“It’s your choice, guv,” the man offered.
As Clancy Moran saw it, it wasn’t really a choice, not with a knife pointing at his belly.
“What’s the old fox want with me?” he asked, trying to buy time.
“To talk,” was the quick reply. There were four men around him, counting the one with the blade. He could start a brawl, but they’d end it.
“Flaherty never wants to talk to nobody. He just cuts ’em up. Like Johnny Ahearn.”
The knife wielder’s eyes narrowed. “Well then, looks like you’re the next up, don’t it?”
Clancy tried to keep his muscles loose as he descended into the cellar beneath a chandlery. There’d be too many of Flaherty’s men around to escape, but at least he’d have the chance to snap the bastard’s neck before they stopped him. He chuckled at the thought, which earned him a baffled look from his escort. It was probably righteous he’d not received the sergeant’s award money. It didn’t look like it would have done him much good anyway.
“Knife,” the man demanded, putting out his hand. Clancy dug it out and dropped it into the outstretched palm. “Now the one in your boot.” Grudgingly, he obeyed.
The door creaked open at the bottom of the stairs and he was pushed through. As his eyes adjusted to the candlelight, his hope surged. There was only one man inside the room—the man he’d vowed to kill.
“Evenin’, Moran.” Flaherty gestured toward a barrel. “Rest yer feet. We need to talk.”
“I don’t talk to butchers.”
The blade appeared in Flaherty’s hand as if by magic. “And I don’t talk to fools. So what’s it gonna be?”
Clancy squared himself, ready for a fight. “Why’d ya do it? Johnny always watched yer back. Ya had no right to cut him like that.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yer lyin’. I heard—”
“Ya heard wrong,” Flaherty insisted.
“Why should I believe ya?”
“Because Johnny was workin’ for me. He was tryin’ to find my daughter.”
Clancy rocked back. “So the rozzer had it right.”
“The little sergeant?”
“Yeah.”
“One of my men saw ya at the Spread Eagle. He said the two of ya were arguin’ over somethin’.”
“I was tryin’ to stop him from goin’ to Whitechapel. Figured he’d get nicked.”
“He didn’t do it, ya know,” Flaherty admitted. “He was in that alley with me.”
“Then why’s the wind blowin’ toward the gallows?”
Flaherty’s voice turned bitter. “Why not? They’ll hang anyone they please if it serves them.”
“Still, he’s a rozzer. A fair one, and there ain’t too many of those.”
“Best we don’t argue that one.”
“So why am I here?”
“It’s plain we don’t like each other much. Too many cocks in the barnyard, right?” Flaherty gave a low chuckle. “We got different ideas of how to free Ireland from her shackles. But right now, none of that matters. I have to find Fiona, and I need yer help.”
Clancy knew what it took for this man to admit that. They’d been rivals since the moment they’d met, each trying to rally men to the cause in their own way. And now…
He sat on the barrel, letting the tension ebb. “When did she go missin’?”
“Right after I stole those explosives,” Flaherty replied, his knife vanishing into a coat pocket. “She was workin’ for Effington.” He spat on the floor. “Somehow she was found out.”
Clancy spat as well. “He’s rottin’ in hell. I saw what he did to that watchman.”
“It wasn’t him that took Fee, though. It was one of the others.”
The skin on the back of Clancy’s neck prickled. “Ya mean…”
A single nod. “I know ya cared for Johnny. So did I, and I want the man who killed him. I figure if we find him, we’ll find Fee.”
“What about the explosives?” Clancy hedged.
“None of yer worry.”
“And the rozzer?”
“What about him? We can’t do nothin’ for him now.”
“Maybe not.” Clancy rose from the barrel. “I’ll do what I can for ya, but after we find yer daughter, I’ll not work with ya again.”
“Didn’t figure ya would.”
~??~??~??~
2057 A.D.
TEM Enterprises
As he’d promised, Morrisey made her a game. When she touched the hovering picture above the black box, a question would appear.
Is it a kitten, a shoe, or a horse?
Cynda smiled. This one was easy.
“Kitten,” she said. A chime rang. She’d gotten that one right.
Another picture. “Horse.” Chime. Another picture. She had no idea. A sad sound came from the machine. That happened two more times and then she stomped off in a huff to play with the fish. When she grew bored, she came back and started over. She got two more of the images right this time.
To her delight, music came out of the box and a tiny dragon sailed across the screen, belching fire as it flew up and perched on top of a golden pagoda. It winked at her, curled up, and took a nap. She started all over again. Each time she got the proper number of words right, the dragon grew a bit bigger.
When she grew tired of the game, she headed for the sand. Dropping to her knees, she started moving it around, trying to decide what she wanted to build.
Then he came, the bald man called Weber. He started asking silly questions. She glared, but he didn’t leave. Even the one named Ralph knew better than that.
“Why are you doing that?” Weber asked, typing his notes into his machine again.
“Because it’s fun,” she replied, pushing sand around.
“Why do you think that?”
She frowned. “Because it is.”
Cynda scooped a huge handful and then formed one of the four towers, adding the little impressions at the top with her pinkie. She tried to remember what they were called, but couldn’t come up with the word. She just knew they had to be there.
“What are these called?” she asked, pointing at one of them.
“I have no idea.”
Then go away. She created the second tower, repeating the little impressions.
“Miss Lassiter?”
“What?” she grumbled.
“You are too ill to be here. You need treatment. You’re not going to get better building castles in the sand. ”
Castle? She smiled. So that’s what it is.
She started work on the third tower. There was another series of beeps from the bald man’s machine, then he walked off.
Good.
She eyed the thing she’d been building. Castle. “Still not right.” She needed one of those water things that went around the outside. She hiked to the black box and asked the question.
“Water thing. Around a…a…castle. What is it?”
“Moat,” it replied.
That was it. She needed a moat.
“Miss Lassiter?” Morrisey was on the walkway. She could tell by his face that something wasn’t right. He removed his shoes and joined her, kneeling in the sand.
“Very nice,” he remarked, his voice even softer than usual.
“I like it.” She pointed up at the pagoda’s roof. “I built it for them.”
“That’s kind of you.”
She stared at him. “What’s wrong?”
“A judge has decided that I do not have the right to keep you from receiving treatment for your Adrenalin Reactive Disorder.”
“What’s Adren...”
“It means you have a tendency to be more violent than the rest of us.”
“I haven’t hurt anyone,” she told him. At least not that she could remember.
“No, you haven’t, but they think you might. The judge is allowing you to stay here, but he did order you to receive the treatment.” He looked away. “I’m so very sorry.”
Cynda wasn’t sure what it all meant, but it seemed to hurt him. The lines on his face were deeper now.
She panicked. “Will it make me worse?”
“I don’t know.”
That was honest. “If it does, I won’t do it anymore.” She pointed. “Do you think I should have another…ah….ah…mmm…water thing over here?”
The question pulled him out of his dark thoughts. “Yes, I think you do. The castles I’ve seen had moats on most of the exposed sides.”
Moat. She kept forgetting that word. “You’ve seen them for real?” she asked in wonder.
“Yes. So have you, or you wouldn’t have made this so accurately.”
“Maybe I have. I just don’t remember.” She pointed at the top of the turret. “What are these called?”
“Crenellations. They allow an archer to fire down upon an enemy.”
“What’s an archer?”
“Someone with a bow and arrow.”
“Do you know everything?” she asked, cocking her head.
“No, unfortunately I don’t.” He sighed and rose. “I will let them know you will accept the treatment.”
“Only if I can stay here,” she insisted.
A nod. He plodded off, shoulders bent under some invisible weight.