Chapter 5
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1888
September 25th? What in the…
A coarse shiver of vulnerability shot through her. She deliberately folded the paper and tucked it under one arm, struggling to keep the panic at bay. Straightening her hat, she set off for the boarding house. Outwardly, she appeared calm.
Inwardly, her mind chattered like an inebriated monkey.
The Retrieval Order said August 24. I’m a month off. It’s only five days from the double murders. Why is Turner still here? Why the hell am I here? No wonder Mildred and the others had been so concerned about her safety; she was in the middle of a crime wave.
Come on, it’s not that dangerous. You know when and where the killings will be. Stay away from those places, and it’ll be fine.
Her rationalization felt as thin as the leather on her boots.
Cynda halted at another intersection, mindful of the near miss she’d experienced a few blocks earlier. The drunken monkey had sobered with astonishing speed. She would contact TIC and demand an explanation. If Ivan screwed up the chronsole setting, he’s not going to live to see puberty.
She was within one block of the boarding house when she spied him. Squinting in the darkness, Cynda judged the man against TIC’s Vid-Photo. Same face, same hair, same approximate age.
A wave of relief flooded through her. Professor Turner, I presume, she said. A break, at last.
Turner observed her for a moment, then continued on his way.
Cynda followed, hiking at a strong pace despite the uncomfortable boots. If she was lucky, the professor was headed toward his new lodgings. They could collect his belongings, make sure the landlady was paid in full, and then spirit him down an alley and off to ’057. Cynda would get her stuff from Annabelle’s and follow in his vapor trail. In a few short hours she’d be lounging in her own bed after three luxurious showers. Maybe Chris would be back from his trip and they would work out their time lag the old-fashioned way—horizontal.
The man looked back again, as if to ensure that she was still following. That seemed odd; they’d never met. She kept up her pace. The edges of her vision began to unravel like a worn sweater. Radiant shafts of lag lightning blasted around her, leaving a wake of neon confetti sparkling downward onto the dark street.
In the distance Turner hesitated, executed a quick glance in her direction, and then disappeared into a passageway.
What’s wrong with this picture? Hesitating at the entrance to the alley, her sixth sense fired warning rockets through her neural synapses. The interface wasn’t vibrating. Not even a nudge.
She stepped gingerly into the alley, allowing the gloom to envelop her. No sound of retreating footsteps. A few tentative feet into the passageway, she saw something hanging from an intricate, free-form web. It was the biggest damned spider imaginable, the cerulean blue granddaddy of the one she’d accosted in her room.
It smiled at her.
Go away! Cynda waved to shoo it away, as if it were an annoying fly. You don’t exist. She blinked rapidly, hoping that might cure the problem. The spider remained, slowly lowering itself like a cheap theatrical prop until it was eye-level with her.
Something darted past her feet. She jerked backward in surprise.
The spider grabbed the rat with two of its legs.
She watched in fascinated horror as the arachnid proceeded to wrap the creature in its silken cords like it was a Christmas present. Over and over, the rodent tumbled in the spider’s many legs, chittering in complaint. The moment the package was secure, the spider threw it over its shoulder like a grenade. It impacted the ground with a squishy squeak.
The compound eyes regarded her. Next! It beckoned with three of its eight feet while executing a smile worthy of a politician.
Hallucination or not, Cynda ran for it. She was a block away when the dry heaves hit. Bending over, she retched in the gutter until her stomach could no longer rise to the occasion. In the midst of her heaving, a couple walked by, shaking their heads. Cynda ignored them. Unless she could get control of the time lag, she’d have to return to 2057 empty-handed.
The hell I will, she murmured. To go home without the tourist would mean her job.
Miss Lassiter? Are you ill again?
The doctor’s voice. She groaned to herself. Of all people… A monogrammed handkerchief appeared under her nose. She wiped her face and mouth with it. Deciding he probably didn’t want it back in its current condition, she stuffed it in her pocket.
A hand steadied her as she rose. Yes, I am ill again. Now if you would be so kind as to walk me to the boarding house, I will go back to bed.
Dr. Montrose regarded her solemnly. As you wish. He firmed his grip on her elbow and guided her at a leisurely pace. Have you considered treatment for your delusions?
I’m perfectly fine, she snapped.
Your actions say otherwise. You bolted out of that alley like the very devil was on your tail. Seeing spiders again, were we?
Cynda gave him a sideways glance that would have dismembered a lesser man. Before she could respond, she wavered on her feet. His grip instantly tightened.
He studied her with a stern expression. You must get your rest. You are near collapse.
Look who’s talking, she said. At least my eyes don’t have their own set of luggage.
He raised an eyebrow. Your speech is quite unique.
Americans are like that.
He shook his head. No, I studied medicine in Baltimore. Your speech is singularly different.
Oops. Good going, Lassiter. That’s me, singularly different,
she said, hoping he’d drop the subject. A flash of lightning struck at her feet and she jumped in response. The doctor shook his head at her antics.
What was that? Another spider? he chided.
Lightning, she murmured. It’ll all go away once I get some sleep.
Then by all means get your rest, Miss Lassiter, the doctor retorted. If not, someone may feel compelled to have you committed until your hallucinations pass.
Cynda clamped her mouth shut, lacking a good response. The last thing she needed was to end up in a Victorian asylum.
Once Dr. Montrose deposited her in her room, she used his handkerchief to stuff the keyhole so no one would see what she was about to do. It took time to crawl out of the heavy dress and petticoats and unlace the boots. She cautiously leaned over the washbasin—it was free of blue spiders. Sighing, she washed her face free of the street grime. After brushing her hair and teeth, she retrieved the pocket watch and flipped it open. As she wound the stem the appropriate number of times to activate the interface’s communication link, she forced herself not to succumb to the rising desire to panic.
I’ll get it done. Everything will be okay, she told herself.
She’d been in worse situations, like that time in 1906 during the San Francisco earthquake. It was all a matter of keeping focused.
The watch unfolded like a flower in her hand, petal by metal petal, until it reached the diameter of a large sandwich plate. A toothpick-size wand poked out the side—the only way she could access the miniscule keyboard. The dull orange screen lit the air above the device. Cynda sat on the bed, positioning the interface on the pillow in front of her.
She tapped in her password with shaking fingers and waited.
She’d never quite understood how it all worked. Ralph had tried to explain, but all she got was that it was pretty awesome technology. She was happy to leave it at that.
The watch beeped reassuringly.
Cynda typed, Log Ong.
Unknown command.
She swore and entered the phrase again, taking more care.
Log On Complete, the tiny screen typed back at her. TIC’s leering clock logo blinked at the end of the sentence.
Ralph?
Sure is. Where have you been?
She switched to their private code. KATL. Kick Ass Time Lag.
RB? Really bad?
RRB. Really, really bad.
Sorry. Any sign of tourist?
Just starting.
Keep me posted.
Why so short? He had a full-size holo-screen and keyboard and didn’t need to be tight with words.
Big bosses here.
Uh-oh. TIC’s higherups didn’t visit that often. Their presence was never a good sign. It usually coincided with more layoffs.
Something by tomorrow? she typed.
Sooner. Don’t loiter.
She frowned at that. He knew she didn’t like this time period.
Why the nudge? Time to push back.
What was DOI? she asked.
A pause and then, Date of Insertion 9/24/1888
RO said 8/24/88.
Another pause. No, Retrieval Order says 9/24/88.
Cynda glared. She knew she’d read it right. I’m not supposed to be here NOW.
Neither is tourist. Corporate making payroll, no doubt.
Cynda stuck her tongue out at the interface as if Ralph could see her. She issued a deep sigh. So much for TIC’s rules. They were easily bent when the bank account ran dry. Find out what happened.
Will do.
Need list of nearby pubs.
A list scrolled by––and scrolled by. It continued until Cynda’s eyes began to blur. She waited impatiently until it ended.
How many are there? she asked.
Over 40.
Give me the most well known. Turner would hit the ones that held the best potential for academic research.
The list was shorter now. She studied the names and nodded to herself. Most of them she knew.
Thanks, Ralph.
Be careful.
I will. Log Off.
Logged Off.
She converted the pocket watch back to its usual size and tucked it under her pillow. Ralph was on her side. Between them, they’d get this done.
Alastair heard the key in the lock, and then the sounds of the strange American woman rummaging around her room. She talked to herself, though he couldn’t make out the words. It appeared her mental state was deteriorating with each passing hour. He’d been shocked to find her on the street in such a condition: the fear on her face genuine, the delusions of sufficient strength to frighten her witless.
He settled on a course of action, intending to consult a physician familiar with ailments of the brain. Perhaps a particular treatment might aid the woman in retaining what degree of sanity she still possessed.
As he washed his face, he gazed into the shaving mirror above the washstand. Dark circles resided under his eyes. The sight caused him to laugh spontaneously. She is correct; I do have my own set of luggage.
He poked gingerly at the bruise and winced. It was darker now.
Her violent act did not bode well. Would she degenerate into a raving lunatic, shouting obscenities at terrors only she could see?
He’d made rounds at an asylum while in medical school. He knew what happened to young women in those places.
Pray God that is not her end. He splashed more cold water on his face. It seemed to steady him. Perhaps the madness is temporary, as she says.
The thought brought him no comfort. Miss Lassiter was going insane, and there was little medical science could do to stop it.