Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (3 page)

“My God,” she whispered. She hesitated for a moment. “Do you know how you got here?”

“No.”

“Do you know who you are?”

“I, ah...” She shook her head. “Do you?”

The woman leaned closer. “Yes.”

A thrill of hope rushed through her, even as she worked to tamp it down. “I won’t give up my boots,” she declared, fearing some trick.

“No, you keep them. You’ll need them.” She leaned even closer and whispered, “You are Jacynda Lassiter.”

Jacynda?
“Why don’t I know that?”

“You’ve been hurt. Now repeat the name to me.”

She couldn’t. She’d forgotten it already. Tears threatened to flow.

“Jacynda Lassiter. Now you say it.”

She did. The next time she tried, it was gone.

“I know it’s hard.” The woman rummaged through a pocket and retrieved a piece of paper. She tore off a small section and handed it over. “Can you read it?”

She studied the finely printed letters and sounded it out. “Ja...cynda Lass...iter.”

“That’s it,” the visitor affirmed, smiling encouragingly.

She pointed to another word. “What’s this one?”

“Cynda. Your friends call you that. Now keep this paper safe. Repeat the names over and over until you know them without looking. You must eat and—” a pause and the voice lowered, “find a way out.”

“I don’t know how,” she wailed.

Her visitor took hold of her shoulders. “Now listen to me. If you stay here, you will die. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Can’t I go with you?”

“No. You have to find your own way out. Eat and survive. It’s very important for all of us, Jacynda Lassiter.”

The woman lowered the veil, then knocked on the door. It swung open, courtesy of the attendant. A moment later, the door bolted behind her visitor. The cell felt empty now. She’d liked the nice woman. She looked at the paper and sounded out the letters. “Jacynda Lass...Lassiter.” The kind lady had given her a name. It might not be her real one, but she’d claim it anyway. She knew no other.

“You will see she eats?” the woman asked as they walked along the lengthy corridor toward the entrance. On the left side were countless cells, each harboring a lost soul.

“We’ve been tryin’, but she says she’s not hungry,” the attendant replied. “She says a lot of odd things. Thinks we make her sleep on straw ’stead of a bed. Says that there are two others in there with her and one of them’s tryin’ ta steal her boots. Says she’s been here for days. Only just came ta us last night.” Then he looked chagrined. “Course ya’d know that, bein’ family and all.”

The woman nodded. “You will watch out for her, won’t you?” she asked.

He thought for a moment and smiled. “I’ll take her to Mad Sammy. If she likes the little miss, she’ll watch over her. No one crosses Sammy.”

A matching smile blossomed on the woman’s face. “That sounds like a very good idea.”

~••~••~••~

By the time Alastair reached Pratchett’s Bookshop, it was nearly eleven. He entered through the back gate and made his way down the passage to Jacynda’s rented room, his pulse racing with uncertainty. When his knocking brought no response from within, his heart sank. Perhaps the owner of the building had seen her this morning. That’s all Alastair needed: confirmation she was still alive, somewhere. Better yet, he wanted to hear Jacynda’s tale in person, while thanking God for her survival.

Mr. Pratchett looked up as he entered the shop, a welcoming smile in place. It seemed genuine.

“May I be of service, sir?” he asked brightly. Then he stared at Alastair’s face. It was a common reaction. The fire had not left him in good shape.

“I am Dr. Montrose and—”

“Oh, very glad to meet you!” Pratchett bustled out from behind a sizable stack of books. He was all of five feet, though not rotund like some of that height, his eyes clear and radiating a zest for life. “Miss Lassiter has spoken of you in such glowing terms I feel I already know you,” he enthused.

“How kind,” Alastair replied. “I knocked on her door, but she does not seem to be in.”

“I haven’t seen her since yesterday. She does keep odd hours.”

“Yes. May I leave my card so that you can let me know if she does not return? She wishes me to keep track of her things, you see. She is often required to…um…leave London at short notice.”

“I already have your card, Doctor. Miss Lassiter gave it to me some time ago. I must say, she leads a very active life.”

“Indeed she does.”
Beyond your wildest imagination.

“I’ve got a spare key for you. She said you should have it.”

The man dug under the counter and produced the item. “Oh, I almost forgot. She ordered a book for you. It came in just last evening.” More excavating produced a tome. He set it on the counter like it was fine crystal. “It’s about forensic science. She said you were quite interested in that field.”

“I most certainly am.” Alastair stepped forward. “
Post-Mortem Examinations: With Special Reference to Medico-Legal Practice.”
He caressed the spine, deeply affected by the gesture. In the midst of all her difficulties, she had thought of him. This was his very first forensic text, a worthy start to what he hoped would become a personal library someday. Although being a doctor and a newly minted forensic pathologist didn’t pay that much, he could still have dreams.

“She already paid for it,” Pratchett informed him. “I doubt she’ll mind you collecting it today. I’ll wrap it up, if you like.”

Alastair nodded, still astonished at Jacynda’s generosity. Yet it was not the first time she’d been so thoughtful. In weeks past, she had provided him with a substantial sum to support his medical work amongst the poor. That gift had given him hope for the future.

With a rustle of paper, Pratchett expertly encased the book in brown wrapping and then tied the package with twine.

“Have they had any luck finding Sergeant Keats?” the bookstore owner asked.

Alastair was jarred out of his reverie. “Pardon?”

“Keats. The wanted man. I noted he is a friend of yours. There was some mention of it in the papers. I’ve been following his career since he arrived at the Yard. Well, him and others.” Pratchett looked chagrined. “You see, I always wanted to be a copper, but my ancestors were all stubby, so I failed to meet the height requirements.” He paused for a quick breath before rattling on. “I don’t believe he did it for a second. Only ignorant men throw away a promising future over
that
sort of woman.”

“I agree.”

“I’m willing to wager he’s on the trail of the murderer,” Pratchett surmised. “It’ll make great reading in the newspapers when he finally catches his man, and a comeuppance for those who look down on his stature.”

Alastair couldn’t help but warm to the bookseller. “Did you read about the inquest?”

“I did. That’s how I learned that the sergeant is a short fellow, like me. Do you know that the editor of the Pall Mall Gazette wrote an article in his paper about that very thing?”

“No, I was not aware of that.”

“He says the reason they can’t find the Ripper is because the constabulary has no room for
clever little ferrets of men in the London detective force
. I totally agree with Mr. Stead on that point. Why should height be a barrier to detection?”

“I agree. Well, hopefully Keats has his day in court.” Alastair picked up the parcel. “Do you mind if I check Miss Lassiter’s room?”

“Not in the least. If she’s trusted you with a key, I shall as well.”

“Thank you.”

Jacynda’s room looked untouched. The bed was made, the fireplace cold. The edge of her Gladstone peeped out from under the bed frame. He nudged it farther underneath with his boot. Then he sat on the foot of the hard bed, cradling his head in his hands. The scene came back to him with vivid clarity: the smell of the burning tobacco, her pleas for help as her fists hammered on the warehouse doors. Smoke pouring out around the hinges as the rum barrels exploded like cannon fire.

You cannot be dead.

2057 A.D.

Time Protocol Board

T.E. Morrisey noted with displeasure that the meeting was being held in a private room inside the Time Protocol Board complex. That meant there would be no public record. Furthering his irritation was the stipulation that his assistant and legal advisor, Fulham, not be admitted.

“Just a friendly chat,” one of the board members had remarked with false bonhomie. “
The Genius
needs no legal representative.”

Morrisey detested that label. Though he held a score of patents and had created the
Fast Forward
software that powered the time immersion industry, he didn’t consider himself a genius. He just paid attention, noting things that others missed. Like this room, for example. It was decorated in what Miss Lassiter might call Corporate Dull. No elegant artwork on the walls, tatami mats on the floor or a waterfall gracing a corner. In Morrisey’s eyes, the room had no soul. It mirrored its owners.

Most of that was the fault of the current chairman, Marvin Davies, a sixty-something career politico with a penchant for bad haircuts. If they could manipulate DNA to create the perfect politician, Davies would be the result. He had little to no knowledge of time travel, which set the standard for the other five members of the board. M.A. Fletcher, the one board member who actually knew something of the industry, was noticeably absent. That was the most striking change since Morrisey was last here.

First came the warm, caring approach. They’d offered him tea served by a very attractive young Asian woman. He’d taken the tea and ignored the physical bait, irritated they knew which buttons to push.

Then they’d asked him a myriad of questions, all the while apologizing for wasting his valuable time. Just a few more, they’d said, and then you can get back to the strenuous work of managing TEM Enterprises.

When Morrisey hadn’t provided the answers they desired, a nod came from Davies. The gloves were quickly tossed aside.

“Defoe? Where is he?” one of the board members demanded.

“I have no idea,” Morrisey replied, his clipped British accent providing a civilized contrast to those around him.

It was a bold lie. Harter Defoe, his partner in TEM Enterprises and the world’s first time traveler, was currently recuperating in Morrisey’s private quarters. He would stay there until his bullet wound healed, or he was discovered. With a Reasonable Force Warrant in effect Harter was definitely a wanted man, though TPB insisted it was only to protect Time Rover One, as he was called.

Chairman Davies stirred to life. “Why did you allow Lassiter to transfer to 1888 against our orders?”

“She returned to finish the job.”
And to fulfill her bargain with the Government.
They’d been threatening a decade-long prison term if she didn’t dance to their tune.

In Morrisey’s opinion, her illegal actions were humanitarian—smuggling tomato seeds to the Off-Gridders, those who lived outside of society. Her lawbreaking had kept a number of them from starvation. He thought she deserved a medal, not ten years in a jail cell.

But that wasn’t the only sword hanging over her head.

“Lassiter’s
latest
TPB hearing resulted in a sentence, Mr. Morrisey.” Davies tapped the holo-keyboard on the tabletop in front of him. “Let’s see—six months’ incarceration, mandatory treatment for her behavioral problems, and revocation of her Time Immersion license, all for violating time directives.”

“Returning my nephew’s ashes from 1888 is hardly a crime,” Morrisey replied. She’d risked her life and her career to bring Chris home to his family. It’s why Morrisey had gone out on a limb for her.

And shall continue to do so.

“She was specifically ordered not to. Lassiter has a long history of flaunting the rules.” Davies looked up. “By letting her return to 1888, you helped a fugitive escape.”

“Escape?” Morrisey replied. “No indeed. She will return once she’s finished her tasks.” Another falsehood. At least he hoped it was.

“Her Open Force Warrant is still in effect,” Davies announced.

“I am aware of that.” He was still incensed that TPB would issue such an abomination in the first place. An OFW was a no-holds-barred retrieval. As long as the fugitive returned to 2057, it didn’t matter in what shape: alive or dead. If Jacynda had to stay in the time stream to avoid a grave, Morrisey would see to it.

“Did the Government have something to do with this?” Davies quizzed.

Dodging the question, Morrisey replied, “Miss Lassiter returned to the nineteenth century because of the
disconnect
between 1888’s recorded history and what was happening in real time. That’s a Rover’s job, gentlemen. No one knows ’88 as well as she does.”

After a quick glance toward the other members of the board, Davies shifted in his seat. “We know about the disconnect. It’s not a major concern, at least not so important as to allow a fugitive to run amok in the time stream.”

Not a major concern?
That’s not what they’d been saying awhile back. “The disconnect is more pronounced than you may realize,” Morrisey hedged, testing the waters.

“Not according to our engineers,” Davies shot back. “They assure me it will adjust once Lassiter is no longer in the time period.”

That was a new one: a Rover destabilizing the time stream. They had to work extra hard to come up with that.

Davies leaned over the table, adopting a let’s-be-reasonable
expression. “Come now, Mr. Morrisey. I respect your concern for an employee, but this Rover has gone too far. After she returned to 1888, she assaulted one of our contract employees. She is out of control.”

“That is a matter open for debate.”

“According to Copeland’s report, he was trying to execute the Open Force Warrant issued against her.”