“The sheriff wants you to go up there right away,” Nora continued.
“Why? What’s the point? Can’t we just have them send down the crime scene report and the autopsy work?”
Nora hesitated. When she spoke again, she had lowered her voice. “We only learned about this killing because of the A.P.B. out on Oliver Bascombe. Last night, just hours after the murder, officers identified him as fitting the description of a stranger lingering at the crime scene. When they went to question him, he ran. That was last night. They’re still searching for him. Apparently, well, he—”
“Disappeared,” Halliwell said, a chill creeping up his back. “Again.”
The more he learned about this case, the less it made sense to him. The only thing he could hold on to now was the absolute certainty that Oliver Bascombe knew more about his father’s murder than the investigating officers did . . . and that maybe that knowledge was firsthand.
He thanked Nora and shut the phone, returning it to his pocket. When he focused on Julianna again he found her studying him with obvious suspicion.
“What was that about?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, Miss Whitney, but it’s an ongoing investigation. When I have anything at all solid involving the whereabouts of either Oliver or Collette Bascombe, I’ll personally call to let you know. Beyond that, there’s not much more I can say. I thank you for your time.”
He started toward the door and then paused. “Oh, and please thank your mother for the tea.”
Julianna smiled. “It’s awful.”
Halliwell gave a gentle nod of agreement. “Well, for the hospitality, then.”
“Detective, I’m sorry, just . . . do you really think that Oliver is responsible for all of this?”
He hesitated a long time before responding.
“I think he has a lot of the pieces missing from this puzzle. Beyond that, I wouldn’t want to speculate.”
During his first excursion beyond the Veil, Oliver had come to think that time passed more or less in sync on both sides. When they had left the Sandmen’s castle and shifted back to his own world, however, they had gone from day to night. He did not think that more time had gone by in his absence but, rather, that both the days and the nights were longer in the world of myth. They had spent an entire night and most of a morning in Maine, but when they had passed through the Veil once more, the sky was just beginning to lighten.
Dawn in the Two Kingdoms. Or, in this case, in Euphrasia, for once Frost and Kitsune had gotten their bearings they had determined that they were far north of the Sandmen’s castle, well on their way to Perinthia. Based upon Kitsune’s sense of direction, they had struck off on a northeasterly path and within two hours had found themselves back upon the Truce Road at last.
“It may not always be safe to travel,” the winter man had said, “but we ought to keep to it as long as we can, for the going will be easier and, some way, swifter, too.”
Apparently there was magic in the road itself that shortened the journey. For his part, Oliver was dubious. He wanted to find Professor Koenig as quickly as possible, and that meant hurrying to Perinthia. But he did not want to die, and even with the shotgun case slung over his shoulder— thanks to Kitsune’s crafty thievery— he did not feel at all safe out on the road.
As they continued upon their journey, he realized that even more so than time, distance was quite different on either side of the Veil. He had thought that the land here would be exactly as large as all of the public areas of his own world combined, all pushed together in a sort of reverse continental drift. This was not at all the case. Distance was not equivalent.
Or so he learned when they came to the Atlantic Bridge.
They had followed the Truce Road through a dense wood and then up a rise that was part of the foothills of a mountain range to the west. The road turned due east thereafter and ran through a low, green valley where there were farms set at significant distance from one another. Cattle grazed in open fields and Oliver wondered how the farmers determined which animals belonged to which property. As the morning wore on toward midday they sighted several wild horses running along a ridge to the west and Oliver had to pause a moment to watch them run. The sight was among the most beautiful things he had ever seen. He didn’t know a damn thing about horses, but had always admired the animals. Seeing them run free did something wonderful to him inside, but he knew he would never be able to put it into words, so he said nothing to his companions.
The weather was cooler this far north and it had grown colder over the course of the morning. He had been carrying the ancient parka with him but eventually he slipped it on again. One of the houses they passed, a rambling thing made of stone and mortar, had a plume of smoke rising from its chimney and the smell of the fireplace seemed to welcome them. Oliver was not a fool, however. They might deceive these country people, but there would be no real welcome for him, no respite, while the threat of death hung over his head.
“How much farther to Perinthia?” he asked, as they trudged up another rise in the Truce Road, which was broader now and spread with gravel.
Kitsune turned her jade eyes upon Frost, her cloak pulled around her so completely that her face and feet were all that was visible of her body. The winter man glanced at the sky, tracking the sun.
“Once we cross the Atlantic Bridge, half a day to the outskirts of the city. Even if we go on without rest all through the daylight hours, it will be night before we reach the city. We will have to camp and make our plan once night falls.”
Oliver considered his words and then frowned. “How far to this bridge?”
“The Atlantic Bridge,” Frost repeated, as though correcting him. “We’re nearly there.”
As they followed the Truce Road up that long rise, Oliver realized he could hear the river ahead. When they reached the peak and looked down into the river valley, he smiled in wonder. The river looked to be nearly a mile wide, and its current was swift and deep. The road went on a short way, down the other side of the hill, and then the bridge began. Small islands dotted the river and this place had obviously been chosen for that very reason. Stone pilings had been built upon the islands, and the bridge, a masterwork of stone architecture, spanned the entire river, touching down on each of those islands in turn, arching over the rushing water. Greenery grew thick upon those islands, and upon the one in the center there was an orchard of various fruit trees. From this distance it was difficult to tell how many different sorts of fruit grew there, but the colors were remarkably vivid. Oliver’s stomach rumbled at the thought of that fruit and he recalled the tins of SpaghettiOs in the pocket of his parka.
“We might have to stop and have a picnic on the way.”
“Perhaps,” Kitsune said, slipping past him and starting down the road to the bridge. She glanced back, face partially shadowed by the hood of her fur, and smiled playfully. “Is this your first time across the Atlantic?”
Oliver and Frost followed after her, the rush of the river growing louder as they neared its banks. The sun glinted off the rough water, sparkling brightly. Out in the deep current something leaped from the water and splashed down again before he could get a good look at it.
“What do you mean, first time? I’ve never been here before. How could I have crossed the river?”
Beside him, the winter man laughed softly. It was a surprisingly gentle noise. “The Atlantic, Oliver. Kitsune is teasing you. The name of the river is quite literal. The bridge spans the Atlantic . . . which here is not an ocean, but this river. Breadth and distance are relative, depending upon which side of the Veil you are on. Nothing is exactly the same. In our world, Atlantis and Lemuria still exist. The Atlantic Ocean is merely a river. The English Channel in your world is, here, the Sargasso Sea. And it is vast.”
They reached the bridge, and as they started across, treading upon bleached stone, Oliver stared toward the other side of the river.
“So, you’re telling me that’s Europe over there?”
Frost sighed. “Oliver, this isn’t your world. You’ve got to understand that. While every place here corresponds with a location in the mundane world, the two are not the same. Not at all. They exist parallel to each other . . . but they are not mirror images.”
Kitsune was ahead of them, hurrying as though she did not like being on the bridge— or perhaps she hated being above the water. Oliver ran his hand over the stone wall beside him, marveling at its smoothness. As he walked he looked down at the turgid water.
“But if this is the Atlantic, then when we reach the other side of the bridge, the land that we’ll be standing on will . . . correspond . . . with Europe?” He laughed at the absurdity of it, at the marvel of it.
“Not precisely.”
Oliver glanced sidelong at Frost. The winter man tilted his head, icicles cascading around his face.
“The United Kingdom, actually.”
White birds dove and soared above the water, circling above the tiny islands in the river. The rush of the river and the song of those birds were the only sounds he could hear. With all the wonders of this place he had not properly appreciated that facet of Frost’s world. The quiet. The peacefulness. Oliver could only take it all in and keep walking, musing to himself about what they would find when at last they reached Perinthia. In his mind he had built up certain expectations and he realized now that he would have to put them aside. It was a mistake to make any presumption at all about the world beyond the Veil and what he might find here.
His mind wandering, Oliver caught his foot on an upraised chunk of rock. He stumbled but managed to avoid falling. Looking back, he saw that some of the stones were buckled and cracked where something heavy had crossed the bridge. He glanced ahead and saw other such places and he wondered what monstrosity was so heavy that each of its steps would do that sort of damage. After thinking about it for a moment, he realized that there might be any number of things in Euphrasia that could be responsible, from giants to dragons to Heffalumps, for all he knew.
Oliver smiled at the thought and shook his head. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to meet it.
As he hurried to catch up to Frost he saw that farther ahead, where the bridge passed above the largest of the islands it spanned, Kitsune had paused. Some of the fruit trees were so tall that they grew higher than the rail of the bridge and the fox-woman was standing completely still, her body arched as though preparing to strike at some unseen enemy. Yet seconds passed without her moving as Oliver caught up to Frost, and then the two of them made their way toward her.
Wary, Oliver kept far away from the trees that grew beside the bridge. Frost followed suit.
“What is it?” the winter man asked.
Kitsune’s jade eyes flashed in the sun. She sniffed the air. “There. In the branches. Something watches us.”
For long seconds the three of them stood silent and unmoving, peering into the treetops. Oliver felt a rush of heat prickling his skin even as a gust of cold wind swept across the bridge. His heart raced and he could hear it beating inside his head. Only the wind and the river made any noise. The birds that had been circling overhead had disappeared and nothing rustled in those branches. The trees were taller than any fruit trees he had ever seen. There were apples and pears, peaches and nectarines, and in the middle a trio of cherry trees, branches festooned with dark purple fruit.
“Show yourself,” the winter man commanded.
A wave of cold emanated from him far more frigid than the wind. Oliver glanced over to see that Frost had his hands raised, fingers pointing toward the trees as though he meant to pluck some of that ripe fruit. Hunger rumbled in Oliver’s belly. He studied the fruit more closely. Once upon a time, his mother had taken him and Collette to an orchard in New Hampshire in the early fall to pick apples. Most of the nectarines were gone by that late in the season but Oliver had passed a tree that had a single, perfectly ripe nectarine hanging from a high branch. It had been the sweetest, most delicious thing he had ever tasted. Fruit of the gods. Now that the memory had returned he recalled that it had been his father who had plucked that fruit down for him. How odd, he thought, that he should have forgotten such a thing. His father’s presence on such an excursion would have been remarkable, even then. He had even shared a bite with his father and relished the warmth of the man’s smile. The recollection of that smile, of that rare moment of unguarded fondness, sent a wave of regret through Oliver, but he brushed it aside.
He had always tried to be the son Max Bascombe wanted, no matter how miserable it made him. Now fate had intervened. The mundane world that his father so cherished had been revealed to be a sham. And instead of relishing it, Oliver had to focus on just staying alive.
“Are you sure, Kitsune?” he asked, shifting the strap on the shotgun case that he wore slung across his back. “I don’t see—”
Still tasting the twenty-year-old memory of that nectarine, his eyes were on that particular tree. As he turned to glance at the fox-woman, though, he caught sight of eyes in the branches of the tallest of the cherry trees.
“Oh, fuck—” he snapped, stumbling back a few steps and slipping the shotgun case off his shoulder.
Kitsune leaped toward him, diminishing in midair, fur rippling as she transformed. She landed lightly on the stone bridge on fox feet and took up a position just in front of him, peering into the trees, trying to see what he had seen.
“What is it, Oliver?” Frost asked.
“The cherry tree,” he replied, unsure if the words made any sense. He narrowed his eyes and looked again, searching for what he had seen before. The tree itself, or so it seemed. Something with the gnarled look of tree bark but the color of the ripest cherry.
“Show yourself, or I freeze the tree from peak to root,” Frost warned. He stepped toward the tree, cold mist swirling from his hands.