Read Online In the Time of Kings by N. Gemini Sasson - Free Book Online Page B

mumble.
    “What’s that?” Dermot says from behind me.
    Looking over my shoulder at him, I fake a gracious smile. He’s drying his hands on his apron. Since I didn’t know he’d followed me out, it’s a good thing he spoke up or else he would’ve heard a string of cuss words next. “This is great. Thanks, Dermot.”
    “Just put it back in the shed when you return. Do you need me to call the car rental company for you? Or run the tire over to me cousin’s?”
    “Thanks, but no, I can take care of that later. Should be back around lunchtime, or a little after. If you could stop by the room sometime ...”
    “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’ll look in on her before I head out to pick up me mum.” He unties his apron and tucks it under his arm, then points down the street. “Take the main road that way. When you come to the edge of town, you’ll see a petrol station. Go left. There’s a stone bridge about three kilometers from that. After you cross the bridge you’ll take the second right. Just past the fourth house, turn left, go up the hill and —”
    “Wait.” I interrupt him before he can confuse me any further. “You lost me at the petrol station. We went by the kirk yesterday on our way here. I’m sure it wasn’t that complicated.”
    He rubs at his nose. “Just trying to keep you out of traffic. If you want, you can take the main road most of the way, but mind the automobiles. They don’t pay any heed to the speed limit. When you see the sign for Paxton, follow that. You should see the kirk just over the hill there. Careful of the lorries, though. They’re even worse. Think they own the bloody motorways.”
    I pat my pockets to make sure I have my phone and speed away — speed being a relative term, in this case.
    ––––––––
    S ince most people are already at work, the roads are fairly clear of traffic and I zoom into the parking lot less than ten minutes later. The kirk looks as though it has seen better days. Ragged patches of gray stone show through where its limewashed walls are chipped. The slate roof is in better condition, although the north side is half covered in algae from the frequent rains and the sprawling shade of the giant yew tree that prevents the sun from ever drying it out. Weathered headstones, mottled with lichens, are scattered over the lawn to the west of the building, the names they bear long since faded into oblivion. My guess is that more people are laid in the ground outside the old church than now make use of its interior, a theory confirmed when I realize that the gravel car park is overgrown with weeds that are now kept in check by frequent mowings.
    There is no evidence of Reverend Murray, no car, not even a bicycle. Maybe he walked here? I rest the bike against the stone wall that encloses the cemetery and walk toward the side door. As I approach the bright red door, I notice a yellow square of paper tacked to it, its edges fluttering in the breeze. The words are blurry, but the reverend’s writing is neat enough that I manage to piece the message together.
    Dear Mr. Sinclair,

    Sorry to have missed you. Called away unexpectedly. Come again tomorrow, if possible. Same time. I have interesting news for you.

    Blessings,
    Reverend Murray
    What kind of emergency could a retired pastor possibly have? Damn it. Tomorrow won’t exactly be convenient, since we have to take off for Edinburgh, but by then we’ll have a working car. At the bottom of the note, he has scrawled his office phone number. I stuff it in my front pocket and jog back to my nineteenth century wheels.
    A low rumble rolls across the land. In the west, heavy clouds are gathering — and they’re moving quickly my way. I swing a leg over and imagine myself on the last stage of the Tour de France, the finish line in sight.
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    I ’ve just reached the edge of Aberbeg when my phone rings. Raindrops the size of marbles pelt me.
    Barely avoiding an accident with a