The Celtic Key Read online

  “Are we going to your place, Segi?”

  “Naw, that would be much too obvious. The first place they would look.”

  “I feel like I’ve done the wrong thing by coming to you. I’m in a real mess.”

  “You are telling me? Salva, Sophia? Salva,” Segi laments, his deep tone quivers exasperation.

  “Yes, but in my defense, I had no idea what I was getting into. I promise you that much.” Sophie wonders how much Segi knows about the secret society that has thrived under the guise of science. The research outpost is openly acclaimed for its advancements in botany and zoology. Its brilliant contributions to the development of a more ideal environment are world-renowned.

  “If I did not know you,” he warns sharply, yet stops short of finishing, his mouth still working. He unwinds his tie, tosses it into a compact back seat, and unfastens the top button of his collar.

  “But you do know me,” Sophie smiles weakly, and rests her hand on Segi’s arm. She feels his strength through the sleeve of his tailored jacket and starched white shirt. He would not wear just any brand. Segi’s taste in clothes is dialed in to exquisite.

  Through congested streets on the outskirts of town, they finally wheel out onto open highway and zip along at a high rate of speed.

  “We must keep several steps ahead.” Masegi glances nervously again in his rearview mirror.

  Satisfied they have come far enough he pulls off. The dirt road is obscured from oncoming traffic by a stone wall and overgrown bushes. Feeling under the dash, he yanks a wire, snapping it in two. The screen on the console blacks out. Near his left knee, he loosens a small device from its port.

  At Sophia’s inquisitive glare, he adds, “GPS. Salva can hack into anything if you are of importance to them.”

  Masegi pulls a black and white license plate from under the seat and scrambles out to replace the government plate on his car. It could be a red flag to anyone who may be tracking them.

  Sophie waits for Segi to climb into his seat and buckle his belt. “How do you know so much? About Salva, I mean.”

  “How, young woman, do you?”

  Masegi’s smartphone bleats a startling chirp that penetrates the fragile atmosphere of the plush interior. The sound causes them to jump.

  “A text,” Masegi says. His features harden in stages as he reads.

  “Who is it?” Sophie feels her stomach lurch. She protectively slides her hand to the slight roundness where her precious gift grows.

  “There’s been an incident.” He glances quickly again at the message and powers down his phone. “Not to worry.”

  “You just cut your phone off,” Sophie protests.

  “We cannot chance being discovered. Where’s yours?”

  “Phone? Are you kidding? Salva wouldn’t be so liberal . . . or gullible. They control the air you breathe,” Sophie laughs bitterly.

  “Segi, please, I just came from the hospital. Ben’s there.” She can feel her anxiety spike. Her mind automatically deploys a defensive mechanism that leans toward more positive conclusions. Perhaps her husband had darted off in another direction and is on the run, leading Salva on a wild chase. Or, maybe he is playing up her escape, feigning his innocence and convincing them his wife had outsmarted him. Anything would be better than assuming the worst.

  “Here, open the back and remove the battery.” Masegi checks over his shoulder and fixes his eyes firmly ahead as he steers back onto the asphalt highway. The car’s acceleration to cruising speed presses them back in their seats. “Things will be a’right. You will see.” His intonation is soft and steady.

  Sophie does as she is told. Segi unlatches the top of the center console with one hand and she drops the smartphone pieces in.

  “What’s in the bag?” Masegi nods at Sophia’s lap.

  “My purse? Oh, lip gloss, my compact, some snacks. Nothing, really.” Sophie lifts the flap to show what’s inside. “That’s strange,” she frowns, and instantly recognizes the dark blue cover.

  “My passport,” she gasps. “Ben put this in here.”

  Before Sophie can react further, Masegi snatches the clear zippered pouch from her hand.

  “Toss your bag out the window.”

  “No way.”

  “Your husband gave you this pouch, aye?”

  “Yes, at the hospital.” Sophie vaguely remembers Ben grabbing her purse in the hallway at Barnard Memorial.

  “Everything else goes. Everything Salva.” Masegi opens the passenger window from the control switch on his door. “Now, quickly.”

  Sophie turns to watch her pricey leather Coach bag bounce twice and careen off the road into tall brush. “Are you satisfied?” she snaps.

  “Bloody hell!” Sophie bolts upright. “My ring is in there.” Shock goes through her like a hot coal through ice. She had taken her wide-band diamond solitaire off earlier, thinking her narrow wedding band is more practical to wear. Her fingers tend to swell during the day.

  “Segi, you have to turn around.”

  Masegi holds up Ben’s pouch for quick scrutiny. Looking over the rim of his sunglasses, he is curious about what he sees, but thinks it can wait. He tosses the transparent container into the center console where his phone preceded.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Sophie bleats.

  “We can’t take a chance. You know that.”

  Segi is right. Sophie twists her platinum band back and forth on her finger, too stunned to cry. “You don’t even know what happened?”

  “Be still, my Blommie Kabouter. There will be time.”

  Sophie scowls, “Blommie Kabouter? That’s what you called me when I was little.” Examining the grim lines around Segi’s mouth, she is sorry for disrupting his universe and bringing the wrath of Salva down on his head. Salva. Thoughts of Ben prick every cell in her body.

  She persists, “The incident on your phone, Segi. Was it at the hospital?” Sophie is filled with an aching dread. Somehow she knows deep down it is the subject of his text.

  “Just another alert. No worries,” Masegi says. He flashes a brittle smile, “I get them all the time. It is part of my job.”

  Sophie is not convinced, but she shifts topics. “So, what about your job? Just leaving like that.”

  “I am on holiday and only stopped in temporarily to tend to a matter. I am off the clock, you might say. You were lucky that I happened to be there at that moment. Let us hope your good fortune lasts, aye.”

  Chapter 3

  WHOLLY DISCOMBOBULATED

  “You okay, mistah?” Jake calls out. He grabs his flashlight and hurries over, watching for fire ant mounds on the way.

  Jake Foreman, who bears the surname of his family’s slaveholder before the Emancipation Revival and Reunion of 1875, tugs the front of his shorts up to squat down. He sniffs the air for the sour smell of alcohol. Satisfied there was no drinking, he puts his hand on the man’s back.

  Bryce McKenzie inhales deeply and tries to ignore the painful beating of his heart. With his elbows braced on his knees, he cups his head and squeezes his eyes shut.

  “Where is it?” he barks, suddenly realizing his right hand is empty.

  Wholly discombobulated, Bryce’s brain is firing erratic impulses like a bunch of fleas hopping in a glass jar. His friend Jane Peterson, or rather Mrs. Hopkins, describes time travel as living death — a sickening, empty void to be exact. Bryce personally thinks it is more akin to the explosion of splitting atoms combined with the distinct sensation of being shredded in an Oster blender.

  Kat Logan comes to a quick stop when she sees two men just off the shoulder of the road. One is slumped on the ground. She shoves the red suburban into park, climbs down, and hastens into view. The screen on her smartphone illuminates her mouth. It is set in a stern line.

  “I’m calling rescue,” she announces.

  “No! Please don’t.” Bryce fights another wave of dizziness. “Don’t call anyone. Just give me a minute.”

  “Mercy,” Kat squeaks, as she stump
s her toe on a rough surface. Tiptoeing, she makes her way to the two men. “Wrong shoes,” she notes, wincing at the thought of gravel poking through the soles of her brand new sandals. Kat prefers strappies to formal work shoes on warmer days. It is fall, but the weather has been unseasonably balmy.

  “Good heavens, are you all right?” Kat closes the app on her phone. “What happened?”

  “You don’t want to know.” Bryce looks at the guy. “Can I borrow your flashlight?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Jake, who is eyeballing the stranger like an alien just landed, hands his flashlight over.

  Bryce swings the beam in a wide arc. His anxious search is thankfully brief. The light floods the spot where the object lay dormant.

  The key makes a dull impression, yet it is anything but ordinary. Mottled by time, a spiral inlay adorns the bow. A chiseled arrowhead-shaped cut splits the bit at the end of the shank. Boldly cast out of iron-like elements from an unknown source, it is stimulated by the supernatural, blackened and sinister. The resemblance to Jane’s original key is eerie, yet it wields a more menacing power.

  “Jesus,” Bryce expels in an emotional moan. His eyes lock with tunnel vision onto the robber of poor, unsuspecting souls. The key is propped artlessly on a chunk of asphalt within his reach.

  “Don’t touch it!” he croaks with uncharacteristic roughness when the man moves too close.

  “Hey now,” Jake says, throwing up his hands.

  “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to yell. Some things need, uh, you know, special handling.” Bryce returns the flashlight to its owner. “I could really use some light on what I’m doing. Can you help me out?”

  Bryce reaches into his pocket for the square of jade-green silk, embroidered with tiny pink rosebuds he has carried since his first encounter with time travel. It is part of the shawl he grabbed from Sophie Downing right before he was sucked through the portal at Fort Pulaski.

  Still crouched, Jake pivots to shine the bright-white beam where it will be most useful. He doesn’t know what to think. It’s just an ol’ key, but the short hairs dancin’ on his arms are telling him something different.

  Bryce holds his breath to steady himself and quickly covers the key. Were it hydrochloric acid or nitroglycerin, he would treat it no different. Flinching initially, he celebrates a minor-reprieve. There is an irritating vibration, but the evil object apparently exerts no immediate effect. Securely wrapped in the fabric, Bryce wriggles the thing into his boot. It slides easily into the place where Jane’s original key rode until it was lost in a life and death tussle with an angry bear.

  “There,” Bryce says, satisfied. “Thanks.”

  He tries to rise and drops back down. Vertigo lingers, but his mind has cleared enough to bring the date into question. Obviously, he’s returned to a future time. Hopefully, it’s the right one.

  “Let me get you some water. Stay put.” Kat trots off to her suburban and opens the hatch where she keeps her supplies. The street lamp on a utility pole several yards away reveals a stack of “For Sale” signs and several boxes of brochures in the back.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Bryce wobbles when he shifts his body and tries to hide it.

  “Ya high on sumpin?” Jake whispers, still feeling prickly. He glances in the direction of the suburban.

  “No, it’s nothing like that. A medical condition,” Bryce grunts.

  Jake stands when the woman returns.

  “Here,” Kat says, handing the slouched man a bottle of water.

  “Zephyrhills. That’s a good sign,” Bryce smiles, thrilled to see the familiar brand. He twists the cap off. Abruptly aware of his thirst, he downs the 16.9 fluid ounces at one time. The plastic makes a crackling sound when he is finished.

  “Man, I’d forgotten how good that tastes.” Bryce licks his lips and runs the back of his hand across his mouth. “I feel better already.”

  The wary observers shoot a quizzical look at one another.

  “Reckon you’re headed to or from Darien. Da way you is dressed, could be you’re a reenactor,” Jake decides, lifting his ball cap and scratching behind his ear.

  Bryce looks down at his clothes. “Yep, I guess you could say that.” From his frock coat and vest, to the white shirt he bought in Savannah, down to his trousers and badly worn boots, Bryce’s outfit screams mid-1800s.

  “Lots of bikers travel dis road, but I doan see no bike.”

  “Do I look like I ride?” Bryce scoffs.

  “Spose not, but sumpin gotcha here. You was laid out. Not moving a stitch when I drove up. Thought you was roadkill at first,” Jake chuckles, peering over the top of his trademark dark shades.

  “Want to try standing?” Kat checks her phone. It is a few minutes past nine o’clock. A drawn-out appointment with a client has made her late. She is on her way to pick up Wyatt from his MiMi’s house.

  There is no possible way Kat could get by without her mother’s help. Wyatt’s MiMi has been a true honest-to-gosh lifesaver, watching her grandson while Kat works crazy hours to get back on her feet after the divorce.

  “Stand? Oh, yeah.” Bryce takes the guy’s hand to get to his feet. He staggers in an awkward sidestep, but manages to right himself.

  “Dis is one mighty long, lonely road,” Jake’s eyebrows draw together in a penetrating stare.

  “Look, I was out for a walk and hell, I don’t know what happened. My place is beyond those trees over there,” Bryce points. Bending down, he brushes the knees of his pants and grabs his head to still the spinning. His hat is missing.

  “I’ve lost my hat,” he confirms, searching the area and spotting the brim.

  “I’ll get it,” Jake offers. His phone bleeps, and he briefly steps away to check his messages.

  “What’s your name?” Kat pauses expectantly.

  “Bryce McKenzie. And, yours?”

  “Missus, uh,” Kat clears her throat, “Miz Logan.” She uses her married name, for Wyatt’s sake, and Mrs. and Ms. interchangeably depending on the circumstances.

  “Can I offer you a lift, Mr. McKenzie?” Kat jerks inside at her reckless behavior, but she works with people she doesn’t know all the time, right?

  She will do just about anything when it comes to making a sale, including chauffeuring her clients from place-to-place and meeting them at vacant properties. Kat’s job as a real estate agent often forces her to rely upon her instincts. Presently, she sees no threat.

  “That would be great. Although I gotta say, picking up strange men on the side of the road is about the worst thing you can do. I’m tempted to turn you down for your own good,” Bryce grins.

  The woman is dressed in a sheer top that flutters over snug Bermuda shorts. Vehicle headlights reveal the outline of a curvy figure. Her hair is cut in a bob above the shoulder with the bangs bobby-pinned to one side. Bryce swears it is red like Jane’s.

  “Suit yourself, but you look pretty harmless to me. I don’t imagine you’ll sprout horns and a tail,” Kat giggles, thinking handsome with a big ‘H’ is the word to describe Mr. McKenzie.

  “I best be on my way then,” Jake interrupts. He flicks the man’s hat to rid it of debris and holds it out. “You a’right?” His question is directed more so at the woman.

  “Yes,” Kat smiles pleasantly. “Don’t worry.”

  “I’d offer you a lift myself, mistah, but my truck has a cam and the company doan take kindly to givin’ rides.”

  “We’ll be fine, won’t we, sir?” Kat bats at a small swarm of gnats that are drawn to the light and heat of their bodies.

  “Fine and dandy,” Bryce adds, a tad sarcastically. “I’m, like you put it, pretty harmless. If it helps any, I’m a med student.”

  “Ah, we have an aspiring doctor in our midst. Well, Doctor McKenzie, your carriage awaits.”

  Studying the pair for a minute, Jake shrugs, “I’m on the clock and dat new route is kickin’ my bee-hind. Pardon, ma’am. Y’all take care.” He taps the bill of his cap in a parting gesture and heads o
ff, shaking his head as he goes.

  Chapter 4

  SOUTHERN BELLE

  When the truck driver is out of earshot, Kat puts her hands on her hips and arches one eyebrow. “So tell me, Mr. McKenzie, where do you really live?”

  “What do you mean?” Bryce says absently, still checking himself. He waves at the truck as it pulls onto the road. They get a goodbye honk in response.

  “You know what I mean.” Kat narrows her eyes. “That line of bull you were feedin’ us about living on the other side of those trees. I may be a Southern Belle, but I am no pushover. There is nothing but an old plantation in that direction. That and the Altamaha River.”

  “Southern Belle?” Bryce’s mouth twitches, yet he is able to tilt one corner into a crooked smile that never fails to charm. “Guess you got me. I couldn’t think of anything better to say. To be straight with you, I’m not from round here. I live in Athens, Georgia, and attend medical school there.”

  “So, the doctor part is true.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You are a ways from Athens, Mr. McKenzie.”

  “I know. Can I ask where you’re headed?”

  “Darien, of course. Ouch!” Kat slaps her arm at the tiny sting of an insect, “We ought to go.”

  “Then, you don’t mind giving me a ride.”

  “I don’t mind at all, sir,” Kat asserts. “My offers always stand. Besides, I’ve been told I am a real sucker for needy souls.”

  “It’s probably too much to ask, but do you suppose I could use your phone? That is, when it’s convenient.”

  “I guess. As long as your calls aren’t north of the Mason-Dixon. That can cost a small fortune.”

  Is that supposed to be funny? Bryce turns his head, “If I make you nervous for any reason—”