Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(74)

After another long sip of beer, Ralph eyed the patrons again. As if on cue, a young lady headed toward him. She was petite, cute, and appeared to be in her late twenties. Just my type. He smiled in welcome. He had his reputation as a Lothario to consider and Cynda’s illness had kept him out of circulation too long.

“Are you a Rover?” she asked breathlessly.

“Chron-op.”

“Oh,” she said, deflating. “Who do you work for?”

“TEM Enterprises.”

“Oh.” She perked up. “Have you met Mr. Morrisey?”

“Yes. I work very closely with him.” Far too close.

Her next question would tell him if she was a geek or Timer.

“Do you know some of the Rovers?” she asked, leaning closer.

A Timer.

“Sure do.” He patted the bench seat next to him. “Have a seat. Have I got a story for you.”





Chapter 23




“Where’s the bald guy?” Cynda demanded, trying to pull on her sandals. When the footwear didn’t go on quickly enough she flung them aside, narrowly missing Morrisey.

“Dr. Weber won’t be returning,” he informed her. “We should talk about what happened.”

“Nothing to talk about. I hit him. He deserved it,” she replied, glaring, her fists bunched.

“The problem is—” he began.

Cynda left him talking to himself. With an exasperated sigh, he trudged in her wake. His nephew Chris had gone through that stage during adolescence: surly, volatile, and distrustful of any authority figure, even his favorite Uncle Theo. Chris had finally outgrown it. There was no guarantee that Jacynda ever would.

She just has to. He’d made a careful study of potential medical treatments, hoping to find something to ramp down her anger. Nothing had panned out. She was truly on her own.

Though her volatility was definitely going to be an issue, for once she sounded like the old Jacynda. The docile girl was gone, replaced by a high-strung, outspoken hand grenade. It had all begun the moment she’d received the medication.

TPB may have just done us a favor.

He found her at the top portion of the Zen Garden, busily drawing with her chopstick, her face tortured in the effort. “Miss Lassiter?” She ignored him. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but we do need to talk.”

The chopstick continued to move with determined precision. “I don’t like people who bother me.”

Sensing a potential explosion, he opted for a change of subject. “It’s coming along nicely.” No reply. “Miss Lassiter?”

She dropped the chopstick and began to tug on the band on her arm like a fox caught in a steel trap. “Take this damned thing off.”

“As you wish.” It’d served its purpose. Tracking her now would be as simple as following the trail of bleeding bodies. He inputted the code, and the band fell away. She resumed the sand drawing.



“We still need to talk,” he reminded her gently.

“You didn’t keep them from hurting me.”

He’d wondered when that would come. “No, I didn’t. I tried my best and I failed. I sincerely apologize.”

“Means nothing.”

“Jacynda, I—”

“Go away! I hate you!” she shouted and pointedly turned her back on him.

Morrisey spun on a heel and left her alone in the middle of the sand. If he remained, he’d say things neither of them were prepared to handle.

The moment he’d left, Cynda settled back on her heels, biting her lip.

What did I just do?

Maybe she shouldn’t be mad at him, but she was. He’d failed her. All of them had. None of them had kept her safe.

At least the bracelet was off now. When she spied it, she snatched it up and buried it deep in the sand, pleased to have the wretched thing gone.

The ants sprinted up and down her spine again. Any slight noise made her grit her teeth. She closed her eyes and tried to think of kittens and string. Instead of the vision calming her, the ants captured the kitten, tied it up in the string, and ate it alive.

With a throaty roar, she channeled that fury into action, battering the sand castle into nothingness, methodically destroying the towers, the moat, the great hall and the drawbridge. When she was done, she used her index finger to draw a sandy version of the bald man’s face. Then she pummeled it with her fists. Smoothed the sand, redrew the face, obliterated it. Smooth, draw, hit. She repeated that sequence until her knuckles were raw.

“Miss Lassiter?” a mechanical voice asked.

She glared toward the walkway. A tall silver contraption patiently awaited her response.

“Who are you?” she snarled.



“Sigmund. I am Master Ralph’s HB Series Domestic Robot.”

“So?”

“You requested that I visit. If you prefer not to speak with me, I will visit at another time.”

She leaned back on her haunches, thinking things through. A silver robot with a name that started with “S”. That did sound familiar. While she debated, he, or it, waited patiently. No annoying beeps or blinking lights. That won him points.

Still, there was one more test. “Do you know what those are?” she asked, pointing at the figures on the pagoda.