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

sleeping bag and John, boots off, stretched out on the floor, where he had wasted no time in creating a kind of padded nest with jackets and chair cushions. Joe, keeping as quiet as possible, established himself in a chair, where he silently cursed his injured ankle.

      Staring at the phone on the little table at his elbow, he contemplated getting in touch with his home base in Chicago. John’s wife Angie ought to be minding the office, and there might possibly be a thing or two that she could do to help.

      Before Joe could make up his mind about the call, room service arrived, inevitably awakening his colleagues. Maria roused herself and stretched, catlike. “Strange dreams…” she murmured, her expression one of remote dissatisfaction.

      The two younger people were glad to join Joe in an experience of white linen and what looked like silver, with food and coffee suggesting anything but proximity to the wilderness. Joe, with one foot propped up on cushions, consumed a delicious though unavoidably gloomy breakfast, then ordered an extra pot of coffee.

      From time to time he glanced at Bill Burdon’s unused sleeping bag, which lay accusingly in a corner of the room, still rolled up.

      Over breakfast the three discussed the situation. They’d had only the brief and somewhat garbled radio messages from Bill, assuring them that he was all right, though having trouble finding his way back.

      Maria said: “That just doesn’t sound right to me. From the way Bill described his background, his experience, I’d expect him to be able to find his way home from the North Pole.”

      Joe looked at his watch. “I think it’s still too early to call in the Park rangers. He said he might have to wait for sunrise to start back, so let’s give him a little longer. You two finish eating and get some rest. If we don’t hear from him by ten o’clock or so, we’d better start looking.”

      Observing the difficulty with which Joe hobbled about the hotel room, Maria suggested that maybe he ought to see the local doctor. But he shook his head, reluctant to do that. He didn’t think any bones were broken, and there was probably little any doctor would be able to do for him, except tell him that he ought to rest. He sat down with his foot propped up on the bed. At least the swelling wasn’t any worse. John and Maria offered contradictory advice as to whether heat or cold would be best to apply at this stage.

      As soon as they had finished eating, both John and Maria proclaimed themselves ready to get back into action. Joe, silently praising the resilience of youth, grunted approval. In a few minutes the two younger people had left the hotel and were descending in clouded winter daylight to search the slope immediately below the Tyrrell House. They were going to look for some clue to Bill’s fate, or, failing that, anything that might help explain last night’s strange events.

      Maria and John had hardly left the hotel when another tap sounded at Joe’s door. He opened it to discover Brainard, gazing anxiously back over his shoulder in the direction of the lobby, then almost pushing over his aunt’s chief investigator in his eagerness to get into the room.

      “Somebody after you?” Joe inquired.

      Brainard affected not to hear that. Staring as Keogh hobbled back to his chair after closing the door, he commented disapprovingly: “That looks fairly serious.”

      “I’ll manage.” Joe eased himself back into his chair. “I’ve got some young people to handle whatever legwork needs to be done. Who are they and what do they want?”

      “Who?”

      “The people who are after you. I’m assuming there’s more than one. I’m assuming also that you’re the one who shot off a gun last night.”

      G. C. Brainard sat down and closed his eyes. “A federal offense here in the Park, I know.”

      “That’s right.”

      “But there are other things that worry me more.” Digging into a jacket pocket, Brainard produced a heavy-caliber, stubby-barreled revolver. “I want your advice on what to do with this.”

      “Do the other things that worry you more have any connection with your missing daughter?”

      Brainard blinked at him. He seemed saddened and even injured by the suggestion. “No, nothing directly to do with her. Why?”

      “Because the job your Aunt Sarah originally wanted me to do was to get her back. Now everyone, my client, and you, the girl’s father, are trying to edge me away from that. Tell me, Mr. Brainard, how did you come to adopt Cathy?”

      “I’m concerned about my daughter. I want her to be all right,” said Brainard, in an injured tone. His eyes looked hurt.

      “So tell me about the adoption.”

      “All right, if you think it’ll help. My late wife and I adopted Cathy in 1978, when she was—four. We were childless, so…”

      Joe probed for more details. As far as he could learn, the Brainards had adopted Cathy largely at Aunt Sarah’s urging. Sarah had apparently encountered the girl through some kind of charitable work with which she was then involved, and had been drawn to her. But at that time the old lady had been already in her sixties, too old to be approved as an adoptive parent.

      Brainard suddenly blurted, “I can’t believe I’m actually carrying a gun.”

      “Can I take a look at your weapon?” Joe asked.

      When Brainard gingerly handed over the gun, Joe broke it open and inspected the loading.

      “What’re you looking for?”

      “I was wondering,” said Joe, “if your bullets might be made of wood.”

      “What?” No comprehension showed in Brainard’s face.

      “Never mind.”

      The stocky man shook his head. “It was dumb of me to carry that thing, I hardly know one end from the other. I’m liable to kill someone I’m not aiming at. If you’re willing to help me out, maybe you can get rid of it for me?”

      Joe put the pistol down carefully on the arm of his chair. Later, he thought, he would probably disassemble it, and pack the pieces away in separate pieces of his own luggage.

      Then he faced Brainard.