The Mysterious Golden Robe (2) "I mean a proper kiss, silly." Martin saw a movement in the bushes and, spinning his head round, the figure in black approaching the gates on the other side of the fence. A cold sweat broke on his brow. "No time! Now, come on! Move it!" This time he almost pulled her off her feet. Sally whimpered. "But I haven’t had my wishes yet," she protested. "You’ll wish you’d listened to me if we hang about much longer!" "What are you talking about? Martin! You’re hurting me!" She broke free. "Martin! What’s got into you?" He saw the assailant burst from the shrubbery, the man in black pass by them. Martin picked her up in a fireman’s lift and carried her awkwardly, the pain in his hip burning to the bone. Sally squealed and fought him every inch of the way. "Put me down! Martin!" He made it to the gates and placed her gently on her feet again. The traffic thundered past, they couldn’t cross but Martin didn’t dare look behind. He didn’t see the man in black standing behind the fountain, nor did he see him raise his arm and point a rusty Smith and Wesson but he definitely heard the explosion. "What was that?" Sally asked, twisting her head round. "A car backfiring. C’mon!" Martin launched into the traffic dragging his girl with him. A barrage of car horns blasted their eardrums. They reached the middle safely and then repeated his actions to the sidewalk. Sally swung her pocket book at his head. "You idiot! You nearly got us both killed!" Martin rubbed his head with one hand and his hip with the other, his face screwed in a contorted mask. Sally simply looked him up and down in disbelief. Then she sniggered. She put a hand to her mouth and giggled. Martin seemed puzzled. The look on his face did it, she laughed aloud. "What were you thinking of?" She thumped him lightly on the shoulder. He was lost for words. What could he tell her? How could he explain? He shrugged and spoke the only words that came into his head, "We survived, didn’t we?" Sally scowled, huffed and set off down the street towards her home. He limped up to her but kept his distance and Sally stayed silent for about half an hour. Suddenly, she rounded on him. "Well?" Martin was lost. "Well what?" "Where is it?" Martin was totally blank and shook his head lamely. "You were going to give me a present…by the fountain, remember?" "Ah yes, so I was." He felt his pockets for the ring wrapped in paper toweling and retrieved it. A chill ran through his entire frame, being reminded of their lucky escape. Sally snatched the wrap from his hand. She opened it and her face lit up in delight. "Oh Martin, it’s gorgeous!" She cooed, appreciating every angle. He smiled nervously. . "Oh Sweetheart, my hunk of a man, is this what I think it is? It’s beautiful…oh…thank you." She flung her arms around him and kissed him passionately. Martin struggled to catch his breath and drag his mind away from his nagging thoughts. "And yes, I will." "You will what?" "Marry you, silly!" She placed the ring on her finger, admiring from arms length how it gleamed and glinted in the waning light. Martin felt the bruise on his hip and realized what caused his pain. Pulling it from his pocket, he glanced at the watch only to find it ticking away and telling the right time. Gazing around him, he recognized he was as far as he got in his nightmare before he came to on Sally’s couch. He finally had all his answers…or did he? * Three months later, Martin found himself sitting on the edge of the fountain in the park. It was his first visit since that fateful night and he deliberated on which coins actually belonged to his Sally. He was troubled. As he had done so on several occasions, he began to ponder over the details of those events and the knowledge he had accumulated shortly after - mainly from the press. He playfully scooped the water and allowed it to trickle through nimble fingers. His explanation seemed full of holes. He felt he had it - right there - in the palm of his hand but the truth of it kept slipping through those same fingers…just like water. He smiled then shook his head. Removing a bunch of newspaper cuttings from his inside pocket, Martin scanned through them but they told him nothing more than before. The headlines read, Rapist Shot Dead in Park! The gist of the reports were that the dead man had escaped custody, was not to be approached, considered highly dangerous and was indiscriminate in his attacks on the public. The police had released an A.P.B., and there was a reward for his capture. A public citizen, who wished to remain anonymous, shot and killed him in self-defense. In the two short weeks he was on the run, the dead man had left a trail of disgusting crimes in the area in his desperation to evade capture. Martin still had questions but no one to go to for the answers. Sally never even spoke about it. He figured she didn’t even know how close she was to the danger, and he certainly couldn’t tell her anything. In fact, he didn’t tell a soul. What could he say? In an act of sheer frustration, he tore the clippings to shreds and stuffed them into his pocket. Perhaps he should’ve asked the old man more about the robe. Maybe, just maybe, he would find some answers - enough to fill in the gaps at least. He stood sharply, stretching his torso and peered in the direction of the park gates. "Why not?" he muttered to himself. The traffic seemed particularly heavy for the time of day but he made it safely to the other side of the thoroughfare. However, once he rounded the corner to the side street, he knew instinctively that something was wrong. The old curiosities shop was gone! In its stead was a newly painted grocery store complete with a different façade. Martin blinked stupidly as he examined the whole of the building, his eyebrows knitted together and his bottom lip dangling like an imbecile. In small letters above the door, the proprietor’s name said, G. Robe. The old feeling of nausea entered his guts; the dizziness swam in his brain. He had to go inside. Forcing himself through the doorway, he inched his way to the counter - and waited. The owner rang the till and gave a customer her change then served another who seemed to take forever to make up his mind. Martin’s legs trembled as he pondered on what questions he would ask and almost turned to leave when the man asked, "And what can I do you for, sir?" "Er…How long have you been here?" "From six o’clock this morning, sir!" "I mean…How long has the shop been here?" "Since nineteen hundred and three! Ask me another, I’m good at this!" "Look," Martin was ruffled, "I don’t have time for smart-asses…" "And I don’t have time for stupid questions! Are you buying something or not?" Martin shook his head and the man turned to another customer, "Yes sir, what can I do you for?" Averting a sheepish gaze, Martin fleetingly took in details of the shop until he caught sight of a youth sweeping the floor and staring right back at him. Averting his eyes once again, he decided to leave the premises in haste and reached for the door. Then he froze! Hanging from a peg on the back of the door was a long, black coat and a ten-gallon hat! "Who the hell do these belong to?" he wailed. "Excuse me?" answered the shopkeeper. "These clothes…are they yours?" "What of it?" "What does the G stand for?" "What?" "In the name above the door…what does the G stand for?" "What’s with the third degree, mister?" "I need to know!" Martin demanded. "Get outa here!" Martin left the shop in anger and slammed the door hard. He was halfway up the alley when a voice called out to him. "Hey, mister!" It was the youth from the back room and he was lugging a package. "Is your name Martin?" "How’d you…?" "Were you in the park the night that guy was killed?" the youth went on. "How do you know all this?" "I heard you asking questions and I think I have some answers. The G stands for Gerald, the name of my boss. The hat and coat were given to him by the old man who owned the shop before him." "The old man! You met him?" "Hell, I worked for him…a coupla hours a week keepin’ the place tidy." "You talked with him?" "Course I did." "Did he mention anything about a robe?" "Not really…but he said you’d be showin’ up sometime and I had to give you this." The boy handed over the parcel and spun on his heels. "Hey, wait a minute," Martin frowned, "I don’t understand. How did he…what did he say…I mean…was there a message?" "Look mister, I’m just the delivery boy, okay? And I gotta get back…" Martin watched the youth trot all the way to the shop and then looked suspiciously at the package. His heartbeat palpitated in his temples and a thousand more questions assailed his mind. Moments later, he took off for home as quickly as he could. Once there, he dropped the package onto the table and straddled a chair. For some time, his thumbnail clicked a tooth and his brow furrowed in nervous anticipation, almost afraid he may open a can of worms. Then, with deliberate intent, he tore at the wrapping and exposed the contents. The chair toppled sideways as Martin leapt backwards and glared long and hard. The objects before him consisted of fresh press clippings; a soft leather pouch; an ancient scroll; a letter with spidery handwriting; two old newspapers…and the golden robe! Amber fluid filled the tumbler almost to the brim; the screw top placed hastily on the bottle. A gulp of Jack Daniels burned its way down and gratefully hit the spot it was intended for. Martin gagged and spluttered, tears stung his eyes. He took the second swig more easily then turned to gawp at the robe. A cold shiver ran through his vertebrae and he shuddered. But not until the glass was empty did he make a move towards the table. "Well…you wanted answers…" he spoke softly to himself. Wiping his eyes, he picked up the clippings, returned to the bottle and poured another drink. Various articles and a mug shot of the escaped prisoner were ringed with wax crayon. They told of his recent crimes, last locations and his eventual demise. Nothing really more than that which Martin already knew? He sighed and took another sip. Next, he reached for the newspapers. Oh wow, he thought while reading the date; they were printed in eighteen hundred and ninety. Feeling mellow from the effects of the whiskey, he slid into the chair and scoured the pages carefully. Taking note of some interesting articles to read later, all he found was a few relevant pages dedicated to bounty hunters and a catalogue of their victims and earnings to date. It had to be the old man that shot that guy, he figured, it all fits so far. He threw the first newspaper onto the floor beside him and looked at the next one. "Aw Jeez…!" On the front page was a picture of a young man complete with black, ten-gallon hat and coat wearing a gun belt. Adjacent to that was an inset of a highly polished Smith and Wesson. The headline above read, Bounty Hunter complains of Times getting hard! "My God," Martin sat upright, "It is! It’s him! Well, I’ll be a son of a gun…" he breathed. "Just a minute…it can’t be! That would make him…" Martin did a mental calculation, "…about a hundred and forty…ish!" He scrutinized the picture once more, shook his head and dropped the editorial on top of the other. He focused on the robe. It looked the same, it felt the same; a familiar tingle of warmth spread to his elbows. Holding it aloft, he found no holes, no rips, nothing like the reflection he saw in the mirror. He dropped the cloth and opened the soft leather pouch. Inside was the little silver snuffbox. "Well, whadoyaknow…the old goat kept it for me." Martin looked quizzical, "I wonder why he gave me this…!" Upon closer examination, he acknowledged its age to be of the same century as the newsprint; that fact had to make it worth even more that he originally believed. Replacing the box in its cover, he turned his attention to the letter: seven pages of barely decipherable scrawl. Certain words were written the way the old boy spoke them. Others were unrecognizable. He poured another large Jack Daniels, located a pen and notepad and settled down for an evening’s work. Three and a half hours later, he sunk back in his seat, drained his glass and allowed a smug expression to spread into a wide-angled grin. "Ohhhhhhhhhh Jeez, what have I got here?" He read through his interpretation three more times and finally concluded he had all the answers he needed, except for one thing. What connected Martin to the old man’s past? He spoke his notes aloud: "Martin, I know your name from the park that night. Your women shouted it. And I know you are wondering about a lot of things. I wondered for years until you came into the shop. Did you have a dream, when you wore the robe? Did you feel strange when you took it out of the box? Yeah, me too! Martin flipped the notepad on the table and rubbed his eyes. There was no connection, he decided. It was one of those things. I was on my way to meet Sally and I found the shop by accident. Then, why did the robe appear golden to me? Why me? Sally must be the connection! She was in his dream…but I wasn’t. "Aw Jeez…Sally!" He pulled his watch from his pocket. He was supposed to meet her…an hour and ten minutes ago. Why didn’t she ring? Martin knew the answer before he reached the phone - he heard the tone - it was off the hook. He was in deep trouble. Looking at the watch to calculate some time for a shower, shave and shampoo and trying to suppress the panic, he suddenly froze! His head snapped round to the newspaper on the floor. Bending down to retrieve it, he swore and began a frantic search through drawers and cupboards until he found what he needed. A magnifying glass! Carefully studying the photograph, he traced down to the ‘old boys’ hand. "Hot damn!" he mumbled. He was holding the same watch as Martin had - that was the connection! The watch belonged to the bounty hunter!!! An almost manic laugh escaped his lungs, more with relief than anything else. A wonderful thought swam into his brain; and, after a brief consideration, he became hysterical. Checking himself, he entered the bathroom. Thirty-five minutes later, he emerged fully groomed and dressed, and seriously determined. He then calmly set the watch to five-minutes before their date, took a deep nasal breath and shrouded his shoulders with the robe. Closing his eyes for a moment while imagining himself with Sally outside the pictures, he quickly changed the scenario to the side street round the corner and out of sight. When he opened them, he found himself in the exact place he wanted to be. It worked! The robe had stayed behind. As he stepped into the boulevard, Sally’s sweet tones greeted him lovingly and they hugged, "Right on time, Dude!" she whispered with a kiss on his cheek. Martin held her tightly and grinned. That’s two things I know the robe can do, he thought, now what else I wonder…
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Copyright © 2002 Stan A Fowler |