A Question Of Time, Fred Saberhagen [best fiction books to read .TXT] 📗

you can’t get out again. Edgar’s right about that. I can’t either.”

      Jake made an inarticulate sound.

      “Unless—” she said, and paused.

      To Jake it sounded like now she was telling him the plain truth, as best she knew how, and she wanted to make sure he understood it. “You won’t be able to get out, unless Edgar dies, or decides to let you out some day. And I can tell you he’s not going to do either one.”

      Camilla paused, looking over her shoulder, up the Deep Canyon toward the house and cave. Then she added in a whisper: “Unless between us—now that there’s two of us—we can find a way to make him.”

Chapter Four

      Standing just inside the front door of the Tyrrell House, Joe asked the old woman quietly: “You say you heard Cathy’s voice just now, Mrs. Tyrrell?”

      She nodded. “I did.” Her tone was challenging, ready to deal with skepticism.

      “But you didn’t see her?”

      “No. I heard her, though. Almost as if in a dream—but I was wide awake.”

      Joe nodded, noncommittally. Brainard, standing a little behind his aunt, smiled nervously. Maria thought there was hostility, strangely mingled with relief, in the glance he directed at the strangers crowding the stone entryway.

      Joe looked around, and asked: “What room were you in when you heard Cathy speaking to you, Mrs. Tyrrell?”

      “I was lying down, in my bedroom—I presume all these people are working for you?” Mrs. Tyrrell had obviously decided to change the subject.

      “They are.” Letting the matter of Cathy’s voice drop for the time being,

      In the course of which everyone moved into the living room from the entryway. Maria noticed that Brainard kept glancing at the windows.

      Following his gaze, she noted that the very sky looked bitterly cold out there as the daylight faded steadily, and the temperature in the house was certainly low enough to justify a good sweater. The only heat, in this room at least, seemed to be coming from a small blaze in the fireplace beside the entry.

      “Have you planned your search for my daughter?” Brainard was asking Joe.

      “Not yet, sir; not really.”

      Brainard shook his head and would have had more to say, but the actual client had no intention of letting her nephew take over. Sarah interrupted briskly, inviting Joe into another room to have a private talk. Maria got the impression that the old lady and her nephew were at odds over something, perhaps over a number of things. Perhaps chronically. It also seemed evident that Brainard didn’t quite dare to argue openly with his aunt.

      Joe paused before following his client into the next room. He said to his colleagues: “Why don’t you three wait outside—take a little look around while you have the chance.”

      As if on impulse, Sarah interrupted, speaking to Maria: “Why don’t you wait in here, my dear? Not outside.” Maria thought the sharpness of the old woman’s gaze mellowed as it came to rest on her.

      Maria looked at her boss, who nodded. John and Bill nodded in turn, and retreated out through the front door.

      “Do you speak Spanish, my dear?” Aunt Sarah asked, as soon as the door was closed. “I used to try to practice that language, a great many years ago.”

      Maria decided that now would not be the best time to put that practice to the test. Staying with English for the moment, she murmured something intended to be noncommital.

      With a vague, distracted smile, Sarah turned away. “If you would come this way, Mr. Keogh?”

      “Certainly.” Joe followed Aunt Sarah into an adjoining room—Maria caught a glimpse of mellow lamplight, and book-lined shelves—and the old lady closed the door.

      The entrance at the level of the rim walk had brought the visitors into the house on its highest floor. What little Maria had seen of the interior so far seemed fitting for the dwelling’s location. The log walls and stone fireplace were decked by a number of animal trophies, fossils, and what appeared to be Indian artifacts, along with a few small sculptures. In this large room, a couple of electric table lamps were dim enough to allow the firelight to make a pleasant show. Under other circumstances, Maria thought, the room would have been quite cheerful.

      At the moment Maria found herself left alone with Brainard, who was not particularly shy about watching her suspiciously, as if he thought she might pocket a souvenir as soon as his attention flagged.

      Not easily perturbed by what she considered boorish behavior, she might have rather enjoyed a stare-down. But in the interests of peace Maria decided on the diplomatic course instead, and turned away to stroll about and study the interesting furnishings without touching them. And promptly discovered that the furnishings, or some of them at least, really were of interest. The sculptures she had noted earlier, little carven stone animals, perched on some of the rough wood shelves and tables, reminded her of something similar she had seen very recently—yes, in the window of a gift shop in El Tovar.

      Turning to Brainard, she gestured—from a safe distance—at a carving. “This must be a Tyrrell?”

      He seemed somewhat mollified. “Yes. A reproduction, of course. The insurance company wouldn’t let us keep any of the originals in here. The house isn’t occupied most of the time.”

      “I saw some others in the gift shop.”

      Brainard nodded, his mind obviously already drifting elsewhere. He took out a cigarette and lit it absently, neither offering Maria the pack nor asking if smoke bothered her. Well, it was his house—at least it certainly wasn’t hers.

      Maria didn’t ask, either, for permission to pick up the next carving, the shape of a beaverish-looking animal, which sat waiting invitingly on a small table. Something about it seemed to draw her, and it felt—right—in her hands.

      Brainard didn’t object. Perhaps he didn’t notice. He was staring at the windows again, listening to the wind, paying Maria little or no attention.

      So, this gray, authentic-feeling and -looking object was actually only a reproduction…

* * *

      In the next room, Mrs. Tyrrell had turned from closing the