by Terry Brooks
She had said nothing of it to Ben because she had read in his voice when he told her of his dream that he had already decided he would go. She knew then that she could not turn him from his purpose and should not try. He understood the risks and accepted them. The urgency of her concern paled beside the strength of his determination.
Perhaps it was for that reason that in telling him of her dream she had not told him all. Something in her dream was different than in his—or Questor Thews’. It was a subtle thing and difficult to explain, but it was there nevertheless.
She crouched in the shallows, emerald hair fanning out across her shoulders like a shawl. Her finger traced patterns on the still surface, and the memory of the dream returned. The wrong feeling was in the texture of the dream, she thought. It was in the way it played against her mind. The visions had been vivid, the events clear. But the telling was somehow false—as if it were all something that could happen in a dream, but not in waking. It was as if the memory was a mask that hid a face beneath.
She ceased her tracing motion and rose. What face was it, she wondered, that lay concealed beneath that mask?
The frown that clouded her face deepened, and she wished suddenly she had not been so accepting of Ben’s decision. She wished she had argued his going after all or that she had insisted that he take her along.
“No, he will be well,” she whispered insistently.
Her eyes lifted skyward and she let the moonglow warm her. Tomorrow she would seek the advice of her mother, whose life was so close to that of the fairy creatures in the mists. Her mother would know of the black unicorn and the bridle of spun gold and would guide her; soon she would be back again with Ben.
She stepped further out into the darkened lake, let the waters close about her, and drifted at peace.
The second appearance of Meeks did not elicit in Ben Holiday the panic that the first had. He did not freeze; he did not experience the same sense of confusion. He was surprised, but not stunned. After all, he had a better idea of what to expect this time around. This was just another apparition of the outcast wizard—tall, stooped, cloaked in the robes of gunmetal blue, white hair grizzled, face craggy and sallow, black leather glove lifted like a claw, but an apparition nevertheless.
Wasn’t it?
Meeks started for him, and suddenly he wasn’t so sure. The pale blue eyes were alive with hatred, and the hard features seemed to twist into something not quite human. Meeks closed on him, gliding down the empty, fluorescent-lit corridor soundlessly, growing huge in the silence. Ben stood his ground with difficulty, one hand searching out the reassuring bulk of the medallion beneath his shirt. But what protection did the medallion offer him here? His mind raced. The rune stone, he thought suddenly! The stone would tell him if he was threatened! His free hand rummaged frantically in his pants pocket, fumbling for the stone as the robed figure loomed closer. Despite his resolve, Ben took a quick step backward. He could not find the stone!
Meeks was directly in front of him, dark and menacing. Ben flinched as the wizard blocked the light …
And then he looked up and found himself alone in the deserted corridor, staring into empty space, listening to the silence.
Meeks was gone—another substanceless apparition.
He had found the rune stone, nestled in the corner of his pants pocket, and he pulled it into the light. It was blood red and burned at the touch.
“Damn!” he muttered, angry and frightened both at once.
He took a moment to gather his wits, scanning the hallway swiftly to be certain that he had missed nothing. Then he straightened, finding himself in a sort of defensive half-crouch, and stepped away from the elevator doors. Nothing moved about him. It appeared he really was alone.
But what was the reason for this second vision? Was this another warning? Was it a warning from Meeks or to Meeks?
What was going on?
He hesitated only a moment before turning sharply left toward the glass doors that fronted the offices of Holiday & Bennett, Ltd. Whatever was going on, he felt it wise to keep moving. Meeks had to know that eventually he would come to Miles. That didn’t mean that Meeks was there—or even anywhere close. The apparition might be just another signal to warn him of Ben’s coming. If Ben were quick enough, he would be there and gone before Meeks could do anything about it.
The lights in the office lobby were off. He pulled at the handle on the entry doors and found them locked. That was normal. Miles never unlocked the front doors or turned on the lights when he worked alone. Ben had come prepared for that. He pulled out his office key and inserted it into the lock. The lock turned easily, and the door opened. Ben stepped inside, pocketed the key, and let the door close behind him.
A radio was playing softly in the silence—Willie Nelson, the kind of stuff Miles liked. Ben looked down the inner hallway and saw a light shining out of Miles’ office. He grinned. The old boy was at home.
Maybe. A new wave of doubt and mistrust washed over him, and the grin faded. Better safe than sorry, he cautioned himself, worrying that old chestnut as if it were a spell to cast out evil spirits. He shook his head. He wished there was some way to be sure about Meeks …
He eased his way silently down the hall until he stood before the lighted doorway. Miles Bennett sat alone at his desk, hunched over his law books, a yellow pad crammed with notes open beside him. He had come to work wearing a coat and tie, but the knot in the tie had been pulled loose, and the coat had been shed in favor of rolled-up sleeves and an open collar. He glanced up as he sensed Ben’s presence, and his eyes widened.
“Holy Saint Pete!” He started up, then eased back down again. “Doc—is that really you?”
Ben smiled. “It’s me all right. How are you doing, buddy?”
“How am I doing? How am I doing?” Miles was incredulous. “What the hell kind of question is that? You go trouping off to Shangri-La or whatever, you’re gone better than a year, no one hears a word from you, then one day back you come—right out of nowhere—and you want to know how I am? Pretty damn cheeky, Doc!”
Ben nodded helplessly and groped for something to say. Miles let him struggle with it a moment, then laughed and pushed himself to his feet, a big, rumpled teddy bear in business clothes.
“Well, come on in, Doc! Don’t stand out there in the hallway like the prodigal son returned—even if that’s what you are! Come on in, have a seat, tell me all about it! Damn, I can’t believe it’s really you!”
He hastened around the desk, his big hand extended, took Ben’s, and pumped it firmly. “I’d just about given up on you, you know that? Just about given up. I thought something had happened to you for certain when I didn’t hear anything. You know how your mind works overtime in this business anyway. I began imagining all sorts of things. I even considered calling the police or someone, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone my partner was off chasing little people and dragons!”
He was laughing again, laughing so hard his eyes were tearing, and Ben joined in. “They probably get calls like that all the time.”
“Sure, that’s what makes Chicago the great little town it is!” Miles wiped his eyes. He wore a rumpled blue shirt and dress pants. He looked a little like a giant Smurf. “Hey, Doc—it’s good to see you.”
“You, too, Miles.” He glanced around. “Doesn’t appear that anything has changed since I left.”
“Naw, we keep the place a living shrine to your memory.” Miles glanced around with him, then shrugged. “Wouldn’t know where to start anyway, the place is such a monumental piece of art deco.” He smiled, waited a moment for Ben to say something, and, when Ben didn’t, cleared his throat nervously. “So, here you are, huh? Care to tell me what happened out there in fairyland, Doc? If it’s not too painful to relate, that is. We don’t have to discuss it if you’d rather …”
“We can discuss it.”
“No, we don’t have to. Forget I asked. Forget the whole business.” Miles was insistent now, embarras
sed. “It’s just such a surprise to have you come waltzing in like this … Hey, look, I’ve got something for you! Been saving this for when we got together again. Look, got it right here in the drawer.” He hastened back around behind the desk and rummaged quickly through the bottom drawer. “Yeah, here we go!”
He pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet, still sealed, and plopped it on the desk. Two glasses followed.
Ben shook his head and smiled with pleasure. His favorite scotch. “It’s been a long time, Miles,” he admitted.
Miles broke the seal, uncorked the bottle, and poured two fingers into each glass. He pushed one across the desk to Ben, then lifted his own glass in salute. “To crime and other forms of amusement,” he said.
Ben touched glasses with him, and both drank. The Glenlivet was smooth and warm going down. The two old friends took seats across the desk. Willie Nelson continued to sing through the momentary silence.
“So you gonna tell me or what?” Miles asked finally, changing his mind once more.
“I don’t know.”
“Why not? You don’t have to be coy with me, you know. You don’t have to feel embarrassed if this thing didn’t turn out the way you expected.”
Memories flooded Ben’s thoughts. No, it surely hadn’t turned out the way he had expected. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was in deciding how much he should tell Miles. Landover wasn’t something that could be easily explained. It was sort of like the way it was when you were a kid and your parents wanted to know about Susie at the freshman sock hop.
It was like telling them that Santa Claus really did exist.
“Would it be enough if I told you that I found what I was looking for?” he asked Miles after a moment’s thought.
Miles was silent for a moment. “Yeah, if that’s the best you can do,” he replied finally. He hesitated. “Is that the best you can do, Doc?”
Ben nodded. “It is just now.”
“I see. Well, what about later? Can you do better later? I’d hate to think that this was the end of it and I’d never learn anything more. Because I don’t think I could stand that. You left here in search of dragons and damsels in distress, and I told you you were crazy. You believed all that hype about a kingdom where magic was real and fairy-tale creatures lived, and I told you it was impossible. See, Doc, I need to know which of us was right. I need to know if dreams like yours are still possible. I have to know.”
Disappointment reflected in the roundish face. Ben felt sorry for his old friend. Miles had been in on this business from the beginning. He was the only one who knew that Ben had spent a million dollars to purchase a fantasy kingdom that sane men knew couldn’t possibly exist. He was the only one who knew that Ben had gone off in search of that kingdom. He knew how the story started, but he didn’t know how it ended. And it was eating at him.
But there was more to consider here than Miles’ discomforting curiosity. There was his safety. Sometimes knowledge was a dangerous thing. Ben still didn’t know how great a threat Meeks posed—to either of them. He still didn’t know how much truth there was to his dream. Miles appeared to be well, but …
“Miles, I promise I’ll tell you everything one day,” he answered, trying to sound reassuring. “I can’t tell you exactly when, but I promise you’ll know. It’s a difficult thing to talk about—sort of the way it used to be about Annie. I could never talk about her without … worrying about what I said. You remember, don’t you?”
Miles nodded. “I remember, Doc.” He smiled. “Have you made peace with her ghost finally?”
“I have. Finally. But it took a lot of time, and I went through a lot of changes.” He paused, remembering when he had stood alone in the mists of the fairy world and come face to face with the fears he had harbored deep within himself that somehow he had failed his dead wife. “I guess talking about where I’ve been and what I’ve found there will take a little time and help as well. I still have to work a few things through …”
He trailed off, the glass of scotch twirling through his fingers on the desk before him.
“It’s all right, Doc,” Miles said quickly, shrugging. “It’s enough just having you back again and knowing you’re all right. The rest will come later. I know that.”
Ben stared at the scotch for a moment, then lifted his eyes to Miles. “I’m only here for a short time, buddy. I can’t stay.”
Miles looked uncertain, then forced a quick grin. “Hey, what are you telling me? You’ve come back for something, haven’t you? So what was it? You missed the Bulls’ nosedive last winter, the Cubs’ el foldo this spring, the marathon, the elections, all the rest of the vintage Chicago season. You want to catch a Bears game? The monsters of the midway are thirteen and one, you know. And they still serve Bud and nachos at the food stands. What do you say?”
Ben laughed in spite of himself. “I say it sounds pretty good. But that’s not what brought me back. I came back because I was worried about you.”
Miles stared at him. “What?”
“I was worried about you. Don’t make that sound like such an astounding event, damn it. I just wanted to be sure you were all right.”
Miles took a long pull on the scotch, then eased back carefully in the padded desk chair. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
Ben shrugged. “I don’t know.” He started to continue, then caught himself. “Oh, what the hell—you already think I’m nuts, so what’s a few more pecans in the fruitcake. I had this dream. I dreamed you were in real trouble and you needed me. I didn’t know what the trouble was, only that it was my fault that you were in it. So I came back to find out if the dream was true.”
Miles studied him a moment the way a psychiatrist might study a prize patient, then drained off the rest of his scotch and tipped forward in the chair once more. “You are nuts, Doc—you know that?”
“I know.”
“Fact is, your conscience must be working overtime.”
“You think so?”
“I do. You’re just feeling guilty because you bailed out on me in the middle of the pre–Christmas season court rush, and I was left with all those damn cases! Well, I’ve got news for you! I took care of those cases, and office routine never skipped a beat!” He paused, then grinned. “Well, maybe half a beat. Proud of me, Doc?”
“Yeah, sure, Miles.” Ben frowned. “So there aren’t any problems at the office—nothing wrong with you, nothing that needs me back here?”
Miles rose, picked up the Glenlivet, and poured them each another finger. He was smiling broadly. “Doc, I hate to tell you this, but things couldn’t be better.”
And right then and there, Ben Holiday began to smell a rat.
Fifteen minutes later he was back on the streets. He had visited with Miles just long enough to avoid giving the impression that anything was seriously wrong. He had stayed even when everything inside him was screaming that he ought to run for his life.
Taxis were at a premium Saturday mornings, so he caught a bus south to Ed Samuelson’s office for his noon meeting. He sat alone two seats from the back, clutched the duffel to him like a child’s security blanket, and tried to shake the feeling that there were eyes everywhere watching him. He sat hunched down in his suit and dress coat and waited for the chill to steal from his body.
Think like a lawyer, he admonished himself! Reason it through!
The dream had been a lie. Miles Bennett was not in trouble and had no need of his assistance. Maybe the dream had only been his sense of guilt at leaving his old friend behind working overtime. Maybe it was only coincidence that Questor and Willow had experienced similar dreams on the same night. He didn’t think so. Something had triggered those dreams—something or someone.
Meeks.
But what was his enemy up to?
He left the bus at Madison and walked several doors down to Ed Samuelson’s building. The eyes followed after him.
He met with his accountant and signed various powers-of-attorney and trust instruments e
nabling management of his affairs to continue in his absence for as long as several years. He didn’t anticipate being gone that long, but you never knew. He shook Ed’s hand, exchanged good-byes, and was back out the door at 12:35 P.M.
This time he waited until he found a taxi. He had the driver take him directly to the airport and caught a 1:30 P.M. flight on Delta to Washington. He was in the nation’s capital by 5:00 P.M. and an hour later caught the last flight out that night on Allegheny to Waynesboro. He kept his eyes open for Meeks the whole time. A man in a trench coat kept looking at him on the flight from Chicago. An old woman selling flowers stopped him in the main terminal at National. A sailor with a duffel bumped him as he turned away too quickly from the Allegheny ticket counter. But there was no sign of Meeks.
He checked the rune stone twice on the flight from Washington to Waynesboro. He checked it almost as an afterthought the first time and reluctantly once after. Both times it glowed blood red and burned at the touch.
He did not go any further that night. He was desperate to continue on—the need for haste was so strong he could barely control it—but reason overcame his sense of urgency. Or maybe it was fear. He did not relish venturing into the Blue Ridge in the dark. It was too easy to become lost or hurt. And it was likely that Meeks would be waiting for him at the entrance to the time passage.
He slept poorly, rose at daybreak, dressed in the warm-up suit and Nikes, ate something—he couldn’t remember later what it was—and called the limo service to pick him up. He stood in the lobby with his duffel in hand and kept an uneasy watch through the plate glass windows. After a moment, he stepped outside. The day was cold and gray and unfriendly; the fact that it was dry offered what little comfort there was to be found. The air smelled bad and tasted worse, and his eyes burned. Everything had an alien look and feel. He checked the rune stone half-a-dozen times. It still glowed bright red.
The limo arrived a short time later and sped him on his way. By midmorning he was hiking back up into the forested mountains of the George Washington National Park, leaving Chicago, Washington, Waynesboro, Miles Bennett, Ed Samuelson, and everything and everyone else in this world in which he now felt himself a stranger and a fugitive far behind.
