Stitches in Time (21 page)

He hung up and headed for the stove, grumbling aloud. “If I hadn't shut him up the water would have boiled away. Play back the messages, why don't you, while I cook? If the phone rings, let it ring.”

Even a message from Phil would be a relief, Rachel thought, punching the playback button. If Adam had not distracted him, Pat would have asked if she had had a close look at the quilt, and then she would have told him—tried to tell him—about the photographs she had taken, and then…Would she have been able to speak or would that awful, throttling grip have seized her by the throat? She was coward enough to be relieved that she had not been forced to find out.

There was no message from Phil. Pat had called twice, Kara had called to say she would be there the following morning, and Tom Hardesty had left a message asking her if she would have dinner with him the following night.
He had left a number. “If I'm not there, just say yes or no.”

Adam turned, a strand of spaghetti dangling from his mouth. “Another rival,” he said, biting through the spaghetti and catching the ends as they fell. “Do you always have two or three guys following you around?”

“No.”

Seeing that she was not amused, Adam changed the subject. “Almost ready. How about setting the table?”

As they ate he tried another approach. “Why don't you invite Tom to have dinner here tomorrow? Cops don't make a lot of money.”

“You are so thoughtful,” Rachel murmured. “Are you offering to cook?”

“You don't think I would be rude enough to horn in on a date, do you? I will remain tactfully in my room.”

“You can remain tactfully anywhere you like. I am not going to invite him here. You surely aren't worried about Tom; a policeman is the safest escort I could have.”

“I'm afraid he'll rescue you before I have a chance to,” Adam said seriously. He wound the last strands of spaghetti around his fork and popped them neatly into his mouth. Rachel had to admit his technique was refined; not a drop of sauce dripped. Catching her eye, Adam swallowed and reached for a napkin.

“Did I dribble? I'll get rid of the beard if you find it unsanitary.”

“I don't want to have anything to do with your beard,” Rachel said. “I don't even want to discuss it. Do you want coffee? Sit still, I'll get it. And I'll do the dishes. That's only fair.”

After she had cleared the table she called Tom. He wasn't there, so she left a message saying she would see him at seven the next evening. They watched television for a while, or pretended to watch; Rachel knew Adam was
paying as little attention as she. He didn't even join in the canned laughter. Finally she removed one of the ubiquitous cats from her lap and began unpacking the carton of books.

“I said I'd carry them upstairs for you,” Adam said.

“The books stay down here.” She hesitated and then said, “If you want to work in this room, feel free. We could bring in another table.”

“Maybe I will. If you don't mind?”

“Stop asking me what I want!” Rachel burst out. She pressed her hands to her head. “I'm sorry.”

“That's okay. I understand.”

“That's nice. I don't.” She began sorting the books into piles. Adam watched her for a while and then said firmly, “I am going to bring my work into this room. First I will get another table.”

Assisted by both dogs and by Figgin, he proceeded to do so. It didn't take long; he had no books, only a battered laptop and a few notebooks that also looked as if they had been through a war.

“What are you working on?” Rachel asked. Common courtesy was partially responsible for her question, but the sight of his materials roused her curiosity.

“First thing I have to do is type up these notes.” Adam flipped open one of the notebooks, whose corners looked as if they had been chewed by a rat. The page was closely filled with neat, minuscule writing, quite unlike the block printing of the note he had once left for her. A handwriting expert would have described the writer as painfully repressed. As she looked closer she realized the apparent neatness was deceptive; only a few words were legible.

“Nobody can read my notes,” Adam admitted. “I use a kind of personal shorthand, to save paper and time, but I've been told that my handwriting is indecipherable even
when I spell the words out. The departmental secretary went on strike when I gave her my stuff, so I had to learn to type.”

“If that's a hint, I can't read your writing either. It looks like cuneiform.”

“Naomi—the secretary—said it was more like Pali. And that was not a hint. Are you going to work or do you want to watch some more television? There's a special on Unsolved Mysteries of History—Easter Island, Nostradamus, the Pyramids—”

“The only mystery about the pyramids is why a lot of gullible fools think there is a mystery, and Nostradamus was an ordinary charlatan with a great press agent.”

“But that's why programs of that sort are so much fun,” Adam said, with a grin. “They collect a few solemn idiots who rant on in pseudo-scholarly language about Martians and refugees from lost Atlantis and mystic prophecies. I love it.”

“Enjoy yourself, then. I'm going to bed. Kara will be here at the crack of dawn, if I know her.”

“First I'll tote these bales.” Adam hoisted two of the cartons onto his shoulder.

He is strong, Rachel thought, as she followed him. Strong as an ox, wasn't that the cliché? And big as an ox, too. Into her mind, unsought and unexpected, came a sense of how it would feel to have Adam take her in his arms, hold her close.
Arms heavy with muscle bruising her ribs, bristling hair muffling her breath and lacerating her face
…

Adam lowered the boxes to the floor and straightened in time to see her expression.

“Something wrong?”

“No.” But she backed away until her retreat was halted by the table and her outstretched hand knocked something off onto the floor. The contents of the envelope spilled and scattered.

Rachel dropped to her hands and knees and began gathering up the photographs. Kneeling in his turn, Adam helpfully retrieved several that had scattered in his direction. Then he looked at them.

He sat back on his heels and stared at Rachel. Down at her. Rachel straightened, sitting tall, but his head was still six inches higher than hers.

“This is it,” he said, making it a statement. “You photographed it.”

“Yes.”

Adam didn't move or speak. He waited.

He knows what they are. He can take them if he wants. With one hand. His wrist is as big around as my arm, five of his fingers could hold all ten of mine.

Her hand moved of its own accord, offering him the photographs on her flattened palm. Adam's movements were slow and deliberate, as if he were approaching a wary animal. Delicately he took the photographs, without touching her hand.

“Can I—” He stopped himself. “I'm going to look at them,” he said in a murmur that had almost no breath behind it. “Right here, right now. I'm going to sit in that chair over there.”

He got slowly and carefully to his feet and, after hesitating perceptibly, offered her his hand. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and Rachel felt a distant stir of amusement. It was the first time she had seen cold-blooded Adam perspire. He must feel like a tightrope walker over a pool of piranhas. And she had hurt his feelings; he hadn't missed her look of distaste, or misunderstood the reason for her hasty retreat.

“Okay,” she said, and took his hand.

His touch was tentative, the pressure of his fingers only firm enough to steady her as she rose. In silence she watched him shuffle through the stack of photographs.
“It's all here,” he muttered. “Separate squares, or whatever you call 'em, and the composite.”

“That's right,” Rachel said calmly.

“The details are surprisingly sharp. You did clean it.”

Still no questions. She nodded. “Brushed it. I wouldn't have risked anything more drastic.”

“But Pat said…Well, never mind. I don't think I want to take any more chances tonight. I'm going to give these to Pat.”

“I can't stop you.”

“No.” He put the snapshots into the pocket of his shirt and walked wide around her on his way to the door.

“Adam.”

“What?”

“I want you to lock me in.”

He turned abruptly and she saw his face soften as he looked from her twisting hands to her tight mouth. “Honey, I can't do that. It's too dangerous. What if there were a fire? Besides, you don't have a private bath.”

She smiled back at him. Her smile may have been no more convincing than his, but give us credit for trying, she thought. “Cheryl must have a chamber pot somewhere.”

“No such undignified expedient will be necessary. Trust me.”

Rachel was in bed, reading, when she heard the dogs. Adam must have let them out; they were in the backyard, which her window overlooked, and they were sounding the alarm, deep bass barks and agitated yips blending. As Adam had said, they barked at squirrels, moths, the moon, and occasionally just for the hell of it. But Rachel got out of bed and went to the window.

She couldn't see anything, not even the dogs, but she could hear them loud and clear. They weren't barking just for the hell of it. She opened her door and went to the window at the end of the hall, over the front door.

If the earlier visit of the witches had not prepared her for what she saw, she would have thought she was still asleep and dreaming. Pale draperies billowed and fluttered as their wearers moved in rapid patterns, crossing and recrossing one another's paths. Then Adam appeared from the side of the house, and Rachel realized that the intruders weren't dancing; they were running, in confusion and panic. Some of them reached the vehicles they had left parked farther down the street, and tumbled in. Doors slammed.

The beam of the flashlight Adam carried focused on one of the retreating forms—the largest and slowest of the lot. It skidded to a stop and turned, raising both hands like a fugitive responding to police orders. Thick glasses and a high bald forehead reflected the light; a neatly trimmed white beard and mustache framed a mouth gaping wide with alarm or shortness of breath. Probably both, Rachel thought; he was too old and fat to run so fast.

Adam advanced on his captive and they stood talking for a few minutes. Then Adam slapped him on the back—it was meant to be a friendly gesture, Rachel supposed, but the older man retreated in haste, glancing back at Adam over his shoulder every few steps. Adam stood looking after him.

Rachel wrestled with the window before she remembered it was painted shut and had not been opened in years. Damn the man! He wasn't even wearing a coat. The white witches might be harmless, but other people weren't, and he was standing there, practically inviting attack. She was about to bang on the glass when Adam turned and went back the way he had come. Rachel returned to bed.

Knowing he was safely indoors, she could see the humor of the encounter. Poor Adam, rushing out to defend her and finding nothing more formidable than a
terrified little old man in a nightshirt. She was still giggling when she heard Adam come upstairs and pause briefly at her door before going on. He had taken off his shoes and was trying to tiptoe, but he made as much noise as a prowling bear.

After a while he came padding back and Rachel listened with interest to the soft sounds that followed. They made his actions as clear as sight would have done. The floorboards creaked as a heavy weight pressed them down; a soft, interested feline comment was followed by a loud “sssh!” and a louder squawk from the cat. Additional squeaks and hissing comments, animal and human, were succeeded, at last, by silence. He didn't snore.

 

When Rachel opened her door the next morning, Adam was gone, but she did not doubt he had spent the night outside her room, wrapped in a blanket or in some equally romantic and uncomfortable position. Knowing he was there had enabled her to sleep soundly, but she doubted he had. The cats would have been fascinated by this radical departure from human custom. If the hard floor had not kept Adam awake, their prowling must have.

He had fed the animals and let the dogs out. When Rachel entered the room, he was watching television, his eyes wide and staring. The face on the screen, in dreadful close-up, was that of a woman, her eyes wide and staring. “…there was this white light, and this voice, and it was, like, Welcome, and people were, like, singing.”

The picture changed to show the audience—eyes wide and staring.

“You'll watch anything, won't you?” Rachel inquired.

“Talk shows are almost as good as pseudo-science. A lot of them are about pseudo-science. Like,” he added with a grin, “these people all died and came back to life.”

“Anything to get on TV, I suppose.”

“They're dead—you should excuse the pun—serious.” Adam sobered. “I shouldn't make fun of them.”

“Especially in view of the fact that you—” The dogs began to bark. “Damn, is that Kara already?”

“Uh—I'm afraid it's Pat. He said he'd be here at nine.”

She should have expected it, Rachel realized. He'd be on fire to see those snapshots. “Let him in,” she said shortly. “And don't look so sheepish and apologetic!”

Pat didn't bother with polite greetings. “Where are they?” he demanded, tossing his coat onto the sofa.

Adam indicated the table. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Hours ago. I'll take some coffee, though.” Pat seated himself and grabbed the pile of photographs. As he sorted through them he let out exclamations of pleasure. “Great. Oh, yes. Perfect. Nice and clear. Now where…Aha! Come here, you two. Have a look at this.”

Adam took the photograph. “It's a guy on a horse. A hunter? There's a dog—”

Pat snatched it from him and passed it to Rachel. “It's not a guy, you ignoramus. Unless he's wearing very baggy pants. What do you say, Rachel?”