A KILLING TIME: Part 2 of 3

by Dubricus

Chapters 10-16

A KILLING TIME: Part II

by Susan Lay & Dubricus

Chapter 10

San Francisco Legacy House...

The men surged through the door. Nick was catapulted backward. He hit the floor hard, grabbed for his pistol as he rolled, and allowed the momentum to carry him towards Derek.

The small room was suddenly packed with emaciated, angry men, dressed in every item of clothing they possessed. Some wore long, wool topcoats, others had leather jackets, but most had bundled themselves in wool blankets or skins.

Derek looked into their bearded faces. He had seen starvation before and recognised it in these men. In their eyes he saw malice and something else madness? He also sensed waves of absolute hatred emanating from them... directed at himself.

"Rayne, you bastard, when did you get back? Where's our food, our supplies?" A small, dark man with a Welsh accent fired off a rapid staccato of questions.

"Taffy... looky here!" another man called. "The sons-a-bitches!" He spat in Nick and Derek's direction. "They's got food... all hunkered down in here warm as toast... all the food they wants. We's down in that damned mine hole a starvin'."

Nick and Derek exchanged confused looks. "I'm sorry," Derek began, "I really have no idea what you're talking about."

A tall, gaunt man whose face was a mask of malevolence stalked toward Derek. "Bastard... you was goin' to pick over our starved corpses like damned vultures. You knowed we struck the Mother Load! You was goin' to keep it fer yerself."

Hastily stepping in front of his precept, Nick cursed the single shot pistol. Maybe he could stop one of them but not the rest. "Back off, friend," he said quietly, levelling the pistol at the man's stomach. The mechanism clicked loudly as he pulled the hammer back. The man held his ground, but made no move to advance further.

"Kitson! You fool... shut up!" Taffy shouted. The puzzled Welshman shook his head, as a frown crossed his small pinched face. "What did you come back for, Rayne? Are you mad? Have you got our supplies or not?"

"Don't tell me to shut up, Taffy Morgan. Skulkin' down that damn mine hole protectin' our digging', that t'were yer idee," Kitson growled.

"An' who'd you trust to look after your share if we left one man on guard?" the Welsh voice rose angrily. "Schultz or Tucker?" he sneered. From the looks exchanged between the men, it was obvious he'd made his point.

"He thought as we'd be dead... that's why he's back! To jump our claim," shouted a small, red-haired man, whose eyes shone with hatred. "Maybe you's in with him, Taffy. You knowed he come back, you's goin' to sneak out, get your share of this here food. Wait for us to die!"

"Yeah!" another voice rose angrily. "If'n I hadn't gone a huntin' firewood we'd a never knowed as they's here." There were angry mutterings of agreement.

Derek felt vulnerable and underdressed. Still cold and weak, he struggled clumsily to his feet. The room lurched round. He leaned against the wall to quell the waves of dizziness that swept over him. Clutching the patchwork quilt, he glanced toward his clothes drying in front of the stove.

Nick glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw his friend loose what little color he had regained. Christ, Derek, he thought. Don't faint. He couldn't risk turning to help. If he dropped his guard or lowered the weapon, these madmen would have them in a second.

"I'm OK," Derek whispered.

"If you gentlemen will allow us get dressed, we can talk about this... sort out the problem in a civilized manner. Nick can make us some coffee?" Derek suggested tentatively. Somehow he had to buy time to pull himself together. His mind felt like a compass that couldn't find magnetic north. Hold it together, he told himself. Don't let them... or Nick... see how bad it is. He recognised that starvation haunted these men, but he also sensed a deeper malignancy at work here. Was it affecting himself as well? What about Nick?

"Who the hell's Nick... your bed warmer!" Taffy sneered as he gathered their clothes and searched through the pockets. He laid the meagre contents on the floor. "Put up that pistol, Nancy-boy... you can't take us all."

"I can take you," Nick replied with deadly sincerity.

The Welshman saw a coldness in Nick's eyes that he recognized well... the coldness of a killer. Taffy paused, then gave a yielding half-grin, "Get your clothes on and we'll talk. Meantime... grub's up, boys. Tucker... open up them tins, share out what's there. Precious little between all of us!"

The SEAL in Nick wasn't about to relax. He kept the pistol cocked and levelled as Derek dressed in silence. Watching Derek from the corner of his eye, he saw unsteadiness in his friend. "You really OK?" he asked as Derek looped his silk stock tie into a loose ascot.

Slipping Evan's watch into the pocket of his plaid waistcoat, the precept now looked every inch the prosperous, if slightly unkempt, "Yankee" merchant. "I'm fine," Derek replied firmly as he accepted the weapon from Nick's hand.

From the corner of his eye, he watched the Nick quickly dress in his more homespun clothes. Derek smiled inwardly as his young friend fumbled with the strange buttons and old-fashioned suspenders. "You should dress formally more often," he said as he returned the pistol. "White tie and tails do wonders for a gentleman's education."

"You got a chaw?" one of the men asked Derek, who glanced in bewilderment towards his security man.

"I think he means chewing tobacco," Nick replied quietly. "Baseball does wonders for a man's education too. No, sorry," he told the miner.

Derek gripped Nick's shoulder to catch his attention while the miners were distracted with the food. "Nick... somehow, we're in 1849 or 1850. These men think I'm Evan Rayne."

"Do you look like him?" Nick asked.

"Apparently so," Derek replied softly. "His only portrait was destroyed when the tower collapsed in 1906. Jesus! Do I look that bad... he'd have been past sixty."

"Maybe he aged well," Nick suggested. "It's the watch, Derek... somehow it's triggered this and sent us back in time!"

"So it would seem," Derek quietly agreed. "They're obviously undernourished, cold, miserable and they blame Evan for not delivering their supplies. But, there's something else at work here, Nick... some evil has influenced these men... not just gold fever. We have to tread very carefully. They're like a powder keg ready to blow!"

The miners made short work of the food. They ate quickly and noisily, but it did little to assuage their tempers. The whole while, they muttered in anger between themselves.

"What you sayin', Rayne?... Speak up... so's we all ken heer.... Where's our goods?" the red-head demanded.

"Right then... Mr. Evan Rayne... where's the rest of it?" Taffy asked harshly, tramping back and forth in a struggle to control himself.

Derek studied the man closely. His Welsh heritage was obvious not only in his accent, but in his dark features and his intelligent, green eyes. He was the leader of the group, but only because his temper pushed him there, not because of any desire on his part or respect from the others.

"I'm sorry.... I realise you're expecting... supplies...," Derek began hesitantly, "but... I've been ill... I'm a little befuddled," he added, deliberately using a more archaic word. "We were caught in the storm and had to take shelter here. Can you explain things for me?"

"Do you take us for fools?" Taffy shouted angrily. "We ordered our victuals from you months back... paid in gold. Then you was here all upset like, 'cus they hadn't come yet. You promised they was on the way. Then you snuck off like a thief in the night."

"He was spyin' us out, that's what!" one of the others spat.

Nick quickly intervened. "Explain it to me then, 'cause I'd sure as hell like to know what's going on." He glanced in Derek's direction. "I only met Rayne a few weeks back and I'd like to know the kinda man I hitched up with," he said, half slipping into dialect to follow Derek's verbal lead.

"Lying bastard... you ain't nothin' but a danged lick-spittle!" Kitson interrupted angrily. "You's afussin' o'er him like a bitch with one pup. You think we's stupid 'cus we's miners! Lets string 'em up, boys. It's justice!"

"Hold on!" Tucker spoke quickly, "What if the supplies are coming? If we kill them, they'd bring the law down on us! They'd say it was murder!"

"Now your thinkin' straight, boyo," Taffy agreed, "an' they'll be better armed than us. They'd kill us and steal our claim anyway. Look you... we need to talk this through... have a counsel meetin' back at the 'Glory Hole'. We'll have no murder... maybe we should have a trial, make it legal like!"

Tucker nodded."We take the firewood and their blankets. We may as well have them as they should."

Nick thought to grab Taffy. He still had the pistol in his hand and could bargain their way out, but to where? Derek read this thoughts and laid a cold hand on his arm. Nick looked into the hazel eyes, which warned, "Caution. Play the game," they said.

Nick stepped forward quickly. "Look... you can see he's sick... you take our blankets, he'll freeze. If he dies like that... it would be the same as murder."

"Leave 'em a blanket each." The Welshman looked into Derek's pale face. "Ague like as not. Leave him the quilt too. We'll have no murder. Kitson, lock that door, bar it from the outside. There'll be no gettin' away again for him... not as he looks up to it."

As the door slammed shut, Derek sank back in exhaustion. He leaned heavily against the wall, then began to slide downward.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 11

"Derek!" Nick cried as he hurried to catch the precept before he hit the floor. Carefully lowering the older man, Nick busied himself tucking the quilt securely about him. He lightly touched Derek's forehead. "You're warmer," he said hopefully. But the precept's sudden collapse puzzled him.

"Nick... feel so tired... can't find any strength," Derek murmured.

"I know. Try and rest," Nick said gently. "There's more to this than cold or hypothermia... it's got to be whatever this time thing is.... Somehow the watch is doing something."

Derek nodded. He closed his eyes for a moment. Exhaustion was etched in every line of his face. Finally, he said, "It's a time slip, I think. But different from any I've ever read about."

"A what?" Nick asked.

"A time slip. In theoretical physics, it's postulated that one can pass into another time... possibly because at that moment and place there is a weakness in the fabric of the space/time continuum. Deja-vu may be a very mild form that occurs within one's own life. There are some hauntings that may end up being explained in this manner."

"I don't get it," said Nick.

"OK," Derek sighed, then slipped into his lecture mode. "The most famous instance of what is known as a 'time slip' occurred in 1901, when two senior, Oxford, academic ladies were visiting Versailles. Both... separately... experienced Versailles in the turmoil of 1789... the beginnings of the French Revolution. Yet their experience seemed so natural to them both that neither mentioned it to the other for quite some time. They heard voices... saw people and things that were not there in 1901, but could be researched and placed on a specific date in 1789," Derek explained. "These were two very unimpressionable, hard-headed ladies.... They had to have been to be accepted by Oxford academia in that day and age."

Derek leaned his head against the wall, shut his eyes, and continued in a monotone. "There was another instance involving a young lady, a Miss O'Neill, and her companion who visited a church in Northamptonshire. Once back in London, they discussed their likes and dislikes about the church. She had particularly liked a painting that had been hanging behind the altar, which her friend declared had not been there. A dispute arose. They called the church and discovered that the building had burned and been rebuilt in the mid-1500s. The painting had burned as well. The couple later returned to the church and Miss O'Neill was astonished that the building was not the one she had previously been in. Earlier, it had been much larger and quite different in appearance... yet neither she nor her friend had been aware of anything happening at the time."

What he didn't tell his friend was that an accident had made Miss O'Neill a clairvoyant and that researchers at Cambridge and at Duke University in North Carolina had theorized that precognition was a time slip into the future rather than the past. However, because it was into the future, there was no frame of reference, so the experience presented itself to the mind as a hunch, an intuition, or a vision. Nor did he tell Nick that the Legacy had done its own experiments... with Derek Rayne as one of the test subjects. He recalled the utter exhaustion he had felt back then.

"But we are aware," said Nick. "All our stuff's changed."

"That's the difference," Derek agreed. "All of our possessions have changed except for those things that existed in 1850... the watch and my ring, both of which were Evan Rayne's." His voice trailed away... he seemed to drift again, unable to hold onto the line of thought. Dammit! Where was his focus?

"Nick... time and space are more complex than any of us can ever imagine," Derek said quietly, almost as if to himself. "Some physicists see it as a something like bubble bath... a myriad of 'bubble' universes... some large... some small... one abutting another in endless variety. The 'string theory' suggests that time is like a wadded up string where at any one time a single point on the strand may intersect with another point. It's mind boggling... to me, even more than the demons and creatures that we encounter. What if all those descriptions of demons and Hell actually describe some of those other bubbles... those other universes?"

The precept shook his head again as his mind began to drift. He had to hang onto his focus or else they were lost. "Keep talking," he told himself, "Focus on the problem... focus Nick on the problem. If I slide too far... he'll stand firm.

"There was a case near Cambridge," he continued. "It began in 1971 and involved a young man, Matthew Manning, who, while in his early teens, had been the focus of intense poltergeist activity. He found a way to control... to channel... these energies by automatic drawing and writing. He later became a very gifted psychic and wrote about his experiences in a book called 'the Strangers'.

"It all began when the Manning family moved into the seventeenth-century Webbe house. It was there that he met Robert Webbe, the original builder of the house.

"One day, young Matthew encountered Mr. Webbe on the staircase. He appeared as a solid human being who was crippled in the legs and walked with two canes. He spoke to the startled youngster. He apologized for frightening him and told him that he had to walk for the sake of his legs.

"Thereafter, Matthew frequently saw and communicated by automatic writing with Mr. Webbe, who made his presence known in a number of other ways. He lit the household candles... gave them presents... what are called 'apports'." Derek's voice began to fade.

"Go on," Nick prompted as he nudged his friend. "Apports?"

The precept roused himself. "Sorry," he said. "Items that appear from the 'other' world... a loaf of rye bread, trinkets, a tallow candle, pages from a book. He would steal pictures from the walls and hide them in his 'safe', a compartment under the bedroom floor, which had remained a secret until Webbe revealed its existence to Matthew.

"The relationship between Matthew and Mr. Webbe continued for several years... until about 1977. One day Matthew asked Webbe if there were ghosts in the house. Webbe replied that there were none or else he would have chased them away. Matthew then said that he and his family lived in Webbe's house and had seen a ghost there. Webbe would not believe him and accused Matthew of trying to frighten him out of his own home.

"Then Matthew asked the ultimate question, 'Who do you think you are talking to?'"

"I can remember this almost verbatim," Derek said quietly. "Absolutely fascinating.... Webbe replied, 'I think sometimes I am going mad. I hear a voice in myne head which I hear talking to me and asking me what I do. But tell no one else they locke me away. Who is this voice?'

"Matthew answered, 'The voice is me. Who am I?'

"Webbe then said, 'You frighten me. Who are you? I only hear you in myne head and not in myne ears. Who are you? Are you the ghost this voyce talks of?'

"Matthew then told Webbe that it was he, Webbe, who was the ghost.

"Webbe said in shock, 'You are mistaken. I am no ghoste. I am here. You frighten me. And who do you say you are?... Are you a ghoule of tomorrow?' That was the last contact ever made between the two. I sometimes wonder about myself thanks to Mr. Webbe," Derek confessed. He then slipped into silence.

He could see Nick's mind at work, absorbing the information. Finally, Derek asked, "The question is... were these slips by Webbe into the future or by Matthew into the past? The apports must have been Webbe slipping into the 1970s. Why did he only hear Matthew... and not see him as I see you. I think it is perhaps because he had no knowledge of the future, whereas I come from the future. 1726 and 1977 somehow merged in Cambridge. Why did Matthew see Webbe, hear him, yet also read his thoughts? Perhaps, that was simply the way of Matthew's 'Sight'. Here and now, has 1999 merged with 1849?"

"Well," said Nick, not yet knowing what to think or say. "Whenever we are, they left us water. I'll get you a drink." He rose and filled a tin cup, then returned to the precept. "The stove's still burning... it'll throw out heat for quite a while, so we should be OK for a few hours."

As Derek reached to take the cup, his fingers brushed Nick's hand. Suddenly the room wavered and he "saw" himself... pain... eyes wide in terror... bulging... a burning around his neck choking... can't breathe... tighter... a rope... tighter... spinning blackness... struggling... gasping... Nick's face... screaming... fighting... the miners shouting... laughing insanely.... No! Not Nick too!

"No!" Derek cried aloud.

"Derek... Derek!" Nick stared into Derek's clouded eyes. He had seen him gripped by the "Sight" often enough to recognise what was happening. He waited for recognition to return. "What is it? What did you 'see'?"

The Precept shook his head to clear the vision from his mind. He sat silently for a moment... assimilating it. He had "seen" what awaited him and knew he had to prevent Nick from sharing the same fate!

"Derek?" Nick repeated. "Are you OK?"

The precept looked up into the younger man's worried eyes. "Nick," he said, "you've got to get out of here. I think you're right.... It is the watch.... Take it.... I think, if you take it far enough away from me and this place, this whole nightmare will end. We'll get back to our own time."

"I won't leave you," Nick replied with pain in his voice. "We can both try to escape. We can use Dad's trap door.... We could hide... then they'd think we were gone.... We could sneak out then," he said as he scrambled over to where his father's supply cache had been stored.

"It's not there, Nick," said Derek wearily as his friend searched the floor for the knothole. "Your father won't make it for another hundred years.... The watch is draining me to sustain the time slip. I feel like I'm being sucked dry by a vampire."

"Is that what you saw? That it's the watch?" the former SEAL asked. "Let's leave it here and you and I go."

Derek snorted ironically, "Nick, I can barely stand. What chance would I... would we... have out there together? No... you go alone. Get the watch beyond that stand of trees.... That's where I first heard something... remember? Leave it, bury it... whatever. Time should shift again and you can come back for me.

"We must convince them to let you go," the precept firmly declared.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 12

The Glory Hole...

The men gathered in the large gallery of the mine. In reality it was not that large... nine months' work had scarcely carved out a chamber of several hundred square feet and a few low tunnels. A small fire burned in the center of the room... it cast dancing shadows upon the rough hewn walls. The temperature was a constant fifty-five degrees. Therefore, they were not cold, but it was damp and uncomfortable. It was here that the group had spent every waking and every sleeping hour for the last few weeks.

Piled in the corner were their tools, their few remaining clothes, and their most precious possession, the gold, which they had clawed from the harsh granite.

"Now my boyos!" Taffy's high Welsh voice rose above the general muttering of discontent. He circled the fire at the center of the crowd. His body had been bent by years of digging coal from the mountains of Wales and then Pennsylvania. He was now permanently stooped as if he always bore a heavy burden. "What's to be doing here? Do we trust this Evan Rayne to make good on our bargain?"

Kitson's tall figure pushed through the group. "Trust him? Damn his hide! He's a waitin' fur us to die, then he'd be grabbin' our gold, and our claim." The others murmured their agreement. "We oughta hang the bastard."

"Wait. Think... all of you," Tucker interrupted. "Why'd he come back if he was going to cheat us. Shouldn't we hear what he has to say? Give him a chance to explain." He looked earnestly at his audience, as earnestly as he used to do to his pupils. "He's an important man in California... wealthy, with powerful friends. You think they'd stand by and let us get away with killing him."

"How'd they know, 'lessen you squeeled?" Kitson demanded angrily.

"God save us! Would you add more ghosts to those already here?" a voice spoke softly. They all glanced anxiously about. None had wanted to voice the thing they had all seen, all feared, as if it was some shameful secret known only to them, but now it was out in the open.

"I've seen 'em," the red-haired man admitted fearfully. There were more mumbled agreements. "Oh, God! I seen things too. Fair made my hair bristle!"

"We've lost two good men already to this mine. Do we need to spill more blood?" Tucker asked quietly. "And him dead... would that get us our supplies?" His voice rose in frustration.

Taffy rubbed his heavily calloused hands together. "God, but the damp's getting to my bones," he muttered angrily to himself. "Them spirits has done us no harm... they're not interested in us, they're part of this place, is all. We found the gold... look at the fruits of our labours over there. Have we done all this to throw it away?"

Tucker agreed quickly, "Taffy's right, we've all seen what this gold could mean to us. " His voice trailed away as he saw again the vision that had made the last months bearable. His wife, Hannah, her hair the colour of the gold they stole from the earth, her eyes bright and blue as the summer sky, sitting in the rocker on the front porch, waiting for him. He would return to her laden with fine silks and satins... toys for the children... shoes... books... a pump right there in the house... store bought clothes!

Taffy saw again the wild Welsh mountains of his home, but he would not return to a cold, cheerless miner's cottage. He would take the Squire's farm in the lush, green valley. He'd have men work for him... do his biding... tip their hat to him or tug at their forelock as they passed. He would be a man to be reckoned... one the community would look up to and respect. "You should speak to the Squire... Dafydd Morgan... he will give you sound advice." He longer to hear the soft sing-song voices that spoke of home.

Each of the miners paused, bewitched for a moment by the enticing promises the gold offered them. All saw before them their hearts' desires... there for the taking.

Kitson hugged his dream to himself. It was not one to share. He thought of the two men who had died "in accidents." He smirked at the memory of how he had offered to play gravedigger and of how he had "dealt with the bodies." A slow smile spread across his face as he remembered the Mex and his supplies that no one knew about. He rubbed the sleeves of his new coat... it had belonged to the Mex. He had told the others that he had taken it off a dead man he had found during one of his fruitless hunting forays over the ridge. Kitson had "dealt" with him too. He felt a glow of satisfaction warm his innards... he had found ways to flourish, while his "partners" only had ways to starve and die. Then he considered the men in the jail... fresh and alive.

He was the first to break the spell and speak. Casting a suspicious look around the group, he nervously he bit at his nails. He drew blood... tasted his own red juice. "If we all kilt 'em legal like, with a trial... no one could squeal, he'd be guilty as us all." He cast a murderous glance in Tucker's direction. He sucked at his bloodied finger, then licked his lips.

"My God! This is madness!" Tucker said in shock, then he turned to the others and spoke up again. "At least let's give him some time... so he can make good the bargain."

"Like as not Kitson's right," said Taffy, quietly weighing his words. "But I think as we could give Rayne a last chance. Let's hear what he has to say. Then we take a vote... and we all abide by that decision. What say you boys? Is that what we do?"

* * *

the Jail...

"Derek, I hear them. They're coming!" Nick spoke quietly.

"OK, follow my lead," Derek instructed, "and you'd better call me Mr. Rayne."

"OK... Mr. Rayne it is." Nick agreed with a quick grin. He had rarely done anything but follow Derek's lead... it was what he'd seemingly spent his life training to do.

"Nick, if I can't convince them to let you go, then you must escape. You're fitter... stronger than any of them... you should be able to get away." Derek sensed the younger man's reluctance to leave him, but he had to get him away from here, away from himself. His vision burst again into his mind. "I'll try to run interference," he added.

Nick nodded. He hated the thought of leaving Derek alone, but recognised there were no other viable options. Derek was right, as usual. He was too weak. He wouldn't make it, and forcing the former SEAL to bear the extra burden could cost the younger man what little strength he had in reserve. It would be the case of the drowning victim dragging down the life guard.

Their conversation ended with the sound of the door's bolt being rammed back. They watched the procession of angry miners troop into the room. Once again the Welshman took the lead.

"Now then, Evan Rayne, you tell us the truth now. Where are our goods? Do you intend to honour our bargain? Tell us."

Derek rose. He was much taller than any of the men. Only Kitson came close to matching his height. His calm, dignified presence impressed the miners. "Thank you, gentlemen," he began using his most conciliatory tone. "I really do appreciate the hardship that you have endured. I beg your pardon for the delay in your shipment. I've no idea what went awry. Your supplies should have been with you weeks ago! I know that I have let you down. For this, I apologise, unreservedly."

The miners listened attentively to Derek. It pleased them that this gentleman with the soft voice was addressing them as equals. Maybe, they began to think, this Evan Rayne is a man of his word after all.

"Indeed... and what good is that to us? We can't live on your fine words," Taffy interrupted.

"I understand that. In fact, if it weren't for this storm the goods would be here now," Derek continued, shifting tack, "Nick, here, is my wagon master. We were making steady progress up the valley. He and I were scouting a way in when the storm struck. We were driven to taken shelter."

"You talk like you wasn't heer not five days ago," Kitson injected.

Taffy ignored the Tennessean. "This true, boy?" he demanded of Nick. "How far away are the wagons? When can they get here?"

Thinking rapidly, Nick said, "They're close. I could probably reach them in eight to ten hours. The snow's still too heavy for wagons to get up here, but I could bring up enough by pack mule to keep you going till the weather lifts."

"If'n we'd let ye go," Kitson spat in contempt, "we'd never see ye agin."

"Of course, I'll stay here until Nick returns," Derek swiftly interrupted. "I have complete confidence in him. He will return with food... tinned meat, beans, peaches.... You can all have a fine feast. The warm clothes, tools, all the things you ordered will soon be here."

"He'd jest wait for us to die... ye may be sick... or no... but ye ate better'n us has, Rayne. You'd be alive an' us starved dead when he come back!" Kitson shouted angrily, worried that the other miners could not see how they were being tricked by this smooth talking bastard.

"Kitson's got a point," Tucker agreed reluctantly. "You said eight to ten hours... well, if you're not back by dawn tomorrow... near enough twenty-four hours, with some of our supplies"

"We hangs 'im, makes the bastard dance," Kitson interrupted eagerly. He glanced sideways at Derek and thought again of the salty iron taste of his own blood. Why waste Rayne's blood? There would be opportunities to be alone with him and afterwards... he'd naturally volunteer to do the burying again... like he had for the others. As he smiled, a feral look crossed his face.

Nick looked at Kitson in horror, then searched Derek's impassive features. "I can't travel at night," he protested. "You might as well make it sunset as sunrise... at least give me til noon. You wouldn't want the mule to break a leg, would you?"

"Dawn... twenty-four hours," said Tucker. "That's more than twice what you asked for."

"All right, my boys, are we agreed then?" Taffy stepped forward once more. "Rayne stays here with us. This wagon master of his goes to fetch our goods.

We give him twenty-four hours... sunup tomorrow. If he's not back by then, Rayne dies for the thief and scoundrel he is! You're the jury... vote on it, boys. Show of hands!"

One by one each miner raised his hand to show agreement. Even Kitson reluctantly agreed... twenty-four hours. He could wait that long, and make good use of the time.

Derek sighed in relief, Nick would have a chance out there... away from these men... away from him. Perhaps removing the watch would reverse the time slip... perhaps not. He felt it was more likely that it was his own presence that had triggered the slip, as research had once suggested, but no need to tell Nick that... just get him out of here.

"Nick... take this with you." Derek handed him the watch.

"Ay," Taffy agreed, "to remind you how little time your master has left to him."

Derek removed his coat. "And wear this... on top of your jacket... you'll need all the warmth you can get out there. Take one of the blankets, too. I'll be fine with the quilt and the other blanket."

Nick pulled on the coat on. It was large enough to encompass him even with his own jacket. He placed the pistol within easy reach in the coat pocket and the knife he tucked into his belt.

Taffy watched him preparing for the journey. "You better make haste boy, it's his time you're wasting."

Nick pulled Derek to one side and whispered anxiously, "Damn it!... I don't like leaving you alone with these guys. They're already half nuts... it wouldn't take much for them to go completely. What if they decide to hang you once I leave? There's no reason for them to wait twenty-four hours."

"It'll be OK, Nick, really," Derek sought to reassure his friend as he placed the other blanket around the younger man's shoulders. "Remember... Evan wasn't hanged. He lived to a ripe old age. I'll be fine. You get rid of the watch... then come back here. I'll be waiting right here and it will be 1999. Somehow, I think the end of the millennium will be a better year for me than 1850."

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 13

Ghost Gulch.....

The miners followed Nick from the jail. "You remember now," Taffy said, "his life depends on you gettin' yourself back here with our goods by dawn tomorrow."

Nick gave them a last hard look. "I'll be here, remember all of you... he's an important man in San Francisco. You treat him right!"

"Get off wi' ye," Kitson growled. He stepped close to Nick and whispered, "I'm gonna take right good care o' him."

Nick looked up into Kitson's face. Their eyes locked. He realised there was no point in antagonising these men, but it couldn't hurt to put a little fear in this maniac. "If anything happens to him," he quietly warned, "it's you I'll come looking for. Won't be the first time either. Get my drift?" The man blinked.

It rankled Nick that he'd have to rely on Tucker's good sense and Taffy's native cunning to keep the others in order. He sensed that neither had a first rate backbone.

He pulled the blanket and Derek's coat, which was huge on him, tight about his shoulders and, with a last despairing look towards the jail, began his journey.

***

"That's the last we's gonna see of that bastard," Kitson complained loudly as the miners watched Nick struggle down the valley.

"Well let's hope not... for Rayne's sake... and for our own," Tucker said uneasily.

"Come on now, my boyo's.... We have diggin's to work," Taffy interrupted. He didn't want to have to deal with any more arguments. "Can't you hear that gold calling for us to free it from the earth."

"What about getting Rayne to dig with us?" a voice from the crowd complained. "We jest lettin' him sit in there cozy like? I says we oughta make Mr. Fancy Duds get his hands dirty. Payback for all them dollars he's made off'n the sweat of po' folks' brows."

Taffy snorted derisively. "Does he look strong enough to hold a pick... let alone swing one. No we leave him where he is. Besides... I don't want him anywhere near our gold."

There were a few mumbles of discontent, but the men headed back to the mine once more. Taffy laid a restraining hand on Kitson's shoulder. "You fasten him up good and tight, boyo." He gestured towards the jail with his head, then joined the others in the trek to the mine.

***

Tagualames Gap...

Nick plodded along the creek until he reached the perilous gap between it and the mountain. The sun was only a promise in the lightened sky. The cloud cover had thinned, but the wind still keened down through the gap. Nick's feet crunched as they broke through the snow's frosted crust. The bulging overhang was waiting for some turn of fate to send it plummeting downwards.

"Real slow and quiet, Nicky boy," he whispered to himself. He spotted the skeletal outline of a slender cedar tree. "OK! Flexible branches... one pair of snow shoes coming up."

As he reached the tree, he pulled back on the chosen branch. It snapped. "Dammit! Frozen," he said. "OK, plan two... the poor man's version."

Nick scrambled over a low drift to a bushy evergreen. Quickly he sought two flat boughs and broke them off, then ripped a large chunk of silk lining from Derek's coat. With the broken tips pointing forward, he bound them to his feet.

While he had been busy, the sun had begun to show its face. Light glistened on clean, fresh snow that sent sparkling diamonds of glare back at Nick. "Christ! It's cold without my waders," he muttered. "No wonder Derek was in such bad shape."

"OK, let's go," he told himself with a deep sigh. "These'll do." With one eye on the snowy shelf, he walked as quietly and quickly as possible through the gap and down into the canyon.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 14

Ghost Gulch...

"Jake, lend a hand!" Kitson called. "Taffy wants our boy done up good and tight." The red-haired man turned back and was given his orders. "Watch from the door. I'm gonna make sure our friend stays put."

The Tennessean drew his Bowie knife, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. Derek was huddled in the patchwork quilt, close to the iron stove that was now rapidly losing its heat.

He looked up to meet Kitson's gaze, read the loathing in the man's expression and something else, infinitely more evil. Struggling to his feet, Derek saw the knife in Kitson's hand.

"You agreed to give me until dawn tomorrow," he said calmly. His mind however, was not calm. It was racing. Could he take this man? There was another at the door with a pistol. If he could escape, where the hell would he go... freeze alone out in the snow... or hang tomorrow... or... he dragged his mind back to the current situation... or a quick death now?

"You ain't fooled me with your fancy talk," Kitson growled through yellowed teeth. "If'n t'were up to me we'd string you up now." He slashed out towards Derek. "I ain't a gonna' kill you. I wants to see you swingin' from the rope... yer eyes a bulging... yer breath strangled from yer gullet... pissin' yer pants. You won't be so high an' mighty then.

"On the floor!" he ordered. "Face down... put yer hands behind yer back."

Derek hesitated. He knew Kitson could read his eyes charge or submit? As weak as he was, he knew he could bowl the miner over backwards and probably receive the knife in his belly maybe a good, killing stroke maybe not. He'd certainly get a pistol ball for his troubles. Nick was away and was strong enough to make it out even if the time slip still held him. He'd come back for his revenge, but it would be his game then.

But what if Nick's departure had altered the time stream and the outcome of the vision, Derek wondered. What if he was wrong and the watch was an integral part of the time slip? The slip was different than any he had ever heard about and very different from the tests in which he had participated. "I'm a scientist," he told himself. "Pasteur tested on himself. I'll see it through. So be it."

Derek dropped to his knees, then lowered himself to the floor. Kitson knelt down. Straddling the precept's body, he viciously pulled Derek's arms back.

Derek sucked his breath in loudly. Dominate the pain, he thought. "There's no need for this. I'm in no shape to go anywhere." He winced as rope was tightly bound round his wrists. His hamstring cramped when Kitson yanked his feet up to meet his hands. Oh, Gott, my back, he thought.

"Ye ain't in no shape now fer sure." Kitson agreed with a sneer as he looped the rope around Derek's neck. His hot, fetid breath turned the precept's stomach. "A little taste o' what's to come come sunup.

"Jake, I got 'im," he called out to the waiting miner. "Ye ken head back to the diggins."

Kitson waited until he heard the footsteps fade away, then he turned his attention back to the precept. He slit Derek's shirtsleeves with the knife, then stared at his tightly bound arms. He saw the network of dark veins with their slow steady pulse beating an invitation. The Tennessean took his knife and cut... then watched the scarlet blood quickly flow. He knelt down... fastened his mouth to the gash and sucked. He felt the warm blood, salty on his tongue, trickle down his throat. Strength seemed to flow into him. God! This was sooo good.

Derek wriggled to escape from the man. He felt contaminated by evil the touch was corrupt. Although the rope tightened about his neck, he managed to twist to one side and throw the man off balance.

Kitson rose from the floor. Stepping back, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'll see ye later, Rayne come supper," he promised. Suddenly he stepped forward and swung a hard kick to Derek's ribs, winding him. "Sleep well, my suckling pig," he said as he strode out the door.

* * *

Reeling against the darkness, Derek heard the door slam and the bolt ram home. Afterwards, he lay for what seemed like hours, but was probably no more that fifteen minutes. Numbness from both the cold and his bonds was growing. He had to get off his chest. With all his own weight bearing down upon his diaphragm and lower ribs, he couldn't breath right... couldn't take in enough air. He lowered his head to brace his forehead against the floor. The noose tightened... no matter... he pushed upward. No good... it just put more pressure in the same place.

"Hogtying certainly works," he thought. Next, he tried to rock himself sideways, but could get no leverage with his legs bound together and the rope around his neck. Finally, on the tenth try his body tipped right. He knew this was the position in which he was doomed to remain... his head pulled back with the rope cutting in just below the jaw... his back arched in an impossible curve and his right arm pinned beneath him with such a strain placed upon his shoulder that he wondered if it was dislocated.

Derek tried to press upward from his elbow, but could raise himself no more than two inches. He tried to rock back onto his chest, but to no avail again no leverage. He waited to collect his strength, but the posture sapped his strength rather than allowing rest. The pressure was now on his upper chest... no weight... just the simple constriction of his body. His lower back screamed in anguish.

Was there anything he could use? He tried to look around, but the noose about his neck and his position prevented him from moving his head. He could see only what lay before his eyes... now mainly the ceiling.

What time is it, he wondered? Nick left at dawn hasn't been that long. The cold was increasing the numbness in his hands and feet was growing and the agony in his joints overpowered all else. "I won't last the twenty-four hours," he muttered to himself. "I should have gone for the knife."

***

Tagualames Canyon...

Nick had been walking for two hours; cold was beginning to drain his reserves. Despite his gloves, his hands were numb. The snowshoes were keeping his legs dry, but his pants had already been wet and the shoes offered no protection from the cold. His mind began to wander... he remembered his father and the last time they had been in these parts.

"No... not good... think of something else," he muttered, but his mind clung to his father... and to Derek. Why had his father been able to care for... respect... maybe even love... Derek... and yet not him nor Jimmy. What was it about Derek that had touched a cord in the Major's heart?

Nick knew his father had trained Derek... had taught him survival skills... probably even some combat skills. No doubt Derek had been an apt pupil, but Nick was certain he could never have attained the levels that the Major drove his own sons towards.

Nick recollected the harsh training regime his father had imposed upon him... training him for what... to be his own replacement maybe... to be Derek's right-hand man... his protector?

Once upon a time, Nick had resented Derek... regarded him as a usurper. He had taken for his own what little good there had been in the soldier. Now that he knew Derek, both as a friend and as a Precept, he could understand why the man had inspired such devotion in the Major. It had been a case of a top sergeant grooming a brilliant, young officer to lead in battle or a palace courtier preparing a prince for his throne. But why hadn't there been room in his heart for more than one cause at a time? Why couldn't there have been room for a son, as well as for a friend and protegee?

Suddenly Nick realized that where Derek was concerned he had become his father. He thought again of his "boss," trapped in that barren box of a jail. "God, I hope he's OK. I hope those bastards don't hurt him. Come on, Boyle... what's your plan?" he snapped angrily at himself.

In his mind, he ran through his tactical options. Get the watch to those trees.... Will I recognize them? I have to... leave it beyond that stand... I should be back in 1999 then. My clothes and gun should come back.... so should the phone. Get back to Derek. Call for help... Alex and the CHP. Shit! If all this works, he'll be alone in that cabin... no coat... no heat. Will everything come back the way it was... or will the coat I'm wearing become his leather one? If that time slip triggered the coma and the cardiac arrest, what if another is triggered when the time shifts back. No one'll be there to give him CPR. Oh, God... please let him be OK.

"Hold it!" Nick muttered angry with himself for letting his imagination run riot. "Derek's survived worse. He's too stubborn to give up." Get you mind back on track, Boyle. Suddenly, something moved. He barely caught it from the corner of his eye. The former SEAL stopped cold, his instincts took hold. Had he imagined it?... Something creeping flat-backed and low to the snow... using deep shadows beneath weighted boughs.

Nick turned his head slowly. Concentrating his gaze, he used his sniper's skills to zero down... a wolf. A large, grey timber wolf... man's only real rival as a predator... was stalking him.

Quickly, he turned around. Another animal was behind him... fifty yards no more... yet another was to his right. Dammit! He was being hunted... by wolves! "Ha!" Nick snorted at the irony of the situation... prey to a creature damn near extinct in his own time.

"Time to get out of here... real fast!" He still had his single-shot pistol. Fire it now? Scare them?... No... they were very hungry specimens. He could see that. Their thick, dull pelts could not hide their gaunt frames. They carried no fat. This had been a hard winter for man and beast.

"No way I'm going to wind up dog meat!" He urged himself on... faster. As if they had realised that there was now no longer a reason for stealth, the wolves

gathered behind him. They continued their effortless loping. Fogged breath blew from panting mouths. The deep snow did not slow their progress... splayed feet acted as natural snowshoes.

Nick glanced back again. He could see amber eyes fastened on him, but he would not risk challenging them with a direct stare... not yet. Their fear of man still held them back. It had not quite been overcome by hunger. How much longer until fear died, swallowed up by a growling belly?

Creeping closer, they shadowed him. With each few yards he covered, they imperceptibly gained ground. Nick imagined he could smell their breath, fetid with blood. His mind could feel the heat of it against the back of his neck.

He turned to face the creatures. Instinct told him now was the time to use the pistol. The lead wolf, with head hung low and eyes fixed upon its quarry, quickened its pace. Bracing his wrist to prepare for a black powder kick, Nick dropped to one knee, aimed the horse pistol, prayed that it would work, and fired.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 15

The wolf leapt as Nick fired. It's powerful momentum carried its body into the former SEAL and slammed him downward into the snow. It yowled in agony and died, but not before scoring Nick's neck and cheek with its claws.

"Damn!" he said as he pushed the carcass off his chest. Quickly he scrambled away from the remains of the wolf and its flowing blood.

The pursuing pack scented the gore. They turned. The starving animals sprang at their fallen companion. Tearing fangs ripped into his fur and flesh. Each snarling, snapping beast fought for his portion and, when he had won his prize, he retreated to the shadows to slowly devour his treasure. Soon nothing would be left but bits of fur and pink stained snow.

Nick took full advantage of the diversion. "Got to get away now... before they decide to order dessert."

The sun was now high in the sky, and he relished the weak warmth that touched his body. The glare from the pristine snow was dazzling. He squinted and looked hard at the trees before him. This was it. He was certain that he recognised the landmarks. This was where Derek had first heard the "voices" and where his watch started its mad rush into the past.

Nick turned back. The wolves that had failed to get their fair share were again on his trail. "Shit! No bullets left." He glanced ahead... if he could make it to the trees... get a branch... use it as a club... pull his knife! "Hurry up, Boyle! They're gaining!"

The pines were now close... twenty-five to thirty yards. The lead wolf growled... Nick could hear it closing on him. Damn they must be close.... Don't turn yet.... Get to a defensible position. Hurry!

Nick reached the tree line, turned, pulled his knife, swung the blanket around his arm, and crouched. The lead wolf was nearly on him. It snarled, baring its white fangs, ready to make the killing bite on its prey. Nick braced himself for the impact as it leapt and it vanished.

Nick knelt, open mouthed. He scanned the snow, unable to believe his own eyes. The wolf was gone. He turned again... no tracks... there were no tracks in front of him... not his own nor the wolves'.

"Phew!" Nick blew loudly in relief. It had worked. He looked down. He was wearing his own clothes... his jeans, sweatshirt, Derek's leather jacket... and his pistol had changed back to the .38. "Thank you, God," he muttered. However, one thing hadn't changed. He was still bleeding. The thought of rabies flitted through his mind. "Hell, what's one more problem?" he asked himself as he wiped the blood away with his handkerchief.

He pulled the watch from his pocket. It was running normally. "OK!" he cried gleefully. He quickly gazed round... where to leave it? He, for one, would he happy never to set eyes on that watch again, but Derek would probably want it back... in one piece. Just visible, under the blanket of snow, he saw a log. He wrapped the watch in his bloodied handkerchief, then stuffed it deep inside the hollow depths. The predators might scent the blood, but it should be safe enough.

Nick wished he could tell Derek that everything was going to work out. This success lifted his spirits. It had worked just like Derek said it would. He was back in 1999... please, God, so was Derek. His phone should have reappeared. Assuming the damn thing was working, Derek could call 911 from the jail. With a weary sign Nick turned and began the long hike back to the camp.

"OK." He glanced at his wristwatch. "Eleven... damn, say another four hours back to the jail." It would be growing dark by the time he got there. "Hold on, Derek," he muttered, "don't give up.... I'll be there soon as I can. Promise!"

***

Ghost Gulch...

Derek's mind wandered. It floated back to the darkest memories... another small room, but not cold... hot... and fetid with the stench of carrion... another rope around his neck... thirst... and pain so agonizing that his mind retained no true recollection of it, but such that his soul would forever bear the stigmata.

"Don't go there," he told himself. "Don't make this worse. This is a walk in the park. That hell gave you the strength to bear this... to bear anything."

His entire body had grown numb except for the aching in his back and joints. Kitson had returned once more to feed. Was he a vampire, Derek wondered. He didn't think so. He sensed nothing. He was just a depraved soul who had found a way to stay alive and then had discovered that he enjoyed it.

Was this what crucifixion felt like? The crucified died not from the nails, but from slow suffocation as their position inhibited their breathing. Hanging from the arms and shoulders constricted the chest, thereby causing fluid to collect around the heart and lungs... the water from Christ's spear wound. The legs were broken so that the condemned could not push himself upward to alleviate the pressure. Derek knew that he was in a different position, but perhaps the effect was the same. Breathing was becoming increasingly difficult. He could not help himself, and he was too tired and cold to try any longer... even too tired to try for his center. He let his mind drift.

***

Nick was damn near exhausted by the time he reached the mining camp. He was cold, hungry, and worried sick about what he might find. He sighed with relief when he saw the building. It looked suitably dilapidated for 1999. "Thank God," he muttered. "Please, let Derek be OK."

He reached the fragile door, pushed it open and hurried inside... and abruptly stopped. The shock was as if he had run into an invisible wall. He could see Derek, tightly bound on the floor, but he could see through him. He was almost totally opaque. The precept was still wearing the 1850s clothing.

"Derek!" Nick cried out and rushed to aid his friend... that damn rope was nearly strangling him. "God... what have they done to you?" He knelt beside him and reached for the rope... his hand passed straight through it... and straight through Derek, as if he had no substance. There was nothing to touch.

"Christ! I've got to do something!" He wildly scanned the room. To him it looked as it had when they had first entered it... the rusty iron stove... the cracked walls. "What's gone wrong? Derek!" He crouched close to the older man's face... his eyes were shut and his breathing was shallow, laboured. "Can you hear me? Please, Derek, answer me. Jesus... you're not dead, are you?"

Derek struggled to drag his eyes open. He had finally managed to retreat into his inner self to escape the numbing cold and his body's agony... and his memories. What? Someone was trying to reach him, Nick... was it Nick?... Was he back?

His eyes tried to focus but all he could see was a blur, a faint outline. It was Nick. He could hear him like a distant whisper. His voice seemed to be followed by an infinite number of echoes... each distorted the words, until they were hardly distinguishable.

"Nick?" Derek rasped. He'd had no water since Nick had left. The rope, his position, and his own weight were crushing the breath from him.

"Nick, is that you?" He struggled to control his breathing... to swallow. Unable to move anything but his eyes, he tried to concentrate on the figure beside him. Was this Nick's ghost come to haunt him? Had Nick died in his struggle against the elements... or had Kitson?...

"I'm here. I came back for you, Derek.... It hasn't worked. I'm in 1999, but you're not." Nick's impassioned voice broke when he saw the condition of his precept. He must be freezing!... The quilt!... Nick grabbed for the patchwork blanket, but his hand grasped thin air. "No! Dammit!.. Derek... I can't do anything. I can't help you!"

"Nick... can't breathe... hard to talk...," Derek gasped. "You OK?... You got back... you OK?"

"Am I OK?... Dammit, Derek... you're the one hogtied and facing a lynch mob a hundred years before you were born!" Nick replied harshly, angry with himself for his helplessness. "Think, Derek!... How do we get out of this? Tell me what to do. I don't know about this time stuff.

"Derek... stay with me... what should I do?" Nick pleaded as he fought to control his emotions.

The older man's eyes were closing. He was struggling to drag breath into his lungs. "Don't know," Derek admitted simply. He tried hard to concentrate, to stay with Nick. "Go home. Get out of here."

Suddenly, the door to the jail was shoved open and Nick saw Kitson enter... or Kitson's ghost. In a single motion, the former SEAL launched himself at the miner. A vicious swing went straight through Kitson's jaw. Nick's own momentum sent him crashing into the wall. Kitson did not blink. "He can't see me," Nick realized.

He watched the ghostly apparition pull out a knife and kneel by Derek. "Thank God." Nick relaxed. Kitson might be a bastard, but he was going to cut the rope from the precept's throat... so he could breathe.

"Ready for supper... my piglet?" He heard the man ask as he roughly pulled Derek over onto his chest.

"What the hell?" Nick muttered. As he watched the tableau before him, he saw Kitson slash into Derek's right arm... saw Derek gasp in pain. He noticed other gashes on Derek's arms. Nick watched the miner lick his lips in anticipation... and then... Jesus... he began to drink the blood, sucking it from the opened vein.

Furious, Nick hurled himself at the miner. He passed straight through him and slammed into the hard floor with a jolt. Nothing there! He held his head in despair. There was nothing he could do. A sense of helplessness engulfed him. His stomach churned... a wave of sickness overwhelmed him. He couldn't watch this... this defilement.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 16

San Francisco Legacy House

Alex stood in the kitchen. She stared from the window at the pervasive blackness of a stormy, winter night. Rain fell in torrents... the wind hurled it at the windows, where it pelted against the panes and ran in rivulets down the glass. Individual drops caught the kitchen light and reflected it back in tiny sparks of brilliance.

The distant, blurred lights of San Francisco, which would normally have lifted her spirits, now seemed to glower in a dim, malevolent yellow. Everything matched her mood... dark... black... frightened.

She saw her own reflection staring back at her. "When did you get so old, so haggard looking?" she asked herself, shaking her head. "Yesterday about 3:45... that's when. Where are you, guys? What's wrong? Why haven't you called?"

Waiting anxiously for a call from someone, anyone who could tell her what was happening, she mentally replayed the actions she had taken. Every authority had been notified. Was there something more she could do? Someone else to call?

She tried to send her 'Sight' out into the night... to touch Derek or Nick, to reassure herself that they were OK.... Nothing. She had found Derek's watch in his room and now held it in her hand. She stroked the leather strap affectionately... tried to let his essence seep into her fingertips. She tried to bring Derek into herself and then send her own self outward... that was the key... bring Derek to Derek... via her "Sight". Still nothing.

The phone rang stridently, shaking her from her thoughts. "Alex Moreau," she answered quickly... maybe this was the news she had been praying for.

"Alex, it's Rachel," came a quick, breathless voice. "Any news?"

"No, nothing. I'm really scared. I knew there was going to be trouble.... Dammit! I knew it! Why didn't I persuade Derek to cancel the trip?"

"Ha!" Rachel laughed ironically. "Do you really think you could have talked him out of this trip... no matter how hard you'd tried?"

Alex sighed. "You're right... I guess. I can't understand why we haven't heard anything. They had their phones. Why isn't the GPS working? Even if we couldn't find them, we should be able to locate the car."

The doctor hazarded an unscientific guess. "You know what the weather's like over there.... We get wet... they get snow. This is a bad storm... it may be affecting communications. I know phone lines are down everywhere and loads of people are stranded."

"What's the use of all this technology?" Alex's voice rang with emotion. "For all the good it's doing, we might as well be stuck in the nineteenth century!"

***

Ghost Gulch...

In his 1999 world, Nick raged around the jail looking for something, anything, that he could use to help Derek. There must be some way... there had to be some way... but there was nothing... absolutely no way. Finally, he sank down in the far corner of the room. He wrapped his arms tightly around his knees. His desperate rage had run its course... now he just watched and waited.

As Kitson finished the sickening attack on his precept, he... Nick Boyle... SEAL, black belt, Security Officer... had never felt such an overwhelming sense of helplessness... of guilt. This was his fault... that decision to take a shortcut was his fault because he had bridled at Derek's impatience.

Kitson pushed himself up, then smiled down at Derek. "I guess next time I see ye we'll be draggin' ye to the gallows.... Well... we don't rightly got one of them, but we got us a real good tree. I's lookin' forward to seein' ye dance a jig on the end o' that rope. Then ye'll really be all mine... just like that little Mex muleskinner o' yourn was. He was a puny specimen, but he but he was right spicy, he was. Went real good with those beans he was haulin'... jerkied up real good too... shared him out as venison. Had m'self a right good chuckle at that one... no one never knowed the difference."

He watched Derek's increasing struggle to breath. "Now don't ye go dyin' on us jus' yet... ye hear." With a final laugh, he turned and left the jail.

Nick heard door close and its bolt slam home. The former SEAL scrambled over to Derek, but suddenly stopped. How could he face him? He had failed his friend completely. What could he say to him?

"Nick," Derek called faintly. "You here?"

"Yes... I'm here... God, Derek... there must be something I can do." Kneeling down, he laid his hand by the older man's shoulder. There was no contact, but he left his hand hovering in thin air. He watched as the precept closed his eyes. A familiar look of determination crossed Derek's face... he seemed to collect himself.

Derek rocked himself back and forth a couple of times, then twisted over so that he lay on his left side. The rope had tightened on his throat, but, as he fought to relax his body, it loosened slightly. He was able to breathe, raggedly, but he could breathe.

"I'm getting quite good at that... after what? Eighteen hours?" He managed a weak smile for his younger colleague. "Nick... nothing you can do.... Go... please," Derek wheezed. "I don't want you to see." He didn't finish his sentence, but Nick knew what his friend meant... he did not want Nick to witness his lynching.

"Wait a second... Derek... dammit! I've been a fool... the watch. What if I went back for the watch?" The idea grew on him. It was something he could do... some action. He leaned closer.

"Derek... hang on... I'm going back for the watch. I know I can make it there and back by sunup. Then I'll be with you again... for real. I can take these guys... I know I can. So what if we have to hack it in 1850?... You and I together... we're a team. We'll be fine."

"No," Derek whispered. "It's the space... and me... not the watch. I affected the watch... it didn't affect me. This area is a weak place in the fabric of time and space. When I passed through this weakness, I dragged you with me... somehow.

"Back in the '70s, I was a test subject." He paused to collect himself, then continued in an even weaker voice. Nick leaned closer as Derek spoke. "They think that time slips may occur because of an altered state of consciousness. Psychics seem to be prone to it. Nothing much came of it... certainly nothing like this. But now I think I know why... it takes a simultaneous weakness in the fabric of the universe along with the altered consciousness."

"Can't you change the way your brain is working? Will yourself to come back?" Nick asked desperately.

Derek managed a feeble smile. "I have no idea what that altered state is... or how it works... even my own 'Sight' is an unknown most of the time."

"But like you said... nothing like this has ever happened," Nick prompted. "You don't know for sure... maybe you... plus the watch... plus this place... and hey, presto! I'm back."

Derek looked into the eager, transparent face of his young colleague... it blurred. Consciousness was slipping. Derek closed his eyes again to draw up just a little more strength. What if Nick was right, he wondered. Perhaps Nick could get back, but if he did.... The precept remembered his vision... Nick would also hang. No... can't allow him to try... just in the hope it might work.

Nick was already on his feet, ready to start. "I'll be no time at all," he teased.

"No! Nick, please!" With growing alarm, Derek tried to twist around to catch Nick's eye. His legs spasmed with a cramp from the effort and pulled the rope more tightly around his neck

"Ahh!" The precept struggled to drag air into his lungs, but the rope crushed his windpipe. His tongue seemed to block his airway. No air!... Crushing blackness. He sank into a whirling chasm of blackness.

"No! Derek... no!" Nick cried. He dropped to his knees. He watched helplessly as Derek's struggles slowed, his eyes rolled, and his body sagged, lifelessly.

Suddenly, the still form lying before him had solidity. Nick felt his neck. There was a fluttery pulse, but no breath. "The damn rope's strangling him," he realised in horror. He pulled his knife and cut the constricting cord. He heard the precept gasp, then saw his chest rise, then fall, and rise again. "Thank God!" the former SEAL's relief turned to despair as the Derek's solidity faded away.

Continued with A Killing Time: Part III