Watcher in the Woods

  David looked over his shoulder, down the side street he believed his beret would tumble into if he let it. The portal. It had to be close.

  He ran . . . not toward the portal, but into the path of the tank. The machine gun kept spraying bullets at the fighters. He hoped the gunner would either not see him at all or would recognize his intention to get the little girl and that he would not mow him down. The turret and barrel of the big gun were still aimed off to one side. David was not sure the driver even knew what he was about to run over.

  Fifteen feet. The metal treads rolled on, grinding cobblestones. The tank was five feet from the child when David snatched her up, reversed himself, and darted toward the nearest building.

  He ducked inside and immediately knew he could not stay. It was the pub, with the burning bed falling through the ceiling. Most of the lower floor was now engulfed in flames. David and the little girl coughed in unison. She tried to cry but could only cough more wretchedly. David peered out at the tank. Soon it would be even with him and then past him. The German soldiers crowding behind it seemed to be looking for something to shoot.

  Clutching the child to his chest, he rolled around the edge of the broken wall and back outside. Someone near the tank yelled at him. The language was different, harsher and scarier than the French he had heard earlier. He did not stop—did not halt, to use the word hurled at him. He stayed close to the buildings and hurried toward the French fighters, who had moved farther down the street. At a side street he stopped. Across the town’s main road, beyond the first block of buildings, he saw the old men, women, and children from the shelter. They were pouring from a back door to escape the advancing army.

  A hand gripped David’s shoulder and pulled him back ward. It was the Frenchman who had beckoned to him when he was standing in the street. The man eyed him from under a furled brow. “Que faites-vous? Où appartenez-vous, fils?”

  David gaped at him. “Uh . . . uh . . .”

  The man slung his rifle over a shoulder. He held his hands, rough and bleeding, out to the little girl.

  David twisted away. At first the man appeared surprised; then a smile pushed at his stubbled cheeks. His eyes flicked to the little girl, and he said, “Marguerite.” He nodded. “Marguerite.”

  She held a hand up to the man. David handed her to him.

  The man whispered something soothing to the little girl. He trotted down the side street, away from the tank’s approach. At the corner, he turned back to David. “Venez, garçon! ” He gestured with his head for David to follow him.

  David took several steps. When the man disappeared behind the building, David stopped. If his father was right, and he understood the meaning of the strange, subtle tugging from the jacket and beret, the portal home was in the burning building right beside him.

  The tank was near. Another ten seconds and he would be in its sights again. A dozen paces away on the main street, bullets flew in both directions. He aimed himself at an open doorway and ran toward it. Its frame was on fire, but David raised his arms over his head and plunged through.

  CHAPTER six

  SUNDAY, 8 : 8 A .M.

  David burst into the antechamber as though he were falling down the stairs. He took a step and, not finding solid ground, fell to the floor on his stomach. As it had done when he ventured into the world of French resistance fighters and Nazi tanks, the air burst from his lungs. This time, however, he was able to pull it back in without any trouble. He heard the door slam behind him, and he rolled over to see it solidly shut. Smoke filled the room, and he realized it was coming from him. Flames danced on his sleeves, and he felt heat on his neck.

  “Aaahhggg!”

  He felt hands slapping at him. In a few seconds the fire was out. He cringed away until he recognized Xander and his father. They were calling his name, asking if he was all right.

  Wind whipped around him, stirring the smoke and sand and whatever else from the other world had been clinging to him. The wind pulled all of it into the gap under the door and was gone.

  All the fear he had pushed aside to survive the German onslaught rushed into his consciousness as fast and furiously as flames igniting gas fumes. Simultaneously, relief washed over him, dousing those flames even as they sparked to life. He squeezed his eyes shut and began to weep. He heard his father and brother’s words, felt their hands stroking his hair, squeezing his shoulder. His breath hitched in and out as he let the tears flow.

  He wasn’t even sure why he was crying: Was it the death he had seen or that he had pulled free from its skeletal fingers? He remembered Xander’s response coming back from the Colosseum, and his own—although it was less pronounced—when he’d come back from the jungle.

  He wondered if their experiences with the portals were like extreme booster shots of powerful emotions, or if the crossing over itself somehow touched the emotional receptors in their brains. He had heard that surgeons could touch parts of the brain with electrical probes, causing the patient to feel emotions that had nothing to do with his current experiences or memory. He’d also heard that electrical shocks could force a person to lose control of his bathroom functions. He was really glad that hadn’t happened to him. It made shedding a few tears less embarrassing.

  “I’m all right, I’m all right,” he said.

  They were lifting him, setting him on the bench. He sniffed, rubbed his forearm across his eyes, under his nose.

  “I’m all right.”

  “What happened?” Xander said. His face was right there, big worried eyes, trembling bottom lip. He had one hand pressed to David’s back, the other on David’s chest, as though he was still trying to grasp that David had returned . . . or making sure David didn’t suddenly flutter away and zip out of the room through the crack under the door, like the other debris from the faraway world.

  Dad had taken a step back. He had his arms crossed in front of him and was scowling at his younger son.

  “I’m sorry,” David said. “I thought . . . I thought I saw Mom.” “Did you?”

  David bowed his head, thinking of his encounter with the woman in the room full of scared people. “No . . . it wasn’t her.”

  “And you almost died, too, didn’t you?” Dad snapped. His voice was hard, angry.

  “Dad!” Xander said.

  “He did! He almost died! David, am I wrong?”

  David nodded his head. “You’re right,” he said weakly. “There was this battle . . . I was in some French town, I think. The Nazis were invading. I . . . I . . .” He shook his head.

  “It’s okay,” Xander said. He was kneeling in front of David, still holding him, rubbing his back through the leather jacket.

  David looked up at his father: Is it okay?

  Dad held his stern composition, then softened under David’s gaze. He skewed his mouth into a semi-smile. He stepped forward, knelt beside Xander, and leaned in to be close to David. His big hand engulfed David’s shoulder.

  “You scared me,” he whispered. He blinked slowly, seeming to reselect his words. “I mean . . . I was scared for you.”

  David threw his arms around his father’s neck. He thought he was going to cry again, but the tears didn’t come. Instead, he felt Dad’s warmth, his heart beating against his chest. He felt stronger, as though drawing energy from his father.

  Dad said, “When I was a kid, I crossed over a few times without permission.” He looked intently at David. “Twice I thought I saw my mother and, well . . . I did what you did. I just went.”

  David was grateful for Dad’s telling him that. He knew how stupid he had been to just go. It was the kind of thing that would make his father take them all away from the house, regardless of Xander’s determination to stay. It helped to know that Dad understood.

  Then Dad pointed a stiff forefinger at David. “That doesn’t mean what you did is okay. It jeopardizes everything we’re trying to do. If this is how it’s going to be—”

  “It’s not!” David said. “I won’t do that again
. I promise.”

  Dad looked at Xander, who nodded. “Well,” Dad said, “I think I’m going to put some locks on these doors, just in case.”

  “How are we going to find Mom?” Xander asked.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Dad said.

  “We are going to find her,” Xander said.

  Dad squeezed his knee. “I said we would.”

  Xander stood. He slapped David on the leg. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got other rooms to check.”

  David’s mouth dropped open. Did his brother really believe he was up to doing anything other than collapsing in a heap? Trying not to whine, he started, “Xan—”

  “They can wait, Xander,” Dad said. “Look at Dae. He’s ready to fall over. We were up all night—Toria screaming about seeing the man in her room, then . . . Mom. And none of us has slept since then.”

  Xander said, “You crash. I’m going to find Mom.”

  Dad stepped close to him. “Xander, I know how you feel. But you have to bring it down a few notches. Your heart’s probably beating a thousand times a minute. Your mind’s racing. I know, I can see it in your eyes, in the way you’re acting. Keep it up, and you won’t be around long enough to find your mother.”

  Xander made an exasperated noise and started to turn away, but Dad grabbed his arm.

  “I mean it,” Dad said. “This isn’t a sprint, Xander. It’s a marathon. If we use up all our energy at the beginning, we won’t cross the finish line. Pace yourself, son.”

  Xander looked ready to fight. Then David saw the wisdom of Dad’s words reach his brother. Exhaustion and resignation washed over Xander like a sudden downpour. His shoulders slumped, his face slackened. He nodded and said, “Ready for bed, Dae?”

  “Oh, man,” David said. “Who needs a bed?”

  CHAPTER seven

  MOTHER OF MERCY NURSING HOME

  LAKE FOREST, ILLINOIS

  The old man’s eyes snapped open. For a moment he did not know where he was. Then his surroundings came back to him: the pillow beneath his head, the thread of sunlight outlining the window where blackout blinds almost did their job, the beep—beep—beep of the machine that monitored his heartbeat.

  The beeps were coming fast as he sorted out what had woken him. It was not uncommon for him to lie awake all night, but his ninety-two years of living had earned him the right to doze when the day’s brightness bothered his eyes. He could not remember the last time he had seen the midday sun, even what little of it seeped around the edges of the blinds.

  What was it? he thought.

  His eyes snapped back and forth as he separated dream-thoughts from memories, memories from false memories. No, not false memories: changed memories.

  That’s it!

  The beeping picked up pace, rabbit quick now. The man tried to sort it out. What had changed? Dreams bumped into memories, memories shifted away. He was too old for this. Or was it simply that sleep was still whispering? Whispering mumbo jumbo in his ears. Was it that the change was too small to easily grasp, a shift in knowledge that affected others more than it ever had him? He scrunched his eyes shut, feeling the wrinkles of his face crowd together like the folds of a rumpled blanket. The beeping came loud and fast, and now he could feel his heart in his chest pounding, pounding.

  It had been too long, decades since he’d sensed the change in memories, the shift in knowledge that he felt at that moment. It didn’t matter what had changed, only that something had changed. All the implications of that added to his jumble of thoughts. Already crashing into themselves on the freeway of his mind.

  It was coming to him, what it all meant.

  The beeping was like an alarm now, urgent and demanding attention. He realized it was an alarm. His racing heart had crossed some threshold in the machine, which was screaming for help.

  The door of his room burst open, and help ran in with clicking heels and wide eyes. The nurse ran to him and leaned her face close to his. He felt her hands gripping his shoulders, bony shoulders that had once been layered with heavy muscle.

  “Mr. Wagner!” the nurse called, louder than was necessary. “Mr. Wagner!”

  “They . . . they . . .” His voice was dry and thin, the vocal equivalent of a piece of straw. His hand came up and clutched at the nurse’s uniform, her collar. He looked into her eyes, needing to share, needing to let someone else know.

  “They’ve come back!” he said.

  “Who?” the nurse asked.

  She scanned the room, clearly not getting his meaning. How could she? He noticed that an unsure smile had found her lips and realized it was in response to his own shaky grin.

  “They’ve come back,” he repeated. It was not for her benefit anymore, but for his. He liked the sound of it. He liked what it meant.

  He looked past the nurse, thinking, thinking. His smile fell away. Something else dawned on him.

  “They don’t know,” he said. His eyes found the nurse’s face again. He wanted desperately to communicate, to get this one thing across.

  “What don’t they know?” the nurse asked. She shook him gently. “Jesse, what don’t they know?”

  “The killer,” the old man said. “He’s still there. He doesn’t want them in the house.”

  CHAPTER eight

  SUNDAY, 9:01 A.M.

  David had closed the curtains over their bedroom windows, but the room was still bright. Part of his mind screamed to hop up and do something: find Mom, make a plan, something.

  The rest of him wanted nothing but sleep. His muscles felt heavy. When he closed his eyes, it felt as though he were sinking into his mattress—slowly, like quicksand. From time to time, all the things that had happened in the last few hours made his eyelids snap open. He’d notice the sunlight on the ceiling, the shadows of the leaves, and his lids would droop again. He started drifting, floating away on shadows as though on currents of water . . .

  “David, you awake?”

  His eyes sprang open. Back in his bedroom. Had Xander said something?

  “Dae?”

  He turned his head. Xander was on his own bed, his head propped up on his arm.

  “How can you sleep?” Xander asked.

  “I’m tired.” The words came out as though his tongue were too big for his mouth.

  “Mom’s gone. We need to get her.”

  “We will,” David said. He blinked slowly at his brother, some of what had been on his mind coming back. “We gotta work together. Stop fighting Dad.”

  “I’m not fighting him. It’s just . . .” Xander dropped his head onto the pillow and spoke to the ceiling. “It’s just that Dad and I have different ideas about how to get her back.”

  “Different how?”

  “Like now. Look at us, in bed when we should be searching for her.”

  “Even soldiers sleep, Xander. I can’t even think straight.”

  Each time his lids came down, David forced them open again, waiting for Xander to say something else. But he didn’t. His brother just kept staring up at the ceiling. Finally David’s eyes closed, and he let them stay that way. Xander’s breathing grew louder, more steady. David thought he heard a snore. And then he was out.

  CHAPTER nine

  734 BC

  OUT SIDE SIDON, ASSYRIAN EMPIRE

  The assassin lost sight of his target. Smoke from the burning city behind him roiled in the sky like mud kicked up from the bottom of a pond. It blotted out the sun and cast shadows over the land. The assassin squinted at the last place he had seen the fleeing man and spotted him: There! He was halfway to the distant mountain range, where the assassin knew the man hoped to find refuge in one of the many caves.

  The land between the two men was hard-packed earth, cracked like snake scales from a long season of drought and heat. Why his king wanted this barren country, the assassin did not know. But then, he was often commanded to kill for reasons known only to people more favored by the gods than he. His duty was to kill, not to ask questions. It was for t
his labor that he had been taken from his family on his eighth birthday and trained for over a dozen years. During this time, his abilities of stealth, resourcefulness and, he learned later, ruthlessness, set him apart from the other boys.So his masters had sent him away for special training under the tutelage of Gilgamesh, a man whose skills in the art of death were legendary. The assassin had discovered they were also very real.

  He looked back at the crushed city. Against the shimmering blue backdrop of the Mediterranean Sea, the clay walls of its buildings rose out of the desert like a mirage.

  From the city itself, smoke rose in columns like the blackened trees of a long-dead forest. The vast Assyrian army had pushed against the walls and poured into the streets. He was not part of that powerful force, though he worked to accomplish the same goals of protecting the empire and conquering new peoples and lands. If the army was a battering ram, he was a dagger. The army crushed whole cities, while he sliced at the few men who could rally those cities’ legions or rebuild them from afar.

  The prince he was after was just such a man.

  The assassin had slipped into the city well ahead of the army. His task:to kill the king and his two grown sons. He had found the father and one son together, planning their response to the approaching invaders. Their deaths had been easy. The second son had been with his commanders, who had fought the assassin gallantly. In the end, the commanders had succumbed to the assassin’s superior skills. Their efforts, however, had allowed the prince to escape.

  The assassin’s arrows had found the prince as he bolted away. But his own injuries had kept him from moving in for a quick kill.

  He took a step and felt every one of those injuries. A heavy gash through a muscle in his thigh threatened to topple him. A puncture in his side, just under his ribs, made breathing difficult. He knew it needed attention, but he could not spare the time—not as long as the last prince drew breath. His forearms above the wide iron cuffs he wore for protection were bruised and cut, as was the back of his right hand. He tightened his grip on his knife, thankful to have not lost his hand’s power and mobility.