IN THE TIME OF FOG

PART TWO:

He slept for four hours, his hand on the dog, who didn't move.

Caroline had always been aware of Marcus' capacity for loyalty,

but he had only just met this man. Why was he acting as though

this were his long-lost master, suddenly returned after many

years? It fascinated her, watching both of them, and she tried

to capture it on paper.

She liked the man's face, especially now that he was sleeping and

that terribly turned-inward look was not there. Setting down her charcoal, she crossed the room, kneeling next to Marcus, studying
the curve of his cheek, the cleft in his chin. He had a fine nose, she decided. As an artist, she'd always particularly noticed noses for

some reason.  Her own was very small, just a little rounded thing

of no particular distinction. At least, that's how she'd always felt

about it.

Her fingertip hovered over the bridge of his nose, wanting to

trace down the line of it. But she pulled her hand back, not

wanting to wake him. There was a barely-visible scar across the
bridge, another centered on his right cheek. As she had washed

him, she'd found a large bruise on his right side, obviously a

number of days old as it had faded to mottled greens and yellows.
That was the only recent injury she could find. He had numerous

scars, two especially large ones on his upper left arm, almost

parallel to one another. The top one looked like a wound that

needed stitches but had never got them. Even his hands had

scars, straight marks that might possibly have been made by

some blade. "Did you work with knives...or saws?" she wondered.

Her eyes moved back up to his face, where a small mouth lay,

lips parted, surrounded by his beard and moustache. "The

beard's not right," she mused to herself. "Too long. Needs to be...neater." He looked like he'd not tended to himself for some

while. "What HAVE you been through?"

Sighing, she got to her feet and went to the small laundry area

where she'd deposited his tunic atop her washer. She picked it

up, looking inside the neckline. No tag. So it wasn't even store-

bought at all. Someone had created it by hand from roughly-

woven material. All its edges, all unhemmed, were very frayed.

It was the simplest form of covering, made by someone who

didn't care for someone for whom they had no concern. Where

had he gotten it? And...why? Her first instinct had been to toss

it in the trash, but possibly it meant something to him, so she

dropped it in the washer and returned to her easel.

She talked to him as she drew, probably because for three years

now she'd talked to Marcus, who also never replied. She was

used to no reply and so the sound of her unanswered voice was

not unusual for her.

"I'm glad you're getting a good rest," she said, "you must've

come a long way to get where I found you." Indeed, she thought,

how in heaven's name HAD he come to be there? "I hope you

realize that you're a bigger mystery than anything Agatha

Christie ever came up with."  He lay silently, eyes closed. "Don't
say much, do you?" she smiled.

A knock sounded on the front door and she got up to answer it.

"How's it goin', Miz Caroline?"

"I'm fine, Hank. Everything's fine. My rabid axe murderer seems

to have lost his axe." A slight blush crept up her neck. She'd

washed every inch of him. She knew without a doubt he had no concealed weapons.

"What's he doin'?"

"Sleeping, Hank. He's sleeping."

He stood there, hat in hand, shifting awkwardly from boot to boot. She'd gotten to know him well, knew what he was thinking. "Look, Hank, I know this is a bit strange and all, but it's ok. Trust me on

that."

"I trust you fine, Miz Caroline. It's just him we know nothin'

about. Don't like you bein' alone here in the house with someone

like that."

"Someone like what, Hank?"

"That's the thing, Miz Caroline. You don't know like what."

"Marcus does." She lifted her chin a bit defiantly. "You want to

see?"

She led him back to her studio. Marcus turned his eyes toward

them, but didn't move his head. "He's been like that for hours,

Hank. Marcus seems to know he needs his hand on his fur. I've
never seen Marcus so attentive to anyone, not even to me."

"That is the damndest thing," Hank murmured, shaking his head. "That dog's got the best people-sense of any dog I've ever known."

"Ok, then. If you don't trust my instincts, trust Marcus'.  Believe

me, it's all right."

Hank sighed. "Well, if you need me, I'll have my phone with me,

ok. You just call and I'll be here right off."

She smiled, putting her hand on his arm. "Thanks, Hank. I

appreciate that."

Hank hadn't been gone long when the man's eyes opened, not all

the way, just into that partial slit. His fingers moved slightly in

Marcus' fur as if he needed to affirm to himself that it was still

there. She propped him on the pillows again and spooned eggs scrambled with cheese into his mouth, followed by a glass of

apple juice. He swallowed, but his eyes kept that distant look,

never meeting hers. "What are you seeing?" she asked. "With

those lost green eyes of yours, what are you seeing? Are you so

far away you can't make it back?" She touched his cheek. "Not

if I have anything to say about it."

After she'd cleaned the dishes, she returned with her sewing

scissors. "These are all I can find," she said, "not having had a

man around who needed tending to, you understand." Very

carefully she began to trim the tips of his beard, sculpting it like

a work of art until it was shorter and neatly shaped. "Ah, there!"

She was pleased. "Now THAT's you!" How she knew that was,

well, moot. She just knew that it suited him.

Next she brushed his hair, ending with little wisps that insisted

on lying across his forehead. "Hmmmm? Do you know you

remind me of a statue of Julius Caesar with that hair?"  She

smiled at herself. Silly thought!  It was very black, curving over

his head like a cap, lying close to his head. Her fingers stroked it

just over his ear. "I bet it positively shines in the sunlight."

He didn't look at all like Alexander despite their similar height. Alexander had had wavy straw-colored hair, well, until he'd

gotten his Army buzz, that is. His eyes had been very, very light

blue and his mouth curved generously across his square-jawed

face. No, the two men looked nothing alike. Yet when she looked

at this man's face, she couldn't help but see Alexander's, sitting wounded after the UED had blown up his vehicle on some

nameless, dust-covered road in the desert. Swallowing a sudden

lump in her throat, her fingers fluttered briefly over his cheek,

then she went to the large window and stood there a long time,

staring blindly out at the gardens.

When she turned back to the room, Marcus had his whole front

half up on the day bed, his head and neck resting high on the

sitting man's chest, who had leaned forward, his arms circled

around the dog.

Scarcely breathing, she tip toed across to the bed. His eyes were

closed and he was murmuring something. Leaning close, she

heard, "Stay with me. Hold the line and stay with me."

His voice was soft, deep, and very English, an educated, cultured English.  Her mouth dropped open.  She'd not expected that,

having just presumed he'd be American. His hands stroked down Marcus' back and the dog lifted its chin a bit further so he could

lick the man's cheek. Was that a smile on his face? She wasn't

quite sure, it came and went so fleetingly.

He said nothing else, but the sound of his voice kept repeating in

her head.  It was a marvelous voice,  rounded, resonant.  She

squatted nearby, her hand over her mouth, shaking her head in amazement. "Agatha Christie," she said, "I think my plot just thickened."

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