Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(154)

She wasn’t going there. “You found him?”

He swiped a hand across his mouth in frustration. “Not yet. Copeland sent a ransom demand to TEM Enterprises—we give him Defoe or…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence. “Everyone’s going ballistic back home. That’s why I need you.”

“For what?”

“I’ve set the others out in a grid pattern around the borders of the East End. I need you to help. Maybe we can triangulate Morrisey’s position using the interfaces.”

“Theo doesn’t have an active ESR Chip,” she said, crestfallen.

“I know. They’re too easy to find and remove. We’ve learned that the hard way.” The Rover’s interface buzzed. He flipped open the dial. “All right!” he crowed. “Now we get to work.”



None of this made sense. “What’s going on?”

“Morrisey’s chip is passive. Klein wouldn’t let him come here without one. It won’t register unless it’s activated by a specific code. Guv can do that once we’re in position. As soon as the chip’s active, we just need to zero in on it to locate your boss.”

Her fragile hope collapsed. “Our interfaces are too short range for this, Hopkins. We only get about twenty feet in any direction.”

“Guv will use our combined interfaces to form a low power transmission grid and they’ll give us a boost from home. It’ll take longer this way, bouncing the signals back and forth, but it’ll work,” he reassured. “Don’t worry, Lassiter, we’ll find him.”

Hope struggled to its feet again, brushing off its bruised knees.

“Tell me what you want me to do.”





Chapter 20




Cynda studied the grid pattern on her watch dial, fidgeting while the painstaking process unfolded. Once the passive ESR Chip had been triggered, the five interfaces worked in unison to triangulate its position.

“This is taking forever,” Mr. Spider groused.

He was right. Something told her that if Theo was still alive, he didn’t have that much time. According to her interface, he was in a particular section of Whitechapel—an area she knew intimately. The dial changed again—down to a few streets.

“Screw this,” she said, and performed a side-hop into a nearby alley.

The Angel Pub on Whitechapel High Street was packed, a raucous din cascading out the front door. Watching the dial’s reaction, Cynda edged past the watering hole and farther down the street.

Then she stopped and waited until the dial updated. The location was behind her. She hurried back and then continued down the street. Again, the location was behind her. This time she turned left into Angel Alley, the noisome passage at the side of the pub. Like most of the alleys in Whitechapel, this one doubled as a latrine for those who wanted to make room for one more pint.

“This is really bad,” the spider lamented, ducking under her shawl. His voice muffled, he added, “Makes all my eyes water.”

Cynda covered her nose with a handkerchief, moving resolutely forward. The passage was narrow, bordered on both sides by brick buildings. A perfect place for an ambush. Only the thought of Theo kept her going.

Partway along, she passed a pile of refuse, a tattered tarp piled up against the wall. The dial was still catching up, recalibrating her position in relation to the other interfaces, bouncing signals between each of them and 2058’s advanced technology. It was like trying to make a phone call to Mars using a piece of string and two coconuts.



“Come on!” she snarled. He was here somewhere. The grid pattern refreshed itself. She spun around and hurried back, only to stop at the trash pile. On impulse, she illuminated it with the glow from her watch. Three fingers were barely visible protruding from the edge of the canvas. Frantic, Cynda yanked back the tarp.

“Theo!” He was curled in the fetal position, his clothes shredded. She knelt and touched his hand. Cold.

One finger slowly uncurled in response.

“Yes!” She yanked the Dinky Doc out of her pocket and placed it against his neck. Hypothermia. Profound shock. Multiple internal injuries. Any other man would be dead, it was just his superior physical condition that had kept him alive this long.

“And you,” the spider remarked, crawling out from under the shawl. “Love is a powerful reason to hang around.”

Still, that edge was quickly fading. To her horror, Theo’s body began to shift form, becoming what he might have looked liked as a boy. Then he changed to a face she knew well: Chris. Her heart nearly stopped.

“Not good,” Mr. Spider said.

“No kidding.” Transitives shifted like that when they were losing control, like Keats that night in the carriage. When they’re dying.

She let the Dinky Doc do what it thought best.

“Come on, Theo.” He shifted again, to her form, and then back to himself. “Come on, guy. You can make it.”

Boot steps crunched in the passageway. She tensed.

“Lassiter?”

She signed in relief: it was Hopkins. “Here!” she called out. “I found him!”

The junior Rover skidded to a halt at her side, dropping to his knees. Between the two of them, they hauled Theo to a seated position. She winced at the sight. His left arm dangled uselessly. Blood had clotted on one side of his face from a jagged cut, and it appeared his nose was broken. Blood stained his shirt, his trousers, even his boots.