Come Back to Me by Jody Hedlund

~ 8 ~

SHESHOULDN’T have allowed Harrison to go with her inside the crypt. She should have made him wait with Bojing.

Marian stared past the tapestries out the bedroom window. Every external light that existed on the grounds of Chesterfield Park was on, pushing away the darkness of the evening hour. The sprawling front gardens were lit by ground laser lights. Beams all along the stone wall surrounded the estate. And on the road near the front gate, the headlights of several police cars added to the blazing display.

She should feel safer with the lights, security cameras, heavily locked doors and windows, and police presence. But her insides hadn’t stopped quavering. In the short time since she’d arrived in England, she’d been stalked, robbed, shot at, chased, and almost killed. As if that wasn’t enough, she’d crossed back in time. Three times.

And now, Harrison had been kidnapped. Bystanders at the crypt entrance had confirmed it to the police when they’d arrived at the cathedral. Unfortunately, the security guard had rushed to the nave at the sound of the gunfire and hadn’t been outside to intervene.

It hadn’t taken long for the news of Lord Burlington’s abduction to spread and for reporters to converge upon the estate. Drake had gone outside and had answered all the police and news reporter questions.

Of course, the police had needed to speak with her too. But neither she nor Drake had revealed the real reason why they’d been inside the crypt. They’d remained vague, telling the investigators that Mercer’s competitors were likely harassing them for information regarding one of Arthur’s drugs.

The police were waiting to escort her to the hospital so she could spend time with her dad and give him the holy water. She was ready to drive over as soon as the physician finished tending to Drake’s wound. She told Drake she would go by herself, that he should rest. But he was insisting on accompanying her.

She let the thick curtains fall back over the window and padded in her stocking feet across the hardwood floor to the canopied bed. She stopped at the edge and stared down at the items she’d retrieved from the crypt. Two ampullae filled with holy water. And not just any ampullae. The flasks contained the pictures of St. Thomas, identical to the one that had been in the safety deposit box.

The ampullae had been shocking enough, and at first she’d thought her dad had located the other two that existed in museums. But at the sight of the Rolex that had been with the flasks, her shock had risen to a new level.

She picked up the watch from the bed and ran a thumb across the scuffed glass front.

It was the same Rolex in the plastic bag the hospital staff had given her—the same shape, size, style, and with the same engraving of love from her and Ellen on the back. But instead of shiny silver with an equally shiny, sleek wristband, the watch was dusty, corroded, and had stopped working—almost as if it had been tucked away in the hiding spot in the crypt for hundreds of years.

She’d retrieved the bag of Dad’s possessions from her purse and dumped it out. The Rolex was still there, as were the ancient-looking coins. Even so, the evidence pointed to only one conclusion: her dad had placed the ampullae into the crypt and had added his Rolex. Perhaps he’d determined parchment couldn’t withstand the passing of time the same way a watch could. Or perhaps he’d wanted her to know beyond a shadow of a doubt he’d gone to the past.

Whatever the case, both flasks had been corked tightly, and she’d had a difficult time unsealing them. But once the corks were out, she’d been able to see the liquid inside. She estimated that each contained approximately a tablespoon, which wasn’t much. She couldn’t afford to lose a single drop. Since the corks had crumbled after removing them, she’d had to re-seal the flasks with rubber tops she’d found in Harrison’s home lab.

She’d bagged the cork pieces, having no doubt they contained residue from the holy water. In the morning, she planned to examine them under a microscope in Harrison’s lab. She wished she had time to do so before administering a dose to Dad tonight. But she couldn’t waste time.

Even though Dad’s message from the past wasn’t entirely clear, she suspected he’d meant for her to use one of the flasks of holy water to heal him of his coma. But what about the other ampulla? Did he want Ellen to drink it to see if it would heal her?

Thankfully, she’d soon be able to ask her dad the questions that had multiplied with each passing hour. At least she hoped once she administered the holy water, he’d recover from the coma quickly. She couldn’t be sure what would happen after the substance filtered through his system. Perhaps it would take some time for him to regain consciousness.

She returned the watch to the bed and skimmed a hand over the wrinkled papers that he’d left for her. The clues were making more sense now than the first time she’d read them.

She picked up the time-travel speculation sheet. “Number five: After studying historical examples of people experiencing visions, I’m convinced a person is able to envision/move to the same period on multiple occasions. Number six: Additionally, from what I’m able to decipher, the day and hour of the visions/movement correspond to the same day and hour on the various time-space intersections.”

Inadvertently, she’d tested rules five and six and found them to be true. Each of her visions—or crossings into the past—had corresponded to the same time frame. When it had been evening in the present, she’d experienced evening in the past. With May in the present, she’d witnessed May flowers in the past.

Was this the type of information Harrison’s abductors were after? Did they know about the ampullae? What would they do to Harrison in an effort to elicit the knowledge they wanted?

A shudder worked its way up her spine.

More likely they were after the drug for its ability to heal, not because it caused time crossovers. If the holy water had the power to heal—as depicted in the cathedral’s Miracle Windows—and if the properties could be replicated, the impact would be astounding. What if the water could not only heal VHL but all other serious genetic diseases? What if it could heal cancer or AIDS or diabetes?

If so, the holy water would easily turn into the most potent drug in the entire world. The person who took credit for the discovery could become the wealthiest person on earth—and possibly the most powerful. He could control the world, and there was no telling what would become of humanity.

Maybe that’s why God had placed the angel at the Garden of Eden—to keep people away from the Tree of Life? Not to prevent them from having something good, but to protect them from something that had the potential to ultimately destroy the world?

She released a shaky laugh. “You’re taking this whole thing too far, Marian. Settle down and think rationally.”

Her phone on the bedside table buzzed. It was probably Jasper again. She considered ignoring his call. But after brushing him off all day, she didn’t have the heart to let his call go to voicemail again. Besides, with all that had happened, she could use a friendly ear.

She grabbed her phone only to discover a Kent number lighting up the screen.

Her heart jumped in her chest. Harrison. Maybe the police had located Harrison.

She answered quickly. “Hello?”

“Is this Marian Creighton?” The voice on the other line was serious, subdued.

“This is she.”

“I’m phoning from Kent and Canterbury Hospital.” The person hesitated for several seconds—several seconds that caused Marian to shut her eyes as if in doing so she could prevent the news.

“I regret to inform you that your father, Arthur Creighton, is dead.”

* * *

The syringe in Marian’s hand shook. A glance toward the closed hospital room door told her she was still alone and no one would witness what she was about to do.

Her dad’s face was waxy, the life drained away. A strand of his gray hair had slipped over his forehead, but she didn’t have the heart to comb it back. Instead, she willed him to open his eyes and look up at her.

Even though he had a full head of gray hair, his rounded face was youthful in appearance—without wrinkles or age spots. He was too young to die. Too intelligent. Too ambitious. He still had so much to give to the world.

And he had too much explaining yet to do, too many questions to answer, too much work remaining with all that he’d uncovered with the holy water.

At the rise in voices in the hallway, Marian focused on the syringe.

After the police had provided an escort to the hospital, she’d asked the doctors and nurses if she might have a moment alone with Dad to say her good-byes. Now, even with Drake positioned outside the closed door, she guessed she had only a few minutes before the hospital staff returned.

Besides, she wasn’t safe. Whoever was trying to steal her dad’s research had made it clear they intended to get it one way or another. They would know she’d left Chesterfield Park at the late hour to drive to the hospital, and there was no telling what they might attempt.

She tried to still her trembling fingers, but the long point of the needle continued to wobble. “You have to do this, Marian. It’s his only hope.”

Without second-guessing herself any longer, she thrust the needle into his shoulder and squeezed the liquid into his vein. A tablespoon didn’t take long.

She flicked the side of the bottle and then rattled it to make sure every last precious drop of the holy water had gone into her dad, that nothing remained. Then she withdrew the needle, placed it back into its container, and stuffed it into her purse out of sight.

Thankfully, Harrison’s home lab was stocked full of every imaginable item a scientist might ever need. If only she hadn’t needed the syringe under these circumstances . . .

She released the breath she felt like she’d been holding since she’d gotten the phone call from the hospital an hour ago. Then she pressed her fingers against Dad’s external jugular vein. “Please work your miracle.”

Her soft plea faded into an eerie silence. After the constant whirring and beeping of the life-support machines and monitors, now the only sounds were the voices in the hallway and the distant bell at the nurse’s station.

The physicians hadn’t been able to pinpoint an exact cause of death. They wouldn’t know anything specific until Dad had an autopsy—which she hoped they wouldn’t need.

“Come back to me, Dad.” Her voice wobbled with unshed tears, tears she wouldn’t let herself release yet.

If her dad’s speculations about breaching the time-space continuum were correct—point number four on his list—then something must have happened to him in the past to cause his death there, which in turn had ended his life in the present.

She had no idea if the residue from the Tree of Life was able to bring someone back from the dead, someone who’d been gone for an hour and thirty minutes according to the time of death written on his hospital chart.

The excerpts Harrison had read to her from the Pynson Ballad about the wellspring in Walsingham and from the monks’ recordings from Canterbury hadn’t mentioned people reviving after they died.

However, with so many mysteries yet to unlock regarding the holy water, they simply didn’t know its capabilities. It might have the power to do more than even her dad had imagined.

“Please, Dad. Please.” The pulse beneath her fingers was cold and lifeless. She adjusted her touch, probing for the protruding vessel on the other side of his neck. She pressed against it and watched the timer on her phone. It ticked off thirty seconds, then sixty, and finally ninety.

She felt nothing. Not even the slightest twitch in his flesh.

What if it took hours for the holy water to work? Or days?

She shifted her trembling fingers to Dad’s mouth and hoped she’d feel the breath of life there, all the while trying to ignore the reminder that the tiny granules she’d ingested had worked in her system instantly.

She pressed his lips but couldn’t detect even a whisper of warmth. His expression and body position hadn’t changed from earlier in the day when she’d visited. Everything about him was rigid, as if frozen in time.

Tears stung at the backs of her eyes. “Dad, I don’t know if you can hear me. But I believe you now. And I need you to return and finish the work you started. Or at the very least, tell me what to do next.”

Watching his face, she prayed and waited for his eyelids to flutter, his nostrils to flare, or the muscles in his jaw to twitch. Anything. Another minute passed, then two. And an ache formed in her throat.

She lowered herself to the chair next to his bed, her legs suddenly weak. She reached for his hand and grasped the unresponsive digits in her own. Regret and sadness combined, swirling together, dissolving into one another.

“Oh, Dad, I’m sorry. So sorry . . .” Her voice choked, and warm tears spilled onto her cheeks. She was sorry for so much, mostly that now she’d never be able to have a better future with him where they could be close and happy.

That’s all she’d ever wanted—to be a family like they were before Mom got sick. Since he’d been nearing the fulfillment of all his years of research into the ultimate cure, maybe he would have been happy again, maybe he would have wanted to be with her and Ellen, maybe he would have made the time to love them.

But now . . .

A soft tap on the door told her the time was up. She’d been too late to rescue her dad. Now, she’d used up one of the precious flasks of holy water for nothing. Not only had she failed to save her dad, but she’d failed him in his most important research.

“Miss Creighton?” A kind voice came from the door, now open a crack. The attending physician peeked through.

She swiped at the tears on her cheeks but couldn’t make her voice work to respond.

It was time to call Ellen. Marian couldn’t avoid involving Ellen in the chaos in Canterbury any longer. She had to tell Ellen Dad was dead. Of course upon hearing the news, Ellen would catch the first flight to England. The minute she arrived, Marian would have her drink the last ampulla of holy water. Hopefully, it would cure her of VHL. Perhaps then, Dad’s death wouldn’t be in vain.