Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (29 page)

~••~••~••~

It had been the longest hour of Keats’ life. He’d spent it in prayer, fingers working the beads of his dead mother’s rosary. Now, as the jury filed in, he hoped God had heard his impassioned pleas.

As the Chaplain took his required place, muffled voices came from the gallery. They were taking bets. From what he could hear, they were split as to the outcome. His eyes hopped from juror to juror. None of them looked upward at the dock.

Please, God, you know I didn’t do this.

The Clerk of the Court asked, “Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict?”

The Foreman of the Jury rose. “We have.”

“Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty of the murder of Nicola Therese Hallcox?”

The Foreman paused for a fraction of a second. “We find the prisoner guilty.”

Guilty.
It hit with all the force of a sledgehammer blow to the gut.

Beneath him, he saw the stricken face of Lady Wescomb, a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Cousin Roddy stared upward at him in horror while Fisher closed his eyes, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Alastair bowed his head in defeat.

How could it have come to this?

The Clerk turned toward Keats. “Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of the crime of willful murder. Have you anything to say why the Court should not give you judgment of death according to law?”

His knees like jelly, Keats squared his shoulders and rose with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Yes, I do.” He cleared his throat. “I proclaim my innocence in this matter. I did not murder Nicola Hallcox. My only crime was the desperate need to capture Desmond Flaherty.”

As he spoke, he felt his fury rising at the injustice. He had dedicated his life to the law, and it had failed him when he needed it the most.

They’re going to hang me. What the hell does it matter now?

He steeled himself and raised his voice, pointing his words directly at the jurors.

“By Almighty God, I swear that I did not pursue my
obsession
purely for the chance of a commendation or an advancement in rank. I made the decision to continue my hunt for Desmond Flaherty because he still has at the very least, a wagonload of gunpowder and a substantial amount of dynamite, with which he threatens this city at this very moment!”

As Arnett began to sputter, Kingsbury delivered a subtle nod, along with a hint of an approving smile. Keats was finally saying what he and Wescomb had been denied.

Justice Hawkins called for order as the courtroom swirled into a tempest of voices. Keats took advantage of the mayhem to seek out Fisher in the crowd. His efforts were amply rewarded: his superior’s face held an expression of awe.

“Mr. Keats,” the justice warned. “You know—”

“With all due respect to your lordship and the Crown, the truth has not been heard in this courtroom. I do not fault you, my lord, but those in the government who hide behind their intrigues and allow the innocent to suffer.”

“Is that your statement?” Hawkins demanded.

“Nearly.” Keats took a deep breath, his heart pounding so hard it threatened to choke him.

“I have served with pride, alongside men of singularly dedicated purpose. To that end, I ask that my conviction not tarnish the reputation of my fellow officers at Scotland Yard. This stain should fall on my shoulders alone.” He gave a nod to indicate he was done.

Justice Hawkins eyed him sternly. “Jonathon Davis Keats, you have been convicted, upon evidence, of the murder of Nicola Hallcox. I find it detestable when a citizen violates the laws. It is
indefensibl
e when a police officer does the same. No matter your reasons, noble or otherwise, for the crime of which you have been convicted our law knows but one penalty—the penalty of death. I recommend that you make your peace with Almighty God before you stand before His throne. Perhaps He will see it in His heart to pardon you for this hideous crime.”

Keats’ breath caught in his chest as Justice Hawkins donned the black cap.

“You will be taken hence to the prison in which you were last confined and from there to a place of execution where you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead and thereafter your body buried within the precincts of the prison. May the Lord have mercy upon your soul.”

The Chaplain murmured, “Amen.”

Keats sank into the chair, proud of his defiance. By evening, his final statement would be in all the papers. There would be hell to pay in Parliament as questions were asked and answers avoided. At long last, this festering sore would be laid open to the world.

He nodded to himself, pleased. He’d done all he could.

That’s what being a copper is all about.

2058 A.D.

TEM Enterprises

Time passed. A new year began. The shrinks came and went less frequently now. That was a blessing. Cynda had begun a sand drawing, just on a whim, but it had taken hold of her. The sand dragon now had wings and a massive tail. It seemed to her that the more it grew, so did she. Somehow the two were connected.

Like a jagged wound, her mind continued healing in little patches. One moment she wouldn’t remember the name of an object or a person, and then it would be there. Sometimes she’d forget it again, but more frequently the words found a suitable niche in her muddled mind.

Hours working the sand and doing Tai Chi with Morrisey had calmed the fire ants under her skin. It hadn’t gone smoothly. Some days she would rant at him, furious when she couldn’t remember a move he’d patiently taught her over and over. Other days it went better. Memory was still an issue. Always would be.

“Time is a great healer,” Morrisey often said whenever things seemed rough for her. Cynda often wondered at his endless patience. She couldn’t help but notice there was more gray at his temples now.

At Morrisey’s suggestion she’d begun another tradition: every night she asked the computer to pull up a few of her run reports. It seemed to be the best means to fill a few more holes in her past and for her to understand what kind of person she’d been. What it was like to be a Rover. When Ralph had realized what she was doing, he’d taken to joining her. He said it was in case she had any questions. She suspected it had more to do with loneliness than anything.

The reports read like fiction. Could she have rescued a half-dozen tourists from lions in a Roman Coliseum, or spent time in the court of King Henry the Eighth? The
old
Jacynda Lassiter had dined in the same room as Elizabeth the First, watched the defeat of the Spanish Armada. She’d been at the Battle of Trafalgar and witnessed Lord Nelson felled by a sniper’s bullet, and later, his corpse being packed into a water cask filled with brandy for the mournful journey to England.

“You’re frowning a lot,” Ralph observed over the sound of the vintage music coming out of his equally vintage headphones. He’d never taken to the ear implants. “Something bugging you?” She mimed for him to take them off, and he complied.

“Is this all true?” Cynda asked, gesturing toward the screen.

“For the most part. You didn’t always put everything in the reports, though. TPB can come down hard on a Rover if they think something was weird about a run.” Ralph was rapidly becoming her personal bellwether. He seemed to relish the role. It was a way for them to mend the rift between them.

“It’s all weird, as far as I can see.”

He chuckled. “I’ll give you that.” The headphones went back on. His face settled into a smile and he began tapping his fingers in time to the music. He’d said it was a band called Jefferson something or other.

She began reading through the final few reports, which covered her tours of duty in Victorian London and her encounters with two gentlemen: Dr. Alastair Montrose and Detective-Sergeant Jonathon Keats. When she’d finished, she asked Ralph about them.

“Montrose sent you home,” he explained, headphones off again. “I’m still amazed a Victorian pulled that off. Of course, the boss didn’t breathe a word about that to TPB; they’d have gone nuts.”

Montrose.
The kind man who’d wept for me.
The doctor looked back at her from a scan of a vintage photograph taken when he’d graduated from medical school. Nattily dressed, he radiated confidence, but she thought she saw hidden pain behind the celebratory image.

With a wave of her hand, the screen changed. Now hanging in the air above the keyboard was a photograph of Jonathon Keats. The twinkle in his eye seemed to call to her. “And this sergeant guy?”

“You helped him recover some explosives.”

Her gut told her there was more to it than that. Ralph was right: not everything went into the run reports.

“Handsome,” Cynda murmured.
Both of them.
Suddenly, she could see herself walking arm and arm along a street with Keats as her exuberant escort. Had he been courting her, then? Possibly. The pleasant memory withered: now she saw herself inside a carriage as he lay dying in her lap after some street battle. She closed her eyes, still feeling the brush of his kiss on her lips. Tears began to form. She fought them back, not wanting her friend to see them.

Just then, a name surfaced out of nowhere. “Who’s Fred?”

Ralph grinned. “I wondered when you’d remember him. He’s your stuffed ferret. You carried him on your trips, though it was against the regs.”

“Then where is he?”

Ralph shrugged. “He went missing in action in ’88.”

For some reason, it seemed important that she know where he was. Something else was absent, something blue with legs, but she had no idea how to ask Ralph that question.

A beep sounded at the door; a moment later, Morrisey entered. He hadn’t waited for her to give him permission, which was unusual.

Ralph was instantly on his feet. “Gotta go,” he said, clearly uneasy at being in the same room with the man.

The moment the door whooshed closed behind her friend, she spoke up. “Is something wrong?”

Morrisey shook his head. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I have just received permission for one of your family members to visit you from Off-Grid.”

“Off-Grid,” she repeated to herself, rummaging through her mental filing cabinets.

“It’s a place where people go to live if they don’t like the rigid lifestyle required by the Government,” Morrisey explained. “Once you’re outside society, you stay out.”

She tried to remember why her family was out there. When she couldn’t retrieve the answer, she put it to Morrisey.

“From what I gather, they went voluntarily,” he informed her. “Some people do that for political reasons.”

That didn’t sound right.

“I have petitioned for this visit since the moment you returned,” he continued. “There has been considerable…resistance against this.” Morrisey paused for a moment. “It’s your brother.”

“Brother?” Cynda shivered involuntarily. “I don’t want to see him! He tried to kill me. Threw me into the Thames and…” She paused, dismayed. “That wasn’t him, was it?”

“No,” he said, looking relieved. “Your brother doesn’t time travel.”

Another stray memory.
She blew out a stream of air. “His name is…”

“Blair.”

Cynda nodded her thanks. “Why not my mom or dad?” she asked, suddenly skeptical.

“I gather your mother has not been well, and your father didn’t want to return without her.”

That doesn’t sound good.

Morrisey leaned toward the computer. A moment later, a family photograph appeared. Her mother, father, brother and her. All smiling. Before everything had changed.

Blair.
As she studied her brother’s face, emotions began flooding back with an intensity that nearly overwhelmed her.

Morrisey cleared his throat. “From what Mr. Hamilton says, you dislike your brother intensely, and I gather the feeling is mutual. If you don’t want to see him, I’ll not finalize the arrangements. I would, however, counsel the opposite course.”

“I…”

Just how much effort had it taken for Morrisey to do this? He’d said he’d been working on this since she’d first come back. Months now.

“How much does he know?” she asked.

“That you sustained a head injury. I didn’t reveal the exact nature of how that happened, and it’s probably best that they not know that.”

What would it hurt?
She’d endure this for Theo Morrisey, though it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

“Okay, I’ll do it. I haven’t annoyed…” A sigh. She couldn’t remember the name, though she’d just heard it. “…in a long time.”

“Thank you.”

~••~••~••~

She could have met Blair in the privacy of her rooms. Instead, Cynda chose the pagoda, right out in the open where anyone could see them. Perhaps it was some juvenile payback, though she wasn’t particularly sure why she felt the need. Neither of them were kids anymore.

“Cynder?” her brother called from the walkway. She’d forgotten his pet name for her. He was taller than she was, his hair a bit darker. His muscles were corded, like someone accustomed to physical labor.

“Hi…Blair.” She waved him over. Mumbling under his breath, he ditched his shoes and crossed the sand. Once on the platform he stared at one of the pillows, then pushed it aside with his foot.

He’s going to regret that.

He went somber as he sat down on the hard wood. “Been a while.”

“Yeah. What’s wrong with Mom?”

“She fell and broke her hip about the same time that you got hurt. It’s healing, but very slowly. Right now, she’s using a cane to get around.”

Cynda didn’t know what to say.

Her silence forced her brother to speak. “I know, if she hadn’t been Off-Grid, she’d be fine now. You’re thinking it, you might as well say it.”

From what Morrisey had told her, Off-Grid meant primitive medical facilities, if they existed at all. If her father hadn’t been a doctor, her mother might not be alive.

“Why did you go out there?” she asked.