Chapter 13
By the time Jacynda reached the boarding house, tears pressed against her eyes like a spring flood. The moment she closed the door to her room, she sank to her knees, sobs spilling forth.
Cupping a hand over her mouth so the landladies wouldn’t hear her, she rocked back and forth in silent agony as the tears surged downward.
Chris Stone had built his own niche in her heart. He’d often shared his dreams with her after they’d made love. All those were gone now, washed away with the tide. She’d never again savor his hands holding her close, his jokes or his impish smile.
Rovers weren’t supposed to die. They weren’t part of history, and yet someone had brutally altered Chris’ timeline. Raw, primal rage built inside her. By God, if given the chance, she’d return the favor, history be damned.
It took several minutes before she had the courage to open the time interface and send the news into the future. How would TIC
react? Making the arrangements would be difficult, but Time Rovers always returned, no matter what. If the roles were reversed, Chris would make sure she got home.
I owe you that, she said, logging onto TICnet. Fortunately, they couldn’t see her tears.
Logged On, the screen typed back.
Ralph?
Yes. What’s going on? Why haven’t you reported in?
She had no way to blunt the news. Chris is dead.
There was no reply for a time, and then, I’m so sorry, Cyn.
How?
Looks like murder.
Oh, God.
Need to transfer him home, she wrote.
I’ll get Thad to approve it. There was a long pause, then the screen displayed, Do you have his time interface unit?
That had to be Thad—Ralph wasn’t a callous jerk.
No. It’s missing. Or he’d be home, you fool.
Find it.
Yeah, that was Thad. And where do you suggest I start? she growled. She opted for a fib. Bottom of the Thames. What about Chris’ transfer?
Unable to do so at this time.
What??
Use TIC funds for suitable burial in that time period.
What? You cheap son of a— Chris has to come home. He has family, she typed in a fury of letters.
Not possible. Maybe in the future.
She stared at the screen, incredulous. Future? What are you going to do, come back and dig him up in a couple of centuries?
She tried a new tactic. What about a potential Time Incursion?
Not your concern. Have you found tourist? the screen asked.
You cold bastard. All you care about is that bottom line. No.
Been busy at the morgue.
Find Samuelson. Your job depends on it.
She forced herself not to pummel the watch into minute pieces and ruin her chance of doing the same to Thad sometime down the line.
Cyn?
That had to be Ralph. Yes?
Sorry. Not good here. What can I do to help?
God bless him. Tell me about the tourist.
The man’s dossier appeared. She skimmed through it, anger still bubbling in her veins while her fingernails dug into her palms. Samuelson’s primary area of research was the care of the insane during the Nineteenth Century—hence, his trip to Victorian London.
Any luck with a photo? she typed.
Not in the file.
Why not?
Things are getting that way here. Anything else?
Check the word Drogo for me.
Hold on. 12th C. Patron saint of bodily ills, cattle, coffeehouse owners, insanity, orphans, sheep, and unattractive people.
Unattractive people?
Yes. Thad’s got his own saint.
That made her chuckle, despite the tears. Has tourist been here before?
Can’t access those files either.
Are things that bad?
Worse.
Give me a list of asylums.
Her screen filled with name after name. She pushed the cancel key.
Narrow it down!
Can’t. There were lots of them.
Check tourist application, she typed. Maybe Samuelson had filed a proposed itinerary.
Can’t access that, either.
What the hell is going on? A long pause. R?
I’ll get the info for you. Check back later.
She groaned. Hurry.
FYI––your apt. is gone. TIC took it back. Your stuff is at my place. I got everything, Fred included.
What?
Realizing Ralph couldn’t hear her, she typed, What????
Sorry…no choice.
Ah, no, she muttered. Not that she had that much stuff, but still…
Cyn?