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.'
Chapter 10
On the morning after Bill Burdon's disappearance, Joe Keogh was awakened in his hotel room by a discreet tapping on the door. Cursing, Joe reached for his watch and learned that the time was eighta.m. He rolled off the bed, only to find himself barely able to stand. His twisted ankle had swollen and stiffened since last night, notwithstanding the fact that he had eventually applied ice packs. He was worse off now than when he'd taken off his shoes and thrown himself down on the bed barely four hours ago.
The tapping was repeated, and Joe muffled his curses and somehow hobbled to the door. Last night at the Tyrrell House he'd taken the next-to-last shift of waiting for Bill to call in again. Eventually, some time after midnight, he had abandoned that vigil and, at his client's urging, allowed John to help him back to his own room.
He reached the door, and called, 'Who is it?'
'Maria.' The answer was barely audible, but Joe recognized the voice. He relaxed and let her in.
The young woman, who had been up practically all night, naturally enough looked tired, but she said that in a couple of hours she'd be ready to go again. There wasn't much to report, she added, since nothing had happened at the Tyrrell House after Joe's departure. While delivering these remarks Maria was taking off her boots and unrolling her sleeping bag on the sofa.
'Mrs. Tyrrell didn't offer to let you sack out over there?'
'Nope. In fact, a little while ago she started hinting pretty strongly that I ought to go to my own hotel room, if I had one, and get some rest. Of course I said I had one.'
Joe grunted, and stumped over to the window. Last night's clouds and fog were gone, and the sun, now about half an hour high, was having things its own way. At least, he thought, we ought to get a look at the scenery today.
Two seconds was all he could spare for scenery just now. Joe ran fingers through his hair. 'I'm going to have to talk to John.'
Maria, on the point of disappearing into her sleeping bag, hesitated. 'Want me to get him on radio?'
'I'll do it. You'd better get some rest. We're going to need you later.'
But Maria delayed again. 'Boss? When do we go looking for Bill?'
'Soon. I promise, you won't miss out on that.'
'And how come that person, or those people, whoever it was, was able to get past us last night?'
'I have some ideas on that. Ideas I want to talk over with you and Bill—as soon as he gets back.'
'Sure.' Maria, sounding really tired, had put her head down again and was already drifting off.
Trying to let her sleep, Joe moved into the next room, where he soon reached John on the radio.
In five minutes John Southerland entered the suite. He had nothing further to report regarding Bill. 'Brainard was unhappy to see me leave. But I figure we're working for Aunt Sarah, and she seemed all in favor. Say, where'd Mr. Strangeways get to?'
'England, he said.'
'What?'
'You heard. I have no real explanation. Why don't you get some sack time while there's a chance?' Maria's faint snores came drifting from the other room.
'At the moment I'm more hungry than tired.'
'Okay, order up some room service. For three, I guess. I like pancakes.'
Moments later, Joe was shutting himself in the bathroom. There he swallowed a couple of aspirins, and enjoyed—if that was the right word—a shower, conducted largely while balanced on one leg.
Emerging in fresh clothing, he found both Maria and John sleeping, she in her sleeping bag and John, boots off, stretched out on the floor, where he had wasted no time in creating a kind of padded nest with jackets and
