Son of the Morning by Linda Howard
That couldn’t be allowed to happen. One way or another, he would get those papers.
Grace couldn’t sleep. She was exhausted, but every time she closed her eyes she saw Ford, the sudden, horrible blankness of his eyes as the bullet snuffed out his life, saw him toppling over on the bed.
It was still raining. She sat huddled in a metal storage building, hidden behind a lawn mower that was missing a wheel, a greasy tool box, some rusting cans of paint, and several moldy cardboard boxes marked “Xmas Decorations.” The eight-by-ten building hadn’t been locked, but then there wasn’t anything in it worth stealing, except for a few wrenches and screwdrivers.
She wasn’t certain exactly where she was. She had simply walked north until she was too tired to walk any farther, then taken refuge in the storage building behind a ’fifties-style ranch house. The neighborhood was showing signs of raggedness as its lower-middle-class respectability slowly deteriorated. No cars were parked in the carport, so she had taken the chance that no one was there. If any neighbors were at home, the rain had kept them indoors, and no one shouted at her as she walked slowly across the backyard and opened the flimsy metal door.
She had scrambled over the clutter until she reached a back corner, then settled down on the dirty cement. She had sat in a stupor, staring at nothing. Time passed, but she had no grasp of it. After a while she heard a car drive up, and several car doors slammed. Kids yelled and argued, and a woman’s voice irritably told them to shut up. There was the squeak of a storm door opening, then the slam of another door, and the human clatter was silenced behind walls that held warmth and normalcy.
Grace leaned her head on her knees. She was so tired, and so hungry. She didn’t know what to do next.
Ford and Bryant would be buried, and she wouldn’t be there to see them one last time, to touch them, to put flowers on their graves.
Her throat worked, closing tight on the surge of grief that made her rock back and forth. She felt herself flying apart, felt her control shredding, and she hugged her arms tightly as if she could hold everything together that way.
She had never even taken Ford’s name, Wessner, as her own. She had kept her maiden name, St. John. The reasons had been so practical, so modern; her degree had been awarded to Grace St. John, and there was her driver’s license, her social security, so much paperwork to be changed if she changed her name. And, of course, Minneapolis was in the vanguard of political correctness; it would have been considered hopelessly gauche by the academic crowd if she had taken Ford’s name.
The pain was almost unbearable. Ford had been willing to die for her, but she hadn’t been willing to use his surname as her own. He’d never asked, never even mentioned it; knowing Ford, it hadn’t been important to him. He’d been so grounded; their marriage had mattered to him, not what name she used. But suddenly, to her, it mattered. She yearned for that link to him, a link she would never have now, any more than she would ever have his children.
They had planned to have two. They had talked about it, but put parenthood off while they both built their careers. After this past Christmas, they had decided to wait another year, and Grace had continued taking her birth control pills.
Now Ford was dead, and the useless pills had been left behind in a house to which she would never return.
Oh, God, Ford!
She couldn’t bear this. The pain was too great. She had to do something or she would lose her mind, run screaming from this filthy little metal building and stand in the middle of the street until she was either arrested or killed.
Jerkily she pulled the computer case from the plastic bag. The light in the building was a dim, muted green, too poor to do any translation work off the copies themselves, but she had already had some of them transferred to disk and she could work on the computer. She was too tired to get much accomplished, but she desperately needed a few minutes of distraction. She had always been able to lose herself in her work; maybe this time it would save her sanity.
She didn’t have much room, crammed in the corner the way she was. She repositioned the boxes of Christmas decorations, sliding one in front of her to use as a desk; she knew from experience that the laptop generated too much heat to rest it on her legs. She slapped down the mouse pad, then opened the top of the computer and pushed the switch on the side. The screen lit and the machine made its musical electronic noises as it went through the booting process. When the menu appeared on the screen, she moved the cursor down to the program she wanted and clicked the mouse. She already knew which disk she wanted, and had it ready to slide into the A drive.
The disk contained the section she had been working on before, when curiosity had led her to do more research on the Knights Templar. The language was Old French, something she was so familiar with that she should be able to work even with her mind so numb.
She accessed the file, and the words filled the screen. The letters were indistinct with age, strangely formed, and medieval people had been very creative spellers. There hadn’t been any standardized spellings back then, so people had used whatever sounded right to them.
Grace stared at the screen, slowly scrolling as she read and reestablished herself in the work. Despite everything, she could feel her concentration gathering, her focus narrowing as the documents pulled her into their power. The name popped out at her again, “Niall of Scotland,” and she took a deep breath. She eased down into a cross-legged position on the concrete, moving closer to the computer as she automatically fished out a pen and the pad that was always in the computer case for taking notes.
Whoever this Niall of Scotland had been before joining the Order, he had quickly become renowned as its greatest warrior. She skimmed over the cramped lines on the screen, jotting down notes on sections she couldn’t quite make out, or on words that were unfamiliar to her. She didn’t notice her heartbeat speeding, or feel the increased oxygen boosting her concentration. Instead she felt as if she were being sucked into the screen, into the epic account of a monk who had lived and died almost seven hundred years before.
Niall had been “of great size, three elnes and five more.” Since this document was in French, Grace decided the measurement would more likely have been a Flemish ell, twenty-seven inches, rather than an English one of thirty-seven inches. And though Niall had been Scots, the Scots ell was something like forty-five inches, which meant that by Scots measurement three ells and five inches would have placed him close to twelve feet tall. The Flemish ell was more reasonable, making the man stand about six feet four, tall for his time but not freakishly so. Medieval people had been of varying sizes, depending on their nutrition during childhood. Some knights had been ridiculously small, their suits of armor looking as if they had been made for children, while others had been big even by modern standards.
According to this paean, Niall had been unsurpassed in swordsmanship and the other arts of war. There was account after account of battles he had fought, Saracens he had killed, fellow Knights he had saved. Grace felt as if she were reading a tale of a mythical hero along the lines of Hercules, rather than a Middle Ages record of an actual Templar. Granted, the Templars had been superb soldiers, the best of their time and the equivalent of modern-day special forces. But if the Templars had been such good soldiers, why had Niall of Scotland been singled out for excessive praise? She assumed she was reading actual records of the Knights Templar, and while outsiders would understandably be impressed by the great Knights, the Knights themselves would take such exploits for granted. It seemed unlikely they would aggrandize the accomplishments of one.
She scrolled down, and there was a break in the narrative. The text picked up on what seemed to be a letter, signed by someone named Valcour. He expressed concerns about the safety of “the Treasure,” and the importance of protecting this, which had worth “greater than gold.”
Treasure. Grace stretched her back, rotating her shoulders to ease the kinks. She didn’t know how long she had been staring at the computer, but her feet w
She had been holding fatigue at bay by the sheer force of her concentration, but now it hit her again, pulling at her limbs and eyelids. Her hands were suddenly clumsy as she exited the program and removed the disk, fumbling it back into its protective sleeve. She turned off the computer and scooted back, almost groaning aloud as she stretched out her numb legs and renewed blood flow surged painfully through her veins.
Clumsily she edged herself around, propping herself up against the boxes of decorations. She could feel sleep coming, rushing toward her like a black tide of unconsciousness. She welcomed it, desperately needing the surcease. Her eyelids were too heavy to remain open a second longer. Her last thought was “Niall,” and she had a brief picture of him, tall and powerful, swinging a six-foot sword with one iron-hewn arm while enemies fell dead all about him, before she slipped completely beneath the tide.
1322
Six hundred and seventy-five years away, Niall awoke with every nerve alert, his head lifting from his pillow. A single candle guttered in its holder, and the fire in the hearth had almost burned out. He had been asleep for almost an hour, he estimated, relaxed by some energetic love play. He had heard—what? Only the slightest whisper of sound, different but somehow nonthreatening. Normally, if he was awakened suddenly he had a dagger in one hand and a sword in the other even before his eyes were fully opened. He hadn’t reached for his weapons, which meant his battle-trained senses hadn’t detected any danger.
But something had awakened him, and the sound had been near. He looked at the woman sleeping beside him, softly snoring, the noise little more than a snuffle. That wasn’t what had disturbed him.
They were alone in the chamber, the thick door securely barred, and the secret door beside the hearth was closed. Robert never came without first sending a message. But Niall felt as if someone had been there, and the sudden presence of a stranger had jerked him awake.
He got out of bed, his movements so silent and controlled that Eara slept on undisturbed. Though he could see no one was in the chamber with him except for the woman in bed, still he prowled the perimeter, trying to detect a scent, a whisper of sound, anything.
There was nothing. Finally he went back to bed and lay awake, staring into the night. Eara still snored beside him, and he began to feel irritated. He should have sent her to her own pallet after they had finished. He liked sleeping with women, liked the warmth and softness of their bodies beside him, but tonight he would have preferred being alone. He felt a vague need to concentrate on the elusive sound that had awakened him, and Eara’s presence was distracting.
He tried to remember exactly how the noise had sounded. It had been soft, almost like a sigh.
Someone had called his name.
1996
Conrad gripped the punk’s greasy hair, jerking his lolling head back. He studied the effects of his work. Both of the punk’s eyes were swollen nearly shut, his nose was a bleeding mass of crushed cartilage, and instead of missing just a few teeth he now had few left. That had been nothing more than the softening up, though. The real persuasion had taken the form of broken ribs and fingers.
“You saw her,” he said softly. “You robbed her.”
“No, man—” The words were mushy, almost unintelligible.
That wasn’t the answer Conrad wanted. He sighed, and twisted one of the broken fingers. The punk screamed, his body arching against the tape that held his ankles strapped to the chair legs and his wrists lashed to the wooden arms.
“You saw her,” he repeated patiently.
“We don’ have the money no more!” the punk sobbed, his minuscule store of courage already depleted.
“I am not interested in the money. Where did the woman go?”
“We got th’ hell outta there, man! We din’ hang around, y’know?”
Conrad thought about it. The punk was probably telling the truth. He glanced at the crumpled body behind the chair. Too bad the young black man had used very bad judgment and pulled a knife on him. Perhaps he would have noticed something this cretin hadn’t.
To be certain, he twisted another finger, and waited until the screams subsided. “Where did the woman go?” he asked again.
“I don’ know, I don’ know, I don’ know!”
Satisfied, Conrad nodded. “What was she wearing?”
“I don’ know—”
Conrad reached for a finger, and the punk shrieked. “No, don’t, stop!” he screamed, blood and mucus streaming from his broken nose. “It was rainin’, all her clothes was dark—”
“Pants or a dress?” Conrad asked. It had been raining, and if the woman had been out in it all the time she would have been soaked. He wasn’t unreasonable; he didn’t expect this idiot to notice colors at night, and in the rain.
“I don’—pants. Yeah. Maybe jeans, I dunno.”
“Did she have a coat, a jacket?” The weather had turned colder, which wasn’t unexpected. It was the warmth that had been unusual for Minneapolis, not this more seasonable chill.
“I don’ think so.”
“Short sleeves or long?”
“Sh-short, I think. Not sure.” He gulped in air through his mouth. “She was carryin’ a garbage bag, kinda hid her arms.”
No jacket, and short sleeves. She had been wet to the skin, and she would now be very cold. Conrad didn’t wonder what was in the garbage bag; it was a commonsense solution to keeping papers dry. Mr. Sawyer would be pleased.
She had gotten money from an ATM, and this piece of excrement had promptly robbed her. She was without funds, without any means of coping. Conrad thought he should be able to find her within a day, if she hadn’t sought out the police by then. Though Mr. Sawyer had everything under control even if she made accusations against him, Conrad preferred to find her himself. It would be easier that way.
He looked at the human trash in the chair. The punk had no redeeming qualities. He had no skills, no morals, no value.
A bullet was too expensive for exterminating vermin, and too quick. Conrad reached out his gloved hand and closed it on the punk’s throat, and expertly crushed his trachea. Leaving him suffocating in the chair, Conrad walked out of the abandoned house in the worst part of the city. He moved silently, unhurriedly. Screams were common in the neighborhood. No one paid him any attention.
Chapter 4
DISTANCE, GRACE LEARNED, WAS RELATIVE. EAU CLAIRE, WISconsin, wasn’t all that far from Minneapolis if you were driving, a matter of an hour or two, depending on where you were in Minneapolis when you began and how fast you drove. In a plane, it was nothing more than a hop. On foot, and having to hide during the day, it took her three days.
She didn’t dare take a bus; with her long hair and carrying a computer case she would be too easily recognized. She didn’t know, but she thought it would only be common sense for the police, knowing she didn’t have her car, to check all public transportation leaving the city. Parrish would likely be hunting her, too, and he wouldn’t have to compare her appearance to a photo in order to recognize her.
She operated in a vacuum, because that was the only way she could manage. Things she had always taken for granted, basics such as food, water, warmth, a toilet, were now an effort to obtain. At least she had money, and there were always convenience stores, though she knew she should avoid them because of their surveillance cameras. Food wasn’t much of a problem; she simply wasn’t hungry.
She looked homeless; she was homeless. She walked north for a while, then cut east, paralleling state roads whenever she could rather than walking on the shoulder where
At ten-thirty on her second night on the run, she went into a service station and asked for the key to the rest room. The attendant looked up with bored, hostile eyes and said, “Get lost.” It took her more than an hour to find another station. The second attendant wasn’t as polite, and threatened to call the cops if she didn’t leave.
The need to urinate was excruciating, exacerbated by her constant shivering. Grace’s face was blank as she silently turned and left the station. She walked across the parking lot, aware of the attendant watching every step she made. Just as she was about to step onto the shoulder of the highway, she looked back and saw that the man had returned to the magazine he’d been reading when she went in to ask for the key. She made a sharp turn, skirting the edge of the parking lot, and circled around behind the station. She had to relieve herself, and she wasn’t about to do it on the side of the road.
Gravel crunched as a customer drove up, and she heard a man saying something to the attendant, then the answer, but she couldn’t understand what they were saying. Sheltered by the back wall, she carefully placed her precious trash bag out of the splash area, and unzipped her jeans.
Footsteps approached, scraping on the gravel.
There was no place to hide. A dim bulb over each of the rest-room doors stole even the advantage of darkness from her. There was nothing to do but run, and hope the approaching customer wouldn’t get too good a look at her.
She grabbed for the trash bag and her gaze swept over the rest-room door, the one with “Ladies” painted on it in big block letters. There was a hasp attached to the door, and an open padlock hung from it. The door wasn’t even locked!