They slid him neatly into the miniature ambulance used on station and moved away with lights flashing, evidently taking back ways down, since their speed didn't slow for the throng of holiday party-goers jamming the station just now. In the cramped quarters of the little ambulance, Rachel Eisenstein deftly lashed his gurney to tie-downs on the ambulance wall. Then, before he knew it, she'd threaded an IV into his arm. "Dehydration," she explained, "plus a mild painkiller. You need it."
That's for goddamned sure. But he had no voice left to say it.
Then, almost conversationally, she added, "Spoke to Mike Benson earlier today." Skeeter pricked up his attention. "Let him have it between the eyes, I did." She chuckled. "Should've seen the expression on his face. By the time I was done, I do believe he understood clearly that when injured people fall through a gate—regardless of who they are—they are to be brought directly to me, not abused for nearly a whole day in a sham investigation."
She touched his brow. "You can mop up the floor with him as soon as you're back on your feet with all your muscles working properly again."
Skeeter tried to smile, grateful she understood. "Promise?" he croaked hoarsely.
"Promise."
He might spend time behind bars, but by all the gods, he had a score to settle with Mr. Michael Benson.
"Easy, now. We're nearly there. Just hang on, Skeeter. Soon you'll be asleep again, mending faster than you realize." When he furrowed his brow, worried about money, she correctly guessed the cause. "Don't worry about the bill, Skeeter. Someone's already agreed to pay it."
"Who?" he croaked through his still-tight voice.
Rachel chuckled and tickled his nose. "Kit Carson."
Skeeter's eyes widened. "Kit? But . . . but why?"
Rachel laughed warmly this time. "Who ever understands why Kit does any of the things he does? He's an original. Like you."
Then the back doors opened and his gurney was untied, slid backwards, and the wheels lowered. Skeeter closed his eyes against the dizziness of the moving ceiling overhead and pondered Rachel's revelation. Why would Kit Carson, of all people, agree to pay for Skeeter's medical bills? He couldn't understand it. Still didn't when they injected something incredibly potent into his IV's heplock. The room swam in dizzy circles for just a second or two, then darkness closed around him.
Chapter Twenty-One
When Skeeter, aware of a new inner strength, cold-cocked and then mopped up the floor with Mike Benson, the big cop didn't even press charges. "Rotten bastard," Skeeter growled. "Bad enough you tortured me for hours—I might actually have deserved it, given my reputation—" another punch sent Benson reeling into the wall, whereupon he slid comically to the floor like a wrung out cartoon, "—but no, you had to do the same thing to Marcus, who's never done a goddamned thing wrong in his life. This one's for Marcus." And he slammed the flat of his hand against Benson's nose, with just enough force to break it, but not enough to drive a sliver of bone fatally back into the brain. Blood poured in streams. His eyes lost all focus. He was still sitting there, unable to move so much as one arm, as Skeeter stormed through the astonished crowd of onlookers.
He'd found the Security Chief near Primary, which was due to cycle soon. Montgomery Wilkes, with his red hair, black uniform, and steel-cold eyes, routinely prowled the whole area. When Wilkes deliberately put himself in Skeeter's way, growling out, "You are under arrest, you filthy little rat," a collective gasp went up.
Skeeter said dangerously, "No way, Herr Hitler. Way outside your jurisdiction."
"Nothing's outside my jurisdiction. And people like you are a danger to peace in our time. And I'm the one who's going to take you off the streets." When Wilkes actually grabbed Skeeter by the arm, he slammed his other fist into Monty's solar plexus. Monty doubled over with a gasp of shock, letting go of Skeeter's arm to hold his middle. Skeeter, coldly enraged, took advantage of Wilkes' doubled-up condition and added a nice chop to the back of his neck. Skeeter then kicked him to the floor. That felt good. Wilkes had been begging it for years. He said loudly enough for Wilkes to hear, "Look, I haven't broken any of your laws. And you just assaulted me. Just remember, I'm hell and gone outside your jurisdiction, Nazi. Or do you really want to spend another couple of weeks in Mike Benson's lockup?"
Wilkes, too winded to reply, glared coldly up at him, eyes promising retaliation.
Skeeter gave out a harsh bark of laughter that startled Wilkes into widening his eyes. "Forget it, Monty. You do and I'll press charges so serious, you'll end rotting in a cell forever. I grew up as a living god in the yurt of Genghis Khan. I could kill you in so many different ways, not even your lurid imagination could come up with all of 'em. So take some advice. Go hassle taxes out of honest tourists who can't or won't fight back."
He spat, the wad of saliva landing right next to Monty's chin. The head ATF agent didn't bat so much as an eyelash. "Face it, Wilkes. You're no better than I am. You've just got a badge to hide behind when you swindle people and pocket the stuff you skim off the top, before it's ever recorded where government accountants might find it. So cut the Mr.-Upholding-Law-and-Order-Good-Guy crap. I ain't buyin' it and I ain't scared of you or any of your underhanded tricks. Got that, Monty?"
Monty looked cold and pale on the floor. He nodded stiffly, his face nearly cracking with the movement. Skeeter had him dead-to-rights and they both knew it.
"Good. You leave me the hell alone and I'll leave you the hell alone."
God, that felt good.
When he stalked away, anger palpably radiating from him, everyone got out of his way. Even ATF agents. It reminded Skeeter of that Charlton Heston movie, where the sea had peeled back for the Israelites to flee Pharaoh's wrath.
So far, so good. Two thrashings down, one yelling match to come. Next stop: Kit Carson's office.
He shoved impatiently past the Neo Edo's front desk, grabbed an elevator, pressed the unmarked button, and rose swiftly upward into Kit's private domain. When he stormed into the office, not bothering to remove his shoes, Kit's brows knotted above a deeply disapproving frown. Skeeter didn't care. He knew Kit would put him down in about two seconds if he started anything physical, so he gritted his teeth, leaned his palms on the enormous desk, and said, "All, right, Carson. Let's hear it. Why?"
Kit hadn't moved. The stillness scared Skeeter, despite his momentum and the fire in his blood.
"Sit down, Skeeter." It was not an invitation. It was an order and a fairly forceful one at that.
Skeeter sat.
Kit finally moved, leaning back slightly in his chair and observing Skeeter closely for several silent moments. His clothes were disarranged slightly from the knock-down, drag-out with Benson and his knuckles were a scraped-up mess from bringing Monty the Monster down a peg or two. Kit finally pointed to the wall-sized rank of monitors to Skeeter's right. He turned cautiously, wondering why Kit wanted him to look at them, then understood in a single flash of understanding. One of the screens showed live feed directly from a security camera at Primary. He saw Mike Benson staggering to his feet, still bleeding, with the help of two of his men. The sway in his knees warmed Skeeter's heart. Yesukai would have approved: honor avenged.
"That, Skeeter, was quite a performance." Kit's voice came out dry as a Mongolian sandstorm.
"I wasn't performing," Skeeter growled. "And you haven't answered me yet." He ignored the monitors and glared at Kit, whose abrupt bark of laughter startled him so deeply he almost forgot why he'd come up here. "Do you have any idea," Kit said, actually wiping tears, "how long I've wanted someone to put that overbearing ass on the floor so hard his brains rattled? Of course, this is going to start another round of battle between ATF and Station Management. Oh, don't look so scared, boy. I just got off the phone with Bull Morgan, who was laughing so hard he just about couldn't talk." That world-famous grin came and went. "No need to worry about charges being pressed or getting thrown off station. Both of those idiots got what they richly deserved."
Wor
d travelled fast in La-La Land. Skeeter sighed. "Okay. So everybody's cheering my fight of honor. Big deal. But you still haven't answered my question."
Kit studied him some more. Then rose and walked barefooted except for black tabi socks to a sumptuous bar. He chose an ancient-looking bottle, handled it with the greatest reverence, and found two shot glasses. He poured carefully, not wasting a drop, then put the bottle cautiously back into the depths of the bar. Skeeter realized he was being granted some special privilege and didn't know why.
Kit returned and set a shot glass in front of him then resumed his chair. His brown eyes were steady as they met Skeeter's. "Marcus is a friend," he said softly. "I couldn't go after him, which damn near broke my heart. I've watched that boy grow from a terrified slave into a strong and self-confident young man. I've offered him jobs dozens of times, but he always shakes his head and says he prefers friendship over charity."
Kit paused a moment, shot glass steady in his hand. "You and I haven't had much love for one another over the years, Skeeter. The way you make your living, what you tried to do to my granddaughter . . ." He shook his head. "Believe me, I understand all too well the fear behind your eyes, Skeeter Jackson. But four weeks ago you did something so out of character, it shook me up. Badly. You tried to save Marcus from that bastard Farley, or whatever his real name is. Word is, you suffered some pretty rough treatment downtime before both of you escaped."
Skeeter felt heat in his cheeks. He shrugged. "Gladiator school wasn't so bad, if you didn't piss off the slave master enough for him to rake your hide with the whip. And I beat Lupus, hands down, in the Circus. No big deal."
Kit said quietly, "Yes, very big deal. Remember, I've fought for my life in that arena, too." Skeeter had forgotten in his anger. "So far as I can tell, that fight was an important first in your life. First time you put somebody else's life ahead of your own."
Skeeter felt uncomfortable again.
Kit lifted his glass. Clumsily, Skeeter took hold of his.
"To honor," Kit said quietly.
Skeeter's throat closed. An 'eighty-sixer had finally understood. He gulped the bourbon, astonished by the smooth flavor of it. Where, he wondered, had Kit acquired it? And why share it with Skeeter?
Kit set his shot glass upside-down on the desk; Skeeter did the same.
"I offered to pay the hospital bill," Kit finally said, "because you acquired those injuries in a desperate fight to get Marcus back where he belonged—with his wife and children. And I know exactly how much money you don't have."
"There's the wager money Brian's holding—hey, what about that wager? Do you know anything?"
A smile came and went. "Goldie screamed and kicked for a whole week when Brian put the wager on hold until you returned. It's still on hold until you officially visit Brian in the library."
Skeeter thought that one out. The wager seemed almost irrelevant, now. But he could use the money Brian was holding. He did rather enjoy the mental image of Goldie purple-faced enraged. Then he sighed and startled himself by admitting, "Wish I'd never made that goddamned wager."
Kit nodded slowly. "Good. That's one of the reasons for the bourbon." He chuckled. "It's illegal, you know. Brought a few bottles back with me from a scouting trip."
Skeeter couldn't believe it. Not only was the Kit Carson speaking to him man-to-man, but he'd shared a chink in his squeaky clean honor, shared it knowing it made him vulnerable.
He rose slowly to leave. "Thanks, Kit. More than you know. And thanks for the 'vodka,' too. It was bracing and I needed that." It was the only way Skeeter knew to tell Kit he would keep his mouth shut about the wonderful, illegal bourbon.
Kit's lips twitched and a wicked gleam touched his eyes, but he said only, "Any time. I think Brian's waiting for you."
Skeeter nodded, headed for the door, then turned and said, "Sorry about the shoes. Won't happen again." Provided, that was, if Skeeter were ever invited back to Kit's sanctuary, which he deemed improbable at best. He closed the door, stood in the corridor for a moment, a little unsure just what he felt, then he sighed, found the elevator, and left the Neo Edo, heading toward the library. The few coins left from his victory lap jangled in his pocket. If the wager was still on, he was still in very hot water. Any tiny bit of coin he could scrape up would help.
When he entered the library, Brian Hendrickson looked up and said in his impossible accent, "Ah, heard you were up and about again. Glad to see rumor true, for once. I've been waiting, you know, for a month."
Skeeter, his mind and blood cooled by the time spent in Kit's office, pulled the coins out of his pocket and set them on the counter.
"Mmm . . . very, very nice. And a gold aurii amongst the lot." Brian looked up. "However did you come into possession of these?"
Skeeter wanted to tell him they'd come from the purses he'd stolen; but that wasn't the truth. He'd spent every last copper uncia of that money getting Marcus and him through the gate. All that remained were a few coins from the arena sands. So he said, very quietly, "I snatched them from the sand when the crowd at the Circus Maximus started throwing coins to me on my victory lap. I'd, uh, beaten the favorite champion in Rome, and, uh, things got pretty wild for a few minutes."
Curiously, "Did you kill him?"
"No," Skeeter bit out. "But I beat the hell out of him and Claudius spared him."
Brian Hendrickson gazed at nothing for a moment. "That," he said, "would have been something to witness. Claudius spared very few." Then he shook himself slightly and a mournful look appeared on his face. "I'm afraid these cannot count toward your wager, Skeeter. You earned them honestly."
He'd half expected that answer, anyway, so he just nodded and scooped up the coins.
"Going to exchange them somewhere?"
"No." They represented a pivotal moment in his life, when—for just a few minutes—the crowd really had treated him as the god Yesukai the Valiant had once called him. He stuffed the coins back into his pocket. Some god. All the years he'd spent fooling himself into thinking that what he did was correct was simply time wasted from his life, on delusions and fantasies that kept him from seeing what he was and where he was inevitably headed with genuine clarity. Thank God for Marcus. Without him, Skeeter might never have woken up.
"Thanks, Brian."
He stalked out of the library, unsure what to do next, or where to go. Surprisingly, he ended up at Dr. Mundy's door. A few minutes later, relaxed in a deep, easy-on-the-back chair with the whir of a tape recorder in the background, Skeeter started spilling all of it out, every single thing he could recall about Yesukai, Temujin, and the yurt he'd lived in as bogda and then as uncle of the Khan's firstborn son. Then, under Dr. Mundy's gentle persuasion, he let out the rest of it, as well. When he'd finished, he knew the hurt and fear weren't gone, but much of it now inhabited that whirring strand of metallic recording tape rather than Skeeter's belly and nightmares.
He refused the usual payment, startling Mundy into stutters, then left quietly and closed the door on that part of his life forever.
* * *
Margo and Malcolm got word from Primary just about the time Skeeter Jackson was punching Mike Benson into the ground. A sealed letter with official letterhead and stamps arrived for them.
"Open it!" Margo demanded.
"Patience," Malcolm laughed.
"You know I haven't got any!"
"Ah, yet another lesson to explore."
The Irish alley-cat glare, at least, had not changed since she'd begun college. Malcolm carefully slit the envelope with his pocketknife, replaced the little folder in his pocket, then slid out a crisp, official reply.
"Re: William Hunter, a.k.a. Charles Farley. Above was apprehended while digging up an illegal hoard of downtime artwork from Denver. Your recordings were most helpful in getting his cooperation and should serve very nicely at trial. I know you're wondering, and ordinarily I wouldn't commit words to paper before a trial, but you are, after all, on TT-86, many, many years in 'our' pa
st. He was, indeed an agent, collecting unusual pieces of art from the past and returning with them to his employer." Malcolm's eyes bugged when he saw that employer's world-famous name.
"We'll have a separate trial for him, of course. Seems he and another rich gentleman, on whom we have not a shred of evidence beyond Mr. Hunter's statements, had several years ago engaged in a little wager as to which of them could smuggle uptime for their private collections the most, ah, aforementioned artwork. We've already seized one collection and will be turning it over to an IFARTS office as soon as the trials are completed. No one expects either trial to be long. I thought you should know, as you went far beyond the extra mile—and citizens, not law enforcement, at that—to bring this temporal criminal to justice. Good luck to you and thank you most sincerely for your incalculable help in cracking this illegal wager wide open."
The signature block caused even Margo's eyes to pop. "Wow! The actual Justice Minister, not one of his flunkies!"
Malcolm chortled and folded up the slip of paper, sliding it back into the envelope. "I'd like to have seen old Chuckie's face when they caught him with the goods. He'll get life for the illegal trafficking alone and probably a death sentence for the people he killed along the way." He sighed slightly. "I always did fancy happy endings," he mused, smiling down at Margo.
She leaned up and kissed him, not caring who was watching, then breathed against his mouth, "Let's go make a few copies, eh? Give one to what's left of Benson's carcass, another to Bull Morgan, maybe even one to that horrid Montgomery Wilkes. Tax evasion is, after all, in his jurisdiction."
Malcolm laughed hard enough to draw stares, then brushed a kiss across her lips. "Sounds good to me, fire-eater."
"Huh. Fire-eater. You just wait until I get you alone, you prudish, staid old Brit, you."
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