Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(68)

“Hmm? Oh, it will be,” he replied dismissively.

As she waited, she stared at her arm. It didn’t look any different.

“Will it turn colors?” she asked.

“No.”

She began to feel warm. Too warm, like someone was holding her arm over a fire. “Is it supposed to be hot?”

The bald man ignored her, tapping on that little tablet of his. Click. Click. Click.

Tiny ants began a march up her forearm. They felt like they were on fire. More of them now.



“It’s getting very hot,” she said.

“It’s just your imagination.” Click…click…

The long trail of ants coursed up her shoulder, encircling her neck. She wiped some sweat off her forehead. Her heart pounded and her stomach turned over. And over.

Click…click…click...

The sound grated on her. “Don’t do that.”

The bald man looked up. “I must make notes about your treatment.”

The clicking noise continued, digging into her flesh like glittering knives. She tried to hum to cover the sound, but it didn’t work.

Click…click…click…

The ants were in her chest and head now. Whole caravans of them, streaming fiery trails of fury behind them.

She took a step forward. “I said don’t do that!”

“Oh, do be quiet!” he snapped. “I can’t make notes if you’re talking the whole time.”

CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK

“Stop it!” She pulled the device out of his hands and slung it away. It arced high in the air, then gravity kicked in and it plummeted to the ground. Skidding in a shower of sparks along the walkway, it impacted a wall, disintegrating into dozens of expensive pieces.

“What the hell—” Weber began.

Her clenched fist hit his jaw a second later.

“She just hit me,” the psychiatrist gurgled around the compress on his bloody mouth. “I gave her the medication and then she hit me.”

“I told you she didn’t want it,” Morrisey grumbled. He gave Fulham a quizzical look.

His assistant leaned close and whispered, “The physician had to give her a sedative. He suspects it was a reaction to the medication, that it put her into a blind rage. He anticipates that she will return to her mellow self in a few days.”



“I’ve never seen one like that,” Weber muttered. Dabbing at his jaw, he winced. “Inverse reaction. Very rare.” Then he brightened. “This will make a great research paper.”

Morrisey’s patience fled. “Fulham, get this insufferable bastard out of here, will you?”

“With considerable pleasure,” his assistant replied.

Weber puffed up. “I refuse to come back. I don’t want to be anywhere near that mad woman again.”

Perfect.

~??~??~??~



Thursday, 1 November, 1888

Old Bailey (Central Criminal Courts)

As Alastair waited in the witness box, memories threatened to overwhelm him. The last time he’d been called to testify was at Marda’s inquest, to explain why he’d killed a man. This time, the life of his closest friend lay in the balance.

He’d slept little the night before, fretting over what sorts of questions he would face. Arnett had clearly impugned his honor during yesterday’s session, and he knew the prosecutor would continue that onslaught today.

After the oath, Arnett opened with the question the doctor had anticipated.

“How long have you been involved in forensics, Dr. Montrose?”

“Only a very short time.”

“A month…a fortnight?”

“I officially began working with Dr. Bishop on the fourteenth of this month after the Hallcox post-mortem.”

“Ah, so you are a fledgling. Do you enjoy the work?”

Enjoy? Alastair cocked his head. “I find it…rewarding.”

“Why did you decide to take up this profession?”

“It is a fascinating one, and Dr. Bishop is an excellent teacher. I feel it holds great promise.”

“I understand that you are a close personal friend of the prisoner.”



“Yes.”

“Did you not believe it a conflict of interest to assist at the victim’s post-mortem, knowing that your close friend was a suspect?”

“On the contrary, I did not know Keats was involved in the case. We were not told that until the following morning.”

“Come now, the prisoner is your best friend. Surely you would have known—”

“No, I did not.” Alastair fought to keep his anger in check. Wescomb had warned him that if he lost his temper, Keats would suffer.

“You are under oath, Doctor,” Arnett replied.

“I swear I did not know until after we delivered the post-mortem report.”

“Is it not true that you were once in court regarding the murder of a man in Wales?”

Here it comes. Alastair forced any reaction from his face, though his gut somersaulted. “I testified at an inquest, yes.”

“Why were you in the witness box?” Arnett challenged. “Was it because you were the cause of a man’s death?”

“I must object, my lord,” Wescomb interjected. “Dr. Montrose’s personal history is of no import in this case. He does not sit in the dock for Miss Hallcox’s murder.”