The Traveler

  Copyright © 2014 Melissa Delport

  First edition published 2014

  The text of this publication, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  The Author/Publisher has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author/Publisher will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

  Published by M.C.D, P O Box 373, Hillcrest, 3650

  Edited by Catherine Eberle

  Cover designed by Apple Pie Graphics

  www.melissadelport.com

  For my children, without whom, I would be lost. I hope that I can instill in you a love of reading, so that you can live many lives.

  Table Of Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Definition

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About The Author

  Acknowledgements

  As always, my husband Murray deserves first mention when expressing my gratitude. Being married to a writer can’t be easy. I cannot help but become immersed in my story, and at times I withdraw entirely into the world I am creating. I married an angel – he understands this and has never once allowed me to feel guilty.

  Wendy Bow – my dearest friend, who designs my covers, proof-reads my raw manuscripts and offers only her (very) honest opinion – I cannot thank you enough. There is no-one else who would indulge me for so many hours and not get fed up!

  My editor, who is both fantastic and efficient, for all your words of encouragement and for polishing and perfecting my manuscripts, I have come to rely on your input and trust your judgement implicitly.

  To Norma Neill, my beta-reader, thank you, thank you, thank you! I have learnt how important this step is in the writing process and how errors can slip through the cracks. Now, thanks to you, I know that the finished product is the very best it can possibly be.

  To my cousin Darren, one of the smartest people I know, for letting me “borrow your life” and allowing me to write my first South African character – thank you so much!

  And lastly, to my readers, you are truly the reason I keep writing.

  trav·el·er

  n. pl. trav·el·ers

  1. One who travels or has traveled, as to distant places

  Life is not a miracle. It is a natural phenomenon and can be expected to appear whenever there is a planet whose conditions duplicate those of the earth. —Harold C. Urey

  Prologue

  He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen. Although 'boy' was not really the right word - he was slightly too old to be called a boy, but he was still beautiful. I remember that above all else, although what followed should have erased that thought from my consciousness. His hair was black - jet black - and he was tall; well over six feet. I was laughing with Kimberley when I first saw him, lounging against a lamp-post, as though he was waiting for someone. I suppose in hindsight he was. In the instant that our eyes met and that secret smile crossed his face, I could almost imagine that it was me, that I was the one he was waiting for. Of course that was not the case. I know that now.

  I had to cross the street close by where he stood, watching me intently, and as I passed I couldn’t help but glance over at him again. His eyes stopped me, literally, in my tracks. They were green; the most startling green eyes I had ever seen, but there was something different about them. It happened so quickly I thought I was imagining it, but, for just a moment, those eyes seemed to glow, an iridescent, brilliant emerald that left me speechless and standing in the middle of the street staring open-mouthed at a beautiful stranger.

  “Can I help you?” The deep, rich baritone of his voice was hypnotic and I couldn’t reply – I simply stood there, unable to tear my gaze away. I would have placed him at around twenty-five years old, far older than any of the boys I usually hung around with; far too old for me. At seventeen, in my senior year at High School, what little I knew about boys I had learned from popular culture not real life. He was dressed in black – all in black - and as I stared a sly grin crossed his face.

  “I said; can I help you?” he repeated, sounding somewhere between amused and annoyed and my cheeks flushed with mortification.

  “No!” I managed eventually, the word ringing out across the empty street. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, willing myself not to act like a fool. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  He nodded at me, his eyes thoughtful and I remember wondering why he didn’t look away. My parents always said that it’s impolite to stare but that is exactly what he did. He seemed to look right through me with absolutely no embarrassment, and I fought the urge to look away.

  “What is your name?” he asked, although it didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like an order, like he demanded to know. I had been taught never to give my name out to strangers but I found myself answering anyway, as though I had no control over my own responses.

  “Rachel.” It was barely more than a whisper but I knew that he could hear me. Even from there. Even from thirty feet away. I shouldn’t have been talking to him at all, particularly with the feelings I was having; he was far too old for it to be appropriate. Still, I couldn’t seem to tear myself away.

  He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen. How could I have known the monster that lurked beneath?

  Chapter 1

  “Rhodes!” Bill Parish barks across the expanse of the enormous mahogany desk interrupting my reverie and snapping me back to the present. I shake my head, focusing my attention back on my portly, overbearing boss. It is always like this when the memories flood back, memories that will not be silenced. I get lost in them, swept up in the emotions that I have so long tried to repress. Even after seven years I still think of that summer, of the boy I met and the precious few weeks we shared. I still see his eyes in my dreams, those vivid, mystical green eyes. It makes me angry that he invades my thoughts; he has no right. He left you, I remind myself firmly.

  “I hope we’re not boring you?” Bill stares down at me; his glasses perched crookedly on the end of his long nose which has never mended properly after being broken so many times. Bill was a broadcast journalist for almost twenty years before he was offered the role of News Director at the American Broadcasting Company, New York Office. The rumor is that he turned it down at first, preferring the thrill of being out in the field, but when his much younger third wife threatened to leave him for never being at home, he realized the time had come to settle down. Two failed marriages reflected badly enough and, despite the differ
ence in their ages, Bill adores his current significant other. Now, at 56 years old, Bill is in charge of the news department. As far as everyone in this room is concerned, he is the be all and end all of the network; the only people who wield more power than he does are the company’s presidents, none of whom we have ever met personally.

  “Not at all, Bill,” I smile sweetly, and he narrows his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. I know that Bill, despite his gruff exterior, favors me among the motley crew of newscasters, photographers, editors, reporters and studio crew who make up our team. I produce work of exceptional quality, as a result of my four-year degree in videography and camera operation and the further two years I have spent here at ABC proving my worth. I had managed to secure this job straight out of college thanks to a glowing recommendation from my professor who had worked alongside Bill in his glory days. I love my job. I love the ever-changing work environment and the unpredictability of the diverse subjects I film. In news, you never know what you’re going to get.

  “Rachel’s day-dreaming again,” Jason Masters sighs beside me, rolling his eyes. Jason is my newscaster, or 'anchorman'. Typically, we work on assignment as a pair, covering assigned events and breaking stories outside the office. We are a dynamic duo, but Jason drives me nothing short of crazy. He is possibly the most arrogant man I have ever met. At twenty-seven, he is only three years older than I am and is handsome in the traditional sense – blond, blue-eyed, with a strong jaw-line and a great body. Unfortunately he is all too aware of this, and he oozes charm and lives for flattery. Jason is so slick he has slept with half the women at the table, and, sadly, most would all too willingly have him back in a heartbeat if he so much as batted those ridiculously long eyelashes at them. I think part of the reason he is so patronizing towards me is that I refuse to sleep with him.

  “If I want your opinion, Masters, I’ll ask for it,” Bill snaps, and I hide a smile behind my coffee mug. Bill takes no truck from anyone, least of all the anchors, whose vanity and self-serving behavior annoy him to no end. Bill also calls everybody by their last names. He has never called me Rachel. I’m not sure he even knows what my first name is.

  He moves on to the day’s events, issuing instructions and allocating tasks. Nobody argues with Bill – he is a legend in broadcast journalism. He has broken more stories and has had higher ratings than any other newscaster in the history of the company, and he has a natural flair for combining the right team with the right story. When he assigns Jason and I an interview with a local artist whose small art exhibition was a roaring success, Jason’s lips pucker in disapproval. I know Jason – he feels that this assignment is beneath him. I sit back in my chair as everybody files out of the boardroom, waiting for my unwilling partner to get his head around it and smooth his hair.

  “I’m just going to have a word with Diane,” he murmurs, waiting for Bill to stride out before leaping to his feet and accosting our executive producer as she reaches the door. Diane’s shoulders slouch as Jason starts appealing to her for a better story, not daring to take it up with Bill directly. He should know better, I think, feeling sorry for Diane. She may have more authority than we do, but in the hierarchy of the newsroom she reports to Bill. She cannot overrule any decision that he makes, nor would she want to. I listen with only half an ear to their low whispered conversation and then I close my eyes, my mind going blank. Annoyingly, the memories come straight back, and the seven years that have passed in no way diminish their vividness. I remember everything with crystal clarity.

  I saw him again the following day at the same time, standing in the same place, in exactly the same position as though he had not moved in the twenty-four hours that had lapsed. I fought the urge to stare, my cheeks flushing as I remembered how ineloquent I had been the day before and was determined to act as though nothing had happened. I couldn’t keep from glancing over at him though; the pull was far too strong.

  Those startling green eyes were staring straight back at me, unabashedly. Glancing away in embarrassment, I walked at a slightly faster pace, trying to get past him as quickly as possible, but again my eyes were drawn to his of their own accord.

  “He’s staring at you,” Kimberley whispered, unnecessarily. I could feel his gaze on me; a warm, not entirely unpleasant feeling that spread through my body and had every nerve-ending standing on end, completely aware of him.

  “Hello Rachel,” he said as I passed, and I whirled around, my blue eyes meeting his.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” I asked, the question coming out far softer than I had intended. I had wanted to make my annoyance clear, but instead, I sounded almost pleading. Not replying for a few long moments he regarded me steadily, his gaze wandering over me as though conducting an in-depth study of my anatomy. I wanted to snap at him for his rudeness, but the heat in my body intensified under that gaze and, as his eyes met mine again, I felt my sarcastic retort die on my lips.

  “No.” Just a simple, insignificant little word, but the sound of his voice made me want to hear more. When he spoke it was as if everything else fell away and all I could hear was his voice.

  “Why are you staring?” I whispered, no longer annoyed, just desperate to hear more.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” he answered enigmatically.

  “Well it’s rude,” Kimberley pointed out irritably and I suddenly remembered that she was beside me. Shaking my head, trying to clear it, I turned and headed back up the street toward my house. “He’s creepy,” she murmured as we turned into my drive.

  “Yeah,” I answered half-heartedly, wondering if he would be there again tomorrow.

  The following afternoon Kim had an extra art class and I walked home alone, my heart in my stomach. As I rounded the corner into Park Drive my breath caught in my throat. He was there, his back to me, leaning against the same lamp post. As I approached, unsure of whether I should pass by him or rather walk around the block and avoid him entirely, he turned to face me. For a second, as his eyes met mine, a brief flash of emotion passed over his deadpan face. It almost looked as though he was relieved to see me. Before I could process this, his mask slipped back into place and he regarded me with the same blank look as before. Drawing in a deep breath, squaring my shoulders, I walked right up to him, stopping only a few feet away.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “No particular reason.”

  “You’re going to get reported if you keep hanging around,” I warned and he smiled secretly, looking amused.

  “Thank you for the warning but I’ll be gone soon enough.”

  “Gone where?” I couldn’t help but ask, feeling suddenly anxious. Where was he going? No answer was forthcoming and we just stood that way for some time, staring at each other.

  “What’s your name?” I murmured eventually and a small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

  “Dex,” his voice was low and inviting, setting my stomach aflutter. “My name is Dex.”

  “We better get going,” Jason is standing beside me, a disgruntled look on his handsome face. I grab my purse from the chair beside me and sling it over my shoulder, following him out into the open-plan newsroom. My heavy camera bag is already packed and ready downstairs, in our news-van. As we emerge onto Times Square I glance up at the Ernst & Young tower and then my eyes travel even further up, staring at the sky. When I entered the building an hour earlier the air was hot, sticky and oppressive, par for the course in New York City, mid-July. Now the sky has darkened and I wonder briefly if there is a storm coming. Rain is always highly probable this time of year, despite the heat. I shiver slightly in my light summer vest and then I follow Jason into the white news-van.

  “Hey Joe!” I call as we both jump into the back, leaving Joe to drive.

  “Hiya, Rachel,” his deep, grumbling voice calls back. Joe has been with ABC for longer than anyone can remember. He is in his late fifties, a tall grey-haired African-American with a wicked sense of humor and an infinite love o
f jazz.

  “So,” Jason smiles across at me as we pull out onto the street and head east. “What are you up to this weekend, Rachel?” Joe gives a snort of mirth and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Jason is so thick-skinned.

  “I have plans,” I reply, non-committally, but Jason pushes on.

  “I thought we could catch the game, maybe grab a bite to eat after?” An inviting grin is spread across his handsome face.

  “Sorry, I can’t – I’m busy,” I insist, gazing out of the window and his smile vanishes. I can hear Joe chuckling up front. Joe has no time for Jason either. Not many people at the station do, but the legion of women viewers who tune in daily to watch him on air render him a necessary evil.

  Suddenly a loud crack rends the air and I jerk my head around, frowning at Jason. Another crack follows right after.

  “Thunder?” I ask, turning to Joe, but before he can answer another six successive cracks boom out, one after another. I glance upwards, but the sky offers no answers – just a gloomy, grey atmosphere.

  “That ain’t no thunder,” Joe finally responds.

  “We should check it out.” Jason cannot hide the underlying excitement in his voice. My own curiosity is piqued too, but I know better than to go against Bill’s orders.

  “No, we should get over to that interview,” Joe corrects, making a left turn. I turn back to the window wondering what on earth could have made such a sound.

  In no time at all we arrive at the studio and find a parking on the street. I shoulder my camera-bag, leaving my purse on the floor beside a few boxes of ABC apparel that Joe must be delivering later today. I follow Jason inside, watching as he surreptitiously smoothes down his hair. I turn back to grin at Joe, who gives me a friendly wave and settles back to wait, turning up the volume of the stereo.