Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(62)

“Then why’s the wind blowin’ toward the gallows?”

Flaherty’s voice turned bitter. “Why not? They’ll hang anyone they please if it serves them.”

“Still, he’s a rozzer. A fair one, and there ain’t too many of those.”

“Best we don’t argue that one.”

“So why am I here?”

“It’s plain we don’t like each other much. Too many cocks in the barnyard, right?” Flaherty gave a low chuckle. “We got different ideas of how to free Ireland from her shackles. But right now, none of that matters. I have to find Fiona, and I need yer help.”



Clancy knew what it took for this man to admit that. They’d been rivals since the moment they’d met, each trying to rally men to the cause in their own way. And now…

He sat on the barrel, letting the tension ebb. “When did she go missin’?”

“Right after I stole those explosives,” Flaherty replied, his knife vanishing into a coat pocket. “She was workin’ for Effington.” He spat on the floor. “Somehow she was found out.”

Clancy spat as well. “He’s rottin’ in hell. I saw what he did to that watchman.”

“It wasn’t him that took Fee, though. It was one of the others.”

The skin on the back of Clancy’s neck prickled. “Ya mean…”

A single nod. “I know ya cared for Johnny. So did I, and I want the man who killed him. I figure if we find him, we’ll find Fee.”

“What about the explosives?” Clancy hedged.

“None of yer worry.”

“And the rozzer?”

“What about him? We can’t do nothin’ for him now.”

“Maybe not.” Clancy rose from the barrel. “I’ll do what I can for ya, but after we find yer daughter, I’ll not work with ya again.”

“Didn’t figure ya would.”

~??~??~??~



2057 A.D.

TEM Enterprises

As he’d promised, Morrisey made her a game. When she touched the hovering picture above the black box, a question would appear.

Is it a kitten, a shoe, or a horse?

Cynda smiled. This one was easy.

“Kitten,” she said. A chime rang. She’d gotten that one right.

Another picture. “Horse.” Chime. Another picture. She had no idea. A sad sound came from the machine. That happened two more times and then she stomped off in a huff to play with the fish. When she grew bored, she came back and started over. She got two more of the images right this time.



To her delight, music came out of the box and a tiny dragon sailed across the screen, belching fire as it flew up and perched on top of a golden pagoda. It winked at her, curled up, and took a nap. She started all over again. Each time she got the proper number of words right, the dragon grew a bit bigger.

When she grew tired of the game, she headed for the sand. Dropping to her knees, she started moving it around, trying to decide what she wanted to build.

Then he came, the bald man called Weber. He started asking silly questions. She glared, but he didn’t leave. Even the one named Ralph knew better than that.

“Why are you doing that?” Weber asked, typing his notes into his machine again.

“Because it’s fun,” she replied, pushing sand around.

“Why do you think that?”

She frowned. “Because it is.”

Cynda scooped a huge handful and then formed one of the four towers, adding the little impressions at the top with her pinkie. She tried to remember what they were called, but couldn’t come up with the word. She just knew they had to be there.

“What are these called?” she asked, pointing at one of them.

“I have no idea.”

Then go away. She created the second tower, repeating the little impressions.

“Miss Lassiter?”

“What?” she grumbled.

“You are too ill to be here. You need treatment. You’re not going to get better building castles in the sand. ”

Castle? She smiled. So that’s what it is.

She started work on the third tower. There was another series of beeps from the bald man’s machine, then he walked off.

Good.



She eyed the thing she’d been building. Castle. “Still not right.” She needed one of those water things that went around the outside. She hiked to the black box and asked the question.

“Water thing. Around a…a…castle. What is it?”

“Moat,” it replied.

That was it. She needed a moat.

“Miss Lassiter?” Morrisey was on the walkway. She could tell by his face that something wasn’t right. He removed his shoes and joined her, kneeling in the sand.

“Very nice,” he remarked, his voice even softer than usual.

“I like it.” She pointed up at the pagoda’s roof. “I built it for them.”

“That’s kind of you.”

She stared at him. “What’s wrong?”

“A judge has decided that I do not have the right to keep you from receiving treatment for your Adrenalin Reactive Disorder.”

“What’s Adren...”

“It means you have a tendency to be more violent than the rest of us.”