Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(132)

Three sticks of dynamite were attached to the back of the cask, one with a detonation cord. There didn’t appear to be any other mechanism to trigger the explosion, which meant the bomber would have to go from barrel to barrel to start the process.



“Too crude,” he said, frowning. Yet the detonations had been precisely five minutes apart. How did they accomplish that?

Now what? If he moved the device, someone would know he’d been here.

Theo returned the tarp to its original position and stepped back. A moment later he was on the move, in search of the next site.

~??~??~??~



Thursday, 8 November, 1888

Arundel Hotel

Six p.m. on the dot. Cynda snapped her interface shut with more force than necessary, swearing under her breath. She’d been put to sleep about eleven in the morning and now it was seven hours later. No Theo.

“You’re a dead man, I swear it,” she groused.

“You can’t murder your boss,” Mr. Spider advised, scooping up a scone morsel from a plate on the writing desk.

“Why not? He drugged me.”

“He knew you needed rest.”

“Okay, so I’m rested. Where is he?”

“Playing Rover. Why don’t you just admit it? You’re worried.”

“Hell yes, I’m worried. Do you have any idea of what will happen if he gets hurt while I’m supposed to be watching him?”

The arachnid gave her a stern look. “It’s more than the paperwork and you know it.”

She opened her mouth to toast the little nuisance, and then groaned. “Yeah, I know. I’ve grown rather fond of him.” More fond than was probably sensible. “He might be smart, but he’s not a Rover. He doesn’t have our instincts. Those only come with experience.”

“Neither did you in the beginning.” The creature scoured the plate in search of crumbs. “Are there any more scones?”



“No. You’ve had enough.”

The spider’s response was uncivil.

Until now, she’d held off contacting Ralph to see if the boss was in 2058. If Theo wasn’t there, that’d just raise alarms and possibly put TPB on his tail.

Ten more minutes then I rat him out.

Three minutes later Cynda stood in front of the kneeling figure, tapping her foot, hands on her hips. The moment her boss looked up, she planned to nail him. Then he looked up. He was pasty gray, his eyes unfocused. His fingers clutched the interface, turning white at the knuckles. Classic time lag.

She dropped to her knees. “Theo?”

He gaped at her in wonder. Carefully prying the interface out of his hand, she wound it to recover its past history.

“Eight trips? You idiot!”

“Had to,” he said, weaving like a cobra captivated by its handler. “Know what happens.” A pause, and then he stared at her as if she’d just appeared in front of him. “Hellooo?”

Not good.

“Come on, boss, let’s get you to bed.”

“I’m Theo,” he corrected, trying to frown, but failing.

“Okay, Theo. Time for you to get some rest.” So you’ll have some brains left when this is all over.

He squinted at her. “You’re pretty. Have I ever told you that?”

Oh geez. Time lag came in a couple versions. Lag usually made Jacynda bitchy. Rumor said Defoe was the same way. Other Rovers acted drunk, like they’d had one too many casks of rum. Evidently, her boss was one of those.

“Great,” she muttered, hauling him to his feet.

“The room is spinning,” he announced. “Counterclockwise.”

You sure I can’t kill him?

“It’s looking better every minute,” the spider replied.

“The bed’s yours,” she announced, hauling Theo in that direction.

“Alone?” he said, quirking an eyebrow.



That’s payback. She’d once said the same thing to him during one of her bouts of severe lag.

“Yes, on your own.”

“Pity, you’d be fun,” he said, nearly mirroring what she’d said to him.

Maybe he’s not as lagged as I think.

She sat him in bed, pulled off his shoes and coat. All the while, he gazed at her, enraptured. He needed an endorphin rise to counter the lag and the quickest way to achieve that was chocolate. She handed him a piece from the stash in her Gladstone. Theo acted like he had no idea what to do with it.

“Ralph always opened them for you,” her delusion suggested.

Thanks. She peeled open the Victorian-style wrapper. “Here you are.”

“Don’t like it,” he said, pushing it away.

“Eat it anyway.” He shook his head. She counted to ten. “Eat. The. Chocolate.” Or I will stuff it up your nose.

“Does it work that way?” Mr. Spider asked, dubiously.

We’ll find out.

Four pieces of chocolate later, Theo’s eyes appeared less glazed—a sign his brain was coming back online. That eased some of Cynda’s anxiety. If he could recover this fast, he’d probably not done any permanent damage.

“Read notes. On interface,” he muttered. “Fulham sending maps.”

“Was it the Fenians?”