Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(46)

“Did it work?” Morrisey asked.

“From what I can tell, the project failed. NMR treatment was abandoned about four years ago.”

“Is it reversible?”

Klein shrugged. “Some of the patients never did retrieve their memories or progressed much further than a precocious child. Those who did recover their memories got worse...more violent.”

Morrisey slumped in his chair. “My God.”

“This has to be TPB’s doing,” Klein said. “When they couldn’t kill her, they did the next best thing. She’s gotten close to something they want hidden.” His eyes moved toward Defoe. “Both of you did.”

“I’m going back to ’88,” Defoe declared.

“You can’t. You’re not well enough,” Morrisey protested.

Defoe rose, cautiously testing his endurance. His chest responded with a spike of pain, but it wasn’t as bad as the day before. It would have to do.

“Klein is right. It’s time for me to leave. TPB will come for Lassiter. It’s best I not be found.”



“You’re not well enough,” Morrisey repeated, more emphatically this time.

“I have a safe place I can hide while I regain my strength. The longer I’m here, the more danger for you. We’ve been damned lucky so far.”

Morrisey opened his mouth to object, but Defoe waved him off. “Go find me a set of Victorian clothes, will you? Whatever is happening is in ’88. I need to be there.”

What was left of Jacynda Lassiter peered up at him quizzically.

“Pretty,” she said, pointing at the flower on his lapel.

Defoe slowly tugged the bloom off his Victorian cutaway coat. “This is for you,” he said, voice quavering.

She took it. After a deep inhalation, she frowned.

He leaned closer, intrigued. “What is it called?”

“Ah…ah…” She shook her head. “I can’t remember.”

“That is a rose.”

She took another sniff and shook her head, as if something weren’t right.

“Do you remember who did this to you?” Defoe asked.

“Macassar oil,” she said.

That brought an instant look of puzzlement. “I’m not wearing any.”

“That’s her reply whenever we ask that question,” Morrisey explained. “I have no idea what it means.”

She handed back the bud. “Not right.”

Defoe smiled wanly. “That’s correct,” he said indicating the flower. “It should have a pleasant scent, but this one doesn’t.”

She winced and bit her lip.

Morrisey bent over her. “Is your head hurting again?” A slight nod. He adjusted a setting on the Thera-Bed. “Just sleep. It’ll feel better when you awake.”

She murmured to herself as her eyes closed.

Defoe looked up at his closest friend. “They’ve declared war, Theo. She’s one of ours. So was Chris. This has to stop.”

Morrisey nodded with grim determination. “And so it shall.”



Klein was waiting for them when they exited the room.

As Defoe reattached the rose to his lapel, he observed, “She’s not entirely gone. For God’s sake, don’t let TPB near her. They’ll destroy what’s left.”

“If she’s judged to be incompetent, they’ll appoint a guardian who can send her anywhere they want,” Klein replied. “To an asylum. Maybe to prison, if they get a sympathetic judge.”

“I won’t let that happen!” Morrisey flared.

“A guardian. What an excellent idea, Senior Agent Klein,” Defoe replied, winking at his friend. “I’m sure you’d be willing to help Morrisey make that a reality. Consider it a trade for my assistance.”

Klein frowned, unaware of what had just transpired. “What do you have in mind?”

Morrisey nodded, suddenly catching his friend’s drift. “A little sleight of hand,” he said. “I need to communicate with someone Off-Grid.”

“Who?”

“Miss Lassiter’s father. I’ll ask him to appoint me guardian until such time as she becomes fully functional.”

“That could be a lifetime job,” Klein said.

Morrisey’s expression dimmed. “I’ll accept that.”

The agent flicked his gaze toward the closed door. “I’ll get the clearances. That lady had stones. Now…”

“Nothing,” Morrisey said. “That’s the official line, no matter if she gets better or not.”

Their eyes met. Klein’s mouth twitched upward into a cunning smile. “That will be the official line.” As the agent strode toward the main entrance, Morrisey’s assistant Fulham fell in step with him.

Morrisey’s tone shifted the moment the Guv agent was out of earshot. “You sure you want to leave right now?” he asked his friend.

“No choice.”

On Morrisey’s orders, there was no chron operator present in the chronsole room. A moment before Defoe entered the time pod, they embraced, Morrisey taking great care not to cause any discomfort.



“Be careful, Harter,” he said. “Your interface isn’t traceable. Keep in contact.”