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  “Where?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “It might be a good idea. I was really excited by the last book I’ve just finished editing. The author said that if I was ever in San Francisco, I should look him up. This would be the perfect time to get away. So much has been happening the last few days,” she said bleakly.

  Like getting dumped by Charles, a young man old before his time, so set in his ways. Marjory would never forget what had happened on the holiday the three of them had just returned from. She had been following the track that wound its crooked way through the gorse up to the quoit, a massive tomb built with huge stones individually weighing tons, capped by a gigantic stone slab. Remembering what—or rather whom she’d seen there—made Marjory catch her breath. Afterward, wanting the company of her niece, she had hurried back to the caravan. Geraldine had instantly known that something unusual had happened.

  “Are you all right, Aunt Marjory? You look so pale.”

  “Quite all right, dear.” She really had received a jolt, but she hadn’t wanted to upset Geraldine, who tended to worry too much over everything.

  “What happened?”

  “I saw someone.”

  The Boyfriend—she couldn’t help thinking of him as one of those stock characters in a morality play for he always seemed to be playing a role—was staring at her as though she had just come down with an acute case of advanced senility, although she was only 61, not old for this day and age.

  “Who was it?” Geraldine asked.

  “A woman. She just appeared. She hadn’t been there a second earlier. You know that place on the track, how nothing bigger than a rabbit could hide there in the gorse.”

  “How was she dressed?” asked Charles.

  You had to give him credit. He was all business when it counted. Gone was the tentativeness, that air of constantly reinventing himself that alternated between upper-class hauteur and diffidence. Poor boy wins scholarship to Oxford, graduates with doctorate, and becomes a lecturer in history at the University of London. Very satisfying in some respects, but he seldom looked happy—even though he had been engaged to Geraldine for some time.

  “The woman was dressed very simply in some kind of long blue dress fastened with a cord. She wore a twisted gold necklace—I think it’s called a torque—and a gold bracelet around her right arm. Her long fair hair fell to her waist. Oh, and she was holding out her hand to me.”

  “An admirable description, Mrs. Bennett. You say it was a torque she wore?” asked Charles, his tone respectful now. He obviously hadn’t expected her to know anything about his specialty, Celtic history.

  “Quite sure. In a museum I saw the exact same thing, a solid, tubelike thing that went close around the throat.”

  “Did she talk to you, Aunt Marjory?”

  “No, Geraldine, she didn’t. After she held out her hand to me and smiled, she vanished.”

  “Sounds like you’ve seen a real, live ghost!”

  Twenty-nine and still her niece retained a childlike enthusiasm. Better that than the world-weary airs that some of her contemporaries affected.

  Marjory remembered the solemn, quiet child she had first met when her brother had married Geraldine’s mother, Helen, a widow. It had taken a while with trips to museums and the seaside to win the child’s trust. One day, just before they were going on some excursion or other, Geraldine had blurted out that she wished her friend could come with them.

  Only too glad that at last her niece was making friends, Marjory had answered, “Of course, as long as she receives permission from her parents.”

  “She doesn’t have any.”

  “She must have a guardian.”

  Geraldine had turned pale and fidgeted in agitation before whispering, “She lives in heaven where my real daddy is.”

  Marjory thought back to the time when Geraldine had been so ill that the doctor had warned the family that she might die. Had she experienced what some called a near-death-experience before being resuscitated? Researchers had found that after what they called an NDE, people were different, some more psychic. Was this what had happened to Geraldine? Could she be seeing something or someone real, not a purely imaginary friend?

  “I expect people see a lot of weird things out here, what with stone circles and enormous stone graves positively littering the English landscape.” Turning to Charles, she asked, “Perhaps you’ve heard of the Dragon’s Project?”

  Frowning now, his lean frame slightly stooped and looking down at her from his superior height of six foot plus, Charles replied stiffly, “Vaguely. Weren’t they investigating megaliths? I believe they used psychics.”

  She was quick to note the hint of disdain in Charles’s tone of voice, as though the mention of the word psychics had left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “They used scientists, also, to take measurements and monitor the energies at the sites. Professor John Taylor of King’s College, London—where you lecture—and a Dr. Balanovski found magnetic anomalies with a magnetometer at a standing stone near Crickhowell in Wales. Some unusual signals were also found when monitoring with ultrasound at the Rollright Stones in Oxford.”

  “A fault of their equipment, perhaps?” suggested Charles.

  Marjory shook her head decisively. “That was ruled out. Radio signals behave oddly, too, in the vicinity of the monuments. People have seen strange lights and heard sounds that can’t be explained.”

  “Has anyone else had those kinds of experiences?” asked Geraldine.

  “Yes, three people, one of them a scientist, saw some amazing things at the Rollright Stones.”

  “Such as?” Charles was definitely challenging her. She saw Geraldine throwing him an irritated look.

  Mildly, Marjory said, “Someone saw a gypsy caravan pulled by a horse—a caravan that hadn’t been there a minute earlier. Many other people have seen unusual things.”

  “You’re full of the most fascinating stories,” said Geraldine.

  “Hardly surprising. I was a reference librarian before I retired,” she explained to Charles. “Old habits of researching information die hard, but now I can please myself and look up what I like, for example, megaliths in which I’ve become very interested.”

  Charles was thawing. He no longer looked quite so dour.

  “Has this project come up with any explanation for these oddities you’ve just mentioned?”

  “Several, but nothing definitive. Some scientists believe that people have these experiences here because these sites have a higher radioactivity than the surrounding countryside, or special magnetic backgrounds. It seems that the megalith builders may have understood something of this and used these areas to induce trance states. For instance, some of the stones have cuplike depressions where one can recline with one’s head resting on the stone. In this way, by putting certain areas of the brain in direct contact with the stones, altered states can be induced.”

  Geraldine shivered. Rain-laden wind had begun blowing over the bleak countryside where the few stunted trees provided no shelter. And it had grown dark, too.

  Marjory asked, “Would you like to go back to the caravan?”

  “Yes, I think so. It’s getting rather cold out here.”

  It was warm inside the caravan. The little circle of light cast by the lantern helped her understand better how the first Neolithic settlers in the region must have cherished their fires, which warded off not only prowling beasts but evil spirits, too.

  Humanity seemed so puny in the face of the elements. It was a wonder the race had survived. Was it their felt inadequacies that had made them so determined to dominate the earth, to prove their right to be here?

  Geraldine interrupted her reverie by asking, “How about a nice cup of tea, Aunt Marjory?”

  She looked up with a start to see her niece looking with some concern at her. “Why, yes, I’d love one.”

  Charles was staring off into space, a distracted look on his face. For a few moments, she wished she were tuck
ed up in her little cottage in St. Ives, but then she wouldn’t have seen the woman.

  Geraldine began fiddling with the tea things and then said, “About that woman you saw. I’ve been trying to puzzle it out, why she appeared to you. Could there be a special reason why you saw her?”

  She might have known that Geraldine wouldn’t leave the matter alone. Ever since childhood, she would get hold of something and wouldn’t let it go until she was satisfied that she had learned everything about it that she could.

  “Are you asking why it was I and not someone else who saw the woman, or why that particular person appeared on the road?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe both. Is there anything more you can tell us about her?”

  Her niece was sharp and very intuitive. Somehow she had sensed that there was more information. It was only a small thing.

  “A name came to mind: Bryanna. I have no idea who she might be—or might have been,” Marjory corrected herself.

  After a few moments of silence, Charles rubbed his chin and asked, “If the woman you saw was a Celt, what was she doing near the quoit? That tomb was built much earlier, in the Neolithic period. So what connection, if any, would a Celt have with it?”

  Marjory shook her head. “I can’t say, but I’ve read that people in later times may have used the stone circles for religious ceremonies.”

  “But this isn’t a stone circle like Stonehenge, which, I grant you, early peoples may have used for astronomical calculations such as indicating the equinoxes. The structure here was used as a grave.”

  “So the lady was just another day-tripper, like ourselves,” said Geraldine flippantly.

  Charles flushed in irritation. He opened his mouth to say something and closed it as Geraldine put a restraining hand on his arm. A moment of awkward silence ensued before Geraldine announced, “I bought some crisps to go with our tea, if anyone would like some.”

  Charles brightened visibly at this, and Marjory was grateful for her niece’s tact.

  Later that night as she settled into her bunk in the rented caravan, she had remembered the letter Caleb Morgan had sent her. Why had he invited her to his home? What was so important that she had to leave her comfortable life here and involve herself in goodness knew what?

  Yet she had to go. Caleb’s letter had a sense of urgency about it that she could appreciate because after seeing Bryanna, she, too, had felt an urgency licking along her nerves.

  “Aunt Marjory?” asked Geraldine softly, recalling her aunt to the present in St. Ives. “Thank you so much for asking me to come with you to San Francisco.”

  Marjory patted Geraldine’s hand. “We’ll have a good time, just like we used to do when you were little and we went all over together.”

  Geraldine nodded assent, but under her thick sweater her thin shoulders shrugged as though in disbelief.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dan Morgan San Francisco, Friday, June 19, 1992

  * * *

  “Thank you for treating us to a wonderful lunch,” said Laney, smiling at Caleb, as they were leaving the restaurant on Pier 39.

  “My pleasure,” said Caleb with an old-fashioned politeness.

  This was the life, thought Dan, looking beyond the pier at the sailboats scudding along before the freshening wind. He didn’t give a damn about streetcars or any of the other tourist attractions of San Francisco. He was enjoying being here with his daughter, Laney—thanks to Caleb, who had sent them two airplane tickets—and not having to worry about a thing.

  So far, it had been the perfect vacation. Since they’d arrived a few days ago, Caleb had relentlessly played tour guide and host extraordinaire, escorting them in the morning to the little shops along Ghirardelli Square and then to his office building. From the gleam in his eyes and the way he had strutted around, you could see how proud he was of his tower.

  For a guy in his 60s, Caleb sure had a lot of energy. He’d hustled them around like someone half his age.

  Once or twice, he had caught Caleb looking speculatively at him and at Laney. She seemed to have wound Caleb right around her little finger. She had that effect on men, even older ones, it seemed. When Caleb looked at Laney, his gaze softened and even his voice got a touch gentler. He must have been a terror in his day. Probably still was.

  With a faint smile on her face, she said something or other to J.J. (Laney had said that the boy preferred to be called that), who looked ill at ease with his hands jammed into his pockets.

  Dan sighed. It seemed so long ago, he thought, since he’d been that age, but reliving his youth was something that didn’t really appeal to him. Growing up had been tough at times. His father had been in the military and moved his family often. That meant new schools where the other kids all knew each other and he was always the odd one out. They didn’t pick on him—he was tall and strongly built like his father, and they found out that, while he wouldn’t pick fights, he wouldn’t back down from them, either.

  “It’s quite the view, isn’t it?” said Marjory.

  “Sure is.”

  He cleared his throat. Aunt Marjory reminded him of his high school English teacher, Miss Crawder, tall and thin like her with short gray hair. You wouldn’t have dared to mouth off at her like some of the kids did today with their teachers. She’d have put you in your place fast, but she was never mean, just really smart and absolutely determined to see that you learned the basics of English grammar and essay writing.

  He’d been an okay student simply because there wasn’t too much else to do. Because his family never stayed long in any one town, he quit trying out for football. Ditto for girls. After a while, he learned not to mind that everyone, except for the one or two buddies he’d managed to make, left him alone.

  “I thought it would be nice if we could have a little chat and get to know each other.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  His tone must have been too hearty. He could see that in her hazel eyes, so clear and direct and compassionate, too—not something he was used to seeing. It gave him a funny feeling. He was so used to hiding his real feelings under a friendly smile: “Hi! How are you? How’re the wife and kids? Me? Just great. Couldn’t be better.” Better not try that routine with this lady.

  “Such a lovely young woman, your daughter. Laney, I believe her name is?”

  “Ah, yes, Mrs. Bennett.”

  “Please call me Marjory. Where are you from, Dan?”

  “Minneapolis. Great city with beautiful lakes.” Before Dan had split up with Laney’s mother, Pam, they lived near Lake of the Isles in a handsome old house that Pam’s father had given them for a wedding present. She and Laney still lived there, while these days he was bunking with an old Marine buddy—a temporary arrangement that would last for only another month.

  “From your accent, I’d guess that you’re English,” Dan said, filling the silence.

  “That’s right.”

  “What part of England?”

  “After my husband died, I moved from London to St. Ives, Cornwall. If I may ask, what do you do, Dan?”

  “I used to do cost assessments for a construction company. I’m looking for other work now.” Yeah, ever since Pam had run to Daddy—his boss—and complained once again about her marriage. His father-in-law had fired him and replaced him with Pam’s brother. Shortly after, Pam had filed for divorce.

  “That must be dreadfully hard for you. Work is so important to most people. We often define ourselves by what we do, rather than in terms of who we are.”

  Dan shrugged. “Too true. But I’ll find another job. Jobs are always available for anyone who wants to work and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.” Except that it was getting harder to get a job. He was getting sick of going in and seeing the eyes of the interviewers shift as they gave him the old lines: “No openings … put your application on file … keep you in mind …”

  He was almost ready to give up. It was Laney who kept him going. He owed it to her to act like a responsible parent.


  “Life does seem very unfair at times, Dan, but maybe your luck is about to turn.”

  “You mean Caleb’s going to cut us in on some kind of deal?”

  Marjory permitted herself a small smile that softened the rather angular planes of her face as she said drily, “I rather doubt if my cousin has anything so altruistic in mind. He strikes me as a man who has definite reasons for whatever he does.”

  Geraldine, who had been walking alone, came up beside her aunt.

  “You’ve met my niece Geraldine, of course,” said Marjory.

  “We’ve said hello.”

  The hand she extended to him felt soft and fragile as bird bones.

  “Call me Gerry,” she said.

  The tiny freckles sprinkled across Geraldine’s nose gave her a pixieish look.

  “I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Dan. I think I’ll go chat with Caleb.”

  “Nice talking to you, too, Marjory.”

  That left Gerry and him.

  Without looking at him, she walked over to the wooden railing and began staring out to sea. She had a nice profile—kind of lean like her aunt’s—with a straight nose and small chin.

  “You ever been to America before?” asked Dan, coming over and standing beside her at the railing.

  “Once, not recently.” She turned and looked at him with green eyes laced with sadness. “After I graduated from university, Aunt Marjory and Uncle David treated me to a trip to New York.”

  “Lucky you. I was there once after I got out of the Marine Corps, but the city was too noisy and pushy to suit me. Some great clubs, though.”

  “I didn’t frequent the club scene when I was there, but I did visit the Met, which had some fascinating exhibits. The costumes of Catherine the Great of Russia were superb.”

  “I liked the Natural History Museum with the rainforest exhibit and the dioramas.”

  Gerry nodded and went on. “I enjoyed the plays, too. There was a Neil Simon one that was particularly amusing.”

  She didn’t look as though she laughed much.