Crossroad (The Gunsmith Book 3)

by C. K. Crigger

  In a bow to this knowledge, I pulled on a custom-made pair of foam-lined leather gloves, and from the jumble of stuff in a drawer, sorted out a polished hickory stick that had a deep hook carved at the end.

  The man watched these preparations with rapt attention, a knowing smile playing over his face. “Why do you wear the gloves?” he asked.

  “So I don’t catch a disease,” I replied.

  He darted me a look comprised of equal parts anger and disdain. I don’t think he believed me, unless he thought I referred to him. I told him nothing less than the truth though. I just didn’t bother to explain the nature of the disease. Most people wouldn’t recognize magical entrapment as an affliction.

  Leaning over the case, I investigated the inside. If I’d hoped to find only the man special, the gun ordinary, those hopes were dashed in the next second. Power rose up in waves at my intrusion, touching my face like sharp ice crystals blown in a wind. With utmost caution, I probed the pistol with the hickory, causing the wood to pulse and jerk in my hand, almost as though I had successfully witched for water. I knew I’d have to be very sure not to touch any part of the pistol with my bare skin.

  I made a clicking sound with my tongue.

  Still using the wooden hook, I mashed down the foam in the carrying case, latched on to the Weatherby’s trigger guard and lifted the gun out. The Weatherby is a large pistol; 26 1/2 inches long, and weighs more than five pounds, depending on the bore diameter and the scope. This particular model was the Mark V Accumark, with a matte black synthetic stock made of Kevlar. The remains of a broken Bausch & Lomb scope draggled off to the side, the mounts bowed beyond salvage. The barrel had been twisted in its seat, and a trace of ruddy-colored flakes clung to the stainless steel. I had a hunch the flakes were old, dried blood. I knew their look.

  But guess what? I didn’t ask him a thing.

  The gun’s owner followed me around to the working side of the bench and stood peering over my shoulder in the most annoying way. Given the state of the pistol, I felt a little shy about telling him to buzz off.

  “Can you repair it?” he asked, trying hard not to let his anxiety show.

  I waved him aside while I double-checked the magazine and chamber—empty—before making any assessment. I finally decided the damage looked worse than it truly was. Putting things right would mostly be a matter of properly reseating the barrel and attaching a new scope. Mentally, I crossed my fingers, hoping the screw hole threads hadn’t been stripped. Nothing is impossible. Of course it could be fixed.

  Turning, I looked up at him. “It’s doable.”

  Incredibly, a pleased, dimpling smile lit his tired, haven’t-slept-for-a-week face. Dimples, for heaven’s sake! White stubble dusted his jaws. With him this close, I discovered I could smell him, not that he stank. But his black clothing—even at close range I could not discern the fabric—had a brown sheen of dust, and there was a dry-as-dirt odor clinging to him, as if he’d been lying out on bare ground.

  “What’s your name?” I hadn’t meant to ask. “For our records,” I hastily added.

  He stopped smiling, his eyes shifting rapidly to all corners of the room, as though seeking out a trap.

  Finding none, he answered, “Teagun Dill.”

  Knowing his name should have made me feel better, especially since he hadn’t said Hannibal Lector or some such thing. It didn’t. More than anything, I wished for Scott to finally come wheeling into work, full of himself as usual. But, as I might have known, he didn’t.

  Keeping the gloves on, I picked up a screwdriver, and as the implement skated off the metal, I saw my hands were trembling. I dropped the screwdriver back onto the bench, disgusted with myself. I was as antsy and hollow feeling as a feeble old lady.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked in alarm. “Can’t you fix it after all?”

  I glared at him, making the only excuse that came readily to mind. “Not until I’ve had my breakfast. I’m hungry.”

  “Hungry?” he said, as if people didn’t eat where he came from.

  They did, though. Or at least he did. Croissants, and apple and orange wedges, which he followed with two cups of fresh, black Kona blend coffee to boot. But not until he’d watched me take the first bites and swallow the first sips.

  Teagun Dill struck me as a seriously nervous man. And was he or was he not, an out-of-time man? Be damned if I knew.

  HOURS LATER—I don’t know how many—I tightened the last screw on the new Leupold Vari-X III scope and looked up at Teagun. He was asleep, breathing lightly as a cat until, as though I’d tripped some kind of inner warning system by my glance, he awoke instantly.

  I rubbed my aching eyes and handed the Weatherby to him. He took the gun tentatively, handling it with more confidence when nothing happened. What a relief for me to put the thrumming power in the pistol away and remove the hot, foam-lined gloves.

  “I assume you brought that nice, fat wallet with you,” I told him, trying to smile. “Because you’re going to need it. I put a Leupold scope on the pistol that you’re going to find didn’t come cheap. It’s a good scope; does a better job than what you had, in my opinion.”

  He shrugged. “Your call,” he said. He raised the heavy pistol in one hand, wrist straight, rock steady, and sighted on something across the street.

  “I’m sorry we don’t have a range in the building,” I said, feeling oddly nervous. “What you should do is take the gun out in the open, and use a bench rest to help sight it in. If you find anything wrong or that doesn’t suit, be sure and write down what distance you’re shooting from and the ammo you’re using. I figured the stuff you bought yesterday, right? Bring the target in, too, and I’ll tweak the scope for you.”

  Don’t say that, I chided myself. You don’t want to see him back here ever.

  “All right.” He turned his dark gaze on me. “Are you a good shot?”

  There was nothing in this question to bother me, or so you’d think. But I was bothered. For the space of five heartbeats I didn’t reply.

  “Yes,” I finally said.

  I was writing out the bill when I glanced up and discovered the red light by the door had cleared, the door now unlocked. And yet, to my knowledge, Teagun Dill hadn’t moved and neither had I.

  A quarter of a minute after he’d gone, Scott came through the door whistling.

  “Where have you been?” I still had Teagun’s money in my hand—a measly grand, because in my anxiety to be rid of him, I’d drastically undercharged. The scope alone was worth nearly that much.

  Scott glanced in surprise at the schoolhouse clock on the wall. “What are you talking about? I’m early. I said I’d be in at ten and it’s only five past nine right now. Meg’s plane came in ahead of schedule.”

  I didn’t bother to wonder who Meg might be. I didn’t care. “Nine o’clock?” I echoed faintly, grabbing the counter and hanging on.

  “Well, sure.” He frowned. “What’s the matter with you, little sister? You sick or something? You don’t look so hot.”

  The money Teagun had paid over didn’t feel or look a bit different than any other American currency. Nevertheless, I sniffed with caution at the bills which caused Scott to look at me like I must be nuts.

  “Here.” I thrust them under his nose. “Check it out. You smell.”

  His nose twitched. “What am I trying to detect? I’m not a coke-sniffing dog or something, Boothenay. Call one of those ‘old’ dogs in. They can do practically anything.”

  He always calls the Briards “old,” in quotes, because Caleb and I had brought them forward from WWI. He’s almost right. They can do practically anything—but not this.

  “No fire and brimstone?” I persisted. “Sulfur?”

  “Nah.” He grinned. “Just a little musty, like it was kept in somebody’s sweaty back pocket for too long. What’s up?”

  My legs suddenly folded, and I sank onto the floor in front of the counter. I was clenching Teagun’s money until my fingers hurt, afraid it m
ight vanish if I loosened my hold.

  Scott squatted beside me. “Boothenay?”

  “Do something for me, will you? Check my workbench and tell me what you see.” I couldn’t bring myself to speak to him of my suspicion. Not yet.

  He stood up and peered over the counter. “A big mess as usual.” At my muttered protest, he relented. “Okay, okay. Aside from the regular stuff, I see a broken Bausch and Lomb scope. Looks like somebody must’ve been beating on it with hammers. The lens is shattered. Is that what you wanted me to see?”

  I sighed, leaning my head on my knees. “At nine o’clock this very morning, Scott, I opened the door to a man named Teagun Dill. At 9:05, you walked in. During that five minutes, I not only fed this man some breakfast, but I reset the barrel of a Weatherby Mark V, and replaced that broken scope you see there with a new Leupold. Five minutes, Scott. Am I good or what?”

  “What are you trying to tell me?” His eyes narrowed.

  I rubbed my temples with trembling fingers. “To spell the whole thing out, I’m telling you that Teagun Dill can not only travel through time, but that he can manipulate time to suit himself. Move a little here, take back a little there. Probably not reliably, probably not without tremendous effort, but he can do it.”

  Above me, Scott pounded one fist on the wooden counter. The wood jiggled. Pencils rattled in a holder. Papers slid together. Scott was upset.

  “Shit,” he said, his tone scathing. “Damn frikking voodoo.”

  SCOTT’S SENTIMENTS, being well known to me, didn’t come as any real surprise. I couldn’t help feeling a little support would have been nice for a change though. But no. Not him. He carried on as if I, and the whole world, had somehow wronged him, to the point I was glad when he left at noon. I closed up shop.

  Caleb. Now his was a different story. Caleb, with talent of his own, would want to hear about these new developments. But he’d have left for his 12-hour stint at the clinic by now, and there wasn’t a prayer he’d have time to spare for my predicament—not on a Saturday afternoon. I’d have to wait for his sympathetic ear.

  If Teagun Dill had wanted to frustrate me, along with intimidate and frighten, he certainly had perfect timing.

  I seldom find myself without things to do after work. Isn’t there an old saying about busy hands build content? Something like that anyway. Today was no exception. During the afternoon, I weeded the garden, mowed the lawn and cleaned house. I forced all memory of Teagun Dill and his magic out of my head. Tried anyway. In the evening, I went to the mall alone and watched a movie. Busy hands indeed.

  But not what you’d call high drama—and the movie disappointed.

  Arriving home again, I pulled the Mustang into the side lot and parked. I got out, stretching leftover kinks from my back and breathing deeply before entering the yard via the side gate. The evening remained warm from the day’s heat. The smell of new-mown grass scented the night.

  I detected an air of discord though. One that didn’t strike through my preoccupation until after I’d unlocked the family entrance to the old brick building.

  The dogs. Where were they?

  Chilled with cold premonition, I pulled the legally licensed Smith & Wesson LS from concealment in my purse and pushed the door open a crack. From inside, down the hall, I heard McDuff whine softly. Other than that, I sensed only a dark stillness, as though the structure had fallen into a vacuum.

  I stopped as the door, aided perhaps by a slight breeze, opened a little further in invitation. Though I strained to see, only blackness lay beyond the dim entry. The safety light in the hall leading to the stairs had gone out. If the shop lights still burned, they were invisible to me.

  Did I, or did I not, feel a presence?

  Should I leave? Go back to my car and drive away, leaving the shop and all its valuable, potentially dangerous contents open while I called the police? If I made the call, even if the cops found nothing, our insurance rates were bound to rise.

  I’d unlocked the properly secured door myself, just now. How could there be danger within? A more probable assumption was that Dad had come home a day early. Or Scott had been over, turned the lights off and left the dogs inside.

  And maybe not.

  Best to check for myself.

  Holding the LadySmith in front of me in a two-handed grip, I slipped into the entry and closed the door.

  Immediately McDuff’s soft whine became more audible. From the direction of the sound, he must be shut up in the office. The other Briard, Juno, deafened from shell explosions before Caleb had rescued her, never made any noise, so I didn’t know if both the dogs were in there or not.

  I heard the soft hum of a small electric appliance; clock, neon sign, fax machine? It didn’t matter. The floorboards of the 1912 building creaked under my shoes as I shifted weight. My own breathing seemed too loud.

  I took two short steps into the room and paused to listen again.

  The hairs on the back of my neck lifted. Cold enveloped me, followed immediately by heat, then cold again. Two more steps took me to the end of the entry.

  Did I hear a heartbeat separate from my own? Impossible.

  I forced my feet to move again, to turn toward the office where the dogs waited. Suddenly, my hand spasmed, gone dead and useless as something chopped down hard on my extended arm. Someone grabbed me, spinning me around until he stood at my back. He had a choke hold around my throat. An arm, covered with a long sleeve made of an oily feeling, slick fabric reached out, snatching the LadySmith from my nerveless hand. The hall was pitch black.

  A scream snagged in my throat. I squeaked, and the pressure around my neck eased a trifle. A solid object inside my purse ground viciously against my hip.

  “If I’d wanted to kill you,” said a laconic voice with a vaguely Hispanic accent, “you’d be dead. You say you’re a good shot. I don’t know about that, but one thing I know.” He paused expectantly.

  “What do you know?” My mouth was so dry I could barely spit the words out. I felt faint with the heavy beating of my heart.

  “You lack the killer instinct.” Teagun Dill sighed as if that were a fault. He sounded more tired than ever. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

  With those ambiguous words he squeezed his arms around me tightly enough I could barely breathe, embracing me almost as if we were lovers. As fast as that, we were joined in a tumultuous, powered passage between times.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dust. I became aware of the smell, the taste, the feel of dust and I sneezed in protest. Coughed and sneezed again.

  “Be quiet,” Teagun whispered, and put his dirty hand over my mouth.

  I bit him.

  He let go of me in a hurry, pushing me away so fast I nearly fell. He wiggled his hand as if I’d hurt him, though I knew that was a load. I hadn’t drawn a drop of his blood, much to my regret!

  But I did fall silent, choking down yet another cough because of the cat-quick way he prowled in all directions, listening with his head cocked, almost as though trying to take scent off the wind. Man or beast, the indication of danger was universal.

  Wind . . . dust . . . dry . . . hot, unnaturally hot, too. Where, besides hell, were we? Outside somewhere, that was certain, alone in an arid countryside. Rock outcroppings peppered the area within my visibility. The soil felt sandy underfoot. I didn’t see a single light, much less indication of a city aglow on the horizon. The night was about as dark as I’d ever seen, although far out in space, starlight flickered.

  With relief, I saw Polaris was in its usual place in the sky. Same for the Big and Little Dippers and Orion’s belt. Wherever Teagun had brought us, at least we were still on Earth. He must not be an actual alien then.

  Which left the killer question: When? How far back into history had he brought us? I didn’t doubt for an instant that we had gone back.

  When he had satisfied himself with a quick inspection of the area, Teagun grabbed me by the arm, crowding me until I squirmed, fighting his tight grip. M
y heavy purse, which had remarkably come through the transition still looped over my shoulder, swung between us. He took it away from me. I hate to say I was no match for him. He being both tall and strong, regardless of his thin frame, frog-marched me straight toward the tallest, steepest outcropping, made of what appeared to be solid stone. Only as he gave me a final shove did I see the fissure in the basalt cliff, and manage to turn to the side as I slipped through.

  We hadn’t spoken until this time, unless a sneeze and being hushed can be considered a conversation. I was bursting with an outrage that declined to be contained any longer. Fear was abrogated by my temper.

  “Damn you, Teagun Dill—if that’s your real name! Give me back my bag. I insist you return me to my home right this minute. Where the hell do you get off taking me prisoner?” I yelled at him, my fury overriding a saner judgment that would warn against such unconsidered behavior. “And don’t you ever push me again, you hear?”

  I didn’t know if prisoner accurately described my position, but to my ears it played better than kidnap victim or whatever other role he might have in mind for me.

  “You bit me,” he objected

  “You were suffocating me, you idiot!

  At this standoff, we glared belligerently at each other as well as we could through the dark. As the injured party, I felt it was up to me to make the stronger protest, but before I could speak, he turned his back on me, as if he had a destination in mind.

  “Come on,” he said. His fingers latched onto my wrist like a steel bracelet, dragging me in his wake.

  “I am not going anywhere with you.” I planted my heels in the dirt, refusing to budge, though I had to skip once to keep him from pulling me over. Twisting madly, I managed to break away from his grip, admittedly to the detriment of my bruised flesh. “Where are we anyway? And what has you so spooked?”