The Reluctant Assassin

Unto Dust


THE OLD NICHOL ROOKERY. BETHNAL GREEN. LONDON. 1898

Albert Garrick had spent most of the previous night in discreet observation of the house on Bedford Square until one of his stooges sent him word of the Injun princess’s whereabouts. There had also been a Battering Ram keeping an eye on the place, but the man received news from a runner at twelve bells and cleared out of his lurk.

Doubtless Otto has heard of Tibor Charismo’s fate.

So now Garrick was on the border of the Old Nichol with his marvelous weapons.

A few warning shots, he had reckoned, to smoke out my quarry.

Garrick spotted the twitch at the loft window, then utilized the beautiful and deadly laser to lay a few potshots into the room. The effectiveness of the sights made him quite emotional.

It is a perfect creation in its blend of form and function.

It was a simple matter for Garrick to take two paces eastward on the rooftop and thus have a clear view of the tenement’s front door.

Riley knows I could never enter that building, he realized. The boy had a cruel streak in him. He could have made a worthy assistant, had he not betrayed me.

The rookery had only one exit, and it was through this doorway that Riley and Chevie must emerge, unless they planned to drown in the sewage pit at the rear of the house or batter their way through the one-story shack sublets that stood propped against it.

And with my most excellent FBI weaponry, I will pick them off as they leave.

He smiled. The end is nigh, Chevron Savano.

There was a flurry of activity at the door, precipitated by some yappy fighting mutts who tumbled into the street barking.

Here they come, thought Garrick, activating his laser sight. Two shots only; save bullets for the gunsmith.

But instead of two frightened fugitives, no less than a dozen youths erupted from the hovel door, bursting through the refuse littering the front passage, all sporting broad-brimmed hats, scattering like criminals on the run. It was impossible to tell if Riley and Chevie were among them.

Garrick grinned tightly from his perch. A diversionary bunch. Clever.

The assassin supposed that he could drop half a dozen, but that would be a shocking waste of ammunition, and the bobbies would be attracted by mass murder, even in the Old Nichol.

Garrick pocketed his weapon and ran for the stairwell.

So now we race, my son. Only the swift shall survive. The future lies in Bedford Square for us all.

Chevie ran straight across the road, avoiding potholes as she went. Directly facing the tenement’s doorway was a forlorn alley barely the width of a man’s shoulders, which Chevie and Riley darted down, avoiding the turgid stream that trickled down the middle. The black passage was lined with an honor guard of Bob Winkle’s boys, all clapping and whooping with whatever enthusiasm their tarry lungs would permit.

Bob Winkle waited like an angel in the white fog at the alley’s end, holding open a crooked wooden door.

“Get in, Yer Highness,” called Winkle. “I fed the horse some peppers, and she is rearing for the off.”

Chevie dived into the hansom cab’s box while Riley clambered up to the driver’s seat and Winkle landed beside him with remarkable agility for one so malnourished.

“You move sprightly-like,” commented Riley.

“I threw down a few beers,” admitted Winkle. “Just to perk myself up.”

“This is your cab?” Chevie called to the boy from below.

“For the moment, it is your carriage, ma’am,” said Winkle, winking through the roof hole.

Riley grabbed the long-handled whip from its holster and cracked it expertly between the horse’s ears. Part of his magician/assassin training had been whip work, and Riley could snap a playing card out of a punter’s fingers blindfolded. The horse reared once in fright, snapped strong teeth at its tormentor, then took off across the cobbles toward Bloomsbury and Bedford Square.

Garrick opted to run toward the house on Bedford Square. A hansom would be swifter, but there were none to be seen.

It vexed him, even as his lungs burned, that he, the great Albert Garrick, was forced to run down an urchin and a girl.

There was no question now of letting them live.

They know my secrets, and I suspect that soon enough Agent Savano will turn her wiles to the task of plotting my downfall.

Garrick knew that these two links to the future must be comprehensively severed lest they use the Timekey to reconnect with Chevron’s time and bring justice down upon him.

The magician felt his hat fly off his head and he let it go, allowing his long hair to stream out behind him. The wind in his locks made him feel primal and unstoppable.

Riley drove the hansom as though the devil were on their tail, which was not far from the truth. The trip was a little more than two and a half miles, and Riley clipped almost every footpath on the journey, tossing Bob Winkle and Chevie like bulls-eyes in a jar, but they never complained or cried halt; they were all too willing to wear a few bruises if the prize was escaping Albert Garrick.

Riley, not content simply to graze footpaths, seemed determined to drive the cab to destruction. He thundered past a lord’s carriage and was only saved from tipping upside down by the steadying steel of a lamppost, which buckled under the weight of the hansom’s broadside.

Their progress along Gower Street was marked by two constable’s whistles; a baker’s tray tossed into the air, showering the boys trailing the cart with hot rolls; and a sea of roast potatoes rolling from an overturned grill.

Chevie tried to hold herself steady enough to look out for Garrick, but the city flashed past, and her senses were addled by the jostling.

“Nearly there,” she said to herself, teeth clacking as she spoke. “I know this area.”

And she did, as the general architecture and layout of the streets did not change substantially over the next century.

Riley stood on the board, hauling on the reins, and slowed the beleaguered nag to a trot. He leaned into the roof aperture.

“Out you get, Chevie,” he ordered. “Bob, you dump this hansom in Covent Garden so as to draw the bluebottles away. Take it steady from here; no need to draw any sharp looks.”

Bob took the reins, his face a-glow with the sheer joy of flight. “Yessir, Mr. Riley. And if they nabs me, I’ll not peach, Winkle’s word on it.”

Riley passed him the last of Malarkey’s coin. “The princess thanks you, Bob.”

Winkle stuffed the money inside his ragged waistcoat. “You know where I lurks, if you have need. Inform the princess that next time I’ll be bartering for a kiss.”

Chevie threw open the door. “You wash your face,” she said, stepping onto the road, “and I might kiss it.”

Which caused the said mucky visage to churn in consternation, then grin widely as Bob Winkle snapped the reins and hurried off, vowing to wash his face at the next available opportunity.

The door of the Bayley Street house was solid wood with brass hinges and iron rivets and would obviously not succumb to a kicking.

Chevie was incredulous that a mere door might stop them, when they had come so far. She cast her eyes wildly around the square for some tool that would help them break in, but there was nothing on the street but nannies with strollers, enjoying the morning sun in the small park, or various street traders offering breakfast treats.

“How are we supposed to get in?” asked Chevie. “Our plan only works if we’re inside the house.”

“Calm yourself, Chevie,” said Riley. “I have cracked this drum before, remember?”

The assassin’s apprentice climbed on top of the groundfloor railings and sprang upward to grasp the sill of an upper window with his fingertips. Riley hoisted open the sash window and wriggled inside, just as he had during his previous, fateful visit. Last time the clasp had taken some forcing with a jemmy; this time it was already busted in two.

Half a minute passed, then Riley pulled open the door a slice.

“Duck inside,” he said to Chevie. “I smell Garrick approaching.”

Chevie obliged, saying, “I don’t smell anything. I think I broke my sense of smell in the Old Nichol.”

Riley closed the door, but he did not apply the chain. “I feel him near in the twist of me guts. It’s something I’ve always been able to do.”

Chevie placed the flat of one palm against her own stomach. “You know what, Riley? I think you may have something there. Let’s get moving. My guts are twisting something awful.”

Albert Garrick plucked another twenty-first-century phrase from the store in his mind: the runner’s high.

I ain’t a jot tired, he thought, as the adrenaline coursed through his system, maximizing his muscles’ performance. That is because my adrenal gland is releasing epinephrine. Fascinating.

Garrick leaned into the wind, pumping his arms in the style of Carl Lewis, one of Felix Smart’s favorite athletes.

The feeling didn’t last, and darkness clouded his morning mood. Garrick couldn’t rest until the Timekey was destroyed and the landing pad dismantled. He wouldn’t be completely safe in this time until that happened.

Riley shall know that I am his master, even unto dust.

When this is resolved, I will need to find myself a new apprentice. A less reluctant one.

I spared the rod. That will not happen again. I will select an indigent from the Old Nichol, feed him up, and teach him respect. And if he doesn’t learn it, he shall go to the grave, as his predecessor is about to do.

Garrick cut through the park, vaulting the iron railings onto Bayley Street, just in time to see the tail of Riley’s coat disappearing into the shadowed hallway of Charles Smart’s house.

Garrick’s bloodlust rose in his throat like bile.

I shall have them both, he thought with raw savagery, then away, before the alarm is raised.

Garrick drew himself up to avoid conspicuous glances and strolled across the street, as easy as a man with nothing more on his mind than the purchase of morning coffee and sweet rolls. This casual manner was sloughed off once he put his shoulder to Charles Smart’s door and found it unbolted.

They are mine, he thought, but then urged himself toward caution.

Chevron Savano has considerable training. She is young and impetuous, but still capable of surprises.

Garrick bolted the door behind him, then drew the lasersighted pistol and walked rapidly toward the stairs. There was clattering ahead as someone went down to the basement. Garrick knew from the weight of the footfalls and the whistle of breath that it was Riley.

It is possible that the boy is slightly asthmatic? Formative years spent in London’s poisonous smog will have that effect, he realized. And soon Riley’s breathing problems will become more severe.

His own lungs were as clean as a whistle, thanks to the wormhole.

Garrick took hold of the banister with his free hand and swung himself into the stairwell, using a shoulder to check himself against the wall.

Riley was in view. Ten steps below! A piddling, easy shot.

“Riley!” he thundered, rather enjoying the melodrama. “Halt!”

The boy did not even turn, but his legs wobbled and something slipped from his hand.

The Timekey! Riley has dropped it.

Garrick could not quell an exclamation. “Aha!”

The Timekey slipped from Riley’s fingers, and the boy knew that he must be seen to return for it, or else the plan counted for nothing. He spun around, only to find Garrick already crushing the key under his heel.

“You betrayed me, orphan,” said Garrick. “And your punishment will be a slow death.”

You orphaned me, thought Riley, fury building in his heart like steam in an engine, and he attacked, which was most certainly not part of the plan.

Riley balled his fists, as he had been taught, and punched Garrick in the nerve cluster above the knee. The assassin’s leg had no choice but to collapse, causing Garrick to list sideways in the narrow stairwell. Riley got off one more punch to the gut before Garrick raised his guard.

“Some fighting spirit,” he said, his voice reedy from the blow. “Too late for that, my boy. We are at the tail end of this story.”

Riley fought on, searching for the chinks in Garrick’s guard, finding them down low, around the hips and kidneys. And though Garrick’s expression was untroubled, he was reluctantly impressed by Riley’s skill, and surprised at how difficult it was to defend himself against the boy.

I have never fought someone who employs my exact style, he realized.

Finally Garrick grew tired of the game. He swept one arm around in a rapid arc, clouting Riley soundly on one ear, disorientating him utterly and sending him tumbling to the base of the stairs, into the basement corridor and out of sight.

Riley will turn on his master no more, thought Garrick.

All that stood between him and total peace of mind was one American teenager, who was probably unarmed. Still, he would take no chances.

Garrick spared a moment to finish crushing the Timekey beneath his boot, grinding the innards with great relish.

I could leave now. Just ascend and go. I have destroyed the Timekey.

This voice Garrick now recognized as the last wisps of Felix Smart’s conscience, attempting to manipulate him. Garrick was delighted to realize that he could not be turned from his path.

Riley knows my face. His voice must be silenced.

Death was the only answer. Unto dust, as he always said. And now he could proceed to the basement bedchamber without fear. The bed’s metal frame was nothing more than that without a Timekey to activate it. In truth, Garrick knew he should have come here during the night and disassembled the bed, but he had been wary of ambush and had to ensure the price on his head was removed. No need for fretting now.

Garrick almost wished for twenty-first-century surveillance cameras so that he could record what was going to happen next. This was an episode he would like to view critically, to confirm that his presence was as striking as he supposed.

There is always room for improvement in a performance.

Garrick banished such thoughts and allowed a cold, efficient sense of purpose to encase his brain, like the cold steel of a dragoon’s helmet.

I must be the assassin now. Tomorrow my world changes—in fact the entire world may change—but for now, I am performing a job of work. And Albert Garrick always takes pride in his work.

He strode down the corridor, eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom. There was scratching in the shadows that perhaps an amateur would have wasted ammunition on, but Garrick knew the claws of rats when he heard them and held his fire.

Riley moved slowly ahead of him, hampered by steamer trunks and mannequins, hunched over and casting fearful glances toward his mentor.

“She has deserted you, son,” Garrick called after him. “You are alone.”

“You murdered my parents!” Riley said. “I am no son of yours.”

Garrick was about to deny it—after all, how could Riley know what had transpired all those years ago?—when the truth occurred to him: The boy saw it in the wormhole.

“It was a job of work,” he admitted, shooting a wheeled mannequin for fun. “I did what I was hired to do. It was a matter of trust. And did I not save you? Against orders, I might point out.”

“Murderer!” howled Riley, darting through the bedchamber door, into the gloom beyond.

Garrick prudently took up a position beside the doorway, unwilling to follow Riley directly, in case Agent Savano attempted an ambush.

Remember, you have both had the same training. What is standard operating procedure when defending a room with a single entrance?

Chevie would be waiting in a blind spot, aiming whatever weapon she possessed at the doorway.

If she is there at all.

Perhaps Agent Savano was not even in the building. Still, better to lose a few seconds than waste the opportunity to close this sordid chapter of the book.

Garrick summoned his memories of the room. He had passed quite some time here, waiting for Felix Smart to turn up.

A rectangular space with a small alcove in the southern wall, with a dresser and writing desk. Rows of barrel-sized cylinders—crude batteries, I would guess, which Smart was building to power future visits to Victoria. Agent Savano will be in cover behind the desk. Upon my entrance she will have a clear shot at the optimum target zone.

Garrick checked his pistol’s load.

Very well. Albert Garrick will indeed enter as expected.

Chevie knelt behind the writing desk with Barnum’s revolver pointed at the doorway. The instant Riley appeared, she was on her feet with the weapon cocked.

Come on, Garrick, she willed the assassin. Show me that greasy smile.

Garrick talked all the way, cock of the cockney walk.

“We have shared quite the adventure,” he said. “But for me to realize my full potential, I need to be allowed to invest time in myself without constant interference . . .”

This speech surprised Chevie greatly, as she had shot Garrick three times between the first and third syllables of the word adventure. His cloak had twirled to the ground, and the magician keeled over stiffly, yet he continued to speak. And though she had been forewarned that there would be trickery, Chevie left herself exposed for a fraction of a second, which gave the real Garrick the chance to step calmly into the doorway and shoot Chevie square in the chest while still projecting his voice into the wheeled mannequin on the floor.

“. . . constant interference from a juvenile agent who is completely out of her depth.”

Garrick allowed the thought to flash through his mind that perhaps this FBI-style body shot was the most satisfying he had ever fired, in spite of Felix Sharp’s attempts to interfere with his conscience, or perhaps because of that.

I am in control of myself once more.

Chevie was knocked backward by the impact, lifted onto the tips of her toes, and almost somersaulted into a pile of blankets behind her.

Garrick, ever the professional, decided that he would savor the moment fully later, once he was safe in the Orient Theatre. Now was the moment to put the final nail in this coffin.

“Riley, boy,” he said, his voice honeyed and sonorous, as seductive a tone as was ever heard on the West End stage. “Stop running, son. Let me end your pain.”

Riley was facedown on the bed, his body heaving with sobs.

At the end he was just a child. Perhaps better to die in innocence.

Garrick pocketed his weapon, for it was important that this killing be more personal.

Two quick steps brought him to the bed.

I shall choke off the air from his windpipe, watch his eyes glaze, but out of respect for our shared past, perhaps I shall speak kindly as he goes.

Garrick reached for Riley’s neck.

My fingers are so slender, yet strong, he thought. I could just as easily have been a pianist.

Riley was too beaten to attempt escape and simply lay on the bed, waiting for Garrick’s fingers to close around his neck.

“No fight left in you, son?” whispered Garrick. “Perhaps it is time to sleep.”

Garrick sprang catlike onto the mattress, but his fingertips did not land on Riley’s soft neck, as expected. Instead they somehow clinked against cold glass, and the assassin’s head followed, smashing into a pane of unseen mirror with a dull crunch, sending cracks racing across the glass.

“But . . .” he said, baffled, blood pouring into one eye. “But . . . I see.”

Riley turned over and looked through the cracks in Garrick’s direction, but not at him. “What do you see, mighty illusionist?”

Garrick’s fingers tapped the looking glass, and he realized that he had been hoodwinked with his own magical apparatus; but the throbbing in his head grew louder than his thoughts. “Angled lights. A series of mirrors. Misdirection. But why?”

“To get you on the bed,” said a voice behind him.

Garrick turned dully, foundering in the goose down, and there, impossibly, stood Chevron Savano, hale and hardy, some form of throwing missile already flashing from her fingers, spinning in his direction.

Not so easy, thought Garrick, and he snatched the object from the air. Even when dazed, I will not be struck down by the likes of you.

The magician was irritated that he had been injured by one of his own mirrors. But what had the illusion accomplished, except to delay the inevitable? He was a little bloody, nothing more.

Garrick’s hand tingled, and he saw orange sparks buzz around the fingers that held the missile. Sparks buzzing like quantum bees around honey. Puzzlement heaped upon puzzlement.

Orange sparks? How?

Garrick opened his fingers and saw a Timekey, and for a moment he thought it another illusion, until Felix Smart’s experience assured him that it was real.

The hazmat team I tackled earlier. Of course, they had Timekeys and body armor. This is one of their keys, as was the one I smashed on the stairs. Dropped deliberately as a ruse. Riley allowed me to see him enter the house. Chevron simply donned a bulletproof vest in the minute before my arrival.

The Timekey’s digital readout was divided into four quadrants, and the top two were flashing.

Garrick waited a nanosecond for the information to come to him.

Top left activates the wormhole. Top right is the countdown, which already reads zero. The lower quadrants activate the reentry beacon. They are not active.

“That’s right,” said Chevie. “You’re going in, but you ain’t coming out.”

Garrick pawed at the Timekey controls with his fingers, but they had already become insubstantial; he was like a ghost trying to make contact with the real world. The Timekey slipped from his grasp and landed on the goose down, a vortex of light opening at its core.

“What?” said Chevie. “No last words? How about, The world hasn’t seen the last of Albert Garrick? That’s a good one.”

Riley appeared at Chevie’s side and his eyes were wet with tears. “You murdered my family. You stole me from my bed.” He shook Garrick’s own cloak at him. “So that I could be your audience.”

Garrick had bigger things on his mind than dealing with a boy’s accusations. He felt himself slipping away.

I am nothing, he realized. There may have been comfort in this thought for many, but for Albert Garrick it held only terror.

I shall be nothing for all eternity.

The orange sparks spread like magical locusts along his limbs and torso, leaving a bare outline behind. Ghostly innards wobbled inside transparent flesh, and Garrick saw it all happen.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged, so Riley said the words for him.

“Unto dust,” said the boy, and he spat on the floor.

For an instant Garrick flashed silver, as though transformed into thermite powder, then he was sucked down into the Timekey, which stood on its point, spinning like a top.

A bolt of lightning shot from its tip, scorching the ceiling, then it too disappeared.

“Okay,” said Chevie, grabbing Riley’s shoulder and hustling him toward the steps, “I know where this is going.”

Without an aperture at the twenty-first-century end of the wormhole, the time tunnel craved energy to sustain the matter conversion. The first things to go were the barrel batteries, which were grabbed with lightning fingers, squeezed dry, then tossed aside like dead husks. Then the lightning burrowed deep into the earth itself, siphoning geothermal energy until the soil cracked and split.

Chevie pushed Riley upstairs and toward the front door, hearing the earth itself open behind her with thunderous booms and sharp snaps. She could feel Bill Riley’s Timekey buzz sympathetically against her chest.

“Run,” she called, wholly unnecessarily. “The house is going to collapse.”

Riley did not need any urging. He raced toward the door, thinking that this was the second time he had fled this house in fear of his life.

The house collapsed around them as they ran, sinking into the basement’s maw, as the structure itself fed the wormhole with kinetic energy. Glass shattered and stone was crushed like sand. Chevie kicked Riley hard in the rump to shunt him past a falling chandelier.

Garrick had bolted the door behind him, but this didn’t delay them, as most of the front wall had collapsed. The fleeing pair dived through a hole in the wall onto the pavement and scrambled quickly from the maelstrom of destruction behind them.

Streams of people flowed from the doors of adjacent houses, and screaming and howling rose up in the square as the wormhole gulped and swallowed the entire building, excising it from its neighbors with surgical precision. When at last the dust settled and the cacophony faded, the house had been removed, like a rotten tooth from a gum, leaving the others untouched save for a score of broken windows and a spiderweb of superficial cracks.

Riley and Chevie leaned on the park railing, as caked in dust as any victims of Vesuvius, but intact and uninjured.

Riley spat a ball of brick dust to the ground. “Did you know that the entire house would be consumed?”

Chevie touched the tender spot on her chest where Garrick’s bullet had struck the body armor she had stripped from a fallen member of the hazmat team. “I knew there was a chance, but it was worth taking.”

There was chaos on Bedford Square as bobbies’ whistle blasts filled the air and the bells of an approaching fire engine clanged across from the West End. Some people had fainted dead away, and young lads clambered over the rubble heap, calling for survivors.

“We should run,” said Riley. “The police will question everyone in a posh gaff such as this.”

Chevie tore off her bulletproof vest and took several breaths. “Yeah, okay, Riley. I make the strategy decisions, remember? Anyway, we should get out of here before the local police blame us for something.”

Riley tucked the magician’s cloak under his arm. “A good strategy. Lead on, Agent Savano.”

The pair trudged to the corner of Bedford Square, against the flow of the crowd straining to see the collapsed foundations of what the London News would call the “House of Hell.”

Riley and Chevie left a trail of dust behind them. They did not speak for a while, both engrossed in thoughts of the future. Eventually they realized that they had linked arms as they walked.

“We are like a couple off to the opera,” said Riley.

Chevie laughed and a puff of dust escaped her throat. “Yeah, a zombie couple.” Her laugh petered out. “You could have died back there, fighting Garrick. That was not part of the plan.”

“I thought of him, leaning over my dear ma,” said Riley, “with his knife ready to do its business, and I couldn’t help myself.”

Hooves clattered alongside as a hansom cab slowed, the driver sniffing a fare, despite of their appearance.

“We’re content on foot,” Riley called, without glancing upward. “Move on down the avenue.”

“Perhaps I am content to ride beside my mates,” said a familiar voice.

It was Bob Winkle, who had somehow kept a grip on the stolen carriage.

Winkle stood on the driver’s seat, peering down toward the corner of Bedford Square. “You pair had a right knees-up on that gaff,” he commented. “A cove might expect a life of high adventure partnering with such a duo. Like Holmes and Watson, ye are, but with extra munitions and explosions.”

Chevie shook herself like a dog and something resembling a teenage female emerged from the dust.

“That’s a nice face, princess,” said Bob Winkle. “If you gave it the lick of a wet cloth, I might lower meself to kiss it.”

They breakfasted like royalty on grub purchased with sovereigns found sewn into the lining of Garrick’s cloak. They ordered coffee with toast, oatmeal with brown sugar, fried eggs and sausage, curried chicken with potato, a platter of bacon, with extra grease for strength. All finished off with beer for the boys in spite of Chevie’s health warnings.

They sat at a street table on Piccadilly after breakfast, watching the avenue fill up with the day’s business.

Bob Winkle flicked a penny at the first beggar to approach their table and set him guarding their little space so they could talk uninterrupted.

Riley sighed and rubbed his distended belly. “I am full as a prince on his birthday,” he declared.

Chevie was less stuffed, having ignored ninety percent of what was offered to her.

I cannot stay here, she thought. My cholesterol count would kill me in a week.

“Okay, gents,” she said, slapping the table with purpose, “we should draw up our plans before you guys get blind drunk.”

Bob Winkle snorted. “Drunk on beer? I ain’t been beer drunk since I were ten.” He grabbed the rest of the black bread from the plate and shoved it into his pockets. “I better go and look to the mare. You two do your good-bye cuddling, and I’ll be back to bring whoever’s going to the Orient. I suppose there ain’t much more than splinters left of that conjuring equipment me and the boys ferried over earlier.”

Winkle dodged down the street, eyes and ears open for bluebottles.

“That guy will land you in trouble,” warned Chevie.

“Well, he won’t be spending his waking hours trying to murder anyone, or his sleeping hours dreaming of death.”

“Maybe so. But I still think you should come back with me. A part of you belongs in the twenty-first century.”

Riley sighed. “But a part of me is here. I have a half brother still living somewhere. Perhaps in Brighton? With Bob Winkle’s help, maybe I can find him.”

“You can afford Winkle’s help?”

Riley shrugged. “For the time being. I know where Garrick kept his cash. I suppose the theater is mine too.”

“So you will search for your brother?”

Riley pulled the magician’s cloak tight around his shoulders. “I am a magician now. I shall put a troupe together and enjoy the theater life until I find Ginger Tom. Perhaps he knows my Christian name.”

Chevie’s eyes were downcast. “Yeah, I bet he does.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the final Timekey left behind by the hazmat team. “The team and their gear went down with the house, but I had Bob’s boys collect their Timekeys while they were setting up the mirror trap, so, if you ever change your mind . . .”

Riley hooked the lanyard around his neck. “Thank you, Chevie. But this is my century, and I belong here.”

Chevie wagged a finger. “Never say never, right?”

“Yes, you are correct. There may come a time when I need to escape.”

“It’s preprogrammed, set up already, so all you have to do is press the button. Make sure the four quadrants light up, or you’ll end up stuck in the wormhole with you-know-who.”

“I will be certain to check.”

Chevie sipped her coffee, which had the consistency of mud and tasted like cough syrup. “I feel there should be more, you know. We’ve gone through hell, and now I’m just gonna walk away?”

“We will always be close, Chevie. I know the secret of your tattoo, remember?”

Chevie patted her own shoulder. “My tattoo? Yeah, well. I’m afraid I got sold a turkey on that one.”

“Sold a turkey?” said Riley, frowning.

“A crock. A bowl of bull. A heap of lies.”

“Your father lied to you? And you lied to me?”

“Afraid so, but I’m telling you the truth now, on account of all the bonding we’re doing. Dad loved telling that story, but the whole Chevron thing came about because my father had a falling out with the owner of the local Texaco.”

“Tex-a-co?”

“Yeah. A fueling station for automobiles. So, just to annoy this guy, and because of his beer problem, he gets a tattoo and then calls his firstborn Chevron, which is a competing gas station.”

Riley pushed his tankard away with the tip of one finger. “So, no noble warrior?”

“No. And I based my whole life on that story, got the tattoo, told anyone who would listen, became an agent. Last year I meet the Texaco guy, who is broken up that my pop died, and he tells me the truth. I am named after a gas station.”

“Wow,” said Riley, who had heard the word used in the future and liked it.

“Wow? That’s it, huh? No magical wisdom from the Great Riley?”

“We have both built our lives on lies,” said Riley. “I was not abandoned to slum cannibals, and your ancestors were not great warriors; but the lies did their work, and we are who we are. I think you are the youngest agent in your police force for good reason. Perhaps in spite of the name Chevron.”

Chevie smiled. “Yeah, okay, Riley. That’s not bad. I’m gonna go with that.”

They abandoned the cab and walked to the house on Half Moon Street. Bob Winkle was doing his utmost to decipher the limited facts he had been given.

“So, princess. You plan to enter this house and stay there for a hundred years?”

Chevie patted his shoulder. “Something like that, Winkle. I would say See you around, but it’s probably not going to happen.”

“So we should kiss now?”

“Of course,” said Chevie and gave him a peck on the cheek that he would have to be content with.

“Next year I will be fifteen,” said Bob Winkle, emboldened by the kiss. “We could be married. I could make fair chink off a battling Injun maid at the fairgrounds.”

“Tempting as that offer is, I think I’ll pass.”

“Very well, princess. But now that I am part owner of a theater, the ladies will be all over Robert Winkle. Six weeks I will wait for you, not a minute more.”

“I understand,” said Chevie, smiling. “It’s the best you can do.”

Riley walked her to the front step, while Bob perched on a neighboring set of stairs, watching for constables’ helmets.

“Be careful, Chevron Savano,” he said. “The future is a dangerous place. It is only a matter of time until the Martians arrive.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna watch out for anything with tentacles.”

“Hurry yourselves,” called Bob Winkle. “This is a posh road. Two more minutes and our collars get pinched.”

The boy was right. It would be a shame if this affair were to end in a prison cell.

Chevie hugged Riley tightly. “Thanks for everything,” she said.

Riley hugged her back. “Thanks to you, too, Chevron Savano, warrior and fuel station. Perhaps one day I will put our story into words. It would rival the tales of H. G. Wells himself.”

“Maybe you already did,” said Chevie. “I’ll Google it when I get home.”

“Googling sounds like a painful procedure,” said Riley.

Bob whistled loudly. “I see a helmet, Riley. Leave her be, now.”

There was no more delaying it. Chevie kissed Riley’s cheek and squeezed his hand, then closed the door behind her. The basement room was dark and dank, just as Chevie remembered it from that brief moment before the sack went over their heads. She saw chicken bones in the corner with rats huddled over them like tramps around a bonfire. The rats did not seem concerned by her presence; rather they looked her over for the meat on her bones.

Being stared down by large rats was a good way to focus a person on getting to someplace with smaller rats, so Chevie pulled out Bill Riley’s Timekey and walked briskly to the metal pad.

No time like the present.

She punched the Timekey’s control pad and made very sure that all four quadrants lit up.

After a second’s dry vibration, the key began sprouting orange sparks like a Roman candle.

Here we go, she thought. I hope Victoria’s house doesn’t fall down.

And then she thought, I hope Riley will be okay. That kid deserves a break.

She frowned. Not that my own future will be a bed of roses. I am going to spend months answering questions. Thank God Waldo saw the whole thing. I hope he recorded it.

Chevie held up the Timekey. All four quadrants were flashing.

Good-bye, Riley. Be well.

Chevie smiled and orange sparks flowed between her teeth.

Please, no monkey parts, she thought, and then was gone.

Out of time.

Bob Winkle volunteered to steal a bicycle to ferry them both across to High Holborn, but Riley said no.

“I am your partner, you know,” Winkle said. “How come you is issuing commands like some form of little Caesar?”

Riley decided to stake his claim right off. Winkle could swallow it or not as he pleased.

“I am the Great Savano, Master Winkle. I own the theater and the equipment, and I know where the gold is buried. If you want to work for me, then bully and do as yer bid. If not, then off back to the Old Nichol with your bones and smoke some wallpaper for yerself.”

Bob whistled. “Harsh, Riley. Harsh and cold. But them are good traits in a master and will keep the others from getting out of line. Also, the Great Savano. That has a real ring to it.”

“Thank you, Bob.” Riley paused. “Others? I can’t feed the entire rookery.”

“I know, but I have three brothers that need looking after. We come as a set, you see. All or none.”

“Who could split a fellow from his brothers?” said Riley. “That would be uncommon cruel. You should fetch them at once, and we will rendezvous at the Orient to draw up our plans. Can any of your brothers juggle?”

“Juggle?” said Bob, already crossing the road. “Why, Mr. Riley, they juggles each other.”

And he was off down an alley, making a direct line for the rookery, to break the news that the Winkles were saved from Old Nichol.

Riley walked on alone, casting furtive glances over his shoulder whenever a chill breeze cooled his forehead.

Garrick is gone, he told himself. Lost in the wormhole.

Lost in the wormhole? Could that be any more than a dream?

Chevie was no dream.

A beautiful maiden from an exotic land come to free him from the tyrant Garrick. It read like a dream and would make a capital novel.

The only thing missing is a dinosaur come back to life.

Riley walked on, realizing that it would be a long time before he could fully enjoy the sun on his face and ignore the chill.

Every stone kicked in an alley, every creak of wood on the stairway— I will hear and see Garrick everywhere.

But there would be a friend close by, and his brothers, and in time maybe his own brother.

Ginger Tom, he thought, I am coming, and oh, boy, do I have a tale to tell you.

Riley lifted the hem of his velvet cloak out of the city mud and gazed up at the triple span of the Holborn Viaduct, the city’s most impressive feat of modern architecture.

Home once more, he thought. Home to a new life.

Riley stepped around a toppled fruit cart and in seconds was lost in the morning throng of everyday folk doing their daily job of staying alive in London town.