Adventures of Grace Quinlan and Lord William Hayden Outside of Time (Volume 2)

by Freda, Paula

  "Call her over."

  "She has nothing to do with this conversation," Lord Hayden insisted.

  "Do as I tell you." Kraton’s thin-lidded eyes narrowed.

  No use antagonizing the insane. Without taking his eyes off Kraton or lowering his arms, Lord Hayden motioned Elizabeth to join him.

  "Foolish females," Kraton hissed as Elizabeth partnered Lord Hayden. "When men grew soft and relinquished their roles as masters, women mercilessly usurped and misused leadership. Where once men ruled, now they grovel. Forgive me, madam, if I do not fall for your scheme to stop me." He dug his hand into a seam pocket at his hip and drew out a square instrument inset with a watch face. "This little megatime bomb that I invented, when it is timed and planted, will wait patiently for five hundred years to detonate, by which time I think man will have long yearned for release. There are only a few of us dissidents left, but we do not cater to women." He looked at Hayden, "or to runts."

  The latter’s brow creased. Who was he calling a runt?

  Kraton went on, an obsessed orator expounding. "Generation after generation of Kratons, as far back as the eighteenth century, ruled their small domains. We asked for nothing. We took what we needed. When the world accepted this contemptible doctrine, we retreated to our homes and vowed never to set foot outside them until this insanity had passed. It did not pass. It grew and festered, contaminating even the colonized planets. But I am not contaminated, madam."

  Lord Hayden, restraining his desire to pelt the man one on the chin, and attempting to gain time to reason with him further, appealed, "Why bother to wait until the year 3000? Why not blow up time this very moment?"

  "And be branded a murderer, or deemed a disgrace to my descendents? By the year 3000 what is left of man will be ready for annihilation. Over the coming 500 years, mankind will call me Deliverer. My descendents will hold their heads high and speak my name with pride."

  Kraton was mad. Elizabeth glanced at Hayden who was oddly moving behind her. Kraton did not think it unusual for a runt to be intimidated by the justice in his words, or so emasculated and indoctrinated by the year 3000 as to hide behind a woman’s skirts. An instant later, he realized he had misjudged the runt. He growled as a bullet whizzed through his shoulder, invoking an automatic reflex, causing him to drop the megatime bomb.

  The ruse had worked, Lord Hayden thought frantically. Moving behind Elizabeth had given him the cover he needed to draw his gun from its holster while Kraton’s gaze remained trained on her. However, with not enough space to aim correctly, he had succeeded only in wounding the madman. The bomb hitting the ground did not worry Hayden; it was not yet set, nor was it an explosive in the average meaning of the word. But Kraton continued to stand, despite his wound and the blood trickling down his arm.

  Pain and rage filled his eyes. Hayden pulled Elizabeth behind him. "I don’t like runts," Kraton snarled, as he lifted his other hand and his fingertips spat laser beams at the duo, hitting Hayden in the right side of his chest. Elizabeth screamed as Lord Hayden clutched his chest and collapsed forward, gasps mingling with the blood filling his mouth.

  "You bastard!" Elizabeth cried, anguished and enraged. She would often disbelieve her own memories of what she did next. With a strength, speed and determination she had no idea she possessed, Elizabeth yanked the Lord Hayden’s sword from its scabbard, the intricately etched sword he carried strapped to his back. She snapped it over her shoulder, then flung it forward at Kraton with an aim directed solely by a focused and merciless subconscious. The sword rammed through Kraton’s neck, a missile splintering flesh, cartilage and bone, and exited halfway through the nape of his neck. Vocal cords decimated, Kraton’s mouth opened in a silent scream. His silver tipped fingers flew to his throat and were instantly deluged in blood as he wrapped them around the blade, as though he meant to rip it out. Elizabeth reasoned coldly that a man 500 years advanced, especially one of his breadth and strength, might just do that and survive long enough to finish his kills. Quickly, mercilessly, she seized Lord Hayden’s gun where it had fallen when he had clutched his own wound. Aiming the muzzle straight at Kraton’s heart, she shot him. He stood a second longer, silver-tipped hands frozen around the sword, long enough to spear a hateful gaze at the woman who had undone him. Then his eyes rolled back and he sank lifeless, a pitiful, discarded marionette. Elizabeth continued to stare at her victim, a madwoman herself, until the uncanny silence filling the cavern acted like a restorative. She turned slowly back to Lord Hayden.

  He lay very still, sprawled forward. She fell to her knees, and gently, yet resolutely, turned him face-up and cradled his head in her lap. His visage contorted with pain, was deathly pale; his eyes wide open, unblinking. Blood covered his lips. Elizabeth bent over his chest to listen for a heartbeat. There was none. "No… No, it’s not supposed to end this way," she murmured dazedly. "William?" she called, grasping his shoulders, as if he could still hear her and offer an explanation.

  How long she remained kneeling at his side, Elizabeth never knew. Seconds, minutes, hours, it no longer mattered. Somehow, she had never imagined Lord Hayden dying. Perhaps subconsciously she had believed him immortal, a God of the past and its treasures. Eros reincarnate. If she were indeed Psyche reborn, she had at last found her lover and lost him again. "In another life, William, I’ll find you again." She hoped he had realized before the end that they had been successful. Because of them, time would go on as before, and men and women would achieve their destinies.

  When at last she found the courage to stand up, she had already decided to bury him here, near the earth’s core. A fitting plot for a gentleman who had experienced his greatest pleasures unearthing the past. This place was the beginning, the farthest down. Whatever artifacts lay hidden in the earth, now Lord Hayden’s spirit could discover them. A rush of breath steeped in resignation issued from her lips. Gathering her strength and focus, she scanned the dry, pitted ground for something to dig Lord’s Hayden’s grave. Her gaze lit on the megatime bomb, lying beside Kraton.

  "I’ll finish it, William. What you gave your life to accomplish."

  She dropped the megatime bomb into the nearest lava pit. It fell quietly into the liquefied, bubbling stone, floating for an instant, and then glowed red as it fused with the lava and melted. The red, hot liquid closed in over it.

  She found tools inside Kraton’s vehicle. A shovel, an ax, a hammer, a large piece of canvas, etc.. The hours wore on as Elizabeth dug Lord Hayden’s grave. When at last Lord Hayden lay at rest beneath the dry earth, she chopped the shovel in two, crossed it, tied it with strips torn from her camisole and sunk it into the ground at the head of the grave. As she prepared to utter a prayer, the reality of his death and of the bizarre events that had followed her entering the mouth of the Totem, struck her fully. Tears welled in her eyes and sobs racked her. She shook uncontrollably. Thoughts of past moments shared with Lord Hayden surfaced to tear at her heart. The memory of how he had cared for her when she had contracted Malaria; her selfish taunts when he had asked her to marry him; the whole deception she had contrived to gain his affection in the first place, all joined to haunt and torment her with remorse and grief. She shut her eyes no longer able to bear the site of the grave. Thoughts rushed upon thoughts, crashing, mingling, overriding.

  A goddess in white robes, palms outstretched, holding a milky white opal; the opal rising and hovering above her slender palms. A young man standing before the goddess. His features were Egyptian. He was very handsome. The face of the young man began to alter, elongate, the skin change color and texture. Smooth bronze flesh dissolved to coarse, grey, slimy scale, horned, tentacle, and webbed—the face at the top of the Totem.

  Elizabeth opened her eyes, but they did not see the panorama of earth, fire and rock about her. Her arms began to rise and outstretch, palms cupping together. Her voice resounded as though it were filtering through a loudspeaker. "Agnes, are you watching?" she cried out.

  The earth moved. Lava pits spewed flames. Th
e cavern shook, but Elizabeth did not move. She remained poised, holding some invisible object, staring at it. In a sweet, melodic voice, totally alien and incongruous with her surroundings, she sang the notes backward that had catapulted her and Lord Hayden into the year 3000. The cavern spun, slowly at first, picking up speed with each turn. Elizabeth closed her eyes, the speed and pressure disorienting her. She felt so tired, confused and dizzy. Perhaps it was after all a nightmare, and soon she would awaken in her bedroom inside her cozy cottage opposite Lord Hayden’s. She would find herself lying in bed, sunlight filtering though the blinds, striping her blanket and the blue rug on the floor. Her eyes shot open as she was thrown, as if from a horse on a carousel spinning out of control, and catapulted from the mouth of the Totem, straight into Oscar Creighton’s private museum. A fraction of a second later, Lord Hayden hurled headfirst from the same mouth, colliding with Elizabeth, knocking her down in a tangle of arms and legs.

  "William," she cried, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, as she beheld his face as startled as her own. He had never looked more alive, handsome, rugged and healthy.

  Lord Hayden glanced down at his chest where the laser beam had burned through. Nothing. He was as whole as when he had entered the Totem. He began to laugh, bordering on hysteria, with relief. Elizabeth joined him, happier than she had ever felt in her life. She stopped as Lord Hayden, looking behind her, suddenly sobered. Elizabeth turned. Oscar Creighton, wrapped in a black silk robe, a dark murderous expression on his lean, Slavic visage, stood framed in the doorway, a forty-five in his thin, smooth hand.

  Lord Hayden grimaced, "Oh, bloody hell."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Please don’t stop on my account," Creighton sneered softly, coming forward. "Haven’t you heard the saying, ‘They died laughing’?"

  Elizabeth jumped to her feet. "Now wait, Mr. Creighton, it’s not what—" The remainder of her plea was swallowed by the sound of two bodies hitting the floor as Lord Hayden pulled her down and to the side just as Creighton fired. The bullet whizzed past her, barely missing her, and entered the mouth of the Totem. No second prompting needed, she half-crawled, half-scurried with Lord Hayden to the back of a tall display case.

  Creighton skirted the display case and Hayden lunged at his legs, knocking the gun from his hand. The two men grappled on the tiled floor. Hayden drove a solid right to Creighton’s jaw, but his adversary was lean and quick. He ducked. The force of Lord Hayden’s non-connecting punch sent him sprawling forward. He hit the ground with his palms open. A limber physique enabled him to spring back up and turn smack into Creighton’s fist. He landed on his backside, dazed, but conscious. He shook his head to clear it. Before Creighton could do further damage, Elizabeth jumped on his narrow back and pummeled his ears. Creighton reached over his head, grabbed a handful of Elizabeth’s hair and yanked her over and past his shoulder, sending her crashing across the room. She landed with a thud, the breath knocked out of her. Creighton immediately searched for his gun. Spotting it, he started for it.

  Hayden’s thoughts clearing, he lunged again at Creighton’s legs. Kraton’s ancestor fell, crashing sideways, hitting his temple on the edge of an antique marble stand. Something cracked. Not the stand. Creighton fell forward and lay very still.

  Hayden climbed to his feet and advanced cautiously for a closer look at his opponent. He leaned down and felt the man’s pulse. "It’s all right, Grace," he said, soothingly. "He’ll stand judgment for Stanton’s murder in a higher court."

  The two archaeologists turned together as the Totem began to hum and vibrate. "Do you think the bullet‒‒" Elizabeth began, but never finished. The vibrations crescendoed. First an ear, then an eye, then a whole chunk cracked, detached and dropped to the floor, splintering, as though someone were wielding a hatchet and hacking away. Elizabeth and Hayden watched as the ancient transport dwindled to wood chips and shavings.

  For the present, Lord Hayden and Elizabeth would escape Creighton’s plantation. With luck, aided by their own ingenuity, and possibly a little unadvertised help from a lady a thousand odd years in the future, they would encounter no guards, meet their guide at the appointed place, and be miles from the plantation before the sun again rose in the sky.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Freshly showered and shaved, Lord Hayden dressed hurriedly. He checked his appearance in the mirror over the basin. Clean, crisp, white linen shirt, a black bow tie, and black dress pants. His white dinner jacket waited in the bedroom. As he shrugged into it, he pushed aside an edge of the sheer taupe drapes on the window of his fourth floor accommodations. It was still daylight. On the streets below, pedestrians and all manner of vehicles hurried to and fro as the city of Lima, Peru, thrived busily, five hundred miles above sea level. The largest city in the country, it was also its cultural, administrative and commercial center.

  He had ordered an early dinner for himself and Grace to be served in his rooms. He looked forward to sharing a quiet evening with her. Although not able to explain fully what happened to him after Kraton had speared him with a laser beam, he was fully aware of Grace’s actions in dealing with the madman. And also, her reactions as she mourned him. The rest was hazy until he tumbled from the Totem’s mouth into Creighton’s museum. He was certain now that she loved him, despite that his attempt to kiss her inside the taxi that morning on their way in from the city outskirts to the hotel, had met with refusal. At his request for an explanation, her emerald eyes had sparked angrily. "The adventure is over, Lord Hayden," she had snapped. "Time to close the book."

  Startled by her vehemence, he had stared at her open-mouthed, unable to decipher what he had done or said to invite such hostility. Angry, he had spent the remainder of their ride in silence. But once inside the hotel, his hopes resurfacing, he had suggested their sharing a quiet dinner that evening in his rooms. Surprisingly, Grace had not objected. He was determined to break through the shell in which she kept her heart. Somehow, he would convince her that he sincerely loved her and that she was not just another partner, as for some reason, yet unfathomable to him, she believed. By hook or crook he intended on making her Lady William Hayden.

  A black telephone perched beside a vase of irises on a small table by the window.

  He picked up the receiver and dialed the desk. "I’d like a dozen long-stemmed roses sent to Miss Grace Quinlan in Room 405. Sign it—"

  "Perdone, but Miss Quinlan checked out hours ago."

  "For where?" Lord Hayden demanded.

  "I believe she was returning to the States on the afternoon plane. She called the airline, right here at the desk, to make the reservations. Señor, you are the gentleman in Room 408?" And on Lord Hayden’s confirmation, the clerk added, "I see a message in your box. Perhaps it is from Miss Quinlan."

  "I’ll be right down," Lord Hayden said, hanging up. Quickly he rushed out of the room.

  The note was indeed from Grace. It was a goodbye note, thanking him for saving her life more than once during their journey. It went without saying that her article would have to be scratched, since the Totem no longer existed, the story itself was too fantastic to write, and because of their promise of secrecy to Agnes. However, the memory of their adventure would never leave her. The last words before her signature read: "Until we meet again, Lord Hayden. "He crushed the note between his fingers.

  On his return to the University, he cornered Professor Eldridge in the hallway and demanded to know if she had heard from her cousin. Frustrated, not wanting to believe her negative answer, he lost control. Grasping Elizabeth’s shoulders, he shook her, almost knocking off her glasses and loosening that ridiculous bun on her head. The frightened look on her face restored his senses immediately. He ran a nervous hand through his hair, and apologized profusely before turning and walking away. He felt her grey eyes on him the whole length of the hallway.

  As the days dragged, only his classes and his archaeological research eased their monotony. Ironically, he was grateful for Elizabeth Eldridge’s company d
uring coffee and lunch breaks; grateful for the love of the ancient that burned in her veins, like his. She was his only link to Grace, and although now he rarely mentioned Miss Quinlan, he waited heart in throat for Elizabeth to announce that she had heard from her. Where his meetings with her during breaks and lunch had been coincidental or at her promptings, he now often did the asking, using as his excuses the need to discuss the Totem and the outcome of his venture. As far as the College Board was concerned, he and Miss Quinlan had never found Creighton or the Totem. But with Professor Elizabeth Eldridge he shared the truth. She was after all Grace’s sponsor and his collaborator. And the theory of Psyche’s Tomb was hers originally. Elizabeth would listen, not interrupting, just listening. He always felt better after his quiet talks with her. Marry Professor Eldridge, Grace had advised him. Perhaps he should, if only to show that green-eyed siren that no woman made a fool of Lord William Hayden and got away with it.

  It would be easy enough. Elizabeth Eldridge had carried a torch for him since coming to the university five years ago. He remembered the day they had first met, colliding in the hallway. The books she carried scattered. Lord Hayden did the gentlemanly thing—apologized and picked up the books and redeposited them in her arms. That was also when he first noticed the gross color and style of her hair, pinned severely back and up, terminating in that ridiculous bun on top of her head. Yet the truth was he could never marry Elizabeth on the rebound. She was an ugly duckling who would probably grow uglier with the passing of years. Yet she possessed a gentle soul that loved the past and its relics as much as he, and perhaps more. For that alone, he could never hurt her.

  Lord William breathed deeply, resigned for the time being. But they would meet again. He felt sure of that. "Until next we meet..." he whispered, soulfully, as the corners of his mouth curved into a wagering smile.