Out of Time (2 page)

Simon watched her disappear into the mass of students and took a deep breath. The scent of her perfume lingered in the air. “None indeed.”

THE FALL EVENING AIR was crisp, as crisp as it got in Southern California. A cool breeze swept over the lawn in front of Professor Cross’ house, which was, of course, a Tudor-style mansion—strong and intimidating, reeking of old money. It was also dark; not even the porch light was on. Elizabeth frowned down at the stack of papers she held. Had he forgotten she was coming by to drop them off? Normally, she’d say that wasn’t possible. Professor Cross forgot nothing. But these past few days he hadn’t quite been himself and it worried her.

Chilly, Elizabeth tugged her T-shirt down more securely over her navel. She shifted the papers in her arms and peered through the dirty car window. There was a sweater in there somewhere, buried under the piles of books. Wasn’t worth the effort, she decided. After all, this was a hit and run. Drop the papers off and then back to the library. Again. It wasn’t as if he ever noticed what she wore anyway. She could wear live cats and it wouldn’t faze him.

A strong gust blew past her. Fallen leaves scraped against the pavement, the only sound in an otherwise strangely silent night. It wasn’t that late, but the street was empty, as if everyone knew something she didn’t, some coming apocalypse she’d missed the memo for. Maybe it was the full moon or the coming eclipse. She looked up into the bright moonlight, but the man in the moon wasn’t sharing his secrets either.

A large, gnarled oak tree blocked out most of the light from the moon and kept the front door shrouded in darkness. She stumbled on the path and almost lost her hold on the papers. Leave it to Professor Cross to have cobblestones. Probably imported them from England for the sole purpose of tripping young Americans.

She rang the bell and waited. After a few moments, the porch light came on and Simon opened the door. He wore casual slacks and a loose-fitting, forest green sweater. Normally, the color would have set off his eyes; now it only served to draw attention to how bloodshot they were.

“Miss West. What are you doing here?”

She held out the stack of graded papers. “You said I should drop these off.”

“What?”

“The essays from last night,” she prompted with a frown.

He ran a hand through his hair and nodded absently. “Right. Papers. Come in.”

They passed through the dark foyer and into the warm living room. A fire blazed in the hearth, and a single floor lamp cast a pool of soft light onto a large, leather wingback chair. As she entered the room, she felt she was stepping inside the man. Outside, the exterior was cold and imposing, but the inside was inviting and comforting.

She’d been to his home before and took each opportunity to find some new artifact or personal item. To put one more piece of the Simon Cross puzzle in its place. She set the papers down on the edge of a long, fruitwood trestle table and tried again to force her hair into some semblance of human appearance. “Essays weren’t too bad. I think a few of the students might actually be learning something.”

Simon hovered uneasily in the center of the room. “One can only hope.”

She knew she should bail. He wasn’t exactly in the receiving company sort of mood, but she couldn’t seem to leave well enough alone. Instead, she glanced around the room, guiltily sneaking a peek at the intimate details of his life. A grand piano sat in the corner. Although there was sheet music out, she couldn’t quite conjure the image of Simon ever playing it. Then, she noticed two large, open shipping boxes next to the sofa and gave in to her absurd urge to make small talk. “Get anything good?”

He looked confused and she gestured toward the crates. “Your boxes. Anything good in them?”

Good manners succumbed to curiosity, and she walked over to inspect the crates. Maybe there was something in them that was the cause of Simon’s recent un-Simon-like behavior.

An old photograph rested on top of the crumpled paper inside the box. She leaned over to get a better look. In the photo was a young, gangly boy who stood with his hands planted firmly on his hips. Pure Simon Cross. Although, the cheerful smile was an expression she’d never seen him wear. A dapper, older man with a shock of white hair and an outrageously bushy mustache had his arm draped over Simon’s shoulder. They looked like two great white hunters, their quarry just out of frame.

She’d been so caught up in the photograph she hadn’t noticed Simon at her side until she smelled the musk of his aftershave. He reached down and picked up the photograph. “My grandfather. Sebastian Cross.”

Elizabeth nodded. “The anthropologist.”

Simon fixed her with a piercing gaze, the flickering light from the fire reflected in his eyes. “You’ve heard of him?”

“Not a lot of Crosses in our field,” she pointed out. “I saw his name and got curious.”

She looked back at the photograph. “I read a few of his papers,” she continued. “He was—”

“Insane?” Simon’s voice was sharp, almost accusing.

It caught her off guard and she slid him a careful side eye. “I was going to say eccentric. His papers were…unique.”

Simon laughed. A cold bitter sound. “That’s the kindest assessment I’ve heard.”

Oddly, she felt the need to defend this man she’d never met. Sure, some of his theories were out there, but there was something so genuine and charming about the way he wrote. “The papers were very interesting.”

“If by interesting you mean they were disparaged in academic circles, you’d be correct.” He crossed over to the fireplace and carefully set the photo on the mantle.

In the two years of seeing him battle the impolitic politics of university life, she’d never seen him this defensive or wounded. “I didn’t mean that, Professor Cross.”

Simon gripped the edge of the mantle and stared into the blazing fire. The muscles of his back, tense and formidable, stood out in relief against the taut fabric of his sweater. A loud, crackling pop accentuated the silence.

“I know it’s none of my business,” she continued, throwing caution to the wind. “But if you want to talk, I’d—”

“You’re right.” Simon turned to face her, any sign of his turmoil replaced with an implacable hardness. “It’s none of your business.”

Stung by his rebuke and feeling foolish for having tried, Elizabeth said the only thing she could. “I guess I should be going then.”

Simon clenched his jaw, a deep frown furrowing his brow.

Elizabeth waited for another tense moment, courting the hope that he might ask her to stay. Finally, she gathered her wits and the shreds of her dignity. “Goodnight, Professor.”

She was nearly at the foyer when she heard his voice, demanding and pleading at the same time. “I’m—I’m sorry, Miss West. That was rude of me.”

She stopped and slowly turned to face him.

Simon glanced back at the photo of his grandfather, as if he could find the answer to some unspoken question in the faded Kodachrome. She’d never seen him like this—so at a loss. It was strangely appealing and more than a little unnerving.

“There’s something I’d like to show you,” he said and indicated that she should come back into the living room. “That is, if you don’t have another engagement.”

Elizabeth shook her head and smiled. He was actually asking her to stay, and she knew him well enough to know it cost him dearly to ask. Trying not to appear too giddy at the prospect and failing miserably, she said, “I’m all yours.”

He nodded, the ghost of a grateful smile in his eyes. “Please,” he said, gesturing to the sofa.

Simon waited until she’d taken her seat before he sat opposite her in the overstuffed wingback. He looked down at his hands, and the silence stretched out between them. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Can I offer you something to drink? A glass of wine?”

She wondered if the earth had shifted on its axis. Two apologies from Simon Cross in under a minute.

“Only if you’re having one,” she agreed, and he excused himself and went into the kitchen. Elizabeth couldn’t imagine what had come over him. One minute he was distrustful and caustic, the next he was a gracious, even nervous, host.

She glanced around the room and hoped to find some clues to explain his aberrant behavior of the last few days. Vases and more picture frames poked out of the crates. Small statues, one of them a very well-endowed fertility god, were strewn about the bases of the boxes. They all looked to be almost discarded, as though he’d gone through the crates looking for something in particular. That’s when she noticed an ornate box made of deep, rich mahogany on the coffee table. At first, she’d thought it was just decoration, but a small bit of packing paper was caught between the lid and the body. It had clearly come from one of the crates and now she wondered if it was what he’d been looking for.

An intricate gold and porcelain inlay of a globe adorned the lid. As she leaned in to get a better look, Simon came back into the room and handed her a glass.

“I’m afraid I only have Cabernet,” he apologized, but she hardly cared.

Elizabeth took a sip and leaned back into the sofa cushions. Curious what he’d say, she indicated the box on the table.

“That’s beautiful.”

Simon glanced down at the small chest. “It was my grandfather’s. All of this was his.”

She knew from what little she’d read about Sebastian that he’d died nearly thirty years ago. Why were the belongings just now being passed on?

As if sensing her question, Simon lifted his eyes to hers. “My aunt died last week and the family sent these along.”

That certainly went a long way in explaining some of his behavior the last few days.

“I’m sorry for you loss,” Elizabeth said. “Were you close? To your aunt, I mean.”

“Hardly,” Simon said. “She had a unique talent for making you feel very, very small. My family wasn’t exactly what you’d call…” He frowned searching for the right word. “Functional.”

“Functional is relative. Sorry, bad pun.”

Simon took a sip of wine and set his glass down. “I wasn’t very close to my family, except for my grandfather. I spent my summers away from boarding school with him in Sussex.”

“He’s the reason you teach occult.”

It wasn’t any great leap of logic, but he seemed surprised she’d come to that conclusion. He leaned back in his chair and studied her for a moment. His expression eased from surprise to reluctant admiration. “He specialized in anthropology of the supernatural. And, not surprisingly, was ignored and ridiculed for what most saw as a specious field of study at best.”

“Unlike today, when it’s so revered,” she teased him, thinking of their constant battles with the grant department, the minuscule office they were forced to share and a hundred other indignities she’d seen him endure at the hands of people who thought Occult Studies the bastard child of interdepartmental parents.

Simon lifted his chin and his glass in acknowledgment. Then he took a drink and spent a long moment in thought before he said, “My grandfather was an extraordinary man.” And just like that, the reticent Simon Cross started sharing.

Elizabeth nursed her drink as Simon recounted his summers with his grandfather. She didn’t dare interrupt with any questions, afraid he’d stop. The most personal thing he’d ever said before was that, in his opinion, Thousand Island dressing was an abomination. She sat quietly with rapt attention as the unfathomable Professor Cross revealed fathom after fathom.

The old man had told him stories of his adventures with everything from the anthropomorphs of ancient Greece to the zombies of eighteenth century France.

“And, like any young boy would be,” Simon continued. “I was enthralled. His ‘brunch with the death eaters of Peru’ was a personal favorite.”

He seemed to retreat inside himself, as he slowly ran a long finger against the smooth edge of the mahogany box. “I was never allowed to touch this when I was a boy.”

Elizabeth’s curiosity, as it was wont to do, got the better of her. “But you’re not a boy anymore.”

He glanced at her.

“No,” Simon said, his voice stronger and his eyes clearer. He paused only a second and then he took a small key from the table, slid it into the lock and opened the box.

There were dozens of small items resting on a red velvet covering. Jewelry, charms, and coins. He picked up a small pouch by its leather strap.

“A gris-gris,” Elizabeth said, barely able to contain her excitement.

“Typical of turn of the century voodoo practitioners, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, handing the charm to her.

He picked up another item from the box, a small silver coin no larger than a dime. He held it to the light. “This is odd.”

Elizabeth pulled her attention away from the gris-gris. “What is?”

Simon gave her the coin. “What’s wrong with this?”

Elizabeth examined it as he’d taught her.

“Well, it’s Greek. A griffin on one side and the head of a bull on the other. It looks authentic enough, but—” Her eyes rounded as the realization sunk in. “No signs of wear at all. It looks newly minted.”

Simon reached for the next anomalous item, but he stopped and then slowly drew his hand back and rubbed his jaw. His eyes were locked upon a beautiful, gold pocket watch.

“I remember this,” he said, his voice not as strong as it had been a moment before. The cords in neck worked as he swallowed down some unwanted emotion and reached for the box again. “Grandfather always carried this watch with him, but I never once saw him open it.”

Simon’s hand trembled as he took the watch out of the box. “I remember some men coming by the house asking about it not long after his death. I never did find out who they were.”

He looked across at her and cocked his head to the side. “Strange, don’t you think? Sending four men after a simple pocket watch.”

“Collectors?” she asked.

He shrugged, his eyes clouded with worry and a tinge of fear.

Elizabeth set down the coin and moved to stand next to him. The watch case was etched with an intricate replica of the Mercator globe. He turned the timepiece over and summoned the courage to open it. He flexed his fingers and carefully undid the small clasp.