Ripping Time ts-3

by Robert Robert

  Then she lay propped across something hard, while she was thoroughly sick onto the street. Someone was holding her up, kept her from falling while she vomited. Memory struck hard, of the gun aimed at her face, of the roar and gout of flame, the agony of the gunshot striking her. She struggled, convinced she was in the hands of that madman, that he'd carried her off to finish her or interrogate her...

  "Easy, there."

  Whoever held her was far stronger than Jenna; hard hands kept her from moving away. Jenna shuddered and got the heaves under control, then gulped down terror and slowly raised her gaze from the filthy cobblestones. She lay propped across someone's thigh, resting against rough woolen cloth and a slim torso. Then she met the eyes of a woman whose face was shadowed by a broad-brimmed bonnet which nearly obscured her face in the darkness. Through the nausea and pain and terror, Jenna realized the woman was exceedingly poor. Her dress and coat were raggedy, patched things, the bonnet bedraggled by the night's rain. Gaslight from a nearby street lamp caught a glint of the woman's eyes, then she spoke, in a voice that sounded as poor and ragged as she was.

  "Cor, luv," the woman said softly, "if you ain't just a sight, now. I've ‘ad me quite a jolly time, so I ‘ave, tryin' t' foller you all the way ‘ere, an' you bent on getting yourself that lost and killed."

  Jenna stared, wondering whether or not the woman had lost her mind, or if perhaps Jenna might be losing hers. Mad, merry eyes twinkled in the gaslight as a sharp wind picked up and pelted them with debris from the street. The shabby woman glanced at the clouds, where lightning flared, threatening more rain, then frowned. "Goin' t'catch yer death, wivout no coat on, and I gots t'find a bloody surgeon what can see to that head of yours. It's bled a fright, but in't as bad as it seems or likely feels. Just a scrape along above the ear. Bloody lucky, you are, bloody lucky." When Jenna stared at her, torn by nausea and pain and the conviction that she was in the hands of yet another down-time lunatic, the madwoman leaned closer still and said in a totally different voice, "Good God, kid, you really don't know me, do you?"

  Jenna's mouth fell open. "Noah?"

  The detective's low chuckle shocked her. Jenna had never heard Noah Armstrong laugh. They hadn't found much to laugh about, since their brutal introduction three days previously. Then she blinked slowly through the fog in her mind. Three days? But Noah and Marcus had gone down Denver's Wild West Gate. Or rather, would be going down the Wild West Gate. Tomorrow morning, on the station's timeline. Noah Armstrong shouldn't be here at all, on the night of Jenna's arrival. The night before Noah and Marcus were due to leave the station for Denver...

  Mind whirling, Jenna asked blankly, "Where did you come from? How did you get here?"

  The detective was pulling off a shabby black coat, which served to protect Jenna's head from the cold, damp wind. When Jenna touched gingerly, she found rough, torn cloth tied as makeshift bandages. They were wet and sticky. Noah said, "Let me carry you again, kid. You're just about done in from exhaustion and shock. I'll get you someplace safe and warm as soon as I can."

  Jenna lay in a daze as Noah gently lifted her and started walking steadily eastward. "But—how—?"

  "We came across from New York, of course. Hopped a train in Colorado and lost ourselves nice and thoroughly in Chicago and points east." The detective's voice darkened. "That down-timer kid from the station, Julius? He was disguised as you, Jenna, dressed in a calico skirt, wearing a wig." Noah paused, eyes stricken in the light streaming from a nearby house window. "They shot him. My fault, dammit, I shouldn't have let that kid out of my sight! I knew Sarnoff would follow us, I just didn't figure he'd slip ahead and ambush the kid so fast. We got him back to the camp surgeon, but..."

  "No..." Jenna whimpered, not wanting to hear.

  "I'm sorry, Jenna. He didn't make it. Poor bastard died before we could slip out of camp. I had a helluva time getting us out in the middle of the uproar, with Time Tours guides and the surgeon demanding to know exactly what had happened."

  Jenna's vision wavered. "Oh, God..." She didn't want to accept the truth. Not that nice kid, the down-timer she'd met in the basement under the Neo Edo hotel. Julius was younger than she was... . Her eyes burned and she nearly brought up more acid from her stomach as she fought not to sob aloud. How many people were going to die, trying to keep her alive?

  Then she remembered Ianira. "Oh, God! Ianira!"

  Noah's stride faltered for just a moment. "I know." The detective's voice was rough. "I tried to follow him, the instant I knew you weren't critically wounded. But he disappeared into that rat's maze of streets down in SoHo. Which, coincidentally, is exactly the same thing we did. I had to get us out of there fast, after all the shooting left that hit-man dead in front of the Opera House. The door man and some people in a passing carriage went shouting for a constable."

  "But—but Noah, he's got her—"

  "Do you have any idea who he was?"

  She gulped down terror, tried to think past the memory of that gun levelled at her face, that mad, calm voice telling her it was nothing personal. "He said he was a doctor. Ianira found him, while I was struggling with that killer. I think he was down by those columns."

  Noah nodded. "That'd be the Opera House, it's just down the way from where you were attacked."

  "He took Ianira's pulse and she... she went into shock. Tried to get away from him, starting ranting something that sounded awful. In ancient Greek. Whatever she said, he understood it and his face... he snarled at her. I've never seen such hatred, such murderous fury..."

  Noah's quiet voice intruded. "That's damned odd, don't you think?"

  Jenna just shivered and huddled closer to the detective's warmth. "He looked at me. Just looked at me and said, ‘Sorry, old chap, nothing personal,' and shot me."

  "Damned odd," Noah muttered. "Doesn't sound like an up-time hit at all."

  "No." Then, voice breaking, "We have to find her! I let him... let him take her away..."

  "No, you didn't. Don't argue! For Christ sake, Jenna, you've been on the run for three solid days, in shock from the murders in New York, and the shock of being pregnant and shooting a man to death in TT-86, and you damned near got shot at the Picadilly Hotel, then almost knifed to death in front of the Opera, then some lunatic down-timer shot you in the head, and you blame yourself? After all that? Kid, you did one helluva job. And you're not even a pro. I am. And I screwed up royally. I didn't manage to grab you aside at Spaldergate House, damn near got caught stealing a horse to follow the carriage you took, and still arrived at the Picadilly Hotel too damned late to do you any good. And by the time the shooting started outside the hotel, I'd tied that damned horse up a block down the street and had to chase after you on foot, in these heavy, damned wet skirts. Kid, I fucked up, plain and simple, and ended up letting that guy shoot you and kidnap Ianira. Don't you dare blame yourself, Jenna Caddrick. You did one helluva job getting her out of that hotel in one piece."

  Very quietly and very messily, Jenna began to cry down the front of Noah's rough woolen dress.

  "Aw, shit..." Noah muttered, then speeded up. "I gotta get you out of this raw air." Noah braced her head against a solid shoulder, easing the coat to protect her face from the cold, and hurried through the darkened city. Occasional carriages rattled past, a greyed-out blur to Jenna's overtaxed senses. Pain, dull and endless, throbbed through her head. Nausea bit the back of her throat, without letup. God, if I really am pregnant, please let the baby be all right...

  At least half-an-hour later, Noah Armstrong carried Jenna into a snug little house near Christ Church, Spitalfields. Marcus, who seemed to have aged terribly since the last time she'd seen him, greeted them with a cry of fear. "What has happened? Where is Ianira?"

  Noah spoke curtly. "Jenna ran into bad trouble, getting away from the gatehouse. I've got to carry her upstairs to bed. Heat a water bottle and bring up some extra blankets, then go out and ask Dr. Mindel to come. Jenna's been shot, not seriously, but she needs medical attention and sh
e's in shock."

  "Ianira?" Marcus whispered again.

  The detective paused. "She's alive. Somewhere. It's complicated. A man helped them, shot one of the hit-men. But when he touched her, she went into prophetic trance and whatever she said, it really upset him. He shot Jenna without warning and was about to finish her off when I finally caught up. He took a potshot at me and I fired back, but missed, dammit, and he grabbed Ianira and took off down Drury Lane. I'm sorry, Marcus. We'll find her. I swear it, we will find her."

  The ex-slave had gone ashen, stood trembling in the shabby house they'd rented, eyes wet and lips unsteady. At a slight sound behind him, he turned his shaken gaze downward.

  "Daddy?" A beautiful little girl of about seven had appeared in the doorway from the back of the house. "Daddy, did Noah bring Mama?"

  Jenna had to grasp Noah's shoulders as the whole room spun. Ianira's little girl, Artemisia... only she was too old, much too old, and Marcus had aged, as well, there was grey in his hair and she didn't understand...

  "No, Misia," Marcus choked out, going to his knees to hug the little girl close. "Noah and Jenna tried, honey, but something went wrong and a bad man took Mama away. We'll find her, sweetheart, we'll look all through London and find her. But Jenna's been hurt, trying to protect your mother, and we have to help her, now. I need to go for a doctor, Misia, and Noah has to watch Jenna until the doctor comes, so we all need you to help us out, tonight, okay? Can you watch Gelasia for us, make sure she's had her milk and biscuits?"

  The little girl nodded, wide eyes wet and scared as she stared up at Jenna.

  "This is Jenna," Noah said gently. "She helped me save your mommy's life tonight. The bad men we ran away from a long time ago chased her, honey, then another man hurt her and took your mother. I'm sorry, honey. We'll get her back."

  No child of seven should possess eyes like Artemisia's, dark as mahogany and too wise and haunted for her age, eyes which had, like her mother's, seen far too much at far too early a point in life. She disappeared into the back of the house. Marcus said raggedly, "I will bring the hot water bottle, then go for Dr. Mindel."

  "Good. And take my Colt Thunderer with you. Put it up, when you get back, someplace where the girls can't reach it."

  Marcus took Noah's revolver and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Noah carried Jenna up a narrow, dark staircase that smelled of dampness and recent, harsh soap. "Noah?" she whispered, still badly shaken.

  "Yeah?" The detective carried her into a neat, heartlessly plain bedroom and settled her gently into a deep feather bed.

  "Why... why is Artemisia so much older? I don't understand..."

  Noah dragged off the wet, bedraggled bonnet which hid the detective's face, pulled blankets up across her, then gently removed Jenna's makeshift bandages and peered anxiously at the side of her head before pouring out a basin of water and wetting a cloth to sponge away dried blood, all without answering. Jenna found herself staring into Noah's eyes, which had gone dark with an even deeper sorrow Jenna didn't want to know the reasons for. Noah met her frightened stare, paused, then told her.

  "You're too foggy to work it out, aren't you? The Denver Gate opens into 1885. The Britannia opens into 1888. It's been three years for us, kid. There wasn't any other way."

  The whole bed came adrift under Jenna's back. She found herself a foggy stretch of time later floating in a grey haze while Noah very gently removed her clothing and eased her into a nightshirt, then replaced the blankets. Jenna slowly focused on the detective's haunted eyes. "Three years?" she finally whispered, her foggy mind catching up at last. "My God... Even if we find her... Ianira's little girls won't even know their own mother. And poor Ianira... God, three years of their lives, gone..."

  "I know." Quiet, that voice, filled with regret and hushed pain. "Believe me, we wanted there to be some other way. There wasn't." The detective kept talking, voice low, giving Jenna a lifeline to cling to while her world swung in unpredictable circles all over again. "We've been in London for nearly two-and-a-half years, now. Waiting for you. I showed up at Spaldergate tonight, hoping to catch your attention, but... You know how that ended."

  The shock, the misery of what Jenna had caused, was too much. She squeezed shut her eyes over hot tears. What else could I have done? Could any of us have done? They could've brought the girls through with Ianira, at least. But Noah'd been right to guess hit men would be sent through both gates after them. If they had brought the little girls through with Ianira, none of them would have escaped the Picadilly Hotel alive. There really hadn't been any other choice. Knowing that didn't help much, though, with Ianira missing somewhere in this immense city, in the hands of God alone knew what kind of madman, and those beautiful little girls downstairs, unable to remember the mother they'd waited three years to meet again and deprived of her once more by violence and death. None of them had expected Marcus and the children to have to stay down time in Denver long enough to catch up to the Britannia Gate.

  The knowledge that none of them were safe, yet, after everything they'd already been through, was a pain too deep to express. So Jenna just lay there, staring blankly at the stained ceiling, waiting for the doctor to arrive while Noah slipped a hot water bottle under the blankets to warm her and brought a basin full of hot, steaming water that smelled strongly of disinfectant to wash the gash in her head. She was grateful that Noah Armstrong had managed, at least, to set up a hiding place in London, ready and waiting for her. Outside, lightning flared and thunder rumbled through the dismal streets of Spitalfields as rain poured from leaden skies.

  Their safe haven was at least well hidden by grinding poverty. It was probably the last place on earth her father's hired killers would think to look for them. London's violent and poverty-stricken East End during the middle of the Ripper horror...

  When Dr. Mindel finally arrived, he praised Noah's "nursing" and sutured up Jenna's scalp, then fed her some foul-tasting medicine that left her drifting in darkness. The final awareness to impinge on her exhausted mind was the sound of Marcus in the hallway, talking quietly with Noah, with the cold and granite sound of murder in his voice as they made plans to find his missing wife.

  Then she drifted into pain-free oblivion and knew no more.

  * * *

  Malcolm tilted his pocketwatch toward the light of a gas lamp on the street corner, putting the time at half-past eight when he alighted from his hansom cab at the corner of Bow and Hart Streets. Clouds, shot through with lightning, swirled in thick drifts and eddies above the rooftops, muting the sounds of a boisterous Thursday evening with the imminent threat of more rain. Although they were past the official end of the annual London social season, cut short yearly when Parliament adjourned each August 12th, not everyone was fortunate enough to escape London immediately for their country homes or the rural estates of friends. Business matters had to be wound up and some gentlemen remained trapped in London year-round, particularly those of the aspiring middle classes, who had acquired the tastes and pursuits of the wealthy without the means of fleeing London at the end of the social season.

  As a result, cultured male voices the length of Bow Street could be heard discussing theater and dinner plans, birds they planned to shoot on favorite grouse moors up in Scotland now that grouse season had opened, or the ladies who inhabited the country houses they would visit during the fall's leisurely hunting seasons, beginning with grouse, graduating to partridge and pheasant, and ending lastly—but perhaps most importantly—with the noble fox.

  Also drifting through the damp night came the light laughter of women Malcolm could not actually see, whose carriages rattled invisibly past in the murk that was not quite rain but not quite fog, either. The jingle of harness and the sharp clopping of horse's hooves struck the lime-rock gravel bed of the street with a thick, thumping sound, carrying the hidden ladies off to bright dinner parties. Carefully orchestrated affairs, such dinners were designed to bring together eligible young ladies and equally eligible
gentlemen for the deadly serious purpose of finding suitable spouses for the unmarried daughters of the house.

  It being a Thursday evening, many such dinner parties throughout the ultra-fashionable west end would be followed by musical and other soirees, theater or the opera, and after that, the final, few elegant balls of the year, at which silk-clad young ladies still unmarried and desperate would swirl across dance floors and sip wine with smartly dressed young gentlemen until three in the morning, with a fair number of those young gentlemen equally desperate to find an heiress, even from a fortune made in trade, God help them all for having to stoop to such measures, just to bolster the finances of blue-blooded but cash-poor noble houses.

  Above the jingle of harness as carriages rattled past, filtering through the sounds of gay laughter and merrymaking, came other, more plaintive cries, the calls of flower girls and eel-pie vendors hawking their wares to the genteel folk who frequented this fashionable district on such evenings. Malcolm could just make out one such girl, stationed beneath the nearest street lamp where she would be most visible in the drizzle and murk. She held a heavy tray of carnations and pinks suspended from cords around her neck. Her dress, damp in patches from the raw night, was made of cheap, dark cotton, much mended and several years out of fashion. The toes of the shoes peeping out from beneath her skirts had been cut open to accommodate the growth of her feet.

  As Malcolm watched, three gentlemen emerged from the darkness and paused briefly to purchase boutonnieres for their lapels. They strolled on toward Malcolm, nodding and smiling as they passed, locked deep in conversation about the best methods of cubbing the young foxes and adolescent fox hounds once cub season opened. Malcolm nodded in return, wishing them a pleasant, "Good evening" as they crossed Bow Street and moved past the looming edifice of the Royal Opera House down Hart Street in the direction of Covent Garden Theater.