A Knight in Central Park(24)

He slapped at a mosquito. “Enjoying the scenery, what does it look like?”

“’Tis not the time for such things. Get down from there!”

“Easy for you to say.” He looked about, tried to find an easy way down, or any way down for that matter.

“Two more stones are missing,” she said. She uncurled her fingers, revealing one stone. “’Twould seem each time I travel through time a stone disappears. Two people this time...two stones.”

“There’s no way those rocks brought us through time.”

“Mayhap you can explain why you are stuck in a tree. And where do you suppose all of your students disappeared to?”

A horse neighed.

Joe jerked about. Between the old barn and the manor was a large horse, saddled and ready to go. Firewood and an old cart leaned against the side of the barn. There had to be a reasonable explanation.

“Hurry down,” Alexandra called in a panicked whisper. “’Tis Richard’s man, Harig, who rides that beast. My grandfather could very well still be inside.”

Before Joe could reply, the door to the manor flew open, nearly falling from its hinges. The man he assumed to be Harig stepped outside. What Harig lost in height he made up in width, his shoulders as wide as a small building. Harig held high a well-lit torch, illuminating the plates of armor covering his chest.

Joe gawked in disbelief.

Harig’s booted feet shook the weathered planks of the porch, armor clanking with each step he took. The giant paused to peer into the darkness, sniffing the air as if he could smell their presence.

Joe waited for him to say “fee fi fo fum”, but an eerie silence surrounded him instead. This was insane!

“Do something!” Alexandra cried low under her breath.

“What do you want me to do?” Joe asked in a panicked whisper. “Poke him in the eyes? Stab him with my nail clippers?” Joe eyed his briefcase, watching it wobble precariously on a weak, out-of-reach limb.

“What is your plan?” she asked.

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” he said, reaching for the briefcase, trying desperately not to lose his balance. He leaned forward. The limb sagged. He stretched another half inch, his fingers almost touching the case.

The metal man peered across the fifty or so feet of gravely dirt that separated them, the gleam of his eyes a hazy yellow like some sort of wild animal. Suddenly a teenage boy, blindfolded and tied, hobbled out of the house.

The limb holding the briefcase snapped.

Joe lunged for it, grasping onto the handle of his briefcase before it crashed to the ground, his heart racing. He held the leather case tight to his chest.

Harig narrowed his eyes, then turned toward the boy.

From Joe’s bird’s eye view from the tree, the kid looked to be about twelve-years-old. His hands and feet were tied with thick twine. His small chin tipped upward at the sound of Harig’s deep voice, “You want to come along, do you?”

The boy stumbled backwards, obviously caught off guard. The kid must have thought Harig was long gone.

Joe opened his briefcase, shuffled through its contents. Perspiration gathered above his brow.

“What are you doing?” Alexandra asked. “Are you going to help my brother, or not?”

“I’m having a few problems up here if you don’t mind. Just give me a moment.”

Frantically, he searched through the briefcase for a weapon. Anything. His pulse raced, blood pounding in his throat. A quick glance over his shoulder told him he didn’t have much time. Harig was dragging Alexandra’s little brother toward the horse. Damn.

An armored man. A horse with an age-old saddle. Handmade plows and a barn made partly of wattle and daub. How could this be?

Think, Joe, think.

How was he supposed to think with images of the cold steel of the sword tucked in the sheath at the Harig’s side? If this wasn’t some god-awful nightmare, then he was in trouble...big trouble. But he had little time to worry about how he came to be here. Dream or not, helping the boy was all that mattered.

Pushing papers aside, Joe took quick inventory of what he had to work with. He saw the brushed steel of the toilet plunger and realized Alexandra had something to do with the assortment of modern weaponry stuffed inside his briefcase. Not only had she taken apart the plunger and packed the steel handle, she had thrown in everything a cop might find on any punk in a New York subway. If he ever got out of this tree, he was going to hug her.