Thank God, he said, folding the paper and stashing it under his arm. Perhaps my life will return to some semblance of normalcy.
The shattered clinic door offered mute testimony to the mob’s fury, putting to rest any hope that his troubles had ended.
Good lord, he whispered.
Threading his way into the room over broken glass and shattered benches, he shook his head in dismay. All the bandages he’d painstakingly wrapped were flung about, as if by a windstorm. Alastair kicked at what had once served as an examining table, now in splintered pieces.
All our work…
The crack of broken glass made him turn toward the door. It was Daniel. His partner’s mouth dropped open in horror.
Oh, dear God. He edged his way inside and then halted, staring.
I’m sorry about this, Alastair said. If I hadn’t been questioned by the police last evening, this wouldn’t have happened.
Police?
While Daniel slowly circumnavigated the room, taking measure of the damage, Alastair related his tale. The reaction he received was altogether different than he expected.
Daniel flailed his arms in increasing agitation. It’s certainly not your fault; it’s theirs! If these people are so ungrateful, then why are we here? Maybe it is true they deserve their lot. God, I’d hoped I’d never say that, but…damn and blast the lot of them.
Daniel, we can rebuild. I have come into some money, and—
No! It doesn’t matter if you’ve received a king’s ransom, Alastair. I am through, do you understand? Leah is not happy in London, and her parents write her weekly, begging for us to emigrate to Chicago. He gestured around at their ravaged surroundings. Perhaps this is just God’s way of telling me I’m not wanted here.
Alastair had never seen his friend so angry, so insistent. The ransacking of the clinic had struck a nerve, one not likely to heal quickly. The clinic was Alastair’s dream, not Daniel’s.
I wish you would stay.
A quick shake of the head.
Then, if you feel your calling is elsewhere, I will gladly give you a portion of the sum I have received so that you may begin anew, Alastair offered, his heart heavy.
No, I leave the money and the clinic to you. I know you will not squander a penny of it.
You are sure?
A nod. They solemnly shook hands, and then embraced.
How soon will you leave? Alastair inquired.
Within the week. Leah’s parents have already sent us money for the journey. Until now, I have always had a reason to stay.
You must write when you get settled, Alastair said.
Of course I shall. Daniel paused, his eyes sweeping the room.
Don’t let this place destroy you. It strangles its own. You are too excellent a physician to be lost in this pit of unending despair.
I shall remember that.
Once cleared by medical for the leap, Jacynda’s transfer from 2057 to the nineteenth century went smoothly; apparently, it helped to have the latest time software at your disposal and a computer genius handling the chronsole settings. One thing Morrisey couldn’t affect was her nose. Much to her annoyance, the brief respite in ’057 reactivated her sense of smell. Handkerchief pressed firmly to her face, she waited for the next train at King’s Cross Station.
London felt different, the change evident the instant she stepped out of the alley. More like a shabby old friend rather than an antagonist. She welcomed the dissonant chorus of squeaking carriage wheels, the clamoring vendors and newspaper lads, all rending the air with their particular music.
Tucking her handkerchief into a pocket, she shifted the valise into her free hand. At least this time, she was prepared for the worst London had to offer. Morrisey had insisted she be armed with a personal security version of a neuro-blocker. Masquerading as a silver matchbox, it sat tucked into a hidden pocket in her skirt. Her new time interface was the latest version, the fancy one that allowed you to do forward-momentum time hops utilizing pre-set coordinates. Ralph had even slipped her a mini medical kit should matters really go south. The truncheon she’d collected on Dorset Street had been shortened in length and was nestled in a deep skirt pocket. Then, there were the forged papers that would spring Dr. Samuelson from his cell at Colney Hatch, and a spare time band lest his had gone missing.
All I need is a pair of boots that fit, she grumbled, wiggling her foot inside the right one in a futile attempt to keep it from gnawing on her toes. Technology could flip her halfway across time, but couldn’t make a proper set of footwear. How wrong was that?
Now that she stood waiting for the train, her nerves grew taut.
She could have easily had Morrisey send her directly to Colney Hatch. Instead, Cynda had requested a site near the train station.
‘Do the thing you fear most, and the death of fear is certain,’
she whispered. I hope Twain knew what he was talking about.
The roaring behemoth pulled into the station, spewing smoke clouds. She pressed through the crowd toward the closest carriage, the conductor’s shouts lost in the babble around her. With heart thudding, she climbed aboard the train, accepting the hand of a gentleman in the process.
Thank you, sir, she said reflexively.
My pleasure, madam, was the prompt reply. He doffed his hat in respect. The gesture still caught her offguard.
Cynda found herself a seat next to a middle-aged couple and waited for the terror to encompass her. When the carriage gave a lurch forward, she forced herself to remain rooted to the seat, offering up a prayer to whatever deity was in charge of steam trains. Across from her sat a nanny in charge of two impeccably dressed children. The little girl’s eyes blossomed wide with apprehension under her bonnet. Her brother’s glistened with excitement.
Isn’t this grand fun? the boy asked in a glee-filled voice. An Alastair in the making. The sister gave a tentative nod, as if still assessing the chances of surviving this socalled fun.
Cynda winked at her. The child responded in kind. Kids were always the same, no matter the century. As the journey progressed, the little girl relaxed, and in a short time called out the stops with her brother. That proved fortunate, or Cynda would have missed Colney Hatch altogether.
Flagging a hansom, she put in her request for the asylum.
Are you sure, miss? the jarvey asked.
Oh, yes, miss is quite sure this time.
No matter how much she’d hoped, Dr. Walter Samuelson was not the man in the alley; his eyes were a matched set, staring at her without a flicker of recognition.
So who was the crazy?
It’s time to go home, Dr. Samuelson, she announced, mindful of the attendant loitering in the doorway behind them. MaryBeth is waiting for you.
MaryBeth? He looked around with a hunted expression. Is she here? he asked in a henpecked whisper.
No, but she’s worried about you.
The man moaned. Of course. No one to heckle. That generated a snigger from the attendant.
Cynda pressed on. That may be the case, Dr. Samuelson, but it is time you went home.
The man issued a resigned groan and dug under his mattress like a dog for a bone. Out came disorderly piles of foolscap. He clutched them to his breast, not unlike the linguist in Pompeii.
Damn, he murmured, and shuffling forward. If I’d only had a few more days.
Cynda proffered the valise. He peered inside as if judging the capacity, and then dropped the papers inside with a rustle. Cynda shut the case with a click. When she handed it to him, he clutched it tightly. I suppose I can’t—
No! cutting him off before he revealed something they’d regret. Besides, with the money you’ll make off the…monographs, she said, mindful of their escort, perhaps you can return someday.
The man brightened instantly. I hadn’t thought of that. He progressed from brightened to beaming in a heartbeat. Precisely what I shall do.
Good, then, she replied, linking arms with him. They hiked along the endless corridor toward the main entrance, the attendant trailing behind.
By the time Cynda found an appropriately secluded spot to forward the shrink, she’d acquired a headache of Biblical proportions. It was all Samuelson’s doing. He’d been chattering away like a hyped-up chipmunk ever since she’d liberated him from his cell. Weeks of having no one to talk to, at least no one sane, had shoved him into overdrive and she’d not been able to ask a single question. Instead, she’d heard chapter and verse, as if she really wanted to know the inner workings of a nineteenth-century loony bin. He’d even cleared up one minor mystery: His strange scribblings were some sort of cryptic code he used to prevent others from copying his work.
One can never be too careful, he explained.
Or too paranoid. Things weren’t adding up. Samuelson claimed he’d been at the asylum for almost a month, but his landlady said he’d left three weeks ago.
Time band?
He shook his head. That didn’t surprise her. Apparently, the band had gone AWOL when he had. She put the replacement on his wrist and asked as nonchalantly as possible, So what happened to your ESR Chip?
He acted as if he hadn’t heard her, making a show of straightening his clothes as if the transfer wasn’t going to undo all his work.
Doctor?
Humm?
Your ESR Chip. What happened to it?
Oh, Geoffrey saw to it and the time band thing, as well. I’m a bit absentminded, you see.
Geoffrey?
My brother.
Saw to them…how?
He took the band first thing, said he’d keep it safe.
Samuelson plopped the valise on the ground and rolled up his right pants leg, revealing a reddened area on his calf the size of a quarter. Then he took the chip out a while back, during one of his visits. Said it would allow me to stay longer, and we could always replace it back when we got home. He rolled down the fabric and straightened up. It worked. I paid for a week’s stay, and it’s been—
Too long, Cynda said, not caring about the numbers. Your brother came with you?
Yes. He was the one who talked me into the adventure. I’m glad I listened to his advice.
TIC only showed one transfer on your account.
Oh, it was some special deal, he said, waving an arm dismissively.
MaryBeth arranged it.
Is your brother at the asylum? If I have to go back to that place…
No, he’s somewhere in London. He said he had research to do, and that he’d collect me when it was time to leave. When you appeared without him, I figured he’d already gone home.
Did your brother remove his chip?
A shrug.
Does he look like you?
Somewhat. He’s a bit taller.
A chill vaulted up her spine, lodging at the base of her neck.
One eye a different color than the other?
Yes! You must have seen one of his holo-book covers,
Samuelson said with a hint of pride.
No, I’ve seen the murdering creep in person.
He can’t stay here, she said. Any idea where I can find him?
Dalton could be anywhere.
You said his name was Geoffrey.
Oh, right, but he usually goes by his pseudonym.
Pseudonym? This guy was as clear as a London fog.
He’s a writer. Pens those gruesome murder mysteries under the name of Dalton Mimes.
That rang a bell. Did he write a book about a deranged killer at a daycare center?
That’s him. I don’t enjoy his work. Far too violent. Very antisocial. Always has been, he said in a professional tone.
Makes him a good writer, though.
How did you become an inmate at Colney Hatch? she pressed.
It was Geoffrey’s idea. He said it would be the best way to learn what it was like on the inside. It worked quite well, though I’ve a lost a bit of weight from the god-awful food.
How did you get admitted?
He forged the committal papers and played the part of my doctor. He’s clever with disguises.
Disguises? What is he researching?
Something for his next book, I think. He said he needed to ‘up his numbers’, whatever that means. He’s a collector of all sorts of crime-related paraphernalia. I don’t visit his apartment, it’s too… he wiggled his fingers in disgust, unpleasant. He snatched up the valise and regarded her expectantly, like a child off to camp.
Cynda reworked the interface, excluding herself from the transfer. After another quick scan around them, she sent Dr.
Walter Samuelson into the arms of his badgering wife. A reassuring beep told her all was well.
Turning toward the brick wall, she tucked the watch away in the special pouch at the bottom of her onesie. She realigned her skirts, stood upright and took a deep breath. Two down, one to go, she said, recalling the face of the man who’d knifed her in the alley. And that one’s going home in a box, if I have any say.
The rogue tourist required a drastic change in plans. In many ways, that didn’t annoy Cynda in the least. She found herself a nice hotel outside of Whitechapel and settled in for the duration.
Tempting as it was to contact her favorite Victorian gentlemen, she held herself in check. She was here only long enough to find the rogue tourist and get him home.
Cynda glanced at the fresh pot of tea and pile of scones on the table near the window. Duty or food? She hated choices like that.
Maybe a bit of both. Claiming a scone, she retreated to the bed and activated the interface.
She did have to give her new boss one thing; the guy was stateof-the-art. Her time interface still resembled an antique pocket watch, but the keypad was manageable. Instead of poking at it like a blind monkey with the little stick, a holokeyboard projected itself on any available surface.
Log On Complete.
Cyn?
Hi Ralph.
Why didn’t you transfer with tourist?
She reverted to Rover slang. There’s a bogey here.
She could almost hear the exclamation of surprise on the other end.
The guy in the alley?
You got it. He’s Samuelson’s brother, Geoffrey. Some sort of special deal.
There was a pause, during which he was probably accessing the database.
We want this guy, Ralph. He killed Chris.
There was a long pause and then, SOB. It wasn’t an expression of grief.
The brother is the mastermind behind all this. Debrief the shrink. Will stay here until we work out a plan.
Understood. After another pause, TEM says to watch your back.
She stared at the tiny screen. Mr. Software Genius is worried about me? Thank TEM. I’ll be careful. Log Off.
Logged Off.
The rest of the evening was blissfully quiet. After consuming the entire pot of tea and the plate of scones without an answer from the Great Beyond, Cynda called it a day. Snuggling into the wide bed she allowed a heartfelt sigh to escape. She wondered if Morrisey would mind her staying a day or two extra after she’d found the shrink’s psycho brother. It would fun to go the aquarium with Keats and see the Crystal Palace. And maybe she and Alastair could take a train to–– Get real, Lassiter, muttered, shaking her head. It doesn’t work that way. But I wish it did.
Tomorrow she’d do what she did best: hunt for the man in the alley. For the time being, she’d savor the smell of the crisply ironed sheets, the fluffy feather pillow and the crackling fire.
Almost home, she murmured and then fell fast asleep.