Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (12 page)

Bewildered, Germaine looked at Nicholas. After a long moment, he shook his head slowly and heaved a sigh.

“It was eight years ago. We were driving home near Weymouth on the old coast road and had an accident. As you can tell, Conan still blames me. It comes up every now and then, usually when he is angry about something else. Or doesn’t get his way. You see, he is used to having his own way.”

He was looking down at the table, so she couldn’t see his face.

“But, of course, he wasn’t there to understand how it happened. We couldn’t get her to hospital in time, and they died.”

“They?” Germaine felt her throat tighten.

“Yes, she was pregnant. Conan has never really forgiven me. They were very close. He can’t let it go.”

Germaine gave a slight nod toward his leg. “And your leg?”

“The bones were crushed. We were both caught under the car for a long time. I could not save her.” He looked up at Germaine with the eyes of someone who was damned to always remember.

“But it was an accident!”

“Yes, but I had been drinking. We had an argument, and I lost control of the car. It
was
my fault
.
Sometimes even accidents have a real basis for fault finding. I’m afraid it will never be truly healed over with Conan. And like I said, it usually comes up when something sets him off and makes him angry. I’m just sorry it came up this evening. You have enough on your mind.”

He stood and picked up his cane. “It’s best if I leave.”

“You can’t go now! It’s dark!”

“I’ll get a hand lantern from one of the crew. Tavistock Farm is out in the country, so I’m used to walking around in the dark. I’ll come up again tomorrow and let you know the Druids’ response to the compromise.”

She stood at the tent opening and watched him limp away into the dark fields, until all she saw was the small light he carried, and then even that disappeared.

She went into her tent, wanting to avoid any more confrontations. She had no desire to see Conan until she figured out how to resolve their conflict, and still keep him as supervisor of the dig’s crew.

He left her alone. Probably ashamed of that scene with Nicholas, she thought. She moved the books into her own tent where one of the crew set up a folding table. A plate of sandwiches magically appeared and, ravenous, she ate them all. She carefully spread out the books on the table, not forgetting the price Aubrey put on Sir Mortimer’s book. She still smelled whiskey on the magnometer survey and shoved it away.

The tent was outfitted for her use. It was Spartan, but adequate: a camp bed with a thin mattress and neatly folded blanket; a small mirror hung on a tent post. A large, plastic container of water stood next to a metal bowl on top of some cardboard boxes. And a canvas director’s chair. Someone, and she knew who, had written ‘Madame Director’ across the canvas backrest. She had made do at primitive archaeological digs with much worse over the years, including sleeping rough on the ground with only a blanket. By comparison, this was almost luxurious.

She washed up with cold water, combed most of the dirt from her hair, and then braided it. No clean clothes. She would take Aubrey’s car and go to the Maiden Castle Bed and Breakfast tomorrow. Tonight, everything was so unsettled, and still no word from the hospital.

A metal-shaded, droplight dangling from the center post, cast a glaring circle of light, bright enough to read by. She dragged the director’s chair over to the table.

She sat, wrapped in the blanket, and opened up her book,
The Seven Daughters of Eve
, hoping clan mothers from prehistoric times were far enough away from the events of the past two days to divert her thoughts.

The conference lecture had been interesting, but the book was even better. She turned to a section that imagined the lives of the seven daughters of Eve. It was almost like reading a good historical novel, where she knew there was a solid basis for the characters. It was fictionalized, of course, but the author presented them as people she could relate to. They loved, hated, gave birth, and killed, and faced survival as the greatest challenge.

Germaine felt hard put to find any basic differences in modern life. The women portrayed were thousands of years old, but every emotion they had pulsed through modern women. Their brains were even the same size. The real differences were cultural.

Why, she wondered again, did some insist on characterizing ancient people as though they all acted like cavemen, grunting instead of talking, killing and being killed without remorse. Then one day, they were magically transformed into Homo sapiens and started talking and acting like anyone she might know.

Jittery and tired, but not sleepy, she got up and searched in Aubrey’s coat for the flask. It was almost full. She poured a full measure into a mug and sat down again. As its warmth flowed through her veins, it dulled her anxiety about Aubrey. She decided to honor the cliché, no news was good news.

The idea of clan mothers was intriguing. And the fact they could trace her mitochondrial DNA back thousands of years and determine who might have been the
one
woman who started her lifeline, her clan, astounded her. The concept of a large clan of people with the same ancestor, the same blood and DNA was almost beyond belief. The very idea struck a deep, resonant chord and a desire so deep it was physical. Her own clan! She marveled. It was no wonder people claimed Celtic descent. If you were Celtic, so the common lore went, you belonged to a clan. You were not alone; there were others like you.

“Dr. O’Neill? Germaine?”

Conan stood in the tent’s doorway with a strange look on his face.

Oh! God! No.

He shook his head. “He’s going to be all right. They just called. They’ll observe him for a few days, but said to tell you he’s resting well.”

Relief washed through her. She felt giddy as the tension left. He was safe!

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” She looked at Conan and smiled.

His face was somber. His lower lip stuck out in a pensive way.

“I’m sorry for what happened earlier. I hope you understand that Nicholas and I are really good friends, Sometimes old hurts just get in the way.” He reached out and caught her hands in his. “Forgiven?”

He was like a little boy begging forgiveness. Charming. But his face had the guilty look of a child caught in a lie. He was so close and smelled, faintly, of Cuban cigar and whiskey. He raised one of her hands and brushed it lightly with his lips. Then reached over and kissed her cheek. It felt electric.

Germaine was shaken and a little drunk. She had just been pulled back from the abyss. She had no idea of what she would have done if Aubrey died. Stunned, she could only nod and turn her head away.

Conan retreated from the tent.

She stood and splashed cold water on her face. The relief from worry about Aubrey cleared the way for a potent, sexual desire. She touched her cheek.

She wanted more. Lots more.

Conan’s voice drifted in from across the camp site. With it came his image, golden and sensual—so near! Her whole body filled with longing. But that desire was fraught with so many problems.

It was no use trying to fool herself. It would be easy to invite him back to share a drink and more. And desire would block out everything else. The problems with the Druids would disappear. She would conveniently forget that, for some unknown reason, this man had seriously undermined her ability to take charge of the dig, and she would also forget that she didn’t quite trust him.

No! The command came in anger. And face him tomorrow and dress him down for trying to take away your authority? It will be hard to do if he spends the night in your bed said that unwelcome, rational voice. You lose everything for that one night.

Germaine drank off the last of her scotch, stumbled over to the bed, and pulled the blanket over her head.

CHAPTER 6

L
ulled by the sedative scotch, Germaine collapsed on the cot and sank down into a dream world.

She could see it clearly, a sword spinning through the air, bronzed and shining with the dazzle of the sun, turning against a brilliant blue sky. A story etched on the blade shows warriors marching, curved vines twining along the sharp edge. Two warriors hold a wheel, and horsemen follow their flight. The sword keeps turning, end over end, high above two men locked in a brutal fight. The sword is death and when it falls, it will kill!

One of the men is wounded—Nicholas Greenwood! In one hand he holds a broken sword. Blood covers his dark hair, streams down his face and flows over his chest. He circles around the other man, and she recognizes Conan. Nicholas and Conan are fighting! Conan taunts the wounded Nicholas and slashes his face. Then Conan laughs a horrible, taunting sound.

Someone watches them fight—a dark-haired woman. She paces frantically around the two men. A dark man joins Conan. He is evil. Now, the two of them fight the wounded man. Conan has a dagger and strikes Nicholas. The woman turns and sees Germaine watching. She moves toward Germaine, calling out something in a strange language. Her arms spread open wide, as though pleading, or begging. She cries out again and now Germaine understands what she says—help him!

High above, the engraved sword tumbles, end over end. It falls! Nicholas crumples down into a pool of crimson blood. Conan stands behind the woman, laughing. The woman falls to her knees, weeping. She looks up at Germaine and raises one hand out. Her eyes are amber ...

Germaine woke with a soundless scream of pure terror.

Red-hot with fright, sweating, she felt horrified by what she had witnessed. Curling into a fetal position, she rocked back and forth and muffled her sobs in the pillow, trying to block out the nightmare.

Why were they fighting? And the woman could see her. She knew that the woman saw her. She could still see those eyes and hear the voice calling to her for help!

She stayed awake for a long time, eyes wide open; her mind icy with fear. Any desire for sleep was gone. If she went back to sleep, she might fall back into that horrible dream and see Nicholas Greenwood die before her eyes. And face that woman again – No!

Sometime later, she carried the canvas chair outside the tent; she would sit here, awake, until morning. A cold wind swept over the top of Mai Dun. Germaine huddled in the chair, facing east, waiting for the sun to banish her night terrors.

The ice fortress in her head slowly melted. Once, the image of the sword flashed through her mind and she remembered seeing engraving like that on the scabbard they’d discovered. Perhaps that had caused the nightmare. But that was no consolation.

“Stop thinking about it,” she yelled, shocking herself. She would wake up the whole camp. It was just a dream, a horrible nightmare, and the day had been long and full of death. That’s why the sword meant death. She was overwrought about Aubrey.

Germaine clasped the blanket tighter. It was too much. She could not control her own mind. The emotions of the day crowded close, one after the other, demanding attention as they paraded through her head—her failed marriage, her lust for Conan, Aubrey almost dying before her eyes, the Druids demanding rights for the dead.

And the young man with his memories. She still heard Mick Aston’s words about what the Army did to his brother Jemmy. And I don’t even know him. I wish I could have talked to him, she thought in despair. He seemed important to her and she barely knew his name.

All lost. He is lost.
The voice whispered, like a thought.

Who is lost? She wanted to shout and covered her mouth with her hand.

She felt poised on the edge of a terrible abyss. If she heard that voice again she would start screaming. Was she going mad? Her head hurt, as though it could shatter with one touch.

Frozen inside and out, she burrowed deeper, covering her face with the blanket. She had to get warm and stop thinking. Everything would be better in the morning. She would find out what was at the bottom of the pit and claim the find as her own.

Hours later, or perhaps it was only minutes—she didn’t know—she peered out from under the blanket. A thin line on the eastern horizon glowed soft pink beneath the fading indigo sky. The night was over. Germaine felt calmer, not quite herself, but better. She would forget the dream and do what she had waited for all night. She went inside and splashed water on her face. Her hands shook. She pulled Aubrey’s safari jacket over her shoulders and wrapped it tight.

No one was stirring outside. Good. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She walked to the cook’s tent and was surprised to see Ian inside. What was he doing up so early? It didn’t matter. What she wanted to do was all that mattered.

He nodded silently and handed her a mug of hot tea. It warmed her hands as she watched the sun rise. Then she stood, staring down into the pit. She heard a small noise, the kind people make when they watch you and want to be noticed. Conan Ryan stood in front of his tent, arms folded across his chest, his eyes on her.

And not a pretty thing to see. She had seen her face in the small mirror that hung inside her tent—her skin stark white, eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying.