Written in My Own Heart's Blood (46 page)

AMPHISBAENA

“Y
E CANNA BE SURE
those things name your father.” Buck nodded at the dog tags, their cord still wrapped round Roger’s hand, the tiny disks themselves folded tight in his palm. “How many MacKenzies are there, for God’s sake?”

“Lots.” Roger sat down on a big lichen-covered boulder. They were at the top of the hill that rose behind Lallybroch; the broch itself stood on the slope just below them, its conical roof a broad black whorl of slates. “But not so bloody many who flew for the Royal Air Force in World War Two. And even fewer who disappeared without a trace. As for those who might be time travelers . . .”

Roger couldn’t remember what he’d said when he saw the dog tags or what Brian Fraser had said to him. When he’d started to notice things again, he was sitting in Brian’s big wheel-backed chair with a stoneware mug of hot tea cupped between his hands and the entire household crammed into the doorway, regarding him with looks ranging from compassion to curiosity. Buck was squatting in front of him, frowning in what might have been concern or simply curiosity.

“Sorry,” Roger had said, cleared his throat, and set the tea undrunk on the desk. His hands throbbed from the heat of the cup. “Rather a shock. I—thank you.”

“Is it something to do wi’ your wee boy, then?” Jenny Fraser had asked, deep-blue eyes dark with concern.

“I think so, yes.” He’d got his wits back now and rose stiffly, nodding to Brian. “Thank ye, sir. I canna thank ye enough for all ye’ve done for me—for us. I . . . need to think a bit what’s to do now. If ye’ll excuse me, Mistress Fraser?”

Jenny nodded, not taking her eyes from his face but shooing the maids and the cook away from the door so he could pass through it. Buck had followed him, murmuring reassuring things to the multitude, and come along with him, not speaking until they reached the solitude of the craggy hilltop. Where Roger had explained just what the dog tags were and to whom they had belonged.

“Why two?” Buck asked, reaching out a tentative finger to touch the tags. “And why are they different colors?”

“Two in case one was destroyed by whatever killed you,” Roger said, taking a deep breath. “The colors—they’re made of pressed cardboard treated
with different chemicals—substances, I mean. One resists water and the other resists fire, but I couldn’t tell ye which is which.”

Speaking of technicalities made it just barely possible to speak. Buck, with unaccustomed delicacy, was waiting for Roger to bring up the unspeakable.

How did the tags turn up
here?
And when—and under what circumstances—had they become detached from J(eremiah) W(alter)MacKenzie, Roman Catholic, serial number 448397651, RAF?

“Claire—my mother-in-law—I told ye about her, did I not?”

“A bit, aye. A seer, was she?”

Roger laughed shortly. “Aye, like I am. Like you are. Easy to be a seer if what you see has already happened.”

What’s already happened . . .

“Oh, God,” he said out loud, and curled over, pressing the fist that held the dog tags hard against his forehead.

“All right, there?” Buck asked after a moment. Roger straightened up with a deep breath.

“Know the expression ‘damned if ye do, damned if ye don’t’?”

“No, though I wouldna think it was one a minister would use.” Buck’s mouth twitched into a half smile. “Are ye not dedicated to the notion that there’s always one sure way out o’ damnation?”

“A minister. Aye.” Roger breathed deep again. There was a lot of oxygen on a Scottish hilltop, but somehow there didn’t seem quite enough just this minute. “I’m not sure that religion was constructed with time travelers in mind.”

Buck’s brows rose at that.

“Constructed?” he echoed, surprised. “Who builds God?”

That actually made Roger laugh, which made him feel a little better, if only momentarily.

“We all do,” he said dryly. “If God makes man in His image, we all return the favor.”

“Mmphm.” Buck thought that one over, then nodded slowly. “Wouldna just say ye’re wrong about that. But God’s
there
, nonetheless, whether we ken quite what He is or not. Isn’t He?”

“Yeah.” Roger wiped his knuckles under his nose, which had begun to run with the cold wind. “Ever hear of Saint Teresa of Avila?”

“No.” Buck gave him a look. “Nor have I heard of a Protestant minister who has to do wi’ saints.”

“I take advice where I can get it. But St. Teresa once remarked to God, ‘If this is how you treat your friends, no wonder you have so few of them.’ God’s got his own ways.”

Buck smiled; it was one of his rare, unwary smiles, and it heartened Roger enough to try to come to grips with the situation.

“Well, Claire—my mother-in-law—she told Brianna and me a good bit. About the things that happened when she went through the stones in 1743, and about things that had happened before that. Things about Captain Randall.” And in sentences as brief and unemotional as he could make them, he told the story: Randall’s raid on Lallybroch while Brian Fraser was away, his attack on Jenny Murray, and how Jamie Fraser—newly returned from Paris
and wondering what to do with his life—had fought for his home and his sister’s honor, been arrested and taken to Fort William, where he had been flogged nearly to death.

“Twice,” Roger said, pausing for air. He swallowed. “The second time . . . Brian was there. He thought Jamie
was
dead, and he had a stroke—an apoplexy—on the spot. He . . . died.” He swallowed again. “Will die.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Bride.” Buck crossed himself. His face had gone pale. “Your man in the house? He’ll be dead in a year or two?”

“Yes.” Roger looked down at Lallybroch, pale and peaceful as the sheep that browsed its pastures. “And . . . there’s more. What happened later, just before the Rising.”

Buck raised a hand.

“I say that’s more than enough. I say we go down to Fort William and do for the wicked bugger now. Preemptive action, ye might say. That’s a legal term,” he explained, with an air of kindly condescension.

“An appealing notion,” Roger said dryly. “But if we did—what
would
happen four years from now?”

Buck frowned, not comprehending.

“When Claire came through the stones in 1743, she met—will meet—Jamie Fraser, an outlaw with a price on his head, coming home from France. But if what happened with Captain Randall
doesn’t
happen—Jamie won’t be there. And if he isn’t . . . ?”

“Oh.” The frown grew deeper, comprehension dawning. “Oh, aye. I see. No Jamie, no Brianna . . .”

“No Jem or Mandy,” Roger finished. “Exactly.”

“Oh, God.” Buck bent his head and massaged the flesh between his brows with two fingers. “Damned if ye do, damned if ye don’t, did ye say? Enough to make your head spin like a top.”

“Yes, it is. But I have to do something, nonetheless.” He rubbed a thumb gently over the dog tags’ surfaces. “I’m going down to Fort William to talk to Captain Randall. I have to know where these came from.”

BUCK LOOKED
squiggle-eyed at the tags, lips pressed together, then switched the look to Roger.

“D’ye think your lad’s with your father, somehow?”

“No.” That particular thought hadn’t occurred to Roger, and it shook him for a moment. He shrugged it away, though.

“No,” he repeated more firmly. “I’m beginning to think that maybe . . . maybe Jem’s not here at all.” The statement hung there in the air, revolving slowly. He glanced at Buck, who seemed to be glowering at it.

“Why not?” his kinsman asked abruptly.

“A, because we’ve found no hint of him. And B, because now there’s
these
.” He raised the tags, the light cardboard disks lifting in the breeze.

“Ye sound like your wife,” Buck said, half amused. “She does that, aye? Layin’ things out, A, B, C, and all.”

“That’s how Brianna’s mind works,” Roger said, feeling a brief surge of affection for her. “She’s very logical.”

And if I’m right, and Jem’s not here—where is he? Has he gone to another time—or did he not travel at all?
As though the word “logical” had triggered it, a whole array of horrifying possibilities opened out before him.

“What I’m thinking—we were both concentrating on the name ‘Jeremiah’ when we came through, aye?”

“Aye, we were.”

“Well . . .” He twirled the cord between his fingers, making the disks spin slowly. “What if we got the wrong Jeremiah? That was my father’s name, too. And—and if Rob Cameron
didn’t
take Jem through the stones—”

“Why would he not?” Buck interrupted sharply. He transferred the glower to Roger. “His truck was there at Craigh na Dun. He wasn’t.”

“Plainly he wanted us to
think
he’d gone through. As to why—” He choked on the thought. Before he could clear his throat, Buck finished it for him.

“To get us away, so he’d have your missus to himself.” His face darkened with anger—part of it aimed at Roger. “I told her yon man had a hot eye for her.”

“Maybe he does,” he said shortly. “But think, aye? Beyond whatever he may have had in mind with regard to Brianna—” The mere words conjured up pictures that made the blood shoot up into his head. “Whatever he had in mind,” he repeated, as calmly as he could, “he likely also wanted to see whether it was true. About the stones. About whether we—or anyone—really could go through. Seeing’s believing, after all.”

Buck blew out his cheeks, considering.

“Ye think he was there, maybe? Watching to see if we disappeared?”

Roger shrugged, momentarily unable to speak for the thoughts clotting his brain.

Buck’s fists were clenched on his knees. He looked down at the house, then behind him at the rising mountains, and Roger knew exactly what he was thinking. He cleared his throat with a hacking growl.

“We’ve been gone for two weeks,” Roger said. “If he meant Brianna harm . . . he’ll have tried.”
Jesus. If he—no
. “She’ll not have let him harm her or the kids,” he went on, as steadily as he could. “If he tried anything, he’ll either be in jail or buried under the broch.” He lifted his chin toward the tower below, and Buck snorted in reluctant amusement.

“So, then. Aye, I want to rush straight back to Craigh na Dun, too. But think, man. We ken Cameron
went
to the stones after he took Jem. Would he not make Jem touch them, to see? And if he did . . . what if Cameron can’t travel but Jem did—to get away from him?”

“Mmphm.” Buck thought that one over and gave a reluctant nod. “So ye’re maybe thinkin’ that if the lad was scairt of Cameron and popped through accidental, he maybe wouldn’t try to come straight back?”

“He maybe couldn’t.” Roger was dry-mouthed and swallowed hard to generate enough saliva to speak. “He didn’t have a gemstone. And even with one . . .” He nodded at Buck. “Ken what happened to you, even with one. It
does
get worse each time. Jemmy might have been too scared to try.”
And he might have tried, not made it, and now he’s lost for good . . . NO!

Buck nodded.

“So. Ye think he’s maybe with your da, after all?” He sounded dubious in the extreme.

Roger couldn’t bear sitting any longer. He stood up abruptly, thrusting the dog tags into the breast pocket of his coat.

“I don’t know. But this is the only solid bit of evidence we have. I have to go and see.”

THE CURE OF SOULS

“Y
E’RE OUT OF YOUR
wee pink mind, ye ken that, aye?” Roger looked at Buck in amazement.

“Where the devil did you get
that
expression?”

“From your wife,” Buck replied. “Who’s a verra bonnie lass and a well-spoken one, forbye. And if ye mean to get back to her bed one of these days, ye’ll think better of what ye mean to do.”

“I’ve thought,” Roger said briefly. “And I’m doing it.” The entrance to Fort William looked much as it had when he’d come here with Brian Fraser nearly two weeks earlier, but this time with only a few people hastening in, shawls over their heads, and hats pulled down against the rain. The fort itself now seemed to have a sinister aspect, the gray stones bleak and streaked black with wet.

Buck reined up, grimacing as the horse shook its head and sprayed him with drops from its soaking mane.

“Aye, fine. I’m no going in there. If we have to kill him, it’s best if he doesna ken me, so I can get behind him. I’ll wait at yonder tavern.” He lifted his chin, indicating an establishment called the Peartree, a few hundred feet down the road from the fort, then kicked his horse into motion. Ten feet on, he turned and called over his shoulder, “One hour! If ye’re not with me by then, I’m comin’ in after ye!”

Roger smiled, despite his apprehension. He waved briefly to Buck and swung off his horse.

Bless me, Lord
, he prayed.
Help me to do the right thing—for everyone. Including Buck. And
him.

He hadn’t actually stopped praying at any time since Jem had disappeared, though most of it was just the frantic, reflexive
Dear Lord, let it be all right
of everyone facing crisis. Over time, either the crisis or the petitioner wears down, and prayer either ceases or . . . the person praying starts to listen.

He knew that. And he was listening. But he was still taken aback to get an answer.

He had enough experience in the business of prayer to recognize an answer when it showed up, though, however unwelcome. And the pointed reminder, arriving as a random thought in the middle of their mud-spattered, rain-sodden journey—that Jack Randall’s soul was in as much danger as Brian Fraser’s life—was damned unwelcome.

“Well, then,” Buck had said, brightening under the soggy brim of his hat when Roger had shared his disturbance at this insight. “All the more reason to kill him now. Save yon Frasers, and keep the wicked wee sod from going to hell—if he hasn’t done something already as would send him there,” he’d added as an afterthought. “Two birds wi’ one stone, aye?”

Roger had squelched along for a moment before replying.

“Out of sheer curiosity—were you a solicitor or a barrister, when ye did law?”

“Solicitor. Why?”

“No wonder you failed at it. All your talents lie in the other direction. Can ye not have a conversation without arguing?”

“Not wi’
you
,” Buck had said pointedly, and kicked his horse into a trot, sending up thumping clods of mud in his wake.

Roger gave his name and asked the army clerk if he might have a word with Captain Randall, then stood by the peat fire, shaking off as much water as he could before the man came back to lead him to Randall’s office.

To his surprise, it was the same office where he and Brian Fraser had had their audience with Captain Buncombe almost two weeks before. Randall was seated behind the desk, quill in hand, but looked up with a courteous expression at Roger’s entrance and half rose, with a small bow.

“Your servant, sir. Mr. MacKenzie, is that right? You’ve come from Lallybroch, I collect.”

“Your most obedient, sir,” Roger replied, adjusting his accent back to his normal Scots-tinged Oxbridge. “Mr. Brian Fraser was good enough to give me the object that you brought. I wanted both to thank you for your kind assistance—and to ask whether you might be able to tell me where the object was discovered.”

He knew about the banality of evil; human monsters came in human shapes. Even so, he was surprised. Randall was a handsome man, rather elegant in bearing, with a lively, interested expression, a humorous curve to his mouth, and warm dark eyes.

Well, he
is
human. And perhaps he’s not a monster yet
.

“One of my messengers brought it in,” Randall replied, wiping his quill and dropping it into a stoneware jar full of such objects. “My predecessor, Captain Buncombe, had sent dispatches to Fort George and Fort Augustus about your son—I am very sorry for your situation,” he added rather formally.
“A patrol from Ruthven Barracks had brought the ornament in. I’m afraid I don’t know where they discovered it, but perhaps the messenger who brought it from Ruthven does. I’ll send for him.”

Randall went to the door and spoke to the sentry outside. Coming back, he paused to open a cupboard, which revealed a wig stand, a powdering shaker, a pair of hairbrushes, a looking glass, and a small tray with a cut-glass decanter and glasses.

“Allow me to offer you refreshment, sir.” Randall poured a cautious inch into each glass and offered one to Roger. He picked up his own, his nostrils flaring slightly at the scent of the whisky. “The nectar of the country, I’m given to understand,” he said with a wry smile. “I am told I must develop a taste for it.” He took a wary sip, looking as though he expected imminent death to result.

“If I might suggest . . . a bit of water mixed with it is customary,” Roger said, carefully keeping all trace of amusement out of his voice. “Some say it opens the flavor, makes it smoother.”

“Oh, really?” Randall put down his glass, looking relieved. “That seems sensible. The stuff tastes as though it’s flammable. Sanders!” he shouted toward the door. “Bring some water!”

There was a slight pause, neither man knowing quite what to say next.

“The, um,
thing
,” Randall said. “Might I see it again? It’s quite remarkable. Is it a jewel of some kind? An ornament?”

“No. It’s a . . . sort of charm,” Roger said, fishing the dog tags out of his pocket. He felt an ache in his chest at thought of the small personal rituals that the fliers did—a lucky stone in the pocket, a special scarf, the name of a woman painted on the nose of a plane. Charms. Tiny bits of hopeful magic, protection against a vast sky filled with fire and death. “To preserve the soul.”
In memory, at least
.

Randall frowned a little, glancing from the dog tags to Roger’s face, then back. He was clearly thinking the same thing Roger was:
And if the charm is detached from the person it was meant to protect . . .
But he didn’t say anything, merely touched the green tag gently.

“J. W. Your son’s name is Jeremiah, I understand?”

“Yes. Jeremiah’s an old family name. It was my father’s name. I—” He was interrupted by the entrance of Private MacDonald, a very young soldier, dripping wet and slightly blue with cold, who saluted Captain Randall smartly, then gave way to a rattling cough that shook his spindly frame.

Once recovered, he complied at once with Randall’s order to tell Roger all he knew about the dog tags—but he didn’t know much. One of the soldiers stationed at Ruthven Barracks had won them in a dice game at a local pub. He did recall the name of the pub—the Fatted Grouse; he’d drunk there himself—and he thought the soldier had said he’d won the bawbee from a farmer come back from the market in Perth.

“Do you recall the name of the soldier who won them?” Roger asked.

“Oh, aye, sir. ’Twas Sergeant McLehose. And now I think—” A broad grin at the recollection showed crooked teeth. “I mind me of the farmer’s name, too! ’Twas Mr. Anthony Cumberpatch. It did tickle Sergeant McLehose, bein’ foreign and soundin’ like ‘cucumber patch.’” He sniggered,
and Roger smiled himself. Captain Randall cleared his throat, and the sniggering stopped abruptly, Private MacDonald snapping to a sober attention.

“Thank you, Mr. MacDonald,” Randall said dryly. “That will be all.”

Private MacDonald, abashed, saluted and left. There was a moment’s silence, during which Roger became aware of the rain, grown harder now, clattering like gravel on the large casement window. A chilly draft leaked around its frame and touched his face. Glancing at the window, he saw the drill yard below, and the whipping post, a grim crucifix stark and solitary, black in the rain.

Oh, God
.

Carefully, he folded up the dog tags again and put them away in his pocket. Then met Captain Randall’s dark eyes directly.

“Did Captain Buncombe tell you, sir, that I am a minister?”

Randall’s brows rose in brief surprise.

“No, he didn’t.” Randall was plainly wondering why Roger should mention this, but he was courteous. “My younger brother is a clergyman. Ah . . . Church of England, of course.” There was the faintest implied question there, and Roger answered it with a smile.

“I am a minister of the Church of Scotland myself, sir. But if I might . . . will ye allow me to offer a blessing? For the success of my kinsman and myself—and in thanks for your kind help to us.”

“I—” Randall blinked, clearly discomfited. “I—suppose so. Er . . . all right.” He leaned back a little, looking wary, hands on his blotter. He was completely taken aback when Roger leaned forward and grasped both his hands firmly. Randall gave a start, but Roger held tight, eyes on the captain’s.

“Oh, Lord,” he said, “we ask thy blessing on our works. Guide me and my kinsman in our quest, and guide this man in his new office. May your light and presence be with us and with him, and your judgment and compassion ever on us. I commend him to your care. Amen.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he let go Randall’s hands and coughed, looking away as he cleared his throat.

Randall cleared his throat, too, in embarrassment, but kept his poise.

“I thank you for your . . . er . . . good wishes, Mr. MacKenzie. And I wish you good luck. And good day.”

“The same to you, Captain,” Roger said, rising. “God be with you.”