The Presence

Ellen shoved her husband away. “Stop it! She’s terrified as it is.”

“And she wants us to call the police? Our only child will wind up on the front page of the papers, and if they don’t catch this psycho murdering women, he’ll come after her! No, Ellen.”

“Maybe they can catch him,” Ellen suggested softly.

“You have to forget it!” Donald said sternly to his daughter.

She nodded gravely, then shook her head. “I have to tell it!” she whispered.

Ellen seldom argued with Donald. But tonight she had picked her battle.

“When this happens … you have to let her talk.”

“No police!” Donald insisted.

“I’ll call Adam.”

“That shyster!”

“He’s no shyster and you know it.”

Donald’s eyes slid from his wife’s to those of his daughter, which were awash in misery and a fear she shouldn’t have to know. “Call the man,” he said.

* * *

He was very old; that was Toni’s first opinion of Adam Harrison. His face was long, his body was thin, and his hair was snow-white. But his eyes were the kindest, most knowing, she had seen in her nine years on earth.

He came to the bedside, took her hand, clasped it firmly between his own and smiled slowly. She had been shaking, but his gentle hold eased the trembling from her, just as it warmed her. He was very special. He understood that she had seen what she had seen without ever leaving the house. And she knew, of course, that it was ridiculous. Such things didn’t happen. But it had happened.

She hated it. Loathed it. And she understood her father’s concern. It was a very bad thing. People would make fun of her—or they would want to use her ability for their own purposes.

“So, tell me about it,” 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.

InterludeWhen 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.