Come Back to Me by Jody Hedlund

~ 4 ~

“I’MAN AMERICAN.” Marian willed her voice not to tremble. “And I only have American cash.”

“Just hand over your bag.” Her attacker yanked at the strap. His hair was clipped short, and he was well groomed—certainly not the appearance of a man desperate enough to rob her in broad daylight.

The rational part of her mind warned her to cooperate, that nothing was worth the risk of getting hurt. On the other hand, she didn’t want to lose the items from her dad’s safety deposit box—not before she’d had the chance to investigate them more fully.

“I’ll give you my wallet.” She reached inside the bag.

“I want the whole thing.”

Her fingers closed around the papers and the flask. She jerked them from her purse and at the same time let the strap fall from her shoulder.

Without his hold, she lurched away, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. Her assailant fumbled with her purse, digging inside, before glancing at her again and honing in on the papers and flask in her hand.

A warning clanged in Marian’s head, urging her to run, to make a commotion, to do something to attract assistance. She stumbled back several more paces and then flagged down two women exiting a shop across the street. “Help! This man is robbing me!”

With his attention trained on the papers, the thief tossed her purse to the ground and stalked toward her with quick, certain steps.

The women had stopped, shopping bags in hand, but were either too entertained or too afraid to do anything but stare.

In her high heels, Marian spun and tried to sprint but was as wobbly and unsteady as a patient coming off anesthetic.

Her pursuer’s footsteps pounded on the cobbled sidewalk behind her.

She spotted another group ahead. “Help!”

At the screech of tires on the pavement and the sight of a black Bentley headed directly for her, she froze. This is it. I’m about to die.

The Bentley squealed to a halt only inches away, and the back door swung open. “Get in!” Harrison’s familiar voice shouted from the interior.

The thief’s hand closed around her arm.

She swung her elbow backward as hard as she could. It connected with some part of the man’s face, giving her the split second she needed to break away and dive into the car.

Without waiting for her to close the door, Harrison yelled at his driver, and the car roared away, sending her sprawling across the seat.

Harrison grasped her. “Hang on!”

She latched onto him as the Bentley careened down the street. The door swung open wider before banging closed. Only after they’d taken several sharp corners and were on a long stretch of road did she push herself up and take a breath.

“That was close.” Harrison peered out the rear window.

She reached for her seat belt, but her hand was trembling too much to get the clip into the fastener. In her other hand, she still clutched the papers and bottle from the safety deposit box. Somehow, she’d also managed to hang on to her phone, but her purse and all her ID and credit cards were back on the sidewalk.

She blew out a shaky breath. “What’s going on, Harrison?”

Harrison’s gaze darted from one side window to the other and then behind them again. “That man is a security guard for Lionel Inc. Clearly, Lionel is after the items you just emptied out of your dad’s safety deposit box.”

Harrison was right. The thief hadn’t wanted her purse or wallet. He’d been after the papers. “How did you know I’d be at the bank? And how did you know I was checking Dad’s box?” For that matter, how had her attacker known she’d be there? She hadn’t told anyone where she was going.

Evidently, everyone was keeping tabs on her.

Harrison gave instructions to his driver, a diminutive Asian man whose head barely reached high enough to see over the steering wheel. Then he shifted to face her, his expression grave. “I followed you, Marian.”

So she couldn’t trust Harrison after all.

As if sensing her suspicion, he held out a calming hand. “It’s not like that, love. I asked Bojing to keep an eye on the comings and goings at the hospital.” Harrison nodded toward his driver. “Two ticks after you took your leave, Bojing rang me on his mobile to inform me Lionel was indeed trailing you.”

She sensed he was telling her the truth. Nevertheless, she clutched the wad of papers and the bottle tighter.

“Now after Lionel accosted you, it’s quite apparent that whatever Arthur was working on was vitally important, and Lionel really wants to get their hands on it.”

The image of the gun in her attacker’s coat pocket seared her mind. Whatever Dad had discovered was important—so important people were willing to kill to get it.

“A few weeks ago, your dad said something.” Harrison swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple rising and falling. “At the time I brushed it aside. But now, with everything that’s transpired . . .”

“What did he say?” She glanced out the front window to see that Bojing had turned onto Whitehall Road. He was jerking the wheel back and forth and nearly taking the curves on two wheels like a driver from a crime show, even though no one seemed to be following them.

“You’ll think I’m a buffoon for repeating it. For considering there might be weight to it.”

“Probably.”

Harrison held on tightly to the leather seat with one hand and with the other tugged at his bow tie and collar as if they were strangling him. “He mentioned the ultimate cure can vibrate energy billions of times smaller than nuclei to a frequency and wavelength that can rejuvenate any illness.”

“Yes, I’ve heard his theory.” And she knew as well as Harrison the physics behind drugs, all about heat and friction and the vibration of particles that worked to kill targeted microscopic organisms.

Harrison cleared his throat. “This time he indicated the ultimate cure could possibly vibrate energy at such a frequency that it would have a strange effect on those who are healthy.”

“A strange effect? Like what?”

He grabbed on to the door handle as Bojing whipped the car around another bend. “It could vibrate in such a way that people would have realistic visions of the past or future or possibly even cross time.”

His words jolted her—along with Bojing’s crazy driving—and her thoughts jumped to the paper from the safety deposit box. “As in breaching the time-space continuum?”

Chagrin crinkled his forehead. “I know, right? The whole thing is ludicrous. Preposterous, even. But I wouldn’t bring it up except Arthur emphasized that healthy people having such wavelength vibrations would likely lose consciousness for the duration of their visions or time crossing.”

“Lose consciousness?”

“What if he meant they would fall into a coma?” Harrison’s serious eyes met hers.

Her thoughts pinged as a million neurons connected the dots. “So Dad developed his ultimate cure from remnants he finally found from the Tree of Life. He experimented with the new drug on himself and fell into a coma. And now while he’s in the coma, he’s supposedly crossing the time continuum?”

For several heartbeats, the gunning of the engine filled the space between them.

“Can you imagine? It’s sheer madness.” Harrison spoke the words first. Thankfully.

“It’s impossible.”

“Quite.”

They lapsed into silence. Her dad’s ramblings were impossible, weren’t they? But what if he had ingested something to purposefully cause a loss of consciousness? “If Dad tested a drug on himself, then why were the hospital labs negative?”

“Precisely. His urine or blood would show traces of something.”

They’d both examined the initial lab reports as well as the additional test results. Arthur Creighton wasn’t taking a single medication for anything. For a man in his early sixties, he was at his prime.

“I apologize, love.” Harrison released a long, tired sigh. “There’s no sense in fretting about it. I’m sure Arthur didn’t mean to imply he believed in crossing time. That’s a bit too deluded even for him.”

Was it?

Marian loosened her hold on the items she’d found at the bank and set them in her lap. She riffled through the papers, pulled one out, and handed it to Harrison.

He unfolded it and began to read. “Speculations of Breaching the Time-Space Continuum. Preface: Although I could find no written historical records from anyone making claims of breaching the time-space fourth dimension, I found stories from those having such realistic visions and dreams of the past, that I’ve concluded movement through the quantum energy field is possible and those who pass through it have been too ignorant or afraid to confess it.”

Marian read along silently as Harrison continued to read aloud.

“Number one: No evidence exists of people having visions/movements that overlap with their own time continuum; all visions/movements are of entirely different eras. Number two: It appears that people have visions or movement through the quantum energy field to a time period they affix in their mind; e.g. many claim to have visions of the crucifixion of Christ.”

Harrison stopped reading, his expression one of incredulity. “This was in his safety deposit box?”

She nodded. “I guess speculating about breaching time wasn’t too deluded for him.”

“Apparently not.” Harrison’s attention dropped to the rest of the items on her lap, as if they might provide answers. He startled at the sight of the flask, which had tumbled onto the seat next to her. “Is that what I think it is?”

She picked up the container and inspected it. “What is it?”

“It’s a pilgrim ampulla.” His eyes widened behind his glasses. “During the Middle Ages when people took pilgrimages to holy shrines, they carried little flasks filled with holy water or holy oil.”

“Like the pilgrims from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales?”

“Right. Like the thousands of pilgrims who came to Canterbury Cathedral to the shrine of St. Thomas. They purchased ampullae, badges, and other souvenirs.”

She knew enough Latin to understand that ampullae was the plural form of ampulla. During her visits to Canterbury over the years, she’d heard the term, and she’d inevitably learned the history that made the cathedral so famous. Thomas Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury during the twelfth century, had fallen out of favor with the king and was assassinated by four knights in Canterbury Cathedral.

For some reason, the pope canonized Becket, turning him into a saint. After that, people from all over England made pilgrimages to visit St. Thomas’s tomb in the cathedral.

“So what’s Dad doing with a pilgrim ampulla?” She turned the flask over, grazing the engravings on both sides.

“Arthur’s got up to something. Do you mind if I have a look?”

She handed it to Harrison. If he could figure out why it was among Dad’s most prized possessions, then more power to him.

Harrison turned on the flashlight of his phone, shining it onto the container and examining it from all angles. “If my hunch is correct, this is the St. Thomas ampulla that was stolen from Canterbury Cathedral three weeks ago when it was brought there for display with the Esztergom relic.”

Marian raised her brow. “Why would Dad have a stolen ampulla? And what in the world is the Esztergom relic?”

“The Esztergom is thought to be a bone from the elbow of Thomas Becket. The bone has been on display at various cathedrals around the country, including Westminster and St. Margaret’s Church. Even St. Michael’s in Harbledown before arriving in Canterbury.”

“You’re kidding. How can anyone care about a piece of elbow bone from a dead archbishop?” In fact, how could anyone know if such a bone had once belonged to Becket? Maybe it came from another dead person and was passed off as Becket’s with the hope of making money.

Harrison shrugged as though he didn’t get the fascination either. “During the last Sunday afternoon of Becket Week, mass was held in the crypt of the cathedral. The ampulla went missing after that.”

If Dad had taken it, how would he have managed such a feat? And more importantly, why? “Dad isn’t a thief. He’s eccentric at times, but he’d never steal something out of the cathedral.”

“Sorry, love. The fleurs-de-lys decorating the edges and the details of Becket on both sides most certainly makes it a St. Thomas ampulla.” Harrison studied the flask as if it was a long-lost treasure.

Though faded, the front had an engraving of angels flying over Becket. The back depicted the famous saint being attacked by the knights who killed him.

“How do you know this is the one stolen from Becket Week? There are probably lots of ampullae around the area.”

“Actually, no. The Kentish Gazette ran a big article about the crime. Historians and museum curators know of only three original St. Thomas ampullae that still exist.”

“Maybe this isn’t an original.” Even as she said the words, she had the sinking feeling Harrison was right about its authenticity. But she couldn’t believe Dad had stolen it.

Harrison lifted the flask to his nose and sniffed. He tipped it over much the same way she had earlier in the viewing room at the bank. Then he attempted to peer down the narrow opening.

“The more I try to comprehend what’s happened to Dad, the more complicated things seem to get and the less I understand of what he actually did.”

Harrison scrutinized the container a moment longer before holding it out to her. “Rumor has it that the original ampulla held holy water, in particular holy water mixed with blood from St. Thomas Becket himself.”

As she took the ampulla, a scoffing laugh begged for release. Water with blood from Becket was as foolish as his elbow bone. But Harrison continued before she could voice her sarcasm. “The holy water was thought to cure diseases. The monks bottled the water in ampullae like this and sold it to pilgrims.”

Bojing slowed the Bentley, and ahead, Marian glimpsed Harrison’s estate, Chesterfield Park. As the car drew to a stop in front of imposing iron gates, Marian tried to make sense of everything—particularly the facts that her dad might have drugged himself into a coma and had likely stolen an important relic from Canterbury Cathedral.

What had he been thinking? Maybe that was the problem. What if he’d developed a mental illness that had caused him to behave irrationally?

She exhaled her frustration. He hadn’t sounded demented or irrational during their last phone call. Distracted, yes. But he’d been as sharp and intelligent as usual.

Bojing rolled down his window and spoke into the intercom. A moment later, the gates swung open to admit them. Harrison’s driver directed the car down a long paved driveway that circled an elegant yard. With several flower beds in full bloom, the vibrant green grass made the stately palatial-sized manor stand out all the more.

Marian gaped as she usually did as they drew closer to the mansion built in Anglo-Italian style with its magnificent stonework, many large-paned cross windows, gated porch entrance with two arches and a cupola, and a striking hall tower on the east end. The manor was three stories high with a grandeur that was breathtaking.

Harrison had once explained that the original house had been built by the Durham family in the 1300s. King Edward III had awarded Sir Durham the land for daring deeds that had helped the English defeat the French at Crecy.

Apparently, the original structure had been much less lavish. After it had been ransacked during the English Civil War, it had been reconstructed and enlarged, especially during Victorian times. In the 1880s, the mansion had passed to the Burlington family, who were distant relatives of the Durhams. Harrison’s grandparents and parents invested enormous amounts of capital into restoring the interior to some of its rich historical heritage.

For several decades, the Burlington family opened parts of the mansion and gardens to tourists. But after Harrison inherited the estate, he made it his private residence and ended the public viewing.

Bojing rolled the Bentley to a stop across from the entrance, and Marian tried to envision the house the way it had been in the 1300s, smaller, less ornate, but surely just as magnificent. Bojing exited the car, rounded to the trunk, and began removing Harrison’s wheelchair. Harrison opened his door and pivoted in readiness for Bojing.

Marian gathered up the papers and ampulla and stepped out of the car to find that the evening had grown considerably cooler. She wished now she’d thought to bring a sweater. The sun had begun to fade, turning the sky a royal blue like the pieces of colored glass in the cathedral window. The vibrant blue reflected off the manor’s stones, turning the gray to lavender.

Weariness overtook her. In addition to jet lag and sleep deprivation, worry and the strain of the attack were beginning to take a toll. She wanted to return to the hospital and be with Dad, but she had the feeling Harrison would insist she get a good night’s sleep first here at Chesterfield Park, where hopefully she would be safe. She decided that she wouldn’t argue with him. This time.

She closed the car door and faced the imposing porch entrance that was reminiscent of a gatehouse found on a castle, albeit slightly smaller in size. She fumbled with the ampulla and tightened her grip on it. She couldn’t let anything happen to the relic until she figured out why Dad had it.

She brought the opening to her nose and sniffed again as she had earlier. What if the rumors were true, and it had held liquid of some kind? And what if Dad had consumed it?

Whatever fluid it had contained could have been quite old and had an adverse effect on him. Even if the hospital’s blood tests hadn’t revealed traces of anything out of the ordinary in his system, she was suddenly overcome with the suspicion that whatever had been in the flask was related to his coma in some way.

Knowing Dad, he’d likely poured the contents into a disposable tube and placed the ampulla into his safety deposit box to keep from being caught with the incriminating evidence. The hospital personnel had indicated he’d fallen unconscious in the main lobby shortly after he arrived, but they hadn’t mentioned him having a container on him. Nothing of the sort had been in the plastic bag of his possessions. But if he’d had something, it could have rolled away, been tossed in the trash, or even kicked into a corner by a passerby.

Whatever the case, she wanted to know more about the liquid. She touched her tongue to the inner neck and licked it. She didn’t taste any chemicals or compounds, at least any she could distinguish. But there was a slight grit. She stuck her tongue in and licked harder so that it came loose.

This time she closed her mouth around the sandpapery substance, and a strange rush, like a gust of wind, charged through her veins, down her body, and into her arms and legs. The gust was oddly warm in the chill of the evening. As the grit dissolved against her tongue, she heard a pounding gallop of horse hooves on the driveway.

Swiveling, she was shocked to find an enormous horse bearing down on her, its rider apparently not paying any attention to the vehicle in its path. She groped for the Bentley door handle. But her fingers only grasped air.

A glance out of her periphery told her the car was gone—that Bojing had already driven it away. How had the slight man assisted Harrison into his wheelchair and moved the vehicle so rapidly?

The thunder of hooves drew nearer, kicking up stones and dust with every step. And yet, wasn’t Harrison’s driveway paved?

She stepped back farther, out of the way, expecting to stumble into the tulip garden and the large manicured lawn. But uneven grass tickled her ankles. The stallion passed by, leaving a breeze in its wake that wafted across her cheeks and bare arms and brought the odor of horseflesh with a mixture of hay, mud, and sweat.

The rider bent low as though he’d been galloping at top speed for some time. As he reined in his beast, he slid off in a fluid motion, clearly an experienced equestrian. Perhaps he was another guest out riding for the evening, although Harrison’s family had turned the original stables into a greenhouse decades ago, and Harrison boarded a couple of remaining horses at a neighboring farm.

The man straightened to his full height, and she drew back in surprise at the sight of his attire. He was wearing what appeared to be a flowing surcoat that was dark and coarse and rather gothic-looking, especially with the hood up. His scuffed leather boots hugged his calves and were laced with thick, strange twine.

Was he some kind of reenactor? If so, his costume was authentic—worn and weathered and certainly not clean. It outlined his broad shoulders and imposing size, which she guessed to be about six feet three inches.

He dropped the horse’s reins and took several long, hurried strides toward the entrance, but then halted abruptly. Before she could blink, he swung around and was gripping a knife with a frighteningly sharp blade and pointing it in her direction.

She gasped and took another step back, wishing for the safety of the Bentley so she could open the door, leap inside, and lock the car behind her. But again, the vehicle had strangely disappeared and so had the tulip garden.

Why was this guest wielding a knife? Was he another attacker like the one outside the bank? A scream welled up in her throat and pushed for release.

The stranger’s gaze collided with hers, and she found herself looking into eyes so blue they matched the brilliance of the evening sky overhead. As beautiful as those eyes were, they were equally fierce and intense. Dark brows furrowed above them, matching the hair that showed beneath his hood.

With a square-shaped jaw covered in a layer of stubble and broad cheeks coated with the same, he was ruggedly handsome in a foreboding way. He bore an air of confidence and power and danger. As though sensing her fear, he lowered his knife, studying her face the same way she was his.

He didn’t speak, but something in his expression attested to pain and sorrows of the deepest kind, haunted memories, and even self-loathing. Though she had no idea who he was or where he was from, the contradiction of his powerful outward strength and fragile inner spirit reached inside, touched her, and beckoned her toward him in an almost magnetic pull.

At a flicker of light in one of the manor windows, she glanced behind him, only to gasp again. Though the house was still three stories high, the long wings had diminished in length. The tower on the east end rose above the house, but the parapet and crenellations were simpler, as if designed for battle not beauty.

The center entrance consisted of a simple black iron gate and none of the fancy scrolling and intricate brickwork. Above it was a shield bearing a family coat of arms, one she’d never noticed there before. The surface field was crimson and the outer edge azure. A golden stag stood regally at the center.

“Marian?”

Harrison. She shifted toward the direction of his voice, but he wasn’t there. All she saw was the yard. However, instead of the neatly trimmed lawn and blooming flower beds, the grass was long and scraggly beneath clusters of sprawling oak and gnarled yew. Where had the trees come from? The stone wall along the perimeter encircled the grounds and was much thicker and taller than the one they’d just passed in the car.

What was happening? Was she hallucinating?

She shifted to find that the fierce-looking man was still watching her. He held himself immobile, as though his slightest move would frighten her.

The gate behind him swung open with a squeal. “Sire?”

He lifted a hand, signaling the newcomer to silence, all without taking his powerful gaze from her.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

If he was nothing more than a vision, then why did he seem so real?