned and stomped back into the kitchen.

  He opened the curtains and cracked the windows a few inches to counter the humidity gathering on the glass. The soup smelled divine and he resisted the temptation to tell her she cooked it in vain, that her grandfather would be wanting none of it. For anything that kept the lass busy, for the rest of the night, would be a blessing.

  Twenty minutes passed and Alonzo had still not emerged. Hopefully, he was simply enjoying a bit of peace and quiet without Catherine hovering over him.

  It was high time for a truce. There was little daylight left and he didn’t wish to waste any of it staring out the windows or studying a bloody wall. If he was to gawk at anything, he preferred it to be the lass in the kitchen.

  He stepped up to the table and she said nothing. The sudden stiff posture told him she was aware of every move he made, but her silent treatment continued.

  “I would offer to take out your garbage, lass, but I fear ye wouldna allow me back inside the apartment.”

  Her lips started to curve, but she stopped them. “Good thinking.”