A Twist in Time

Chapter 20

Damn pussy scientist, Casey thought. He goes off on his own without telling anybody when, wonder of wonders, they finally got a real tip. He tries to play the hero. And he doesn’t even take a gun. So the Viking beats him to shit and sends him packing. How stupid can you be?

Now he’d spooked the quarry. Right when they had been about to close in.

Not that it hadn’t already been a frustrating day. That bastard Lowell had a heart condition. He knew he could sneak out of the interrogation session by fucking dying. “Sorry, Colonel, gotta go,” he’d said when the chest pain hit him. His little smile as his eyes rolled up in his head made Casey want to stab someone again and again. They’d tried like hell to revive Lowell. But it was no good. Still, assuming he had spirited the fugitives away, Casey figured they’d need false documents. There were only a few guys around whom someone like Lowell would trust. It had taken all day, but they’d found the forger. They were just about to sweat him.

And Steadman screws it all up.

It was dark and raining hard when Casey’s little convoy pulled into the parking lot of the Quik Stop. No way the fugitives would still be here. Sunday traffic on the 101 had been pretty bad. It had taken Brad almost two hours to make it back into the city and Casey’s team an hour to make it back out. The guy couldn’t just call in? Too embarrassed. Probably only his anger at the girl and the Viking made him finally fess up. So he notches up another stupid move. Brad wanted to tag along for the confrontation, but Casey exiled him to the lab to watch over the machine. He should never have let the lab rat out of his cage.

One of the SUVs flipped on a searchlight. It illuminated the little marina down at the end of the dirt road, maybe three-quarters of a mile. The light caught the white of boats and rocking masts through the pelting rain. Two cars were still in the parking lot. Casey couldn’t make out if one was an old blue Chevy.

“Get down there and secure the area,” he ordered Pollington. “Evans, see if the clerk on duty is the one that saw the altercation. I want to know whether they left by car or by boat.”

He stayed in the car, thinking. Either way it was bad. If they had left by car, the marina manager might have done a better job than Lowell at keeping track of occupants’ license plates. If they had gone by boat, Casey needed to know what kind.

The wipers squeaked back and forth across the windshield. The rain was almost horizontal. He was betting they had left in the blue Chevy. No one would sail in this weather.

Pollington, in his hooded slicker, waved at Casey from the marina parking lot and he rolled the Escalade down the dirt road. As he got closer, he saw the Chevy in the parking lot. The fools had taken the boat out. With his luck the weather would scuttle the boat and the diamond and the book would be somewhere out in the bay under one lot of water.

Jesus.

He climbed out of the car and stalked through to the marina. Two slips empty. Only one boat with lights on. Pollington was already hailing the occupant. Casey strode down the dock.

A head poked out of the hatch to the rear deck.

“Yeah?” The guy had a crew cut and looked like he ate nails for breakfast.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions.” Pollington had a hard time sounding menacing with water dripping down his face.

“I’m not in the mood for questions.”

Casey pushed by Pollington. “Look, we don’t care who you are or what you’ve done. We just want to know where the big blond guy and the red-haired girl made off to. If you talk to us, we just leave. If you don’t, then we start digging. Your choice.”

The guy thought about it, though you’d never know it from his flat eyes.

“Did you see them go or not?”

The guy said nothing, but he opened the short doorway wider, and Pollington climbed down inside, dripping. Casey followed. The guy shut the hatch on the weather.

“They left about five,” the guy said, not inviting them to sit down.

“Bad time to go for a sail,” Casey said noncommittally.

“They’ll be okay. They headed for the Carquinez Strait. Probably wanted to do a little river cruising where it’s a little more protected.”

“Still, stupid to go out with only an hour of light.”

The guy shrugged. “She was the one at the helm. Didn’t look real experienced. Maybe she misjudged the weather.”

Casey looked at the wet floor. “Got anything else?”

The guy shrugged. “They kept to themselves, all lovey-dovey like. Maybe Wally up at the store knows something. He usually knows everything.”

Bet he doesn’t know who you really are, buddy, Casey thought. “Name of the boat?”

The guy shook his head. “Never noticed.”

“Okay. Thanks, man. We’ll leave you to your meal.” How could the guy eat with the boat rocking like this? They pushed out into the rain and climbed up to the dock.

“Shall I get the Coast Guard to go up the Carquinez?” Pollington asked.

“Yeah. Get the name and make of the boat from this guy Wally at the Quik Stop. But I want the Coast Guard on the lookout by the Gate, too. The Carquinez dead-ends in the Sacramento delta. That’s a trap for a sailboat with a keel.”

“That guy didn’t have any reason to lie to us,” Pollington protested, maybe hoping the fugitives would be cornered as the river went shallow.

“That guy lies every day of his life,” Casey said. “Get on the horn and pull some rank.”

Rain spattered Galen’s face as the wind changed and he ducked to avoid the swing of the boom. He surged up to the winch and wound the handle with both hands as fast as he could. He felt Lucy adjust the rudder with her wheel. Through the boat he felt, too, that she was tiring, and fighting the mighty current here at the mouth of the bay took strength. She feared the weather and the night. She was not used to sailing so. He was. Weather on the North Sea was treacherous, and one could not avoid the night when one was far from land. He tried to reassure her, if not in words, then with his own assurance. Her voice was raw, but she no longer had to shout instructions. He knew this small ship now and what she needed. The rigging had more sails than he was used to, but he understood their purposes. She could run fast, this boat, and steer precisely. She was a fine vessel, if very different from his shallow-draft, dragon-prowed craft. The giant bridge loomed ahead, dimly orange in the dark and the slanting rain. It looked like a sea monster arched between the spits of land. To be able to construct such an enormous thing, men must surely command magic. The lighted towers of the huge city were off to the left, winking through the weather. Magic. Magic, all of it.

He was cold and wet and his shoulder ached from winding the winches, but he would last. He had to last. Lucy was counting on him.

He glanced back at Lucy, leaning into the wheel, her braided crown of hair dark with water, its fire quenched. She had thrown back the hood of her coat. Her face was pale and bruised; her eyes squinted against the slashing rain. Lucy would not last.

As he turned back to scan the sails, he saw lights ahead. Directly ahead, under the bridge and high in the air.

“Jesus!” Lucy shouted as the lights resolved themselves into the largest ship he had ever seen. No sails, all black iron, it drove straight across their path out of the storm.

“Starboard!” he yelled, and sprang into action. They’d never make it past the boat on their current course. They’d have to turn about almost into the wind to skirt disaster.

He felt Lucy pull on the wheel. The current fought them, pushing them toward the huge ship that now towered above them. The boat tilted wildly. The sails flapped as he loosened the sheets so they could swing to the other side. The boom came across and he ducked, then spun and hauled in the mainsail tight to the other side and cleared the line. He scrambled up to do the same for the jib sail.

A growling whistle rent the night. The ship came on. They weren’t going to make it. The boat needed to come around even more.

He slithered aft to Lucy and braced against the side of the cockpit, leaning into the wheel beside her, putting his back and shoulders and thighs into the spokes. The mast bent. Let not the jib sail tear, dear gods. His muscles strained to breaking.

“Njord!” he shouted into the wind. “Spare your seafaring children!”

The bow wave of the mighty ship caught them almost across their flank, just where it should not, rose under them, and for a long moment Galen thought they would go over. The boat teetered, half out of the water. But the wave pushed them out of the way of the ship and they were off, skimming almost northwest just on the edge of the wind. Galen jumped to the mainsail and hauled it tighter.

The huge ship powered on, seeming unaffected by the storm. Giant white words spelled HANJIN on its side. High above, tiny figures lined the deck and shouted.

Galen breathed. Lucy might be crying. He couldn’t tell in the rain. They passed under the span of the giant bridge. The unstill open sea stretched before them into the night. But there were still the stern waves of the giant ship. Galen was ready. Lucy turned the bow slightly into the stern waves. The sea was a mass of roiling currents as the stern waves countered the rolling seas of the storm. The turmoil waited to capsize them. He raced back to help Lucy pull on the wheel, both of them leaning back and heaving. Waves slapped their stern quarter. Water rolled over the boat. But they held to the wheel.

The boat came around and headed out to sea. He trimmed the sails again. Weariness had seeped into his bones along with the cold salt water. He felt apart from himself. The bridge and the city and the other ship faded behind them. It was only wind and sea out here, and through his weariness, or because of it, he could feel the swell of powerful water surging under him and the breath of the gods in their sails. It filled him with peace in the middle of the choppy midnight ocean. He sipped from the strength of wind and water until it filled his chest. And there, underneath, he felt a scraping deep down in the earth, the pressure building under the seabed. Tomorrow, it whispered. Tomorrow will the world right itself and become true again.

Galen listened and heard it clearly through the silence inside himself, in spite of the wind and the creak of the boat.

When he came to himself, they were out to sea.

“South!” he yelled to Lucy, and saw her shove against the wheel spokes. Poor Lucy.

But it was decided now. They would go where they must go. South. He saw in his mind’s eyes a quiet bay, south facing, smaller and shallower by far than the huge body of water they had left.

He set the sails. They would not need changing now. Scrambling back to Lucy, he took the wheel. “I sail now, Lucy. I know where we must go.”

She looked up at him, her pale cheeks wet, her lashes spiked together. She scanned his face. And then she let him have the wheel. “The wheel works opposite of a tiller I’ll tend the sails.”

He nodded. He had already figured that out.

“Ja.” But the sails would not need tending. The boat would run before the steady wind out here, south to the bay he saw in his mind. That felt right.

It must be two o’clock in the morning, Lucy thought through a haze of fatigue. They eased into the south-facing curve of Half Moon Bay up behind Pillar Point where they were protected from the wind by the curving spit of land. All Lucy had to do in the last couple of hours was sit on the windward side of the boat, though what her weight could do for such a big boat was doubtful. Galen sailed the Camelot like he was born to it. He knew how to keep a boat straight in the following wind, no mean feat as well she knew. They had gone faster than she had ever sailed before. It was frightening but also exciting now that the treacherous currents of the Gate were past and they’d narrowly avoided that tanker. God, but that was close. Thanks be to whomever Galen prayed in those last moments. Only divine intervention could have saved them.

The wind was dying, almost as though it had blown them to safe harbor and done its job. The rain only spit fitfully. A cluster of lights showed along the shoreline across from the cove.

“We anchor here,” Galen said.

“There’s probably a marina near the town,” she said. Oops. “Bad idea.” Showing up in a marina where people could identify them or their boat would be stupid.

“We anchor here,” he repeated.

She nodded. They took down the small weather mainsail and stowed it. They furled the jib. Lucy’s limbs moved sluggishly, as though disconnected from her will. They were about a half a mile from shore, she figured, maybe less. She hoped the Camelot had enough anchor line. They needed five to seven times the depth. Galen loosened the anchor winch and let it out. It reeled off for a long time. She started the engine and backed down on it at “slow” to set it, then nodded to Galen to release some more line. He leaned over the side to feel the line. She didn’t have to tell him you could feel whether the anchor was just bumping along the bottom through the line. Embarrassing that she’d not had faith in his assertion that he could sail. He was way better than she was, and on a strange boat, too. When he was satisfied, he straightened and looked around at where she’d been stowing the mainsail and furling the jib.

He nodded once. “We go under, Lucy.”

She had never heard anything so welcome in her life. She thought briefly of lighting the lights on the top of the mast that told other boats there was a craft anchored there in the dark and then decided against it. Better run the small risk of getting rammed in this out-of-the-way anchorage than reveal their location to prying eyes.

Vandal greeted them with eager whines. She’d forgotten about him totally. The poor thing had probably gotten tossed about pretty badly. She stumbled around and lighted the lanterns in the salon. The boat was still rocking. She’d never tried to sleep in an open mooring like this. She checked the floor. Not a seasick puppy. They were lucky.

Galen looked like a drowned rat, but he grinned at her, peeling off his dripping coat. “You sail well, Lucy.”

“You are even better. Your shoulder okay and your thigh?”

“Ja.” He rotated his shoulder and suppressed a wince. “Good.”

“Oh yeah. Just peachy.” The roll of the boat was getting less all the time. “Let’s get dry.”

They stripped and toweled each other off. Galen was very gentle with the livid bruises Brad had left on her arms and her cheek, and she in turn was gentle with his healing wounds. The scars were only lines now. They had really healed fast. Lucy wasn’t ready to think about that just yet. Her mind was numb. She unbraided her hair. When every towel in the boat was wet, but they were not, they dressed. Dry clothes were heaven. They needed something to eat, but you couldn’t really cook on a rolling boat. She rummaged through the galley and got out bread and cheese, a beer for Galen, some red wine for herself. Galen sat at the table in the salon.

The future loomed ahead, just like that Hanjin tanker tonight. Just because they’d gotten out of the bay didn’t mean they were safe. It didn’t mean Galen could get home again, or that she would ever be able to stop running from Brad and Casey.

“So, I guess tomorrow we head south. Go off the map like Jake said, where no one can find us. We’ll just have to hope that the world isn’t changed too much by you staying in this time.” That plan didn’t make her happy. As a matter of fact, it felt very wrong. She sat beside him and handed him a knife for the cheese. He didn’t look happy, either. Of course he didn’t. She wanted to think he could get used to being in the twenty-first century. But maybe he couldn’t. Maybe it was a tragedy that would stain his life and twist him into a bitter man.

“I am not sure of this,” he said, cutting off a slab. Vandal scooted up to the table.

She blew out a breath, then broke off a hunk of sourdough and handed it to Galen. “We can’t get to the time machine to take you back. I’m sorry. Brad and Casey have it. And we know they’re capable of killing.” She stared at her hands, thinking of Jake. She’d lost a friend. Two if you counted Brad. Galen had lost life as he knew it. Hell, she’d lost life as she knew it, too.

Galen chewed, lost in thought. His brows were drawn together as he tossed a piece of cheese to Vandal.

Lucy’s thoughts strayed back to Brad. “Was Brad always so much of an asshole?”

“What is this, ‘asshole’?”

She pointed at her buttocks. Galen suppressed a smile. “Earse. Ja. This Brad is asshole. He tells you that no man wants you, that you are not fair. Is a word, ‘fair’?”

She nodded, blushing. She didn’t think he meant “fair-minded.”

“He is a stupid man.” He tossed another piece of cheese to Vandal. “Are you sorry that this Brad is asshole?”

She chuckled then grew serious. “Maybe I did know, somewhere down deep, that he wanted to be more than friends. Women know. But I thought I could skate over the top and keep it just friends.” She looked up. He understood “skate.” Of course. That was a word from Danish. “Maybe I wasn’t fair to him.”

“You do not know men, Lucy. Men lust, always. Many men lust for you. I know this.” He took a swig of his beer. “I am glad you do not lust after Brad. I am andig for you, Lucy.”

The boat had nearly stopped rocking. He was jealous? She’d thought it was just protective. He hadn’t liked Brad hitting her, of course. But jealous? She wanted to dismiss it. She wanted to disapprove. But it made her feel . . . good.

“No rolling,” she remarked to give her thoughts new direction. “At least we’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

“It will be still until morning.”

“I guess I have to believe you. You sure were right about the weather today.” She exchanged the cheese he handed her for another hunk of bread for him. “How did you know it would storm? The weatherman said it would miss us entirely.”

She thought he would say something about obscure Danish weather lore, sailors’ warnings, or some old injury that told him the barometer was dropping. Instead he got quiet. He tossed another piece of cheese to Vandal and took another swig of his beer. When he remained silent, she raised her brows at him. “Galen?”

“I tell you before. Why should I speak it again?” He took a bite of bread.

Oooh. That hurt. She wasn’t very good at leaps of faith. “I promise I will listen.”

He took another swig of beer and cut more cheese. She wasn’t sure he was going to answer at all. At last he said, “Something happened, Lucy, in here.” He touched his chest. “In my heart. I know things, about the land, about the sky and water. They tell me things.”

Lucy pushed down her clamoring protestations. She had promised to be open to his answer. She doubted she could believe what he was saying in the end. He still believed that gods of the sea granted prayers, and she only called on hers in some half-mocking way. His was a simpler time with more direct beliefs. But she’d promised.

“Okay,” she said, nodding for him to continue.

“I think I become like a brother to the earth.”

He actually used the word “brother.” His longing to be special like his brother was at the root of all of this. But she hadn’t thought he’d be so blatant.

“I know things now about the world. In your time the earth is sick. Ice melts. Air stinks, like with many fires.” He looked at her.

“Smoke,” she said, a little stunned. “It smells of smoke.” He could see the pollution over the east bay, but how did he know about the melting of the ice shelves at the poles?

“Your bay is sick. Evil things flow into it. Fish die. The wyrts of the sea die.” He looked to see if she understood.

Wyrts? Like Saint-John’s-wort, maybe. Plants? She understood all right. Or maybe she didn’t. “How . . . how do you know this?”

“I listen. Since we lust together, they speak to me.”

Whoa. She wasn’t sure she could go there.

“I feel when the world is right and when it is not right.”

That struck a chord. She’d been feeling that rightness herself lately. Like being with Galen. Like when they made love. “I . . . uh . . . I have sometimes felt that rightness.”

“You have, Lucy?” His eyes lighted.

“Yeah. When we’re together, mainly.”

His face softened. “Ja. Then you know what I say is sooth.” He heaved out a breath in relief, though she hadn’t actually said she believed the whole “brother of the earth” thing. Suddenly she wasn’t sure exactly what she believed. She blinked at him as thoughts rolled around in her head as though the boat were still pitching. Did she believe she’d fallen in love with an honest-to-God Viking in six days? The pull toward Galen had been so strong, in retrospect it was almost uncanny.

She was in love with him. She wanted to be with him, enough so that the prospect of giving him up to his own time, knowing she couldn’t go back with him without changing everything, made her almost physically ill. She wasn’t sorry they couldn’t get to the time machine, no matter the consequences. That was the bottom line. And she didn’t care that he believed he was connected to the earth since they’d made love. If that made him feel whole and happy, fine. Hell, she felt more grounded since she’d been with him, too.

Guess she’d finally found out what love was.

She was in for a rough ride. He was a Viking. Probably not a monogamous bone in his body. They’d be stuck together on a tiny boat for weeks at a time. Their money would run out and they’d start to quarrel. In broken Saxon English. What a farce. It would be like a bad French movie where the plotters all ended up hating one another after they’d committed a crime, and got caught and thrown in prison in the end.

Just dandy.

But it couldn’t be helped. She loved him, whether he really loved her or not. And she’d try to keep him out of Casey’s hands, and Brad’s.

And to hell with the time machine.

Now why didn’t that feel right?

They ate in silence while Galen’s mind spun with possibilities, all more outlandish and impossible than the last. Somehow he had to protect Lucy. He had to make her world safe for her, even if he had to sacrifice himself.

He looked over at her. In the lamplight, her drying hair made a cloud around her face. She looked like the Valkyrie he had first thought her when he woke in that white room. Or an angel of the Christ Cult. An angel who still wasn’t sure she was beautiful, a Valkyrie who blushed.

He felt a surge of life course up his veins, as though it came from the very center of the earth. He reached his arm around her and tucked her in close. “Lucy,” he said, “we can do nothing until morning.”

She looked up at him, and he saw that she flowered with his thought as well. “We should sleep.” She didn’t mean it.

“We will sleep. After we lust.”

She grinned and slid out of his arms to rummage in her bag. “Then I have a surprise for you.” She pulled out a box and from it a small circle of strange material stretched across a ring.

“What is this?”

“A condom.” She unrolled it over her finger. “For your weapon.” She grinned.

“Why?”

She blushed. “No lytling.”

She didn’t want to make a child with him.

The thought struck him like a blow. He straightened his shoulders. Why should it? It didn’t matter. He wanted to make her happy, whether she wanted to make a child with him or not. “Ja, Lucy. I will wear your condom.”

Freya, the goddess of his father, who watched over the fertility of the earth, rose from a fiery chasm and spoke to him. The blast of hot air from below carried the stink of sulfur.

“The Earth is sick, Galen. And you will make it right. Go, into the jaws of death, and snatch it back from the brink of ruin. Time is a vortex. Now is your time.”

And Baldur, the sacrificed god, so fair of form he was blinding, strode through the blackened forest all around the crevice to stand on its edge. “You must go in my name, Galen. You must brave losing all.”

“Will I be sacrificed, as you were?” Galen called to him.

“Time will tell the sooth of things.”

“Will I make a child with Lucy?” That was not important to the gods, but it was to him.

“Time will tell . . . ,” Freya echoed. She and Baldur began to fade, both of them.

“You speak in riddles!” Galen shouted.

“You know what to do.” This last from Baldur just before he disappeared.

Galen was left alone in the searing heat from the crevice of the earth and the smoking, blackened ruin of a forest.

Galen woke in a sweat, gasping. Lucy lay beside him sleeping like the dead after their lovemaking. What kind of a dream was that, where gods spoke in riddles?

But it wasn’t a riddle. He knew what to do.