An Important Notice to Readers...
Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience. Please be advised.
|The strange gold pocket watch|
Both of them stared at the object in the box, neither of them opting to reach in and pick it up. Kneeling on a chair, Roxanne tilted the metal container to get a better view. "I gotta say I'm a little disappointed Kev. I'm sure it's worth a nice chunk of change... if it's real gold, but...well...I was sorta expecting something a little more...awesome. Especially considering where it was being stored. Are you sure there's nothing more in there?"
Fr. Kevin sighed, and began to shuffle the contents. He shook his head, and pulled out an antique, gold pocket watch, and a folded piece of paper. "Nope...that's it. Just this watch, and some kind of note." He held the time piece up for her to examine, the light catching it's surface and making it seem oddly glowing. "It is a very nice watch. And who knows...maybe it has some historical value."
Sensing her obvious disappointment, he added, "Not a box of money or jewels, Rox. But still very cool. It must have been pretty important to someone to cause them to go to so much trouble to bury it's location like they did."
"I guess. Still, I just had such a strong feeling that...that...oh, I don't know...that it wanted us to find it." She stopped it from swinging in his hand, and examined it more closely. "There's some kind of engraving on the back, but it doesn't make any sense to me."
Kevin took it from hand, and peered at the marks on the flat side of the time piece. "Yeah...there's some kind of message, but it's not any language I can read. Looks more like symbols than actual letters or words." Seeing her interest piqued, he teased, "Or maybe they're ancient rune markings, Rox, left by some elven king of Middle Earth."
She giggled, and slapped his bare arm. "Ok, now you're just being an ass O'Kenney. Stop teasing me. Admit it, Kevin. You're as disappointed as I am that it's just a pocket watch. I know you were hoping it might be something valuable that belonged to your parish."
For a brief second, Fr. Kevin thought about the suitcase full of money left in his confessional last summer, and all the trouble that followed, and shuddered. "Gotta be careful what you wish for, my friend. Sometimes things aren't what they seem."
She seemed to take his words to heart, and thought on them for a moment. "You know, you could be right, Kevin. Maybe it's value is other than monetary. Could have some kind of historical value. Maybe it belonged to Paul Revere, or someone like that. This is, after all, Boston." She handed the folded paper to him. "Read the note. Maybe it can tell us more about the watch."
The paper was very old and brittle, and tiny pieces flaked off, and fell to the table with each unfold. Fr. Kevin gingerly picked at the corners, until the parchment lay flat and open on the table, while
Roxanne examined the elegant looped handwriting, faded to the palest gray. "Damn! Just more goobly gook. Doesn't make a bit of sense to me. How 'bout you?"
He slid the paper closer, settling himself in the chair next to Roxanne. "Actually, I think I can read some of this. It's Gaelic, but a much older form than I'm used to seeing. I'm guessing that I could probably pick out enough words to get the gist of it."
"That's cool! So what does it say, Kev?"
Fr. Kevin took a moment, and silently examined the few lines of words, before attempting to read it out loud. "Beir greim ar lámha ama, agus a shealbhú iad daingean. I gcás go bhfuil an teaghrán a chónaisceann snaidhmthe san am atá caite, ar an snáithe go secures go deo ar an todhchaí. Bí tú an tailliúr, ansin tá am i do chumhacht. Go raibh Dia leat."
"Yeah...yeah...alrighty than...so what does that all mean...in English?"
"I think it's something about time."
"Well, that makes sense. It is a watch, you know. Does it say who it belongs to? Is it someone famous?"
"Just hang on a sec, Rox. I'm trying to figure it all out"
She watched as he silently mouthed the words, weighing their meaning in context to the others. After several impatient minutes, he looked up from the sheet. "I think I have it translated."
"So tell me already. What does it say?"
Kevin stared at the faded parchment intently, as he read the words. "Grasp the hands of time, and hold them tight. For the string that binds is knotted in the past, a thread that forever secures the future. Be you the tailor, then time is in your power. May God be with you."
Roxanne's face crinkled in defeat. "Great. Tells us absolutely nothing. Just some Irish poem about time." She folded her hands and laid her head on them. "I'm sorry, Kevin. I dragged you on some totally wild goose chase, for no purpose at all. I apologize. Plus, now we're going to have to rush to get to the station before the last train back leaves at 6, and there's no time even for dinner. I'm really sorry about all this."
"Don't feel bad, Roxanne. It was a fun day. And the watch still has to have some kind of value. Even if it's not a priceless antique, I'm pretty sure it's made of gold. It's gotta be worth a few thousand, at least."
"Does it even work? Maybe a collector of old watches would be interested? I see stuff like this on Pawn Stars all the time."
"Hmmm. I don't know. Let's try it out. Here...you hold the bottom, and I'll try pulling out and twisting the stem. We'll have to use a delicate touch. I don't want this tiny piece to snap off in my hand. Then it will truly be scrap metal."
Roxanne moved her chair closer to Kevin, and took hold of the watch's face. Using his fore fingers, Kevin popped the little appendage up, carefully twisting it both ways to figure the correct direction. They watched as the little hands under the crystal moved slowly around the numbers on the face. For a brief second, the lights flickered, and there grew, from nowhere in particular, a low humming sound that built with intensity.
"Kev, do you hear that? That weird humming noise?"
He opened his mouth to answer her, but the words died on his tongue. His head began to swim, and the room shimmered and grew fuzzy to his sight. His sweaty hands slipped from the watch, and he felt himself falling backwards, until everything went a deep, velvety black.
|Ted and Maureen make their way to Izamal|
It took both of them a better part of an hour to drag Arroyo's rug wrapped body to the ravine behind the building, and dump it amongst the rocks. That finished, Beckett retrieved their passports and money from the hiding spot in the car, while Maureen did her best to do away with any signs of the man's murder. As she wiped the last of his blood from the cracks in tile, she pondered the unique position she currently found herself in. Here she was, nearly four months pregnant, newly married, in a foreign country, a witness to murder her husband had committed, and without a single resource of any kind. Her entire safety rested in a man who she had known less than a year, who was, without a doubt, capable of extreme behavior. She wanted to tell herself that she loved him, but wasn't sure if that would be entirely true. Obssessed? Yes. But love? That was a line of thought she didn't want to deal with. Not here. Not now. That was a question to ponder in a different setting. She was sure of only one thing. She trusted Theodore Beckett. Had from the moment she'd met him, for no specific reason she could ever explain. There was not a shred of doubt that he would do anything in his power to see to her safety and well being, as well as that of the child she carried. And at this particular moment in time, that seemed enough.
Beckett poked his head in at the door, an A-K 47 thrown over his shoulder in the same comfortable manner other men might hoist a golf club. "You about ready, babe?"
She dumped the sponge into the bucket of bloody water, and stood. "Just about. I got as much of it up as I could."
He wandered over to the spot, and examined the floor. "Looks good. We don't have to worry about leaving trace evidence. Just don't want the place screaming 'dead'. The longer we can fool them into thinking that Arroyo's still alive, the better for us." Taking the bucket from her hands, he added, "I'll get rid of this, you grab your things and take a seat in Arroyo's jeep. I'm gonna get rid of our rental car, and then we'll be off. Okay?"
Maureen gathered up her few belongings, and made her way to the jeep. From the vehicle, she could hear the motor start on on the rental, followed by a huge crash, as the car slid into the ravine over the exact spot they had recently dumped the body. A few moments later, Ted appeared, the rifle still at his side. He slid into the seat next to her, and started the engine. Then, with a smile so hopelessly out of place given their current situation, he asked, "You ready to go home, baby girl?"
"More than you know. But how are we getting there? You said yourself...the bad guys will be watching all the commercial airlines? We're sorta stuck."
"No worries, sweetheart. We're gonna make our way to Izamal...just like Arroyo advised. We'll find a plane we can use to get home. Well, not all the way home, but at least to the Florida Keys. Once we're there, we can take a commercial flight back to Boston. Sound like a plan?"
Her husband had a way of putting things that made the most craziest of plans sound perfectly normal. "I suppose...but what kind of plane will we find at Izamal. I thought he said they had crop dusters and sea planes. Will we be able to get all the way to Florida in one of those?"
He paused, thought about it, and then nodded. "It'll be a bit of a stretch fuel wise, but I'm thinking we'll be okay."
"Thinking we'll be okay? That doesn't sound too reassuring, Ted. Besides, who you gonna get to fly the damn plane...even if you can actually find one in Izamal?"
He smiled, all straight white teeth, and strong jaw. "Why, me of course, darlin'. I'm a licensed pilot. I thought you knew."
|Just where is Fr. Kevin?|
It was the cold that finally brought him back to his senses. A biting, achey chill that seemed to seep through his very clothes. It took several attempts at forcing his eye lids open before he could bring anything into focus, allowing him to access his current situation. And when his foggy head cleared enough to allow his dormant brain to function, what he saw left him in a complete state of shock. The room was dark and shabby, a bedroom of sorts, with glowing embers in a tiny fireplace being the only source of heat. Wind blew in from a cracked window decorated with frosty ice, and threatened to extinguish the last of the fire. He found himself lying upon a lumpy mattress, perched on an old wooden bed frame. The clothes he had so carefully picked out that very morning, were gone, replaced with a tattered and worn robe over a stained white dressing gown.
Confusion pounded in his head, and he worked desperately at putting together some type of recall. He remembered being at the bank. With Roxanne. The two of them had been in that crazy vault with the paneled walls. They had found the box the key opened. Yes. Yes. The box. The box held something...what was it now...his brain seemed frozen like the rest of him...yes...the watch...it was a watch...a gold pocket watch. He struggled, hoping to bring to mind the last minutes of that memory.
He recalled Roxanne sitting next to him. The scent of oranges from the shampoo she used on her hair. That note on the table in front of him. In Gaelic. Something about time. About threads holding it together. Then they had handled the watch. Tried to wind the stem...the humming noise...and then nothing. Nothing until he had come to conciousness a few moments ago.
He felt ill and confused. Disoriented both physically and mentally, with fear gnawing at his insides like a hungry beast. He pushed the musty blankets off his body, grateful to find that it still appeared to be his body. He slipped out of the bed, and made his way to the cracked window, the cold air, and his fear, causing him to shudder and shake. With his hand, he brushed away a patch of ice, scraping at it until he had made a hole big enough to see through. Outside, the wind and snow swirled about cobblestone streets, while a cart and horse pushed their way against the wind. From the window, he could see the familiar steeple of the Old North Church. The sight reassured him. He was still in Boston. But surely not modern Boston, as his surroundings attested to. Just where the hell was he? And where, good Lord, was Roxanne?
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