He walked to the center of the remaining fog. It was thinning, smelled like shit, and the air vibrated around him. The stone glowed and heated. He removed his ball cap, dropped the brooch in it, and held the hat at arm’s length while he stepped out of the evaporating fog.
Now he understood why JC threw it away. But what did that mean for JC? If the brooch carried him off, then how would he ever get back?
It wasn’t the first time Paul had been alerted to possible danger. He had the same sensation when JC went to Asia, and he’d advised JC to be cautious.
Now JC had vanished. Did it have anything to do with what happened in Asia? And where did this brooch come from? It looked Celtic, not Oriental. Was it a family heirloom?
JC’s disappearance put Paul in an awkward position. So what did he do now? He considered the dilemma during the drive back to Georgetown. He had two choices. He could inform Becky or stay quiet and wait a few days. Whatever JC was up to, it was CIA business, and that made it top secret.
By the time Paul reached the house, he’d ruled out informing Becky. He’d catch hell, but JC had an uncanny ability to escape tight situations, almost as if he had a genie on his shoulder who could see twenty steps ahead.
Paul read all of JC’s After Action Reviews and knew all about on-the-books jobs. It was the jobs off the books that Paul didn’t know anything about. And he couldn’t help JC if he didn’t know what he was doing.
After locking the brooch in the safe, he went to JC’s office to see if he’d left any notes or assignments for Paul to complete while he was gone.
He stood in the doorway to take in the entire room, then zeroed in on the bookshelf. Nothing appeared out of order. JC had a collection of presidential biographies, first editions of several classic novels, all the Greek tragedies, and a fifty-one-volume set of Harvard Classics.
Paul ran his finger along the spines, pushing one of the presidential biographies—David McCullough’s Mornings on Horseback: The Story of an Extraordinary Family, a Vanished Way of Life, and the Unique Child Who Became Theodore Roosevelt—back a fraction to align it with the others. Then he moved to the credenza, noting each of the two dozen framed photographs of family and friends. A picture of JC with his Harvard friend George Williams and George’s cousin, Ensley, had been moved from the desk to the credenza. Paul straightened the frame, then crossed the room, and sat down in the desk chair.
Everything on top of the desk seemed in order except for the missing photograph. JC hadn’t filled the space with another one, so its absence was more prominent.
Paul glanced through the stack of invitations, but JC hadn’t marked any to indicate he planned to attend. Paul checked the dates against JC’s calendar and separated the ones that conflicted. Then he opened the center drawer to rummage for a paperclip and pushed aside a newspaper article about North Dakota.
“What the hell?” Under the newspaper was JC’s cell phone. He’d turned it off, or else the battery had died. Why did he leave his phone here?
Hell. Why did he disappear in a stinking fog?
None of this made any sense at all.
Paul visually surveyed the room again. Since JC left his phone behind, a whole new level of possibilities opened up. He had hyperthymesia and could recall the majority of things he’d experienced personally in excruciating detail. The syndrome was a blessing and a curse, but right now, as he tried to connect the dots, the blessing part was dominant.
Yesterday the MacKlenna Farm table book was closed, and the antique train on the top shelf of the bookcase was facing the opposite direction. Since he’d entered the office, he’d noticed the Roosevelt book, the photograph of JC’s friend George and his cousin, the placement of the MacKlenna Farm table book, the newspaper article about North Dakota, the direction of the train, and the turned-off cell phone. Were they connected?
He didn’t know because he didn’t know what caused JC to disappear in the fog. Without that piece of information, he couldn’t tie it all together, and he didn’t dare call either of the people who might have answers.
13
The Badlands (1885)—Ensley
It was almost sunset on the fifth day when Ensley reached the head of Spring Creek. It was time to find a campsite and go fishing. Her hip was bothering her, and she desperately needed ibuprofen. Good luck with that. Was there anything in nature that would work? Yeah. Ginger, but she’d have to be in Hawaii, Central America, or Asia to find that particular plant.
There was still no sign of twenty-first-century life, and she’d given up hope of finding any. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t found evidence of any human life at all. If she arrived in the 1870s or later, she’d soon reach the Fort Berthold Reservation on the Little Missouri River’s north side. She didn’t think they’d harm her, but a woman alone was always in danger. To be on the safe side, she decided to stay out of their way.
The grove of cottonwoods about twenty-five yards ahead looked like a good campsite. It would work fine for a couple of days while she rested and made more containers. The trail ahead wouldn’t have water, so she needed to carry as much as possible.
After gathering wood for a fire, she went fishing, caught two largemouth bass, and after gutting and filleting them, placed them on a stone to cook. She’d held it together for five days. Well, mostly together, and now she was tired and hungry for some good old-fashioned carbs like dark chocolate, bread, wine, potatoes, apples, beer, sugar plums.
When visions danced in her head,
