Stitches In Time (24 page)

"Nobody can read my notes," Adam admitted. "I use a kind of personal shorthand, to save paper and time, but I've been told that my handwriting is indecipherable even
when I spell the words out. The departmental secretary went on strike when I gave her my stuff, so I had to learn to type."

"If that's a hint, I can't read your writing either. It looks like cuneiform."

"Naomi—the secretary—said it was more like Pali. And that was not a hint. Are you going to work or do you want to watch some more television? There's a special on Unsolved Mysteries of History—Easter Island, Nostradamus, the Pyramids—"

"The only mystery about the pyramids is why a lot of gullible fools think there is a mystery, and Nostradamus was an ordinary charlatan with a great press agent."

"But that's why programs of that sort are so much fun," Adam said, with a grin. "They collect a few solemn idiots who rant on in pseudo-scholarly language about Martians and refugees from lost Atlantis and mystic prophecies. I love it."

"Enjoy yourself, then. I'm going to bed. Kara will be here at the crack of dawn, if I know her."

"First I'll tote these bales." Adam hoisted two of the cartons onto his shoulder.

He is strong, Rachel thought, as she followed him. Strong as an ox, wasn't that the cliche? And big as an ox, too. Into her mind, unsought and unexpected, came a sense of how it would feel to have Adam take her in his arms, hold her close.
Arms heavy with muscle bruising her ribs, bristling hair muffling her breath and lacerating her face...

Adam lowered the boxes to the floor and straightened in time to see her expression.

"Something wrong?"

"No." But she backed away until her retreat was halted by the table and her outstretched hand knocked something off onto the floor. The contents of the envelope spilled and scattered.

Rachel dropped to her hands and knees and began gathering up the photographs. Kneeling in his turn, Adam helpfully retrieved several that had scattered in his direction. Then he looked at them.

He sat back on his heels and stared at Rachel. Down at her. Rachel straightened, sitting tall, but his head was still six inches higher than hers.

"This is it," he said, making it a statement. "You photographed it."

"Yes."

Adam didn't move or speak. He waited.

He knows what they are. He can take them if he wants. With one hand. His wrist is as big around as my arm, five of his fingers could hold all ten of mine.

Her hand moved of its own accord, offering him the photographs on her flattened palm. Adam's movements were slow and deliberate, as if he were approaching a wary animal. Delicately he took the photographs, without touching her hand.

"Can I—" He stopped himself. "I'm going to look at them," he said in a murmur that had almost no breath behind it. "Right here, right now. I'm going to sit in that chair over there."

He got slowly and carefully to his feet and, after hesitating perceptibly, offered her his hand. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and Rachel felt a distant stir of amusement. It was the first time she had seen coldblooded Adam perspire. He must feel like a tightrope walker over a pool of piranhas. And she had hurt his feelings; he hadn't missed her look of distaste, or misunderstood the reason for her hasty retreat.

"Okay," she said, and took his hand.

His touch was tentative, the pressure of his fingers only firm enough to steady her as she rose. In silence she watched him shuffle through the stack of photographs.

"It's all here," he muttered. "Separate squares, or whatever you call 'em, and the composite."

"That's right," Rachel said calmly.

"The details are surprisingly sharp. You did clean it."

Still no questions. She nodded. "Brushed it. I wouldn't have risked anything more drastic."

"But Pat said . . . Well, never mind. I don't think I want to take any more chances tonight. I'm going to give these to Pat."

"I can't stop you."

"No." He put the snapshots into the pocket of his shirt and walked wide around her on his way to the door.

"Adam."

"What?"

"I want you to lock me in."

He turned abruptly and she saw his face soften as he looked from her twisting hands to her tight mouth. "Honey, I can't do that. It's too dangerous. What if there were a fire? Besides, you don't have a private bath."

She smiled back at him. Her smile may have been no more convincing than his, but give us credit for trying, she thought. "Cheryl must have a chamber pot somewhere."

"No such undignified expedient will be necessary. Trust me."

Rachel was in bed, reading, when she heard the dogs. Adam must have let them out; they were in the backyard, which her window overlooked, and they were sounding the alarm, deep bass barks and agitated yips blending. As Adam had said, they barked at squirrels, moths, the moon, and occasionally just for the hell of it. But Rachel got out of bed and went to the window.

She couldn't see anything, not even the dogs, but she could hear them loud and clear. They weren't barking just for the hell of it. She opened her door and went to the window at the end of the hall, over the front door.

If the earlier visit of the witches had not prepared her for what she saw, she would have thought she was still asleep and dreaming. Pale draperies billowed and fluttered as their wearers moved in rapid patterns, crossing and recrossing one another's paths. Then Adam appeared from the side of the house, and Rachel realized that the intruders weren't dancing; they were running, in confusion and panic. Some of them reached the vehicles they had left parked farther down the street, and tumbled in. Doors slammed.

The beam of the flashlight Adam carried focused on one of the retreating forms—the largest and slowest of the lot. It skidded to a stop and turned, raising both hands like a fugitive responding to police orders. Thick glasses and a high bald forehead reflected the light; a neatly trimmed white beard and mustache framed a mouth gaping wide with alarm or shortness of breath. Probably both, Rachel thought; he was too old and fat to run so fast.

Adam advanced on his captive and they stood talking for a few minutes. Then Adam slapped him on the back— it was meant to be a friendly gesture, Rachel supposed, but the older man retreated in haste, glancing back at Adam over his shoulder every few steps. Adam stood looking after him.

Rachel wrestled with the window before she remembered it was painted shut and had not been opened in years. Damn the man! He wasn't even wearing a coat. The white witches might be harmless, but other people weren't, and he was standing there, practically inviting attack. She was about to bang on the glass when Adam turned and went back the way he had come. Rachel returned to bed.

Knowing he was safely indoors, she could see the humor of the encounter. Poor Adam, rushing out to defend her and finding nothing more formidable than a
terrified little old man in a nightshirt. She was still giggling when she heard Adam come upstairs and pause briefly at her door before going on. He had taken off his shoes and was trying to tiptoe, but he made as much noise as a prowling bear.

After a while he came padding back and Rachel listened with interest to the soft sounds that followed. They made his actions as clear as sight would have done. The floorboards creaked as a heavy weight pressed them down; a soft, interested feline comment was followed by a loud "sssh!" and a louder squawk from the cat. Additional squeaks and hissing comments, animal and human, were succeeded, at last, by silence. He didn't snore.

When Rachel opened her door the next morning, Adam was gone, but she did not doubt he had spent the night outside her room, wrapped in a blanket or in some equally romantic and uncomfortable position. Knowing he was there had enabled her to sleep soundly, but she doubted he had. The cats would have been fascinated by this radical departure from human custom. If the hard floor had not kept Adam awake, their prowling must have.

He had fed the animals and let the dogs out. When Rachel entered the room, he was watching television, his eyes wide and staring. The face on the screen, in dreadful close-up, was that of a woman, her eyes wide and staring. ". . . there was this white light, and this voice, and it was, like, Welcome, and people were, like, singing."

The picture changed to show the audience—eyes wide and staring.

"You'll watch anything, won't you?" Rachel inquired.

"Talk shows are almost as good as pseudo-science. A lot of them are about pseudo-science. Like," he added with a grin, "these people all died and came back to life."

"Anything to get on TV, I suppose."

"They're dead—you should excuse the pun—serious." Adam sobered. "I shouldn't make fun of them."

"Especially in view of the fact that you—" The dogs began to bark. "Damn, is that Kara already?"

"Uh—I'm afraid it's Pat. He said he'd be here at nine."

She should have expected it, Rachel realized. He'd be on fire to see those snapshots. "Let him in," she said shortly. "And don't look so sheepish and apologetic!"

Pat didn't bother with polite greetings. "Where are they?" he demanded, tossing his coat onto the sofa.

Adam indicated the table. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Hours ago. I'll take some coffee, though." Pat seated himself and grabbed the pile of photographs. As he sorted through them he let out exclamations of pleasure. "Great. Oh, yes. Perfect. Nice and clear. Now where . . . Aha! Come here, you two. Have a look at this."

Adam took the photograph. "It's a guy on a horse. A hunter? There's a dog—"

Pat snatched it from him and passed it to Rachel. "It's not a guy, you ignoramus. Unless he's wearing very baggy pants. What do you say, Rachel?"

"I thought it was a man too," Rachel admitted. "I didn't examine the details closely. But I think you're right, Pat. That's a long skirt—a riding habit. The hat is a woman's too. They wore those jaunty top hats at one period. Yes, of course it's a woman. The sewer has even created the impression of a veil. What incredible workmanship! The thread is as fine as a single hair. The features are ..."

Her voice caught. Pat said sharply, "What?"

"She's blind," Rachel whispered. "Look. Mouth, nose . . . and the crossed threads of the veil, with not even a French knot to indicate an eye."

Pat snatched the photo from her. "Damned if you aren't right."

Adam shifted protestingly. "I don't know anything about sewing, but it must be hard to show details as small as that. The whole face isn't as big as my fingernail."

"A valid point," Pat muttered, squinting closely at the tiny face. "But
I
don't believe it. What caught my eye was something else. Look at the dog—the shape and placement of its head. Either it's about to take a bite out of the horse's shank or your seamstress is less skilled than she has shown herself to be elsewhere."

"That's really far out," Adam exclaimed.

"I don't think so. It was just a hunch at first, but these photographs confirm it. There's something wrong in almost every scene." He selected another picture, slapped it down on the table, and jabbed at it with a peremptory finger. "That's a snake—a cute little green snake coiled around the stems of the flowers. And this. It's a charming depiction of a columned summer house or gazebo, surrounded by flowering shrubs—but what's this thing peering out between the leaves? It's got eyes. Red eyes."

"They're flowers." But Adam's voice lacked conviction.

They were not flowers. The difference in shading and shape was so subtle Rachel would not have seen it if Pat had not pointed it out.

"I'll be willing to bet there are more little surprises," Pat said. "We need enlargements. I'll have them made, Rachel, if you'll give me the negatives."

Rachel was staring in horrified disgust at the demonic red eyes. She heard the dogs bark, but didn't react until Adam said, "That must be Kara."

"Good," Pat said. "I want to talk to her."

Rachel jumped up. "You musn't tell her, Pat. Swear to me you won't tell her."

"About these?" He indicated the photographs. "Why should she object? It was a smart idea, to photograph the
quilt. I don't understand how you got such clear shots, with that dirty gray film—"

"I cleaned it. It came right off, no problem. Pat—"

"It's come back then," Pat said thoughtfully. "Interesting. I wonder what—"

"Listen to me!" Frantic, expecting at any second to hear a knock at the door, she caught at his arm. "I don't care if she knows about the photographs, but you musn't tell her what I—what I tried to do, the canopy and the ground glass and . . . She'll never believe your hypothesis; she's the most rational, skeptical person I've ever met and she doesn't like me anyhow; she'll think I did it deliberately and—oh, God, there she is! Promise me, Pat."

"What makes you think she doesn't like you? Oh, all right, calm down. I promise. I'll concoct some story to explain why I'm interested in the origin of the quilt. Follow my lead and back me up. Okay, Adam, let her in before she kicks the door down. Patience is not one of her virtues."

Kara didn't kick the door, but her knocking was loud and peremptory, and she wasted no time in telling them why she was so impatient.

"There are a couple of big cardboard boxes on the front porch," she announced. "Another sales pitch from your burglar?"