Past and Present Tense

by "Woof!"

(otherwise known as Barbara Cutrera)

Mary Russell sat, spectacles in hand, on the deck of the ship that was taking her back--back to California and a part of her past on which she would rather not dwell. It didn't really matter what she wanted. She had no choice but to go. The package, which had arrived two months before, had been a great source of worry for her. Its contents were interfering with her work and her marriage. The note inside had insisted that the deaths of her parents and brother were no accident. There were reports enclosed.

Of course, it was sent anonymously. Try as she might, she could not trace the package without Holmes's help, and she did not want to get him involved in all this. She felt foolish as it was, and going back would be painful enough. If only she had made her final decision sooner, then maybe she would not be so pressed for time. Once she had succumbed to the knowledge that she must come to this meeting, there were many things she knew she should have investigated over the last few weeks. Too late now, though.

They had told her at the time that it was an accident, and Mary had not doubted that conclusion. How could it be otherwise, when she herself was responsible for it? Nothing was left of the car or her family. Yet, according to the reports on her lap, there was some wreckage and evidence of tampering in regards to the vehicle.

Mary had tried to persuade herself that this was a hoax. But by whom? Why? Why now?

As she walked down the ramp to the waiting car, Mary thought of Holmes. He'd been away on a case for a month, something he wouldnt talk about to her.

"Well," she thought, "Tit for tat. What is wrong with me? I have my work, my independence, and the love of my husband."

Her thoughts were interrupted by an "Evening, ma'am" from the driver of the car.

"Good afternoon," Mary corrected in a distracted tone. Then, she stopped to look at the man, who was older, tall, thin, and stooped. He did not fit the description given to her of the man who was supposed to take her up the coast.

"Mr. Weinstraub took sick last night, Miss Russell," he began, sensing her realization of the substitution. "I'm Bill Roberts."

"Very good, Mr. Roberts," she said in a reassuring tone. "You do have my instructions about the route?"

As Bill Roberts replied in the affirmative, she stepped into the car. They set out and were soon on their way. The view was spectacular and the weather pleasant, but Mary's mind was elsewhere. She sat gazing at nowhere in particular, anticipating this meeting with a person she did not know. She twisted a bit of string from her pocket as the car moved closer to its destination.

"There, Mr. Roberts," she pointed, as they approached an area off to one side, which had been hollowed out somehow to make a place for stranded vehicles to pull over. As Mary got out, she turned to the older man. "Please wait here."

"You sure, ma'am?" Roberts drawled.

"Yes, Mr. Roberts. I'll return shortly." Her tone was a little too short, but Mr. Roberts didn't seem to notice. Mary did, belatedly, but she felt she could not take the time to apologize. She was already running late. What if the anonymous person thought she hadn't come, or that her boat had been delayed? Would he contact her again? What if he didn't?

The wind was strong, and Mary's long, reddish-blonde hair, which she had pulled back that morning, was fast coming undone. Her trousers and jacket provided some sense of protection from the force of the wind. Thank God she was not in the habit of wearing skirts.

She reached the scene of the accident quickly. There was no one there.

Dismayed and irritated, the theologian stood nervously for a few minutes before going to look over the edge of the cliff, just as she had when Dr. Ginzberg had brought her here ten years previously. There was, indeed, nothing here. Not now, anyway. No wreckage. No desire to jump. Her psychiatrist and Holmes had helped her to release herself from all that a long time ago. Remorse remained, yes, but the guilt was assuaged.

And, yet, she had felt so uneasy of late. She had even had the Dream once. Luckily, she had been alone at the farm that night, Holmes having been gone a week and the Quimbys gone to a family wedding.

"Miss Russell."

Mary whirled to see Mr. Roberts standing very close behind her. His cap and his stoop were gone. He was taller than she was and not as thin as she had first thought. Deception did not bode well in any situation, least of all one as emotionally charged for her as this one already was.

"Mr. Roberts," she began, but he cut her off.

"You don't remember me, do you?" he inquired. "Of course, you don't. You were only a child back then."

Mary thought furiously, but she had to admit that no recollection came to mind.

"Why the subterfuge, Mr. Roberts?"

"How else could I get you here alone?" he remarked, casually. "I've got a bone to pick with you, Mary."

Suddenly, she was very angry and more than a little alarmed. Perhaps it was hearing the stranger use her first name in such a familiar fashion without her permission. Just as Patricia Donleavy had done on that dark and wicked night with Holmes in the laboratory.

"What seems to be the problem?" she spat out, trying to edge forward, as she was still very close to the edge of the cliff. "And, incidentally, you are in my way."

"Just as you were in mine, Miss Russell," he said quietly. "I worked in the world of finance all my life. Your father and I were involved in several business ventures over the years. I was a dinner guest at your home on several occasions." He paused. When she made no comment, he continued. "I moved when you were still small, and I lost contact with your father, although I still heard of his different acquisitions through other sources in the banking world." He sighed. "I hadn't seen him in nine years, when I bumped into him in San Francisco. It was just like the old days, " he reflected. "Talk eventually turned to his holdings and some changes he wanted to make."

"What changes?" Mary was curious. In the time that she had been involved in the business of her estate, she had made some changes. Were they what her father would have wanted, or would he be appalled at actions of an untrained businesswoman?

"Makes no difference now," he said, dismissively. "I was to be the one in charge of all these changes, and I was to be the one compensated for their vast implementation. When news of the accident reached me, everything dissipated in front of my eyes. You survived, but your lawyers controlled your estate. What was I to do? Approach them and tell them that your father had intended all of these grand changes and intended to secure my future? They would have laughed in my face."

"I am not laughing," she said. "Why didn't you come to me, when I reached the age of majority?"

"The time had passed, and it was too late," he offered. "But, lately, I have begun to think it is not too late after all. For revenge, that is. I inquired about the accident in detail from a friend in the police department and found the report concerning the accident. You caused it, didn't you, Miss Russell?"

"It was not, I assure you, intentional." Her voice was almost lost in the wind, which continued to blow strongly around them.

He glowered at her. "Do you think that I care anymore? I am not the same man your father called "friend" a decade ago. I am old and tired--tired of thinking about it all. I thought of doing away with myself, then I thought that it would be much sweeter if I took you with me."

The remote, distracted feeling, which had descended on Mary earlier in the car, had returned. Deep inside, a part of her was crying out against all this. She was weary--weary of the whole thing--but she knew that she could not get away from it. She felt stuck, both literally and figuratively. If she did not move forward, she felt as if she would fall back into the chasm behind her and inside of her.

Mary lunged forward, but Roberts, who had the strategic advantage, threw himself in her direction and knocked her to the ground. As she fell, Mary felt a rather large rock come up to meet the back of her skull. Dazed, she pondered that Roberts was stronger than he looked, especially for a man of his build and age. Then again, wasn't Holmes's strength considered abnormal for a man of his years and his frame?

Through a haze, Mary pushed against Roberts as hard as she could. She managed to knock him back a couple of feet, brought up her knees, and kicked him as hard as she could. She heard an "Oomph!" and a thud, some stumbling, a scream, and a "Blast it all!" Blast it all? That sounded suspiciously like...

"Holmes?!?"

His voice had come over the edge of the cliff. Dizzily, she got to her feet and moved to look over the edge. There, dangling with one hand grasping some growth and one foot stuck in an outcropping that was all of six inches deep and a couple of feet wide, was her husband.

"Holmes, what on earth are you doing here?"

"I came to stop you from getting yourself killed," he called up, "but I see that you can take care of yourself quite nicely. I wish I had been graced with this thought before I decided to come up behind your assailant and attempt to disable him. Let me throw this up to you, Russell. If you would be so kind as to anchor it somewhere and drop me a line?"

From his belt, he undid a length of rope and tossed it up. Did the man come prepared for everything?

"For God's sake, hurry up! I have no wish to join the rocks below this precipice."

He actually sounded more irritated than alarmed. Mary tied the rope around a nice-sized rock that reminded her of a bent index finger. As she turned, Mary heard a crumbling noise and a grunt. Oh, Lord. She was responsible for the accident which had killed her family. She was, in a way, responsible for Roberts's death. Would she now carry the knowledge that she had caused her husband's demise as well? Panic-stricken, she moved towards the place where she had knelt to look at Holmes, but his fingers beat her to the spot. She grasped his hand and helped him up and over.

They lay on the ground, he trembling with the effort of holding on and climbing up and she simply trembling. He had some scrapes and bruises but appeared to be relatively whole. Neither of them spoke, and the surf continued below, indifferent.

"Did you think you could hide the package from me?" Holmes murmured into her hair. Mary jerked up, regretting her sudden movement as her head pounded mercilessly.

"It was my problem."

Holmes drew her closer to him, as if he needed to reassure himself that she was still there with him. She laid a hand across his chest. Slowly, she began to relax.

All of a sudden, Holmes said, "Dammit, Russell!" Mary stiffened, and he softened his tone. "It was not your problem. Do you forget that we are married? I know that we are not exactly... traditional in this area, but this is uncalled for."

Her anger flared up in response, and Mary found herself saying coldly, "I apologize for--for--" For what? For wanting her independence? For wanting her theology? For wanting a child they might never be able to have?

Her anger subsided, and she found she was weary again. Holmes knew all of this, of course. Why should she waste time being uncertain and uneasy about his perceptions of her inner struggles and her attempts to do more and do it better time and time again?

"I apologize for keeping this from you," Mary said quietly, without looking at him.

Holmes stroked her hair, pulling it out of her face and tucking it slightly under her neck. Finally, he began to speak in a pleasant tone of most unpleasant things. Typical.

"Mr. Roberts liberated those report forms from his friend at the police station."

"I had deduced that after my conversation with him a few moments ago, Holmes."

"When I found the box in the pantry storage--appropriate place to hide it from me--I thought I should check out the information's validity, since you were--unwilling to share it with me. "

"Ah," she whispered. "So, I was your case. I believe next time I will consult the great detective directly so that we may share a cabin if we are forced to travel great distances."

"It would be more economical," he agreed.

"And less lonely," Russell added. "Holmes?"

"Yes, Russ?"

"Why haven't we been run over, yet?"

The corners of his mouth twitched against her hair. "I have much more extensive connections with the local police than the late Mr. Roberts did. They agreed to block the road for a time, although they were not happy that I would not allow them to accompany me." He paused. "Do you not wish to know how I knew you were here?"

Now it was Mary's turn to smile. "I already know that, because I know you. It involved telegraph offices, Mr. Roberts' daily schedule, and police contacts, to be sure." She took in a deep breath of the salty air. "I suppose we should go inform the police that they may come and have a look so that they may reopen the road."

Absently, he replied, "Yes, I supposed we should."

"Holmes?"

"Hmmm?"

"I wish-"

Holmes put two fingers to her lips to silence her.

"I know what you wish, Mary Russell. But the past is gone, and it would not be plausible to think of what might have been had you been born earlier or I later. In all likelihood, we would be two very different individuals and would never have met on the downs of Sussex. We only have the present and must make the most of it."

Mary kissed his fingertips in reply, and then they rose to go.

Fin