A Question of Time

Chapter 9

Startled by the sound Bill had made, the girl who sat by the fire turned her head. Slowly she got to her feet, staring warily at Bill. Just beyond the other side of her compact encampment there yawned a chasm; if she were frightened of him, she had no place to run.

Actually she seemed more surprised than afraid. She said to Bill: "Who are my friends? Who sent you after me?"

Doing his best to appear non-threatening, he spoke in soothing tones. "Your father sent me. And your great-aunt Sarah. They both wanted me—us—to try to find you."

"Us?"

"I work for a firm of private investigators."

"My father," said Cathy Brainard. The two words came burdened with an unhappy commentary that Bill could not begin to decipher.

He said mildly: "Well, maybe you don't get along with him, but I can assure you he's been worried."

Cathy took a few seconds to think that statement over. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?" she asked finally.

Bill stood back a step, continuing to try to look relaxed, but ready to make a grab if the reluctant object of his search, so serendipitously located, should make an effort to run past him. He said: "True, you don't know me. I'm just a hired hand, but I'm your friend. My name's Bill Burdon. I can show you some ID if you like."

Cathy considered that, and gave a nervous little laugh. "I'm not sure that a piece of paper or plastic would tell me a whole lot."

"Okay, I thought I'd offer. Tell me, are you about to cook something on that fire?"

She considered again, and laughed again, this time with some real amusement. "I don't know if I am or not. Are you hungry?"

"Yes ma'am, rather. I've been out all night, with one candy bar to eat."

"Out looking for me in the dark?"

"I know it sounds foolish. It didn't start out that way." Bill looked around at the spectacular scenery.

In a moment he realized that Cathy was almost smiling at him. She said, with something like amusement: "Don't tell me you're lost."

"All right, I won't admit it. That would be bad for the image. But I'm really damned if I can see how the whole South Rim and everything on it can disappear like this." He gestured at the surrounding spires and buttes.

To his surprise, Cathy didn't smile. Nor did she answer directly. "I'm getting hungry myself. All right, I can cook up some freeze-dried glop," she said. "There's a spring handy, just over here."

Walking with her when she went to get the water in a little aluminum pot with a folding handle, Bill looked around at her camping arrangements with approval. It was obvious to him, though he said nothing on the point, that she hadn't been here a month, or anywhere near that long. "Nice camp. I can see you know how to do this."

"Thank you."

"How long were you planning to stay?"

"I haven't decided that as yet. You can tell that to anyone who's interested."

"Your father's very worried about you. So's your aunt Sarah."

"Really?" The tone was sarcastic. Then she asked, as if the question really puzzled her: "How did you manage to get in here and find me?"

"Well, there was some kind of—disturbance—at the Tyrrell House last night. I ran downhill in the dark, chasing someone I thought might have been involved."

That had Cathy's interest, all right. "Who?"

"Never got close enough to him to form a good idea about that."

She relaxed slightly. "Probably lucky for you."

Back at the camp with water, Cathy arranged the pot where the little wood fire would heat it nicely, and dug into her pack after the freeze-dried food. "Probably just as well for you," she repeated.

"Why do you say that?"

She shrugged.

For the next half hour they talked mainly about the mechanics of camping, even as they dealt with such matters in a practical way. The food was as good as could be expected.

When the meal was over, Bill said casually: "Thanks. Shall we get started back?"

Cathy fed another bit of deadwood to her fire, and shook her head. "I'm in no hurry to go anywhere. I've still got some heavy thinking to do."

"They're really worried, you know. It's been a month now, after all."

"Oh my God." Her hand went to her mouth, and her eyes searched his. "It's been that long? But of course—I suppose it might have been."

Her surprise sounded so genuine that Bill stared at her in puzzlement. "How long did you think it had been?"

Cathy, scrubbing out her cooking pot with water and sand, only shook her head.

Bill pursued: "It would be nice if you came home with me—came back to your folks, I mean. Of course maybe you don't want to call that home any longer. As a favor to me, just to show them that I've earned my money. Then you can resume your camping trip, for all I care."

"My folks," she said. And suddenly she was angry. She looked around as if she might be trying to find something suitable to throw.

"Or at least tell me why you don't want to come home. Let me say it again, your father misses you a lot."

She blinked at him. "Really?" Now she sounded totally unconvinced, and genuinely angry. "What do you know about my father? You think that—that—" Whatever was upsetting her this time had left her speechless.

"I met him briefly. All I can report is how he impressed me. And your aunt Sarah's really upset."

He thought that Cathy softened slightly at mention of Aunt Sarah. But she gave no indication of changing her mind.

"Well, I'm certainly not going to try to drag you back against your will."

"I should hope not."

"Well, I'll be going, then, and tell them that you're safe. Or that you were safe when I saw you."

"Yes, you do that, Bill. Think you can find your way back?" A faintly wicked gleam that had begun to glow in Cathy's blue-gray eyes faded again. "I'll come part of the way with you. Maybe I can point you in the right direction."

"Good. Thanks." Bill smiled, thinking that this would at least give him a little more time to try to talk her into coming home. "Oh, by the way. Would you mind if I took a snapshot or two? Just to prove to everyone that I really did find you?"

She considered this. "No, I don't mind."

He got out his camera. "One last question, also?"

"Let's hear it."

"Who do you think those people were, who came to the Tyrrell House last night and got me chasing them?"

"I wouldn't want to guess."

Bill left it at that. He took a couple of Polaroids, and announced that he was leaving.

Cathy, coming with him to show him the way as promised, evidently felt secure in leaving her camp; the terrain and weather conditions seemed to make it safe to leave the small fire unattended.

They hiked for half an hour or so, up and down across country in a direction that seemed doubtful to Bill; but he was ready to admit that he was the one who was lost. Then Cathy stopped and pointed out the way he had to go.

When he took leave of her at last, Cathy stood looking after him, her arms folded.

After fifty paces or so Bill turned back to wave, but his would-be rescuee, already hiking briskly back in the direction of her camp, did not see, much less return, the gesture.

Bill pushed on in the direction she had indicated. He couldn't really believe Cathy's story the way she'd told it. For one thing, she wouldn't have been able to pack in a month's provisions on her back… would she? That freeze-dried stuff was very light.

Before Bill had made any headway in his thinking, or traveled fifty paces more, he was distracted by the sudden impression that something had gone strange about the air, or the light; as if the sun might have dimmed in a partial eclipse, though the sky was cloudless.

After a few moments of looking about him, he had to admit to himself that he could pin down nothing really wrong with sky or sun. But both were disturbingly different.

Still following the directions given him by Cathy, and pondering what seemed strange alterations in weather and time of day, in half an hour Bill Burdon came in sight of El Tovar. So suddenly and unexpectedly did this discovery occur that he endured a moment of serious disorientation. On topping what he had thought was only a minor ridge, he found himself actually standing on the South Rim after all. At the same time the unmistakable landmark of the great log hotel popped into view, less than half a mile to the east.

With a sense of relief, mingled with shame at having got lost like a rank tenderfoot, Bill strode toward Canyon Village.

… and yet today the central building looked somehow different, strangely smaller, than the hotel he'd seen at close range only last night.

Thoughtfully he scratched his chin—and then stopped in his tracks. He could distinctly remember shaving, just yesterday morning, before setting out from Phoenix. And yet now he had, he swore he had, what felt like a three days' growth of beard.

Shaken, Bill walked on. Then again he paused, squinting even though his eyesight was ordinarily excellent for distance. Now he could make out a handful of antique cars, of thirties vintage, in the shrunken and unpaved parking lot beside El Tovar. No other vehicles were to be seen.

Bill rubbed his eyes. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe it was just the heat-shimmer of the atmosphere making the automobiles look strange. But—heat-shimmer in December? Come to think of it, the air did seem unseasonably warm…

He hiked on, entering a portion of the rim-trail that took him briefly back in among the pine and cedar, out of sight of El Tovar and its attendant marvels. During this interval he managed to convince himself, despite the continuing warmness of the air, that he had really managed to find his way back to the mundane world he had left last night, in late December of 1991.

But in a few moments the trail brought him out of the woods again. There, unarguably there, was El Tovar—but, disturbingly, it really was a smaller version of the hotel he thought he could remember from last night.

All Bill could do was push ahead.

He passed, and recognized, the Bright Angel trailhead, though the fences here looked different than the fences he'd passed last evening, and there were fewer guest cottages overlooking the Canyon than he seemed to remember.

Moments later, Bill arrived at the Tyrrell House.

It was a warm day, yes, all right, a summer afternoon—with the sun threatening to set much too far to the north for December—but Bill didn't want to think about that just now—and he had first unzipped his jacket and then taken it off.

Some tourists, their numbers much diminished from those of yesterday—as Bill recalled yesterday—were moving toward Bill along the rim trail, which now ran at a somewhat greater distance from the house than he remembered. Today's sightseers, Bill had to admit, were dressed for summer. If he looked at them carefully, and allowed himself to think about what he saw, he would have to admit something much more disturbing. They were very strangely dressed indeed. You would have to say they were costumed like people out of his grandfather's photo album from the thirties… Some of them, who glanced at Bill, also appeared to be impressed by what they saw.

Bill turned his back on the costumed sightseers. His feet dragged to a stop in front of a building that had to be the Tyrrell House. No doubt about it, this was the same location, and the same house. He could recognize the familiar outlines of the structure, practically unchanged from yesterday evening.

But…

Today the front door of old Edgar Tyrrell's dwelling stood ajar. From just inside, Bill could hear children's voices, toddlers it sounded like. At least a pair of them.

And the area just in front of the house was no longer paved with a Park Service sidewalk, as he was sure that it had been last night. Now there was only a little un-paved footpath worn in the hard earth, leading to the front door.

Even as Bill stood gazing at that door, it opened wider. Out came a young woman and a little girl of four years old or so, in toddler's overalls. The young woman was garbed in a thirties dress, and a wide-brimmed gardening hat.

The little girl, thought Bill, had remarkable eyes. Their soft blue-gray reminded him much, very much, of the eyes of the girl named Cathy whom he had just left.

Both of them looked at the strange man who had stopped near their front door.

"How do," said Bill to the young woman, in his best mild country manner, and bobbed his head.

"How do," the young woman answered softly, as if perhaps she thought straight imitation was the safest course. Then she did a mild double-take as something in Bill's appearance appeared to register with her. "Can I help you?" she asked slowly.

"I didn't know," he said after a pause, "that anyone lived here. Beautiful place to live." That was certainly inadequate. "Oh, my name's Bill Burdon, by the way."

The young woman studied him for another ten or fifteen seconds. Then she introduced herself: "I'm Sarah Tyrrell." Pause. "If you're looking for my husband, he won't be back until after dark."