A Question of Time

'Not yet, sir; not really.'

Brainard shook his head and would have had more to say, but the actual client had no intention of letting her nephew take over. Sarah interrupted briskly, inviting Joe into another room to have a private talk. Maria got the impression that the old lady and her nephew were at odds over something, perhaps over a number of things. Perhaps chronically. It also seemed evident that Brainard didn't quite dare to argue openly with his aunt.

Joe paused before following his client into the next room. He said to his colleagues: 'Why don't you three wait outside—take a little look around while you have the chance.'

As if on impulse, Sarah interrupted, speaking to Maria: 'Why don't you wait in here, my dear? Not outside.' Maria thought the sharpness of the old woman's gaze mellowed as it came to rest on her.

Maria looked at her boss, who nodded. John and Bill nodded in turn, and retreated out through the front door.

'Do you speak Spanish, my dear?' Aunt Sarah asked, as soon as the door was closed. 'I used to try to practice that language, a great many years ago.'

Maria decided that now would not be the best time to put that practice to the test. Staying with English for the moment, she munnured something intended to be noncommital.

With a vague, distracted smile, Sarah turned away. 'If you would come this way, Mr. Keogh?'

'Certainly.' Joe followed Aunt Sarah into an adjoining room—Maria caught a glimpse of mellow lamplight, and booklined shelves—and the old lady closed the door.

The entrance at the level of the rim walk had brought the visitors into the house on its highest floor. What little Maria had seen of the interior so far seemed fitting for the dwelling's location. The log walls and stone fireplace were decked by a number of animal trophies, fossils, and what appeared to be Indian artifacts, along with a few small sculptures. In this large room, a couple of electric table lamps were dim enough to allow the firelight to make a pleasant show. Under other circumstances, Maria thought, the room would have been quite cheerful.

At the moment Maria found herself left alone with Brainard, who was watching her suspiciously, as if he thought she might pocket a souvenir as soon as his attention flagged.

Not easily perturbed by what she considered boorish behavior, she might have rather enjoyed a stare-down. But in the interests of peace Maria decided on the diplomatic course instead, and turned away to stroll about and study the interesting furnishings without touching them. And promptly discovered that the furnishings, or some of them at least, really were of interest. The sculptures she had noted earlier, little carven stone animals, perched on some of the rough wood shelves and tables, reminded her of something similar she had seen very recently—yes, in the window of a gift shop in El Tovar.

Turning to Brainard, she gestured—from a safe distance—at a carving. 'This must be a Tyrrell?'

He seemed somewhat mollified. 'Yes. A reproduction, of course. The insurance company wouldn't let us keep any of the originals in here. The house is unoccupied most of the time.'

'I saw some others in the gift shop.'

Brainard nodded, his mind obviously already drifting elsewhere. He took out a cigarette and lit it absently, neither offering Maria the pack nor asking if smoke bothered her. Well, it was his house—at least it certainly wasn't hers.

Maria didn't ask, either, for permission to pick up the next carving, the shape of a beaverish-looking animal, which sat waiting invitingly on a small table. Something about it seemed to draw her, and it felt—right—in her hands.

Brainard didn't object. Perhaps he didn't notice. He was staring at the windows again, listening to the wind, paying Maria little or no attention.

So, this gray, authentic-feeling and -looking object was actually only a reproduction…

In the next room, Mrs. Tyrrell had turned from closing the door to say to Joe: 'Mr. Keogh, I have been given to understand that you have—some considerable experience investigating matters that lie beyond—shall we say, beyond the normal?'

Joe, who approved of getting right down to business, looked at her attentively. 'Who gave you to understand that, ma'am?'

'Someone you have helped. Does it matter?'

'Maybe not. To answer your question, yes, in the course of business, over the last few years, I have been asked to look at some peculiar things. I'm convinced that not everyone who reports an experience beyond the normal is a crackpot. Because I'd have to count myself as crazy if I said that.'

The old lady considered him. Evidently she saw something comforting. 'I am reassured, Mr. Keogh. Please, sit down.'

They both took chairs. Then Joe said: 'Let's get back to a moment ago, when you say you heard young Cathy's voice. Did it just seem to come out of the air, or what?'

Aunt Sarah's smile was almost sheepish. 'I might possibly have been mistaken about her voice.'

'Oh?'

'Mr. Keogh, I shall pay you the compliment of speaking openly. The point I do want to make is that I am sure she is near to us as we speak. Very well, I heard no voice. Yet I feel I must convince you that Cathy is somewhere near, though not accessible to any ordinary search.'

'Where is she, then?'

'That is a long story. I will tell it, but the telling will take time. Can you, for the time being, accept as a fact that she is near?'

Joe thought, then answered carefully. 'All right, I can accept, at least provisionally, that you have reason to think she is somewhere nearby. Is she being held against her will, do you think?'

Old Sarah nodded solemnly. 'I fear she may be. I want her found, and brought back to me safely. The police had no chance of even finding her, let alone—enabling her to return. I would like to think that your chances are much better.'

'Let's hope so. Cathy's father seems to have less confidence in me than you do.'

The old lady sighed faintly. 'My nephew is fond, in his way, of his adopted daughter. And he is really frightened lest harm should come to her. But—I fear that Gerald is currently even more afraid of other things.'

'Other things such as what?'

'Mr. Keogh, I fear we are digressing.' Old Sarah paused, ruminating. Then she asked: 'What do you know of my late husband?'

Joe took his time, then spoke carefully. 'Did you say 'late,' Mrs. Tyrrell?'

The old lady, with wariness and hope blended in her expression, had already been gazing almost steadily at Joe's face. But now the scrutiny became even more intense. The silence in the room stretched out. Only the voice of wind sounded, whining in the fireplace, and around some exterior angle of the rough log walls.

At last the eyes of the old woman gleamed. 'Then you do know. You understand.'

He nodded slightly. 'I know of the nosferatu. Yes. And I understand a little of their ways. And that your husband is still very much alive, as one of them.'

The keen eyes closed, briefly. 'Thank God,' the old woman whispered. 'Thank God, for sending me someone I can talk to in this matter. This matter of the undead.' Sarah's eyes opened. 'There has been almost no one to talk to, on this subject, for more than fifty years.'

Joe said, almost lightly: 'Sometimes they find it amusing, when you call them that. Undead.' Wind whined again, making him glance at the windows. 'The sun is setting, Mrs. Tyrrell. Are you expecting your husband to visit this house tonight?'

She shook her head. 'How often he may come here, stand in this room, or in his old studio downstairs, I do not know. But I doubt very much that he will pay a visit while I am present. I have not seen Edgar for many years, nor do I think that he wants to see me. But I do fear that he may be involved in Cathy's disappearance.'

'Why do you fear that?'

Aunt Sarah drew a shawl more firmly around her shoulders. 'I know my husband, Mr. Keogh. He is near us as we speak, even as Cathy is—and I warn you that he is deadly dangerous—no doubt, if you understand as much as you say you do, you have some appreciation of how dangerous one of them can be. And even of his kind, he is not ordinary.'

'I can believe that.'

'Can you? Then are you ready to try to deal with him?' When Joe was slow in answering, she demanded