Chapter 17
Cynda would have gotten them all if it hadn’t been for the bowler. When she couldn’t find Theo at the first location, she disarmed his bomb, her nerves taut. She’d been about to move onto number two when she spied the bowler lying in the mud. Its brim was ripped and battered. A broken umbrella lay nearby.
Heart sinking, she dropped to her knees to study the footprints around the hat. This was more than push back. This felt like an ambush.
In the distance she heard a hollow thump, the last bomb detonating right on schedule. “Oh, God.” Cynda flipped open the interface, intending to jump back and warn Theo of the ambush.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
She whirled to find a man watching her. He was of medium build, dressed like a Victorian. He’d arrived without her hearing him.
A Future. “Why not?”
His expression went flat, like someone trying to project an image of impartiality. “Because you just can’t. There’s a reason this has happened.”
She glowered at him, gripping the interface so tightly the stem dug into her palm. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”
“I’m Robert Anderson. I’m from your future.”
The man Rover One had spoken of. “You have anything to do with this?” she asked, gesturing toward the hat.
“No.”
“Then who has him? Copeland?”
Anderson held out his hand. “I’m sorry, but I have to have the interface first. Then I’ll tell you.”
“That’s blackmail!”
“I need to get this back to the academics or there will be consequences upstream. We’ve bent the rules as far as we dare at this point.”
“How do I know you’re not lying?” she demanded, livid at being cornered like this.
Anderson frowned. “Nothing but my word.”
“Which means nothing to me. You might be the guy who talked to Defoe, you might not.”
“I am. I’m also the one who off-timed him to New York and sent you to the Thames the night your lover died.”
She reeled back. “Why are you guys doing this?”
“Because we have to. Things are so off track we have no choice.” He gestured toward the watch. “Please, just give me the interface.”
“Damn you!” With a cry of anguish, she tossed it at him. Anderson caught it on the fly.
“Thank you.” He tucked it in a pocket. “Copeland has your boss.”
“Where?” she snapped.
“Defoe is the key to all this,” he replied, avoiding her question. “Copeland’s masters want him. We’ve hidden Rover One in the time stream while we figure out why he’s so important to them.”
“Why take Theo?”
“Your boss is leverage. All that matters to Copeland is that he remain on the good side of his employers. He’ll do anything to stay alive.”
Anything.
“Is Theo dead?”
“Not yet.”
She shivered. “How do I find them?”
“Copeland has a cat’s-paw here in ’88 named Hezekiah Grant. He’s the weakest link in the chain.”
“The Ascendant,” she whispered. Theo had spoken of him. She fumbled with the silver pendant, pulling it out. If this had Grant’s address in the files…
“Don’t bother,” Anderson advised. “He’s in hiding. Within a few hours, Grant will be contacting you. You should be preparing yourself for that moment. It’s your best chance to get Morrisey back alive.”
A second later, Cynda was staring at empty air.
~??~??~??~
Too slow. Five stories in each warehouse. Thousands of barrels to search. Most of them were the huge ones, but a smaller one could be tucked in amongst them. Keats heard the men muttering. They realized the futility of this gesture as much as he did.
He moved to the next barrel. “Mind you, be careful!” he warned.
“If’n I was bein’ careful, guv, I’d be in a pub right now ’steada in here with ya,” someone called back.
“He has a point.”
Keats turned toward the familiar voice. “Hello, my friend. How is life in the East End these days?”
“Quiet so far,” Alastair replied, shifting a barrel to examine it. “Fisher was given orders to pull the constables back and let Jacynda and her people handle the problem.”
“Who issued that order?” Keats asked, taken by surprise.
“Warren.”
Keats snorted. “I had hoped she’d be out of this.”
“You’re mad if you think that. According to Mr. Morrisey, you should find one of those coins in each of these barrels. He said you should remove it first thing. It’s how the detonations are triggered.”
“Of course,” Keats muttered under his breath.
Ramsey thumped down the row. “Doctor, we have need of you. One of the lads tangled with a hogshead and got his foot mashed.”
Alastair threw Keats a resigned look. “I’ll be happy to help.”
They’d taken only a few steps when there was a muted explosion. Shouts erupted outside.
“Where did that come from?” Keats called to a man near the door. “Was the blast on this side of the river?”
The man shook his head. “North, I think.”
The East End.
Keats waited for the watchman to return so they could lock up. Of all the warehouses, this was the least full, the easiest to check. They had to have missed something. He ducked inside for one last look.
He walked down the closest row again. This was futile. No wonder the newspaper accounts had reported no one knew exactly where the bombs had been placed.
As he returned to the double doors, he noted a piece of tarp in a corner. Had they looked under it? Keats knelt and flung the cover aside. He was rewarded with a barrel decorated with strange red writing on the side. A quick shift of the cask brought the dynamite into sight.
“How did we miss you?” he muttered. As his fingers deftly worked the rope holding the dynamite in place, a glancing blow struck him hard on the back of the head. He slumped against the barrel, struggling to remain conscious.
“Bloody rozzer!” A swift kick hit his thigh, then there was the sound of running footsteps.
Besides the pounding of his head, there was some sort of queer buzzing sound. A moment later, he was grabbed by the collar and hauled to his feet. “Too close,” a voice said. “We’re out of here.”
Then everything went frigid black.
Keats came to his senses, his head on fire, mind tumbling like an acrobat in a stage show. He wanted nothing better than to vomit.
“You okay?” a voice asked.
He made it to his knees, bending over in an effort to reduce the throbbing headache. Slowly lifting his head, he studied the man. Young. Worried, if the expression in his eyes counted for anything. Then he saw the pocket watch in the fellow’s hand.
“You’re one of them?” he managed to croak.
The man nodded. “I’m Hopkins. I work with Lassiter. I’m sorry I did that, but the bomb was due to go off right after I found you. I jumped us back a couple minutes to be safe, then disarmed it.”
“Thank you,” he said, still stunned. “You saved my life.”
“Part of the job. Lassiter would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”
“I heard an explosion. Is Jacynda unharmed?”
“Last time I saw her.”
Keats rubbed the back of his neck. Blast, that hurts. “Did you see who hit me?”
“No, sorry.”
“Not surprising, really. Nobody likes a copper.”
The newcomer offered his hand, and Keats used it to rise.
“We’ll work as a team. There are six more. Either they’re already in place or will arrive shortly before they detonate,” he said. Hopkins tapped his interface. “I can find them for you,” he added, a smug grin on his face.
“Arrive from where?”
“Best you not know.”
“Do I have to go into that blackness again?” Keats asked. “I didn’t like that a bit.”
“No. That was so against the rules I don’t want to even think about it.”
Keats winced, his head spinning again. He tried to steady himself and nearly fell.
“Hold still.” Something cold pressed against Keats neck. He remembered that sensation. It’d been that night in the carriage, after Flaherty had struck him on the head. Jacynda had put something against his neck and he’d felt so much better. The same was happening now. His headache eased immediately and with it, the dizziness.
“What did you do to me?”
“I played doctor, but don’t tell anyone.” The man rolled his eyes. “Lassiter is so not a good influence.” He stuck something in his pocket, then held his pocket watch in front of him like a compass. Revived, Keats followed him, rolling his neck from side to side to diminish a slight cramp.
“You know about the coins?” Keats nodded. “Just keep them far away from anything flammable,” Hopkins explained. “And don’t put them in your pocket,” he said, gesturing toward one of his own. It sported a sizeable scorch mark.
As they walked the row of warehouses, Hopkins studied the watch dial and then smiled broadly. “It’s already in place. That’ll make it easier.”