The Presence. Heather Graham
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Adam said to her, after he had explained that he was an old friend of her mother’s family.
“I saw it,” she whispered, and the shaking began again.
“Tell me what you saw.”
“There was a woman on the street, trying to get cars to stop. One stopped. She leaned into it, and she started to talk to the man about money. Then she went with him. She got into the car. It was red.”
“It was a convertible?”
“Like Uncle Ted’s car.”
“Right,” he said, squeezing her hand again.
Her voice became a monotone. She repeated some of the conversation between the man and woman word for word. Perspiration broke out on her body as she felt the woman’s growing sense of fear. She couldn’t breathe as she described the knife. She was drenched with sweat at the end, and cold. So cold. He talked to her and assured her.
Then the police arrived, called by neighbors who were awakened by her screams.
The two officers flanked her bed and started firing questions at her, demanding to know what she had seen—or what had been done to her.
Despite the terror, she felt all right because of Adam. But then huge tears formed in her eyes. “Nothing, nothing! I saw nothing!”
Adam rose, his voice firm and filled with such authority that even the men with their guns and badges listened to him. They left the room. Adam winked at her and went with the men, telling her that he would talk to them.
A month later, the police came back to the house. She could hear her father angrily telling them that they had to leave her alone. But despite his argument, she found herself facing a police officer who kept asking her terrible questions. He described horrific things, his voice growing rougher and rougher. Somewhere in there, she closed off. She couldn’t bear to hear him anymore.
She woke up in the hospital. Her mother was by her side, tears in her eyes. She was radiant with happiness when Toni blinked and looked at her.
Her father was there, too. He kissed Toni on the forehead, then, choking, left the room. An older man in the back stepped up to her.
“You’re going to move,” he told her cheerfully. “Out to the country. The police will never come again.” “The police?”
“Yes, don’t you remember?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry … I’m really sorry. I don’t know who you are.”
He arched a fuzzy white brow, staring at her. “I’m Adam. Adam Harrison. You really don’t remember me?”
She studied him gravely and shook her head. She was lying, but he just smiled, and his smile was warm and comforting.
“Just remember my name. And if you ever need me, call me. If you dream again, or have a nightmare.”
“I don’t have nightmares,” she told him.
“If you dream …”
“Oh, I’m certain I don’t have dreams. I don’t let myself have dreams. Some people can do that, you know.”
His smile deepened. “Yes, actually, I do know. Well, Miss Antoinette Fraser, it has been an incredible pleasure to see you, and to see you looking so well. If you ever just want to say hello, remember my name.”
She gripped his hand suddenly. “I will always remember your name,” she told him.
“If you ever need me, I’ll be there,” he promised.
He brushed a kiss on her forehead, and then he was gone. Just a whisper of his aftershave remained.
Soon her memory faded and the whole thing became vague, not real. There was just a remnant in her mind, no more than that whisper of aftershave when someone was really, truly gone.
Interlude When Cromwell Reigned
From his vantage point, MacNiall could see them, arrayed in all their glittering splendor. The man for whom they fought, the ever self-righteous Cromwell, might preach the simplicity and purity one should seek in life, but when he had his troops arrayed, he saw to it that no matter what their uniform, they appeared in rank, and their weapons shone, as did their shields.
As it always seemed to be with his enemy, they were unaware of how a fight in the Highlands might best be fought. They were coming in their formations. Rank and file. Stop, load, aim, fire. March forward. Stop, load, aim, fire….
Cromwell’s troops depended on their superior numbers. And like all leaders before him, Cromwell was ready to sacrifice his fighting man. All in the name of God and the Godliness of their land—or so the great man preached.
MacNiall had his own God, as did the men with whom he fought. For some, it was simply the God that the English did not face. For others, it had to do with pride, for their God ruled the Scottish and Presbyterian church, and had naught to do with an Englishman who would sever the head of his own king.
Others fought because it was their land. Chieftains and clansmen, men who would not be ruled by such a foreigner, men who seldom bowed down to any authority other than their own. Their land was hard and rugged. When the Romans had come, they had built walls to protect their own and to keep out the savages they barely recognized as human. In the many centuries since, the basic heart of the land had changed little. Now, they had another cause—the return of the young Stuart heir and their hatred for their enemy.
And just as they had centuries before, they would fight, using their land as one of their greatest weapons.
MacNiall granted Cromwell one thing—he was a military man. And he was no fool. He had called upon the Irish and the Welsh, who had learned so very well the art of archery. He had called upon men who knew about cannons and the devastating results of gunpowder, shot and ball, when put to the proper use. All these things he knew, and he felt a great superiority in his numbers, in his weapons.
But still, he did not know the Highlands, nor the soul of the Highland men he faced. And today he should have known the tactics the Highlander would use more so than ever. For MacNiall had heard that these troops were being led by a man who had been one of their own, a Scotsman from the base of the savage lands himself.
Grayson Davis—turncoat, one who had railed against Cromwell. Yet one who had been offered great rewards—the lands of those he could best and destroy.
Like Cromwell, Davis was convinced that he had the power, the numbers and the right. So MacNiall counted on the fact that he would underestimate his enemy—the savages from the north, ill equipped, unkempt, many today in woolen rags, painted as their ancestors, the Picts, fighting for their land and their freedom.
Rank and file, marching. Slow and steady, coming ever forward. They reached the stream.
“Now?” whispered MacLeod at his side.
“A minute more,” replied MacNiall calmly.
When the enemy was upon the bridge, MacNiall raised a hand. MacLeod passed on the signal.
Their marksman nodded, as quiet, calm and grim as his leaders, and took aim.
His shot was true.
The bridge burst apart in a mighty explosion, sending fire and sparks skyrocketing, pieces of plank and board and man spiraling toward the sky, only to land again in the midst of confusion and terror, bloodshed and death. For they had waited. They had learned patience, and the bridge had been filled.
Lord God, MacNiall thought, almost wearily. By now their enemies should have learned that the death and destruction of human beings, flesh and blood, was terrible.
“Now?” said MacLeod again, shouting this time to be heard over the