Time Scout- 04-The House That Jack Built


Chapter One
Skeeter Jackson wasn't in jail.
And that was so overwhelming a shock, he wasn't entirely sure what to do with 
himself. The one thing he didn't want to do was hang around the infirmary, where 
Bergitta lay in the recovery room after emergency surgery and where Senator John 
Caddrick sat bellowing like a wounded musk-ox, threatening to shut down the 
station around their ears. So he ducked past crowds of shaken tourists, wounded 
in the riot at Primary, slithered past news crews and the irate, fuming 
senator—who was still taking up a valuable medical technician's time to wash 
tear gas out of his eyes—and headed out into the vast crowds thronging the 
Commons.
He didn't really know where he was going or what he intended to do, once he got 
there. He didn't have a job any longer, and wasn't likely to find a soul on 
station to hire him, particularly not with the kind of trouble Time Terminal 
Eighty-Six had brewing. Skeeter threaded his way through the jostling crowds, 
ignoring the shocked gossip flying loose through Commons, and wondered for 
perhaps the fifteen millionth time what had become of his friends, young Julius, 
who'd been born in ancient Rome, and—far more devastatingly—down-time refugees 
Ianira and Marcus and both their little girls. Ianira was the leader of the 
entire community of down-timers stranded on the time terminal, Speaker for the 
Found Ones' Council, and the inspiration for the fastest-growing up-time 
religion in the world. 
Not only major VIPs in anybody's book, but very nearly the only friends Skeeter 
possessed. They'd all disappeared in the middle of a riot, the first of many to 
hit Shangri-La Station during the past week, and despite massive searches, not a 
trace of them had been found. Either they'd managed to escape down one of the 
open time-touring gates or they'd been kidnapped and smuggled out. Or—and he had 
to swallow hard, at the thought—somebody'd cut them into small pieces and 
dropped them down an unstable gate. Like the Bermuda Triangle, maybe . . .
"Skeeter!"
He looked around, startled, and found Kit Carson homing in.
Panic struck.
"Don't bolt!" The retired time scout held up a hand as he hurried through the 
crowd. "I just want to talk."
Skeeter paused, gauging the expression in Kit's eyes—a surprisingly friendly 
look—and decided not to run. "Okay," he shrugged, waiting. After all, Kit had 
stood up for him in the station manager's office high above Commons floor, when 
Security Chief Mike Benson had been chomping at the bit to toss him into the 
nearest jail cell—or maybe through the aerie's glass window-walls. A long shiver 
caught Skeeter's spine at that too-recent memory. Mike Benson had dragged him up 
from the station's subbasement battleground in cuffs, facing murder charges. 
Neither he nor the station's down-timer refugees had really had any choice but 
fight to the death, trying to wrest Bergitta away from her kidnappers, a group 
of Islamic jihad fighters.
The Ansar Majlis had styled themselves after the original Ansar, the religiously 
motivated nineteenth-century "dervishes" of the Sudan, famed for routing British 
forces and killing General Gordon at Khartoum. The terrorist members of the 
Ansar Majlis had dragged Bergitta down into the station's sub-basement, where 
they would've beaten her to death, after raping her. But that hadn't mattered a 
damn to Mike Benson.
If not for Kit's support . . .
He didn't even know why Kit had come to his rescue.
So he shoved his hands into his pockets, suppressing a wince where the cuffs had 
dug into his flesh, and waited for Kit to catch up. The world-famous time scout 
actually clapped him on the shoulder, startling Skeeter considerably.
"Come down to Edo Castletown with me," Kit said over the roar of voices on 
Commons. "I need your help."
Skeeter blinked. "My help? What for?"
Kit grinned at his tone, but the smile faded too quickly. "After you left the 
aerie, Ronisha ran computer records checks for everyone who entered the station 
today. I'm afraid the databanks are a mess, thanks to that riot Caddrick 
started." Kit shook his head and made a derisive sound of disgust. "Half the 
arriving tourists haven't even scanned their records in properly yet. But 
Ronisha thinks she's got a line on the Ansar Majlis leadership. A couple of 
businessmen, seemed legit enough. Came to open up a new outfitter's shop for the 
Arabian Nights sector. They checked into their hotel, nice and quiet, then tried 
to contact some of your pals from that murderous construction crew. By radio, 
mind."
Skeeter's brows rose. "Don't tell me, they tried to contact those little radio 
handsets Benson took off those bodies we left downstairs?"
One corner of Kit's mouth twitched. "You got it. Mike intercepted the call. That 
down-time kid, Hashim, who helped you with the rescue? He helped us out again, 
in a big way. He answered the transmission, told them there'd been trouble, but 
he'd meet them, bring them up to date." Kit thinned his lips. "They're in my 
hotel, Skeeter. I want them out."
"Alive?" Skeeter asked softly.
Kit's eyes blazed, giving Skeeter a dangerous, top-to-toes assessment that left 
Skeeter sweating despite the bravado of his return stare. "Preferably," Kit said 
in a low growl. "With as little damage to young Hashim as possible."
"No argument, there. Where'd he agree to meet them? At the Neo Edo?"
Kit nodded.
"When?"
The retired time scout checked his watch. "About fifteen minutes from now."
Skeeter swore. "I'll need a good disguise. Get me somebody's headdress. And a 
tool belt." He paused. "You're sure you've got the right assholes? Not just a 
couple of innocent Arab businessmen looking for long-lost relatives?"
"We're sure," Kit said grimly. "They asked Hashim to bring schematics of the 
station's brig, so they could plan an attack. They aim to break their buddies 
out of jail."
Skeeter whistled. "That's bad."
"You're not kidding, that's bad. Right now, they're in room Four Twenty-Three, 
waiting for Hashim to show up with his pals."
Skeeter nodded. "All right, let's get this over with."
A quarter of an hour later, Skeeter and young Hashim ibn Fahd were walking 
softly down a carpeted corridor on the fourth floor of the Neo Edo hotel, the 
latter in Neo Edo livery. Skeeter wore a long headdress shrugged down across his 
shoulders and a toolbelt at his hips. The toolbelt hid an eight-inch Bowie knife 
and a snub-nosed revolver shoved into a paddle holster inside his trousers. Kit, 
too, wore a disguising headdress and tool belt, and carried a sleek little 
semiautomatic pistol. Security had closed off the corridor at either end, 
stationing officers in the stairwells and elevator. 
The fourth floor was as secure as they could make it without evacuating 
innocents from adjoining rooms, which they couldn't do, not and keep the element 
of surprise. A bad situation to be sure, but letting terrorists like the Ansar 
Majlis continue to operate was a good deal worse. Five minutes earlier, security 
had reported the arrival of three additional men from the Time Tripper Hotel, 
also newcomers to the station. At a guess, the leadership of the Ansar Majlis 
had gathered for a high-level pow-wow. Once inside the room, Skeeter and Kit 
would probably have only moments before the leadership realized they were 
meeting with decoys. As Kit knocked, Skeeter told his hands to stop shaking.
The door to room 423 opened just a crack and a low voice spoke in Arabic. 
Skeeter's heart was pounding. He hoped like hell those incarcerated construction 
workers in the brig had given Hashim the correct code word to respond with. 
Hashim answered the challenge, his stance cocky and belligerent. A chain 
rattled, then the door opened wider. Hashim slipped to one side, out of the line 
of fire. Kit shoved the door open and strode in. Skeeter followed at his heels, 
raking the room with his gaze. He found only three men in sight. The door to the 
bathroom was partially closed. At least one in there, maybe another in the 
closet . . . 
A well-dressed man of about fifty stared at them through narrowed eyes. He spat 
out something that Kit responded to with a gutteral monosyllable. At the 
doorway, Hashim let loose a voluble flood of Arabic, drawing attention to 
himself. Then the closet door opened and a new voice spoke sharply. The effect 
was electrifying. Weapons appeared with terrifying swiftness. The man in the 
closet grabbed Kit by the arm, clearly demanding to know who the hell he was.
The next instant, he was airborne, flipping arse about head past the end of one 
bed. A gunshot cracked as Skeeter dove toward the bathroom door, drawing his 
Bowie knife and slamming it into the unprotected thigh of the man between him 
and Kit. The man screamed. Another gunshot blasted loose, but Kit wasn't where 
the bullets impacted. He was across the room, then somebody else screamed and 
went flying into the mirrored closet. Skeeter kicked in the bathroom door, 
coming in low to the floor, and heard a yell of pain just as bullets tore 
through the doorway at head height. The door caught the shooter full in the face 
and sent him reeling back against the john. Skeeter kicked his feet out from 
under him. The man went down hard, struck his head against the toilet tank, 
reeled face-first into the shower stall and lay still. Skeeter disarmed him 
swiftly, then lunged back out into the hotel room.
Hashim stood on top of the man Skeeter had stabbed, grinding his wrist into the 
carpet and holding a gun he'd clearly just liberated. Out in the main room, the 
fight was over. Three men, dazed and bleeding, lay in crumpled heaps where Kit 
had tossed them. Kit was breathing hard, eyes narrowed down into slits, then let 
out a bellow that shook dust loose. "Security!"
Officers flooded into the room.
Kit stepped aside as handcuffs appeared and dazed men were wrestled into 
restraints. "Check the room next door," Kit said curtly. "Make sure nobody was 
hurt. Bastards got off several shots that went through the wall."
Skeeter stood breathing hard in the bathroom doorway, hardly able to believe it 
was over so quickly. He turned over his own prisoner from the shower stall, 
gratefully stripped off the headdress and tool belt, handed over the borrowed 
weapons, and gave Security his statement. "Do me a favor, will you?" he asked in 
a tight, controlled voice. "Find out what they know about Ianira's 
disappearance." Then, far too wound up from the adrenaline rush to just hang 
around, he headed out into the corridor, away from the stink of gunpowder and 
blood, wishing mightily for a glass of something cold to swallow.
"Skeeter."
He glanced up and found Kit heading his way, sans disguise. The prisoners were 
being dragged—or carried—out of room 423. The door to room 425 was open as 
officers checked the frightened occupants for injuries and reassured a sobbing 
woman that the danger was over. "Security will take it from here," Kit told 
Skeeter. "Hashim's going down with them to translate. Good work. If you hadn't 
taken those two out, I might've ended up with a bullet in my back. I don't know 
about you, but I could do with a good, stiff drink and a plateful of hot food. 
How about I treat you to supper at the Silkworm Caterpillar while we talk?"
Skeeter swallowed surprise—and an involuntary rush of saliva—and was overwhelmed 
by a sudden flood of hunger, accompanied by a spreading sense of euphoria that 
he was still alive to be hungry. He couldn't recall when he'd eaten his last 
real meal and didn't want to remember too closely what it had consisted of, 
either.
"Okay," Skeeter nodded, meeting Kit's gaze. "Thanks."
He wondered what the retired time scout had in mind as they crossed the 
world-famous Neo Edo lobby, heading for the Kaiko no Kemushi, the Silkworm 
Caterpillar. Kit's restaurant, at least, appeared to have survived the riot at 
Primary intact, but the hotel lobby bore mute testament to the tear gas and the 
panic. Hotel employees sponged down silk wallpaper in an attempt to remove the 
residues. The snarl of an industrial carpet shampooer broke the elegant hush. 
Workers were masked against fume exposure to the whitish, powdery film of 
chemical irritants left behind. What the cleanup would cost . . .
Beyond the lobby, decorative bridges across Edo Castletown's ornate goldfish 
ponds had been shattered, their railings smashed to splinters during the riot 
Senator Caddrick and his goons in uniform had instigated. Before the infamous 
politician's arrival, Edo Castletown had been one of TT-86's most picturesque 
sectors, with its Shinto Shrine and graceful pagoda-style rooflines. Skeeter 
clamped his lips as he traced the path of battle scars, broken shrubbery, and 
smashed ruin that had marred Edo Castletown's fragile beauty.
Too many of his few friends were missing, as a result of station riots.
Kit stood at Skeeter's shoulder, silent and grim as they watched cleanup crews 
trying to clear away the debris. Shopkeepers sorted through the wreckage of 
their merchandise. Rachel Eisenstein's medical triage teams, staffed mostly by 
volunteers since the trained medical personnel were all down at the infirmary, 
treating the seriously wounded, ministered to those suffering from tear gas 
exposure and minor injuries. Sue Fritchey's Pest Control crews huddled over a 
few small, dark shapes lying on the floor, trying to keep prehistoric birds and 
pterodactyls alive where they'd been teargassed, trampled, and almost drowned in 
the goldfish ponds. Sue, tears streaming down both cheeks, was setting the 
broken wing bones of a crow-sized flying reptile while one assistant held the 
wing carefully stretched taut and another administered anesthesia and monitored 
the animal's life signs.
"Zigsi," Skeeter muttered under his breath, using one of his favorate Mongolian 
curses. "Doesn't Caddrick know it's against the law for anybody to discharge 
tear gas on a time terminal? Even law enforcement agents?"
Kit shot him a sidewise glance, mouth hard as marble. "Men like John Caddrick 
don't care what the law says. And neither do the kind of agents who'd come to 
Shangri-La with him."
Skeeter shivered, afraid of Senator John Caddrick in spite of—or maybe due 
to—his rough Mongol upbringing. He recalled with satisfaction trading assaults 
with Caddrick, back at the leading edge of that riot, but . . . One of these 
days, Caddrick was going to calm down enough to remember what Skeeter had said 
and done.
Skeeter knew about powerful men.
Apparently, so did Kit Carson.
"Come on, I need that drink." Kit steered Skeeter past sliding rice-paper doors 
into the softly lit Silkworm Caterpiller, with its smooth, polished wood floors 
and delicate porcelain vases and its priceless bonsai cherry trees, bathed in 
their full-spectrum grow lights and grafted—rumor had it—from cuttings taken 
from the National Cherry Trees of Washington. The scent of expensive cuisine 
relaxed Skeeter a degree as he followed Kit toward a private cubicle near the 
back, threading his way past half a dozen Asian billionaires, two instantly 
recognizable international singing stars, and a haphazard collection of the 
merely wealthy, all of them discussing the riot and Senator Caddrick's presence 
in hushed, worried tones.
Kit motioned him into a chair. "Sit down, Skeeter. You look exhausted." At his 
signal, a waitress glided up, silent and lovely in a silk kimono and delicate 
geisha's coif. Kit ordered for them both—in Japanese. Moments later, a steady 
parade of silk-garbed waitresses materialized, bringing an avalanche of delicate 
porcelain dishes heaped with the most fabulous food Skeeter had ever smelled 
and—more importantly—several glassfuls of liquid stress relief. Skeeter upended 
the first and felt better immediately. As attentive servers brought more whiskey 
and poured steaming green tea into tiny cups, Kit smiled, the corners of his 
eyes crinkling into weatherbeaten folds. "Dig in. Enjoy. You've earned it."
Skeeter had no idea what he was eating, but it was all fabulous. Even the stuff 
that was raw. He'd certainly eaten stranger stuff as a kid, stranded in twelfth 
century Mongolia. Kit let him eat in silence, paying attention to his own meal, 
then glanced up when a bellboy in Neo Edo uniform delivered a heavy leather 
briefcase. Kit nodded toward a chair and tipped the young man. "Thanks."
Skeeter frowned. "What's with the briefcase?"
"The real reason I asked you here," Kit said, his glance intent.
"Oh, great," Skeeter groused, toying with his chopsticks. "Make me feel better, 
why don't you?"
"Actually," Kit chuckled, "I hope to do just that."
Skeeter looked up from the dripping bite of whatever wonderful concoction was 
dangling from his chopsticks and waited, abruptly wary. He did not expect what 
came next.
"I want to talk about your future," Kit said, sitting back and toying with the 
edge of his plate. When Skeeter just stared, the grizzled former scout gave him 
that world famous jack-o-lantern grin and chuckled. "All right, Skeeter. You've 
been remarkably patient. I'll end the suspense." He dug into the briefcase and 
dropped a sheaf of computer printouts onto the table. Skeeter looked curiously 
into Kit's eyes, but the retired scout merely stuffed more of his expensive 
lunch into his weathered face, so Skeeter picked up the stack and riffled 
through it. And discovered he was holding copies of the arrest reports for each 
of the thirty-one crooks Skeeter had put out of business in the last seven and a 
half days.
Skeeter had, during the past week, managed a feat even he hadn't thought 
possible. He had stunned the entire 'eighty-sixer population of Shangri-La 
Station virtually speechless. He'd only had to make citizens' arrests of 
seventeen pickpockets, five grifters, eight con artists, and a bait-and-switch 
vendor to do it, the latter peddling fake copies of an inertial mapping system 
that kept track of a person's movements away from a known point of origin, like 
a time-touring gate. The real gizmos had saved lives. Substituting fake ones 
could kill an unwary tourist, fast.
Once La-La Land had recovered the use of its stunned, multi-partite tongue, of 
course, rumor had run wild. "It's a new scam," went the most popular version, 
"he's up to something." And so he was. Just not what the rumor-mongers thought 
he was up to. Skeeter had taken his new "job" far more seriously than either of 
the ones he'd lost, thanks to his frantic search for clues to Ianira's 
disappearance. To his own surprise, Skeeter Jackson made a profoundly diligent 
undercover detective.
Judging from the printouts Skeeter now held, that fact was not lost on Kit 
Carson. He just didn't know what Kit had in mind to do about it.
Kit was grinning at him, though. He leaned forward, still smiling, and tapped 
the printouts in Skeeter's hands. "Mike Benson, bless him, has been glowering 
for days over this. If he hadn't been so busy trying to keep this station from 
exploding into violence, I expect he'd have called you in to explain by now."
Belatedly, Skeeter realized he'd made the head of Shangri-La security look . . . 
Well, if not outright incompetent, downright foolish. Thirty-one arrests in 
seven and a half days was a helluva haul, even for TT-86. Kit was studying 
Skeeter intently, eyes glinting in the indirect lighting. "I must confess to a 
considerable curiosity."
Skeeter sighed and set the reports down. "Not that I expect you to believe me," 
he met Kit's gaze, "but with Ianira and her family gone . . ." He blinked 
rapidly, told himself sternly that now was not the time to sniffle. His 
reputation for playing on a rube's emotions was too well known. "Well, dammit, 
somebody's got to make this place fit for the down-timer kids to grow up in! I 
was thinking about Ianira's little girls the other day, right about the time I 
saw a pickpocket snatch that Chilean lady's wallet. It made me so flaming mad, I 
just walked over and grabbed him. Maybe you haven't heard, but Artemisia and 
Gelasia call me `Uncle Skeeter.' The last time I was anybody's uncle . . ."
He shut his mouth hastily, not wanting to talk about the deep feelings he still 
harbored for little Temujin. He'd seen the child born nine months after he'd 
fallen through an unstable gate, the one that had dumped him at the feet of the 
khan of forty-thousand Yakka Mongol yurts, or gers, as the Mongolians, 
themselves, called their felted tents. Yesukai had named Skeeter his first-born 
son's honorary uncle, effectively placing his heir under the protection of the 
bogdo, the sacred mountain spirit the Yakka clan had believed Skeeter to be. He 
didn't talk about it, much. It was a deeply private thing, standing as honorary 
uncle to the future Genghis Khan. Skeeter's rescue by the time scout who'd 
pushed TT-86's Mongolian Gate had caused Skeeter to lose that "nephew." And now 
the Ansar Majlis had deprived him of his honorary nieces.
Ianira's beautiful children . . .
Kit's eyes had darkened; he spoke very quietly. "I'm sorry, Skeeter. We've all 
searched."
He nodded, surprised Kit had believed him, for once.
Kit pointed to the arrest reports with a lacquered chopstick. "What I'd really 
like to know is how you managed to catch thirty-one criminals in such a short 
time."
"How?" Skeeter blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Well, jeez, Kit, it 
was dead easy." He felt the flush begin at the back of his neck and creep up his 
cheeks. "I mean, I was good at that kind of thing, once. It's not hard to spot 
the tricks of the trade, when you know 'em as well as I do. Did."
"You realize," Kit said slowly, "a lot of people are saying you pulled the jobs 
yourself, then planted part of the `take' on those people, so there'd be a fall 
guy to blame?"
Skeeter's flush deepened, angry this time. "Doesn't surprise me. Although it's 
the stupidest thing I've heard in a while. One of those jerks had a stolen money 
roll with ten thousand bucks in it. If I were still in the business, do you 
honestly think I'd've turned over ten grand to station security?"
Kit held up both hands. "Easy, Skeeter. I didn't say I agreed with them."
"Huh. You must be the only up-time 'eighty-sixer who doesn't."
"Not quite," Kit said softly. "But I have noted the problem. I've also noticed 
how hard you've been trying to get another honest job. At the same time you've 
been hauling in all these petty thieves and swindlers." He tapped the sheaf of 
arrest reports again. "And I know why you've been turned down, too." Kit sat 
back, then, studying him once more. "Tell me if I'm wrong, but it seems to me 
you're mighty dedicated to this, ah, new crusade of yours."
"Damn right, I am," Skeeter growled, looking Kit square in the eye. "Mopping 
bathroom floors never did exactly challenge me. And I don't want the kids on 
this station growing up where somebody with light fingers can walk off with 
everything they've worked hard to earn." He added with a bitterness he couldn't 
conceal, "I never did roll an 'eighty-sixer, you know. Family's family, whatever 
you think of me."
Kit didn't respond to that, not directly. "So you intend to keep up the 
vigilance? Continue making citizens' arrests?"
"I do."
The former scout nodded sharply, as though satisfied. "Good. It occurs to me 
that your, ah, unique talents could be useful, very useful around here. How much 
did that ridiculous maintenance job of yours pay?"
Skeeter blinked. "Five bucks an hour, why?"
"Five bucks? That's not a salary, that's slavery! Barely enough to pay station 
taxes, let alone rent. What were you eating, sawdust?"
Skeeter refrained from pointing out that a good many 'eighty-sixers subsisted on 
less. "Well, I didn't eat fancy, but I got by."
The retired scout snorted. "I can just imagine what you were living on. Tell you 
what, young Jackson. You take yourself upstairs to my office, fill out the 
paperwork, I'll put you on payroll for a month, trial basis. Special roving 
security consultant for the Neo Edo. Set your own hours as you see fit, minimum 
eight a day, starting at, say, twenty dollars an hour. At the end of a month, if 
your arrest record justifies it, we'll see about making it permanent."
Skeeter tried to scrape his jaw off the carpeted floor and failed utterly.
Kit's sudden, glittering grin was terrifying. "Know of a better way to catch a 
con artist than send one of their own kind after 'em? My God, Skeeter, 
thirty-one arrests in a week? That's more than Security caught last year. I'm 
not faulting Mike or his people, but you've got a damned fine point about it 
being easy to spot the tricks when you've used 'em, yourself."
Kit shoved back his chair and stood up. "Come on, Skeeter, I'll take you 
upstairs, introduce you to the personnel clerk. Robby Ames is a good kid, he'll 
show you the ropes. Then go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, I'd 
appreciate a guided tour of Commons. I want to let things cool down out there, 
before we take a look-see at what we're up against, with Caddrick on station. 
And frankly, I'd like to watch you work. Maybe we could hit the Britannia crowd 
when the gate opens in the morning? There's sure to be a pile of pickpockets on 
hand for that. We'll figure out strategy while we're at it, stuff like should 
you stick to the Neo Edo proper or follow potential thieves off premises when 
they follow hotel guests?"
Skeeter still hadn't managed to scrape his lower jaw off the floor.
"Oh, and you'll need a squawky with all the Security frequencies and a training 
class on codes and procedures. I'll talk to a friend of mine in security about 
it." He chuckled wickedly. "When Mike Benson finds out, he'll eat nails and spit 
tacks."
Skeeter Jackson suddenly realized that Kit was not only enjoying this, the offer 
was serious. For the first time since his return from Mongolia, somebody other 
than a down-timer trusted him. For a long, dangerous moment, he was blind, 
throat so tightly closed he could hardly swallow. Then he was on his feet, 
clearing his throat roughly. "You won't regret this, Kit. Swear to God, you 
won't regret it."
"I'd better not!" But he was grinning as he said it and for the first time since 
Skeeter had known Kit Carson, the threat didn't terrify him. Kit stuck out a 
hand and Skeeter grasped it hard, suddenly finding himself grinning fit to crack 
his face in half.
My God, he thought as he followed Kit Carson out of the Silkworm Caterpillar. A 
private eye! Working for Kit Carson, of all people, the man who'd once 
threatened to shove him down the nearest unstable gate, minus his privates.
La-La Land would never be the same again.
He wasn't entirely sure Shangri-La Station would recover from the shock.
* * *
Jenna Nicole Caddrick had spent a full eight days trapped in a little room at 
the top of a scrubbed, wooden staircase, staring out the window into the grimy, 
soot-filled working world of Spitalfields, London. She was too ill to travel 
even as far as the kitchen. Dr. Mindel's tinctures left her woozy and afraid for 
the tiny life growing inside her, but the gunshot wound to her head required 
treatment and she was too deep in shock to protest necessity.
Her strength began to return, however, as the wound healed, and with healing 
came the restless urge to do something. She couldn't spend the rest of her life 
sitting beside a window, disguised as a Victorian man in a world she scarcely 
understood. And Carl's blood called out for vengeance, Carl's and Aunt Cassie's, 
both, murdered by her own father's hired killers. When Jenna woke early on the 
morning of her eighth day in London, she knew she had to do something to stop 
her father. She lay staring for a long time at the ceiling, stained where 
rainwater had seeped through the roof at some point before Noah had paid to have 
it repaired, and considered where she might begin.
The first thing they had to do, of course, was survive.
But there was plenty she could do, while surviving. And the first thing to enter 
Jenna's mind was the need to find Ianira Cassondra. The tug of bandages across 
the side of her head, where Dr. Mindel had shaved the hair close to treat the 
grazing path of a stranger's bullet, brought a deep shiver. It hadn't been one 
of her father's hired killers, who'd shot her. A down-timer had done that. A 
native Londoner who'd saved Jenna's life, then realized what Ianira could do, 
with her gift for prophetic clairvoyance. Her erstwhile rescuer had calmly shot 
Jenna in cold blood, then had disappeared into the drizzling yellow rain with 
the Cassondra of Ephesus.
Eventually, footsteps thumped up the wooden steps outside her bedroom. Jenna sat 
up, grateful for the lessening of dizziness from concussion, as Noah Armstrong 
pushed open the door with her breakfast tray. "Good morning." The detective 
smiled.
"Good morning, Noah." She didn't know, yet, whether the enigmatic private 
detective was male or female; but it didn't really matter. She owed Armstrong 
her life, several times over. If Aunt Cassie hadn't hired the best, before the 
Ansar Majlis had shot Cassie Tyrol dead in New York . . .
"You look better this morning," Noah smiled, grey eyes warm and friendly. 
Dresssed in a Victorian woman's long skirt and a plain brown bodice ten years 
out of fashion, its perenially high collar obscuring Noah's throat—and therefore 
any hint of whether or not Noah possessed an Adam's apple—the detective wore 
what might've been a wig or real hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of the 
neck. "Are you hungry?"
She nodded. "A little."
"Good."
The cereal was hot and filling, the toast nicely buttered, the bacon fried 
crisp. Steaming tea sent up a fragrant cloud of steam. "Noah?" Jenna asked 
softly a few minutes later.
"Yeah?"
"We have to find Ianira."
"Marcus and I are taking care of it," Noah said firmly. "You're staying right 
here. Where you'll be safe."
"But—"
"No." The detective held her gaze, grey eyes hard as marble, now brooking no 
disagreement. "You're far too valuable to risk, Jenna. And you had a damned 
close call, the last time you were outside this house." Noah touched the side of 
her head. "This is nearly healed, thank goodness. And without infection, which 
is a small miracle."
Jenna's lips twitched. "I thought it was all the carbolic you keep pouring over 
my scalp."
The corners of Noah's eyes crinkled slightly. "Cleanliness is next to godliness, 
they say, particularly around here. Be that as it may, I won't risk seeing you 
shot dead, next time."
She considered arguing. Then realized she was still too weak and shaky to do 
much of anything physical, anyway, so she subsided, at least for the moment. 
Maybe she could think of some way to help that didn't require leaving this 
house? "What are you and Marcus doing?" she asked, instead. "To find her?"
Noah sighed, sitting in a chair beside the window. The corners of the 
detective's mouth had drawn down slightly. "We know the man who took her is a 
doctor, and a man of means. Wealthy enough to wear a silk top hat and a good 
frock coat. He frequents the area of the Royal Opera and Covent Garden, yet he 
clearly knows the streets of SoHo. Well enough to lose himself in that maze of 
nasty little alleyways. If I have to, I'll check out the identity of every 
physician, every surgeon in London." Noah leaned forward in the chair and 
touched Jenna's cheek gently. "Don't worry, kid. We'll find out who he is and 
we'll get her back."
Jenna bit her lip. If—no, when, it had to be when—they finally did rescue 
Ianira, she would come to this house expecting a joyous reunion with her family, 
only to learn that three years had passed in her children's lives . . .
Jenna, herself, wasn't over that shock, yet.
Noah had been forced to stay down the Wild West Gate's timeline long enough to 
catch up to the Britannia Gate's timeline, which ran three years later than 
Denver's 1885. Would Ianira's little girls even remember their mother? If they 
could even find Ianira . . . London was a depressingly immense and sprawling 
city, teeming with more than five million people crammed in cheek-by-jowl, 
inhabiting everything from spacious palaces to ramshackle staircase landings and 
stinking gutters. The number of places to search would've overwhelmed even a 
die-hard optimist.
Outside, angry voices in the street were shouting what sounded like abuse at 
their neighbors. Jenna's startlement gave way to the beginnings of alarm as she 
stared from the window to Noah. "What's happening?"
The detective moved to look outside and scowled. "Bastards."
"What is it?" she asked sharply, trying to rise.
"A gang of unemployed dock rats, hassling Dr. Mindel."
Ugly taunts and anti-Semitic slurs slammed against the window like hailstones. 
At least it wasn't the pack of up-time killers looking for them. Jenna sank back 
down against the pillows and shivered. "But why? Dr. Mindel's one of the kindest 
men I've ever met."
Noah's jaw tightened above the collar of the outdated dress. "Annie Chapman was 
just found murdered, over in Hanbury Street. Along with a leather apron in a 
basin of water. Half the East End now thinks a Jewish boot finisher killed her 
this morning." The detective glanced around at Jenna's involuntary sound and met 
Jenna's shocked stare. "Get used to it, kid. The East End is set to explode. 
Anti-Semitism's running wild, because everyone's convinced it has to be a 
foreigner killing these women. Which is another reason I don't want you outside. 
You're disguised as a man, Jenna, a foreign-sounding man. Those dock rats down 
there are going to make life damned dangerous for foreigners in these parts 
during the next several months. Believe me, it's just too risky out there."
Jenna swallowed hard, listening to the ugly shouts in the street. She wasn't 
accustomed to such hatred, such naked prejudice. She touched her abdomen, where 
Carl's baby grew, and realized she couldn't risk herself. Not yet. Someday, her 
father would pay for what he'd done, wrecking her life, ending Carl's and Aunt 
Cassie's in a bullet-riddled pool of blood. But for the moment, she had to 
survive.
She had never hated necessity more.
* * *
Ronisha Azzan was a woman with a major-league problem.
Seated in Bull Morgan's office high above the snow-choked valleys of the 
Himalayan mountains, with her boss in jail and terrorists loose on station, she 
was preparing for a face-off with the most influential—and dangerous—politician 
of the era. Ronisha studied Granville Baxter, TT-86's Time Tours CEO, with whom 
she shared a Masai heritage, and wondered whether or not she had just made the 
biggest mistake of her career.
"Are you out of your mind?" Bax demanded as the aerie's elevator hummed upwards 
with its first load of reporters. "Letting a pack of newsies into a meeting this 
critical?"
Ronisha held the Time Tours' executive's gaze steadily, one of the few souls in 
Shangri-La Station tall enough to meet Bax's gaze eye to eye. "This is one 
meeting that has to be public. And you know why."
The tall executive's lips thinned. "Bull's meeting was public, too!" It came out 
understandably bitter.
"Yes, it was." She was only too aware of her precarious situation. "Bull's 
meeting was public. But I'm not Bull Morgan. And Bull Morgan is not me."
Almost absently, she flicked invisible lint from her brightly colored suit, its 
rich African patterns reproduced in silk, rather than plain and ordinary cotton, 
and shook back over her shoulder three solid feet of intricate braids, most of 
them her own. Ronisha favored four-inch spike heels to go with her African 
textiles and elaborate coifs. She hadn't yet met the man she couldn't 
intimidate, given half a minute's time and a chance to crush his fingers in a 
handshake while she outmaneuvered him at his own game—whether that game involved 
matters of the bedroom or the boardroom.
Ronisha Azzan was deeply proud of her Masai heritage and at the moment, that 
heritage was very nearly her only weapon. The Masai were famed as lion hunters. 
And the biggest, nastiest man-eating lion in the universe had just strolled into 
her kraal. Ronisha smiled, not at all nicely. As Shangri-La Station's Deputy 
Manager, Ronisha Azzan was nobody's assistant anything—a fact Senator John Paul 
Caddrick had yet to learn. If she could manage to keep her knees from shaking 
visibly while she taught him.
Granville Baxter stared hard at her for a long moment, brows furrowed. Then her 
meaning struck home and he started to grin. A weak grin, given what they had yet 
to face, but a grin, nonetheless. "Woman, you are wasted in station management. 
You ought to be a tycoon someplace, rolling in money."
"Oh, I don't think so. Somebody's got to do this job." The elevator doors opened 
with a faint ping, disgorging a cluster of reporters, most of whom stared up at 
her for a long, disconcerted moment. Newly arrived from up time with the 
senator, they hadn't yet met her. She rose from her half-leaning seat against 
the corner of Bull's desk.
"Welcome to TT-86. Ronisha Azzan, Deputy Station Manager. Yes, set up right 
there, that's fine, anywhere along here. Glad to assist you. If you have any 
questions about power connections and cables, my administrative assistant can 
help you out. Bernie, see to it our guests have what they need. No, I'm sorry, 
we'll have to wait for the senator's arrival before I make any official 
statements . . ."
From a corner of her eye, she saw Bax shake his head and mutter, "Ronnie, I hope 
you know what we're doing."
Deep inside, where she wouldn't have let anyone see, Ronisha hoped so, too.
Senator John Caddrick arrived ten minutes later. The elevator doors slid open 
with another soft ping to reveal the red-faced enemy, eyes nearly scarlet from 
the aftermath of the tear gas. Ronisha Azzan narrowed her own eyes as Caddrick 
halted for just a fraction of a second at the threshold between elevator and 
office, taking in the glare of lights, the shining camera lenses, and the small 
forest of microphones. Clearly, the senator had planned on intimidating a 
suitably cowed and trembling assistant manager, rather than walking into a live 
press conference.
As he swept his startled gaze toward Ronisha, the elevator doors attempted to 
close automatically. He had to jump forward in unseemly haste to avoid the 
embarrassment of being carried all the way down to Commons again. Behind him, a 
staffer caught the doors and reopened them as Caddrick stalked forward in 
silence, leaving his legislative aides and a whole pack of armed, stone-faced 
federal marshals to trail into the aerie behind him. The senator made a visible, 
valiant, and not very successful effort to ignore the electrifying presence of 
the press corps.
She took that as her cue to launch an offensive of her own.
"Senator Caddrick," she said coolly, "welcome to Time Terminal Eighty-Six. 
Ronisha Azzan, Deputy Station Manager. This is Granville Baxter, Shangri-La Time 
Tours CEO. On behalf of Shangri-La Station, please allow me to extend our 
heartfelt condolences regarding your recent losses. However . . ." and she let a 
hint of steel creep into her voice, "in accordance with up-time laws governing 
the safety of time terminals and their official residents and guests, I need to 
remind you of a few laws regarding conduct on time terminals."
Caddrick's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed with a dangerous glint.
Ronisha plunged ahead. "It is against inter-temporal law to incite riot, or to 
aid and abet the illegal discharge of chemical agents banned from use on any 
time terminal, whether by a private citizen or by a member of law enforcement." 
She flicked a gaze at the marshals, who carried short-barreled riot guns and 
stared straight through her as though she were vermin. Clearly, they didn't give 
a damn about breaking inconvenient laws on the other side of a time terminal's 
Primary.
She faced Caddrick again. "It is illegal, as well, to willfully endanger the 
lives and property of station guests and residents. Senator, your actions here 
have put at risk the lives of several hundred innocents on Shangri-La Station. 
You have also violated several endangered species protection acts by putting at 
risk the only living population of prehistoric birds and pterodactyls in the 
world. If any of those animals die, you can be charged with several serious 
felonies. This station cannot and will not risk a repeat of the incidents you 
have created since your arrival. Have I made myself clear on these points?" 
Without giving him time to respond, she added, "Now, then. What, exactly, brings 
you to my time terminal? Please bear in mind that your answers will be recorded 
for posterity. Or the courts." She nodded pleasantly toward the utterly 
enchanted newsies and tried to ignore the terrifying presence of those cold-eyed 
marshals and their wicked riot guns.
Speaking very softly, which in no way disguised the menace in his voice, Senator 
John Caddrick said, "Am I to understand you're going to put me in jail?"
Ronisha drew herself up to her full height, augmented by stiletto heels, and 
forced a smile down the full seven inches of her superior stature to the 
senator's furious grey eyes. "Not at all, senator. But you do realize, I hope, 
that my first concern must be the safety of this station and its residents and 
guests. I cannot permit any situation to threaten human or protected animal 
lives on TT-86, no matter how well intentioned the action. Surely you, of all 
people, must understand that?"
She could see it in his eyes, the look of shocked fury that said, You devious, 
black bitch . . . and coldly loathed him. Then he passed a hand across his eyes, 
a hand that visibly shook, and said in an unsteady voice, "Forgive me, Ms. 
Azzan, I'm not quite myself today . . . You see, I just received word that the 
Ansar Majlis brought my little girl onto this station. And with the press 
broadcasting riots and murders on TT-86, naturally we thought it prudent to 
bring along federal marshals . . ."
Oh-oh. Silent alarm klaxons sounded. If Jenna Caddrick had been dragged through 
one of TT-86's gates by her up-time kidnappers, Shangri-La Station was in more 
serious trouble than even she had realized. A man like John Caddrick wouldn't 
need any additional ammunition to shut them down for good. And he was damned 
effective at playing to the press.
So she played his game to the hilt, taking the senator's arm solicitously and 
guiding him to a chair. "Senator, please, sit down. There's no need for armed 
warfare between us. Everyone on TT-86 is in deep sympathy with your pain and 
loss." John Caddrick wasn't the only person in this room who knew the tricks of 
playing to the press. She wasn't Coralisha Azzan's grandchild for nothing. 
Ronisha glanced over one shoulder, looking for her executive assistant. "Bernie, 
a glass of scotch and soda for the senator, please." Her assistant handed it 
over and Caddrick sipped, hand still trembling visibly. Ronisha waited for just 
a moment longer, keeping her expression carefully concerned, then said quietly, 
"Now, then, senator, why don't you fill us in on exactly what you've learned 
that's brought you to us? Tell us how we can help."
She seated herself in Bull Morgan's chair and composed herself to listen, 
switching on the digital pad that would send her handwritten notes directly to 
her computer, as well as turning on the room's meeting-recorder system. Cameras 
near the ceiling tracked silently, mirroring the swing of press cameras as 
Senator John Caddrick began to speak.
"Ten days ago," the senator said heavily, "tragedy struck my family. Again. You 
must be aware that I lost my wife several years ago to a drunk driver? She was 
killed trying to get home to my daughter's birthday party. Jenna . . ." He 
blinked rapidly, eyes reddened and wet. "My daughter and I never got over it, 
particularly poor little Jenna, she was so young when my wife died. My wife's 
sister, Cassie Tyrol, became a second mother to her. Jenna Nicole adored her 
aunt. Wanted to follow her onto the stage, was studying film . . ." He paused, 
wiped his eyes distractedly with unsteady fingers. "Jenna met her aunt the day 
Cassie died, at a restaurant in New York. Cassie had flown in from New Hollywood 
to see her. There was an atrocity . . ."
Ronisha knew all about the terrorist hit in New York. "Yes. I know. The Ansar 
Majlis."
"This crazy damned Brotherhood!" Senator Caddrick bit out, voice harsh. "They've 
declared open warfare on the Lady of Heaven Temples. I've tried for years to 
warn Congress something like this was bound to happen, letting down-timers onto 
the time terminals in wholesale droves . . ." He shook his head. "Cassie was 
heavily involved in the Temple, you see, very public in her support. Her last 
film was about the Temple. It was a smash success and she donated the proceeds 
to the Templars . . . and now this Brotherhood . . ." his voice was breaking up, 
his eyes wet.
John Caddrick fought himself under control again with visible effort. "They sent 
a death squad after poor Cassie. Murdered her, right in the restaurant. Jenna 
disappeared. Kidnapped by the Ansar Majlis. The FBI has been working on it, of 
course, trying to track down Ansar Majlis ringleaders in New York, but I hired a 
detective, a good one. Sid Kaederman's been trying to trace my daughter's 
possible movements after that attack in the restaurant. Mr. Kaederman believes 
Jenna was forcibly brought to TT-86 by her kidnappers. Jenna's bank account and 
bank box were emptied, the same day her aunt was murdered."
He looked up, finally, and met Ronisha's gaze. "Some of her friends at college 
thought Jenna and her roommate had been planning a trip down time, against my 
express wishes, of course, but they thought she'd made arrangements to buy 
tickets and a false identity through some underworld mobster, so I wouldn't find 
out. Jenna's been hyped on film-making all her life, same as her aunt, wanted to 
make historically accurate films. God knows, it was something she might have 
done, buying a time-tour ticket to make some idiotic movie. So I put Sid 
Kaederman to work on the lead.
"When the Ansar Majlis forced Jenna to empty her bank account for them, they 
discovered her tickets and her false identification papers. They forced her to 
come here, to use them, so they could get out of New York without being 
detected. But even though we know they came here, and we know the names on the 
false identities she purchased in New York a year ago, we don't know which 
down-time gate they might have gone through. None of Jenna's friends knew which 
gate she planned to visit and we couldn't trace the mobster who sold her the 
time-touring tickets. She used a different source than she'd used to buy the 
phony identities and we never traced the ticket-scalper."
John Caddrick drained the rest of the scotch in his glass, then leaned forward 
in his chair. "What I want, Ms. Azzan, is simple enough. I want my daughter 
back, alive and unharmed, whatever it takes." The rasp of steel in the senator's 
voice sent a chill of genuine terror down Ronisha's spine. "You may believe I've 
followed the reports of riots, kidnappings, and murders on this station with 
keen interest. If anything has happened to my little girl on this god-forsaken 
time terminal or down one of its gates, I will use my authority and influence to 
shut down this entire station. And you may rest assured, Ms. Azzan, these 
federal marshals will shut you down, if the situation warrants it."
Ronisha slipped a hand into her lap and pressed the buzzer under the lip of 
Bull's massive desk, the one that alerted security headquarters trouble was 
brewing in the station manager's office. She wanted Mike Benson up here, stat, 
and kicked herself for not having summoned him sooner.
"Senator," she had to force her voice to steadiness, "I think everyone in this 
room realizes how serious the situation is. Fortunately, we've obtained a very 
solid lead on the terrorists you came here hoping to trace. We have several of 
their henchmen under arrest and are fully informed as to the Ansar Majlis' 
plans. My chief of security has men acting on this information right now, 
sweeping the station to arrest several of the Ansar Majlis' key ringleaders, who 
arrived through Primary today."
Caddrick's eyes shot wide. "You have information on their plans?" he echoed, 
voice flat with surprise.
"Yes, we do. Several of the station's resident down-timers discovered the plot 
and fought a pitched battle against the terrorists, subduing them. Thanks to the 
down-timers, we have enough information to arrest the entire Ansar Majlis 
operation."
Shock detonated behind Caddrick's eyes. "My God! Why, that's—that's incredible! 
But that still doesn't tell us where Jenna is." Shock gave way to calculating 
hostility.
"No, it doesn't," she agreed, stalling for time while thinking fiercely, Shag 
your butt, Benson, I need you up here, and played what she hoped would not prove 
to be her final trump card. "Because we're dealing with international and 
inter-temporal terrorism, I don't think it's unreasonable to call in an 
uninterested third party. To oversee the investigations which will have to be 
launched. I certainly don't want to give the impression this station has 
anything to hide. And I'm certain you don't want the investigation to take on 
the appearance of a personal vendetta."
A few of the reporters suppressed delighted gasps.
Senator Caddrick glared at her while a slow red flush crept up his neck.
"Of course," Ronisha added, "we know it isn't anything of the kind. But surely 
you, of all people, must know how appearances can be deceiving. The public has a 
right to the truth, obtained in a fair, unbiased manner. Thank you, Senator, for 
insisting on an independent investigation by an unbiased team. If I recall 
inter-temporal statutes correctly, that kind of fact-finding mission would fall 
under the jurisdiction of the Inter-Temporal Court of the Hague. I propose we 
send a representative of the Bureau of Access Time Functions through Primary at 
its next cycle and request immediate assistance from an independent team of 
evaluators appointed by I.T.C.H."
She and Senator Caddrick locked gazes across the desk. She'd just made an enemy 
for life and knew it; but John Caddrick had walked into this room already a 
mortal enemy, so no ground was lost by insisting on an unbiased review team. 
Under normal circumstances, the very last thing anyone on station would want was 
an investigation by the Inter-Temporal Court. Zealous I.T.C.H. officers had been 
known to shut down station operations over minor violations, putting stations 
under direct Court control until new management could demonstrate its 
willingness and ability to comply with the last dotted "i" and crossed "t" of 
the law.
But these weren't ordinary circumstances.
She was fighting for the life of the station.
Senator Caddrick nodded slow agreement, despite the fury seething in his eyes. 
"Of course, Ms. Azzan. It was never my intention to conduct an official 
investigation personally, although I certainly will demand that one be launched 
immediately. I shall, of course, conduct a fact-finding mission of my own while 
I'm here."
There being nothing she could do to stop him, short of throwing him into the 
brig—which would not improve the station's image—Ronisha simply nodded 
graciously. "Now, then, senator, you said your daughter had obtained forged 
identification papers? She and her kidnappers are travelling under assumed 
names, then. What names? Any information you can give us will be critical in 
tracing them."
"Yes, of course." The senator was digging into a pocket for a CM disk, which he 
held out. Ronisha accepted the disk just as the emergency phone on the corner of 
Bull's desk jangled, its tones shrill in the hushed office. Ronisha glanced at 
it with a sinking sensation in her middle. Whoever was on the other end of that 
line knew what Ronisha was in the middle of, up here, how serious this meeting 
was.
"Excuse me, please," she said, picking up the phone. "Aerie, Azzan speaking. 
This had better be good."
"Mike Benson, reporting in!" The security chief had to shout above the roar in 
the background. "We've got the Ansar Majlis ringleaders under wraps."
"Fabulous," she said with a rush of relief.
"Do you still need me to answer that silent alarm?"
"Yes, please."
"On my way."
She hung up the phone and faced the expectant crowd in her office. "Now, then," 
she said pleasantly, "where were we, senator? You were about to give us the 
information on your daughter's forged identifications, I believe."
Caddrick stared at her for long moments, clearly expecting her to explain the 
interruption. When she didn't, he glowered for a moment, then said coldly, "This 
disk contains the data we've gathered so far. Mr. Kaederman believes the Ansar 
Majlis ringleader, a notorious intersexual using the alias Noah Armstrong, used 
one of Jenna's forged identities to bring my daughter here. Jenna's kidnapper 
was probably travelling under the name of Benny Catlin."
Across the room, Granville Baxter came out of his chair to tap commands into the 
nearest computer terminal, pulling up Time Tours' records of gate departures.
"Perhaps, senator," Ronisha suggested, "you might give us some insight into your 
daughter's interests and habits? Anything we can learn about Jenna, about the 
way she thinks, what she might do under stress, will increase our chances of 
locating her."
"Yes, of course. I brought some things with me, besides that disk." Senator 
Caddrick turned to an aide who hovered nearby. "Hand around those biographical 
packets, would you? And those photos of that bastard, Armstrong."
While Bax worked at the computer, a sweating senatorial aide passed dossiers 
around the room, first to Ronisha and the Time Tours CEO, then to the newsies, 
who struck like piranha. There were several photographs of Jenna Caddrick, all 
of them recent, as well as a photograph of the Ansar Majlis terrorist, Noah 
Armstrong. Ronisha realized with a start of surprise why the senator had 
mistaken Skeeter Jackson for his daughter's kidnapper. From a full-frontal view, 
they didn't closely resemble one another, but there were distinct similarities 
of bone structure and coloring. From behind or at an oblique angle, the 
resemblance was strong enough to understand the mistaken identity. The brief 
document attached to the photos outlined Jenna Caddrick's habits, manners, 
routines, interests, and hobbies. 
At the other end of the crowded office, Granville Baxter glanced up from the 
computer screen, looked over the photos, then cleared his throat. "I found Benny 
Catlin's tour records, but I'm afraid we still have a serious problem facing 
us—more serious than tracing Benny Catlin in London."
John Caddrick's glare was lethal. "What could possibly be more serious than 
locating my daughter's kidnapper?"
Bax held up the photograph of Noah Armstrong. "This."
"What about it?"
The Time Tours executive paused. Then sipped air and looked like he wanted to 
bolt for the nearest exit. Ronisha Azzan wasn't sure just what the bad news 
would be, but she was already quite certain she wasn't going to like it.
Granville Baxter didn't disappoint her.
"Well, senator, you see . . ." He held up a snapshot. "This photograph of your 
daughter's kidnapper . . . This isn't Benny Catlin."
 
Chapter Two
Of all the historians, criminologists, and reporters fortunate enough to win 
spots on the Ripper Watch team, none was more determined to obtain the truth of 
the Ripper story than Dominica Nosette. Not one of the other team members had a 
quarter the professional ruthlessness she possessed in her big toe. The only one 
who came close was her partner, Guy Pendergast. And Dominica was utterly 
delighted with Guy, because he had done what no one else had managed since their 
arrival in London. He had discovered the identity of Jack the Ripper. The 
mysterious doctor mentoring the irretrievably mad James Maybrick was the guiding 
genius of the two-man team known to history as the Ripper. And Dominica intended 
to vault herself to fame and fortune on the coattails of their murderous 
partnership.
"His name is John Lachley," Guy had said breathlessly as they'd slipped out of 
Spaldergate House with their luggage, determined to break loose of their time 
guides' stranglehold. "He's a medical doctor, with training in the occult and 
ties to the East End. Came up out of SoHo, just west of Whitechapel. He's our 
man, I'll stake my reputation on it. Calls his house Tibor, mind. The same word 
our mystery Ripper used the night Polly Nichols died." Pendegast chuckled 
thinly. "And those fuzzy-brained idiots with me were so busy doting on that 
Irish poet, William Butler Yeats, they missed the clue entirely!"
John Lachley, they had since discovered, had ties to the royal family, as well, 
through the queen's grandson, Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward. And John 
Lachley had been born right in Whitechapel itself, in Middlesex Street, which 
explained the Ripper's familiarity with the streets. He'd gone to charity 
school, had John Lachley, and acquired his medical education in Scotland. Once 
known throughout the East End as Johnny Anubis, séance parlour medium and 
small-time occultist, Dr. John Lachley now lectured on mesmerism and other 
occult subjects to large audiences drawn from London's finest families. He was a 
member of the Theosophical Society, a respected physician with a surgery in 
Cleveland Street, a model subject of the crown in every way.
That much, Dominica Nosette and Guy Pendergast had managed to discover thus far, 
working on their own without those repressive, overly cautious Time Tours guides 
curtailing their every move. But why John Lachley was working with James 
Maybrick to murder East End whores, and what was in the letters Lachley was 
slowly tracking down, killing the previous owners to keep some dark and clearly 
critical secret, Dominica had no idea. She intended to find out.
The video she had already obtained of Lachley was worth a literal fortune, video 
footage showing him in company with the young prince, footage of him meeting the 
soon-to-be-notorious Aleister Crowley, and with the founders of the Golden Dawn 
magical order, Mathers and Waite and the rest. Whether or not these occultists 
were also involved in the conspiracy of the letters, Dominica didn't know. That, 
too, she intended to discover.
"We're going to win that Carson Historical Video Prize!" she told Guy Pendergast 
as they set out from the flat they'd rented in SoHo. "Lachley will strike again 
September 30th. The night of the double event . . ."
"Which means Elizabeth Stride and Catharine Eddowes must have possession of the 
letters he's after!"
"Yes. And Mary Kelly must have another one. Guy . . ." Dominica mused, slanting 
a glance up at her partner. "How good are you at picking pockets?"
"Picking pockets?" he echoed, brows drifting upward in startlement.
She smiled. "Well, it occurs to me that we could probably unlock the key to this 
whole thing if we could lay hands on one of those letters. Just long enough to 
photograph it. Then we slip it back into the pocket you steal it from, long 
before he kills Stride and Eddowes. All we have to do then is follow him after 
the double-event murders. Videotape those, then collect our Carson Prize. And 
rather an enormous amount of money," she ended smugly.
Guy Pendergast smiled slowly. "Dominica, my pet, you are brilliant."
"Of course I'm brilliant! I didn't get where I am by being stupid. We'll have to 
tackle Stride, since Catharine Eddowes is leaving London to head out to Kent, 
picking hops. It might be interesting to videotape Eddowes out there, working 
the harvest." She frowned. "You know, it doesn't make sense, that. If she's in 
possession of something so valuable that Lachley is committing brutal murder to 
obtain it, you'd think a woman like Catharine Eddowes would try to convert it 
into cash. She's plagued her own daughter for money so often, the poor thing 
moves every few weeks around South London, just to keep her mother from tapping 
her for tuppence. Yet Kate Eddowes walks—walks, mind you, in this weather—all 
the way from London to rural Kent, just to break her back working in wet fields 
picking hops as a migrant agricultural laborer."
"Maybe," Guy suggested dryly, "she hasn't cashed in on her letter because she 
can't read it."
Dominica dismissed that as chauvinist nonsense. "Don't be a boor. She was 
educated in St. John's Charity School, Potter's Field, Tooley Street. And all 
her friends described her as a scholarly, intense woman. Of course she can read 
it."
Her partner shrugged. "It was just an idea."
"Well, when we get our hands on whatever Long Liz Stride has, we shall find out, 
shan't we?"
Guy Pendergast chuckled. "Right."
So they set their faces east and started combing the dismal streets of 
Whitechapel, looking for one particular Swedish-born prostitute who had barely 
two weeks left to live.
* * *
Victoria Station was jam-packed with Ripperoons.
Skeeter, like most of the others jammed in the station's Commons cheek-by-jowl, 
felt better for a good night's sleep. Memory of the previous evening's riot at 
Primary was fading in the face of anticipated news from London. After a century 
and a half of waiting, the world was finally going to learn who Jack the Ripper 
really was. If, of course, and Skeeter grinned to himself, the Ripper Watch 
experts in London had figured it out.
Tourists who'd appointed themselves lay experts had gathered from all over 
Commons, surging into Victoria Station and talking nineteen miles to the minute, 
consulting Ripper-suspect biographies as they argued the merits of various 
theories. Skeeter, with Kit Carson at his heels, strolled through the madhouse 
crowd, eyes sharp for any sign of pickpockets or con artists working the throng. 
Voices like a mile-long swarm of locusts bounced off the girders high overhead 
with echoes that hurt the senses, expounding favored Ripper theories and 
wondering what had become of Senator Caddrick's daughter.
"—witness descriptions don't tally well with one another. I mean, they range 
from a guy in his thirties with fair skin, sandy hair and light brown mustache 
to a guy in his forties or fifties, dark hair and mustache, dark eyes and 
complexion, with a `foreign' look. Personally, I don't think any of the 
witnesses saw the real Ripper. Except maybe Israel Schwartz, the Jew who didn't 
speak English. He saw Elizabeth Stride attacked . . ."
" . . . whole slew of people claimed they were Jack the Ripper, including a 
manure collector who emigrated to Australia. Fellow got murderously angry when 
drunk, at least he did if a prostitute approached. Told his son he was the 
Ripper and intended to confess before he died, but never did. Confess, I mean. 
He died, no problem. 1912."
"—they bring I.T.C.H. agents in to monitor this mess, the Inter-Temporal Court 
will shut us all down!"
"I heard it was Lewis Carroll—"
"The author of Alice in Wonderland? The Ripper? You gotta be kidding! I mean, so 
what if he liked to photograph naked little girls? That's pretty weird, but it 
doesn't fit the profile of a man who'd rip women open with an eight-inch knife!"
"No, I don't think it was Aleister Crowley, even if he was a sick puppy. 
Worshipped anything evil and violent, claimed to be the prophet of the 
anti-Christ. But as a Ripper suspect, I think the evidence is pretty thin . . ."
"—somebody's going to shoot that bastard, that's what I think, and Caddrick's 
got it coming to him, walking onto this station and tear gassing a crowd full of 
innocent women and kids—"
" . . . convinced the prime minister did it, covering up for the queen's 
grandson Eddy. Although why he would've married a poor Catholic girl when he was 
screwing half the women in London, and supposedly several men, as well, is 
anybody's guess . . ."
"Nuts," somebody else nearby muttered. "We are hip deep in nuts. Sheesh. I need 
another beer . . ."
And finally, from the loudspeakers overhead: "Your attention please. Gate Two is 
due to cycle in three minutes. All departures, be advised . . ."
Thank God, Skeeter thought. He glanced back at Kit and found the retired scout 
trailing him half a dozen paces back. Kit rolled his eyes at a mob of 
sign-carrying loons, chanting the praises of their Immortal Lord Jack and 
heckling the Time Tours guides trying to organize the outgoing Ripper Watch 
Tour, then indicated with a gesture, "Okay, hotshot, get busy!"
So he worked the crowd, quartering it leisurely, keeping his gaze sharp. When 
the immense Britannia finally began its cycle, the roar of voices reached a 
fever pitch. Wagers rattled like hailstones off every echoing surface in 
Victoria Station. Skeeter prowled through the surging crowd, alert as a snow 
leopard and beginning to grow impatient, aware of Kit's presence behind him, 
watching, judging. He knew his particular brand of prey was out here. His senses 
twitched, searching for telltale movements, the little signs he knew so well. 
High overhead, the huge gate dilated slowly open . . . And Skeeter rocked to a 
halt. His gaze zeroed in, a stooping hawk spotting his next meal. The pickpocket 
was stalking a man in his fifties whose tanned face, lean build, and expensively 
casual clothes shouted, California millionaire. The pickpocket lifted a fat 
wallet from the Californian's jacket with a practiced stumble and a hasty 
apology given and accepted with ease.
Skeeter grinned. Gotcha! 
The handcuffs he slipped out of his pocket weren't real. He'd picked them up 
cheap from a station outfitter's bin of discount toys. But they were functional 
enough for Skeeter's purposes. He slid forward between the Californian and the 
pickpocket just as the latter slipped the wallet into his own jacket. Skeeter 
tapped the thief on the shoulder. "Hi, there!"
And clicked the cuffs around the guy's wrists before he could blink.
"Hey! What the—"
"Security!" Skeeter bawled, grabbing the guy's jacket lapel. "Got a pickpocket 
over here! Say, mister," Skeeter got the victim's attention, "this guy just 
lifted your wallet."
The tourist gasped, hand flying to his extremely empty pocket. "Good God! I've 
been robbed! Why, you sneaking—"
Security arrived before the irate Californian could take a swing at the 
struggling pickpocket. "What's going on?" The uniformed security guard sported a 
bruise down one cheek from the previous day's riot.
"Caught this guy lifting a tourist's wallet," Skeeter explained. "It's in his 
front jacket pocket. Oh, those cuffs are toys, by the way. Just thought you 
might want to know."
Skeeter indulged a grin at the look on all three faces, then melted into the 
crowd, leaving the stunned security officer to deal with the irate tourist and 
the even more irate pickpocket. He could hear the latter howling his outrage all 
the way through Victoria Station. Skeeter chuckled. This was almost as much fun 
as picking pockets, himself. More, maybe. Less risk involved, certainly. He was 
still chuckling when Kit caught up, grinning fit to crack his face.
"That was impressive. Kids' toys!"
"Yeah, well, sometimes you gotta make do."
"As far as I'm concerned, you won't have to `make do' with toy handcuffs any 
longer. You're definitely hired. I was watching close, following your gaze, and 
I didn't see a thing."
Skeeter's face went hot, but it was a proud flush. He'd done a good job and Kit 
knew it. High overhead, the returning tour started pouring through the open 
gate. A Time Tours guide rushed down the stairs, well in advance of the 
tourists, clutching a heavy pouch. Waiting newsies mobbed him.
"Who is it—?"
"—that a videotape?"
"Has the Ripper Watch Team solved—?"
The grim-faced guide vanished into the Time Tours ticket office and slammed the 
door, leaving the newsies screaming at sound-proofed glass.
"You know," Skeeter mused, "that guy didn't act like an excited courier carrying 
the news of the decade, did he?"
"No," Kit agreed, expression thoughtful.
A moment later, the rest of the tour reached Commons floor and word spread like 
racing wildfire: Two killers! 
"James Maybrick, after all—"
"Complete unknown! Some doctor, nobody has the faintest idea who—"
"Working together—!"
And hard on the heels of that shock, yet another, potentially fatal to the 
entire station: Missing tourist! 
"—shot two up-time baggage handlers to death—"
"—said he vanished over in SoHo—"
"Oh, my God," Skeeter groaned. "Another missing person!" And another shocking 
murder spree for TT-86 to explain to the press and the government agencies and 
Senator Caddrick.
"Who was he?" a woman dressed as a Roman matriarch demanded at Skeeter's elbow.
"I don't know!"
"Someone said he's a graduate student . . ."
" . . . heard his name was Benny Catlin . . ."
Benny Catlin? 
That name rang alarm bells in Skeeter's memory. Lots of them. Big, fat, warped 
ones. Benny Catlin was the name on all that luggage Skeeter'd hauled through the 
Britannia Gate, last time out. What was a graduate student doing with that much 
luggage? Skeeter hadn't met a grad student yet with enough money to haul five 
enormous steamer trunks through any gate, much less the Britannia. And that 
trunk Skeeter had almost knocked off the platform had belonged to Benny Catlin, 
too. Which meant the white-faced, mutton-chopped, short little jerk who'd 
started screaming at him was their missing man. And a double murderer.
He narrowed his eyes, wondering just what Benny Catlin had stowed in all that 
luggage. And whether or not the tourist responsible for Skeeter losing his job 
as baggage porter might look anything like the mysterious doctor in the Ripper 
Watch video. The thought unsettled him. Not that an up-timer might've committed 
the murders. That theory had been kicked around so many times, it was old news. 
But Skeeter might have carried through the murderer's own luggage, had maybe 
talked to Jack the Ripper, himself, without realizing it.
And that was a decidedly uneasy thought. That a serial killer as seriously 
depraved as the Ripper could pass through society looking and behaving like a 
completely normal person, while inside . . . Skeeter shivered. And was damned 
glad he hadn't stayed in London, after all, which he'd planned to do before 
Ianira's disappearance. If he'd stayed, he'd doubtless have been pressed into 
searching for the missing Benny Catlin. And hunting Jack the Ripper was not 
Skeeter's idea of a sane way to pass the time. He'd stick to stalking 
pickpockets and small-time grifters. Those, at least, he could understand.
He didn't want to understand serial killers.
Not ever.
"Skeeter?"
Kit's gaze was centered squarely on him, brows twitching downward in concern.
"Yeah?"
"What's wrong?"
"I think I saw Catlin, the day the gate opened last week."
"Really? What do you remember about him?"
Skeeter described Catlin, then added, "He had too much luggage for a grad 
student. Five big steamer trunks. Expensive ones."
"He's not the guy whose steamer trunk almost went off the platform, is he?" Kit 
asked abruptly, eyes narrowed.
Skeeter blinked in surprise. Then rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Uh, 
yeah. I think so. That was the name on the luggage tag. And he was white as any 
ghost, trying to keep it from falling."
"I think," Kit said in a tight, dangerous voice, "we'd better tell Ronisha Azzan 
about this, because it looks to me like Catlin may well have been one of the 
Ansar Majlis goons on Armstrong's payroll. I find myself wondering what—or 
who—was in that trunk. And I'll bet Ronisha Azzan will, too." 
"Aw, nuts . . . Kit, I heard she was meeting with Senator Caddrick again this 
morning, trying to figure out where his kid went. And if he sees me, he's gonna 
remember I assaulted him, back at Primary. That kind of attention, I don't 
need."
"Nonsense," Kit said firmly. "Nobody's going to jail the guy who figured out 
where his kid's kidnappers went."
Skeeter had a terrible feeling he would find himself dragged down the Britannia 
Gate eight days from now as part of the search teams, after all. He wondered 
briefly if a bullet would've been waiting for him, if he'd stayed to haul those 
heavy steamer trunks to Catlin's hotel? Skeeter sighed, then ran a hand through 
his hair. Why was it, going legit had turned into the hardest thing he'd ever 
tried to do? And considering his background, that was saying a lot.
"Well," he muttered, "I guess I'll just have to play it by ear, won't I?"
"That's the spirit!" Kit grinned. "Come on, Skeeter. Let's go find you a 
security squawky someplace, then maybe by the time we've done that, Ronnie's 
followup meeting with the senator will be over?"
Skeeter managed a weak grin of gratitude. "Okay. Thanks."
Wondering if he knew what he was doing, he followed Kit Carson's lead. Just go 
with Kit, he told himself, and tried not to think too closely about where the 
grizzled old scout would end up leading him. He was quite sure he did not want 
to find out.
* * *
Mary Jane Kelly was afraid of the man she'd come to visit. Black magic and demon 
worship and an appetite for the unholy . . .
Marie Jeannette, as she'd been born, knew the whispers were not just hideous 
rumour, either, they were terrifying fact. He'd told her so, himself, on his 
many visits to the high-class West End house where she'd worked at the time, the 
one she'd been thrown out of shortly afterward for excessive drinking, a habit 
she'd picked up after becoming this particular gentleman's favorite.
"A whore," he'd smiled down into her eyes, "is my ideal of the perfect unholy 
woman. A sower of immorality, a merchant of sin. A perfect vessel for wreaking 
the destruction of prudish social convention and absurd, medieval morals. Don't 
you agree, my dear?"
Whatever the customer wants, had been her initial response to his blazing eyes 
and strange appetites. The fear had come later, when he whispered between savage 
thrusts, mouth half full of her left breast, "The Second Coming will bring a 
Great Year to its close . . . and the powers of hell will destroy all the weak 
and foolish lunacy Christians call goodness. And I . . ." he murmured darkly as 
he gave her a particularly hard pounding, excitement glittering in his eyes, "I 
worship those powers of hell. I shall rule upon this earth when the destruction 
sweeps away godliness and everything it stands for. I shall be the most powerful 
of men, preparing the way for the anti-Christ . . . Does this shock you, my 
dear? Or," he laughed and kissed her hard, "does it excite you?"
Of all the men who'd paid to use her body, rich men who'd plied her with furs 
and beautiful clothes and trips to faraway, exotic places like Paris, East End 
costermongers reeking of gin and dead fish, violent louts who'd blacked her eye, 
afterwards, and the half-grown boys brought to a certain fancy West End address 
by their wealthy fathers to learn what to do with a woman, of all those many 
men, none frightened twenty-six-year-old Mary Kelly as deeply as Mr. Aleister 
Crowley.
But Mary Jane Kelly had been living in fear so deep, she would almost rather 
have faced Satan, himself, than continue in this terror. So she had brought 
herself, quaking in her once-fine boots, to Satan's very doorstep, praying that 
Mr. Crowley's ambitions would cause him to find her plight interesting—and that 
his dark powers would help keep her alive. The butler who answered the door 
sniffed irritably, but allowed her to step out of the cold wind into a polished, 
gleaming hall to wait while he took her message to his master.
Moments later, the butler was ushering her into a study whose bookcases were 
crowded with hundreds of ancient, mouldering books and manuscripts, and whose 
shelves were lined with items she decided queasily she didn't really wish to 
look at too closely. The only crucifix in the room was upside down. It hung 
above a lit, black candle.
"Why, Mary Kelly, it is you! I've missed you enormously, my dear!"
Mr. Crowley had not changed. He came around the desk, hands outstretched, and 
kissed her cheek, surrounded by a black aura of danger that set her quaking in 
her boots again. She could still remember gulping down whole bottles of gin, 
brandy, anything she could lay hands on, trying to forget what it had felt like, 
with this man in her. What am I doing here, God help me, I haven't any other 
choice, they'll kill me, else . . . and the baby, too, can't let 'em kill my 
baby . . . 
Pregnant, utterly penniless, Mary Kelly had nowhere else to turn.
"Sit down, please." He ushered her to a chair, drawing another up close beside 
her. "What brings you here? Your hands are like ice, Mary, would you like a 
brandy to warm you?"
"Please, yes . . ." Her voice was shaking as badly as her hands.
He splashed brandy into a snifter, handed it to her, watched her gulp it down.
"What can I do for you, then?"
She lowered the empty glass to her threadbare lap. "I need . . . I'm in terrible 
trouble, you see, and I thought . . . I thought you might be interested in . . . 
the reason why."
He tipped his head to one side, eyes merry. "If you're going to tell me I'm the 
father of whatever brat you might be carrying, I would point out it's been more 
than seven months, my dear, and you clearly are not seven months gone with 
child."
Her face flamed. "No, it's not the baby, that's Joseph's, right enough, and he's 
been good to me. It's this . . ." She dug into her pocket, brought out the grimy 
sheets of foolscap which Joseph had brought home for her to translate, after 
buying them from Dark Annie. Poor Joe, he'd thought these hideous little letters 
would be their ticket to wealth. But Annie was dead, monstrously so, as was the 
woman she'd got them from, and after reading these letters, Mary was terrified 
that she would be next, she and whoever else had been insane enough to lay hands 
on one of these sordid little missives.
He glanced at the writing, frowned. "This is in Welsh, is it not?"
She nodded. "My man . . . he bought them, you see, from Annie, when she needed 
medicines, asked me to read them out for him. There were others . . ." Her voice 
had begun to shake again. "Annie had them from Polly and now they're both dead! 
Murdered and cut apart by this madman in Whitechapel!"
Aleister Crowley was staring at her. "My dear," he said gently, "whatever is in 
these letters?"
In a low, trembling voice, she told him. Word for word, she told him exactly 
what the letters said. And he saw it as quickly as she had done.
"My God! Eddy? Collars and Cuffs? It must be . . ."
She nodded. "Yes. It must be him. And the queen must have ordered all this 
hushed up, I can't think why else Polly Nichols would have been killed so 
horribly, or poor Annie Chapman, who was so sick, she could hardly stand up."
Crowley began to laugh, very softly. "Victoria, order this done? Oh, no, my 
dear, the queen is entirely too good to condone what's been done by our friend 
the Whitechapel fiend. Oh, she's no fool, and if she knew about these," he 
tapped the letters in Mary's shaking hand, "she might well try to hush it all 
up. But order someone to cut the owners of the letters to pieces in the streets? 
No. She would not wish for that kind of publicity, for that sort of scrutiny. 
The police and the press are simply agog over our friend the Whitechapel 
Murderer. I must say," he chuckled, "quite a reputation, he's given himself, 
isn't it? This business must be driving the authorities mad. No, Victoria would 
never be stupid enough to generate that sort of publicity. Take my word for it, 
Mary dear, someone else is committing these murders. Someone close to Eddy, no 
doubt. Someone with a great deal to lose, should Eddy's indiscretions become 
public knowledge." He sat tapping his fingertips against the arm of his chair 
for long moments. "Well, now, this is quite an intriguing little mystery you've 
handed me, my dear. One presumes you want money?"
She shook her head, bit her lip. "I . . . I don't want to be . . . next . . ."
"Ah. Of course you don't."
"I've got a baby coming," she got out in a rush, "and a man who wants to marry 
me, when he gets another job, even though he knows what I've been. Joseph's a 
good man, wants to take me off the streets, and he didn't know what this 
horrible little letter was when he bought it, he was just doing Annie a favor, 
because she was so sick and needed the money for medicine . . ."
He took her trembling hands in his own and patted them, brought them to his 
lips. Mary shuddered, fighting more terror than she'd ever known in her young 
life.
"Here, now, no need for such hysteria, my dear. Of course you're frightened, but 
you've done exactly the right thing, coming to me for protection." He dried her 
wet face with his hands, brushed her heavy, strawberry-blonde hair back from her 
brow, planted a kiss there. "I'll take very good care of you, my dear. Just 
leave the letter with me, that's a good girl. I've a fair idea who might be 
profiting from these murders, knowing Eddy as I do, and the way certain men 
think. Yes, I'll take very good care of you, my dearest . . ."
He was kissing her, unbuttoning her dress, sliding his hand up under her skirt.
He gave her two whole crowns, after, worth half a pound sterling.
Kissed her and told her to buy herself a lot of gin and a pretty new shawl and 
not to worry, he would see to it that she was never molested by whoever was 
hunting down Eddy's sordid little letters. When she left the house, pulling her 
threadbare shawl tightly about her shoulders against the cold bite of the wind, 
Mary Jane Kelly was trembling far harder than she'd been when she'd arrived an 
hour previously. What've I done, letting him do that horrible ritual over me, 
like that, when he was in me, what in God's name have I done? 
She bit her lip and started for home. Surely, anything was better than being cut 
into pieces and having her insides strewn across the ground? Surely it was? But 
she felt dirty and cold and unclean down to her soul, which she never had felt 
even when letting the meanest, dirtiest louts in the East End spend inside her. 
She brushed wetness from her eyes and pressed a hand against her belly, where a 
child was growing. Whatever else, she had to think about far more than just 
herself, now. Which was why she could have done nothing else, today.
But, oh, God, she was so afraid.
And Mr. Aleister Crowley frightened her only a little less terribly than the 
rest.
* * *
"Kit!"
Kit Carson glanced around, peering into the nervous crowds thronging Commons, 
many of them wondering in shrill tones what would happen and would their 
vacations be cancelled and could they get a refund if Senator Caddrick closed 
down TT-86? He found Robert Li bearing down on him and smiled at his long-time 
friend.
"Hi, Robert. What's up?"
The antiquarian stared. "What's up? You are kidding, aren't you? Kit, are you 
out of your gate-addled mind? Skeeter Jackson, Neo Edo's house detective?"
Kit chuckled. "Oh, that. Is that all?"
His friend's expression altered to one of deep pity. "Oh, God, it's true. You 
have lost your mind."
Kit's lips twitched. "Glad to know you think so highly of me, pal. No, I haven't 
lost my mind. But you—and just about every other 'eighty-sixer on station—have 
apparently lost your sense of fair play."
Robert Li blinked, the fair skin of his maternal Scandinavian heritage at odds 
with features bequeathed him by a paternal Hong Kong Chinese grandfather. "Come 
again?"
"Skeeter," Kit said gently, ticking off the points on his fingers. "One, that 
boy never rolled an 'eighty-sixer. Never. And if you'd think about it, you'd 
figure out why. Two, he hasn't been the same ever since that gawd-awful wager of 
his with Goldie went sour and Marcus ended up in chains down the Porta Romae. 
Three, Ianira trusted him implicitly. And Ianira Cassondra is no fool." Kit ran 
a hand through his thinning hair, unable to hide the grief mere thought of 
Ianira and her missing family brought. "That boy has damn near killed himself 
looking for them. Lost the only two honest jobs he could find on station doing 
it, too. And even then, he still didn't go back to picking pockets. The 
down-timers have been feeding him, Robert, because he hasn't had enough cash to 
buy a hot dog. So what's he been doing? Looking for a job nobody'll give him, 
tracking down terrorists in Shangri-La's basement, and arresting thirty-one 
small-time crooks in a single week. Without anybody asking him or paying him to 
do it. So yesterday, when he pulled Rachel Eisenstein out of that disaster at 
Primary, I decided it was high time somebody around here gave that kid a fair 
break. He's earned it. Especially with Caddrick likely to press charges for 
assaulting him, for God's sake. After what Caddrick did, roughing him up, that 
boy is gonna need all the help he can get."
Robert Li closed his mouth. Blinked. "Good God," the antiquarian said softly. 
Then, slowly, "All right, I'll concede a point when I've been wrong. But you've 
gotta admit, it's unlikely as hell."
Kit grinned. "Oh, sure it is. And that," he chuckled, "is why I'm having so much 
fun. What's that you've got with you?" He nodded at the sheet of paper his 
friend was carrying.
"This? Oh, it's a flier on Jenna Caddrick and that terrorist who grabbed her, 
Noah Armstrong. Mike Benson's ordered a stationwide hunt, looking for any 
eyewitnesses who might remember seeing them. I was trying to find you, to ask if 
you'd seen one of these yet, when I heard the news about you hiring Skeeter."
"No, I haven't seen it." Kit took the flier curiously, glancing at the photos, 
and ran down the brief descriptions. "I read about Cassie Tyrol. Damned shame."
"What's a shame?" Skeeter's voice asked at Kit's elbow.
He glanced up and took approving note of the security radio he'd sent Skeeter to 
obtain. "Good, you got the squawky. Cassie Tyrol is what's a shame. She was 
Senator Caddrick's sister-in-law, poor soul, can you imagine being related to 
that? Have you seen one of these yet?"
Skeeter took the flier curiously. "No." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Don't 
know why Caddrick thought this creep was me," he muttered, frowning at the photo 
of Armstrong. "Guy looks sorta familiar, though. Not sure why . . ." The former 
con artist's frown deepened slowly. Then, seemingly struck by inspiration, 
Skeeter dug into a pocket and came out with an ink pen. He started drawing over 
the top of the photograph, startling Robert Li into leaning forward.
"What in the world are you doing?" the antiquarian asked.
"Just an idea," Skeeter muttered. He was sketching in a drooping mustache, 
sideburns. The pen fairly flew across the page, sketching in a bandana, a 
sombrero pulled low . . .
"My God," Kit whispered, recognizing the face taking shape. "It's Joey Tyrolin!"
Robert started slightly, swinging his gaze up to meet Kit's. "Joey—? That drunk 
pistolero we saw the other week, headed to Denver? That was Noah Armstrong? We 
were that close to a murdering terrorist and didn't even know it?"
Another resemblance clicked in Kit's mind. "Joey Tyrolin! Skeeter, you genius! 
By God, I knew I'd hit on a brilliant idea, hiring you! Jenna Caddrick's aunt's 
name was Cassie Tyrol. Jocasta Tyrol—Joey Tyrolin!"
Skeeter wasn't smiling, however. In fact, he wasn't even standing beside them, 
any longer. He'd bolted through the crowd. He came back with another flier, one 
he'd ripped off the nearest concrete post. Kit had seen those fliers plastered 
up everywhere, with photos of the station's missing down-timers. Skeeter was 
sketching over Julius' photo. Skeeter's lips thinned to a grim line as he drew 
in long hair pulled back into a bun beneath a wide-brimmed calico bonnet. Then 
he held up the altered sketch of his missing young friend. "And this is the 
woman Joey Tyrolin tangled with at the Wild West ticket kiosk. The one Tyrolin's 
porter dropped a trunk on. I worked that gate departure, looking for some trace 
of Ianira and her family, and dammit, I didn't even recognize that boy!"
Kit remembered the incident clearly. "You're right." He took the altered 
sketches and scowled down at them. "Miss Caddrick must have used the name Joey 
Tyrolin on that fake I.D. she bought in New York. And Armstrong simply 
appropriated the I.D. and her tickets. If Armstrong was in that departures line, 
you can bet Jenna Caddrick was, too."
"Probably in one of the suitcases that porter dropped," Skeeter growled. "What I 
want to know is, how the hell did Julius get tangled up with terrorists? I know 
that boy. He wouldn't get involved in something like that, not without a damned 
good reason."
Robert Li said slowly, "Those Ansar Majlis leaders you caught are denying it, 
but it's pretty clear they paid Armstrong to hit Jenna Caddrick. So it's a good 
bet Armstrong masterminded the hit on Ianira, too. If I remember right, Julius 
disappeared about the same time her whole family vanished, didn't he? But surely 
the boy wouldn't have helped the Ansar Majlis voluntarily?"
Kit glanced at Skeeter, reading murderous hatred in the younger man's eyes and 
the set of his jaw. The one-time con artist said through clenched teeth, "If 
Armstrong blackmailed him with a threat to Ianira's life, he would've done 
anything that pack of cutthroats demanded. And waited for a chance to slit their 
throats, later."
A chill shivered its way up Kit's spine. This was a side of Skeeter he'd never 
witnessed, the side that had survived twelfth century Mongolia and the worst 
childhood any 'eighty-sixer on station could lay claim to. Slowly, Kit nodded 
agreement. "Yes, I think you're reading this situation very clearly, Skeeter. 
Julius would've done anything to save Ianira, if Armstrong had kidnapped her as 
well as Jenna Caddrick. Armstrong's pals in the Ansar Majlis might well have 
been holding the boy prisoner with Marcus and the girls, probably forced him to 
help them all escape the station. And my bet is, Armstrong sent at least one of 
his men down the Britannia with the fake I.D. Jenna Caddrick's roommate was 
supposed to use. Benny Catlin wasn't anything more than a decoy, to make us 
think her kidnappers had gone to London, when they planned to take her to 
Denver, all along."
Robert Li swung his gaze from Kit back to Skeeter. "Okay," he grinned suddenly, 
"I'm convinced! Damned smart move is right, hiring this genius. Question is, 
what do we do now?"
Kit eyed Skeeter narrowly. "How well do you ride a horse?"
Skeeter Jackson's sudden, lethal grin blazed like a noonday sun. "If it's got 
hooves, I can ride it."
"In that case, we visit Time Tours, Incorporated. Because your new boss just 
came out of retirement. It's been a while since I visited Denver."
Robert Li's mouth dropped open. Then the antiquarian started laughing. "Oh, my 
God! Wait until word gets out! Goldie Morran, for one, may strangle from simple 
shock. Kit Carson and Skeeter Jackson, partners in crime? I just wish I could 
get away from the studio long enough to go with you!"
Kit clouted him across one shoulder. "The price of being the only I.F.A.R.T.S. 
agent on station. But there is something you could do . . ."
"Why do I have the feeling I ought to be counting my fingernails and locking my 
safe?"
Kit grinned. "You wound me. Head over to Connie's, if you don't mind? We've only 
got six days before the Wild West Gate re-opens, which means we should've 
started outfitting last week, not to mention all the training Skeeter needs 
before we step through. I'd head straight to Connie's, but Skeeter and I have to 
break the news to Ronisha. And the senator."
Skeeter visibly lost color.
"Well, since you put it that way," Robert said hastily, "I'd rather ask Connie 
for favors than go near Caddrick, any day of the week."
"Thought you'd see it my way. C'mon, Skeeter. The senator's not going to throw 
you in jail, not when you're the genius who figured out where his little girl 
disappeared to."
Skeeter swallowed once. "Well, okay."
"C'mon, Jackson. Time's wasting."
Skeeter's grin was a little forced, but it was a brave effort.
Personally, Kit could hardly wait to beard this particular lion. One thing he 
had very little tolerance for was a cocky politician. Particularly one 
threatening to shut down his station. Senator John Caddrick didn't know it yet, 
but he'd made the worst enemy of his life. Kit fully intended to enjoy his 
revenge.
 
Chapter Three
Ianira Cassondra wasn't sure how long she'd been imprisoned.
The man who'd brought her to this room had kept her drugged for endless days. 
She knew only that she was somewhere in London, separated from the only people 
who could help her, and that her life remained in far too much danger from 
up-time threat to risk returning to Spaldergate House and its Britannia Gate, to 
seek help from friends on the station. She was as much on her own as she'd been 
in Athens, married to an inhuman merchant who valued her only for the male 
children she had been unable to produce. Her first husband had terrified Ianira. 
But the man who held her captive now . . .
He was mad, this Dr. John Lachley. He was also the ruling half of a killing team 
the up-time world knew as Jack the Ripper. John Lachley could not come within 
touching distance of her without Ianira slipping into shock and the most 
monstrous visions she had ever suffered. When she heard footsteps on the stairs 
outside her imprisoning bedroom, Ianira broke into a cold sweat and 
uncontrollable tremors. But the door opened to reveal only the manservant, 
Charles. He carried a meal tray. "Mrs. Seddons sent up your supper," he said 
gently, his warm regard filled with pity.
The food would be drugged, of course.
It always was.
"Thank you," Ianira whispered, voice hoarse.
Outside her bedroom window, twilight settled over the rooftops and chimney pots 
of London. She stilled shaking hands, having waited and planned for this moment, 
terrified that something would go wrong, now that it had come. Charles set the 
tray on the little table beside her bed, then settled into a chair to watch her 
eat. They did not leave her alone at mealtimes, making sure she swallowed the 
drugged food that kept her witless and utterly helpless in their hands. The 
manservant and the cook, Mrs. Seddons, had been told Ianira was in deep shock 
and suffering from delusions. She no longer even tried to speak with them. What 
John Lachley had done to her after her first attempt to enlist the servants' aid 
. . .
Ianira shuddered under the bedclothes. There wasn't enough hot water and soap in 
all of London to wash away what he'd done to her. Afterward, Ianira had planned 
a different route to freedom. So she sat up, trembling violently, and reached 
for the tray. Which she promptly dropped, spilling the contents across the 
carpets with a crash and clatter of broken china and tumbled silver.
Charles lunged to his feet with a dismayed cry, making certain she was unharmed 
first, then eased her down against the pillows and said, "Let me clear this away 
and bring another tray for you . . ."
The moment Charles left the room, Ianira lunged out of bed. She flung herself to 
the window, dragging up the heavy wooden frame, and scrambled out across the 
sill. Her bedroom was three floors up, but it faced the back of the house, 
overlooking a dismal, wet garden. The sloping roof of the rear porch broke her 
fall when she let go, jumping down in her nightdress and nothing else.
She landed with a grunt and a thud, rolled helplessly across slick, wet roofing 
slates, and grabbed for the metal drain at the edge. She hung for a moment by 
both hands, bruised and shaken, then dropped the rest of the way to the ground. 
She fell sprawling into shrubbery and wet grass with a spray of water from the 
soaked branches. Ianira lay stunned for a long moment, then managed to roll to 
hands and knees and lifted her head, looking up through wild, fallen hair. She 
could hear shouts inside the house and the pounding of running footsteps. With a 
whimper of terror rising in the back of her throat, Ianira came to her feet and 
ran across the wet grass, limping on a bruised hip.
The garden had to be escaped, whatever the cost. A high wall surrounded it on 
all sides. So Ianira ran for the front of the house, slipping and stumbling 
through mud that squelched beneath her bare feet, hiking her nightdress up to 
her knees. She found a gate and shoved at it, managed to find the latch and 
wrenched it open. She flung the heavy wooden gate back with a solid whump and 
ran down a carriage drive, past a small carriage house where she could hear a 
horse shifting in a wooden stall, kicking the side of its home in rythmic 
boredom. A horse . . . 
She didn't know how to ride, but surely a horse could take her farther and 
faster than she could run on bare, bruised feet? Ianira lunged into the carriage 
house, groping through near darkness to the stall where the animal snuffled 
through its feed trough, looking for stray oats. Teeth chattering, Ianira forced 
herself to calmness, found a lead rope hanging from a peg, and slipped open the 
stall door. "Hello," she whispered to the startled creature. "Let us go for a 
ride, we two."
She clipped the lead rope to the horse's halter and led him out past the dark 
silhouette of Dr. Lachley's carriage. She clambered awkwardly onto the animal's 
back by means of the carriage's running board. Then she guided him with a soft 
nudge and whispered words of encouragement, bending low as they clopped through 
the carriage house door. She turned toward the street—
"There!"
The shout came from the garden behind her.
She thumped muddy heels against the horse's flanks and the startled animal 
jumped forward, breaking past the front edge of the house at a jogging trot. She 
clung to the mane and gripped the horse's sides with bare legs, clinging for 
dear life. A dark shape loomed directly in front of them. Someone shouted and 
flung something straight at them. The horse screamed and reared, trying to shy 
away from the sudden threat. Ianira lost her grip and plunged backwards with a 
ragged scream of her own. She hit the ground with a sickening thud and lay 
winded, unable to move. The horse clattered away, riderless.
Then he was on top of her, grasping her wrists, checking for broken bones.
Ianira struck out wildly, trying to rake his face with her nails. "Don't touch 
me!"
"She's delirious again, poor thing." John Lachley dug his thumb into the hollow 
of her throat, silencing her and cutting off her air. Ianira struggled until 
darkness roared up to swallow her awareness. When she could see and breathe 
again, he was carrying her up the stairway to her prison once more. She could 
feel the rough texture of his woolen coat against her cheek, could feel the 
dampness where he'd just come in from the raw night. Ianira clenched her eyelids 
down over burning wetness. Another five minutes . . . Had she only been given 
another five minutes . . .
"You're sure she's taken no injury?" A man had spoken, somewhere behind her 
captor. She didn't know that voice, tried to stir, was held savagely still 
against Lachley's chest. She moaned softly as he answered his unknown companion.
"I'll examine the poor thing at once, of course, Crowley. Dreadfully sorry to've 
brought you slap into this."
"On the contrary," Crowley said with a hint of delight in his voice, "I am 
amazed and intrigued. Who the devil is she?"
"So far as I've been able to ascertain, a foreigner who fell prey to footpads 
the moment she set foot on English soil. Poor thing's been raving for over a 
week, out of her mind with terror and delusions. I've had to sedate her to keep 
her from doing herself a mischief in her delirium."
"Seems devilishly determined to escape, I'd say."
"Yes," Lachely said dryly, carrying her back into her room. "The footpads were 
brutalizing her. She hasn't been in her right mind since, poor child. Imagines 
we're all footpads, intent on finishing what they started. I'm determined to see 
her through the crisis, learn who she really is, perhaps make some sort of 
amends for the wretched abuse she's suffered at English hands."
"Rather a striking child, isn't she? Mid-twenties, I'd guess. Has the look of 
the East about her."
"Indeed," Lachley placed Ianira in her bed once again, "she speaks Greek like an 
angel. Now, then . . . Ah, Charles, good man. You've brought it."
Ianira struggled to escape the needle. "No, please . . . I will tell no one, 
please, just let me go . . ."
It was no use. He injected her easily, holding her down until the drug roared 
through her veins, leaving her limp and helpless. With the drug came the 
visions, terrifying, of the women who had died under this man's brutual hands, 
of the knife in the other man's hands, striking in the darkness, directed by her 
captor . . . And the ghastly chamber beneath the streets, which reeked of stale 
blood and decaying flesh . . .
Crowley's voice came from far away. "Poor thing's raving."
"Yes. The way she babbles like that, I can't help wonder if she didn't escape 
this hideous Whitechapel fiend, only to fall prey to footpads."
"She's no common streetwalker," Crowley's voice said, roaring dimly in her ears.
"No. But how are we to know the Whitechapel murderer won't attack ladies, as 
well as common slatterns, given the opportunity? She's clearly only just arrived 
from the docklands, after all, and if she was separated from her family in the 
crush of the crowd and didn't know how to summon help . . ." Lachley's voice was 
fading in and out of Ianira's awareness. She managed to open her eyes and found 
him leaning down over her. Lachley smoothed her hair back from her brow and 
smiled down into her terrified gaze, promising dire punishment for what she'd 
attempted, tonight. Ianira shuddered and turned her head away, closing her eyes 
again over despair. What he would do to her if she tried to warn Crowley that 
Lachley was the Whitechapel murderer . . .
The horror of it was, Crowley wouldn't believe her.
No one would.
She sank, helpless and despairing, into darkness.
 
Ronisha Azzan had already been in the war room for an hour that morning, hard at 
work on the Jenna Caddrick abduction case, when security escorted the senator up 
from the Time Tripper Hotel. He arrived flanked by staffers carrying briefcases, 
intimidating by themselves, but the federal agents were conspicuously absent. 
That unexpected pleasantness allowed Ronisha to relax a fraction—but only a 
fraction, because the senator's grey eyes blazed with a look that boded ill for 
her immediate future, leaving her to wonder if he'd spent a bad night or if he 
woke up every morning in a foul temper.
Bax arrived on the senator's heels, carrying a sheaf of printouts and a CM disk. 
If the bags under his eyes were any hint, the Time Tours CEO had definitely 
spent a bad night, working as hard as Ronisha had. She nodded Bax toward the 
coffee; he poured himself a deep cup before sliding into a chair at the war 
room's immense conference table. Ronisha turned her attention to their unwelcome 
guest. "Good morning, Senator. I hope you slept well?"
Caddrick scowled. "As a matter of fact, a bunch of goddamned maniacs kept me 
awake all night, in the room under mine. Am I to understand that you actually 
permit lunatics on this station to worship Jack the Ripper as their personal 
god?"
Ronisha shrugged. "Last time I checked, we still had freedom of religion, 
Senator. As long as they don't actively threaten anyone, they can worship 
whomever they like."
Caddrick flushed. "So you have no intention of protecting the public safety? Or 
of enforcing public disturbance laws?"
His staffers began scribbing notes.
Ronisha bristled. "I will enforce whatever laws and policies are necessary to 
keep the peace on this station, Senator. As a number of federal agents have 
already discovered. Now, since the issue of the Ripper cults is not germane to 
the business at hand, I suggest we tackle the subject of your daughter's 
possible whereabouts."
"That suits me!" Caddrick snapped. "And let me make one thing very clear. If you 
don't produce my little girl, alive and uninjured, I will personally see to it 
that your career is over! You will never work again, not in the time-touring 
industry, not anywhere else. And don't think I can't do it. I've destroyed far 
more important careers than yours!"
An ugly silence fell, into which Granville Baxter, at least, copiously 
perspired.
Ronisha had been expecting it, of course, but anticipation of such a threat 
didn't lessen the impact. The bottom of her stomach turned to solid lead. 
"Senator," she said softly, refusing to roll belly up at the first tightening 
down of political thumbscrews, "I want you to know that's a mud-ugly road you're 
walking down. You just take a good look at who's sitting in the station 
manager's chair right now. Then you think real hard about it. Real hard. You are 
not the only person on this station who can bring out the big guns. The last 
five politicians of your caliber to tangle with the African-Origin Business 
Women's Caucus did not fare well at the polls, their next election bid. Not well 
at all. And since we both share the same goal, finding your daughter and 
returning her safely to this station, there's no need to head down that 
particular road, now is there?"
Dust could be heard falling onto the tabletop.
Bax actually looked sick and the senator's staffers turned white as ice.
John Caddrick stared at her for long moments, his expression a shuttered mask, 
grey eyes narrowed into calculating slits. She did not back down under that 
cold, thoroughly reptilian gaze. When the mask unfroze just enough for one 
corner of his mouth to quirk in a sardonic, unpleasant little smile, she knew 
her warning had been heeded. She'd have to watch her back; but he wouldn't try 
anything else heavy-handed. Not for a while, yet. And if she could produce one 
live and kicking kid, maybe not ever. Caddrick might be a thorough-going 
bastard, but he wasn't stupid.
"I'm glad we understand one another, Senator. Now, I would suggest we study your 
daughter's profile for clues, hers and her kidnapper's, and track each potential 
gate they might have used."
"That's the best suggestion you can make, after an entire night to work on this? 
Next, I suppose, you will magic Jenna out of a silk top hat?" The scorn in his 
voice relegated Ronisha to the back of the intelligence bus.
Ronisha narrowed her eyes and bit down on her tongue. You will eat yours one 
day, Senator, and choke on it raw! I just hope I'm there to watch. "Right now, 
we're doing what can be done, regardless of how little you may like it. Since we 
have not been able to identify either Jenna or her kidnapper from tour records, 
I suggest we take a look at Jenna's most active interests." She ran down Jenna's 
dossier. "Historical re-enactment, horseback riding . . . She keeps two horses 
in a stable on Long Island?"
The senator nodded. "Her aunt pays for them. Paid, rather, before the 
shootings."
Bax cleared his throat reluctantly and leaned forward, steepling his fingertips. 
"Well, horsemanship skills would stand her in good stead down Shangri-La's 
gates. Horses were the primary means of land transport for thousands of years, 
after all. Jenna's kidnappers will doubtless take advantage of that, since most 
up-timers know very little about horses. Some of the tour gates, however, are 
better choices for your daughter's kidnappers than others."
"Meaning?" The senator's scowl boded ill for Bax's future.
The Time Tours executive, however, was made of stern stuff. Holding a job like 
his, he had to be. "Well, Senator," he cleared his throat again, "Athens in the 
age of Pericles, for instance, is not a likely choice. Neither Jenna nor her 
abductors would have the language skills to blend in and disappear, not without 
help from temporal guides. The majority of Philosopher's Gate tourists are 
wealthy Greek tycoons, artists, and classics scholars. You've got the same 
problem with Porta Romae and its destination, Claudian Rome—neither your 
daughter nor her kidnappers are likely to speak classical Latin. Or Greek or 
Aramaic or any of the other dozen or so languages spoken in Rome.
"That's not to say they couldn't easily lose pursuers, choosing Rome, they 
could. But it would create a whole list of problems for them to overcome. Like, 
how the money works, where to find living space, how to earn a living, obtain 
food and clothing, avoid all the pitfalls Rome offers the unwary and ignorant 
visitor."
Caddrick's continued withering glare brought beads of sweat to Bax's forehead, 
but he kept gamely at it. "According to this profile, your daughter favors more 
modern history, particularly the periods after the use of gunpowder in personal 
arms became widespread." He frowned slightly, pursing his lips and tapping them 
with doubled forefingers, clearly thinking through some chain of surmised 
options. 
"Spanish Colonial South America is closer to her period of interest, but it 
wouldn't be a good choice for her kidnappers, either. One presumes they'll be 
armed, which could pose problems for them down the Conquistadores Gate. Under 
the Spanish colonial system, firearms were tightly restricted to the upper 
classes. Very few Conquistadores tourists opt for the role of peon, for obvious 
reasons. Your daughter's kidnappers, however, would have difficulty passing 
themselves off as Spanish nobility, again because of language difficulties. Most 
Conquistadores Gate tourists are of Hispanic descent, with the balance taken up 
mostly by Amer-Indians."
"I don't give a damn about Amer-Indian tourists!" Caddrick snapped. "What about 
the other gates?"
Bax started down the list. "The Mongolian Gate is out of the question. It hasn't 
cycled in months. Same with the Colonial Williamsburg Gate. The Anachronism's 
timing is off, too, and besides, a Society for Creative Anachronism tournament 
is the last place your daughter's kidnappers would try hiding." When Caddrick 
gave him a baffled look, Bax explained. "The SCA is a tightly-knit organization 
of people who recreate the middle ages, complete with jousting, knights battling 
in homemade armor, trained hunting falcons, you name it. They're very clannish 
and you have to be a member in very good standing to go on a tournament through 
the Anachronism Gate. Outsiders wouldn't stand a chance of slipping through 
undetected."
Senator Caddrick's expression made it clear that he considered tournament-bound 
medieval knights in homemade armor to be unstable lunatics, fitting in with the 
rest of Shangri-La Station's environment. Bax made an aborted movement to blot 
his glistening brow, then plowed steadily through the rest of his list. "The 
Shogun's Gate into medieval Japan is completely out of the question, of course. 
The Japanese under the Tokugawa Shogunate actually killed any occidental 
unfortunate enough to be shipwrecked on Japanese shores. Firearms were outlawed 
too—any mere peasant could kill a samurai with one, which made them too 
dangerous to have around. Firearms hadn't been invented yet at the time of 
Thor's Gate, of course, and the Viking age would also present insurmountable 
language barriers. Did Jenna speak any foreign languages?"
Before the senator could comment, the Security channel sputtered with static. 
"Hey, would somebody let us through the mess out here? We need to see Ronisha 
Azzan, ASAP."
Ronisha stared at the speakers. Skeeter Jackson was the last person she'd 
expected to hear on a Security channel. She leaned over and punched the intercom 
that patched her into the security network. "Skeeter? What are you doing on a 
security squawky?"
"Later! Listen, would you tell these goons down here to let us through? We need 
to meet with you. I wouldn't interrupt, but it's important. Real important. Kit 
Carson's with me."
Ronisha scooted her chair back. "I'd better see what this is about," she said a 
trifle grimly, nodding to the senator and Bax. "Skeeter, I'll meet you at the 
aerie. Bax, see what you can do with that profile while I'm gone." She dialed 
Mike Benson's code and told him to let Kit and Skeeter through, then climbed the 
stairs to the fifth-floor manager's office. Two security agents followed, making 
her feel a little better about walking into a potential trap set by disgruntled 
federal marshals. They hadn't taken kindly to her order to lock down their 
weapons, a precaution she'd taken to safeguard visitors and residents. After 
what those agents had done with their tear-gas cannisters, she did not want a 
bunch of uniformed thugs running around with riot guns, stirring a hornet's nest 
that had already been shaken several times. The last thing they needed was some 
trigger-happy fed opening fire on somebody like the Angels of Grace Militia.
Trying to shove that ghastly image aside, Ronisha emerged into the glass-walled 
office just as the elevator from Commons hummed to life. Moments later, Skeeter 
Jackson and the world's most famous time scout stepped onto the thick carpet. 
They'd come alone. Kit Carson was all but bouncing on his toes, eyes alight with 
a wild kind of exultation. "Hi, Ronnie. Got a minute?"
"Good God, Kit, what is it? You know what we're in the middle of, here." She'd 
never seen the ex-time scout so excited.
"It's Jenna Caddrick's kidnapper. We found him! Skeeter did, that is. I had the 
good sense to put Skeeter on the payroll as a detective for the Neo Edo—which is 
why he's got a squawky, since you asked—and the first thing he did was solve the 
mystery of where Noah Armstrong went."
"You found Armstrong? Where? My God, Skeeter, say something!"
La-La Land's most notorious miscreant—Neo Edo's house detective?—smiled wryly 
and handed over a couple of improvised sketches. He'd drawn over the top of a 
flier with Noah Armstrong's photo. "That's what Armstrong looked like when he 
went through the Wild West Gate. Dressed as a pistolero named Joey Tyrolin. 
Pretended to be drunker than a British lord, stumbled around bragging about how 
he was going to win a shooting competition. Now for the bad news. Our missing 
down-timer, Julius, went through with him. Posing as a woman and probably under 
duress. You ought to be able to pull the gate records to find out which name 
Julius was using. He was dressed as the woman Joey Tyrolin's porter dropped a 
trunk on." He handed over a second sketch.
She stared from one altered photograph to the other, mind racing back to the 
events at the Denver Gate's last opening; then pivoted on one stiletto heel and 
headed for the telephone. "Good work, Skeeter, very good work. Denver opens—" 
she peered through the windows to the nearest chronometer hanging from the 
Commons ceiling "—at nine-fifty a.m., six days from now. Be there. You're 
joining the search team. If I remember right, you've been down the Wild West 
Gate before and you're good in a scrap. And clearly, you've got more than 
laundry fuzz between your ears."
Kit said drolly, "Better make that two reservations for Denver, Ronnie. I'm 
going, too."
Telephone halfway to her ear to arrange for Skeeter's gate pass, Ronisha aborted 
the motion midair. She stared, mouth coming adrift. Kit and Skeeter started 
laughing. "Okay," she muttered. "You're going, too." She punched the direct-line 
intercom to the war room. "Bax, outfit a search team through the Wild West Gate, 
stat. Skeeter Jackson and Kit Carson have located Noah Armstrong. He's posing as 
Joey Tyrolin, in company with those kids headed for the Colorado pistol 
competition. And I've got a sketch up here to match against photos of all the 
women who went through on that tour. I want you to put a name to one of them. 
The one Tyrolin's porter dropped a trunk on. You remember the incident? That 
lady was our missing down-time teenager, Julius. Looks like Armstrong forced the 
boy to help him escape by threatening Ianira and her family."
Startled sounds came over the speaker, then Bax replied strongly. "I'm on it."
Ronisha closed the open circuit and jabbed a lacquered fingernail down onto one 
of the phone's memory buttons, linking her to security. "Mike, send somebody to 
every outfitter on station. Jenna Caddrick's abductors went down the Wild West 
Gate. They had to pull together an outfit for Denver, so somebody on Shangri-La 
ought to remember them. Get somebody on it. Several somebodies."
"On the way."
"Skeeter. you and Kit get busy outfitting. I'll join you—where? Connie Logan's 
is your favorite outfitter's, isn't it, Kit? I'll authorize the expenditures 
from station coffers. Kit, you're priceless. With a little luck, we may yet keep 
Shangri-La open for business."
"That is," Kit said dryly, "the basic idea. C'mon, Skeeter. Did I say twenty an 
hour? Make it fifty."
Skeeter looked like a man in deep shock.
Ronisha sympathized.
Skeeter and Kit, the latter grinning like the devil's own favorite imp, 
sauntered into the elevator, Kit whistling merrily as the doors slid closed. 
Ronisha stared after them for a long moment, still nearly speechless, herself; 
then she was on the telephone again, tracking down every Wild West guide who'd 
ever worked the gate, for somebody to guide the search team out to the site of 
that black powder shooting competition.
* * *
Six days wasn't much of a head start to plan a time tour, when the so-called 
tour was a search-and-rescue mission into dangerous country by horseback, on the 
trail of armed terrorists holding hostages. If he'd had time, Skeeter might have 
panicked. Fortunately, Skeeter Jackson had plenty of practice in falling slap 
into unexpected little "situations" and landing more or less on his feet. Nor 
had he truly panicked in quite a while. At least, not since encountering that 
enraged gladiator, Lupus Mortiferus.
An hour after leaving the aerie, Connie's staff was busy packing away his new 
wardrobe and Skeeter was bent over a table in the infirmary, getting a backside 
full of needles. He'd already received the necessary immunizations once before, 
of course, having been down the Denver gate on a trip wheedled out of a rich 
mark. But his records showed a need for several booster shots, so he dutifully 
reported to the infirmary, where he listened to some tourist complain bitterly 
about the sting as injection after injection went in. Rachel Eisenstein's voice 
floated in, calm and unsympathetic. "If you'd followed the instructions in your 
tour-planning immunization schedule, you could have had this over with weeks 
ago, one at a time."
"But I'm going to be too sore to sit in a saddle!"
"That is not," Rachel said briskly, "my problem."
Skeeter grinned as unhappy curses, centering mostly around the sadistic bent of 
doctors in general and women doctors in particular, issued from the cubicle, 
interspersed with complaints about the waste of paying good money for a tour the 
price of the Wild West Gate if one had to spend the entire trip as a walking, 
talking pincushion.
"Tourists," Skeeter grimaced. "You'd think they'd remember to bring their brains 
along, when they leave home."
"You just said a mouthful," the nurse behind him agreed. "There, that's it. Last 
one. Six boosters, all guaranteed to keep you from coming down with a full-blown 
case of what ails you. Get going. Kit's chewing nails, waiting to drag you over 
to the library."
"Oh, God . . ."
The next six days passed in a blur of frantic activity. Kit Carson put Skeeter 
through the most rigorous training he'd ever endured. He learned that speaking 
"Old West Slang" was not as simple as imitating John Wayne movie dialogue, which 
was what he'd done in the cathouses and gambling dens of Denver on his last 
trip—major portions of which he preferred not to recall too closely. And loading 
bullets for black-powder guns, even replica models made of higher quality steel, 
with closer tolerances, was nowhere near as simple as shoving a cartridge into a 
six-shooter and pulling the trigger. Not if you wanted to hit what you were 
shooting at when the six-shooter went bang. And Skeeter had never even heard of 
"balloon head cartridges." The only thing he really comprehended was that you 
could get slightly more black powder into them, which was fine by him. More bang 
for the buck was a great idea, in his opinion, going after the Ansar Majlis down 
time.
He also learned how to reload them. And while he measured bullets and sorted 
them out by weight and discarded those with any slight flattened spots or 
surface bumps, Kit taught him Old West Slang. He learned why a man should never 
bake a bang-tail before bedding-down the remuda and why a gentleman never called 
a lady a Cypriot. If he did, the lady's husband or father might shoot him over 
it. Might as well just come right out and call her a whore.
And so it went, until Skeeter thought his brain would burst.
He spent two entire days at the firing range, where Ann Vinh Mulhaney put him 
through hours of shooting lessons, both live-fire and inside the computer 
simulator she'd built, a room-sized Hogan's Alley affair with 360-degree 
rear-projection screens and plenty of real props to use as cover. He spent most 
of the first day in the computer simulator, working on target acquisition skills 
and reacting to armed threat and finding out just how many ways one can miss 
with a firearm at close range under stress. The second day was less fun than the 
room-sized shooting gallery, but just as instructive. Skeeter could hold his own 
in a knife fight, but he'd never fired a gun. Ann doled out electronic earmuffs, 
which allowed her to continue the lecture, while filtering out the sharp, 
damaging reports of guns discharging the length of the weapons range. "I had to 
kick a tourist off the line and he wasn't happy about it," she said, dragging 
him toward an empty lane. "Kit wants you on this firing line all day, Skeeter, 
which means we've barely got time for adequate weapons selection, load 
selections, firing procedures, shooting practice, and cleaning lessons."
"Cleaning lessons?" Skeeter blurted, genuinely startled.
Kit nodded impatiently as they joined him at the firing line. "The priming 
compounds used in 1885's black powder cartridges were corrosive and black 
powder's residue attracts moisture. There's a reason those old time gun slingers 
were fanatical about cleaning their weaponry."
"Wouldn't it make more sense for me to carry what I'm familiar with? Like a big 
Bowie-style knife? I'm pretty good with a fighting knife, but what I know about 
guns wouldn't fill a teacup."
"We'll see Sven before we leave the weapons range. But we're going up against 
armed terrorists holding hostages. Believe me, if things get rough down that 
gate, you'll want the ability to reach out and punch somebody well beyond arm's 
length."
"What are you carrying?" Skeeter asked, eying the pile of weapons Ann had set 
out on the shooting bench.
"I've always favored the S and W Double Action Frontier. I lost a light-weight 
model called a Wesson Favorite in the Silver Plume, Colorado, fire of 1884, just 
about a year before the time we're going to. This one," he held up a revolver, 
"is in .38-40 and has a six and a half inch barrel. Some folks might call it a 
horse pistol, because it's almost as big as the pistols from before the War 
Between the States, and most people carried it in a strap over the saddle horn. 
I'll wear it on my belt, though." 
Kit picked a small handgun from the pile on the bench. "For a hideout, I'll be 
taking my little five-shot S and W .38 double action. The second model with a 
three and a quarter inch barrel, for concealability. And for a long gun," he 
hoisted a rifle, working the action with a sharp metallic clack to demonstrate 
its mode of operation, "I'll bring a Winchester 73 rifle, in .38-40 caliber, 
same as the big Smith and Wesson. It won't be good out beyond two hundred yards 
or so, but my eyes aren't what they used to be, so something like a Sharps would 
be a waste of time for me. And you don't know enough to bother with one, 
either."
"Why don't you just put a good scope on it?" Skeeter asked, brows twitching 
down. Then, answering his own question, "Because it's an anachronism, right?"
Kit chuckled. "Actually, rifle scopes were in use as early as the Civil War, a 
good twenty years before the Denver Gate's time period. But we won't be taking 
period-scoped weapons. They had too many problems to bother with them. They were 
so hard to see through, shooters of the day compared them to peering through a 
rusty pipe. And they weren't very well sealed, so if you carried one around on a 
hot, muggy day, the minute the temperature dropped, at night, for instance, 
moisture would condense inside the scope. Very bad for scopes. And they were 
fragile. Most of them used black-widow spiderweb silk for cross hairs, which 
broke very easily, and steel wire cross hairs were more prone to breakage than 
spider silk."
Ann fished out a couple of ordinary telescoping spyglasses made from brass 
tubing, just like the ones in old movies about sailing ships, and a couple of 
pairs of early-style field glasses. "These gather light much more effectively 
and offer better magnification, too. You should do just fine with the iron 
sights on the firearms and one of these for distance reconnaisance."
The first gun they armed Skeeter with was one of Ann's Royal Irish Constabulary 
Webleys. "Unlike the later military issue Webley," Ann said briskly, "which was 
a clunky monster of a top-break pistol like Kit's Smith and Wessons, the RIC is 
a good concealment gun, with a solid frame and a loading gate more like the big 
Colt you'll also carry. It's bigger than Kit's .38, and it shoots a bigger 
cartridge, which is a distinct advantage for an amateur shooter. You might find 
it easier to handle because of its size, plus bigger bullets might make up for 
some of your lack of expertise with handguns."
The Webley had a tiny, stubby little barrel, only two and a quarter inches long, 
but the thing had plenty of heft when Skeeter accepted it. When he swung it 
around to see how the gate at the side of the cylinder opened, Ann grunted in 
exasperation and grabbed his wrist, levering the barrel around so that it faced 
downrange, not at her midsection.
Skeeter reddened to his undershorts. "Oops. Sorry!"
"Always point a firearm downrange. Even if you're absolutely positive it's not 
loaded. Imagine a laser beam coming out the end of that barrel. Anything that 
laser touches is at risk for having a hole blown through it, if you have an 
accidental discharge. Now, then, let's put you through the paces for loading, 
firing, and unloading."
Skeeter learned how to use that little Royal Irish Constabulary Webley better 
than he'd ever dreamed he could. Ann was a crackerjack teacher, patient and 
thorough and very clear in her instructions. After more or less mastering the 
Webley and overcoming his movie-instilled desire to "throw" bullets by jerking 
his hand forward, Skeeter graduated to a big six-shot Colt Double Action Army in 
.38-40 with a four and three quarter inch barrel, which Ann referred to as the 
"The Thunderer."
"This one uses the same cartridge Kit will be using in his belt revolver and his 
rifle, so you guys will have at least some ability to interchange ammunition."
"But why the shorter barrel?" Skeeter asked. "Kit's other gun has six and a half 
inches!"
"So you can draw it faster," Ann explained. "You're not as experienced with this 
as Kit, so don't argue. You need a weapon you can draw, point, and shoot fast 
and easy, without needing a lot of drilled-in practice on sight pictures and 
target acquisition techniques. I'm not going to turn you into a champion 
marksman, never mind Kit's equal, in the time you have before the gate goes, 
Skeeter. I'm going to teach you the point-shoulder technique, which ought to 
work pretty well out to ten yards or so, and you don't need a long barrel to do 
that. We're not comparing your anatomy, here, we're trying to keep you alive. So 
a four-inch barrel is what you get, my friend."
Skeeter reddened again and opted to keep his mouth shut.
For a long gun, Skeeter discovered he would be carrying a twelve gauge 
double-barrel shotgun, which he learned how to use with buckshot. It felt a 
little—granted, a very little—more like shooting a bow, which he knew how to 
use, than the handguns had. As long as his target was within fifty yards, 
Skeeter stood some chance of success with the shotgun, if he remembered to cock 
the hammers first. "I hope," he muttered to himself, after hours of practice 
with each gun, "we won't have to rely on my marksmanship to get out of this 
alive."
Kit, who had been steadily punching neat, absurdly tiny groups of holes in his 
paper targets, glanced over at Skeeter's dismal ones and grimaced. "I hope not, 
either. Keep practicing."
Skeeter felt a great deal better about the pair of Bowie knives Sven Bailey 
presented him with, one to wear openly in a sheath and one that was somewhat 
smaller, like a camp knife, to carry concealed under his shirt. "This is more 
like it," Skeeter nodded, far more at home with a blade in his hand. "And much 
better quality than what I grew up using in Yesukai's camp."
"Just try to bring them back undamaged," Sven glowered. The bladed weapons 
instructor was no taller than the diminuitive projectile weapons instructor, but 
broader and heavier boned. The epithet "evil gnome" had been hurled Sven's way 
more than once, although usually not to his face. Sven Bailey was widely 
acknowledged the most dangerous man on TT-86, which was a considerable 
accomplishment, given Kit Carson's presence on station.
"I'll take care of them," Skeeter promised with a gulp and a hasty retreat from 
Sven Bailey's armory.
Skeeter's final lesson of the day, after another intensive round of firing 
practice, involved properly cleaning a black-powder firearm in the field, using 
1885 techniques and equipment. "Clean your firearms after every use," Ann 
explained as Skeeter learned how to disassemble each of his borrowed weapons, 
"or you'll end up with a rusted, corroded piece of junk. That can happen fast, 
in a matter of days."
"What do you use?" Skeeter asked dubiously, eyeing the stack of filthy firearms.
"Soap. Not detergent, mind, but soap and water. Modern shooters usually use one 
of the liquid-formula soaps or even chemical cleaners that don't require water, 
but you won't have that luxury down the Wild West gate. You'll carry soap flakes 
or shave thin strips from an ordinary soap bar, dissolve them in hot water, and 
scrub the disassembled pieces with gun brushes. Then you oil every piece 
thoroughly to prevent rust. You'll carry a small flask of a modern substitute 
that looks and feels like sperm-whale oil and works even better, without killing 
an endangered species." She nodded to the heavy little flask Skeeter held.
Kit grunted softly, scrubbing hard at his disassembled Frontier Double Action 
with a stiff, soapy brush. "Beats what I've used, on occasion. A lot of shooters 
in the Old West carried strips of leather wrapped around lumps of lard. It 
works, but man, oh, man, does it smell."
Skeeter chuckled. "Hot iron, burnt powder, and rancid pig fat? Yeah, I'll bet it 
does. Of course," he added wryly, "I did grow up with people whose idea of haute 
cuisine was tsampa and kvess. Anything rancid smells bad, take my word for it. 
Okay, show me how to shave soap flakes and disassemble these babies."
Once Kit and Ann were satisfied that Skeeter could load, shoot, disassemble, 
clean the pistols and shotgun, then successfully reassemble them in working 
order, Ann loaded him down with ammo and cleaning supplies, gunbelts and 
holsters, all the miscellaneous gear he'd need for carrying the weapons down the 
Wild West Gate. Then, and only then, did Ann and Kit consent to let him leave 
the gun range. Reeking of burnt gunpowder and gun oil and reeling on his feet, 
Skeeter took the elevator up with Kit, who clapped him on the shoulder and told 
him he was doing fine, just fine, then got out on a different floor and left 
Skeeter to make it home under his own steam.
The hot shower he crawled into felt marvellous. As water sluiced over his skin, 
carrying away sweat and the reek of burnt powder, Skeeter discovered he couldn't 
shake the feeling that something important was eluding him, niggling at the back 
of his mind, something that didn't quite fit. 
He cast back through his memory to the day of the first station riot, the day 
Ianira Cassondra and her family had vanished without a trace. He finally put his 
finger on what was bothering him. If Jenna Caddrick's abductors had kidnapped 
them, who had rescued Marcus and the girls at the daycare center? Somebody had 
shot dead two terrorists attempting to snatch the girls. It just didn't make 
sense that the Ansar Majlis would've killed two of their own, did it? The 
terrorist leaders he and Kit had nailed were hotly protesting the kidnapping 
charge, claiming they'd never touched Jenna Caddrick.
Nobody on station believed them, of course, but given what had happened during 
that first station riot, it was just possible they were telling the truth. What 
if someone else was involved? Someone who'd known those murderous fanatics were 
planning to kill Ianira and her family? It was certain that somebody had broken 
up the attempted kidnapping at the daycare center—there'd been plenty of 
terror-stricken witnesses. Where was that somebody now? And who had he been? And 
if the Ansar Majlis hadn't snatched Caddrick's daughter, who had?
Skeeter narrowed his eyes and slicked back wet hair, scrubbing at his hide with 
soap while he went over the whole thing in his mind again, from the first sign 
of trouble to the disastrous end of the first station riot. Come to think of it, 
there'd been two people involved in the initial attack on Ianira, neither of 
whom fit the profile of terrorists carrying out a hit mission. There was that 
wild-eyed kid who'd shot the construction worker—one of the same crew that had 
later tried to kill Bergitta—and somebody else, who had knocked Skeeter and 
Ianira to the floor. 
At the time, Skeeter had thought that second person had shoved them out of the 
way to keep the wild-eyed kid from killing Ianira, but now he wasn't so sure. 
Killing that construction worker might've been accidental, if the kid had been 
aiming at Ianira. But maybe that kid had been aiming at the construction worker, 
instead? Who'd been standing right behind Ianira? If that were true, they might 
not be looking at a relatively simple case of kidnappers running with a hostage 
and setting up a hit against Ianira on their way through the station. 
Not at all.
A scowl tugged the edges of Skeeter's mouth down as spray cascaded down his 
chest. The senator's hired detective hadn't mentioned anything like this in his 
report. Skeeter narrowed his eyes, trying to recall every detail of that first 
riot. He'd glimpsed the wild-eyed kid brandishing a black-powder pistol, right 
about the time someone crashed into Skeeter and Ianira, sweeping them to the 
floor. And the kid had yelled something, too. The word "no," and a cry of fear, 
all slurred together like, "No! Ahh—"
Skeeter gasped and swallowed a mouthful of water.
Not "No, ahh—" 
Noah! Noah Armstrong! 
Skeeter blinked water out of his eyes, mind whirling in sudden confusion. Noah 
Armstrong was the terrorist leader who'd grabbed Jenna Caddrick. The Ansar 
Majlis killer who wanted the Lady of Heaven Temples destroyed. But why would a 
terrorist's hired gun intervene to stop his own hit, when that hit was about to 
be successfully carried out by his own minions on station? A coil of ice-cold 
fear slithered its way into the pit of Skeeter's belly despite the hot water 
cascading down his skin. Just what had they stumbled into the middle of, here?
If Noah Armstrong had been trying to stop Ianira Cassondra's murder . . . Then 
the information the senator had given them about Noah Armstrong and his plot to 
kidnap Jenna was suspect. Which meant the FBI and the senator's paid detective 
were wrong, too, dead wrong. He'd have to tell Kit, warn him about what they 
might be walking into, down the Wild West Gate. But not here, not on station. 
Not within reach of Senator Caddrick's electronic ears and eyes. Skeeter 
muttered under his breath and finished his shower. More trouble we need like a 
white rhino needs Chinese horn hunters. 
But if Skeeter was right, more trouble had landed squarely in their laps. Even 
worse, it looked like Skeeter was going to have to get them out of it. And that 
made for a very long and sleepless night.
 
Chapter Four
The man travelling under the name Sid Kaederman knew something had gone 
seriously wrong the moment he stepped into Time Terminal Eighty-Six. While 
children shrieked and zoomed in and out of line, parents burbled 
enthusiastically about which gates they planned to tour, bored couriers waited 
to haul through deliveries of critical supplies, and newlyweds cooed, glued 
together at lips and palms, Sid Kaederman focused his entire attention on the 
angry, close-mouthed station security and BATF agents scrutinizing new arrivals 
and their identification papers.
By the time his own turn for scrutiny came, Sid Kaederman—whose real name and 
face were a far cry from the ones he currently carried—was sweating blood and 
planning out in exquisitely barbaric detail exactly what he would do to John 
Caddrick and his missing offspring when he finally caught up to them. The time 
terminal's public address system blared nonstop, belting out messages in 
half-a-dozen different languages until Sid's eardrums ached and his temper 
approached breakpoint. He bit down and held it, though, not daring to draw 
attention to himself.
He shuffled forward in a long, snaking line, as thick and variagated as a 
reticulated python, and cleared various checkpoints: baggage handling, ticket 
verification to validate his Primary Gate pass, medical stations where his 
records were scanned in and checked against his identification paperwork. Sid 
had no real qualms about the quality of his I.D. He could afford the best in the 
business. It was the other security arrangements that worried him. Adding insult 
to injurious invasion of his accustomed privacy, Sid Kaederman found himself, 
along with every other in-bound tourist entering the station, subjected to the 
most thorough search of luggage and person conducted in the history of TT-86.
Station officials were clearly trying to prevent contraband weaponry or 
explosive devices from entering the embattled station. Fortunately, Sid 
possessed a cover story that gave him a perfectly legitimate reason to be armed: 
a private detective in Senator John Caddrick's employ. He showed his paperwork 
for the firearms he'd brought along and received his clearances from Time Tours 
and BATF security, then stalked into TT-86 nursing a silent, volcanic rage.
Shangri-La Station, for all its vaunted fame, was little more than a fancy 
shopping mall with hotels and bizarrely dressed patrons playing dress up in 
outlandish costumes. The station itself didn't much impress him, beyond its 
apparent lunacy of construction, with stairways to nowhere and steel platforms 
hanging midair for no apparent reason. What got Sid's immediate attention, 
however, was the feel of the station. The mood of Time Terminal Eighty-Six was 
explosive. If that seething anger had been aimed at the proper target, Sid 
would've been delighted; his plans called for riots and mayhem directed at 
specific, carefully chosen groups and individuals. But the meticulously planned 
fury his operatives were orchestrating against down-timers and time tourism, a 
campaign of terror and intimidation which formed a critical piece of Sid's 
long-term plans, was notably distorted on TT-86.
People were angry, all right. Murderously angry.
At exactly the wrong target.
"Who does Caddrick think he is?" a slender woman in expensive Victorian attire 
demanded, voice as strident as the colors of her costume. "That creep waltzes in 
here with a pack of armed thugs like he owns the place. Teargasses half of 
Commons and tries an armed takeover of the whole station . . ."
" . . . keeps it up, somebody's gonna shoot that son of a bitch! And I'll dance 
on his grave when they do!"
" . . . heard Caddrick can't even leave his hotel room. He's terrified the 
Angels of Grace will break his neck. And for once, I agree with that bunch of 
lunatics . . ."
" . . . hear about his fight with Kit Carson? The senator demanded a suite at 
the Neo Edo. Kit turned him down flat! God, I wish I could've seen his face. 
Jackass had to settle for the Time Tripper, because everybody else was full up 
for the Ripper Season! I hope Orva puts stinging nettle in his bedsheets . . ."
The running commentary dogged Sid's heels from the precinct surrounding Primary 
clear through the sprawling insanity of the station, all the way to the lobby of 
the Time Tripper Hotel, a modest hostelry that clearly catered to tourists on a 
limited budget. Smiling tightly at the thought of Caddrick's well-earned 
discomfiture, he placed a call to the senator's room from the lobby's courtesy 
phone. Ten minutes later, Sid found himself in a tawdry little hotel room 
littered with empty liquor bottles, facing down the disgruntled senator. John 
Caddrick's air of calm self-assurance faltered slightly when Sid allowed the 
steel to show in his gaze. The staff weenie who had escorted Sid up from the 
lobby hesitated nervously.
"That'll be all," Caddrick snapped.
The man fled. The moment Caddrick's aide closed the door, Sid exploded.
"What the goddamned hell do you think you've been doing?" 
Caddrick backed up a pace, eyes flickering in visible dismay. Sid advanced on 
him. "Are you trying to get us all electrocuted? My God, Caddrick, what 
possessed you to walk in here with federal marshals, trying to take over the 
whole goddamned station?"
"Now, listen just a minute—"
"No, you listen!" Caddrick actually jumped, then closed his mouth, lips thinning 
as his face lost color. Sid jabbed a finger at the nearest chair. Caddrick 
thought about arguing, thought better, and sat. Sid stood glaring for a long 
moment, wrestling his temper under control. 
"You are out of your mind, Caddrick, stirring up a hornet's nest like this. 
Grandstanding for the press will earn you a one way stroll to the gas chamber, 
if you're not damned careful. And I, for one, am not taking that walk with you. 
Get that very clear, right now! I'm here to contain the damage as best I can. It 
was bad enough your kid slipped through the net we threw up around New York. But 
now you've got the Inter-Temporal Court diddling in the middle of our business. 
I heard the station courier sent through placing the call the instant he came 
through Primary into the up-time lobby. Do you have any idea what an 
investigation by I.T.C.H. means?"
Caddrick had enough intelligence, at least, to lose an additional shade of 
color. "Yes." He swallowed hard enough to bounce his Adam's apple like a nervous 
bird. "I do know. That goddamned bitch of a deputy manager—"
"No! Don't lay this one on the station, Caddrick. You're responsible for this 
mess. Haven't you figured out by now, there are some people you can push and 
bully and others you have to slip up behind with a silenced gun, if you want to 
neutralize them? Didn't you even bother to do a little basic personnel research? 
That deputy station manager you're bleating about is the granddaughter of 
Coralisha Azzan!"
The senator had the grace to blanch, widening his eyes in alarm.
"Yes, you begin to see just how badly you've stepped in it, don't you? That 
woman is not going to back down, not for you or God or anybody else. And word 
out there is," he jerked his thumb toward the station Commons, "you've also 
managed to piss off Kit Carson. For God's sake, Caddrick, you'd better not buy 
that drivel about Kit Carson being a washed up has-been, playing hotel manager 
and hiding from the world. That bastard is one dangerous old man. And he's just 
as likely as the Inter-Temporal Court to start poking into your affairs, just to 
get even for threatening his station."
"But—"
"Shut up, dammit!" He had to grab his temper in both hands to keep from cracking 
the idiot across the mouth with the back of his hand. "I told you to lay low, 
Caddrick, told you to keep your nose out of this! Playing choked up Daddy for 
the press cameras up time is one thing. Throwing your weight around TT-86 and 
threatening an armed takeover of a major time terminal . . . Jeezus H. Christ, 
Caddrick, I think you've actually started to believe your own biographers! 
Nobody, not even John Paul Caddrick, is that invincible."
"What the hell was I supposed to do?" Caddrick snarled. "Sit around with my 
thumb up my ass while Jenna and that putrid little deviant Armstrong slipped 
back through this station with their evidence and took it straight to the FBI?"
Sid just looked at him, unable to believe the man's colossal stupidity. "Slip 
back through the station?" he repeated softly. "Are you out of your mind? No, 
you have to be in possession of a mind, first, to be out of it. For your 
information, Armstrong and your misbegotten little girl won't risk setting foot 
back on this station for the next year. Armstrong is nobody's fool, Caddrick. 
That bastard's given us the slip three times, already. There was never any 
danger of Armstrong or Jenna slipping back through this station with their 
evidence. Not before we could trace them and shut them up for good. Time was on 
our side, not theirs. But no, you had to stick your big, fat foot right in the 
middle of the biggest hornet's nest I've ever seen, and smash it for good 
measure."
"All right!" Caddrick snapped, "you've made your point! But things aren't nearly 
as grim as you seem to think. We know where Armstrong took Jenna and that 
down-timer bitch, Ianira Cassondra. They went through the Denver Gate. The 
station's mounting a search and rescue mission, naturally. It leaves in three 
days. All we have to do is put you on the team. Armstrong and Jenna won't live 
to testify, not to Kit Carson or anyone else on the search team."
"Kit Carson?" Sid echoed. "What does he have to do with it?"
"Carson," the senator muttered, unwilling to meet Sid's eyes, "took it upon 
himself to lead the damned search mission."
Sid Kaederman counted twenty. Twice.
"All right," he finally grated out. "What other nasty little surprises do you 
intend springing on me?" Sid listened in appalled silence as Caddrick related 
the state of affairs on TT-86. When the senator finally wound down, Sid promised 
himself to see Caddrick's career down in flames. "What's done is done," he 
muttered. "And as much as it pains me to say it, I would suggest you throw your 
excessive weight around the station manager's office one more time, because I 
don't think there's a chance in hell Kit Carson is going to allow me on that 
search and rescue mission without threats from you to put me there."
Caddrick glared at him, hatred burning in those famous grey eyes, but he picked 
up the telephone and dialed. Sid found the hotel room's wet bar, downed a full 
tumbler of scotch, and waited.
* * *
Kit Carson was too busy to watch Primary go through its antics. With only three 
days until the Denver Gate cycled, he was putting Skeeter through as much 
cram-session training as possible. Nor did Kit have any intention of being 
caught near the start of another potential riot. Skeeter Jackson, sweating and 
swearing where he'd just fallen to the gym floor's protective mat yet again, 
victim of Kit's smooth Aikido, wiped wet hair out of his eyes with the back of a 
sweaty arm and glared up at him.
"Hey, boss?"
"Yes?" Kit balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, waiting.
"You are gonna let me live long enough to walk through the Wild West Gate, 
aren't you?"
Kit just grinned, which left Skeeter muttering under his breath again. Kit 
understood enough basic Mongolian to catch the gist of what he'd just said, if 
not the specific details. "Good God, Skeeter, where'd you pick up language like 
that?"
The newly fledged Neo Edo house detective grunted and heaved himself back to his 
feet. "Pretty little thing named Houlun."
Kit blinked in surprise. "Yesukai's captive bride?"
It was Skeeter's turn to stare. "Good grief. You're the only person besides 
Nally Mundy who's ever heard of her."
Kit found himself laughing. "I've forgotten more history than Doc Mundy ever 
knew, bless him. And he would've made a fine time scout, if his health hadn't 
been so frail. So, Houlun could swear like a sailor, could she?"
Skeeter rolled his eyes. "Oh, man, could she ever. Well, she did have reason to 
be pissed off. Yesukai kidnapped her right out of her wedding procession to a 
guy from another clan. I was there when it happened. After I'd learned enough 
Mongolian to figure out what she screeched at him all the way back to Yakka Clan 
territory, I turned red for a solid week. I was only eight, after all."
Kit chuckled. "Someday—" and Skeeter's headlong rush toward Kit transformed 
itself into an abrupt need for the ex-thief to become airborne "—I'd love to 
hear the whole story."
"Oof . . ." Skeeter knew, at least, how to land, which made Kit feel better 
about the younger man's chances in a fight. He groaned and rolled over onto 
hands and knees. "No way. I ain't gonna live long enough."
"You're just soft from easy living. Now, let's try it again—"
"Hey, Kit!" Sven Bailey poked his head out of his office. "Phone! Ronisha Azzan. 
And she doesn't sound happy."
Kit and Skeeter exchanged startled glances.
"Now what?" Skeeter muttered.
"We'll find out. Take five." Kit jogged over to Sven's office, where the 
bladed-weapons instructor had gone back to sharpening a gladius. Kit grabbed the 
phone left lying on the desk. "Kit Carson."
"We've got trouble."
Echoing Skeeter, Kit said, "Now what?"
"You'd better get up here. Skeeter, too. We're adding somebody to the search 
team. And you're not going to like it."
"With Denver cycling in three days, I already don't like it. Who?"
Ronisha said very dryly, "A detective. Senator Caddrick's. He just arrived 
through Primary. He and the senator are in the aerie, demanding to see you."
Hoo, boy . . . 
"We'll be there in five." Kit didn't plan on showering first, either; honest 
sweat never hurt anybody and the senator deserved it, thrusting some up-time 
detective down their throats, without adequate time to prepare him for down-time 
work.
"What's Caddrick done now?" Sven asked, glancing up from a whetstone, where he 
was putting a keen edge on the thrusting tip of his favorite Roman short sword.
"Saddled us with some up-time detective."
"Oh, great. That's all you need."
"You're telling me. I'll see you later. If Caddrick doesn't toss us in jail for 
telling him what I think of his idea."
Sven snorted. "Yeah, right. Bull Morgan's one thing. Kit Carson, not even 
Caddrick's stupid enough to tangle with."
Rarely—very rarely—world-wide fame had its advantages. Kit grinned, then headed 
out at a jog. "Skeeter, heads up, we got trouble. We're going to the aerie."
Skeeter, rubbing gingerly at bruises, whipped around. "The aerie?"
"Come on, I'll fill you in on the way."
"But, Kit! I smell worse than my last pony at the end of a Mongolian summer!"
Kit's grin blazed. "Good."
Skeeter, bless his quick mind, chortled and fell into step beside him. 
"Caddrick, huh? Now what?" Kit told him. Skeeter rolled his eyes. "Oh, God, do 
me a favor, huh? This detective, whoever he is, make him spend six whole hours 
weighing and sorting bullets while learning how not to bake a bang-tail, will 
you?"
Kit chuckled all the way to the aerie.
Once they arrived, however, all desire to smile fled. Senator John Paul Caddrick 
was in the middle of a tirade, demanding to know where the search team was, did 
they think he had nothing better to do than cool his heels, waiting, when there 
was work to be done and if Ronisha Azzan wanted to keep her job, she'd better 
produce them in the next sixty seconds or less . . .
"Save your threats," Kit growled as he left the elevator where Skeeter was 
visibly gulping for courage. "They don't impress me. Now what's this garbage 
about adding somebody to my search team?"
John Caddrick rounded on him, mouth opening for something doubtless intended to 
be earthshattering. Then he rocked back on his heels and thought better of it. 
"As I live and breathe . . . Your manners always were atrocious, Carson."
Kit ignored the insult and came straight to the point. "What's this about 
saddling me with a detective you want to tag along?"
Caddrick started to reply, then evidently caught a whiff of Kit's gym-clothes 
perfume, because the senator stepped back a pace, nostrils pinching shut, as Kit 
advanced. It was a minor psychological victory, forcing the senator to give 
ground, but it served to put Caddrick slightly off-stride and that was exactly 
where Kit wanted him. He pressed his momentary advantage.
"You do realize how stupid it is, how dangerously stupid, sending somebody 
without down-time experience on a mission like this? And with only three days' 
worth of prep time? We're not heading for New Hollywood, Caddrick. People who 
don't know what they're doing can get themselves killed all sorts of messy ways 
in 1885, even without chasing armed terrorists."
"I would point out," Caddrick said coldly, "that Wardmann-Wolfe agents are the 
most experienced in the business. Sid Kaederman has more than impressed me with 
his credentials. He's the man for this job and I insist he be added to the 
search team."
Kit flicked his gaze to the man seated behind Caddrick, a serenely unruffled man 
with dark hair and fair skin who looked to be in his mid-thirties and might have 
been as much as ten years older. Or younger. He was already dressed for the 
Denver Gate, in a fancy-cut Eastern gentleman's suit with an embroidered silk 
vest. He sported a silver-headed cane that doubtless concealed a lethal sword. 
Christ, he looks like a riverboat gambler. That's all we need. Short, compact, 
probably well muscled under that fancy costume, he had the kind of face that 
would've looked equally at home in a Wall Street brokerage firm, on a fishing 
trawler in the North Sea, or cutting through a bank vault with acetylene torch 
and plastic explosives. His gaze, as he returned Kit's appraising stare, was 
direct enough, yet hooded and wary as any predator's faced with an unknown 
opponent. 
"Mr. Carson," he said softly, rising with abrupt, easy grace that spoke of 
superb conditioning, but probably not much martial arts training, "Sid 
Kaederman's the name."
He offered a hand. Kit shook it, detecting in the process a slight roughening of 
callus along the pad of his index finger, suggesting long hours of practice on a 
firing range, using a trigger with grooves cut into it. "Mr. Kaederman. How many 
temporal gates have you stepped through? And how well can you handle a horse?"
A tiny smile came and went. "I've never been down a time gate, actually. I 
confine my work to the up-time world. And rarely indulge in vacations. As for 
horses, I've never had any trouble dominating lesser creatures. I can ride well 
enough to suit even you."
Kit ignored the veiled insult. "A search-and-rescue into the Rockies of 1885 on 
the trail of known terrorists with hostages isn't a quick jog down a bridle 
trail at some dude ranch or urban riding club. And I won't be putting you on the 
back of a well-trained hack used to beginners. The Old West doesn't bear much 
resemblance to the up-time urban world where Wardmann-Wolfe agents pick up most 
of their clients. Just exactly what does qualify you for a mission like this? If 
you don't mind?"
A glint that might have been humor—or something else entirely—appeared in 
Kaederman's dark eyes. "Apart from anything else, I'm going because my employer 
will shut down this station if I'm not on the team. Senator Caddrick has made it 
quite clear that he doesn't trust any effort put forth by this station. More to 
the point, we're dealing with Ansar Majlis. Terrorists, I do understand. Very 
thoroughly."
Caddrick had them over a barrel and Kit knew it. Worse, he knew that Sid 
Kaederman knew it, too, and was amused. Kit shrugged, conceding defeat in the 
only way possible. "If you're thrown by your nag the first time it steps on a 
rattler or hears a puma scream, you're on your own. As team leader, I won't take 
the time to nursemaid an injured greenhorn back to the Denver gatehouse. If you 
don't have an acceptable kit thrown together by the time the gate cycles, too 
bad. You'll either miss the gate or find yourself on your own to furnish it down 
time, because I won't wait for you to buy or rent items you should've been 
acquiring days ago."
"I'll do my best not to disappoint." Dry, self-assured, amused once again.
Kit snorted. "Frankly, Kaederman, I don't give a damn whether you disappoint me 
or not. Do your job or you'll be looking for another one. Senator," he glanced 
at Caddrick, "since you insist on including Mr. Kaederman on the search and 
rescue team, you can pay the bill. Send him to Ann Vinh Mulhaney for appropriate 
historical arms. I'd suggest a Remington suite," he added, glancing at the fancy 
cut of Kaederman's clothes.
The senator blinked. "A what?"
Caddrick, who had introduced some of the most draconian anti-gun legislation in 
the history of Western civilization, clearly had no idea what Kit was talking 
about.
Kit glanced directly at Kaederman. "As a Wardmann-Wolfe detective, you doubtless 
know how to use modern guns. But you won't have the slightest idea what to carry 
for 1885."
"Black-powder firearms can't be any more challenging than service-rifle 
competitions."
Kit raised his brows. "You've done long distance shooting, then? All right. 
We'll start you out with, say, the Remington Model 1875 single action revolver 
in .44-40 and a Remington Number Three rifle in .45-70, the Hepburn 
falling-block model. Tell Ann to put Creedmore sights on it, and if you take the 
time to learn it, that'll give us a half-mile range if we end up in a 
long-distance shootout with the Ansar Majlis. And put a .41 Remington derringer 
in your fancy coat pocket, Mr. Kaederman, if you want a hideout gun. Just be 
careful you don't blow your foot off with it. Those derringers don't have safety 
mechanisms and the firing pins are longer than the breech faces. Drop one hammer 
down, it'll blow a .41 caliber hole in your gut. Get Ann to show you how to 
safely load and unload it. Tell her to bill the senator. Meet me in the 
station's library first thing after dinner. You've got a lot of research ahead, 
if you want to go on this mission. Now, if you'll excuse us, Mr. Jackson and I 
have some unfinished business waiting."
Senator Caddrick sputtered, "Now, wait just a damned minute—"
Kit narrowed his eyes and held Caddrick's gaze coldly. "Those are my terms, S 
enator. You hired him. So don't try to blackmail the station into paying his 
expenses. Those are your problem. Mr. Kaederman," he nodded curtly, "I'll see 
you at the library, six-thirty sharp. Don't be late."
Skeeter all but tripped over his own feet, rushing into the elevator ahead of 
Kit. Senator Caddrick was still sputtering. But as the elevator doors slid shut, 
Sid Kaederman gave Kit a small, satisifed smile and a tiny flick of the fingers 
at his brow, acknowledging a minor victory in the murderous little game in which 
they were embroiled. Skeeter Jackson rearranged sweat on his forehead with a 
glistening forearm. "Sheesh, Kit, you really do like to live dangerously, don't 
you?"
"Skeeter," he sighed as the elevator carried them down toward Commons, "there's 
only one thing infinitely worse than running a luxury hotel on a time terminal."
"What's that?"
"Not having a time terminal to run that hotel on."
To that, Skeeter had no reply whatsover.
* * *
Catharine "Kate" Eddowes generally enjoyed her annual trek out to the fields of 
Kent to work the harvest. Picking hops wasn't as difficult as some jobs she'd 
done and the Kentish countryside was almost like a great garden, full of flowers 
and green fields and fresh, crisp air. Moreover, John Kelly, with whom she had 
shared a bed more or less continuously for seven years, almost always benefitted 
from the change to the countryside, where the cleaner air eased his constant 
cough.
But this year, things were different.
Late September was generally warm and beautiful. But the whole summer had been 
unseasonably chilly and full of rain. By the time they arrived in Kent, the late 
September weather was raw. Working sunup to sundown in wet, cold fields, John 
Kelly's health deteriorated alarmingly.
"It's no use, John," she finally said. "We can't stay the season, this time. 
You'll catch your death, so you will, and then what'll become of me, luv? I need 
you, John Kelly."
Tears of defeat and shame caused him to turn aside, but by nightfall, his cough 
had grown so alarmingly worse, he agreed to abandon the hop harvest, even though 
it meant giving up money they both needed. They had no choice but return to 
London, where they could at least find a dry room for Kelly to sleep in at 
night. It was a long walk from Hunton, Kent back to London, but they hadn't any 
money for a train, so walk it they did, in the company of another couple they'd 
met working the same fields.
"We're off for Cheltenham," their newfound friends said as they came to the 
turning for London, "so we'll say goodbye and luck to you. Kate, look here, I've 
got a pawn ticket for a flannel shirt up there in London, why don't you take it? 
It's only for two pence, but the shirt might fit your old man, there, and I'd 
say he needs a bit of a warm shirt, what with that cough of his."
"Thank you." Catharine accepted the crumpled pawn ticket gratefully. "I worry 
about John's health, with the cold weather coming and us with no money. It's 
good to us, you are." She slipped the ticket into one of her pockets, next to 
the wrinkled letter she'd bought from Annie Chapman, poor soul, the letter she'd 
been too terrified to have translated, after what had happened to poor Annie. 
And Dark Annie had confessed to buying the letters from Polly Nichols, who was 
also brutally dead.
Maybe the smartest thing would be to get rid of the letter altogether?
Just throw it away or burn it, never even try to have it translated?
As they waved goodbye and set out walking again, taking the fork in the road 
that would lead them back to London, Catharine stole worried glances at John. 
His color wasn't good and his breathing was labored. His kidney complaint had 
flared up again, too, given the number of times he had to stop along the 
roadside and from the way he rubbed his side and back from time to time, when he 
thought she wasn't looking. They needed money for a doctor and medicine, just as 
poor Annie had, and they'd very little left to sell or pawn to obtain it. They'd 
so counted on the money from the hop harvest to see them through the winter and 
now there wouldn't be anything in reserve at all, with the coldest months yet to 
come.
I'll have to find out what's in the letter, Kate realized with a shiver, I'll 
have to find who wrote it, if I want my John to live 'til spring. Too bad them 
coppers won't put up a reward for that Whitechapel murderer what's done in Polly 
and Annie. She didn't want to try blackmailing the author of the filthy thing, 
not after what had become of its previous owners, but she didn't know what else 
to do.
Well, she told herself, there are plenty of Welshmen in the East End, so there 
are, surely one of them can tell me what's in this precious letter of Annie's. 
Pity John doesn't speak Welsh, then I wouldn't have to worry about sharing the 
money with whoever translates it for me. Maybe I can pawn the flannel shirt 
somewhere else and use the money to pay someone to read it out for me in 
English? 
Her stomach rumbled, as empty as the pocket she reserved for cash when she had 
any. John Kelly, striding gamely along despite his labored breathing, glanced 
over and smiled briefly. "Heard that, luv," he chuckled. "Hungry, are we?"
"I could stand a meal," she admitted, aware that he would be just as hungry as 
she and in greater need of food, what with fighting off two kinds of illness. 
"Don't fret about it John Kelly, we'll get to town all right, even if we're 
hungry when we get there, and you always manage to earn a few pence, luv, so 
we'll have ourselves a hot supper soon enough."
And she could always earn a few pence, herself, if it came to that. She only 
resorted to selling herself when their circumstances became truly desperate. But 
whenever he fell ill, they had to have money, and Kate Eddowes was not too proud 
to earn fourpence any way she could. And her daughter, doubtless prompted by her 
new husband, had taken to moving about the south end of London with such 
frequency, Kate often found it difficult to trace the girl and ask for tuppence.
She'd try to find her daughter again when they got to town, first thing after 
securing a bed at their old lodging house, down to 55 Flower and Dean Street. 
They'd pawn something to raise the money for food and the bed, then she'd find 
her little girl and try to get more cash, and if that didn't work, then she'd 
jolly well find some drunken Welshman who wanted a quick fourpenny knee trembler 
and trade herself for a translation of Annie Chapman's letter. Once she had 
that, there'd be plenty of money for John Kelly's medicines and her own gin and 
as many warm, dry beds as they wanted, for the rest of their lives. And whoever 
had butchered Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman would find himself dangling from 
the end of a gallows rope. Kate Eddowes had once made a fair living, writing and 
selling cheap books of lives at public hangings. She suppressed a wry smile. 
Wouldn't it be ironic, now, if she ended up making her fortune from a little 
gallows book about the Whitechapel Murderer?
* * *
A fierce sky shimmered like an inverted bowl of beaten bronze. Dust, hot and 
acrid, bit Skeeter's throat despite the bandanna tied across his lower face. 
Skeeter shifted his weight in the saddle once again, nursing a blinding headache 
and a prickle of heat rash under his dirty, grit-filled clothes. The constant 
shift and sway of his horse under aching thighs reminded Skeeter forcefully how 
long it'd been since he'd done any sustained riding. He was a good rider. 
Skeeter had, in a different lifetime, felt at home on anything a saddle could be 
thrown across. But after years of easy living on Shangri-La Station, he was 
simply—sadly—out of practice. And thanks to Sid Kaederman's irritating, smug 
presence, somehow contriving to be constantly underfoot without ever becoming 
downright intrusive, Skeeter hadn't found even three seconds alone with Kit to 
air his suspicions about Noah Armstrong.
Why couldn't Armstrong have picked January to go on the lam, rather than July? 
Heat fell like water down into the narrow draw where their string of ponies 
clattered and clopped along a so-called trail. And why couldn't that pack of 
black-powder enthusiasts have picked a spot closer to civilization for their 
Wild West shootout? He and Kit had figured Armstrong would ditch the time tour 
first chance, heading for someplace crowded. San Francisco, maybe. Chicago or 
New York, if he really wanted to get lost. Searching an entire continent for 
Noah Armstrong and his hostages had not been Skeeter's notion of a good time, 
although he cheerfully would do just that, to catch up to Ianira and her family.
But Armstrong hadn't done that. Travelling in the guise of Joey Tyrolin, 
drunkard and braggadocio, Armstrong hadn't even ditched the black-powder 
competition tour. Instead, the terrorist ringleader had ridden up into the 
mountains with the rest of the eager shooters, presumably with his hostages 
still under duress. Why Armstrong had stuck to the competition group, not even 
Kit could figure. And Sid Kaederman, who had boasted so suavely of understanding 
terrorists, offered no explanation at all, merely shrugging his shoulders.
So Kit and Skeeter and the Wardmann-Wolfe agent followed their trail, which 
meant they took the train from Denver down to Colorado Springs, then saddled up 
and headed west toward Pikes Peak for the distant, abandoned mining camp where 
the competition was underway. Kurt Meinrad, the temporal guide detailed to their 
mission by Granville Baxter, had rounded up a short train of pack mules to haul 
their supplies. An hour onto the trail, Sid Kaederman began to shift ceaselessly 
in his saddle, obviously suffering from the unaccustomed activity. He finally 
urged his horse up alongside their guide's. "Why did that pack of idiots come 
clear out here to hold some stupid competition? Why not just stay in Denver? 
There weren't any gun-control laws in effect yet, so why come out to the middle 
of nowhere?"
Meinrad, face weathered to old leather by years of guiding time tourists through 
these mountains, turned easily in his saddle. "They wanted the feel of a real 
Old West event, which isn't possible in Denver. The city's too grown up, too 
civilized. Millionaires who made their fortunes in the gold and silver booms 
have turned Denver into a miniature copy of cities back East, with fancy houses, 
artwork imported from Europe, and some of the most snobbish society you'll ever 
meet. Nouveau riche are always edgy about proving how superior their cultured 
manners are and the Denver Four Hundred are among the worst."
Kaederman just grunted and shifted again, trying to get comfortable.
"What they wanted was an abandoned mining town back in the hills, with plenty of 
old buildings and rusting equipment lying around to be shot at and hidden 
behind. The trouble is, not many camps are abandoned yet. The big strikes 
started in the 1850s, at places like Central City, with more coming in the '70s, 
at Animas Forks and Apex and Leadville. They're all boom towns, full of miners 
and drunken hopefuls and prostitutes and enterprising merchants making fortunes 
selling supplies at outrageous prices. You can't hold this kind of competition 
in a boom town, so we decided on Mount MacIntyre." When Kaederman gave him a 
baffled look, Meinrad chuckled. "The town's been deserted for years. In fact, 
the legendary Cripple Creek strike was actually ignored for twelve years, 
because of Mount MacIntyre."
Skeeter, intrigued despite Kaederman's irritating presence, asked, "How come? 
Even I've heard of Cripple Creek. I can't believe gold-hungry miners would 
ignore a strike that rich for twelve whole years!"
Meinrad grinned. "Well, a guy name of Chicken Bill claimed he'd struck ore that 
assayed out at two thousand dollars to the ton—quite a motherload, even for this 
area. Trouble was, the whole thing was a hoax. Miners flooded in and ripped the 
countryside to shreds, looking, and all they found was dust and bedrock. Folks 
got to calling it the Mount Pisgah Hoax, through a mix-up in locales, so when 
drunken old Bob Womack found ore worth two hundred dollars a ton at Mount Pisgah 
back in '78, nobody would believe it. They still don't. It'll be another five 
years, 1890, before a German count by the name of Pourtales proves Womack right. 
Then, of course, Cripple Creek becomes a legend, particularly after the fires of 
'96 burn the whole town to the ground. By 1902, they'll be bringing twenty-five 
million a year out of Cripple Creek's gold mines, but right now, the whole 
region is deserted, thanks to the Mount Pisgah Hoax."
Skeeter chuckled. "Which really happened at Mount MacIntyre. Sounds like the 
perfect place to hold a black-powder competition. And if folks do a little 
prospecting on the sly, down toward Mount Pisgah, who's going to complain?"
Meinrad laughed. "Certainly not the BATF. They'll get their cut of any nuggets 
brought home. Anyway, there's enough local color to give our competitors all the 
Old West they can stomach." He glanced at the unhappy detective, who was 
shifting uncomfortably in the saddle again. "Don't worry, Kaederman, you'll 
survive, although your thighs might not thank you for it. You shouldn't develop 
saddle galls, that only happens when your clothes and your gear don't fit 
proper, but if you do, you can smear them with a salve I always bring along for 
the greenhorns." He grinned and tapped his saddle bags. "Antiseptic, antibiotic, 
and plenty of anesthetic to deaden the pain."
The thought of the insufferable Mr. Kaederman smearing saddle galls in his fancy 
backside cheered Skeeter no end. Kaederman's performance for the press at their 
departure had been enough to earn Skeeter's enmity for life, standing there 
sucking up to that overweening toad, Caddrick, calmly assuring the newsies that 
he would personally see Jenna Caddrick safely back to her father's care, a job 
clearly beyond the capabilities of the station's search team.
Skeeter would've given a great deal to jab a straight pin in the man's rump 
during that so-called press briefing, just to watch him yelp. He already dreaded 
the hullaballoo waiting for their return. The next newsie who stuck a microphone 
in Skeeter's face and shouted, "Is it true you're running a con-game on the 
senator, taking advantage of his bereavement?" would get a mouthful of 
unpleasantness, courtesy of the nearest object not fastened to the floor.
Meanwhile . . .
There were two ways to reach the dud mines at Mount MacIntyre, from Colorado 
Springs. They could loop around to the north, through Woodland Park Divide then 
down through Florissant toward Cripple Creek, or they could ride south past 
Victor, then swing north around the flank of mountains in the way. Either route 
would take time, but the northern trail was longer, so Meinrad chose the route 
down past Victor. They'd left the Colorado Springs rail station near midmorning, 
moving at a steady lope that wouldn't put too great a strain on the horses. By 
the time the sun was low over the shoulders of the Rockies, Skeeter was bushed, 
far worse than their tough mountain ponies. The canyon they'd been following 
finally opened out into a moonscape of blasted, barren hillsides where nothing 
but scrub grew along deep, eroded gullies. Gold mining country. 
They straggled along in a stretched-out line, rounding enormous mounds of broken 
rock and silt left to bake in the hot sun, and came at length to a ridge above a 
ramshackle town. The mining camp sprawled between piles of tailings, sluice 
flumes, open-pit mine works, boarded-over mine shafts, and the meanders of a 
sparkling river which caught the hot sun in diamond flashes. Water rippled and 
spilled its glittering way over and around immense boulders which had been 
blasted down from the surrounding mountainsides.
A sharp report cracked on the still air, prompting Skeeter's pony to shift under 
his thighs. He controlled the uneasy animal with his legs, settling it down to 
blow restively and champ its bit. A long, dry wooden flume teetered its way a 
good three-hundred feet down a barren hillside to the valley floor. Down beside 
it, a cloud of blue-grey smoke puffed out onto the hot afternoon air. The smoke 
hung above the flume's broken sides for a moment before gradually dissipating. A 
hundred feet away, another puff of smoke appeared as a second shot was fired 
from the vicinity of a ramshackle livery stable.
Then a galloping horse burst out of the stable and shot across a broad stretch 
of open ground at a dead run. The rider, leaning low over his horse's neck, drew 
smoothly from a right-handed hip holster and fired at the side of the flume. 
Smoke bellied out and hung on the still air. Dust swirled up from thundering 
hooves as the rider holstered his six-gun, then reached across to his left hip 
and pulled a second enormous pistol from a cross-draw. He fired again as the 
galloping horse shot past the flume. He reholstered at full gallop and raced 
down to a shack at the edge of the clearing.
The sweating rider pulled up hard on the reins and hauled his mount to a 
slithering stop. Then he drew from his right-hand holster again and twisted 
around, firing a shot at the flume over his shoulder. Kicking his horse into 
motion, he reholstered once more as the animal swept around the shed and 
galloped back toward the rickety wooden watercourse. Another cross-draw shot 
from the left-hand hip and the horse raced past the flume to the livery stable. 
A sharp whistle sounded as the horse galloped back inside, hidden by a cloud of 
dust.
"Time!" a man's voice rang out from one of the abandoned houses. Then, "Reset! 
And . . . Next shooter up!"
This time, Skeeter saw a man crouched behind the flume, positioned several yards 
uphill from the mounted rider's target. The guy at the flume ran downhill and 
yanked targets from either side of the dilapidated wooden structure, hastily 
tacking up new ones for the next contestant. He ran back uphill and jumped into 
a pit which protected him from flying lead. He then drew a revolver and fired 
into the air. At that signal, another shot rang out from the livery stable. 
This time Skeeter saw the puff of dust fly up from the dry, brittle wood as lead 
struck a target. Then a second galloping horse shot out into the open, the 
second rider also leaning low. This contestant wore his six-guns butt forward. 
The rider fired both shots at the flume as his horse, a big paint with brown 
splotches down its flanks, raced past. Again, the rider galloped to the shed, 
where he pulled up hard, his single-leather reins hooking down under his belt 
buckle as he snugged his horse's head back for the sliding stop. He fired the 
over-the-shoulder shot and reholstered, then urged his mount forward, letting 
the reins slide forward. 
The single leather strap hooked itself under his second, butt-forward pistol, 
and dragged it out of the holster neat as anything. The gun flipped midair and 
landed in the dust with a disastrous thunk. The rider froze in dismay for a 
long, penalizing second. Then he scrambled out of the saddle and retrieved his 
piece, lunged back into the saddle again with a one-footed dancing hop, and 
urged his mount around the shed. He had to circle it again, to give himself time 
to reholster his gun and draw it correctly for the shot on the return gallop.
Skeeter chuckled. "I'll bet that guy's cussing a streak by the time he gets back 
to the livery stable."
Kit glanced around. "Yes. And if that was a real shootout, down there, he'd 
probably be an embarrassed corpse right about now."
Skeeter sobered. "Point taken."
The judge in the abandoned house called, "Time!" and Kurt Meinrad put hands to 
lips and gave out a loud, drawn-out whistle. Then he yelled, "Halluuuu!" For a 
moment, all was still in the abandoned mining town; then doors were flung open 
and abruptly the place swarmed with life. Men in faded, dusty denim work pants 
and checked shirts or fringed buckskins came out of hiding from a dozen 
buildings. Women, too, some clad in buckskins like the men, others in long 
prairie skirts and frontier-rugged dresses, with wide-brimmed bonnets to shade 
their faces from the fierce sun, came running excitedly from seemingly abandoned 
structures. Down beside the disused ore flume, the target changer waved up at 
them and returned Meinrad's vigorous greeting.
"Move out," Meinrad called.
Kit Carson's thump of heels to his pony's sides was almost as weary as Skeeter's 
own. The retired scout hadn't been in a saddle any more recently than Skeeter 
had—and while Kit was as lean and tough as old belt leather left too long in the 
sun, he wasn't getting any younger. The sight of the toughest man Skeeter knew, 
just as whacked out as he was, cheered Skeeter a little. They rode silently into 
"town" while the re-enactment shooters assembled in front of the ramshackle 
livery stable. Someone had refurbished the stalls and corral sufficiently to 
house several dozen horses, but only a dozen or so were in sight. He spotted 
drifts of smoke from the chimneys of several tumble-down houses, their windows 
long since broken out by storms and wild animals.
A thickset man in his thirties, holding a Spencer repeater propped easily across 
one shoulder, blinked up at their guide. Skeeter recognized the man vaguely as 
one of Time Tours' Denver guides, who spent most of his career down time. The 
guide was staring at them in open puzzlement. "Kurt Meinrad! I didn't figure 
they'd send you out here! Weren't you supposed to be on vacation by now? Not 
that I'm sorry to see you. I told that courier we needed the best help there 
was. You must've been sitting in the Denver gate house, to get here this fast."
Skeeter swung himself out of the saddle as Meinrad and Kit, the latter all but 
unrecognizable under gritty dust, dismounted. The ground was hard under 
Skeeter's boot soles, baked dry by the blazing summer sun. The town smelt of 
woodsmoke, sulphurous gun powder, hot sunlight on dust, and human sweat. Skeeter 
reeked of overheated horse.
"Courier?" Kit asked sharply. "What courier? We're not here because of any 
courier."
The Time Tours guide with the Spencer glanced at Kit, then did a classic 
double-take. "Good God! Kit Carson? No, they certainly wouldn't have sent you to 
answer my call for help. What in God's name are you doing here?"
Kit shook his head. "Never mind that now. Why'd you send out a courier? What 
kind of trouble did you need help with?"
"Two murders, is what," the man grunted, spitting tobacco juice to one side with 
a brown splat. "Two stinking murders and four disappearing tourists." When 
Skeeter groaned under his breath, the man glanced from Kit to Skeeter to Sid 
Kaederman and shot a worried look at Kurt Meinrad, then held out a meaty hand to 
Kit. "Orson Travers. Let's get you settled in before I give you the details. 
It's hot as blazes out here and you men look to need a good, cold drink before 
we start poking into this mess."
Kit nodded, clearly impatient with the delay, but acknowledged their need to 
slap the dust off and slake their thirst and care for their horses. "Pleasure to 
meet you, Mr. Travers. This is Skeeter Jackson, Neo Edo House Detective. And Mr. 
Sid Kaederman, private detective with the Wardmann-Wolfe Agency."
"Gentlemen," Orson Travers said gravely. "My drovers'll see to your ponies and 
settle your pack mules. We'll go up to the saloon and talk things out. I got a 
funny feeling our trouble's related to whatever you're doing here with two 
detectives."
So did Skeeter. And from the look on his face, so did Kit. What Sid Kaederman 
thought, Skeeter didn't care. John Caddrick's pet snoop could jump over the 
nearest cliff, if he wanted to do something really useful. 
"Saloon is up that way," Travers pointed.
Shortly, Skeeter found himself in a mended wooden chair sipping cool water from 
a chipped enamel cup. Tourists crowded into the ramshackle saloon to listen. 
Skeeter didn't see a single face in that crowd that could possibly have belonged 
to Noah Armstrong or Jenna Caddrick, let alone his missing friends. He was 
seriously worried that he knew exactly who was dead and who was missing.
"All right," Kit said quietly when the last of the tour group had crowded in. 
"You say you've lost six people. I'm betting your bad news will tie in with 
ours. We're here on a search and rescue mission. One that will either keep 
Shangri-La operational or see the station closed down, depending on how well we 
do our jobs." He studied the whole group closely. "I don't see Joey Tyrolin 
anywhere. Or Cassie Coventina."
Orson Travers ran a hand across his sweat-soaked face and hair. "No, you won't. 
That's the trouble I mentioned." Travers grimaced. "There was an ambush, out on 
the endurance course. Two tourists dead, shot to death by God only knows who. 
One of their horses, too. And another tourist lit out during the confusion, just 
skied up with everything he owned. Took his porter with him, the porter and his 
kids, who weren't even supposed to be out here. Bull Morgan and Granville Baxter 
will have my job," he added glumly, "losing six members of my tour group in one 
day."
Skeeter hardly dared breathe. Who was dead and who was on the run? The porter 
with the children could be nobody but Marcus, with Gelasia and Artemisia. Only 
who was with them? Ianira? Might his friends be safe, after all, running for 
their lives out in the mountains? But two people were dead—and there'd been six 
hostages. Quite abruptly, Skeeter needed to know just who had died, up here. He 
found himself on his feet, voice grating harshly through the dust and weariness. 
"Show me the bodies."
Travers hesitated. "There's more to this than you realize, Mr. Jackson—"
"Show me the goddamned bodies!"
Kit was on his feet, as well. "Easy, Skeeter," he said, voice low. Then, to 
Travers, "You'd better show us. I take it you didn't send the bodies back with 
the courier?"
"I thought I'd better wait until the search party got back. I was hoping to find 
our deserters and send them back together, but the trackers haven't shown up 
yet, so I sent a rider on ahead to Denver. I wanted him to get there before the 
gate cycled, but if you didn't run across him, he obviously didn't make it." 
Travers nodded toward a doorway at the rear of the room. "We embalmed 'em from 
the medical kits and put 'em in body bags, back in the saloon's storage pantry. 
It's the most secure place in town. Didn't want the local wildlife getting to 
them, after all. Our surgeon went with the search team, just in case."
"Paula Booker?" Kit asked sharply.
Travers nodded. "After what happened on the trail, there was no stopping her. 
Said she could've saved one of 'em, if she'd gotten to him in time. I've never 
seen a woman so upset in all my born days."
Kit sighed, weariness etched into his grizzled features. "Open it up, please. 
Let's get this over with."
Skeeter and Kit followed Travers into the next room, leaving Kaederman to bring 
up the rear. None of the tourists volunteered to go with them. A sickening, 
sweet stench met them when the heavy door groaned open. A moment later, zippers 
went down on the body bags and Skeeter found himself staring at two dead men. 
One was a stranger, thank God. The other . . .
Even expecting the worst, Skeeter lurched, the shock took him so hard. The dusty 
room, the sun-baked mountains beyond the broken windows, swooped and dove for a 
long, dizzy instant. Skeeter clutched at the open doorframe. He heard his voice, 
distant and strange, saying, "I'm gonna break the neck of the bastard who did 
this . . ."
Julius had been gut-shot. He'd clearly survived the fatal wound long enough to 
reach camp and Paula Booker, because someone had taken stitches before he'd 
died. Kit's hand settled on Skeeter's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Skeeter." The 
scout's voice had filled with a compassion that would've touched him, had the 
pain not been so sharp and terrible.
"Dammit, Kit! That boy wasn't even seventeen yet!" Skeeter jerked around, 
half-blind and not wanting Kit to notice. He was set to stride out of the 
monstrous little room, to get outside, to breathe down some fresh air, when he 
noticed Sid Kaederman. The detective had come up quietly behind them to peer 
past their shoulders. Even through Skeeter's blinding grief, Sid Kaederman's 
sudden deathly stillness brought Skeeter's instincts to full, quivering alert. 
He'd seen that kind of lethal tension before, in one or two of Yesukai's most 
deadly warriors, men who would've cheerfully slit a friend's throat for looking 
crosswise in their direction. The look in Kaederman's eyes set the tiny hairs 
along Skeeter's nape starkly erect.
Kaederman was staring down at the bodies. And for one unguarded moment, Skeeter 
glimpsed a look of naked shock in his cold eyes. Skeeter followed Kaederman's 
gaze and realized he wasn't staring at the murdered down-time teenager, but at 
the other corpse, a man who'd been shot several times through the back, by the 
look of the wounds. Kaederman's sudden stillness, the stunned disbelief in his 
eyes, set inner alarms ringing.
Without warning, Kit had Skeeter by the arm. "Easy, Skeeter, you're awfully 
white around the mouth. Let's get you outside, get some fresh air into your 
lungs. I know what a terrible shock this is . . ." The former scout was 
literally dragging him across the saloon's warped floor, past the gawking 
tourists, outside into the hot sunlight where the air was fresh and a slight 
breeze carried away the stink of death. An instant after that, the scout thrust 
a metal flask into his hand and said a shade too loudly, "Swallow this, Skeeter, 
it'll help."
Whatever Kit was up to, Skeeter decided to play along, since it had taken them 
out of Kaederman's immediate presence for the moment. Whatever was in the flask, 
it scalded the back of his throat. Skeeter swallowed another mouthful as Kit 
steered him down toward the livery stable, one hand solicitously guiding him by 
the arm, as though taking a distraught and grieving friends away from curious 
eyes. When they were far enough from the saloon, Kit muttered, "What the hell 
did you see in Sid Kaederman's face, Skeeter, that caused you to come out of 
shock so fast? One second, you were falling apart, ready to bawl, and the next 
you looked like you were ready to kill Kaederman where he stood."
Skeeter glanced into Kit's hard blue eyes. "That why you hustled me out of there 
so fast?"
Kit snorted. "Damn straight, I did. Didn't want Kaederman to notice the look on 
your face. Left him staring at the bodies."
"Huh. Well, that's exactly what stopped me in my tracks. The way he was looking 
at those bodies. Got any idea why the senator's pet bloodhound would go into 
shock, looking at a dead drover? Because for just a split second, Sid Kaederman 
was the most stunned man in this entire camp. Like he knew the guy, or 
something, and didn't expect to find him dead on a pantry floor."
Kit let out a long, low whistle. "I find that mighty interesting, don't you?"
"Interesting? That's not the half of it. There's something screwy about 
Caddrick's story, all that guff he fed us about Noah Armstrong. Either 
Caddrick's lying, or somebody fed him a line, because I'm starting to think Noah 
Armstrong didn't kidnap anybody. And maybe he's not a terrorist, at all."
Kit halted mid-stride, his lean and weathered face falling into lines of 
astonishment. Grimly, Skeeter told him, all of it. About the wild-eyed kid who'd 
shouted Noah's name. "And I'm willing to bet," Skeeter added, "it was Noah 
Armstrong who shot the Ansar Majlis gunmen in the daycare center, when those 
bastards tried to grab Ianira's kids. They lit out through the Wild West Gate, 
came up here, and after somebody murdered Julius, Noah Armstrong went on the run 
with Marcus and the girls. Only . . . Why was Julius posing as a girl?" That 
part bothered Skeeter. It didn't fit anywhere.
"I wonder," Kit mused softly, "just who Julius was supposed to be? Why, indeed, 
pose as a girl? Unless, of course, he was acting as a decoy for someone."
"Jenna Caddrick?" Skeeter gasped.
"Isn't any other candidate I can see. But why? And if Noah Armstrong isn't Ansar 
Majlis, then who the hell is he? And how did he know there would be an attack on 
Ianira and her family?"
"I've been asking myself those very same questions," Skeeter muttered. "Along 
with the name of that wild-eyed kid in the crowd."
"You said he was carrying a black-powder pistol?"
Skeeter nodded.
"It would be very interesting," Kit said, scratching the back of his neck 
absently, "to know if that gun had once been registered to Carl McDevlin."
Skeeter stared. "You mean—that kid might've been Jenna Caddrick? Disguised as a 
boy?"
Kit's grimace spoke volumes. "She disappeared in the company of Noah Armstrong, 
whoever he turns out to be. And we know Jenna's a Templar. That gives her a 
powerful motive to protect Ianira's life. Jenna would certainly be in a position 
to suspect Ianira's life was in danger, after the attack that killed her aunt 
and roommate."
Skeeter whistled softly. "I don't like this, Kit. Not one stinking little bit."
"Neither do I," Kit growled, kicking savagely at a dirt clod under his boot toe. 
It exploded into a shower of dust. "But then, I already didn't like it, and I've 
never had any reason to trust a single word that came sideways out of John 
Caddrick's mouth. The question I want answered is what motive Caddrick would 
have for lying about Noah Armstrong. Surely the FBI would be able to corroborate 
or disprove his claim that Armstrong is a terrorist?"
Skeeter said uneasily, "Maybe Caddrick bought the FBI? It's been done before."
Kit shot him an intense, unreadable glance, then swore in a language Skeeter 
didn't recognize. "Skeeter, I really hate it when you say things like that. 
Because I have this terrible feeling you may just be right."
"Great. So what are we going to do about it?"
"First," and Kit's face closed into a lean, deadly mask, "we find out just what 
happened in this camp that left two men dead and Marcus on the run for his life, 
with his kids. Then, we track down Armstrong and our friends. Before another 
pack of Ansar Majlis killers beats us to it."
As they headed back for the dusty saloon, Skeeter wondered uneasily about yet 
another mystery: just what Sid Kaederman's role in this lethal mess might be.
 
Chapter Five
John Lachley laid a sheet of blotter paper gently across the glistening, 
blood-red ink of the missive he'd just finished, then held the newly penned 
letter up to the light to read it again, judging the effect. It hadn't been 
easy, writing in the style of Maybrick's disjointed ramblings. He'd worked very 
hard to sprinkle the man's irritating Americanisms into the language. But he was 
proud of the results.
 
"Dear Boss . . ." the letter began.
 
  I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I 
  have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. 
  That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I 
  shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I 
  gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and 
  want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I 
  saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job 
  to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit 
  enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and 
  send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back 
  till I do a bit more wo7rk, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and 
  sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck.
  Yours truly,
  Jack the Ripper
 
  Dont mind me giving the trade name.
 
  P.S. Wasn't good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands 
  curse it No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha 
 
John Lachley dated the letter September 25th and blew the final line of red ink 
dry, then chuckled to himself. He'd instructed Maybrick to bring his diary to 
London during his last visit, and had read the depraved drivel scrawled in it 
with avid curiosity. He'd copied the madman's way of writing, including his 
insane insertions of the words ha ha and other underscored phrases here and 
there. When Maybrick's diary was discovered in Liverpool, this letter would help 
to hang him.
Perhaps he'd write out a few more letters and cards, drop them in the post over 
the next few days? After all, once he'd recovered Eddy's wayward missives from 
Stride and Eddowes, he would no longer need Maybrick for anything save a weight 
at the end of a gallows rope. He grinned down at the bloody signature line, 
intensely proud of the appellation he'd thought up. Jack the Ripper . . . Poor 
James, who referred to himself in his diary as Sir Jim. He'd protest innocence 
of writing this all the way to the drop. Yes, Lachley smiled, he would write out 
a few more letters, perhaps scrawl one or two across a newspaper article, 
something with the word Liverpool in it . . .
A tap at the study door roused him from delightful musings. He hastily slid the 
letter into his desk drawer and locked it. "Yes? Come!"
His manservant bowed in the doorway. "You asked to be notified when your patient 
woke, sir."
"Ah, yes, thank you, Charles. I'll see the young lady directly."
"Very good, sir."
Lachley climbed the stairs while planning where to send his traitorous little 
missive. The editor of the Daily News, perhaps, a respectable newspaper with a 
large circulation and a keen appetite to solve the mystery of the Whitechapel 
Murderer. Or maybe the Central News Agency. He wished he might see the face of 
the editor when that letter landed on the gentleman's desk. Chuckling at his own 
joke, Lachley entered the room of his comely young captive.
"Good afternoon, dear lady!"
The girl was awake, listless from the effects of the drugs he fed her daily. A 
spark of terror flared in her eyes as he sat beside the bed. He took her hand, 
felt the chill of her fingers. "Now, then. Let us chat, Miss Ianira."
A shudder, very faint, ran through her.
He patted her hand. "I have seen what you are capable of, my dear. I intend to 
make excellent use of your skill." He brushed hair back from her brow, stroked 
her ashen skin. "How pale you are, today. Come now, you must surely see the 
advantages of a connection with me? I can give you all of London, all of 
Britain's power and wealth." He stroked her hand again. "I've obtained the 
license, you know. Special dispensation." He chuckled. "Knowing Eddy really is 
such a tremendous help. It isn't easy, getting a special license from the dear 
old C of E. Clergy are such ruddy sticklers for details. However," he smiled 
brightly, "you will soon be Mrs. John Lachley and I will strew pearls of 
gratitude at your feet."
A choked sound escaped pale lips. "No . . ."
He frowned. "No? Of course you shall marry me, dear girl. I cannot have you 
living under my roof, unmarried. People will talk and talk is one thing I cannot 
afford."
She was struggling to speak. "My husband . . . children . . ."
Astonishment swept through him. "Married? You are married?" Then he began to 
laugh. "Widowed, you mean. I shot your dear husband dead in the street. Put a 
bullet into his head."
She strained away from him, dark eyes wide with revulsion. "No! Not Jenna . . . 
Marcus."
Lachley frowned again. "The man I shot was not your husband?"
The girl lay trembling, tears sliding down her face. She had given him only one 
name to call her by, despite the drugs he'd fed her, refusing against all 
efforts he'd made thus far to reveal her full name.
"What is your husband's surname, girl?"
She shook her head. "What . . . what is a surname?"
"A last name!" he snapped, growing impatient. "Dammit, I know they use surnames 
even in Greece!"
"Not Greek . . ." she whispered. "Poor Marcus, sold in Rome . . . He'll be 
frantic . . ."
She was babbling again, raving out of her head. He gripped her wrists, shook 
her. "Tell me your last name, girl!"
"Cassondra!" she shrieked the word at him, fighting his hold on her. "I am 
Ianira, Cassondra of Ephesus!"
"Talk sense! There is no city of Ephesus, just a ruin buried only the ancients 
know where! How did you come to London?"
"Through the gate . . ."
They were back to that again. The sodding gate, whatever the deuce that was. She 
babbled about it every time he questioned her. Lachley changed his line of 
attack. "Tell me about the letters. Eddy's letters."
Her eyes closed over a look of utter horror. "Lady, help me . . ."
Losing patience, Lachley poured the drug down her throat, waiting for it to take 
effect, then put her into a deep trance. She lay without moving, scarcely even 
breathing beneath the coverlet he straightened over her. "Now, then," he said 
gently, "tell me about the letters."
Her lips moved. A bare whisper of sound escaped her. "Eight letters . . ."
"Tell me about the eight letters. Who has them?"
"Morgan . . . down in the vaulted room with the tree and the flame that always 
burns . . ." A shudder tore through her despite the grip of the strong 
medication. "Polly is dead . . . and poor Annie, who could scarcely breathe . . 
. Stride carries Eddy's words beneath the knife . . . Kate fears the letter in 
her pocket, picks hops in the countryside, afraid to touch it . . . and the 
pretty girl in Miller's Court, she'll die cut into pieces, poor child, for a 
letter she learned to read in Cardiff . . ."
"What girl in Miller's Court?"
Ianira's eyes had closed, however, so deep in the grip of the drug that no 
amount of slapping would rouse her. Lachley paced the bedroom in agitation. What 
girl in Miller's Court? Annie Chapman hadn't mentioned any such person! He 
narrowed his eyes, thinking back to that last conversation with the doomed 
prostitute. They'd been interrupted, he recalled, just as she'd been telling him 
who she'd sold the letters to, mentioning Elizabeth Stride and Catharine 
Eddowes. He'd thought she was finished, after giving those two names, but 
wondered now if perhaps that interruption had kept him from learning the name of 
a third person in possession of Eddy's incriminating letters?
He swore savagely, wondering what in God's name to do now.
The bitch must be found, of course, found and silenced.
She lived in Miller's Court, Ianira had said. He knew the place from his 
childhood. Miller's Court was not a large space, after all. How many girls from 
Cardiff could there be, living in that dismal little square? He closed his eyes 
against such a monstrous spectre. A Welsh girl, in possession of Eddy's Welsh 
letters . . . Had she already sent a blackmail demand to the palace? Were Eddy's 
power and position in mortal peril, after all? Because Annie Chapman, the stupid 
bitch, had neglected to mention a third recipient of her letters?
He drew a deep, calming breath. Surely no blackmail demand had been sent, yet. 
Eddy would've come to him in a high state of panic, if one had. Hopefully, Polly 
and Annie's grisly fate had frightened the Welsh tart too deeply to act. Still, 
she had got to be found and done away with, the sooner the better. God, would 
this nightmare never come to an end? With yet another woman to trace and 
destroy, perhaps Lachley ought not send his damning Ripper letter to the press, 
after all? A moment's consideration, however, convinced him to risk it, anyway. 
Maybrick would be in London at the end of the week, so this girl in Miller's 
Court could be eliminated on the same night as Stride and Eddowes. Three women 
in one weekend was a bit much, true . . .
But he hadn't any real choice.
He spared a glance for the mysterious Ianira, pale and silent in her bed. "You," 
he muttered aloud, "must wait a bit. Once this business is done, however, I will 
discover the identity of your husband."
Christ, yet another murder to be undertaken.
This mess occasionally bade fair to drive him insane.
* * *
The silence in the dusty little Colorado mining town was so utterly complete, 
Skeeter could hear the distant scream of an eagle somewhere over the sunbaked 
mountains. The scrape of his chair as he dragged it harshly around and sat down 
caused several women to jump. Julius' too-young face, waxen with that ghastly, 
bluish color death brought, floated in his mind's eye, demanding vengeance. The 
dark look he bent on Sid Kaederman went unnoticed, because the detective was 
busy glaring at Orson Travers. Clearly, the Time Tours guide had stalled him off 
until Kit and Skeeter's return. The silence lay so thick, the creak of wooden 
floorboards as tourists shifted sounded loud as gunshots.
The moment Kit settled into an easy stance beside Skeeter's chair, Sid Kaederman 
growled, "All right, Travers, you want to tell us just what's been going on?"
"Yes, let's have the details, please," Kit agreed. "This is messier than you can 
possibly guess."
Orson Travers, an unhappy man made monumentally unhappier by Kit's 
pronouncement, cleared his throat. "There wasn't any hint of trouble on the way 
up here. Oh, it was a rowdy enough bunch, lots of high spirits. We packed our 
gear in by mule from Colorado Springs, whipped the town into shape for the 
competition, refurbished a couple of houses to bunk down in, built the target 
stands and laid out the course of fire for the running action events. All that 
prep work was part of the package tour, using nineteenth-century techniques to 
build the competition course and refurbish the camp. And we planned the wedding, 
of course—"
"Wedding?" Kaederman interrupted, startled.
A pretty girl in a muslin gown blushed crimson and leaned against a tall, gangly 
kid in buckskins. He grinned. "Got ourselves hitched proper, brought a preacher 
with us and all, held the ceremony over at the trading post last week."
"Oh, it was so wonderful!" his bride put in excitedly. "There were real Indians 
and mountain men and everything! And the silliest salesman you ever saw, selling 
ordinary crescent wrenches, called them a new high-tech invention out of Sweden, 
patented only three years ago. People were paying outrageous prices for them! It 
was amazing, I'd never seen anything like it, fur trappers and miners buying 
crescent wrenches!" The blushing bride was clearly determined not to let the 
tragedy of a double murder mar her honeymoon.
Kit smiled. "Congratulations, I'm sure it was a wedding to remember. Now, what 
the hell happened?" He swung his gaze back to the Time Tours guide.
Travers sighed. "The action and endurance course runs through the hills and 
gullies around town. The idea is, you stalk and shoot every full round of the 
course over a period of several hours, to test your endurance and accuracy under 
pressure. Well, Cassie Coventina, or rather, the kid we thought was Cassie 
Coventina, was moving steadily through it on horseback, just as planned. We put 
spotters out along the route to act as judges and scorekeepers, but she—I mean 
he—never made it to the first target. Let me tell you, it was one helluva shock, 
when Dr. Booker stripped that kid off and we discovered Cassie Coventina was a 
teenage boy in drag!"
Skeeter bridled. Kit pressed a restraining hand against his shoulder. "Never 
mind that, Travers, just tell us what happened."
The thickset guide shifted uncomfortably. "Someone ambushed him. Killed the kid 
and his horse. We found it on the trail, later. Joey Tyrolin claimed he and his 
porter followed the kid out onto the course. They weren't supposed to be out 
there, but Tyrolin was always so damn drunk, he pretty much did what he pleased. 
Guy claimed all he wanted to do was watch. Said he and his porter rode up right 
after the kid was ambushed. Tyrolin gave chase and killed the attacker—one of 
the drovers," Travers added unhappily. "A tourist who signed up to work the 
tour, so he could get a cheaper ticket."
"And Tyrolin killed him?" Kaederman asked softly.
An underlying tone in the man's voice, a tone Skeeter would've sworn was 
agitated anger despite those curiously chilly eyes, brought Skeeter's hackles up 
again.
"Oh, yes, Tyrolin killed him. Was bold as brass about admitting it, too. Said 
the man shot at him when he gave chase, so he fired back. Killed him stone dead. 
I'd have said it was a case of self-defense, if Tyrolin hadn't bolted out of 
camp with his porter and those kids, right after. While everybody was rushing 
around trying to set up an emergency field surgery, they just packed up their 
gear and rode off. We sent riders after them, of course, and half the tour group 
volunteered to help search. Not that we let anybody but guides and regular Time 
Tours drovers out of camp, after what happened with Tyrolin and that tourist. 
And the kid, poor bastard."
"I don't suppose," Kaederman put in, "you happen to have a photograph of Tyrolin 
and his porter?" The tension in his voice caught Skeeter's attention once more. 
Kaederman wanted that picture badly.
"Never mind the photo just now," Kit overrode him. "I presume you dispatched 
your courier to inform Denver of the double murders? After sending out the 
search party on Tyrolin's trail?" 
"Yes. I'm the only guide left in camp right now. I sent everyone else and half 
the drovers out after them. Along with Dr. Booker. She insisted on going, in 
case her surgical skills were needed." Travers sighed. "So that's what happened 
on our end, but you haven't told us why you're up here, looking for Joey 
Tyrolin, too. Don't tell me he was a wanted criminal, up time?"
Kaederman said coldly, "You might say that. A terrorist, to be exact."
Gasps broke from the tourists. A couple of the women let out tiny shrieks.
Kit said a little wearily, "We've got troubles of our own on station just now. 
Big troubles."
"He's not kidding, either," Skeeter muttered. "Senator John Caddrick's on 
station. Threatening to shut us down if we don't bring back Joey Tyrolin. Among 
other things."
"Caddrick?" Orson Travers' face washed white.
"Yes," Kit nodded. "And it gets better. Joey Tyrolin's real name is Noah 
Armstrong. A member of the Ansar Majlis, that terrorist cult out of the Middle 
East. They murdered Cassie Tyrol in New York and kidnapped Caddrick's only 
child. Not to mention kidnapping Ianira Cassondra and her entire family. Between 
the Templars and the cult crazies flooding into the station and starting riots, 
we've had several critical injuries and nine murders. And if we don't find Jenna 
Caddrick and bring her back safely, her father will shut down Shangri-La for 
good. The Inter-Temporal Court's been called in, as a last-ditch measure to try 
and keep the station operational. Mr. Kaederman, here, was hired by the senator 
to help search for his daughter."
Travers looked like a slight breeze would've knocked him over.
Someone from the back of the crowd whispered, "Oh, my God. And we let the 
terrorist responsible get away!"
"Yes," Kaederman said with enough frost to freeze every cup of water in the 
room, "you did. And we're here to find him. Now, does anyone have a photo of 
Tyrolin and his porter? I want to make a positive identification of that bastard 
before we ride out after him and his hostages."
"I have a photo," a woman spoke up, pushing her way to the front. "I should have 
several, in fact." She ignored Kaederman, addressing Kit, instead, which left 
the Wardmann-Wolfe agent bristling. "Ellen Danvers, Mr. Carson, professional 
photographer. Hired to do the wedding party. I've been taking pictures steadily 
with a digital camera. I can bring all the disks for you to study, if you like."
Three minutes later, Skeeter found himself staring at a photograph of Marcus on 
the miniature screen at the back of Ellen Danvers' digital camera. He was 
clearly in disguise, but a guy didn't live through what Skeeter'd lived through, 
trying to rescue his friend from slavery, without getting to know that friend's 
face well enough to recognize him under any circumstances. The only reason he'd 
failed to spot Marcus at the gate's opening was Joey Tyrolin's masterful 
performance, drawing attention away from everything else within a thousand 
paces.
Ellen Danvers scrolled through shot after shot. "Joey Tyrolin was camera shy, 
considering how drunk he was all the time. I didn't get many shots of him. In 
fact, I had to work hard to get any photos of his face at all, and my client 
specifically asked for candids of the entire competition group." She'd used up 
dozens of disks taking pictures of just about everything but the horse dung.
"There," Miss Danvers paused the scroll, freezing a frame for them to look at. 
"That's them. Joey Tyrolin and his porter. And these are the porter's little 
girls. Beautiful children, both of them." The photographer's gaze was troubled 
as she glanced up at Kit. "We had no idea they were Ianira Cassondra's 
daughters, or that the porter was her husband. Are they really hostages?"
Sid Kaederman answered, voice still colder than spiked icicles. "They most 
certainly are, if they're even still alive. This," he tapped Noah Armstrong's 
photo, "is one of the most dangerous men in the world. Or rather, one of the 
most dangerous people. Armstrong's an intersexual, neither male nor female, able 
to assume any disguise he pleases. Armstrong's the cleverest, deadliest bastard 
I've ever run across. God help those kids, in the clutches of a monster like 
that."
Skeeter peered sharply at Kaederman, wondering about the level of venom. Was 
Kaederman that prejudiced against intersexuals? Lots of people were, Skeeter 
knew, although Kaederman didn't strike him as the type who would hate without 
reason. He could be playing some other game, however, painting Armstrong as the 
one thing Skeeter was beginning to suspect he wasn't: a terrorist.
Ellen Danvers, of course, with no reason to suspect Kaederman's motives or 
honesty, had paled, her expression stricken. "Those poor little girls! Can you 
find them?"
"We'll give it our best shot," Kit said quietly. "Let's check our gear and 
rations. I want to ride out within the hour."
Skeeter stayed where he was until Kit and the Wardmann-Wolfe agent had left the 
room. As the meeting broke up and the tourists milled around outside, trying to 
help and mostly dithering and getting in everyone's way, Skeeter took Ellen 
Danvers quietly aside and asked to see her photos again.
"All of them?" she asked.
He nodded, studying each of the shots in turn, looking carefully at every 
digitally recorded face. "You're sure you took pictures of every single person 
in the group?" he asked at length.
"Yes, quite sure."
"And there wasn't any way they could've been hiding someone else? In their 
luggage, say?"
"No, I don't think that would've been possible. Not an adult, anyway. The porter 
smuggled the children in his trunk, but they're such little things. I can't 
imagine how anyone could have stuffed an adult into one of those trunks."
"But they took their luggage with them? Steamer trunks, pack horses, all of it?"
Puzzled, she nodded. "Yes. Why?"
Skeeter merely shook his head. "Just a theory. Nothing I want to discuss, yet." 
He wondered if Kit had noticed, or Kaederman, for that matter, that the one face 
missing from Ellen Danvers' impressive collection of photos was Jenna 
Caddrick's? Nor did Ianira Cassondra appear in any of her shots, which struck 
Skeeter as both ominous and profoundly odd. If neither Jenna nor Ianira had come 
with Armstrong and Marcus, just where had the two women gone? Were they, in 
fact, hidden away in the steamer trunks? Or buried somewhere in a shallow grave? 
Skeeter's gut churned queasily. He didn't want to share those particular 
thoughts with anyone just yet, not until he could get Kit alone once more. He 
said only, "Thanks for letting me look through these again."
"Of course. Do you think there's much chance you'll be able to find them?"
Skeeter hesitated. "We'll do the best we can. I'm a good tracker. So's Kit. But 
they've got a good lead on us and it's a big country, out here. Frankly, I'm not 
holding out much hope. And I've got more reason than most to find them. Marcus 
is the closest friend I have in the world."
Ellen Danvers' eyes misted. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jackson."
"Thanks." He handed back the camera. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention 
this conversation."
"Of course." She hesitated. "You don't trust the senator's detective much, do 
you?"
Skeeter's laugh was as colorless as the burnt sky overhead. "Does it show that 
much? Would you trust a man working for Senator John Paul Caddrick?"
She bit one lip. "Well, no, not as far as I could throw him, which isn't very 
far. Good luck, Mr. Jackson. And be careful."
Her concern surprised Skeeter. He hadn't realized ordinary people could care so 
much. "Thank you, Ms. Danvers. I appreciate that, more than you know."
He left her peering at the screen on her camera, studying the photos, clearly 
wondering what, exactly, he'd been looking for. Ellen Danvers was a smart lady. 
He wouldn't be at all surprised if she didn't tumble to it on her own.
If she did, he hoped she kept it quiet as a tomb.
* * *
Elizabeth Stride was known throughout the East End for her stormy temper and her 
explosive relationship with her lover, Michael Kidney—a violent relationship she 
wasn't particularly ashamed of, any more than she was ashamed of the way she 
made her living. When Liz's younger lover drank, which was frequently, Michael 
grew abusive. And when she drank, which was even more often, Long Liz Stride 
grew belligerent. And when they quarelled, which was nearly every time they 
drank, Liz usually ended by slamming Michael's door behind her—if he hadn't 
padlocked her in again to keep her off the streets.
On Wednesday, September 26th, after another violent and drunken row, Long Liz 
Stride found herself on the streets once more, fuming and furious and looking 
for a bed at her favorite lodging house, 32 Flower and Dean Street. The kitchen 
was filled with more than a dozen women and girls of all ages, most of them cold 
and frightened and in various stages of drunkenness. All of them whispered about 
the shocking murders which had struck down so many women just like them since 
Easter Monday.
"—scared to let a man touch me, I am," one girl of seventeen was whispering 
miserably, "but I got to eat, 'aven't I? What's a lady to do, when she's got to 
eat and there ain't no other way to put bread in 'er Lime'ouse Cut, but lift 'er 
skirts for whatever man'll pay 'er to do it?"
Liz had, until recently, entertained her own ideas about the infamous 
Whitechapel Murderer, as the newspapers had taken to calling him. She had spent 
a hard-earned shilling to buy a short, blunt knife to carry in her pocket as 
protection, after what had happened to Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman. Ever 
since Dark Annie's murder, Liz had been terrified to do anything about her own 
letter. But surely, if Annie had been killed because of these letters, the 
killer would have dragged out of the poor woman the identity of everyone she'd 
sold the letters to? Logically, a killer looking for those letters would've 
found that out first thing, then come after anyone who'd bought one. But nearly 
two weeks had passed and no one had come knocking on her door, so the newspapers 
must be right and poor Annie had simply fallen victim to a madman, same as poor 
Polly Nichols, a week before.
Besides, there were those other women killed, Martha Tabram on August Bank 
Holiday and Emma Smith on Easter Monday, and they couldn't have had anything to 
do with Annie Chapman's letters, which, by her own admission, she'd had from 
Polly, rest her soul. Still, Liz bought that knife, and she was careful not to 
approach any potential customers resembling the descriptions of the killer.
As Liz hesitated on the doss house's kitchen threshold, a woman she'd met during 
her last visit called out a greeting. "Why, Liz," Catharine Long exclaimed, 
gesturing her to a vacant chair beside the hearth, "I haven't seen you here in 
three months! Whatever's happened?"
Liz joined her, grateful for the warmth of the coal fire. The weather outside 
was blustery and wet, cold enough to turn her ungloved fingers red. "Oh, I had 
words with my man, is all. I'll let him cool his temper for a few days, then 
he'll see the error of his ways and I'll go back to him, drunken fool."
"But will he take you back, Liz?"
She smiled a little grimly. "Oh, yes, Michael will take me back." She patted her 
pocket, where several folded sheets of foolscap rested, down beneath that sharp 
little knife. Surely it must be safe to do something about her little investment 
now? And with the blackmail money she would obtain, Michael would certainly take 
her back, temper or no. All she had to do was find a Welshman in one of the 
ironworks sprawled through the vast shipyards to translate her letter and she 
would be rich. More than rich enough to tempt any man she wanted.
"Yes," she said again, her slight smile at odds with the atmosphere of terror 
and misery in the kitchen, "Michael will take me back, Catharine. So tell me the 
news, it's been an age since I saw you."
"Oh, I'm fine enough, Liz. But these killings . . ." Catharine Long shuddered. 
"And the police are such hopeless fools. You heard what Sir Charles Warren's 
done?"
Liz shook her head, not particularly interested in what the head of the 
Metropolitan police force did. As long as a woman kept moving and didn't try to 
stand in one place, coppers generally didn't bother her. "No, I haven't heard."
"He's taken every single East End detective off the beat! Assigned them to 
patrol west London. And he's switched about the West End detectives to patrol 
Whitechapel and Spitalfields and the docklands. Have you ever heard of suchlike? 
Why, the detectives out there don't even know the street names, let alone the 
alleyways this madman must be using to escape!"
A woman seated beside them moaned and rocked back and forth. "They don't care 
about us, so they don't! All they want is to show the ruddy newsmen they've put 
a few coppers on the street. Not a man Jack of 'em gives a fig for the likes of 
us. Now if it was fine ladies he were cuttin' up, they'd have a policeman in 
every house, so they would . . ."
Liz and Catharine Long exchanged a long, silent look. It was only too true, 
after all. Despite the show of putting extra men on the beat, both women knew 
they would have to defend themselves. Liz clutched the handle of her knife 
through her worn skirts and held back a shiver. Perhaps she ought to just burn 
the letter?
That won't do you any good if he comes after you, she told herself grimly. Might 
as well get some money out of it, then leave London, maybe go across to America. 

She'd find someone to translate the sheets of foolscap for her, get out of this 
hellhole, live decently for a change. Meanwhile, she'd do a bit of charring to 
earn her keep, maybe offer to clean some of the rooms in the lodging house for a 
few pence. She might even ask around the Jewish community to see if anyone 
needed a charwoman for a few days. She'd done a great deal of char work for 
Jewish businessmen and their plump wives. They knew her to be dependable when 
she could get the work. And not a lot of charwomen would work for a Jew just 
now, not with these Whitechapel murders being blamed on a foreigner, same as 
that Lipski fellow last year, who'd poisoned that poor little girl, barely gone 
fifteen.
Long Liz didn't care how many people in the East End hated Jews or called them 
dirty, foreign murderers. Work was work and she certainly didn't mind cleaning 
houses, if it came to that. Charring was better than selling herself and she'd 
done that enough times to keep body and soul together, not only here in London, 
but back in Sweden, too, so what was a little thing like charring for a few 
Jews? Besides, she wouldn't need menial work much longer, would she? Not with 
money to be made from Annie Chapman's legacy.
"Say, Catharine," she asked quietly, leaning close to her friend so as not to be 
overheard, "do you know any Welshmen?"
Her friend gave her a startled glance, then laughed. "Oh, Liz, you are a piece 
of work! Quarrelled with your man this morning and looking for a replacement 
tonight! Try the Queen's Head pub, dearie, I've heard there's a Welsh ironworker 
from the docks with money in his trous, likes to have a drink there of an 
evening."
Long Liz Stride smiled. "Thank you, Catharine. I believe I will."
By week's end, Elizabeth Stride intended to be a rich woman.
* * *
The trail Armstrong had taken out of camp did not lead south, along the shorter 
route to Colorado Springs and the railway station. Armstrong and Marcus had fled 
north, the long way up toward Florissant. By nightfall, Skeeter, Kit, and Sid 
Kaederman, along with their guide, were deep in the Colorado Rockies, following 
the path the other Time Tours guides had already taken. They camped overnight in 
a sheltered nook of rock out of the wind, then set out at first light, covering 
ground rapidly along a trail Skeeter, at least, could've followed blindfolded. 
He'd hunted with the Yakka Clan often enough to learn what spoor to follow 
through rough country. "It hasn't rained for a while, at least," Skeeter 
muttered, studying the fading trail which sporadic wind gusts had partially 
obliterated in the more open spots. "Fortunately, their trail was protected in 
low-lying areas like this." He pointed to faded hoofprints. "They were in a 
tearing hurry, too. The Time Tours guides who came through after them weren't 
moving nearly as fast as Armstrong and Marcus."
"How do you know that?" Kaederman demanded.
Skeeter shrugged. "I've tracked quarry through broken country before. Look," he 
dismounted and crouched down alongside the trail, pointing to a mishmash 
grouping of hoofprints. "These are the oldest prints. They're nearly a blur from 
the wind filling them in and the mud's completely dried out. And look how far 
apart the stride is." He paced off the distance between hoof prints. "They were 
moving at a fast canter or a slow gallop, depending on the height of their 
ponies. Given the weight their pack horses are carrying, that's a gruelling pace 
to keep up. These other prints, the fresher ones from the search party, are a 
lot closer together. They're trotting, at best. They'll never catch up if Marcus 
and Armstrong keep up the pace they've been holding, pushing their ponies that 
fast."
"But they'll wear out their horses in no time!"
"Not if they're smart and careful," Skeeter disagreed. "I've been studying these 
prints all morning. They slow to a walk periodically to give the horses a 
breather, probably more for the pack animals' sake than the riding mounts. And 
I've spotted a couple of places where they dismounted and let the animals rest 
and graze. But when they're in the saddle, they're moving fast. Judging from 
those photos Ellen Danvers took, Armstrong can't weigh much more than 
one-thirty, one-forty, and Marcus is slender, too. He and Ianira never had the 
money to indulge overeating. Even with the children, he's probably lighter for a 
pony to carry than I am and I'm not exactly massive, myself. Armstrong is 
obviously no fool. I'd say he knows exactly what he's doing. As long as they're 
careful with the pack animals, or don't care about abandoning their baggage, 
they won't founder those horses. And wherever they're going, they'll get there a 
lot sooner than any of us will."
The big question Skeeter couldn't answer from these tracks, however, was whether 
or not any of the Time Tours guides or drovers searching ahead of them might be 
in the pay of the Ansar Majlis. If he'd been part of a terrorist cult dedicated 
to murdering someone like Marcus and Ianira, he would've sent more than one hit 
man through the Wild West Gate. Which left Skeeter wondering just how many 
killers they might yet run into on this trail—or how much use Sid Kaederman 
would be, if they did. He kept his eyes and ears open and hoped they didn't 
stumble into an ambush somewhere along the way.
By their third day of hard riding, they'd swung around the north flank of Pikes 
Peak and were moving east toward the rail line again. They had to call a brief 
halt when Kaederman's pony pulled up lame. The detective dismounted stiffly and 
watched unhappily as Meinrad showed him how to check his pony's hooves for 
stones, lifting each foot in turn to check the soft pad known as the frog. They 
were prying loose a sharp rock from his near forefoot when Skeeter heard it: a 
faint, sharp report that echoed off the mountains. Another distant crack reached 
them, like a frozen tree splitting wide open, then a third, followed by a whole 
volley. The sound fell into an abruptly familiar pattern.
"Gunfire!" 
Lots of it.
Kit jerked around in the saddle. "Jeezus Christ! There's a war breaking loose 
out there! Kurt, we don't have time to wait, nursemaid him when you've got that 
pony's hoof cleared! Skeeter, move it!" Kit clattered off at a gallop just as 
Skeeter jerked his shotgun out of its scabbard. Skeeter put heels to flanks and 
sent his mount racing after Kit's. He leaned low over his horse's neck, his 
double-barrel clutched in one hand like a war spear, and snarled into the teeth 
of the wind. Even above the thunder of hooves, he could still hear gunfire 
popping ominously ahead. He couldn't imagine locals producing that much gunfire. 
But the Ansar Majlis easily could. Had the Time Tours guides found Marcus and 
the girls after all, bringing them back toward camp, only to ride into the 
fusillade of an ambush?
Kit crouched so close above his horse's neck, he looked like a fluid statue cut 
from the same flesh as the racing animal. The retired scout surged ahead, 
splashing through a shallow, rocky creek and switching with consumate skill 
around outcroppings, tumbled boulders and loose piles of scree. Skeeter's horse 
slipped and slid through the jumbled heaps of weather-fractured stones, then 
drew up nose to tail behind Kit's, nostrils distended and running flat out. This 
was bad country for a full-bore charge. If either nag put a foot wrong at this 
speed . . .
A sudden silence ahead robbed him of breath. Then the staccato pop of gunfire 
rattled again in the harsh sunlight, sporadic but closer than before. Somebody 
had to reload. Several somebodies. Both sides, maybe. Which meant there was a 
chance the Ansar Majlis were using period firearms, rather than modern stuff 
smuggled through the gate. Against black-powder guns, even replica models, his 
friends might stand a halfway decent chance. Given the sound of that shooting, 
whoever was under attack was firing back, giving at least as good as they were 
getting.
Then Kit was reining in and Skeeter pulled up hard to slither to a halt beside 
him, both horses blowing from the run. Kit held up a warning hand, then pointed 
down into a narrow little arroyo. Two riderless horses pawed the dusty ground 
uncertainly, skittish and laying their ears back each time gunfire tore through 
the hot sunlight. Their riders lay pinned between an outcropping of stone and a 
jumble of boulders, firing up toward a knife-edge ridgeline that lay to Skeeter 
and Kit's left. Skeeter dragged his field glasses out of his saddle bag, the 
brass warm with the scent of hot leather, and peered toward the ridgeline while 
Kit studied the riders pinned below.
"That's a Time Tours guide," Kit muttered. "And Paula Booker!"
"Shalig!" Skeeter snarled under his breath. "There's at least six gunmen up 
there." He pointed toward the narrow ridgeline. "Counting puffs of smoke, at 
least six, maybe more."
"Six?" Kit shot back, brows diving toward his nose. "That's too many for 
Armstrong's crew."
"Maybe. How many guys did he plant with those drovers?"
Kit swore. "Shalig is right. Let's get around the back side of that ridge, come 
at them from behind."
They had to abandon the horses halfway up, the slope was so sharp. Skeeter 
panted for breath and scrambled for handholds, climbing steadily, shotgun 
gripped awkwardly in one hand. Kurt Meinrad and Sid Kaederman, arriving late, 
struggled to climb the same slope in their wake. Skeeter gained the top and 
bellied forward, lying flat so he wouldn't skyline himself and make a visible 
target above the ridge. Kit slithered out beside him, grunting softly and 
peering through his own field glasses. Kurt Meinrad arrived just as Kit began 
surveying the scene below. Skeeter handed the guide his own field glasses and 
jerked Kaederman down when the idiot just stood there, standing out like a neon 
sign flashing "shoot me." Skeeter waited in a swivet, using the naked eye to 
mark spots where gunmen lay hidden in the rocky outcroppings of the ridge. 
Meinrad gave a sudden grunt.
"Huh. That's no pack of terrorists, Carson."
Kit swung a sharp look on the Time Tours guide. "Oh?"
"That's the Flanagan brothers. With a couple of their low-life pals. Irish 
railroad men who took to holding up trains after they finished laying track. 
Small-time thugs, temporal natives. We've had trouble with them before, roughing 
up a couple of the tours. They like holding up stage coaches, too, and robbing 
campsites."
"They may be small time, but they've got your guide and Paula Booker pinned down 
neat as any trap I've ever seen," Kit shot back. "And if they're down-timers, we 
don't have any guarantee they can be killed, even if we shoot amongst 'em."
"Maybe not," Skeeter said, misquoting a favorite mid-twentieth century 
television show he'd watched endlessly in reruns, "but I'll bet you credits to 
navy beans I can put the fear of God into 'em."
Before Kit could reply, Skeeter let out a war whoop and charged down the 
precipitous slope, yelling and cursing in twelfth-century Mongolian and loosing 
off rounds as fast as he could jam shells into his scattergun. Six astonished 
faces swung up toward him. Skeeter let fly another round of buckshot and heard 
Kit scrambling down the slope after him, yelling in some unknown, bloodcurdling 
language that left Skeeter's hair standing on end. Kit's Model 73 barked with a 
roar like thunder. Lead whined off rock so close to a Flanagan brother's ear, 
the man jumped six inches straight up and landed running.
When Kurt Meinrad joined the insane plunge, shooting and shouting on Kit's 
heels, it was too much for the Flanagans. They all broke and ran, heading for 
ponies concealed in the brush. A clatter of hooves rattled away in a boiling 
swirl of dust, then Skeeter slithered to a halt, panting and sweating and 
wondering if he'd completely lost his mind, pulling a stunt like that. But he 
hadn't felt this alive since returning to civilization at the age of 
thirteen—with the possible exception of fighting for his life in the Circus 
Maximus.
Kit Carson, hair dishevelled, jaw unshaven, pale eyes alight with an unholy look 
that might've been fury or glee, stalked toward him. "Skeeter, you lunatic! What 
possessed you to pull a bone-headed piece of insanity like that?"
Skeeter grinned. "Got rid of 'em, didn't it?"
Kit's mouth thinned. "Yes. And I could be piling rocks over what was left of 
you, too."
"Well, hell's bells, Kit, I never yet met a bully who wouldn't back down when 
confronted."
One corner of Kit's lips twitched. "Next time, wait for instructions."
Skeeter sketched a sloppy salute. "Yessir!"
"Huh. Thank God you were never in the army, Skeeter, you'd have ended in 
Leavenworth inside a week. All right, let's go find out what that Time Tours 
guide is doing out here by himself with Paula Booker. Besides playing bait for 
every outlaw in the territory."
Wordlessly, they headed down into the rocky defile.
 
Chapter Six
Time Scout in-training Margo Smith was so keyed up she was very nearly shaking 
as she and her fiancé—freelance time guide Malcolm Moore—eased open the gate 
beside the International Workingmen's Association. A lively concert was 
underway, spilling Russian music out into the streets. Malcolm held the gate as 
Margo slipped into the long alleyway leading back to Dutfield's Yard. The Ripper 
Watch Team followed silently, carrying miniaturized equipment they would use to 
film Long Liz Stride's brutal murder. Their satchels were heavy, carrying three 
times the equipment needed for the previous two murders. This was only the first 
stop of three the team would make tonight, placing low-light cameras and 
microphone systems in Dutfield's Yard, on a certain stairway landing in Goulston 
Street, and in Mitre Square.
While Margo and Malcolm stood guard, the team members placed their tiny cameras, 
hiding them where they would not be discovered by the police, some at the 
entrance to the alley and others back in the yard. Margo glanced every few 
moments at the windows of the crowded hall, convinced someone would spot them 
and demand to know what they were doing down here, but no one noticed. It gave 
Margo an insight into how the Ripper had been able to strike so frequently in 
the heart of a crowded slum. The people of Whitechapel, like those in many 
another overpopulated city, turned their attention inward to their own business 
and feared to pry too directly into the business of neighbors, particularly with 
a deranged killer walking the streets.
Margo drew a deep breath of relief when the Ripper Watch Team finally finished 
and she was able to lead them all back to the street once more.
"Very good," Malcolm said quietly, easing the wicker pedestrian gate closed, 
"that's the first one. Now, Mitre Square is this way."
Malcolm led the way toward the soon-to-be infamous site that Margo and Shahdi 
Feroz had first visited only two weeks previously. They had noticed, during 
their study of the killing zone, that the Ripper had left his fourth victim 
within sight of both a policeman's house and a Jewish synagogue. Tonight, 
Catharine Eddowes would walk straight into that killing zone, where her life 
would end violently. Margo shivered in the darkness and thrust away memories of 
her own mother's brutal murder, concentrating instead on their surroundings and 
her primary task of guarding the Ripper Scholars from footpads and gangs.
The overwhelming sense of Whitechapel by night was a region of utter darkness 
punctuated randomly by brightly lit pubs which drew residents like moths. Their 
attraction was due as much, Margo suspected, to the cheerfulness of the light 
and the sense of safety it gave, as to the gin and ale. They walked down entire 
city blocks without passing a single working gas lamp, skirted past alleyways 
and side streets which loomed like black caverns in the night, inhabited by God 
alone knew what. Sounds came drifting to them, scuffles and muffled arguments. 
Children lurked underfoot by the hundreds, crowding into doorways and open 
landings of stairwells, their eyes following the Ripper Watch team with hungry 
intent.
Pubs were packed with rough workmen and drab women carrying hungry-eyed 
children, all swilling alcohol and talking uproariously, faces puffed and 
reddened from drink. Outside the pubs, women walked endlessly up and down, 
pausing only briefly in the doorways, drifting from one pub to another 
soliciting customers at the Britannia, the Princess Alice, The City Darts and 
the Alma, at King Stores and the infamous Ten Bells, Mary Kelly's favorite haunt 
for plying her trade.
Stepping out onto Commercial Road was a shock, by comparison. From where they 
stood on the corner, all the way down to Mile End highway, stretched a raucous 
hive of bright-lit pubs, shops with dim gaslights still flickering, street 
preachers surrounded by heckling crowds, a waxworks displaying reproductions of 
the latest Whitechapel murder victims—children with pennies clutched in grubby 
fingers struggling to gain admittance—a suit salesman pitching the quality of 
his wares to a crowd of avid listeners, and drifts of sailors up from the docks, 
swilling gin and ogling the women. Despite the lateness of the hour, the 
Saturday night street stunned Margo with its noise and throngs of merrymakers, 
intent on forgetting the horror stalking the lightless roads nearby.
One of the Watch Team's experts, Dr. Shahdi Feroz, studied the street carefully 
as they pushed their way west, toward the border with The City of London and 
Mitre Square. Margo edged closer to her. "Is it usual for people to pretend like 
nothing's happening?"
Shahdi flicked her gaze up to meet Margo's. A slight vertical line appeared 
between her brows. "It is not surprising. It has been two weeks since the last 
killing, after all. People with no choice but to stay in this place persuade 
themselves the terror is over, or at least they drink and pretend it is. You 
have noticed the darker streets are nearly empty?"
"Yes, I was just thinking about that. Frightened people are drawn to the light 
and bustle." She nodded down the roaring thoroughfare. "I guess they're hoping 
to find safety in numbers. Not that it will do any good."
"For most, it will. Very few of these people will be up and about between one 
and two A.M., when the murders will occur. And even the prostitutes are trying 
to be cautious," she motioned with one slim, Persian hand, "staying near the 
lighted pubs or Saint Botolph's Church."
Margo shivered. "Not even buying a knife will help poor Liz."
"No."
They pushed past the end of Commercial Road, gaining Adgate, and turned off for 
Mitre Square. Once again Margo and Malcolm stood watch at each of the two ways 
into the secluded little square, while the Ripper Watch Team rigged their 
miniaturized equipment behind a temporary construction fence which closed off 
one interior corner of the square. Catharine Eddowes would die just outside that 
fence. Margo watched closely through the dark alleyway known as Church Passage, 
which ran beneath an overhanging building, turning the little lane into a tunnel 
between Mitre Square and the street beyond. Rough workingmen could be heard 
laughing and singing at pubs. Women's voices drifted past, some openly brazen, 
accosting potential customers. Others were hushed with fear as they whispered 
about the killer, wondering what to do to protect themselves and their families.
Most of the women in the East End weren't prostitutes, any more than most of the 
men were pickpockets and thieves; but these women had no way of knowing the 
killer loose amongst them wouldn't be attacking "honest women." They were all 
frightened, as unaware as the police of the psychology that drove psychotic 
serial killers like James Maybrick and his unknown accomplice. Who that man was, 
the team hoped to learn tonight. They also hoped to discover which of the 
killers was the rabid anti-Semite.
As soon as the equipment was in place, Malcolm led the way once more, moving 
north and east again, across Houndsditch and past Middlesex Street, over to 
Goulston Street and the landing of the Wentworth Model Buildings. The tenement 
was noisily occupied, which made the installation hazardous. Malcolm slipped up 
the dark staircase past the landing and stood guard above while Inspector Conroy 
Melvyn worked alone to fix the tiny, button-sized camera and transmitter in the 
upper corner of the landing. A raucous burst of voices from above sent both the 
up-time police inspector and Malcolm plunging back down to street level, 
sweating profusely.
"Got it," Melvyn gasped out, voice shaking slightly.
"I would suggest we leave the area at once," Malcolm said urgently, glancing 
back as several men and women burst from the staircase, locked in a bitter 
argument that threatened to turn violent momentarily.
"Agreed," Melvyn nodded, heading back for Middlesex Street at a brisk walk.
A clock from one of the many breweries in the district, Margo wasn't sure which 
one, tolled the hour. Midnight. An hour before the first murder, plus another 
forty minutes until the second one. Moving in utter silence, the Ripper Watch 
Team headed for Leadenhall Street and the Bank of England, where their carriage 
would be waiting to take them back to Spaldergate. Margo glanced once over her 
shoulder into the dark maze of alleys that formed the Ripper's killing ground 
and held back a shudder.
Jack the Ripper had already posted his first letter to the editor.
Tomorrow morning, the Daily News would publish it.
* * *
Skeeter reached the bottom of the bone-dry gully slightly behind Kit. Before 
either of them could call a greeting, Paula gave a glad cry. She came hurtling 
out from behind a sheltering boulder and threw herself straight into Kit's arms. 
"Oh, God, Kit Carson! I've never been so happy to see anybody in my whole life! 
And Skeeter Jackson!"
"What's happened?" Kit asked tersely, fishing for a clean bandanna. Paula dried 
her eyes with it, gulping to control tears of sheer relief at her rescue.
The Time Tours guide with the surgeon answered through clenched teeth. "Bastards 
jumped us from cover, when Paula's horse threw a shoe. I was trying to reshoe 
the nag when they started shooting."
"Then you haven't caught up with Joey Tyrolin, yet?" Kit asked sharply.
Paula shook her head. "No. And we won't, either. Mr. Samuelson and I were 
bringing back the bad news."
"Too right," Samuelson growled. "Little bastard and his porter emigrated on us! 
They jumped a train before we could catch up and headed east. The drovers and 
other guides are trying to trace them, but they bought a ticket for Chicago, so 
they could jump off anywhere between here and Illinois. Or keep going, switch 
trains in Chicago and head for the East Coast."
Skeeter kicked disgustedly at a clod of dirt. "Great. Now what, Kit?"
The grizzled scout shoved his hat back and wiped sweat from his brow. "We hold a 
council of war."
Skeeter certainly didn't have any better ideas.
* * *
Dominica Nosette was so excited she could scarcely stand still. At last! John 
Lachley and James Maybrick together on the same street! The night was windy, 
full of rainshowers and sudden gusts that whipped Dominica's skirts against her 
ankles and rattled her bonnet around her ears, but Dominica scarcely noticed. 
Her tiny video camera rode next to her ear, mounted underneath the concealing 
brim of her bonnet. The lens recorded everything in front of her, whichever way 
Dominica turned her head, and the camera was specially fitted with low-light and 
infrared technology to record video signal in even the darkest alleyways. An 
infrared light source in the fake fruit fastened to her bonnet illuminated a 
wide fan in front of her, switched on whenever she pressed the plunger inside 
her pocket. She'd been holding it down steadily for the past five minutes, eyes 
riveted to the two men who conferred briefly under a grimy street lamp, one of 
the few scattered through the East End. The directional microphone in her bonnet 
picked up their low-voiced conversation and broadcast it to her earplug.
"The woman lives in this house," Lachley's voice said. "Eddowes is her name, 
Kate Eddowes, a dirty whore."
Maybrick's voice, breathless with sick excitement, answered. "I want her, John, 
I want to rip her . . ."
"Not until I have my letters."
"Of course . . ."
Dominica finally knew what was contained in the letters John Lachley sought. She 
and her partner had managed to make a photocopy of Long Liz Stride's priceless 
missive, telling her precisely why John Lachley was stalking these women to 
death. The queen's grandson, the firstborn son of the Prince of Wales, in the 
direct line of succession, had been indiscreet. Highly indiscreet. With a male 
prostitute, no less. If proof of that indiscretion fell into the wrong hands, 
Eddy would be ruined, possibly even jailed. And John Lachley's career as Eddy's 
spiritual advisor would come to a disastrous end. Classic motive and response. 
Except, of course, that Lachley was a psychopath and was using another 
psychopath as a weapon to rid himself of all witnesses.
Poor Kate Eddowes. She and her lover had returned to London on Friday from Kent 
and the hop harvest, a return Dominica and Guy had videotaped.
"I'll get a room over at the casual ward, Shoe Lane, luv," Eddowes had told 
Kelly. "We won't be apart long. You rest, now, and see to that cough."
Dominica had followed her down to Shoe Lane, capturing for posterity her fateful 
conversation with the casual ward's superintendent. "Oh, I'll get money, right 
enough. I know the Whitechapel murderer, I do. I'll collect that reward being 
offered by the newspapers!"
But if Kate Eddowes knew, she'd done nothing about it, contacting neither the 
police nor the newspapermen who were offering rewards of up to a hundred 
pounds—a literal fortune to someone like Catharine Eddowes—for information on 
the Ripper. She avoided constables, shunned reporters, and walked the streets as 
always, drinking what she earned and staring into shadows, clearly trying to 
drink her way through her terror or perhaps trying to drink her way to enough 
courage to finally act. Dominica thought pityingly that she was doubtless too 
frightened to come straight out and say, "Look, here, I've got a letter from the 
queen's grandson in my pocket and I think he's your killer . . ."
Prince Albert Victor was, of course, safely away in Scotland with his 
grandmother, just now, providing him with an ironclad alibi for the murders of 
Stride and Eddowes. Dominica doubted the prince even knew what Lachley was 
doing, although he might guess. Perhaps that was why he'd fled to Scotland, 
leaving his spiritual advisor behind in London.
When the night of September 30th arrived, Dominica and Guy followed Lachley from 
his home in Cleveland Street, then lost him for more than an hour in the teeming 
streets of Wapping. "Where the deuce did he get to?" Guy Pendergast muttered as 
darkness descended over London's rooftops.
"Where the devil does he always get to? Wherever it is, I intend to find out!"
"To do that, pet, we'll have to find him again. Of course, we can always pick 
him up at Dutfield's Yard."
"I plan to videotape much more of his activities this evening than that! We'll 
go to Catharine's doss house," Dominica decided. "Surely he'll show up there?" 
And that was exactly where they caught up to him, in the company of James 
Maybrick, at long, bloody last.
"We'll find Eddowes, first, if we can," Lachley muttered, his voice whispering 
electronically in Dominica's ear. "She's too bloody dangerous to leave wandering 
the streets any longer."
Lachley and Maybrick set out, stopping at public house after public house, 
searching for the doomed Kate Eddowes. Dominica, of course, knew exactly where 
Eddowes was—at least, where she'd be at eight o'clock, or thereabouts. Lachley 
wandered, by chance, directly into her path just in time to see events unfold in 
Aldgate High Street. He watched in open-mouthed disbelief and rising fury as two 
police constables incarcerated the woman he had waited two entire weeks to kill.
Catharine Eddowes was drunk. So drunk she could hardly stand up. Wailing like a 
fire engine and giggling, one would've thought her a girl of twelve. The sight 
of a forty-six-year-old prostitute whooping her way into Bishopsgate Police 
Station, carrying a letter in her pocket that could destroy everything Lachley 
had worked for, had murdered for, very nearly put the man over the edge. He 
stood across the street from the police station, hidden in shadows, soaking wet 
from the gusting rain, and closed his gloved hands into fists so tight, his 
hands trembled. The look of murderous rage in his face left Dominica momentarily 
shaken. When he stepped close to Maybrick, the words he hissed at his accomplice 
sent a shiver up her back.
"They can't keep her there forever, God curse her! And if she shows them that 
letter, I'll set fire to the whole bloody police station, blow up the bleeding 
gas main under it!" He jerked his black cloth cap down further over his brow, 
all but concealing his face, even from Dominica's low-light camera. "We'll find 
Stride, follow her as we did the others, wait until she's drunk, then I'll 
approach her and secure my letters. You can have her, afterwards."
"Yes . . ."
"You remember the code, James, that we agreed upon, should anyone come upon us 
while we're about our business?"
"Yes, yes," Maybrick said, his voice a trifle impatient now, "if you see 
someone, you'll cry Lipski! and I'll do the same if I spot anyone."
Lipski . . . The name of a poisoner who'd triggered a wave of anti-Semitic 
hatred in these streets the previous year. That hatred was sickeningly alive and 
well in the wake of the Ripper's murders. John Lachley and James Maybrick were 
deliberately fanning the flames of anti-Semitism, throwing the police even 
further off their trail, by using a word like Lipski as a coded warning. Anyone 
hearing that particular name would automatically assume it was aimed at a 
foreign Jewish murderer, rather than a warning between conspirators.
No wonder the constabulary had never caught the Ripper. Diabolically clever, 
these two. But hardly a match for Dominica Nosette. She smiled to herself as 
they returned to Flower and Dean Street, heading to the doss house at number 32 
in search of Elizabeth Stride. And this time, they hit paydirt straightaway. The 
kitchen entrance opened, spilling light and warmth into the blustery night. 
Elizabeth Stride paused in the doorway, speaking to someone in the kitchen.
"Look, Thomas, luv, I've got sixpence! The deputy gave it to me. I'm off for a 
drink, but I'll be back!" Long Liz sailed cheerfully out into the evening, 
chuckling to herself as she passed Maybrick and Lachley, hidden in the darkness. 
"I'll be back, all right, but not 'til I've found me a jolly Welshman!" She 
laughed aloud at that, then headed briskly in the direction of Commercial Road 
where the kind of trade she sought would be plentiful on a night like this.
From her shadowy place of concealment, Dominica Nosette watched James Maybrick 
and then John Lachley set out in pursuit, moving at a leisurely pace, entirely 
silent on what must have been rubberized shoes, to have made so little noise 
against the wet pavements. She hadn't thought of that and kicked herself for not 
considering it. Normally she wore rubber-soled trainers for undercover work like 
this, but they would've garnered instant attention in the down-time world of 
Victorian London. Too late now to remedy the lack.
Pulse pounding, Dominica waited until both men were well ahead; then she 
gathered up her skirts and stepped softly out onto the rain-puddled street and 
glanced across the road. Guy Pendergast emerged from another cramped and dark 
little nook. They exchanged a brief glance, then Dominica smiled and set off. 
She was about to land the story of a lifetime.
* * *
Their council of war didn't last long. Despite Skeeter's urgent desire to follow 
Marcus' trail as long and as far as possible, they had other considerations to 
think of, not the least of which was Jenna Caddrick's conspicuous absence from 
Armstrong's party.
"Their luggage couldn't have had anyone stuffed inside it," Willie Samuelson 
said glumly. "We bribed the station manager to tell us everything he could 
remember. He said their luggage must've been almost empty, it weighed so 
little."
"Which means Jenna Caddrick was never with them in the first place," Kit sighed. 
He dragged his hat off and ran a hand through sweat-soaked hair. "Much as I hate 
to say it, it looks like we've been hoodwinked by Armstrong's sleight of hand. I 
suggest we abandon the hunt for Noah Armstrong and his porter. Either Jenna's 
already dead or she never was with Armstrong."
"In other words," Skeeter muttered, "the little bastard deliberately sent us on 
a wild goose chase."
"If you were a terrorist leader running for your life," Kit said in a disgusted 
tone, "with up-time authorities bound to be on your trail, wouldn't you try to 
set up a false trail to follow? Remember, Julius was dressed as a girl, so he 
must have been acting as decoy for whoever was bound to follow Armstrong. The 
names Cassie Coventina and Joey Tyrolin have been bothering me for quite a 
while. We were meant to follow Armstrong, presumably so whoever took Jenna 
Caddrick and Ianira Cassondra could slip away quietly someplace else."
Kaederman muttered under his breath. "But where, dammit?"
No one had an answer to that question. Skeeter rubbed the back of his neck and 
said under his breath, "I do not look forward to telling the senator how 
Armstrong tricked us. Christ, this is all we need. Riots all over the station, 
that jackass Benny Catlin missing in London—"
"Benny Catlin?" Paula echoed, staring. "You mean that nice young kid is 
missing?"
Kit jerked his gaze up. "You know Benny Catlin?"
Paula blinked, started by the sudden intensity of the stares levelled at her. 
"Well, yes. I mean, it isn't every day I give a whisker-job to a girl."
Kit's lower jaw came adrift.
Sid Kaederman actually grasped her arm. "What?"
"Take your hand off me!" Paula snapped, yanking herself loose.
Kaederman flushed and apologized. She shrugged her shoulder, rubbing her bicep, 
then asked Kit, "I take it you didn't you know Benny Catlin was a girl? She told 
me she wanted to disguise her gender, which was a big disadvantage in London. 
It's not that unusual, actually, I've just never done a whisker job on a girl 
that pretty."
"My God!" Skeeter matched the face in the senator's photo to one in his memory 
and came up with an unpleasant, inescapable conclusion. "Benny Catlin is Jenna!"
Sid Kaederman swore in tones that caused several horses to lay back their ears. 
"God damn it! Armstrong duped us again! That stinking little bastard ordered his 
men to take her to London . . ."
"Yeah," Skeeter agreed, "but how did they get tickets? The Britannia's been sold 
out for nearly a year!"
"Jenna and her roommate must've bought Britannia tickets from that up-time scalper," Kit said slowly. "A year ago, when they first planned to go down time. 
There would've been plenty of Ripper Tour tickets floating around the black 
market, a year ago."
Skeeter groaned, "The senator said she wanted to film history. She must've 
planned to videotape the Ripper terror."
"Yes. And landed right in the middle of the Ansar Majlis terror, instead." Kit 
scrubbed at his lower face with one sweat-begrimed hand. "We have to get back to 
TT-86. We'll sleep here tonight, set out first thing in the morning. I'm afraid 
we'll be riding hard, to make it back to Denver in time to catch the gate. Can 
you keep up?" He glanced from Paula to Kaederman.
Paula Booker thinned her lips. "I'll cope. The last thing I want to do is stay 
here. I've had about as much vacation as I can stand, this year."
Kit turned his attention to Kaederman. "I'd suggest you try pain pills for those 
muscle cramps, or we'll leave you behind."
"I'll take the pills," Kaederman growled. "And when this is over, I am never 
setting foot down another gate in my life! I hate it!"
"Suits me," Skeeter muttered. 
Kit's hard-eyed gaze met Skeeter's. "Well, Jackson, looks like you'll be going 
to London, after all."
"Great," Skeeter groused. "Jack the Ripper and the Ansar Majlis. Just my cup of 
tea. Anybody want to place a bet on what the senator has to say about all this?"
He didn't have a single taker.
 
Chapter Seven
The stalk was in James Maybrick's blood, hot fire that only the red stuff of a 
life pouring out across his hands could quench. The wild night, with its gusting 
rainshowers and biting cold winds, spoke to the demons raging in his soul. It 
called them forth, hungering and slavering, until they ran barefooted through 
the flames of his own private hell. She shall pay! By God, the bitch shall pay, 
her and her whoremaster both! All London knows my work, now, and she trembles 
with fear when people speak of Sir Jim's deeds. Soon, I will pay her the same as 
I gave the others, whores all . . . and my knife will drink the bitch's blood, 
as well . . . Maybe I'll take her before I rip her open . . . take her while her 
whoremaster watches, then rip them both, God damn them! 
James Maybrick held in his mind the face of his beautiful, stupid wife, who had 
whored herself again and again with that fool Brierly. He summoned up the memory 
of the terror he'd inflicted on that prostitute in Manchester, the even more 
delicious terror of Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman here in London, painted that 
same wild-eyed fear across his wife's vapid face . . . and smiled as he watched 
his mentor close in on the common streetwalker chosen as Maybrick's next victim. 
Maybrick's blood pounded in anticipation. 
The potent medicine Lachley gave him each time he visited London left James 
absolutely invincible, stronger and more sure of himself than he'd felt in his 
entire fifty years of life. He laughed behind his moustaches, laughed at the 
notion of Abberline and those bumbling idiots in the Metropolitan Police 
Department actually catching anyone, let alone Sir Jim and his personal god. So 
many constables and fine inspectors, wasting their time searching for a foreign 
Jew to hang!
The game delighted him. That leather apron left in the basin beside Annie 
Chapman had been a most diverting clue. It had sent the idiots of Whitechapel's 
H Division chasing after the wrong sort of man. They'd actually arrested a 
fellow over that lovely apron, so they had! A dirty Jewish boot finisher they'd 
desperately wanted to be guilty. 
Too bad he'd had an alibi, an unshakeable one, at that. Not that they'd have 
believed him guilty for long, when other filthy whores had to be punished, had 
to be ripped with his shining knife. No, they wouldn't have held Mr. Pizer 
forever, certainly not past tonight. Tomorrow, all London would quake in its 
shoes at the work he would perform, he and John Lachley. A clever cotton 
merchant from Liverpool and a doctor of occult medicine from London's own SoHo, 
playing them all for the fools they were . . .
Rain spattered down from dirty skies, black and cold as last winter's ashes. The 
whore they'd been following for almost two hours, now, was a filthy foreigner. 
Lachley had told Maybrick about her. She frequently went begging at the Swedish 
parish church, spinning lies about a nonexistent husband and children. She'd 
supposedly lost them ten years previously, when the saloon steamer Princess 
Alice had collided with the steamship Bywell Castle in the Thames, killing 
nearly seven hundred people. Lachley's inquiries, quiet but thorough, had 
revealed that the bitch's real English husband had died of heart failure only 
four years previously, in 1884, not in the famous steamship collision. Children, 
she had apparently never had.
The one thing about Liz Stride that fretted Maybrick was her nephew, or rather, 
the late John Stride's nephew, who was a member of the bloody Metropolitan 
Police Force, of all things. But that didn't worry James too much. Clearly, the 
nephew couldn't care overly much for his aunt, not if Liz Stride were living in 
Whitechapel, charring for Jews and mending their garments for them, selling her 
body to whatever man would have her. He must remember to leave some nasty little 
clue on the streets, tonight, pointing the finger of suspicion at the foreign 
Jews again, he really must. He'd remembered to bring his chalk, this time, too.
But he couldn't write out any messages until his knife had drunk its fill.
After witnessing Catharine Eddowes' arrest for public drunkenness, they spent 
hours searching pubs for Stride and finally caught up to her shortly before 
eleven P.M. on Settles Street, at the Bricklayer's Arms Public House. 
Alarmingly, they found her in the company of a short, well-dressed man she 
laughingly called Llewellyn. A Welshman! Maybrick darted a glance at Lachley, 
who watched the couple narrowly from the shadows.
The whore and her Welshman stood in the doorway of the pub, waiting for the 
driving rain to slacken. Her customer was eager enough for it, kissing her and 
carrying on like some low sailor, rather than the respectable tradesman he 
clearly was, probably some arse of a merchant up from Cardiff on business, 
slumming in the East End where a man could have whatever he wanted for the price 
of a glass of cheap gin.
Two workmen, also taking refuge from the rain, ordered ale and watched the 
antics in the doorway, clearly bemused. One nudged the other. "Hey, Liz, why 
don't you bring your fella in and 'ave a drink, eh?" The tall woman glanced 
around, laughter shaking her strong-boned face, then whispered something to her 
customer. The man shook his head, intent on pawing at her bosom under her drab 
coat. The man who'd invited them in snorted knowingly. His friend called over 
the noise of laughing, swearing, singing voices, "Better watch out, Liz, that's 
Leather Apron trying to get round you!"
Laughter greeted this assessment, since the man clearly was not an Eastern 
European Jew. He was obviously too new to town even to understand the reference. 
James Maybrick smiled into his own ale glass, delighted. Leather Apron, now 
there's a lovely joke, indeed! Little do they know Leather Apron's sitting right 
here, watching, waiting for that bastard to finish, so Sir Jim can have his own 
chance at her. Not that Sir Jim would actually taste her dirty wares. That 
wasn't what he was here for. Sir Jim could take a whore anytime he wanted, just 
by bedding his wife.
Shortly after eleven, Liz Stride and her importunate Welshman left the 
Bricklayer's Arms, heading out into the rainy night for a tryst in a dark 
stairwell on Goulston Street. From his place of concealment at the foot of that 
stairwell, Maybrick could hear her asking the man to read a letter for her, one 
she had in her pocket.
"Read a letter for you?" he gasped out, clearly giving her the business while 
she asked her question. "Are you daft?"
"It's in Welsh."
The man grunted. "I didn't come to London to read somebody else's letters. And 
only the lower classes bother learning to read Welsh. Good God, woman, if a 
Welshman wants to rise above the handicap of being born Welsh, he'd better scrap 
everything Welsh he can. Coarse brown bread, coarse Welsh language, all of it. 
Great Christ, woman, hold still, I haven't finished yet!"
James Maybrick, hat pulled low against the cold wind and rainsqualls, smiled 
behind his moustaches. Long Liz's customer didn't know it, but his lack of 
ability to read his own native language had just saved his life. Clearly, 
Elizabeth Stride was none too pleased that her Welshman's sense of inferiority 
had turned him into a greater English snob than most Englishmen.
When she emerged at last from the stairwell, her color was high and so was her 
temper. "Ta very much, luv," she snapped, pocketing a few coins.
The Welshman, looking bewildered, watched her storm away down the street, 
muttering, "What the devil is it these creatures really want? Now, where's my 
hotel, I wonder . . ." He peered about him, squinting into the rain, then set 
off briskly, heading west.
What Elizabeth Stride wanted, at any rate, was clear. Over the next thirty 
minutes, James Maybrick and his mentor shadowed her across most of the East End, 
from Whitechapel down through Wapping, east into Poplar, a wretched stretch of 
dockside gambling dens and gin palaces where—so rumor had it—Long Liz and her 
late husband had once run a profitable little coffee shop, but never once 
catching her alone. She was being careful, obviously, to stay in the 
well-crowded streets. It was in Poplar that Stride picked up the sailor. He 
reeled out of a pub in the company of several of his mates, singing off-key 
about his long-lost and sorely missed Cardiff. By eleven forty-five, she and her 
sailor, a young man in a cutaway black coat and ubiquitious sailor's hat, were 
strolling down Berner Street, back in Whitechapel, where they paused in the 
doorway to number 64, waiting out another brief rain shower. A passerby glanced 
up and noticed them kissing, but failed to notice either Maybrick or Lachley 
where they stood across the road in the shadows, watching and listening.
"You would say anything but your prayers," the sailor laughed, voice carrying 
across Berner Street. And a moment after that, when the passerby had turned onto 
Fairclough Street and was out of earshot, "How about it, then? Will you?"
" 'Course I will, there's a nice quiet spot just down the street, Dutfield's 
Yard, where they used to make carts. Nobody uses the yard at midnight, luv. Mr. 
Dutfield moved his cart-making business over to Pinchin Street and the sack 
maker's shop next to it's closed this time of night. And there's a dry stable in 
there, empty now the carts have gone."
"Ah . . . Sounds perfect, then. Lead on, angel."
When they emerged from the doorway to number 64, the young sailor's black 
trousers bulged noticeably in front. Maybrick, hand thrust deep into his pocket, 
gripped his knife and breathed harder. Dutfield's Yard . . . He knew the place. 
It was perfect. Completely closed in, only one way in or out, and that through a 
narrow alley eighteen feet long. The yard could only be reached through a pair 
of wooden gates set into the street between a row of terraced cottages, occupied 
by cigarette makers and tailors, and the Jewish International Working Men's Club 
on the opposite side of the alleyway.
A meeting of some kind was in progress at the Club. Maybrick could hear voices 
speaking half a dozen different languages, English, Russian, Hebrew, French, 
Italian, something Slavic that might have been Polish or Czech . . . They came 
from halfway across Europe to this miserable little meeting hall where upwards 
of two hundred working-class louts and their women crammed themselves in to give 
plays and musical concerts, all of them hideously amateur, not to mention the 
radical meetings that attracted troublemakers from all over the East End. 
Maybrick detested them, agitators with wild notions about the manumission of the 
labouring classes. Why, they and their kind would bring down the Empire, so they 
would, them and their dirty whores, the ruination of decent British morals . . .
Elizabeth Stride, as foreign a bitch as the workers in the lively hall opposite, 
was taking her time, back there in Dutfield's Yard. Was the sailor reading out 
the letter for her? Maybrick caressed his knife. He didn't give a damn about the 
sailor, although he would have to die, too, if he'd translated Dr. Lachley's 
letter for the dirty screw. Christ, they were taking their time about it! He 
eased his pocket watch out, peering at the crystal face in the dim light 
filtering out through the Workers' Club windows opposite. Bloody near 
twelve-thirty A.M.! He was cold and tired and wet, had spent five miserable 
hours on a train today, just getting here from Liverpool, and they'd had to walk 
across the whole bloody East End since his arrival.
Get on with it! He snapped shut his watch with a savage motion, thrust it back 
into his waistcoat pocket. Impatience was making him edgy. Once already tonight, 
he'd primed himself to strike, only to have the chance snatched away, thanks to 
Catharine Eddowes' drunkenness. By the time Stride finally emerged, James 
Maybrick was ready to do a violence worse than anything he'd unleashed to date. 
By God, the moment Lachley had his letter, he would knock the bitch into that 
alleyway, throttle her, then slash and slash until the fury was finally spent . 
. .
"Sorry about the note in your pocket, darlin'," the sailor was saying as they 
stepped out of the black little alleyway. "I can read me own name, just about, 
but not anything else. Never went to any school."
"Oh, it isn't your fault," she said, voice peevish. Clearly, she was no happier 
about this customer's lack than the previous one's. "I'm beginning to think 
there's not a Welshman in all of Britain can read his own language!"
The sailor laughed. "Give me a kiss, then. I'd better be off and find me mates, 
they'll wonder where I've got to."
If Maybrick hadn't been so feverishly furious to strike, he'd have laughed 
aloud. Poor, dirty whore, had a letter in her pocket worth a king's 
ransom—literally—and she couldn't find a soul to read it to her. The sailor gave 
her a lusty kiss, then strode off toward Poplar and the docks. Maybrick stepped 
forward, seething with impatience, only to curse under his breath when a young 
man in a dark coat and deerstalker hat left the Workman's Club, carrying a 
newspaper-wrapped parcel some six inches high and eighteen inches long. He was 
moving fast, eyes clearly not yet adjusted to the darkness beyond the club, 
because he very nearly ran her down.
"Oh, I am sorry!" he exclaimed, steadying her on her feet. His accent marked him 
as a foreigner.
"Give me a fright, you did," she gasped, managing a smile for him.
"You are not hurt, then?"
"No, I'm fine, honest. I don't suppose you'd know anybody hereabout who reads 
Welsh?"
The young man looked startled, but shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I do not. I 
am Hungarian, have not been long in England."
"Oh. Well, maybe you might walk me back to my rooms, eh? It's not far and I'm 
that nervous, with this madman walking about the streets . . ."
"Of course, madam."
He escorted her across the street, straight toward Maybrick's hiding place. 
Maybrick all but crushed the handle of his knife under his fist and shrank back 
into the darkness of the doorway he stood in. God above, would this lousy whore 
never spend two minutes alone? If she made it all the way back to her doss house 
with the blasted Hungarian, they'd never have a chance at her! Then another set 
of footsteps coming along the pavement sent Maybrick even deeper into the 
shadows. Holy Christ, it's a bloody police constable! Pulse thundering, he stood 
paralyzed, watching the constable approach Stride and her Hungarian. The 
constable frowned at her, moustaches twitching. " 'Ere, now, move along, Liz, 
none of your dirty business along 'ere."
Liz Stride drew herself up, drunk and beginning to show the effects of her own 
night's frustration. "I never asked this gentleman a thing like that! He nearly 
knocked me down, coming out that door." The Hungarian doffed his hat nervously 
and muttered something about getting home, then fled down Berner Street in the 
opposite direction from the constable. The policeman shrugged and moved on, 
leaving Stride to mutter a curse after him.
"Well, at least I got enough for the doss house. Bloke might not've been able to 
read, but he had money in his trous, sure enough." She sighed, then headed back 
across Berner Street, clearly intent on giving up her quest for the night.
And finally, God, finally, she was alone.
Across the street, John Lachley moved in fast, stepping out of his concealment 
and hurrying toward her. "Madam? I say, madam, I couldn't help overhearing you 
just now." He was speaking in a very low voice, but Maybrick, senses twitching, 
heard every breath drawn, every syllable uttered. "You said you were looking for 
someone who reads Welsh?"
Liz Stride paused, taken by surprise. "Welsh? Why, yes, I am."
He doffed his rough black cap, gave her a mock bow. "I'm Welsh, as it happens. 
What were you looking to have read?"
Eagerness flooded across her face and she reached toward her pocket, then she 
paused, sudden wariness stealing across her features. "You couldn't help 
overhearing?" she repeated nervously. "How long have you been watching me?"
"Why, madam, not long at all. Here, do you want me to read this letter out for 
you or don't you?"
She backed away from him, toward the alleyway to Dutfield's Yard. "I never said 
it was a letter."
Anger flushed Lachley's face. He was as impatient as Maybrick, maybe more so, 
having waited two full weeks for this moment, while Maybrick had been busy with 
his work in Liverpool and the children and a household to run. "Of course it's a 
letter! What else would it be? Oh, for God's sake, just hand the bloody thing 
over!"
"I've got to go, have a friend waiting for me at the pub down the street, there 
. . ."
She started to step away and Lachley's temper snapped. He grabbed her by the 
arm, flung her back toward the alley. "Give me the letter, you stinking whore!" 
When she tried to break free, Lachley slammed her to the muddy ground. A tiny 
scream broke loose from her throat, then two more. She was trying to scramble to 
her feet, digging for something in her pocket. Maybrick, pulse racing, reached 
for his knife, started out into the open, then heard footsteps coming and swore 
under his breath. He fumbled out his pipe instead, lit it with shaking hands 
just as Lachley glanced up.
"Lipski!" The warning burst from Lachley, galvanizing the short, dark little man 
approaching. Already in the act of crossing the street to avoid the altercation 
at the gate, the heavily bearded man, obviously Jewish from the prayer shawl 
visible under his coat, started walking much faster. Maybrick went after him, so 
furious at yet another interruption he was ready to slash anything and anyone 
who got in his way. The Jew broke into a run and Maybrick pelted after him, 
chasing the interloper all the way down to the railway arch. He finally realized 
that Lachley would be back at Dutfield's Yard, securing his letter. Chasing a 
damned interfering Jew wasn't why he was out here tonight, wasn't why he'd spent 
the whole stinking night in the cold rain.
Maybrick turned and hurried back to the alleyway, where Lachley had finally 
snatched his letter from the whore's pocket. He'd forced her back against the 
gate, one hand across her mouth, his arm pressed against her throat, cutting off 
her air and trapping her against the gate. Murderous rage had twisted Lachley's 
face—and mortal terror had twisted hers. Her eyes rolled as Maybrick approached, 
hope flaring wildly.
"Not in the street!" Maybrick hissed as he came closer. "That bloody constable 
might come back any moment! Get her into Dutfield's Yard . . ."
Keeping her safely throttled, they dragged Elizabeth Stride back into the 
blackness, down the eighteen feet of blind alleyway and along the wall in the 
yard beyond. She fought them with every scrap of strength in her brawny frame, 
giving them a dreadful time, subduing her. Lachley, wheezing and panting, 
finally threw her against the brick wall and pinned her with one arm across her 
chest, bruising her while his hands closed around her throat; Maybrick held a 
gloved hand clamped across her mouth while Lachley strangled her, to keep her 
screams from alerting the crowd in the hall just above their heads.
"I want her!" Maybrick hissed.
"When I've bloody well finished!" Fury cracked through Lachley's voice. She was 
struggling, but more feebly now, losing consciousness. Maybrick had his knife 
out, shaking with need. At length the struggles ceased, her life fading away 
with a harsh rattle in her throat; then Lachley was shoving her down into the 
mud. "Got to make it look like she was back here for the sex," he was muttering, 
voice a bare whisper. Maybrick could hear the doctor searching her pockets. "Ahh 
. . . that's grand, a packet of Cachous . . ."
Ahh, indeed . . . Maybrick smiled. Pills used by smokers to sweeten the breath. 
When the constables found her, they would think she'd taken them out to chew 
before servicing her customer, never dreaming she'd been strangled to death and 
cut open for the letter Lachley was stuffing into his coat pocket. On the heels 
of that thought, Lachley swore. "Christ! The bitch had a knife in her pocket!" 
He came up holding a short, wicked little blade Maybrick could just make out in 
the near blackness. "Bloody bitch! All right," the doctor hissed at last, "she's 
yours! Make it fast!"
"Give me her knife!" Maybrick gasped, wanting to do her with her own blade. 
Lachley handed it over and Maybrick crouched down, delighting in the shock 
against his hand as he slashed through the throat. He reached for her skirts, 
wanting to rip at her gut—
And the gate at the end of the alleyway rattled open.
A horse's hooves struck the bricks sharply, heading straight toward them. 
Maybrick stood up so fast, he went dizzy. Lachley grabbed his arm, dragged him 
deeper into the yard, back toward the stable. Maybrick's heart thudded, heavy 
and hard and terrified. Hot blood trickled down his hands, which shook wildly 
out of control as the pony cart clattered right into the yard with them.
Dear God, we're going to hang for this goddamned slut! 
The pony nearly trod on the bitch's body. The animal snorted and shied at the 
last moment, obviously having caught the scent of blood, and tried to avoid the 
bundle on the ground.
"What's got into you?" a man's voice muttered, heavily accented. "What did I do 
with that whip? Eh, is there something on the ground?" They could hear the man 
scraping and probing downward into the blackness. "Who's this? Are you drunk? 
Get up, you're blocking the way." Then, voice suddenly uncertain. "Maybe she's 
ill." He jumped down from his cart, hurried back down the alleyway. "I must 
fetch help, get a lantern, it is black as pitch in here . . ."
Oh, my God, he's leaving! 
"Quick!" Lachley's voice hissed into his ear.
Maybrick needed no second prompting. His legs shook violently as they made their 
escape, silent on their rubberized servants' shoes. Thank God Lachley had 
thought of using them when this business began, they'd have been overheard 
leaving the yard for certain, without them. He still couldn't quite believe they 
were going to make their escape. He shoved both knives into his coat pockets as 
they hurried down Berner Street, while the cart driver entered the noisy Working 
Men's Club behind them.
"What is it, Diemschutz?" a man's voice floated to them.
"A woman, collapsed in the Yard. Get a lantern . . ."
The man's name burned in Maybrick's mind. Diemschutz! Another stinking Jew! He 
would hunt the bastard down, so he would! Slit his goddamned throat, how dare he 
interrupt like that? He'd had no time to do more than cut her throat, curse it!
"Keep your hands in your pockets," Lachley hissed. "They're covered with blood. 
We'll have to get underground as fast as possible."
"But I didn't get to rip her!"
Fury blazed in his mentor's eyes. "I don't give a bloody damn what you didn't 
get to do! You sodding maniac, we were damn near caught! And the whole East End 
is going to be crawling with constables inside a quarter of an hour!" Lachley's 
cheeks had gone ashen. 
"I know we were almost caught, blast it!" Maybrick hissed, gut churning with 
frustrated rage. "But we weren't, were we? And the bloody buggers won't be 
looking for us, they'll be looking for a lone man. A stinking foreign Jew, 
walking by himself!"
Lachley's breaths slowed perceptibly. His jaw, knotted with anger, gradually 
relaxed. "Right. All right, then, we walk along together. Just a couple of jolly 
mates, 'aving a bit of a bobble on a Saturday night, out for a quick one down to 
boozer."
Maybrick blinked in surprise. "Good God. You really have lived in these streets 
before, haven't you? I didn't quite believe . . ."
"Of course I have, idiot!" Lachley hissed, moving down the pavement at a more 
leisurely pace. "How the bloody hell do you think I know the sewers so well?"
"Oh, I hadn't thought of that, really . . ."
"Just shut up, James, for God's sake, just shut the bloody hell up!"
He considered arguing, but one look into Lachley's eyes told Maybrick that his 
mentor was in no mood for trouble, not even from him. He walked along in broody 
silence, the blood on his hands drying into a sticky mess. When they passed a 
gutter with a broad puddle, he paused and glanced both directions down the 
street, then crouched and rinsed off his hands and his whore's knife. Her blade 
was sticky with its owner's lifeblood. His hands were still unsteady as he shook 
the muddy water off and thrust the prostitute's knife back into his other coat 
pocket, opposite his own, longer-bladed weapon. He shoved his hands into his 
pockets to hide the bloodstains on his white cuffs.
"I want to get right out of Whitechapel," Lachley muttered, moving steadily 
west. "Forget about your rooms in Middlesex Street. If there's an inquiry, if 
that bloody Jew on Berner Street identifies us to the constables, I want to be 
out of Metropolitan Police jurisdiction, fast."
They were already in Commercial Road, walking steadily west toward the point 
where Commercial Road took a sharp bend toward the north to become Commercial 
Street. Once past Middlesex Street and the Minories, along Aldgate, they would 
be in the jurisdiction of The City of London, with its own Lord Mayor, its own 
city officials and—ah, yes, Maybrick smiled, clever Lachley!—its own 
constabulary. As they passed a nasty little alley, they nearly stumbled over a 
drunk, who lay snoring in the gutter. Lachley paused, cast a swift glance 
around, then stooped and pulled the drunken sailor deeper into the alley.
"Well, don't just stand there! That miserable Jew can describe these clothes!"
Lachley was stripping off his dark coat, peeling off the sailor's jacket and 
grimy shirt. "Here, put this shirt on, your cuffs are bloody."
The idea of putting on a filthy sailor's unwashed shirt did not appeal to James 
Maybrick. But neither did the gallows. He stripped off his shirt in haste, 
switching his blood-stained one for the sailor's. Lachley had appropriated the 
man's jacket for himself, dropping his own coat over Maybrick's arm. Maybrick 
slithered into it, then dumped his coat, the sleeves spattered with Stride's 
blood, across the drunk's naked torso. When they stepped back into the light, 
Lachley wore a grey cap instead of the black one he'd left behind, a 
salt-and-pepper grey jacket, too loose for him, and a red kerchief knotted 
around his neck, nautical fashion.
"You don't look the same man at all," Maybrick said softly, studying Lachley 
with a critical mein. Then, wistful and frustrated, "You don't suppose those 
sodding constables at Bishopsgate have let that drunken bitch Eddowes out yet?"
Lachley stared at him, then gave out a short, hard bark of laughter. "Great God, 
you do enjoy dangerous living, don't you? One wife in London, another wife and a 
bloody mistress in Liverpool, every week you swallow enough arsenic to poison 
all Bethnal Green, and now you want to stop at the police station and ask if the 
nice whore they arrested for impersonating a fire engine has sobered up enough 
to go home!"
"What I want," Maybrick growled, "is what I didn't get with the whore in 
Dutfield's Yard."
Lachley, equilibrium restored by their semi-miraculous getaway and a change of 
disguise, laughed again, harsh and wild as the rain-lashed night. "All right, 
damn your eyes, we'll just go along and see! The fastest route from here," he 
peered at their surroundings, "would be down Houndsditch from Aldgate."
As they were currently in Aldgate High Street, it was a matter of perhaps two 
minutes' walk to reach Aldgate proper, then they swung sharply northward up the 
long reach of Houndsditch, moving away from the Minories to the south. The clock 
on a distant brewery up in Brick Lane chimed the half hour. One thirty A.M. and 
his blood was high, the terror of having nearly been caught now transformed into 
a feral sort of euphoria. Pure excitement flowed through his veins, hot and 
electrically charged, as though he'd just taken a dose of his arsenic. Sir Jim 
was invincible, by God! All he asked was to get his hands on that other bitch 
he'd been promised. He'd cut her with all the wildly charged strength in him, 
rip her to pieces and leave some jolly little rhyme for the City Division's 
bumbling fools to puzzle over. His brother Michael, who could rhyme like 
anything, sat in his lovely rooms over in St. James's writing songs the whole 
sodding country was singing. If Michael could do it, so could he. He'd think up 
a right saucy little rhyme to tantalize the police, maybe stir up more trouble 
with the Jews. Yes, a truly fine way to cap off the evening . . .
As they approached Duke Street, a short, auburn haired woman emerged from that 
narrow thoroughfare, moving with angry strides and muttering to herself. A dark 
green chintz skirt with three flounces picked up the light from a distant gas 
lamp, revealing yellow flowers of some kind in the cloth. Her black coat had 
once been very fine, with imitation fur at the collars, cuffs, and pockets. A 
black straw bonnet trimmed with green and black velvet and black beads was 
tilted rakishly on her hair. The woman was strikingly familiar, Maybrick 
couldn't immediately think why.
" . . . lousy bastard," she was growling to herself, not having seen them yet, 
"give you two whole florins, I will, he says, if you can get me to spend! How 
was I to know he was so sodding impotent, he hadn't managed it in a whole year . 
. . Half a damned hour wasted on him and not tuppence to show for it! I've got 
to find somebody who can read that blasted letter of Annie's, that's what, get 
some real money out of it. The newspapers will give me a reward, that's what I 
told the superintendent of the casual ward, and I meant it, by God! If I could 
just get a reward, now, maybe I could take John to a regular hospital, not a 
workhouse infirmary . . ."
Lachley closed his hand around Maybrick's wrist, halting him. Recognition struck 
like a rolling clap of thunder. Catharine Eddowes! Wild exultation blasted 
straight through him. Lachley hissed, "I'll lure her down to Mitre Square, in 
City jurisdiction . . ."
Yes, yes, get on with it! His hand already ached where he gripped his own 
long-bladed knife. Maybrick faded back into the shadows, leaving Lachley to 
approach the angry prostitute, whom they'd last seen so drunk she could scarcely 
stand up. Clearly, the evening's stay in jail had sobered her up nicely. Good! 
Her terror would be worse, cold sober.
" 'Ello, luv," Lachley said with the voice of a rough sailor, a voice that 
matched his stolen jacket and cap and neckerchief. "You're a right comfy sight, 
so y'are, for a bloke wot's far from 'ome."
Catharine Eddowes paused, having to look up a long way into Lachley's face. She 
was barely five feet tall, nearly seven inches shorter than the man smiling down 
at her. "Why, hello. You're out late, ducks, the pubs have all closed. I know," 
she said with a wry smile, "because I wanted a drink tonight and couldn't get 
one."
"Well, now, I can't say as I could 'elp you to get boozey, but a body don't need 
gin to 'ave a good time, now does a body?" Lachley dug into his pocket, came out 
with a shining coin. "Just you 'ave a butcher's at this, eh? Sixpence, shiny an' 
new."
Catherine's eyes focused sharply on the coin Lachley held up between gloved 
thumb and forefinger. Then she smiled and moved closer to him, rested a hand on 
his chest. "Well, now, that's a pretty sixpence. What might a lady have to do, 
to share it?"
Further along Duke Street, where lights blazed in a local meeting hall known as 
the Imperial Club, three men emerged into the wet night, glancing toward Lachley 
and Eddowes. They moved off in the opposite direction, giving the woman and her 
obvious customer their privacy. James Maybrick watched them go and smiled in the 
darkness from his hiding place on Houndsditch.
"Let's take a bit of a stroll, shall we?" Lachley suggested, following the men 
who'd just left the Imperial Club, but moving at a far more leisurely pace to 
give the talkative trio plenty of time to lose themselves in the streets ahead. 
"Find us someplace nice an' comfy to share?"
Her low laughter delighted Maybrick. The song she started singing left him 
laughing softly to himself. The silly screw had perhaps ten minutes left to 
live, at best, and here she was, walking arm in arm with the man who was going 
to kill her, singing as though she hadn't a care in the world. Maybrick laughed 
again.
Soon enough, she wouldn't have.
* * *
After two solid weeks in a saddle, short of sleep and in dire need of a shower, 
Kit Carson was in no shape for a face-to-face with Senator John Caddrick and 
half the newsies in the northern hemisphere. But he didn't have much choice. 
They were waiting as soon as he stepped into the station through the Wild West 
Gate. Guides bringing back Julius and the murdered tourist followed on his 
heels. Screams and a roar of voices broke out, a solid wall of noise.
"Jenna!" Senator Caddrick's voice cut through the chaos. The senator was bolting 
past the ropes . . . "Jenna!" A Time Tours employee caught the senator and held 
him back. His expression twisted through a whole range of emotions.
"Senator Caddrick," Kit told the ashen politician, "it isn't your daughter. 
Neither of them is."
Visibly shaken, Caddrick, gasped out, "Not my daughter? Then where is she? Why 
isn't she with you?" Sudden fury crackled in the senator's eyes. He shook off 
the hands holding him back and advanced menacingly. "What are you doing back if 
you haven't found her? Explain this immediately!"
"She isn't with us because we didn't find her."
Newsies were crowding against the lounge's velvet-rope barriers, shouting 
questions. Barricades fell with a crash, spilling newsies into the chaos as the 
returning tour reeled back into the station. Skeeter Jackson, gaunt from hard 
riding, came through the open gate just ahead of Sid Kaederman and Paula Booker. 
A steady stream of returning tourists and guides began to pour through the gate 
as Senator Caddrick dragged his gaze from the body bags to his exhausted 
detective and back to Kit's face. "Didn't find her? Why not?"
"Because we have excellent reason to believe your daughter never left TT-86 
through the Denver Gate at all. I'd rather not say more until we've spoken in 
private." Kit glanced toward shocked Time Tours employees. "Could someone notify 
Ronisha Azzan we need a meeting with her? Thanks. No, I'm sorry, there will be 
no further comments at this time."
He waded against the tide of shouting newsies and shaken tourists, heading for 
the aerie, then decided he didn't want to risk the kind of fireworks that would 
explode if he took the entire search team with him. So he shoved his way through 
the chaos in Frontier Town and muttered, "Paula, get out of here. Kaederman, go 
with Skeeter to Connie Logan's. Start outfitting for the Britannia."
"Right, boss!"
"You got it, Kit."
Skeeter peeled off so fast, news crews were left stammering in the vacuum. Paula 
took advantage of their surprise to haul Sid Kaederman away in his wake.
"What's going on?" Caddrick demanded.
"I'll brief you at the station manager's office," Kit growled.
"But—"
Kit left him standing in the midst of an unholy, shrieking mob of newsies. The 
senator, trailing reporters like a school of noisy fish, caught up and stalked 
along in thin-lipped silence. At the aerie's elevator access, Kit threw a body 
check to hold out the crowd on their heels and mashed the button for the top 
floor. The elevator rose swiftly toward uncertain sanctuary. When the doors slid 
open, Kit discovered just how uncertain that sanctuary was. Along one glass 
wall, lined up like so many gargoyles, sat three stone-faced men and women from 
the Inter-Temporal Court of the Hague, their uniforms glittering with brass 
officialdom. Like it or not, I.T.CH.'s grand inquisitors had arrived.
Kit held back a sigh and entered the glass-walled office anyway. The I.T.C.H. 
agents were stiff in their spotless uniforms, while Ronisha Azzan stood in cool 
elegance behind Bull Morgan's immense desk, which left Kit feeling even dirtier, 
grittier, and wearier than before. He rearranged grime on the back of his neck, 
then stalked over to the nearest chair and promptly folded up into it. Tired as 
he was—and stolid as the Grand Inquisitors were—Kit didn't miss the slight 
shuffle in chairs as his pungent perfume, the accumulation of fourteen days on a 
horse, wafted across the office.
"Welcome home, Kit," Ronisha Azzan greeted him quietly. "If I could have your 
report, please?"
Kit told the Deputy Station Manager what they'd found in the mining camp, 
bringing everyone up to date in a few brief sentences. When he finished, utter 
silence held the glass-walled aerie. Senator John Caddrick's expression was a 
study in lightning-fast realizations: shock, dismay, anxiety, and oddly, 
triumph. Then Caddrick's face went slowly purple as anger—or something 
approximating it—won out over the other emotions. "Benny Catlin? Do you mean to 
tell me you've wasted two entire weeks chasing the wrong tourist? When my 
daughter has been lost down your godforsaken Britannia Gate this whole time?"
"It wasn't wasted!" Kit snapped. "We know a great deal more than we did two 
weeks ago. One of our residents was murdered, down the Denver gate! That boy 
hadn't even turned seventeen, Caddrick, and he took a bullet meant for your 
daughter!"
Caddrick had enough sense, at least, to shut up. He sat breathing hard for long 
moments. Ronisha Azzan sat back in her chair, looking abruptly tired and grey 
around the lips and nostrils. Kit sympathized. He felt grey all over. Ronisha 
shoved herself to her feet and poured out three stiff scotch-and-sodas. 
Caddrick's hand was shaking as he lifted his drink, nearly sloshing it down his 
expensive suit jacket. Kit drained his own glass at one gulp. "Thanks, Ronnie. 
God, I needed that. So . . . What we're trying to determine now is our best 
chance of tracing Benny Catlin in London. Dr. Paula Booker is probably the best 
bet we've got for identifying Jenna, since she's the surgeon who gave Jenna a 
new face."
"I want to see this doctor," Caddrick growled. "I want to know how my little 
girl was when she came through this station, who was holding her prisoner, why 
the surgeon didn't report any of this—"
"Dr. Booker didn't report it for the simple reason there was nothing to report. 
Your daughter came in voluntarily, alone, claiming to be a grad student. Paula 
gave her a set of false whiskers, surgically implanted. The very next day, Paula 
left for her own vacation down time. You're damned lucky, Senator, to have any 
witness at all. When we caught up to Dr. Booker, trying to trace Armstrong and 
his prisoners, she and her guide had been bushwhacked by a gang of local 
bandits. If we hadn't come along, Paula might well have been murdered in cold 
blood."
Caddrick glared at him, his mouth tightened into a thin white line. "Live 
witnesses won't do any good if Jenna's already dead in London! For your 
information, Carson, my daughter was nearly killed her first night there. Twice! 
Then she disappeared, leaving two dead men behind her. And now you tell me 
you've got two more men murdered in cold blood down the Denver Gate? Not to 
mention a known international terrorist who escapes with three hostages—and you 
don't even bother to follow? My God, mister, of all the careless, 
irresponsible—"
"That is enough!" Kit Carson had the lungs to be heard when necessary.
Caddrick slammed the scotch glass down, knuckles white. "Don't you dare use that 
tone with me—"
"Gentlemen!" Ronisha bellowed, towering over both of them. "Senator! You will 
remain civil or you will leave this meeting! Is that understood? Kit Carson has 
just risked his life, not to mention two weeks of unpaid time away from his 
business, looking for your little girl. In my book, you owe Mr. Carson a very 
serious apology! As well as whatever humble thanks you can muster up as a 
parent. You ought to be dancing for joy he's discovered as much as he has, 
considering what he was up against, out there!"
Caddrick clearly didn't intend to dance for anybody, much less for joy. He sat 
glaring at Ronisha for a long, dangerous instant, then glowered at Kit, 
obviously waiting for further explanations. Kit considered walking out, then 
considered unemployment and life as suffered up time. Speaking coldly, he said, 
"Suppose you tell me just what I was supposed to do, Senator? Spend the next 
five years combing the North American continent for Armstrong? When we had a 
positive lead on your daughter's whereabouts? The Time Tours guides we left in 
Colorado are still searching for Armstrong and his hostages, will be for months 
to come, down the Wild West Gate. But this search and rescue mission was charged 
with finding your little girl. And that's exactly what it's going to do. Find 
your daughter. In London. Ronnie, what's the news from Spaldergate House?"
Ronisha sighed. "We know Benny Catlin was involved in two fatal shootings, 
leaving two baggage handlers dead and a carriage driver wounded. Malcolm's been 
searching, of course, but no one in London has any inkling that Benny Catlin is 
Jenna Caddrick."
Kit grunted. "Sounds to me like Jenna's managed to escape, which means our 
searchers will have to split up to locate Jenna and whoever took her through the 
gate. I pity the searchers. They'll have a helluva time, covering London for two 
separate targets with a three-week lead on them."
"They?" Caddrick echoed. "What do you mean, they? You're the team leader, 
Carson! I insist you continue to lead this mission!"
"I can't," Kit said bluntly, rubbing sweat and grit from his brow. "And it's got 
nothing to do with your lack of gratitude or my pressing business interests, so 
forget the protests. I already exist in September of 1888. I'd shadow myself and 
die instantly if I attempted to enter London during the next four months. 
Someone else has to head up search and rescue operations there. I'd suggest 
Skeeter Jackson, working closely with Malcolm Moore. Skeeter's already—"
"Now, wait just a minute! I've done some checking on this Jackson. Not only is 
he the same little creep who assaulted me at Primary, I've heard more than 
enough to know I don't want a con-man and thief heading up the search for my 
little girl!"
Kit silently counted ten. "Skeeter Jackson is not conning anybody, Senator. I 
hired him as my own hotel house detective and believe me, it takes a helluva lot 
of trust to hire somebody for that job. As for the so-called assault . . ." Kit 
swallowed the words poised on the tip of his tongue. "Just be forewarned. If you 
press assault charges against him, I'll be damned sure he countercharges you 
with criminal battery."
John Caddrick's entire face went white.
Even the I.T.C.H. inquisitors shifted in their chairs.
When Caddrick started to sputter, Kit overrode him. "Forget it, unless you 
really want the fight of the century on your hands. We've got photographic 
evidence of the whole incident, Senator. I, for one, will not allow a personal 
vendetta against Mr. Jackson to cripple this search mission. There's too much 
riding on the outcome. Skeeter's more than proven himself. Virtually every 
breakthrough in this case has been made by Skeeter Jackson, whereas your 
detective is virtually useless. I told you Sid Kaederman wasn't qualified for a 
down-time mission, whereas Skeeter's already experienced down the Britannia 
Gate. And he'll be working with Malcolm Moore, who specializes in London tours. 
Jackson and Moore head up the London mission, whether you like it or not, 
Senator. Unless, of course, you want your little girl killed?"
Senator John Caddrick's normally florrid jowls faded to the color of old wax. He 
opened his lips several times, but no sound came out at all. He glanced once at 
the I.T.C.H. inquisitors, then swallowed and sat motionless in his chair for 
long moments. The only sound in the room was the whir of the air-conditioning 
fans. Caddrick finally managed a faint, "All right. I don't see that I have much 
choice." His voice strengthened into a low growl. "But I will not be browbeaten 
and threatened, is that clear?"
If he stayed, Kit knew he would say something the entire station regretted. So 
he stood up, heading for the elevator. "Quite. Now, if you'll excuse me, we have 
a lot of work to do before the Britannia opens again. And frankly, I need a 
shower and a shave before I do any of it. And a cold beer."
Kit stalked into the elevator before Caddrick could protest.
On his way down toward the howling mob of newsies, he thought bleakly of Margo, 
already in London, and of poor Julius, no older than his granddaughter, who lay 
dead with a bullet in his gut. Kit wondered with a chill just how many of the 
searchers on this hunt were likely to come out alive?
 
Chapter Eight
Dominica Nosette was cold and wet where she stood shivering in the darkness. 
Rain was falling again, as dirty as the grimy brick walls along Whitechapel's 
narrow streets. Sudden gusts sent torrents skating across the cobblestones like 
rats scurrying for shelter. Soot ran black in the gutters where the occasional 
gaslight illuminated swirls and foul-smelling rivers of refuse on their way to 
the sewers. It was a hideous night to be alive, a worse one to die in.
Dominica had seen far too much death this night to have stomach for any more. 
She prided herself on a tough professionalism, a hard core of indifference under 
layers of thick callus that had made her one of the most ruthless and successful 
photojournalists in the business. Watching the death of Polly Nichols on video 
from the vault beneath Spaldergate House in Battersea had been very much like 
watching an ordinary movie. It was easy to disconnect the reality of it and 
watch dispassionately, even though it had been frustrating for her professional 
sensibilities. She would've obtained far better video footage by filming the 
whole thing on site, using more creative camera angles, better audio equipment.
Elizabeth Stride's murder in Dutfield's Yard had been harder to witness, with 
the immediacy of sight and smell and sound and the knowledge that only the 
complete blackness of the closed-in yard and the concealing half-walls of a 
disused stable stood between her camera lens and the man crouched over Stride 
with a gutting knife, nearly severing her head with a few powerful slashes. But 
even there, it had been only a murder, after all. At least Stride had been dead 
when the knife struck, strangled by that other lunatic, Lachley.
But Catharine Eddowes . . .
Tough as she was, Dominica did not relish the death waiting in this square for 
poor Kate Eddowes. Mitre Square resembled a miniature amphitheatre in brick. 
Along one edge ran a solid, three-story brick structure comprised of vacant 
cottages, jutting out like a peninsula perpendicular to Mitre Street just 
beyond. Along the short, squat end of this peninsular "cottage" ran a tiny, 
short jog of road and pavement giving access to the square. The pavement zagged 
back in a loose Z-shape from the Mitre Street access, with the Sir John Cass 
School running slap up against the vacant cottages. The resulting interior 
corner, like the crook of an elbow, was isolated, with a broad pavement that 
stood nearly three times wider than a normal walkway.
Beside the school rose a tall warehouse belonging to Kearly and Tongue. 
Opposite, facing the warehouse and school, stood another Kearly and Tongue 
warehouse, the Orange Market along King Street, and a house belonging to Police 
Constable Pearse. Along Duke Street, the fourth border of the square, stood the 
Great Synagogue. Narrow, lightless Church Passage—a covered alleyway—led into 
the square from Duke Street, past the southern edge of the synagogue.
The tiny "square" thus formed, a secluded island cut off from the busier streets 
surrounding it, was where Lachley and Maybrick would lead their second victim of 
the night. There was a sickening symmetry, Dominica realized, to their revolting 
anti-Semitism. They were murdering Eddowes within view of a synagogue. And given 
their narrow escape from Dutfield's Yard, these men possessed a terrifying 
confidence, to kill her within plain view of a policeman's home not half an hour 
after nearly being caught dead to rights. That alone shook Dominica as she and 
Guy Pendergast fled Dutfield's Yard before Mr. Diemschutz could bring help. She 
and her partner sped along side streets, running to get ahead of the murderous 
Ripper duo, literally racing the whole distance to Mitre Square to get into 
position for the best vantage point to film Eddowes' death.
In front of the school, a waist-high iron railing partitioned off half the 
available pavement. Because of minor work being done, a much higher temporary 
fence had been erected along the line of that railing, effectively cutting the 
broad pavement in half and sealing off the entire corner of the elbow. It was 
behind this temporary fencing Dominca and Guy chose to conceal themselves, less 
than six feet from the spot where Catharine Eddowes was slated to die.
Five minutes after they went into hiding, Constable Watkins appeared in Church 
Passage, doing his rounds and peering dutifully into the square. And not two 
minutes after Watkins retreated down Church Passage again, John Lachley 
appeared, escorting the unsuspecting Catharine Eddowes. Dominica held her 
breath, trembling slightly in the cold, wet air. Lachley and Eddowes paused 
within whispering distance of Dominica's hiding place, while James Maybrick 
slipped up silently behind them, knife already out of his pocket.
Dominica knew what was coming. But the shock left her trembling when John 
Lachley smashed Catharine Eddowes to the pavement, strangling her right in front 
of them. The woman struggled, flailing her arms and kicking helplessly, while 
Lachley snarled into her face and crushed her throat under his hands. Kate 
Eddowes finally went limp, arms falling lifelessly to the pavement at her sides. 
Lachley rifled her pockets for his letter even as the slavering Maybrick struck 
with his knife, too impatient to wait any longer.
And it was that, watching the infuriated and massively frustrated Maybrick, 
which finally broke through Dominica's tough professionalism and left her 
trembling and sick behind the high, temporary schoolyard fence. This was no 
make-believe movie, no documentary on ordinary little murders. Not even the 
impersonal blowing apart of a solider by an artillery round. This was a frenzy 
of psychopathic hatred, a man who was no longer fully human, slashing at an 
innocent woman's face, cutting an inverted "M" straight through the flesh of her 
eyelids, hacking off ears, nearly severing the head from its neck. And when he 
jerked up her skirts . . .
Dominica couldn't watch, squeezed shut her eyes and swallowed hot bile, tried 
hopelessly to force away the image of him snatching out Catharine's intestines, 
tossing them across her shoulder, cutting part of them loose and arranging them 
beside her. Don't gag, don't heave, they'll hear you, oh, dear, God, the smell . 
. . Guy Pendergast's hand was bruising her shoulder, the fingers digging in and 
flexing as he, too, fought to remain silent during the ghastly ritual Maybrick 
and Lachley were enacting beyond the fence. She could hear low voices, almost 
whispers, and didn't want to distinguish individual words.
When at last their footfalls moved away, she opened her eyes. She tried not to 
look at the mangled shape lying huddled in front of the empty cottages. Dominica 
was violently atremble, dizzy and light-headed. She wasn't sure she'd be able to 
take a single step without collapsing. "They're gone," Guy whispered directly 
against her ear, to prevent the sound from carrying. She nodded. Time to leave. 
Get the hell out of here, Dominica, because Police Constable Watkins is going to 
walk into the Square down Church Passage in about two minutes, discover the body 
and raise all bloody hell . . . come on, legs, move it! 
She'd taken one step, no more, when racing footfalls thudded back into the 
Square. Her vision greyed out for just an instant and only Guy Pendergast's grip 
kept her on her feet. Maybrick had jogged back to the body, was hacking at it 
again, tearing away part of her apron and wrapping up something . . . oh, 
Christ, something he'd cut out of her, he was carrying part of her insides away 
with him . . .
"James!" An all-but-silent hiss of fury broke through the shock. It was Lachley, 
white-faced. "Get the hell away from her! Come on, man, before a copper strolls 
in here. They do a patrol past the Square every few minutes and they're bloody 
well due!"
"Forgot my dinner," Maybrick said calmly.
If Guy hadn't been behind her, propping her up, Dominica might well have fallen 
against the fence, giving them both away. The pistols she and her partner had 
concealed in their pockets were utterly useless against these two. The men out 
there arguing over the remains of Catharine Eddowes literally could not be 
killed, not by anyone from up time. Maybrick wouldn't die until 1889, of arsenic 
poisoning, and until Mary Kelly was murdered more than a month from now, neither 
of these men could be so much as harmed.
But Dominica certainly could be.
"If you want to make off with her kidney and uterus, fine!" Lachley snapped. 
"But I'll be damned if I go walking along with you while you carry them! I'll 
meet you back at Lower Tibor, as usual."
The two halves of the team that comprised Jack the Ripper split up, Lachley pale 
with anger, Maybrick flushed and euphoric. Lachley uttered one short curse, then 
strode off through the broad opening to Mitre Street, vanishing to the 
southwest, walking fast. Maybrick thrust his bloody prize under his coat, 
shoving the knife into a deep pocket. Something dark fell out as he pulled his 
gloved hand free again. It landed with a dull sound against Eddowes' mangled 
body. Something small, made of leather . . . Dominica had to stifle the wild, 
hysterical impulse to laugh as Maybrick strode jauntily down Mitre Street, 
following Lachley's route at a more leisurely pace. Maybrick had dropped a red 
leather cigarette case, the one experts had puzzled over for a century and a 
half. It was far too expensive for a destitute woman like Catharine Eddowes to 
have been carrying. She'd have pawned it for cash in a heartbeat. It lay, now, 
amidst the contents of her rifled pockets, which Maybrick had set out neatly 
beside her body.
Then Maybrick's footfalls died away and they had scant seconds in which to make 
their own escape, before the momentary arrival of PC Watkins stirred this whole 
neighborhood to a frenzy. There were only two ways out of Mitre Square and the 
constable would be arriving through Church Passage. They had no choice but to 
follow on the heels of the killers.
"Well, come on, then," Guy hissed, dragging her toward the exit to their hiding 
place. "You're the one who wanted to follow those damned lunatics!" His anger 
stung her pride fully awake. She jerked away from his supporting grasp and 
stalked out from behind the temporary fencing. After what she'd been through 
tonight, Maybrick had better not give her the slip! Concentrating fiercely on 
Carson Historical Video Prizes and million-dollar movie advances, Dominica 
Nosette eased past the pitiful remains of Catharine Eddowes and set out down 
Mitre Street. I can still find out how they pull that disappearing act, in the 
middle of a crowded city . . .  
As they slipped down Mitre Street, a police whistle rose shrilly behind them.
Maybrick's bloody legacy had just been discovered.
* * *
Skeeter supposed he should've seen it coming, at least where Goldie Morran was 
concerned. But he was so tired and still so shaken by Julius' murder, he didn't, 
not until it hit. The Duchess of Dross spotted him through her shop windows and 
shot out the door like a javelin going for the gold. "Skeeter! Just the person 
I've been looking for!"
He stopped dead, about as eager to talk to Goldie as he was to spend the night 
in Senator Caddrick's hotel room. "What do you want, Goldie?"
"A bit of . . . mmm . . . professional advice."
Skeeter's glance came up sharply. "You want advice from me?"
Purple-tinted hair glinted evilly; so did her faintly sharp teeth. "Why, yes, 
Skeeter. You do have a certain amount of useful knowledge tucked away in that 
bony head of yours."
"Really? And what makes you think I'd go out of my way to accept a cup of coffee 
from you, never mind give you advice?"
She glanced around nervously, wet her lips. "Well . . . Since you ask, it 
concerns a mutual acquaintance."
Skeeter narrowed his eyes. "I've been helping Kit Carson arrest most of our 
mutual acquaintances, Goldie. Going to bribe me to look the other way when one 
of your cronies comes through? Forget it. Besides, you must've heard? I'm 
leaving through the Britannia in a couple of days. I'm busy."
For just an instant, real anger flickered through her eyes. "I'm talking about 
Jenna Caddrick!" she hissed, voice carefully modulated not to carry.
"What about her?"
"Not here. Too many ears."
"Huh." With I.T.C.H. crawling all over the station, never mind Caddrick and his 
staff goons and all those disgruntled federal marshals, that was no lie. "All 
right. Where?"
"My shop. In back. It's sound-proofed."
Figures. "As long as you make it quick. I've got about a thousand hours of 
library work ahead of me before I go to bed tonight."
She sniffed autocratically and led the way into a shop completely devoid of 
customers. Tourists, wary of the violence that kept breaking out, were staying 
in their hotel rooms unless a gate was actually cycling, abandoning Commons to 
the loons and the protestors, all of which had hit station entrepreneurs hard in 
the cashbox. Goldie hung up the "Out to Tea" sign—a ruse to gain privacy, since 
mere tea never passed Goldie Morran's lips—then turned the lock. She led the way 
into the back, past a solid steel door that clearly served to secure her vault. 
It thumped as she closed it.
The large room beyond was divided, one part lined with small, metallic drawers 
floor to ceiling, labelled neatly as to semi-precious contents. The balance 
formed a cozy corner where she'd rigged a sitting room of sorts with a comfy 
sofa, a table stacked with trade magazines, a small wet bar, and a beautiful 
porcelain birdcage. Skeeter did a classic double-take. Inside sat two birds 
which very few people now alive had ever seen outside a museum's stuffed 
collection. Lovely grey with bright splashes of yellow and white and orange, the 
breeding pair of Carolina parakeets chirped cheerfully above the sound of quiet 
music.
He wondered how many viable eggs she'd sold to smugglers already.
"Now," she said briskly, "let's get down to business. Would you care for 
anything?" She was opening a scotch bottle.
Skeeter was parched, but shook his head. He had his standards. "What have you 
got to say, Goldie? That you didn't tell Security when they came calling?"
She smiled slightly. "My, my, testy, aren't we?" She poured a drink, neat, and 
sipped delicately, then came around the end of the bar to settle into her sofa, 
waving Skeeter to a seat. "I need your help with possible . . . legal 
entanglements that don't necessarily need to come to light."
Skeeter remained standing and just looked at her.
Something in his expression caused her to sit up straighter. "You do recall, 
Skeeter, I did save your life once. Lupus Mortiferus would've chopped you into 
mince if I hadn't interfered. You owe me."
Dammit, she was right. For once. He did owe her, despite the savagery they'd 
done one another during that idiotic, near-fatal wager. "All right, Goldie. I'm 
listening."
"I didn't tell Security about this, for reasons you'll understand in a moment. 
That tourist who went missing in London, Benny Catlin? He came in here to 
exchange some currency just a few minutes before the Britannia cycled. He was a 
very nice young man. Quiet, a little scatter-brained, it seemed. It was 
idiotically easy, really. And if Benny Catlin had been an ordinary graduate 
student instead of Jenna Caddrick . . ."
"Christ, Goldie, what did you do?" He was afraid he already knew.
Goldie didn't disappoint him. "I, er, passed some counterfeit bank notes. 
Someone stiffed me with them, returning from a Britannia tour. Which should tell 
you how good they are. I didn't give her all counterfeit notes," she added 
hastily, "but enough that if Jenna Caddrick has been spending them, well . . . 
She's been down the Britannia long enough, now, it could get her into serious 
trouble if they're detected. They're good fakes, quite good, but I didn't intend 
for anyone to spend months down the Britannia with them. I mean, nobody expected 
Benny Catlin to go missing—"
"Or turn up as Senator Caddrick's kidnapped daughter!"
Goldie flushed.
"God, the messes you scheme yourself into . . ." He was tempted to tell her she 
could just scheme herself right back out again; but he wanted to know the rest. 
"So just what do you want me to do about it?"
Again, she wet her lips. "Well, you see, it occurred to me that Jenna Caddrick 
might be missing because she's been, well, jailed. For counterfeiting. I mean, 
if she got away from her abductors the way everybody's saying, that would 
certainly explain why nobody's been able to trace her. Searchers wouldn't think 
of looking in a Victorian prison, after all, for a terrorist's hostage. Probably 
not even the terrorists would think of that."
Reluctantly, Skeeter had to admit she had a point. "So you want me to check all 
the London jails, looking for a woman disguised as a man, arrange a prison 
break, then sneak her out through Spaldergate while whoever's trying to murder 
her isn't looking, then convince her not to press charges against you for 
passing her counterfeit banknotes in the first place? Jeez, Goldie, you don't 
ask much."
"It isn't just getting her out of jail," Goldie said quickly. "I mean, there 
would be a considerable, ah, sum of money involved to compensate her. For legal 
expenses in London. Inconvenience experienced. That sort of thing."
"You want me to bribe her? My God, Goldie! We're not talking about some addled 
half-wit tourist, here! Do you honestly think you can bribe your way out of this 
with Senator Caddrick's kid?"
"Well, it's worth a try! I'll pay you, too," Goldie added venomously. "Don't 
worry about that. Cash advance for half my offer, with the balance on delivery 
of one live and kicking, close-mouthed kid!"
"I don't want your money, Goldie. If I do find Jenna Caddrick, maybe I'll pass 
along your message. Then again, maybe I won't. If you did get her tossed into 
some Victorian hellhole of a jail, just pray real hard she doesn't have the same 
capacity for holding a grudge her father does."
He left her sitting, mouth ajar, and heard a forlorn chirp from the caged 
parakeets as he swung the vault door open and stalked out. He was tempted to 
head for the nearest bathroom just to wash his hands. Instead, he headed for Kit 
Carson's office. Kit needed to know about this. As he headed down through Urbs 
Romae and Victoria Station toward Edo Castletown, having to push his way through 
a crowd of chanting protestors, it occurred to Skeeter that Jenna Caddrick might 
not even be in London any longer. Particularly not if she'd discovered her money 
was no good. Hiding in London would be expensive, which meant she was likely 
running short of funds already.
Caddrick's story was even more full of holes now than it had been before. If 
Jenna Caddrick had been a hostage, she wouldn't have simply waltzed into Paula 
Booker's surgery or Goldie Morran's shop unaccompanied, looking to alter her 
face and change currency. But Benny Catlin had done just that, then had climbed 
the five flights of stairs to the Britannia platform and chewed Skeeter's 
backside over a steamer trunk that had very nearly skidded over the edge. There 
hadn't been anyone up there with Benny Catlin. Nobody holding a metaphoric gun 
to Jenna Caddrick's head. She was on her own, in London. The guys she'd shot and 
killed must have been London counterparts of the bastard who'd murdered Julius. 
Who'd been doubling for her, as a decoy. And since it was clear that Armstrong 
was helping Marcus and the girls, Jenna Caddrick must be helping Ianira 
Cassondra . . .
Skeeter actually went so dizzy, he staggered, rocking to a halt so fast, the 
protestor behind him ran slap into his back. Skeeter caught his balance, 
ignoring a flurry of angry mutters from the sign-carrying loon, and stood there 
with his eyes narrowed to slits, thoughts racing, then groped for the nearest 
wrought iron bench and collapsed onto it, shaking.
"My God," Skeeter whispered aloud. "Ianira was in the trunk!" No wonder Jenna 
Caddrick had been so badly shaken! He shut his eyes for long moments, trying to 
blot out the image of that trunk sliding off, falling the long, fatal way to the 
Commons floor . . . Then shoved himself to his feet and stalked through the 
jostling horde of lunatics rampaging through Victoria Station, carrying signs 
and howling out protests he barely heard, furious with himself for not tumbling 
to it sooner. "Kit'll have my badge, overlooking a clue that big," he muttered 
under his breath.
When Skeeter reached the Neo Edo Hotel, he found Kit in his palatial office, 
bent over his computer. Skeeter paused just long enough to kick off his shoes 
before stepping onto the pristine tatami rice mats. "Where's Kaederman?" Skeeter 
asked tersely, searching the corners of Kit's office with an uneasy gaze. "I 
thought he was coming up here."
Kit glanced up. "Kaederman," he said flatly, "went to bed. That man is the 
laziest detective I've ever met."
"How'd we luck out? At least he's nowhere around to hear the news."
"What news?" Kit leaned forward, eyes abruptly glittering.
"Ianira's in London. She went through in a steamer trunk. One of Benny Catlin's. 
I'm sure of it. You remember that pile-up of luggage at the platform, when one 
of the trunks nearly slid off."
"Yes, you mentioned it belonged to Benny Cat— Oh." Kit could out-swear Yesukai 
the Valiant. Then he grimaced. "Skeeter, you had no way of knowing, not at the 
time."
"Maybe not," he muttered, pacing from the enormous desk to the withered 
landscape garden of raked sand and carefully placed stones to the wall of 
television monitors which kept Kit abreast of events all over Shangri-La 
Station. "But if I hadn't been so damn muddled, I'd have figured it out a lot 
sooner. And the trail wouldn't be so cold!"
"Well, beating yourself up over this won't do Ianira any good," Kit pointed out 
gently. "At least we have a pretty good indication Ianira was alive, inside that 
trunk, given Jenna's reaction. I begin to wonder if anyone from the Ansar Majlis 
was with that girl when she went through the Britannia," Kit mused. "Other than 
a couple of hit men who died messily? And since she went through on her own, 
that really makes me wonder where Marcus and Armstrong went after hopping their 
train in Colorado. Once Armstrong eliminated the man who shot Julius, they 
certainly lost no time hightailing it out of there." Kit frowned slowly as he 
sat back in his chair. "Unless," he mused, "they weren't running away at all."
Skeeter halted his pacing. "Huh?"
"Maybe . . ." Kit tapped steepled fingertips against his lips. "Just maybe, they 
were running to something."
Skeeter stared, trying to figure out what he was driving at. "Running to 
something? What? Where? There's nothing in 1885 they'd want to go to!"
"No. Not in 1885. But in 1888 . . ."
Skeeter felt his eyes widen. "London?"
"Makes sense. A lot of sense. Hide out for three years, make damned sure 
nobody's on their trail, cross the Atlantic to meet Jenna and Ianira when they 
come through the Britannia. Armstrong could easily have set up a base of 
operations in London, complete with false identity, a good occupation lined up, 
so money's coming in steadily. They could hide out for months, years, if 
necessary. With damned little chance of the Ansar Majlis ever finding them."
"Or anybody else, for that matter," Skeeter added bitterly.
"A definite plus, when one's marked for murder. And they'll have the children to 
think of," Kit added gently. "Surely you can see that?"
He could. All too clearly. "So you think we shouldn't look for them, after all?"
"No, I didn't say that. Shangri-La Station's still in mortal danger. And 
something tells me none of our fugitives will be safe until we get to the bottom 
of this. Too many pieces of this puzzle are still missing. Like that guy who 
killed Julius, for one. He was certainly no down-time Arabian jihad fighter. So 
who hired him? The Ansar Majlis? Hiring a paid killer isn't their style. Crazies 
like the Ansar Majlis do their own killing. So, if not them, who?"
Skeeter didn't like the road Kit was walking down.
"Yes, you do see it, don't you? I'm getting very itchy about the safety of this 
search team. If someone besides the Ansar Majlis is trying to kill Jenna, then 
merely looking for her could be as dangerous as finding her. The question is," 
Kit mused softly, "how, exactly, to begin the search once you get to London? I'd 
rather not risk Paula's life any more than necessary, but she ought to go along, 
to make a positive identification."
Skeeter snorted. "That part's easy."
Kit blinked. "Oh?"
He told Kit about Goldie's counterfeit banknotes. Kit whistled softly.
"So, you'll start by looking for angry merchants who've been ripped off? Hmm . . 
. It might work. There was a fairly large trade in counterfeit banknotes and 
coins, especially near the waterfront, where the fakes could be passed to unwary 
newcomers, people unfamiliar with English currency, but it's certainly the best 
lead we've got so far." Kit's grin was sudden, blinding, and terrifying. "Grand 
idea, Skeeter. Let's have you pose as a Pinkerton agent. Say you're after a Yank 
from New York, who's been counterfeiting money in the States, tell our angry 
London merchants you think he's moved his operation to London. We'll get Connie 
to whip up Pinkerton identification papers for you."
"Good grief. First a house detective for the Neo Edo, now a Pinkerton agent? 
Who'd a-thunk it? Me, a private eye!"
"And a pretty good one, so far," Kit grinned. "Get over to Connie's. I'll call 
her, give her a head's up. You'd better collect a few of those counterfeits from 
Goldie, too, so you'll have samples with you in London, as part of your cover 
story. And Skeeter . . ."
"Yeah?"
Kit's smile was positively evil. "Let's not tell Sid about this?"
Skeeter started to laugh; then felt a chill, instead, straight down his spine.
* * *
Margo was not keen to watch the murders of Stride and Eddowes. Rather than join 
the Ripper Watch Team in the Vault, she changed clothing, requested a cup of hot 
tea from one of the Spaldergate House maids, and curled up beside the fire in 
the parlour. There she stayed, sitting on the floor in front of the hearth, chin 
on knees, watching the flames dance across the coals. Malcolm came in shortly 
after two A.M., looking for her. He paused in the doorway.
"There you are. Well, it's over, down there. Maybrick turns out to be the one 
who chalked the graffiti in Goulston Street. And you'll never guess who we 
caught on tape? Those idiot reporters, Dominica Nosette and Guy Pendergast. 
They're following Maybrick and Lachley. Shadowed Maybrick to Goulston Street and 
photographed the graffiti after he left, then started trailing him once more."
"Great. We should've staked out the murder sites, ourselves, and waited to nab 
those idiots."
"Perhaps, but the chance is gone now. We've sent out Stoddard and Tanglewood to 
try to locate them, but they'll be long gone before either man can get close, 
I'm afraid." Malcolm crossed the parlour toward her, navigating his way around 
heavy furniture and tables full of bric-a-brac. "Whatever have you been doing, 
sitting here alone in the dark?"
"Trying not to think about what's going on in Whitechapel."
He settled on the carpeted floor beside her and wrapped an arm around her 
shoulders. "You're trembling."
"I'm cold," she muttered. Then, betraying the lie, "You don't think I'm too weak 
for this job, do you? Because I can't watch?"
Malcolm sighed. "There's a fairly large difference between running slap into 
something you're not expecting and going out of your way to watch something 
grisly, particularly when others are on the job to do it, instead. No, I don't 
think you're too weak, Margo. You extricated several people from that street 
brawl at the examination of Polly Nichols' remains, didn't you? Doug Tanglewood 
said he'd never been more thoroughly frightened in his life, yet you pulled them 
safely away, even Pavel Kostenka, when that lout was intent on beating him 
senseless."
"That wasn't so hard," Margo shivered. "I just charged in and did the first 
thing that came to mind. He wasn't expecting Aikido, anyway."
"Then you did precisely what a budding time scout should do," Malcolm murmured, 
stroking her hair gently. "Between the Ripper Watch and searching for our 
missing tourist, I haven't had the time to say how proud of you I've been. 
You've nothing to be ashamed of, nothing at all."
She bit her lip, wondering if now was a good time to talk about the past, which 
had been troubling her ever since she'd come to London. Her mother's descent 
into prostitution had been Margo's shameful secret for a long time, one she'd 
feared at first would drive Malcolm away; but she'd had time to think about it 
and wondered now if she'd misjudged him, unfairly assigning to him the same 
prejudices she'd encountered in Minnesota. He knew about her being raped by a 
gang of fifteenth-century Portuguese, after all, and still wanted to marry her. 
Surely he wouldn't mind what her mother had done to make ends meet, if he didn't 
mind the other?
Malcolm lifted her face, his expression deeply concerned. "What is it, Margo?"
She leaned against his shoulder and told him. All of it. Her father's drinking. 
Her mother's desperation to pay the bills, when her father spent his paycheck 
and her mother's both, buying the booze. What her mother had done . . . and what 
her father had done, when he'd found out. "I never meant to say anything, 
because it would kill Kit, to learn how his little girl died. But I thought you 
ought to know. Before you married me."
"Oh, Margo . . ." His voice shook. "I wish to God I could go back and undo it 
all. No wonder you fight the world so hard. You've had to, just to survive . . 
." He brushed his thumb across her cheek, across her unsteady lips. "You're so 
beautiful, so full of courage, it makes my heart stop. If your father hadn't 
died in prison, they'd have to hang me for him."
Margo's mouth twisted. "They don't hang people anymore, Malcolm."
Then he was holding her close and nothing else in the universe mattered.
* * *
Dominica watched in astonishment as James Maybrick unlocked the door of a filthy 
hovel in Wapping and disappeared inside. Gas light appeared briefly through the 
windows and a ferocious barking erupted, then subsided just as abruptly. A 
moment later, the gas went out, leaving the house dark again.
"What on earth?" she wondered aloud, startled. "What d'you suppose should we do 
now?" she whispered.
"I'm going 'round the back, see if I can get a look inside."
"Be careful!"
Dominica waited impatiently while her partner vanished into the inky blackness. 
Rain spat at her, cold and miserable. She huddled deeper into her coat and 
shifted from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. She'd been waiting for 
perhaps five minutes when snarls and savage barking erupted again from the 
house. A single gunshot split the wet night.
"Guy!" Dominica ran across the street, just in time for the front door to be 
thrown wide. Guy snatched her wrist and pulled her inside. "Come on! There isn't 
a moment to lose!"
"What—"
"Shh!"
He dragged her through the dark house into a central, windowless room where a 
gaslight burned low. A massive black dog sprawled across the bare wooden 
floorboards, dead in a puddle of spreading blood; Guy had shot it through the 
skull. In the center of the floor rested a heavy trap door, which Guy pulled up 
cautiously. Beneath, they found steps leading down into a cellar. "He's nowhere 
in the house," Guy whispered urgently. "He had to go through here. There's 
nowhere else he could have gone."
Dominica dragged out her own pistol, aware that she was trembling violently.
"There's no lantern," she muttered, eying the black hole uneasily.
"He had one. Must have. It's pitch black, down there, but we'll hear him at the 
very least, follow the sound."
Yes, she thought, and he'll hear us, as well. But they'd come this far and she 
wasn't giving up on the story of the century so easily. She gripped her pistol 
with damp fingers and followed Guy into the cellar, which proved to be no cellar 
at all, but rather a tunnel through the sewers beneath Wapping. So this is how 
he did it! Simply popped home to Wapping and vanished beneath the streets! Then, 
faint with distance, they heard it: the splash of footfalls through the filth in 
the tunnels. She and Guy, pausing at the base of the stairs, exchanged glances. 
Then Dominica hiked up her skirts and waded cautiously forward.
She was going to get that Carson prize. And all that lovely money, which her 
video would fetch in the up-time world. Dominica Nosette intended to be the 
world's most famous photojournalist ever. And nothing was going to stop her.
 
Chapter Nine
John Lachley had just finished burning Elizabeth Stride's letter in the flames 
of his altar beneath the streets when a woman's high, ragged scream echoed out 
in the sewer. A man's angry snarl and a volley of gunshots roared through the 
tunnels, followed by a thud of colliding bodies, a grunt and sudden masculine 
cry of pain. Then James Maybrick's voice, maniacal: "Lipski!" 
Over and over again, "Lipski! Lipski! . . . Lipski LipskiLipski . . ."
The ragged chant jerked Lachley across the room and out through the open iron 
doorway. The Liverpudlian was on his knees in the muddy water, his lantern 
thrown aside, hacking and stabbing at a motionless form. The thing lying on the 
sewer floor had, before Maybrick's violent assault, been a man. Blood had 
spurted and sprayed across Maybrick's face and chest. It dripped and spattered 
down his chin and hair from the arterial bleeding Lachley had warned him against 
when stalking the prostitutes. But a more terrible sound, by far, than the slam 
of Maybrick's knife into dead flesh came to Lachely's ears: running footsteps, 
receding into the blackness, unsteady and desperate.
The woman who had screamed.
Lachley left Maybrick to his grisly pleasure and raced after her. He had to stop 
her. Had to silence her. Whoever she was. It didn't matter a damn who, he had to 
catch her. She was slipping on the wet bricks ahead. Scrabbling up to run again. 
Blind and deaf and crashing into walls in the darkness. He could hear the scream 
of her breath. Shallow. Ragged. Wild. Could hear the scratch of her shoes. The 
splash of puddles under her staggering feet. Could smell the terror. Thick. 
Sexual. Delicious.
When he caught her, she screamed. Fought him. Writhed and clawed at his hands, 
his face. He backhanded her into the bricks. Caught a fist in her hair. Forced 
her head back. Found the death grip at her throat . . . And ghostly red light 
flickered in his eyes, eerie and startling. Lachley reeled back a step, bringing 
up one arm defensively. Her head moved and the light vanished. Then a gunshot 
split the darkness. The bullet whined off bricks behind him. Lachley backhanded 
her again, fist clenched. The gun discharged, blinding him. They struggled for 
the weapon and she fired until the gun clicked, empty. He struck her a third 
time, knocking her to the floor, this time. She splashed into the muck at his 
feet and lay still. A faint moan escaped her. Lachley caught her under the arms, 
grasped her jaw, tilted her head—
And the flicker of dull red light came again.
Badly startled, he searched along her neck, up toward her ear, and touched 
slick, alien cords of some kind, something glassy, an odd tube of some kind, 
what felt like tiny wires . . . What the bloody devil? 
He gave a practiced heave and tossed her across one shoulder. Her head trailed 
down his back, arms loose, unjointed. Lachley strode back through the darkness, 
guided by the light pouring from Lower Tibor's open door. Maybrick was still 
hacking at the dead man.
"James!"
When the sharp sound of his voice failed to break the maniac's slavering frenzy, 
Lachley shoved him off balance with a booted foot. Maybrick sprawled sideways, 
splashing into the water, then snarled like an animal, knife flashing at the 
ready.
"James! Put the sodding knife down! He's dead!"
The cotton merchant blinked slowly and, as the wildness faded gradually from his 
eyes, he focused on Lachley's face. "Sorry," he whispered, voice shaking, "I'm 
sorry, doctor, didn't realize . . ."
"You did well, James, killing that bastard. Drag him inside, now, and we'll see 
who our visitors might be."
"Yes, of course." He hauled the dead man up by the arms, dragging the body out 
of the filthy water, and pulled him into Lower Tibor.
"Leave him by the door, James, and find his sodding gun." Lachley dumped the 
unconscious woman across his work table and bound her wrists efficiently with a 
twist of rope. He found a cup and calmly poured out a dose of the drug he always 
gave Maybrick when they returned after a successful hunt through Whitechapel. 
"Ah, you found the pistol. Very good. Put it there. Now, James, you're shaking, 
badly in need of your medication. Here, swallow this down. Then take off your 
coat and the rest of those clothes. Burn them, you're covered in blood."
Maybrick drank the powerful drug without question, then stripped off the 
blood-caked garments and dropped them on the altar for burning. Lachley heard 
water splashing as he cleaned himself up at the tiny basin. Satisfied that his 
mad cotton merchant was under proper control once more, Lachley turned his 
attention to the mutilated body lying beside the door. He opened the coat, torn 
and hacked through in two dozen places, searched the pockets, emptied the 
contents of his waistcoat and trouser pockets, as well. Then frowned slowly at 
what he found. Crouched beside a perfectly ordinary corpse, John Lachley found 
himself confronted with objects he could not comprehend.
The man's pockets contained a handful of shillings, florins, a few half crowns, 
plus a wad of bank notes, a surprisingly large number of them. Nearly two 
hundred pounds, in fact. But the other items . . . He found a stiff, rectangular 
card of some sort, made of a substance Lachley had never encountered. Neither 
paper nor wood nor metal, it was nevertheless shiny and brightly colored, with a 
series of dark stripes down the back, formed of some other unknown substance 
which could not be scratched off easily with a fingernail. It reminded him of 
gutta-percha, obtained from the milky sap of a tree native to Malaysia, which 
like latex hardened on exposure to the air, forming a stiff substance somewhat 
like this, useful in cements, insulations, and so on. This card was not 
gutta-percha, however; attempting to dissolve it with oil of turpentine and 
naptha had no effect whatever, which proved it to be some other substance. Nor 
was it caoutchouc, which was not even as strong as gutta-percha and certainly 
nothing like as strong as this substance. Frowning, he put the little card aside 
and studied the other mysterious object he'd found, a tiny cylinder covered with 
a soft, spongy substance, with trailing wires coming out of it, coated with 
something slick and flexible. The wires plugged into a compact, heavy box. This 
was made of some other unknown substance, its feel similar to the stiff card, 
yet completely different, bent into a virtually seamless shape with tiny buttons 
and a hinged lid. This boasted a transparent cover of something that was not 
glass. In fiddling with the buttons, he pressed one that caused a faint, 
whirring sound to emerge from the box. Startled, he mashed other buttons, trying 
to get the sound to stop . . .
And James Maybrick's voice spoke from inside! 
He dropped the thing with a shocked yell, toppled straight over onto his 
backside and stared at the box which lay there talking to him, like some parlour 
medium's trick with ventriloquism or the tiniest Victrola phonograph imaginable; 
but there was no one here except Maybrick and himself, and Maybrick stood on the 
other side of the room, gaping, mouth dropped wide to hear his own voice coming 
from a box the size of Lachley's hand. Lachley could not imagine anyone making a 
phonograph this small.
"What is it?" Maybrick's voice shook violently.
"I don't know!" Lachley picked up the box and shook it gently. Maybrick's voice 
kept talking. Then he heard another voice and recognized with a jolt of shock 
what he was hearing. "James! Get the hell away from her! Come on, man, before a 
copper strolls in here. They do a patrol past the Square every few minutes and 
they're bloody well due!" This was followed by Maybrick's calm, prosaic, "Forgot 
my dinner . . ." and his own furious, "If you want to make off with her kidney 
and uterus, fine! But I'll be damned if I go walking along with you while you 
carry it! I'll meet you back at Lower Tibor, as usual."
He stared, open-mouthed now, himself. This little box had somehow captured their 
conversation of one hour previously, when they'd stood over the gutted remains 
of Catharine Eddowes. "It is like a phonograph or a miniaturized telephone," he 
whispered, awestruck, "one that records voices, rather than transmitting them 
across a wire! My God, how is this accomplished? Where is the mouthpiece? Both a 
telephone and a phonograph's recorder have a mouthpiece to capture the voice and 
transmit it, but there's nothing except these little wires and this tiny thing 
at the end. And what powers it?"
"They must be police!" Maybrick gasped out, shaking with furious terror. "Filthy 
coppers, following us, they're onto us—"
"London coppers do not have devices like this!"
"Then who are they?"
Lachley stared from Maybrick to the dead man and back, considered the box in his 
hand and the unconscious woman, stared at Maybrick again. Under other 
circumstances, the tableau they presented might have struck him as enormously 
funny: a naked man with blood in his hair, dripping water down his face and 
chest, a corpse in possession of a talking box, and a woman with bound hands 
lying sprawled across his work table. "I've no idea who they are," Lachley said 
at last, pushing himself to his feet and fiddling with the box until the voices 
stopped. "But I intend to find out. Get dressed James, you're bollock naked. And 
rinse the blood out of your hair before it dries to a clotted mess."
The madman ran a hand through sticky, thinning hair and grimaced, then bent over 
the basin again and washed his balding head clean. He recovered the clothes he'd 
worn on the train down from Liverpool and dressed himself silently. The drug was 
beginning to take hold, thank God, leaving him calmer and quieter. Lachley 
searched the unconscious woman, finding even stranger things secreted about her 
person than he had on the man. He had no idea what to make of the tiny, lenslike 
device hidden in her bonnet, nor could he comprehend the other device, which 
emitted the dull red light he'd seen in the dark sewer. Footsteps roused him 
from his frowning reverie. Maybrick had come to stand behind him.
"What's that?" he asked quietly, pointing to the little tube the light came 
from.
"I've no idea. It emits a pale, red-colored light."
"I don't see anything."
Lachley shone it at his eyes. "There, see it?"
"No."
Even when the cotton merchant stared directly into the device, he could not see 
the dim reddish light that was plainly visible to Lachley. Curiouser and 
curiouser . . . The lens-like affair and light emitter were connected via 
slick-coated wires to a heavy, very dense gadget hidden under the woman's coat. 
It resembled the voice recorder only in the sense that both were housed in 
compact boxes of some unknown material. Her device had metal parts, however, 
buttons and levers, and a strangely textured surface along one side that 
resembled a dark window, but there was nothing to see through it. In fact, it 
wasn't even transparent, the way the hinged lid of the voice recorder was.
Lachley found another of the stiff, strange cards in her pockets, along with a 
surprising amount of cash, a tiny mirror and other personal grooming implements, 
and a variety of oddments to which he could ascribe no purpose whatever. Her 
clothing was perfectly ordinary stuff: a cheap if substantial coat, heavy woolen 
skirt and bodice, worn over petticoats and combinations. Knitted stockings, 
stout and well-made shoes for walking. A heavy chemise under the bodice . . .
And under that, a garment the likes of which he'd never seen. Straps and smooth 
cups of some stretchy black substance, fastened snugly around her breasts, 
clearly meant to support her anatomy in a fashion superior to any female 
garments he'd ever seen, and he'd had enough sisters, growing up, plus several 
hundred female patients who visited his surgery, to know whereof he spoke. "What 
the devil is it made of? It isn't latex rubber, yet it's very like rubber, and 
exceptionally well crafted."
"C'n I rip her?" Maybrick's voice came from nearby, dulled by the drug, sleepy.
"No, James. She's mine." He glanced around to find the drugged merchant swaying 
on his feet. "Come here, James, you'd best lie down and rest." He dragged the 
unconscious, half-naked woman to one side, making room on the long work bench 
for Maybrick to stretch out. Ignoring the woman for several minutes, Lachley 
concentrated on taking Maybrick into a deep trance to erase any possibility of 
Maybrick's mentioning him or the bizarre devices they'd found tonight, when he 
returned home and scribbled out his diary entries.
"When will you be able to return to London, James?" he murmured.
"Not sure . . . long time . . . business . . ."
"Dammit, we have to find the Welsh woman in Miller's Court and eliminate her," 
Lachley muttered, "the sooner the better. Very well, James, the next time you 
return to London, you will locate a woman in Miller's Court for me, one who 
speaks Welsh. She is the woman you will kill next."
Maybrick's drugged face changed, coming alive with a hunger Lachley recognized 
very well, now. "I want to rip her . . . I'll slash her face, the faithless 
whore, cut off her breasts, kiss them when I've cut them off . . ."
"Later, James! You may do all of that, the next time you return to London." 
Maybrick's eyes were closing again, his breaths deepening. "Later . . ."
"Sleep, James," Lachley muttered. "When you wake, you will return to Liverpool. 
You will have no memory of me at all, not until I send you a telegram. Only then 
will you recall my name, this place. Sleep, James, and dream of ripping the 
whore in Miller's Court . . ."
The drugged merchant slept.
That nasty little chore out of the way, Lachley returned his attention to the 
woman at the other end of his work bench. It was time his mysterious prisoner 
woke up. He needed to question her, but she would not be likely to cooperate 
with the men who'd killed her companion. The dead man probably wasn't her 
husband, given the absence of any wedding ring on her hands, but they were 
clearly connected somehow, so he would have to take steps to ensure her 
compliance. He prepared another draught of the drug he'd given Maybrick, then 
roused her with water splashed into her face and gentle slaps across the cheeks.
"Wake up, now . . ."
She stirred, moaned softly. Gaslight glinted along her dark blond hair and fair 
complexion. She was a pretty little thing, with wide and frightened blue eyes 
that gradually opened. For a long moment, confusion held those eyes perfectly 
senseless. Then memory stirred sharply and an indrawn shriek broke loose. She 
focused on him, cowered away, tried to get her hands under her, and belatedly 
discovered the ropes on her wrists.
"Hold still," Lachley told her, "before you fall off the edge of the bench."
A tiny whimper broke free. He lifted her head and felt tremors ripping through 
her as he pressed the rim of the cup to her lips. "Drink this."
"No . . . please . . ."
"Drink it!" She struggled feebly, no match for his strength. With the simple 
expediency of pinching shut her nostrils, he forced the drug down her throat. 
She coughed, gagged, then swallowed it. Lachley stroked her hair gently. "There, 
that wasn't so bad. Don't bother to fight me, pet, you're not going anywhere. I 
haven't poisoned you," he added with a wry smile.
She trembled, biting a lip, and tried to hide her face. "Please, don't kill me . 
. ."
"Kill you? Oh, no, my dear, I've far more interesting things in mind for you." 
The shuddering gulp of air she dragged down left him chuckling. "Now, then, my 
dear, the drug I've just given you will make you very sleepy. By the way, would 
you mind terribly telling me your name?" She lay trapped against him, shaking, 
and didn't answer. He drew a fingertip down her wet cheek. "All right, then, 
we'll wait a bit, until the drug's taken hold. Terribly sorry about your friend, 
you know. James was quite beyond himself this evening." The woman's tears came 
faster and her breaths went ragged. Curiosity prompted his next question. "Was 
he your lover?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Your brother, perhaps?"
"No . . ."
"What, then?"
"B-business partner." Her eyelids had begun to droop.
"What sort of business, my dear?"
"Journalists . . ." A faint sigh of sound.
Lachley frowned. Journalists? Penny-dreadful journalists? What was the world 
coming to, when women presumed to enter a sordid profession like newspaper 
muckraking? The entire world was unravelling these days, with women demanding 
suffrage and entering medical training at university, becoming doctors, for 
God's sake, setting themselves up with typewriting machines as secretaries, a 
fine and estimable man's profession. Women would turn the job of personal 
secretary into a mockery, offering their sexual services, no doubt, breaking up 
the homes and marriages of perfectly respectable businessmen. Society was 
disintegrating and women were largely at fault. "What newspaper do you work for? 
Or do you write for some absurd women's magazine?"
"Newspaper . . ." Her eyes had closed completely. "London New Times."
New Times? He'd never heard of it. Hardly surprising, though, new penny 
dreadfuls hit the market every month, competing for readership and 
advertisements. "What were you doing in the sewer?"
"Following you . . ."
A chill chased down his back. Well, of course she'd been following him, how else 
would she and her partner have found their way down here?
"What did you come here for?"
A tiny, fleeting smile. "Going to win the Carson Prizec . . . in historical 
photojournalism . . . nobody else had the guts to try it, following the Ripper . 
. ."
For a long moment, Lachley stood dumbstruck. The Ripper? She knew of the letter 
he'd sent out? The one the Central News Agency had not yet made public? He'd 
expected the newspaper to print the Dear Boss letter immediately, but the 
dratted editor had clearly held it back and might well have sent it to the 
police. Perhaps she'd seen the letter at the Central News Agency office, spying 
for her own publication? Then the rest of what she'd said sank in. Historical 
photojournalism? He'd never heard of such a profession, any more than he'd ever 
heard of a Carson Prize, whatever that was. Clearly, winning it was important 
enough to risk her life for it. "Historical photojournalism?" he echoed blankly. 
"Are you a photographer, then?"
Perhaps that device she'd been carrying was some sort of camera?
"Oh, yes, a very good photographer. Dominica Nosette, most famous photographer 
in the world . . ."
Lachley indulged a wry smile, at that. He'd never heard of the bloody bitch.
"Videotape's going to make me rich," she sighed. "Fools on the Ripper Watch 
Team, all those famous criminologists and historians, they don't know anything . 
. . too cowardly to try what I did."
Ripper Watch Team? This sounded deuced ominous. "What did you try?" he asked 
softly.
Another fleeting smile. "Hid in Dutfield's Yard, of course, waited for you to 
bring Liz Stride there. And we hid again in Mitre Square, behind that high 
fence. They put their hidden cameras up and filmed it from the vault, but you 
can't get a decent story hiding in a cellar halfway across London. You have to 
get right out where he's going to strike next . . ."
The room spun as the implications of her babbling story sank in. She'd known 
exactly where to hide! Had known where to watch them kill Stride and Eddowes! 
Had known in advance! It wasn't possible, how could anyone know where he and 
Maybrick were going to be, when they hadn't known, themselves, where they would 
encounter the prostitutes? They hadn't even realized Catharine Eddowes had been 
released from Bishopsgate Police Station, not until they'd run across her on 
Duke Street. Yet others knew, she'd said, had put up cameras in advance, to 
photograph him and Maybrick . . . others who sat in a vault of some sort halfway 
across London . . .
John Lachley seized her chin, shaking her hard. "Explain! How did you know where 
I would be?"
She blinked slowly. "Everybody knows. Ripper's a famous case. Most famous murder 
mystery in the last two centuries . . . and I'm going to solve it, have solved 
it! When I go back to the station, to my own time, I'll be famous, and rich, 
I've got videotapes of Jack the Ripper . . . both of them . . . who'd have 
guessed it was two men?"
Lachley stood shaking. She was babbling, out of her head. Had to be . . .
"All those idiots," she was murmuring, "thinking it was Prince Eddy or his 
tutor, or that barrister who drowned himself or Sir William Gull. They've been 
arguing over who it was for the last hundred-fifty years . . . even thought it 
might've been some time traveller using the Britannia Gate . . ."
John Lachley stared at the raving woman, seriously considering whether she had 
taken leave of her senses or if he had taken leave of his. Time traveller? A 
century and a half, arguing over his identity? She wasn't a journalist, she was 
an escapee from a lunatic asylum somewhere on the fringes of London . . .
Then something she'd said hit home.
The gate! Ianira, the woman who had known so much about him, had babbled 
endlessly about a mysterious gate. Was she, too, some sort of traveller in time, 
who had come to hunt him? He reeled at the implications. His gaze rested on the 
heavy box he'd taken from her coat, with its trailing wires and tubes and 
cylinders hidden in her bonnet, and frowned. He picked it up, then shook the 
woman. "Look at this." Her eyelids fluttered for a moment before opening. "Tell 
me what this is."
"My camera. Digital videocamera, best in the business . . ."
Videocamera? Latin for I see?
"Show me how it operates!" He loosened the ropes on her wrists, braced her in a 
sitting position and leaned her against him. She fumbled the camera into her lap 
and fiddled with controls. "See? This is what I recorded tonight." She tried to 
hold the camera up, but couldn't lift her arms. He took it from her—and let out 
a yell. The strangely textured surface along one side was moving. Pictures 
flickered across it, in color, showing Maybrick bent over Catharine Eddowes, 
hacking her to pieces . . .
Dear God! How the devil could such a tiny little box have captured them in 
pictures like this, color pictures, moving pictures? He pressed the controls she 
had manipulated and the box whirred softly, the pictures flashing with such 
speed he couldn't follow the motion. People racing backwards, colors flashing 
and rippling across the surface, a blur of sight and confusion. When he fumbled 
at the controls again, hands shaking, the motion slowed abruptly. He found 
himself staring at a place straight out of nightmare. Vast open rooms, with 
whole buildings inside, hundreds of tiny people moving about the floor and 
climbing staircases made of metal, insanely colored lights glowing in strange 
shapes. "What is this place?" he demanded, voice shaking.
She blinked slowly and focused on the camera he held. "Shangri-La Station," she 
murmured. "The time terminal . . ."
Lachley drew a whole series of deep breaths, gulping down the damp air, 
gradually steadied his shaking nerves. "You," he said slowly, enunciating each 
word with care, "are from my future?"
"Had to come down time, through the gate, to catch the Ripper, to photograph him 
. . ."
He didn't really believe it, didn't want to believe it, such things were 
fantasy, the maunderings of popular authors like that Frenchman Jules Verne. Yet 
he was holding a camera that no craftsman in the British Empire could possibly 
have constructed, made of things Lachley had never seen or heard of, and the 
bitch was drugged, couldn't be lying, not with what he'd given her. Excitement 
stirred to life, with tantalizing glimpses of a world which could offer him more 
power than anything he'd dreamed possible. "Eddy," he whispered, "tell me about 
Eddy. Prince Albert Victor. When does he become king?"
"Poor Prince Eddy," she sighed, eyes closing again. "Only four more years . . . 
so young . . . 1892 . . ."
Lachley began to tremble in a wild excitement. Four years? Eddy would be crowned 
king in only four more years? Dear God, what was going to happen, that would 
kill both Queen Victoria and the Prince of Wales? Bertie was healthy as an ox 
and Victoria, herself, likely to live for another decade. "What happens?" he 
demanded, breathless now, "What happens in 1892?"
"Influenza. Epidemic of '91-'92. Poor Eddy, he'd just been engaged to be 
married, named Duke of Clarence, whole life ahead of him, and he's killed by 
influenza. Victoria was heartbroken, his parents inconsolable . . ."
The room lurched under his feet, swaying and whirling in mad circles. Dead of 
influenza? Never crowned? It couldn't be, he'd worked too hard, invested 
everything, spent five weeks in hell, tracking down Eddy's God-cursed letters to 
protect him, to ensure the ascension to the throne. Had done murder after 
stinking murder to keep Eddy safe, so he could become king, to ensure himself 
the power Lachley craved, the safety of wealth and control over the political 
future of an empire . . .
And Eddy was to be killed by a stupid influenza epidemic? 
Lachley began to laugh, the sound wild and high, echoing off the bricks of the 
vaulted ceiling. He gripped the impossible camera in both hands and laughed 
until the sound choked him, until he could gasp out, "How do you get back? To 
your own time?"
"Through the gate," his drugged victim answered in a sleepy, reasonable tone.
"Gate? What gate? Where?" He was still laughing, the sound of it edged with 
mania, a mind giving way under the stresses.
"The Britannia Gate. In Battersea, Spaldergate House. But it doesn't open for 
days, not until the second of October, only opens every eight days . . ." Her 
head was lolling. "Won't go through it, though, not 'til Mary Kelly's murdered 
on November ninth. . . I'll take my videotapes back, then, I'm sure to win the 
Kit Carson Prize . . ."
Another spate of laughter broke loose. Mary Kelly? She must be the bitch in 
Miller's Court. What the bloody hell did he care about a scheming little whore 
with a letter written by a dullard who wouldn't even survive to wear the crown? 
Oh, God, it was too funny, here he stood in a satanic sanctuary devoted to the 
accrual of political and psychic power, with a dead time traveller on the floor, 
a drugged maniac on his work bench, and a babbling journalist planning to 
photograph a murder he no longer had any earthly reason to commit, with a total 
of four whores dead and cut to pieces for no reason whatever, and the decaying 
head of an adolescent Nancy-boy glaring at him from across the room and laughing 
at his shattered dreams . . .
Only this woman had brought him a glimpse of something new, something which 
fired his imagination even more passionately than Eddy's prospects had done. A 
whole, immense new world to explore, in which to control little minds and live 
as a king, himself. He laughed again and stroked the woman's hair. Thoughts of 
Eddy fell away like flakes of rust from fine Damascus steel. Dominica, the 
self-important photojournalist, had done him a greater favor than she dreamed, 
tracking him through London's sewers.
He left her tied to the great iron hook on his sacred oak tree, drugged into a 
stupor, and deposited the equally stupified James Maybrick on the floor of the 
sewer outside, then locked the door to Lower Tibor and began walking through the 
dark tunnels beneath London, laughing softly and wondering what he ought to wear 
when he carried Dominica through the Britannia Gate two days from now, dying of 
the wounds he would inflict shortly before arriving in Battersea?
* * *
Sometime early in the morning hours, Ianira Cassondra woke to gibbering terror. 
Dr. John Lachley had crashed into her bedroom, rousing her from drugged sleep 
with slaps, bruising her arms and shaking her. "Tell me about the gate!" he 
demanded, cracking his hand across her face. "Wake up, girl, and tell me about 
the gate! And the station! Where are you from?"
Ianira shrank away from him, weeping and trembling. "I came through the 
Britannia Gate! From the station! Please . . ."
"What station? What's it called?"
"Shangri-La," she whispered, her bruised face aching where he'd struck her. Her 
wrists, crushed in his hard hands, were slowly purpling under his grip. "Time 
Terminal Eighty-Six—"
"Eighty-Six? My God, are there so many of them? Tell me about your world, 
woman!"
She shook her head, desperate and confused. "I live on the station. I am not 
permitted to leave, for I am a down-timer—"
"A what?" His face, looming so close above her own, had twisted into an unholy 
mask of madness. She shrank back into the pillows, but he jerked her up again, 
roughly. "Explain!"
"I was born in Ephesus!" she cried. "Came to the station through the 
Philospher's Gate! From Athens . . ."
He went very still, staring down at her. Voice quiet, now, he said, "Tell me 
again where you were born. And when."
"In Ephesus," she whispered. "We did not reckon the years in the same way, but 
the Philosopher's Gate opens into what the up-time world calls 448 B.C., in the 
time of Pericles . . ." She trailed off at the look of naked shock in his eyes.
"My God," he whispered. "It's true, then. Of course you kept saying you were 
born in Ephesus, when the city doesn't exist any longer."
Ianira blinked up at him, terrified and confused. Clearly, he believed her. Why, 
she couldn't imagine. Something had obviously happened tonight . . . Ianira's 
eyes widened. The Ripper Watch! He must have encountered someone from the Ripper 
Watch tonight, must've seen something that had left him convinced of the reality 
of time travel. John Lachley's wild eyes focused slowly on her bruised face. He 
smiled, stroking her hair possessively. "My dear, tell me about the people 
trying to kill you."
She tried to explain about the up-time world's Lady of Heaven Temples, the Ansar 
Majlis terrorists who had sworn to destroy the Templars and her family, about 
Jenna's murderous father and the men he'd sent to butcher his own daughter.
"Then you are quite important," Lachley mused. "Far more important than that 
brainless bitch I left in Lower Tibor. A woman journalist, whoever heard of such 
a thing?" Ianira closed her eyes to shut out horror. He'd not only encountered 
members of the Ripper Watch Team, he'd kidnapped them. "Yes," he was murmuring, 
"I do believe you're far more important than Miss Nosette. Very well, my course 
is clear. I'd better do that bloody lecture tomorrow night, curse it, to lull 
suspicion. I shan't risk drawing attention to myself over those wretched murders 
on the eve of stepping into the future!" He shook her again. "Tell me about the 
gate. What time it opens. That Nosette woman said something about Spaldergate 
House, in Battersea."
"I don't know what it looks like," Ianira quavered, straining away from him. 
"They smuggled me out of the station in a steamer trunk. I know the gate opens 
in the garden behind the house, but I don't know what time. It is in the 
evening, always, every eight days."
"Ah. Miss Nosette can tell me precisely when, before I dispose of her. Very 
well, my dear," he pressed a kiss to her brow. "I do believe," he said quietly, 
"you had best be moved for safekeeping. I don't wish to risk having you escape, 
my pet. Eddy has proven himself worthless as dross, but you, my dear, will take 
me into a place of power beyond anything I imagined."
She gasped, staring up into his mad grey eyes. "You can't go to the station!"
He laughed softly. "Nonsense. I'm John Lachley, I can do anything. The police 
haven't a clue that I've helped butcher four destitute whores in the East End, 
controlling Maybrick's pathetic little mind. Miss Nosette tells me your world 
has puzzled over my identity for a century and a half. If I can accomplish that 
in London, with no more than I've had to work with, I will become a god on your 
station!" He smiled at her through dark, insane eyes. "And you, my pet, will be 
my goddess . . ."
She fought him when he drugged her again.
And wept hopelessly when he carried her down the stairs, wrapped in a cloak, 
carrying her toward the nightmarish room she had seen in visions, the brick room 
beneath the streets where he had carried out at least one murder and had planned 
so many others. Somehow, she must find a way to stop this madman before he 
reached the station. Down-time men whose minds were sound and whole sometimes 
went mad when they first entered a time terminal and confronted the shocking 
realities of the up-time world. What John Lachley would do, once he reached 
TT-86 . . .
She faded into unconsciousness, still trying to discover some way to stop him.
* * *
Jenna tried to ignore the ugly roar of voices in the street just outside their 
little house, but there was no escaping the angry sound of brawling out there. 
The bells of Christ Church, Spitalfields, sounded bleak and hopeless this 
morning, calling worshippers to a rainy Sunday service, while the grim news 
flashed like wildfire from house to house: two women butchered within half an 
hour of one another, confounding the police of two separate jurisdictions and 
shocking the entire city of London, this time, not just the East End. And that 
at a time when most residents here had believed themselves beyond further shock.
Noah had gone out to buy fresh-caught herrings for their breakfast, refusing to 
let Jenna set foot into the angry mob outside. Jenna was determined to cook 
breakfast today, however, so she bent over the monstrous, coal-fired stove in 
the kitchen, trying to take in Marcus' instructions on how to operate it, when 
Noah Armstrong rocketed into the house.
"I've got a lead," the detective said without preamble, dumping a wrapped packet 
of fish onto the kitchen table with a thump.
Jenna and Marcus jerked around. "What lead?" Jenna demanded breathlessly.
"There's to be a lecture tomorrow night at the Egyptian Hall, on Theosophy and 
the occult sciences. The speaker's a doctor, claims to be a mesmeric physician. 
I ran across a man talking about him when I was coming back from the 
costermonger's. It seems the doctor who's giving the lecture came up from 
Whitechapel, was born in Middlesex Street, turned to mediumism and the occult. I 
don't know if this is our man, but the doctor who attacked you, Jenna, reacted 
violently to whatever Ianira said in trance. So maybe he had occult connections. 
We're certainly running out of leads, trying to trace ordinary doctors. And with 
the Ripper terror coming to a boil out there, I'm not sure it's entirely safe 
just now, asking about physicians and surgeons. The police are looking for a 
doctor connected to the Ripper, after all, and poor Dr. Mindel has barricaded 
himself into the house, terrified of the mobs. Frankly, I think it's worth a 
shot, going to see this Lachley fellow."
Jenna's mouth had dried out like thistle-down, all the liquid in her body 
rushing to her palms, which she wiped unsteadily on her trousers. "Yes. I agree. 
I'm coming with you, Noah." The detective started to protest. "No, hear me out! 
I can identify him faster than you can. If he's giving a lecture, there'll be a 
crowd, which means I can watch without him noticing me. If he's the right man, 
we can trace him to where he lives, maybe even find Ianira there."
Noah's lips thinned. Clearly the detective wanted to argue. Then a sigh broke 
loose. "You're right, dammit. But I don't like putting you in harm's way for any 
reason."
"I'll go armed," Jenna muttered. "For bear."
"I, too, will go," Marcus interjected. "Mrs. Mindel has offered to watch the 
girls if I ever need to leave them alone. Ianira is my wife. I will go to search 
for her."
Again, the detective clearly considered arguing, then gave in. "All right," Noah 
groused. "If things do get sticky, another gun hand will be welcome. God knows, 
you learned quickly enough when I gave you those shooting lessons after that 
mess in Colorado."
"You taught me well," Marcus said quietly. "I have not forgotten how to use the 
revolver I bought in Chicago."
Noah nodded. "We'll all go armed. And we'll need better clothes than these. The 
Egyptian Hall is a respectable place. If we show up in East End castoffs, they 
might not even let us through the door."
Jenna frowned. "The only good suit I've got is what I was wearing the night the 
gate opened. It's got bloodstains all over it. The last thing I want to do is 
show my face in public with blood on my clothes. Somebody'll take me for Jack 
the Ripper. I had decent stuff in my luggage, but I had to abandon all my 
baggage at the Picadilly Hotel."
"The lecture's not until tomorrow night, so there's plenty of time to pick up 
new clothes. For all of us, if it comes to that. Fortunately, it's market day in 
Petticoat Lane, so there'll be plenty of new suits to pick and choose from."
Jenna nodded. "Good. I'll get my money belt out. I changed a lot of currency at 
the station. We can use that to pay for everything."
"Very well. Let's get over to Petticoat Lane, before the best bargains are 
gone."
Wordlessly, they set out to buy yet another set of disguises.
 
Chapter Ten
Margo had never placed a wire tap before.
Watching Inspector Conroy Melvyn work that morning in near darkness, her 
admiration for the up-time Scotland Yard detective's skill soared. He placed the 
tap into the telephone lines leading into the Home Office in a very short time, 
then rejoined her on the pavement. "Got it," he grinned. "Now when the queen 
telephones the Home Office this afternoon from Scotland, expressing shock over 
the double murders, we'll get a recording of it."
"That's great!" Margo grinned, wondering how much money the residuals for 
up-time broadcast of the historic phone call might land in her bank account. 
"What's next?" Whatever it was, it wouldn't be nearly as hair-raising as 
recovering their hidden equipment from the murder sites had been. Thank God the 
Victorian police hadn't yet carried the forensic science of crime-scene evidence 
very far. Not only had they failed to put a quarantine on the murder scenes, 
they'd allowed surgeons and coroners to disturb the bodies, wash away the blood, 
and Sir Charles Warren had even erased the chalked graffiti over on Goulston 
Street after Maybrick had slashed it across a stairwell landing. Margo could 
almost understand the reasoning behind the erasure, given the anti-Semitic slur 
Maybrick had written and the already explosive mood of the East End. To their 
credit, the City police had argued about it, hotly, finally forced to give in to 
the Metropolitan police decision to erase it before it could be seen or even 
photographed, since Goulston Street lay in Metropolitan Police jurisdiction.
"What next, indeed?" Inspector Melvyn mused scratching his chin thoughtfully. "I 
think, my dear, I'd like to be on hand at the Central News Agency when the Saucy 
Jack postcard arrives."
"Do you want to try videotaping Michael Kidney when he shows up at the Leman 
Police Station, accusing the PC on duty for his lover's murder?" Margo 
sympathized with the man. Poor Michael Kidney. He really had loved Elizabeth 
Stride, despite their stormy relationship.
"Might be a bit of a risk," the inspector frowned.
"More risky than recovering that equipment from Mitre Square?" Margo laughed 
nervously. "Or tapping the Home Office telephone lines?"
The inspector grinned. "Well, now you mention it . . ."
"All right, we'll try to get a video of Mr. Kidney. I'll change into East End 
togs before we go."
"Right."
They set out at a brisk walk for Spaldergate House. Malcolm was already in the 
East End, with Pavel Kostenka and Shahdi Feroz and Doug Tanglewood, studying the 
crowd dynamics on the streets. Margo shivered, remembering the explosive riot 
the day Polly Nichols' mutilations had been discovered, and was selfishly glad 
Malcolm had assigned her to Conroy Melvyn, rather than the Whitechapel group.
The sun rose while they walked westward down Whitehall where, tomorrow morning, 
a decapitated, legless, armless woman's torso would be discovered in a vaulted 
cellar beneath the New Scotland Yard building, still under construction. 
Tonight, Malcolm and Conroy Melvyn would try to place miniaturized camera 
equipment in the cellar to see if they could catch the perpetrator of the 
so-called Whitehall torso mystery and settle once and for all whether that 
anonymous victim had also fallen prey to the Ripper's knife.
As they walked westward, early morning paper criers were already on the streets, 
hawking the morning's shocking news. Church bells tolled from St. Paul's 
Cathedral, from Westminster Abbey and churches Margo didn't even know the names 
of, the sounds of the bells deep and sonorous and inexpressibly lonely in the 
early light. They paused and bought copies of the papers, listening to the 
gentlemen who gathered on street corners, men who spoke in hushed, angry tones 
about the horror in Mitre Square, taping the conversations with hidden 
microphones and the miniaturized cameras in their scouting logs.
"The Financial News is offering a three-hundred-pound reward for this fiend's 
capture," one gentleman muttered as they passed.
"The Lord Mayor's offering five hundred pounds," another said, his 
heavily-jowled face flushed with anger. "The government jolly well should've 
done so ages ago, before six women were cut to pieces, four of them in as many 
weeks! That Lusk fellow, with the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, asked just 
yesterday for a reward to be offered, officially, by the government. And they 
turned him down! Now we've two more women dead . . ."
"Sir Alfred Kirby telephoned me to say he planned to offer one hundred pounds 
sterling and fifty militia men to help apprehend the beast, asked if I would 
volunteer. My wife had a fainting spell at the notion of me hunting such a 
madman, wouldn't hear of it . . ."
"—said he'd heard a chap named Thomas Coram found a bloodstained knife in 
Whitechapel Road. Ruddy thing was nine inches long! You could put a knife like 
that straight through a woman, God help the poor creatures. Sir Charles Warren's 
at his wit's end, trying to investigate, what with the City Police demanding 
cooperation and frothing at evidence destroyed . . ."
Conroy Melvyn murmured, "Poor Sir Charles. I feel for the chap, I do. Trying to 
tackle a thing like the Ripper killings, without the faintest notion of 
psychopathic serial-killer profiling or decent forensic science. This case 
breaks his career. I shouldn't want to try investigating such a thing in my 
jurisdiction, I can tell you that."
"I wonder what the coroner will do at the inquest for Elizabeth Stride?"
He shook his head grimly. "Not enough, clearly. Still, I intend to be in Cable 
Street when the inquest opens. Vestry Hall will be jam-packed, right enough."
Margo sighed. Another inquest. With descriptions of wounds and witness testimony 
. . . She'd almost rather be with Malcolm in the explosive East End, than 
trapped in a room full of shouting reporters after the gruesome details of 
murder and mutilation. "You know, one thing has me puzzled," she said at length. 
"Someone wrote an entry in the Swedish Church Parish Register that Elizabeth 
Stride had been murdered by Jack the Ripper. They dated the entry September 
thirtieth, the morning she was killed. Yet the name Jack the Ripper wasn't 
released publicly until today, October the first."
"I know," Melvyn sighed. "Pity we can't be everywhere, isn't it? But even with a 
team of us working and you lot of guides helping, we can't solve every mystery 
connected with the Ripper."
"Maybe someone who worked at the Central News Agency, who'd seen the Dear Boss 
letter, wrote it?"
"Or someone backdated the entry by a day," the police inspector mused. "But 
we'll never know, eh? What drives me batty is not identifying this bloke working 
with Maybrick. We've come up empty handed at every turn, trying to trace the 
blighter."
"Well, somebody's got to know him. Dominica Nosette and Guy Pendergast figured 
out who he is, I'm willing to bet on it. Whatever William Butler Yeats and his 
friend said, that night at the Carlton Club, Pendergast figured out who the 
mystery doctor was."
"Or maybe he just saw the bloody chap and followed him," Melvyn muttered, 
flushing with embarrassment over the affair. The police inspector had not taken 
it well, that a reporter had given him the slip while he'd been focused on a 
famous poet.
"Maybe. That might mean he could have an occult connection, if he was there on 
the night of the Theosophical meeting. Or even if he wasn't there, because 
Malcolm said you were discussing Celtic religions and other stuff that would 
interest someone like Yeats."
"Bloody hell . . ." The inspector's footsteps faltered as a look of surprise 
crossed his face.
"What?" Margo asked. "What did I say?"
"Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything." The policeman was staring at the 
newspaper they'd just bought. "It's this." He tapped the newspaper, then opened 
it hastily, skimming one finger down the newsprint columns. "There was a lecture 
notice on the front page . . ." he muttered. "Jumped out at me just as you spoke 
about Celtic religions. There! Got it."
He held the newspaper open so she could see the article.
"Dr. John Lachley," Margo read out loud. "SoHo scholar of the occult, mesmeric 
physician . . ." Her eyes widened. She clutched at the policeman's sleeve. "He 
keeps a surgery in Cleveland Street, in a house he calls Tibor." 
Conroy Melvyn stared at her, mouth coming adrift. "My God! The same place our 
chap told Maybrick to meet him!" Then he frowned. "Cleveland Street, though? 
That's a bit of a distance to walk, with bloodstains on one's sleeves. Still, 
it's a ruddy good clue. Good job, eh what? Jolly well done, Miss Smith!"
She grinned. "You saw the article, not me."
"Which I would have failed to notice if you hadn't been reminding me of what I'd 
heard that night in the Carlton Club. I say, let's get back to Spaldergate post 
haste. I can hardly wait to spring the news on the rest of the team!"
Margo laughed. "Me, either. And wait until Malcolm hears!"
"Mr. Moore," Conroy Melvyn said, stepping to the kerb and hailing a hansom, 
"will quite likely insist on attending tonight's lecture."
"Hah! You couldn't keep him away with wild horses. Me, either!"
"Well said. Now, then . . . Battersea, cabbie," he said, handing Margo up into 
the cab which had drawn to a halt beside them, "Octavia Street. And no tricks, 
my good man, I've consulted Mogg's for the fare!"
" 'ere, now, guv'nor," the cabbie protested, "I'm an honest man, so I am!"
Margo settled in with a grin. She'd learned the hard way to consult Mogg's map 
of cab fares, to avoid being cheated blind by the cabbies. Then they were 
rolling down Victoria Embankment at a rush, headed West for Battersea Park and 
an unexpected break in the Ripper case. She couldn't take full credit for the 
discovery, but glowed nonetheless. Just wait until Malcolm heard! And Kit!
Maybe she was cut out for this job, after all!
* * *
By the following evening, Jenna had been transformed, as had Noah and Marcus, by 
the acquisition of decent quality gentlemen's clothing, the sort a middle-class 
businessman might wear. They left the girls in the care of Mrs. Mindel, making 
certain that Dr. Mindel was armed and knew how to use a revolver, in case of 
trouble from the mobs, then walked to Threadneedle Street, the financial 
district in the heart of The City, to find a cab. It was impossible to hire a 
hansom cab anywhere in Spitalfields—not only were the residents too poor to 
afford the fares, cabbies were leery of robbery from East End gangs. They 
finally found a cab rank near the Bank of England and hired the conveyance at 
the front of the line. Jenna crowded in with Marcus and Noah for a jolting ride 
up to Picadilly and shivered at the memory of her last visit to those environs. 
She'd very nearly died, that night in Picadilly. No sense dwelling on it, she 
told herself firmly. Even if I am looking for the man who shot me in cold blood. 
She couldn't quite suppress a shiver, however, and earned a long, worried look 
from Noah, which she returned with a forced smile. When the cab finally halted, 
Jenna climbed down on shaking legs, hoping no one recognized her as the 
individual who'd jumped from a window in the Picadilly Hotel after a bloody 
shootout. It was one thing, hiding in anonymous Spitalfields. It was far more 
frightening, coming into a part of London where she'd nearly been 
murdered—twice.
"There's the Egyptian Hall," Noah said quietly.
The building was tall, its face decorated by elaborate stonework, including a 
winged scarab above a tall, rectangular window which was crowned by an ornate 
pediment. A sign above the door proclaimed the premises to be the Egyptian Hall, 
museum and meeting room. Down the street, on Picadilly's south side, she could 
see the immense facade of Fortnum and Mason's famous store, and down the other 
way, the imposing edifice which housed the Royal Institute of Painters in Water 
Colours. Along the north side stood the Burlington Arcade, bustling with 
fashionable shoppers going home for the evening. Shopkeepers were busy closing 
up for the night; the building loomed above them, dark and forbidding in its 
shadows next to Burlington House Mansion. Jenna swallowed nervously as fine 
carriages rattled past, drawn by well-groomed, shining horses flinging their 
hooves out smartly. Wealthy gentlemen strolled the pavements. Silver-headed 
canes gleamed in the twilight, silk top hats nodded like mobile chimney stacks, 
and heavy gold watches and fobs glinted as their owners checked the time. The 
ladies on their arms wore thick silks and fur-trimmed coats over swaying 
bustles; ostrich and egret feathers drooped from exquisite hats and fur muffs in 
fox, mink, and black sable protected their hands from the cold air. In this 
exquisitely upscale area, Jenna felt very downscale, drab and vulnerable in her 
middle-class wool and fake mutton chops.
Then Noah was leading them into the Egyptian Hall, buying tickets to the lecture 
and the exhibits. Signs explained the origins of the collections, which had 
belonged to naturalist and antiquarian William Bullock, who had built the hall 
in 1812. Faded photographs of General Tom Thumb, the American dwarf who had come 
here for a wildly popular exhibit, hung on the wall near the entrance. Other 
gentlemen were arriving for the talk, accompanied by a few intrepid and curious 
ladies. A sign with the subject of the evening's lecture directed them to the 
meeting room, where they found a fair crowd gathered. Voices washed through 
Jenna's awareness as she peered anxiously at faces, but she saw no one 
resembling the man who'd tried to murder her outside the Royal Opera. She 
consulted the thick, silver-plated pocket watch she'd purchased earlier in the 
afternoon, and frowned. The lecture was due to begin at any moment . . .
"Where the deuce is Lachley?" a man just behind her complained. " 'Tisn't like 
him to be late!"
"Perhaps," another man's voice drawled, "he's preoccupied with that ravishing 
creature he took in, the other week? If I'd rescued a girl that lovely and had 
taken her into my home, I might be a bit distracted, as well!"
"Is it immoral liaisons you're insinuating, Crowley? Of Dr. Lachley?" The 
speaker's voice held a thick Irish lilt, tinged with anger.
Jenna turned to find several gentlemen watching the two speakers. The first 
speaker, Crowley, shrugged. "Men will be men, after all. I don't doubt the good 
doctor's intentions in trying to help the poor creature. But what a comely 
little thing she was, even if she was half crazed. It would be a simple enough, 
after all, to take advantage of a lady in such distress."
The other man, in his twenties, perhaps, with a fire-eaten look to his eyes, 
glared at Crowley. "You, sir, are contemptible! In Dublin, you would be publicly 
shamed for such slanderous sentiments!"
"Easy, Yeats," another young man muttered. "Crowley's infamous for baiting 
people with his depraved ideas. Ignore him. We do."
Crowley's eyes glinted with amusement. "Only a fool ignores the devil, sir."
The young man shrugged. "You may bill yourself as the prophet of the 
anti-Christ, Mr. Crowley, but you're no devil. Unless, of course, it's you 
ripping up these poor souls in the East End? Hardly your style, I should think. 
Reading a black mass over them is more in your line."
Several listening gentlemen gasped aloud, faces paling in shock, but Crowley 
merely smiled. "Perhaps you might join me, next time? No? Pity. Ah . . . Here's 
Lachley, at last."
Jenna turned quickly toward the front of the meeting room . . . and lurched. For 
a long, terrifying moment, the entire room circled like a washing machine on 
spin cycle. She knew the man who'd appeared, who stepped up to the tall lectern. 
The last time she'd seen him, he'd levelled a pistol at her head and pulled the 
trigger. Her mind reeled, partly with the implications of the conversation 
they'd just overheard. If that's Lachley and Lachley's holding a young lady in 
his house, she can't be anyone but Ianira Cassondra! 
Dr. John Lachely was in a high state of agitation, Jenna realized as the 
spinning room steadied down. His color ran high and his dark eyes glinted with a 
touch of madness that left the fine hairs along Jenna's neck and arms standing 
erect. She clutched at Noah's arm. "It's him!"
The detective gave her a sharp stare, then gripped Marcus by the arm and 
forcibly held him back. Ianira's husband had started forward, fists clenched. 
"Not here!" Noah cautioned sharply. "We'll sit through the lecture. Then we'll 
follow him home."
Marcus, his own eyes a trifle wild, glared at Noah; then he glanced at the room 
full of eyewitnesses and subsided. "Very well," Marcus growled under his breath. 
"But if he has hurt her, I will kill him!"
"I'll help you," Jenna muttered. "I owe that bastard a bullet through the 
skull!"
"Keep your voice down!" Noah hissed. "And take a seat, for God's sake, the 
lecture's starting."
Jenna found herself in a chair next to the young Irishman with the fire-eaten 
eyes, Mr. Yeats. The name was familiar, somehow, from long ago, she couldn't 
quite place where or why. Yeats sat glaring across the aisle at Crowley, who 
listened calmly to the opening of the lecture and ignored the Irishman's furious 
stare. Jenna sat wrapped in her own feverish thoughts, hardly paying attention 
to what Lachley said, and only stirred when Yeats' friend, the other dark-haired 
Irishman, muttered, "What on earth can be wrong with him? I've never heard such 
ramblings. He doesn't make proper sense, half the time."
Yeats murmured, "I'm sure I don't know. I've never seen Dr. Lachley in such a 
state."
Jenna frowned and concentrated more fully on what Lachley was saying.
" . . . the Classical writers were notorious for confusing all things 
Celto-Gaelic with all things Germanic. I have been to Germany, to Hungary and 
places north. The taking of trophy skulls . . . drinking from them . . . rites 
of blood on oak trees . . ." Lachley's eyes were wild, his hands shaking visibly 
on the edges of the podium. He drew back from some hideous thought with evident 
difficulty and cleared his throat. "These sacrifices, yes, ancient Roman writers 
consistently erred. Attributed human sacrifice to ancient Celts, when such rites 
should more appropriately be laid at the feet of their savage and bloodthirsty 
northern neighbors. These Germanic tribes gave Caesar enormous difficulty, it is 
to be remembered. And Germanic rites and customs of the Viking period, it should 
be noted, included such barbaric practices as the blood eagle. A man would cut 
out a living victim's lungs and drape them across his back like an eagle's wings 
. . ."
Several women in the audience emitted cries of horror. Up at the lectern, 
Lachley's eyes, shining and wild with a sort of unholy pleasure, widened 
slightly at the shocked sounds coming from his audience. He calmed himself a 
little, settling into a more lucid frame of mind. "I beg pardon, ladies, but the 
subject is a most indelicate one. So, I cannot help but conclude that classical 
sources for Celtic barbarism and human sacrifice must be suspect. Their 
traditional enemies, the Romans, wished most profoundly to rule the Celts and 
thus cannot be trusted to have painted them with anything approaching honesty. 
"The Celtic peoples therefore have been seriously maligned for the past two 
thousand years. They have been held up to the world by their Roman enemies as 
barbarians who would slaughter an innocent victim, simply to read the oracles in 
his death throes. Maligned and slandered, the Celts have ever since been painted 
villainously, when their history and many accomplishments in law and the arts 
prove that their rightful place in history is among the most civilized and 
learned peoples of the world. Their ancient magical wisdom was very nearly 
destroyed by systematic genocide waged against the Celts' intellectual class by 
their conquerors. 
"This wisdom has now been recovered through the wood-carved ogham script, from 
hundreds of `library sticks' bundled to form whole books, hidden away in Irish 
attics and cellars, and is revealed in its astonishing depth and power. This 
magical legacy of the Celtic peoples will certainly prove to the world at large 
that we, as Theosophists and students of the psychic sciences, owe a profound 
debt to the original inhabitants of the British Isles. We who look to the occult 
for spiritual guidance walk in the footsteps of true greatness and surely shall 
rule the world for centuries to come!" 
Lachley was trembling at the podium, eyes glowing with a hideous passion that 
left Jenna queasy and cold. He surveyed his audience, then gave a mocking little 
bow. "Thank you, this concludes my lecture for the evening."
The applause was thunderous, the entire hall surging to its feet in a 
spontaneous ovation. Dr. John Lachley bathed in the glory of the moment, bowing 
and stepping back from the lectern, raising his hands in a show of humility 
which he was clearly far from feeling. His smile was almost manic as he stepped 
down and shook hands with luminaries from society and the arts, bowed over the 
hands of great society matrons and ladies of more dubious reputation, mystics 
and mediums who had come to hear him speak on the popular subject of Celtic 
occultism, allowed himself to be congratulated by journalists who wished to 
interview him . . .
Jenna felt sick, trapped in the same room with him. "Noah, we have to find out 
where he lives."
At her side, the young Irishman named Yeats gave a start and turned toward her. 
"Are you ill, sir?" he asked at once. "Dr. Lachley keeps a surgery in Cleveland 
Street, of course, but I daresay I wouldn't go near it. The man's raving, 
tonight. I've never seen him in such a state."
Jenna took a risk. "Do you know anything about the girl that man Crowley was 
talking about?"
Yeats frowned, his intense eyes turning frosty. "No. And I don't care to discuss 
filth with you, sir."
Noah spoke up. "You misunderstand. Our friend, here," he nodded toward Marcus, 
"is searching for his wife. She was the victim of foul play. This gentleman," 
the detective nodded toward Jenna, "was escorting her from the docks the night 
of her arrival in London and was set upon, shot nearly to death. We are merely 
hoping that Dr. Lachley may help us. We've reason to believe he witnessed the 
lady's abduction. Cleveland Street, you said? Thank you, sir. We'll meet the 
good doctor there, no need to bother him now, while he's busy with the lecture 
audience."
Noah hustled them out of the hall, rushing Jenna and Marcus through the darkened 
museum, its collection of oddities and antiquities looming like something out of 
a horror flick. They finally reached the street. Picadilly was brightly lit, 
jammed with carriages as the fashionable and wealthy of London took to the 
streets in search of diverting entertainment. "We'll have to reach his house 
before he returns," Noah said grimly. "She must be there. We'll break in and 
carry her out by force if the servants object. Hurry, there's a cab rank further 
along."
Please, let this work, Jenna prayed. And let Ianira be all right . . . 
After three weeks in Dr. Lachley's mad care, Jenna didn't see how she could be.
* * *
Malcolm Moore enjoyed dressing to the nines, particularly when Margo was able to 
dress the part as his lady companion. She looked stunning in watered silk the 
color of pale lilacs, with several yards of skirt trailing down over a swaying 
bustle and her fiery hair augmented by a hairpiece from Connie Logan, which 
allowed her to imitate the upswept coiffeurs popular with stylish ladies.
"My dear," he murmured as he handed her down from the gatehouse carriage to the 
pavement of Picadilly, "I shall be the envy of every gentleman who sees you."
She blushed. "Nonsense, sir," she said, glancing toward Shahdi Feroz.
Behind them, Inspector Conroy Melvyn was handing down the Ripper scholar, whose 
exotic beauty was so striking, she captured the attention of several passing 
gentlemen; but Dr. Feroz held far less appeal for Malcolm than Margo's fresh 
enthusiasm and sparkling, lively green eyes. "Nevertheless," he offered his arm, 
escorting her toward the Egyptian Hall, which stood opposite Bond Street's 
terminus, where their carriage had dropped them, "you are quite a fetching 
sight. Inspector," he turned to the policeman, "Madame Feroz, the lecture 
awaits."
"Well," Margo smiled, glancing at Shahdi Feroz as they crossed Picadilly through 
heavy carriage traffic, "it is a relief from East End rags, isn't it?"
Dr. Feroz chuckled. "Indeed, Miss Smith. A welcome relief."
The police inspector grinned as Malcolm purchased tickets for the lecture. He 
and Melvyn escorted the ladies inside, where a sizeable crowd had already 
gathered. Frock-coated gentlemen and elegant ladies murmured pleasantries while 
they waited for the speaker to put in appearance. Malcolm steered the way toward 
a far corner, where he and Margo could watch newcomers while remaining 
unobserved, themselves. Conroy Melvyn and Shahdi Feroz strolled through the 
room, circulating through the crowd, speaking to such luminaries as Madame 
Blavatsky and filming the event through concealed cameras. They had been waiting 
for perhaps six or seven minutes when Margo clutched at Malcolm's arm, denting 
his fine woolen sleeve with her nails. "Look!" She was staring toward the 
entrance, where three gentlemen had just appeared. "My God, it's Marcus!"
He frowned. "Surely you're mistaken?" One of the trio did, indeed, look very 
much like Ianira Cassondra's missing husband. Yet there was too much grey in his 
hair and he'd aged in other ways, with a deep-set look of fear and frustration 
etched into his features. Then Malcolm noticed the mutton-chopped gentleman at 
his side and stiffened. "Great Scott! That may or may not be Marcus, but the 
chap with him is most certainly Benny Catlin!"
"It is, too, Marcus," she insisted stubbornly. "If somebody were trying to kill 
me and my whole family, I might've gone grey overnight, too! But what's he doing 
in London with Benny Catlin? And who's that guy with them?"
"You do have your camera running, don't you?" Malcolm whispered, referring to 
the tiny digital videocamera hidden beneath Margo's elegant bustle, its wire 
snaking up her back to a miniature lens concealed in her brooch.
"I turned it on while we were still in the carriage." When Malcolm started to 
move closer, she grasped his arm. "No!"
He glanced down, surprised.
"If Marcus spots you, wanna bet he'll bolt? He could've called on friends for 
help while he was still on the station, but he didn't. After everything that's 
happened, he'll be too terrified, Malcolm, to trust anyone."
"Anyone except Benny Catlin," Malcolm growled. "I'd like to know the reason for 
that."
"So would I. If they're in London, want to bet Ianira and the girls are, too?"
"No bets," Malcolm shook his head. "But how the deuce did they slip through the 
Britannia without tickets?"
"That Time Tours driver who was shot, up at the Picadilly Hotel, said Benny 
Catlin smuggled a woman through in his luggage. We've been assuming she was 
another student who couldn't get a ticket, or maybe that she and Benny were 
actually reporters. But what if that woman was Ianira Cassondra? And maybe 
Marcus and the girls were in some of the other trunks and got out before the 
police opened the luggage?"
"However they got here," Malcolm said quietly, "the main question is why they 
would come with two gentlemen they hardly know. It doesn't look to me like 
Marcus is here against his will."
"No, it doesn't look that way to me, either."
"Oh, bother!" Malcolm said abruptly, noticing another newcomer. "That's all we 
need, tonight!"
"What?"
"Those gentlemen who just came in? Mr. William Butler Yeats and Mr. Bevin 
O'Downett. Poets over from Dublin. I know them both, slightly. Met them at the 
Carlton Club the night Guy Pendergast and Dominica Nosette vanished. Mr. 
O'Downett and I have scraped acquaintance before. I certainly don't want them to 
recognize me and draw attention while Marcus and Catlin are standing right 
there!"
"Then sit down," Margo said reasonably. "You're less conspicuous in a chair than 
you are head-and-shoulders above me."
Malcolm seated himself with alacrity, turning slightly in the chair so that he 
sat with his back to the group near the door. It was frustrating, having to sit 
there, unable to see what was happening, but Margo's eyes were sharp and she was 
recording the entire evening. She murmured, "Looks like Mr. Yeats is getting 
into an argument with somebody."
Malcolm risked a quick glance. "Aleister Crowley. Good God, and there's Robert 
Donston Stevenson. Is the entire occult community of London here tonight?"
"Wouldn't surprise me," Margo muttered. "Not to mention a real convention of 
Ripper suspects." Then she dug fingers into his shoulder. "Look!" She was 
staring raptly toward the front of the room. The speaker had just arrived to 
take the lectern.
Malcolm gasped, staring at Jack the Ripper. "My God!" he whispered, voice 
hushed. "It is him!"
"Don't look now," Margo hissed, "but Benny Catlin looks like he just saw a 
ghost!"
Malcolm glanced around cautiously, just in time to see the unknown gentleman 
with Catlin grasp Marcus by the arm, holding him back forcibly. The ex-slave's 
fists were clenched. A look of murderous rage had swept his face.
"What the devil is going on?" Malcolm wondered. "Why would Marcus be so angry 
with . . . Oh, dear God." He saw the possibility in a sudden tightening of his 
gut.
"Oh, no," Margo protested, voice cracking slightly. "Not Ianira?"
At the front of the room, Dr. John Lachley began his lecture. Margo sat down 
hastily as the rest of the assembly settled into chairs. Malcolm scarcely took 
in what Lachley was saying, as his mind was racing down unpleasant corridors of 
conjecture. How had Marcus and Ianira run afoul of Jack the Ripper? They must be 
living somewhere in the East End. Yet Ianira was not among the Ripper victims, 
all of whom were frightfully well known. 
Perhaps he'd killed her and they'd discovered the body, maybe buried her 
themselves, rather than risk the public scrutiny of a police investigation? Or 
perhaps—and he swallowed hard, at the thought—perhaps the Whitehall torso, due 
to be discovered on October 3rd, was Ianira? He tried to shut out such a vision, 
even in imagination, but he couldn't think what other reason Marcus might have 
for wanting to murder Jack the Ripper.
A swift glance toward Margo prompted him to settle his arm about her shoulders. 
She was crying, silently, wiping away the tears with trembling hands. Clearly, 
her thoughts had wandered down the same hideous corridors his had just done. She 
looked up and tried to smile, then her face crumpled and she covered it with 
both hands, trying to compose herself. Malcolm clenched his jaw and stared 
coldly at Dr. John Lachley, loathing him with a far more personal hatred than he 
could ever have mustered for a mere psychotic serial killer. If this man had 
truly destroyed Ianira Cassondra . . .
With a bleakness like death, Malcolm realized there wasn't a great deal anyone 
could do about it. Jack the Ripper could not be killed. Not until Mary Kelly had 
died, if then. It gradually occurred to Malcolm to wonder why Dominica Nosette 
and Guy Pendergast weren't here. Surely the reporters would've tried to film 
such a historic lecture, given by the Ripper? Blast those two! They'd trailed 
Maybrick last night, wandering into camera range at all three key sites: 
Dutfield's Yard, Mitre Square, and Goulston Street. Had they met with misfortune 
in the process of tailing Maybrick and Lachley? 
He narrowed his gaze, wondering abruptly why Dr. Lachley seemed so manic, up at 
the podium. Perhaps he was always a disjointed, rambling speaker? A glance at 
the crowd suggested otherwise. Several listeners looked puzzled, even concerned 
as they watched Lachley, who was literally trembling behind the lectern. A few 
were whispering among themselves, clearly wondering about it.
Mysteries on top of mysteries . . .
Lachley ended the lecture abruptly, a wild look in his eyes as the audience 
applauded, giving him a standing ovation that was, perhaps, out of line with the 
quality of his oration, but which was a strong testament to the popularity and 
power of the Celtic revival sweeping through nineteenth-century British society. 
Malcolm surged to his feet, as well, trying to keep Lachley in sight as the man 
stepped down into the crowd, shaking hands. Malcolm caught sight of Shahdi Feroz 
speaking briefly with Lachley and knew a moment's worry for her safety, despite 
Conroy Melvyn's presence at her side, then glanced back to where Marcus and the 
others sat . . . and swore aloud.
"Bloody hell! They've gone!"
"What?"
"Marcus and Catlin! They've gone!"
Malcolm shoved his way impatiently through the audience, trying to reach the 
door. Margo struggled gamely behind him. Malcolm reached the street well before 
she did, but Catlin and his group were nowhere in sight. Margo, out of breath 
from running in her form-fitting watered silk, skidded to a halt beside him. 
"I'm sorry!" she wailed. "I was too short to see over everybody's heads and 
didn't notice them leave!"
He stood breathing hard for a moment, wrestling his anger under control, then 
said, "Let's get back inside, blast it! The least we can do is trace Lachley!"
"Malcolm, it isn't your fault."
"No, but it is, too. We were charged with locating Catlin as well as tasked with 
identifying the Ripper. And the future of the station is far more seriously 
affected by Catlin's disappearance than any of our work verifying the Ripper's 
identity."
"I know," she said in a small voice. "At least we know Catlin's alive, now," she 
said with grim determination, "which is better news than we thought we might end 
up with, after following that horrible blood trail across London. You know," she 
said suddenly, frowning in concentration, "if Benny Catlin and Marcus have it in 
for John Lachley, they might try to ambush him at his house."
Malcolm shot her a startled glance. "Good God, Margo. You're onto something, 
there."
"So what do we do about it?"
He frowned. "We collect Madame Feroz and Chief Inspector Melvyn, before we do 
anything. Then perhaps we'd best follow Lachley home? If Catlin and Marcus are 
there, they'll be in far greater danger than Lachley will, because he jolly well 
can't be killed."
Margo's face, already pinched with worry, drained white in a single heartbeat. 
"Malcolm, we have to find them!"
"Get back inside, warn Madame Feroz and Inspector Melvyn that we may need to 
leave in a hurry. The Spaldergate carriage isn't due to collect us for another 
thirty minutes. I'll find some sort of transport to hire, so we can follow 
Lachley."
"Right." She hurried into the Egyptian Hall, lifting her skirts to make running 
easier. Malcolm swore under his breath, then headed down Picadilly in search of 
a cab that would hold all four of them. He worked very hard to dispel the vision 
of what would happen if Marcus tangled with Jack the Ripper. He had a sinking 
feeling that neither Dominica Nosette nor Guy Pendergast would ever be seen 
again. He didn't want that happening to anyone he called friend. If he'd thought 
he could persuade Margo to return to Spaldergate, he'd have packed her off 
immediately. But he knew only too well the futility of trying, so he set his jaw 
and vowed to do what he could to ensure that no more of his charges ended up 
missing or dead.
So far, in this lethal little game they played, Jack the Ripper had won every 
round.
 
Jenna stood in the shadows beside the garden wall behind Dr. John Lachley's 
house in Cleveland Street, clutching the Beale's revolver she'd brought with her 
from New York, and waited in a swivet for Noah to reappear. The detective had 
forced a window casement at the rear of the house and was searching quietly for 
any trace of Ianira Cassondra. Across the street, Marcus waited to give the 
alarm, should Lachley arrive before Noah finished the search.
Come on, she breathed silently, what's taking so long? She expected Dr. Lachley 
to return at any moment, expected to hear a scuffle break out inside, terrified 
that Lachley's manservant, whom they'd spotted in the front parlour, would hear 
Noah's footsteps and go to investigate. If he's got a telephone in there, he 
might even summon the police! That's all they'd need, to be arrested by London's 
constabulary for thievery of a respected physician's home. 
When Marcus' whistle of warning came, Jenna's heart thundered into her throat. 
She melted back into the high, walled garden as a carriage rattled and clattered 
into the drive, coach lanterns gleaming in the darkness. Jenna trembled as she 
flattened against the inside of the wall, pistol clutched in one fist. He's 
back! Oh, God, he's back and Noah's still inside! She heard Lachley's voice, 
giving instructions to his coachman to stable the horse, then the 
carriage-entrance door opened and closed with a rattle and thump and Lachley was 
inside. She waited, not even breathing, for the shouts to erupt as Noah was 
discovered . . .
"Hsst! Come on, kid! Let's move!"
She swallowed a scream and nearly went to the ground as Noah materialized from 
the darkness of the garden. "Noah!"
The detective grasped her arm and led her rapidly through the gate, which they 
eased closed, then jogged down the carriage drive, slipping past the open stable 
door. They reached Cleveland Street without being spotted and headed for Marcus. 
Jenna glanced over her shoulder toward Lachley's home, where lights were coming 
up in various windows, as Noah began to speak, voice lowered to a whisper. "It's 
quite clear Ianira was held in an upstairs room for some time. Not only are 
there toiletries for a lady and clothing of Ianira's size, there are long, dark 
hairs matching Ianira's, caught in the hairbrush. She is not, however, in the 
house now. He's moved her. Where, we must discover."
Jenna's heart sank. Marcus' face ran pale in the light from a distant gas lamp. 
Then Jenna started. "Look! He's coming out again."
They glanced around quickly, even as Noah herded them all into the darkness of a 
neighboring yard. Lachley had, indeed, emerged through the carriage drive 
entrance. Dressed in rough clothes, with an old felt hat pulled low over his 
brow, hiding his face in shadow, he set out on foot, walking swiftly down 
Cleveland Street, then turned and headed toward the distant river.
The moment he vanished from view, Noah darted across the road. Jenna and Marcus 
exchanged glances, then ran after the detective at top speed. They passed a 
carriage where two gentlemen were involved in a domestic dispute with their 
wives over a stray muff, then moved steadily eastward, leaving behind the 
fashionable districts. They came out on a street Jenna recognized as Drury Lane, 
the same street Noah had carried her down the night Lachley had shot her. 
They followed Drury Lane for its entire length and burst out eventually onto the 
Strand, where they plunged into a maelstrom of shoving, shouting men and boys on 
Fleet Street. Gradually, they angled toward Bishopsgate and the East End. Jenna 
wasn't used to so much walking and struggled gamely to keep up, crossing busy 
Commercial Street into the heart of Whitechapel, then moving south down Brick 
Lane, past breweries that left the air smelling of spilt beer, past brick-making 
factories where giant kilns glowed hellishly in the darkness, fire-curing bricks 
by the millions. They headed down toward Flower and Dean Street, where women 
strolled the streets mostly alone, a few walking in pairs or small clusters, 
their eyes bright with fear and misery, soliciting rough-dressed men who emerged 
from pubs and gin palaces and gambling hells.
Past Flower and Dean, Lachley took them into a narrow alleyway between 
ramshackle doss houses. A stink of urine rose like a miasma. Jenna closed her 
hand around the butt of her pistol, which she'd thrust deep into her coat 
pocket. They moved steadily down the narrow way, boots squelching in mud and God 
alone knew what else. Jenna certainly didn't want to know. Halfway along, 
Lachley interrupted a streetwalker and her customer in the midst of the 
transaction for which she was being paid. Mercifully, Jenna caught only a 
glimpse of white thighs under the woman's hiked up skirts as Lachley shoved 
past, with curses flung after him.
"Sod off, y'bloody feather plucker, or I'll shove me beetle crusher up yer Kyber 
Parse!"
To which Lachley flung back, "Don't threaten me, y'stroppy brass nail!"
Fortunately, the angry prostitute was far too occupied—and so was her client—to 
offer any real trouble, not even when Noah plunged past, leading the pursuit. 
Lachley stalked steadily southward, toward the distant river, down past garment 
factories where gaslights burned to illuminate rows of sewing machines. Tailors 
and sweat-shop seamstresses worked in such factories for twelve and sixteen-hour 
shifts, six days a week, churning out ready-made clothing for an empire. Jenna 
thanked God they hadn't been forced to take up such work to keep from starving.
What's a respectable doctor like John Lachley doing skulking around the East 
End? Unless . . . Jenna blinked in sudden, startled conjecture. Unless he's Jack 
the Ripper! Oh, my God, the facts fit! Poor Ianira! Is she even still alive? 
They barrelled through a crowd of men gathered on a street corner, talking 
loudly about what ought to be done about the maniac stalking women on these 
streets. "Sorry," Noah doffed his hat as angry protests rose on all sides, 
"don't want any bother, we're on the trail of a missing lady . . ."
"Ah, gwan, y'sozzled face-ache," one of the angry men flung after them, "better 
keep goin' clappers or I'm like to put me bunch o' fives in yer mince!"
As Jenna shoved her way through in Noah's wake, one of the other men muttered, 
"Button it, Albert, an' lay off the gin, you're drunk as a boiled owl. It's 
clear they got trouble, all right, Gawd 'elp if it's this bleedin' Ripper again 
. . ." A block further on, a Salvation Army quartet blared away into the damp 
night while a frowsy woman with three children half-hidden in her skirts 
listened intently to the singers. The music sounded like a spiritualized rewrite 
of an old drinking song, "What Can You Do with a Drunken Sailor?" but included 
the unlikely refrain, "Anybody here like a sneaking Judas?" 
Further along, a shouting match broke out between two very drunken sailors and 
the badly dressed women who accompanied them. One of the girls, who couldn't 
have been above thirteen years of age, was pulling a long swig from a gin 
bottle. Jenna wanted to avert her gaze as they rushed past, but she'd seen worse 
since arriving in the East End—and was afraid she'd see far worse, yet, before 
this night ended.
As Noah took them around a corner, an angry roar of voices erupted behind them. 
Jenna glanced back to see an immense crowd of men burst from a side street and 
utterly engulf the sailors, their hired girls, and the Salvation Army quartet. 
They were shouting about the Ripper, making demands and ugly threats that left 
Jenna intensely grateful they'd missed being swept up with the rioters. She 
turned and hurried after Noah. Lachley, still oblivious to their pursuit, led 
them down into Wapping where they encountered two neatly dressed, earnest young 
men with American accents. The Americans were speaking with a group of women and 
ragged children. 
"No, ladies, the golden tablets of Moroni don't set aside the Bible, not at all. 
They are only Christ's revelation of His word in the New World, translated by 
His prophet Joseph Smith. Here, let me read from this pamphlet, it will help 
explain the new gospel . . ."
They passed the Mormons, still moving south, and walked all the way to 
Pennington Street, where enormous brick warehouses lined the road. Jenna could 
smell the stink of the river. Just beyond the warehouses lay the great London 
Docks, with the enormous Western Basin closest to them now. The smaller and 
older St. Katharine's Docks lay to their immediate west, cut into the reeking 
earth of Wapping, so that streets ended abruptly at the waterside, with immense 
ships pulled up like cars parked along the kerb. Lachley ignored the docks and 
led them east, deeper into Wapping. Did he take her on board a ship? Jenna 
wondered. What would be the point? Unless he's leaving England? Fear skittered 
through her nerves.
They left Pennington Street three blocks further along, winding back into 
filthy, crowded alleyways north of the warehouses. Sailors thronged the streets, 
shoving their way roughly into stinking pubs and gambling dens, brawling in the 
middle of the road, singing boistrously in as many as five languages within two 
blocks' distance. Hollow-cheeked, dull-eyed children sat along the kerb, begging 
for a few pence. And still Lachley led them back into the maze, past groups of 
furtive men who eyed them, considered it, then thought better after weighing the 
odds.
And finally, at one of the sagging, broken-windowed houses along a street where 
gaslights were as rare as police constables and chickens' teeth, Lachley finally 
stopped. He unlocked a door and vanished into a tumble-down brick house with 
filthy, broken glass windows. These were dark. The house was silent, seemingly 
deserted. Jenna glanced at Noah, then Marcus. "What now?"
Noah was frowning thoughtfully at the door. "If we annouce ourselves, it might 
provoke him into panic-stricken, drastic action. I don't want to give him time 
for that."
The detective tested the door gently, then backed up and smashed his booted foot 
against the heavy panel. The lock splintered on the second try. Jenna dragged 
her pistol out of her pocket and rushed in on Noah's heels. Marcus brought up 
the rear. They found a cheerless room empty of anything save bits of refuse and 
appalling drifts of filth along the floor. A swift search, downstairs and up, 
revealed only one inhabitant: an enormous black hound chained in a room near the 
back of the house. The dog had been dead for a couple of days, judging from the 
stench. Beside the hideous, putrifying corpse lay a rug someone had turned back. 
And under the rug could be seen the outlines of a trap door.
"Right," Noah said briskly, pulling up the trap.
Marcus helped lift the planks while Jenna gulped back nausea. Stone steps, damp 
brick walls, the smell and splash of water . . . They could hear Lachley's 
footsteps receding quickly and Jenna caught a faint flicker of light at the 
bottom of the hole, which vanished a moment later. Noah glanced up into Jenna's 
eyes. The gun in Noah's hand looked like part of the detective's arm, an organic 
piece that had grown there, like the fine hairs on the back of Noah's wrist and 
the chipped nails that tipped short, strong fingers. "I'd feel better if you 
stayed here."
"I ain't no weed," she muttered, quoting the girl who delivered their milk every 
morning. "And if you tell me to stay here, well, then, same t'you, wiv brass 
knobs on . . ."
Noah frowned. "You're picking up the slang pretty well, aren't you? But that 
doesn't make you a match for a thing like Lachley. He's a bloody dangerous 
bastard. Stay behind me."
"No argument, there," she muttered.
Marcus found a stub of candle in a battered tin holder beside the bed and a 
wooden box with matches, printed with the trade name Lucifers. Marcus lit the 
candle and handed it to Noah, who led the way down the narrow stone steps. 
Marcus pocketed the matches and Jenna edged down the steps next, leaving Marcus 
to bring up rear guard. The stink of decay and filthy water clouted her nostrils 
well before her feet touched the wet floor below. There was no cellar, as Jenna 
had been expecting. They were standing in a brick tunnel, its arched roof 
clotted with cobwebs and stained with poisonous patches of mold and lichen. 
Water trickled and dripped in the distance.
"What kind of place is this?" Jenna breathed.
"Sewer tunnel, I'd guess," Noah answered, the whisper harsh and strained. 
"Lachley knows his way around, that's clear." They couldn't see Lachley's 
lantern, but his footsteps came with a faint echo from further along the sewer 
tunnel. Jenna stared into the pitchy darkness, then swallowed as Noah set out 
with soft-footed stealth. She cast a doubtful glance at Marcus, whose eyes were 
tortured. But they hadn't much choice. Jenna clutched her revolver, the grip 
solid and reassuring against her palm, and eased forward, trying to walk without 
her footsteps splashing. Jenna strained to catch the faintest echo of sound in 
the clammy darkness, but heard only the distant rush of water and Lachley's 
sharp, clattering footsteps far ahead. The sound ran away down the tunnels, 
leaving Jenna biting her lip.
"Hsst!"
At that sharp sound from Noah, Jenna froze. Her lungs rasped in the silence and 
her heart slammed against her ribs. Sweat, cold and dank as the putrid air, 
clung to hair and skin and eyelashes. She listened . . .
"Bloody bitch!" A man's voice echoed through the sewers, fierce with some 
nameless rage that left the tiny hairs along Jenna's nape and arms starkly 
erect. Her fingers tightened of their own volition around the butt of her gun. A 
bloodcurdling scream, high and ragged, pierced the blackness. A woman's scream . 
. .
The woman was sobbing out, "Don't kill me, please, I won't tell anyone you're 
the Ripper, please, just let me go home!" The woman's voice, clearly British, 
shook on a wild note of despair.
"That is not Ianira," Marcus breathed.
"What time does the gate go?" Lachley's voice . . .
"I don't know!"
"What time was it when you came through, then?"
A choked-off cry of pain floated through the sewer tunnels. "About—about eight 
o'clock, I think . . . it was just dusk . . . oh, God, please . . . no!"
She screamed again, high, ragged. The sound cut off hideously. Jenna stood 
trembling, torn between the need to stay hidden and the need to rush forward, to 
stop whatever ghastly torture was underway. A moment later another sound drifted 
through the sewers, a sound Jenna couldn't identify at first. Heavy, rhythmic 
thumps, a grating, scraping sound, like someone hacking apart a cow's carcass. 
Jenna covered her mouth with the back of one shaking hand. Then they heard 
footfalls and a heavy thump that echoed like a door closing. 
Someone was moving through the sewers toward them, splashing quickly through the 
water. For a long, horrible moment, Jenna thought he was coming back toward 
them. Noah blew out the candle, plunging them into a terrifying darkness. 
Lachley's footsteps approached to within a frightful distance, accompanied by a 
lantern's dim glow, then faded once more, moving away down another route and 
disappearing back into the maze of sewer tunnels.
Jenna discovered that she was shaking violently. Minutes crawled past in the 
utter blackness of the stinking sewer while doubt and fear banged around the 
inside of her skull like screaming, imprisoned monkeys. The echoes of Lachley's 
footsteps had long since faded, but still they didn't move, scarcely daring to 
breathe. At last, Noah shifted. The detective whispered, "Marcus, let's have a 
lucifer, please." A match flared and Marcus relit the candle. 
Light sprang up, yellow and warm and glorious, revealing ashen faces. Jenna 
swallowed hard, hands trembling visibly. "Wherever he was torturing that poor 
woman, it's not far."
"He closed a door of some kind," Noah mused. "Perhaps another trap door. We'll 
try to find it and see if he's hidden Ianira down here with his other captive."
A cross-tunnel intersected their own. Noah turned left, opposite the direction 
Lachley had taken. Jenna cast worried glances back over her shoulder every few 
seconds, terrified the monstrous killer behind them would turn and come back, 
having heard their footsteps. Her hand sweat on the grip of her pistol despite 
the chill in the foetid air. Jenna knew her gun was useless against Jack the 
Ripper. He couldn't be killed tonight, not before Mary Kelly died, more than a 
month in the future. But it was all she had and just holding it made her feel 
slightly less panic-stricken.
"Well, blow me for a game of soldiers . . ." Noah muttered.
The low-voiced exclamation brought Jenna around. "What is it?"
"An iron door! Locked tight as a drum."
The low door had been set back into an alcove. Clearly, John Lachley had come 
from behind that door. Jenna tested it, searched for a lock, realized that 
without a key, they would never get in. The hinge-pins were on the inside, so 
they couldn't even lift the door off. "What we need is a key."
"We'll have to make do with a lockpick," Noah muttered. "I've cultivated the 
habit of carrying a set, during the past three years. With your father's killers 
on our trail, we've occasionally needed a fast entrance into a hiding place. 
Fortunately," the detective fished into a coat pocket, coming out with a set of 
burglar's tools and crouching before the door, slipping them expertly into the 
keyhole, "Victorian locks are generally large, clumsy, and easy to open." Marcus 
held the candle close to the lock, giving Noah the best light available. The 
lockpicks scraped and scratched inside the iron door, then something grated and 
clicked.
"Got it!"
The sudden silence was thick with tension.
The heavy door swung noiselessly open, which spoke of constant oiling and 
maintenance in this damp environment. Surprisingly, the room beyond was not 
dark. Gas jets in the floor lit a scene from someone's private version of hell. 
Jenna's skin crawled as she stepped across the threshold, following Noah. She 
choked the instant she was inside. The sickly odor of rotting meat struck her 
like a physical blow. The stench permeated the air, foul and thick. When she saw 
what lay on the floor, Jenna realized with a shock of horror what the stink 
actually was.
"Oh, my God!"
Somebody had spilled a great deal of blood in this room. And pieces of at least 
two fresh corpses had been stacked up beside the door like cordwood. Arms, legs, 
gobbets she couldn't readily identify. And two severed heads, a dark-haired 
man's and a blonde-haired woman's. They rested on a work bench which stretched 
beneath cupboards along one long wall, sightless eyes staring at the door, faces 
set in ghastly expressions of terror and agony. White robes hung from a hook set 
into the bricks. Dark brown stains were visible across the sleeves and front. A 
stone pedestal that looked very much like an altar stood in the middle of the 
room. On top was another severed head, its flesh and hair still rotting off the 
bones. From what little remained, it looked like it had once belonged to a young 
boy, a teenager. An enormous tree trunk, with many of its major branches intact, 
took up at least half the space. Iron brackets and bands held the tree together 
where it had been sawn apart to get it into the room. Ianira, hands bound above 
her head, hung naked from an iron hook set into one enormous branch, limp and 
unconscious, her ribcage barely lifting with her shallow breaths. Gas jets at 
the base of the tree shone across her skin.
"Oh, sweet Mother Mary . . ." Noah whispered, voice harsh.
Marcus had already whipped off his coat, was lifting Ianira down and wrapping 
her nude body gently in its folds. Jenna, keeping her jaw tightly clenched, 
found a knife on the work table and used it to slice through the ropes on 
Ianira's wrists. Marcus was smoothing hair back from his wife's brow, trying to 
rouse her.
"She's been drugged," Noah said tersely. "I can smell the chloroform."
"Bastard!" Marcus snarled. "I will put a bullet through him!"
Noah said tersely, "Just now, our business is getting the hell out of here 
before the maniac who owns this place comes back."
The detective stepped to the door and peered into the darkness while Jenna 
pressed one hand against her mouth, struggling desperately not to throw up. The 
blonde woman must have been the one who'd screamed. And they'd just stood there, 
listening, while he hacked her apart . . . She bolted past Noah into the 
darkness of the sewer tunnel and threw up in the murky water against the far 
wall. The slight current washed the mess away, even as she shuddered and choked 
again. Noah bent over her shoulder. "You all right?" the detective asked 
worriedly.
She nodded, and finally managed to straighten up. "Sorry," she whispered, wiping 
her mouth. "Couldn't help it."
"God, no," the detective managed through clenched teeth. Noah looked very near 
to being ill, as well. Marcus carried his wife out of the stinking chamber. Noah 
closed the door and fiddled with the lock again. "Think I'll leave it the way we 
found it. Let him sweat, wondering how a drugged victim got out of a locked 
room. Ought to bother the hell out of him."
"If it's all the same to you," Jenna said through chattering teeth, "I'd just as 
soon not go back through his house in Wapping. I don't want to meet him coming 
back, not for anything in this world."
Noah's glance was keen. "I couldn't agree more." The detective peered both ways 
down the tunnel through narrowed eyes. "We must be near the river. We weren't 
all that far from London Docks when we climbed down those steps. With the 
distance and direction we came, the Thames must be close by, off that way." Noah 
pointed at the wall behind them. "Western Basin's probably off that direction, 
so I'd say we need to go that way." Noah nodded down the tunnel opposite the 
direction they'd come.
"Let's go, then," Marcus said quietly. "We need to get Ianira to safety and have 
Doctor Mindel look at her."
It was a silent and tense group that set out through the maze of sewer tunnels 
beneath the East End's filthy streets, searching for a way out.
 
Chapter Eleven
John Lachley carried Dominica Nosette's hacked up torso a long way through the 
sewer tunnels. The bundle he'd slung over one shoulder was heavy and he paused 
frequently to shift it, but Lachley never considered simply dumping it and 
turning back. He wanted to leave her somewhere appropriate and had tumbled to 
just the perfect spot. When he finally reached the place, he paused, listening 
to the rumble of carriage traffic through a grating overhead, then smiled and 
turned off into a freshly-broken opening in the sewer. The vaulted space in 
which he found himself was destined to become part of the cellar of New Scotland 
Yard. The police headquarters, still under construction, was directly overhead.
Lachley smiled to himself and dumped the butchered remains of his pathetic 
little journalist where workmen would find her, then tipped his cloth hat. "Ta, 
luv." He grinned, using the voice of his childhood. "I'm obliged, Miss Nosette, 
that I am."
Then he set out the way he'd come, whistling jauntily to himself. The tunnels he 
followed to reach Tibor snaked and twisted in multiple directions, following gas 
mains and sewage flows and underground streams bricked over, odd corners and 
chambers formed out of the remnant cellars of sixteenth and seventeenth, even 
eighteenth century warehouses and wharfside pubs, all connected like gladiator 
tunnels beneath an ancient fighting arena. As he walked, he planned exactly what 
he would do when he carried Ianira to Spaldergate House. 
He'd kept the identification papers and cards he'd found in Miss Nosette's 
possession, as well as those from the recently deceased Mr. Pendergast's 
pockets. Lachley was quite confident that no one would notice the switch in a 
dark garden. He would rush in, carrying Ianira, claim to be Pendergast and 
babble out some story about being attacked by the Ripper, then simply carry her 
through into the station. He could hardly wait to see what the station was 
really like. With Ianira in his power, there was no limit to what he could do in 
such a place.
When he reached Lower Tibor, John Lachley was in exceedingly high spirits.
He set his lantern down with a faint splash. The iron key from his pocket grated 
in the lock, which clicked open. He slid the key back into his coat, then 
stooped to retrieve his lantern. The door opened silently at his touch, swinging 
back on its well-oiled hinges. Light from the perpetual flames burning in the 
gas jets at the altar welcomed him home again . . .
And John Lachley froze halfway through the door.
She was gone.
He literally could not take it in, could not comprehend the emptiness his senses 
told him existed in the room. He had left her hanging from the iron hook in the 
great branch above the altar, the hook he'd dangled Morgan from, the night that 
miserable little sod had died, had left her hanging as naked as he'd left the 
boy, bound and drugged senseless. There was no humanly possible way she could 
have freed herself from the ropes and the iron hook, much less escape from a 
brick vault with only one door in or out. And that iron door had been firmly 
locked, the lock not forced in any way he could see. Yet she was undeniably 
gone.
Nothing in this chamber could have provided hiding space for a child, let alone 
a full-grown woman. He stood there with his hand uplifted against the cold iron 
of the open door, gaze jerking from shelf to cabinet to altar and up to the 
massive tree trunk and back to the shelves again. How had she gotten out? The 
key in his pocket was not a standard iron skeleton key. It would've taken a 
master locksmith to slip this lock. Or a duplicate key. Or an extremely talented 
thief. Had someone broken in here, then, and carried her off? Who? 
He could not conceive of a master locksmith having sufficient motive to pick his 
way through a maze of sewer tunnels until stumbling across this one particular 
alcove, to open a locked iron door. It simply wasn't reasonable. Common 
locksmiths didn't have the imagination to attempt such a thing! And why would a 
thief have ventured here? There'd been nothing in that entire house in Wapping 
worth stealing, if a thief had come down that way. A duplicate key, then? That 
was even more absurd than the other possible explanations. Take a wax 
impression, create a mould, cast a key, all in a single hour's time, with the 
owner of this door likely to return at any moment, irate and possibly murderous?
The longer he pursued a sane explanation, the faster sanity ran through his 
fingers like the dirty water under his feet. Lachley's drugged captive simply 
could not have gotten out. But she had. And Lachley's greatest refuge, the 
result of years of labour and intensive study—his very life if this place were 
connected with the deaths of the whores—everything he had built was now 
threatened, because the bitch had gotten out! 
The explosion jolted the very bedrock of his sanity.
Fury was an expanding fireball inside him, an anarchist's bomb, a Fenian 
detonation that sent him plunging across the room, hands so violently unsteady 
he dropped the lantern with a crash of broken glass and spreading lamp oil. He 
searched places too small for a mouse to hide, but found no trace of her. A 
knife had been moved from his workbench and used by someone to cut through the 
ropes on her wrists, ropes he found abandoned on the floor. Someone must have 
followed him down, picked the lock while he was out. 
Lachley swore savagely. He had been so careful, confound it, so bloody careful . 
. . Had someone recognized him, after all? Recognized the heavily moustachioed 
man in seedy clothes as the thin and seething boy he'd once been in these 
streets? Lachley had barely gone twenty when he'd last walked Wapping and 
Whitechapel, passing himself off as parlour mediumist Johnny Anubis. But who 
else could it have been, if not some god-cursed tea leaf who'd grass on his own 
loving wife, if a reward might be involved?
He halfway expected to find all of Scotland Yard crouched in the tunnel beyond 
the open door to Tibor, billycocks at the ready. What he found was a black 
expanse of dripping brick tunnel, silent and cold as a tomb, just as he'd left 
it. Lachley stood motionless, gazing at the ruin of his sanctuary, breathing 
hard and trying to think what he should do. Going home might be fatal. Whether 
an East Ender had recognized him as Jack the Ripper or the girl's husband had 
trailed him down here, whoever had taken Ianira had discovered enough to hang 
Lachley from the nearest gallows. He had to get out of London. Before the police 
did trace him. Well, the gate into the future would open near dusk tomorrow 
evening, which meant he had to elude capture for only twenty-four hours.
Dominica Nosette's severed head stared blindly at him from his work bench, 
unable to tell him its secrets. He'd have to take the head with him, he realized 
slowly. Tell them he'd been trying to locate his partner and had found her 
hacked to pieces in the sewers, that he'd been able to recover only her 
decapitated skull. Yes, that's what he would do to gain admittance to the gate, 
he'd shock them all with her bloody head, then step through while they bleated 
about what ought to be done.
Moving with calm deliberation, Lachley found a wooden box beneath the work bench 
and dumped out the implements inside, then replaced them with Miss Nosette's 
head. He packed away a few other items he'd want along, shoving them into a 
leather satchel, mind racing. Can't bloody well go home, I might find the 
coppers waiting for me. I'll have to stop at the bank tomorrow, secure funds to 
buy some decent clothing. Best not withdraw too much, don't want to tip my hand 
that I'm leaving. Better sleep the night in a hotel room or better yet, a doss 
house. Fewer questions to answer, that way, arriving without luggage . . . 
Decision made, Lachley stripped off his bloodstained clothing and shoes, changed 
into spare garments he kept on hand for just such emergencies, then carried his 
satchel and wooden case outside, locking the door to Tibor one last time. He'd 
never dreamed the day would come he'd leave the sanctuary for all time. But his 
fate was sealed and his plans were made. He would get onto that station, come 
hell or high water or the damned souls of all eternity, trying to bar the way.
He literally had nowhere else to go.
* * *
Malcolm had been to Cleveland Street before, with wealthy tourists who wanted to 
visit the famous art studios, hoping to buy canvases or commission fine souvenir 
portraits. He'd never guided tourists to the street's other, more infamous 
destinations, of course, although a number of zipper jockey tours did, in fact, 
include stops at Cleveland Street's homosexual brothels. Malcolm found it 
somewhat ironic that Jack the Ripper had chosen to live sandwiched between 
London's higher and lower arts and wondered if John Lachley's unstable 
personality had been affected by the proximity of the brothels.
They had trailed Lachley's carriage halfway across London, following at a 
discreet distance. When Lachley pulled into a drive and halted, Malcolm asked 
the cabbie to pull up to the kerb a full block short of Lachley's home. "I think 
it would be wiser to leave the ladies here and scout this out on foot, Mr. 
Melvyn."
"But—" Margo protested.
"No. I will not unnecessarily risk either you or Dr. Feroz." He spoke in a 
whisper to prevent the driver from overhearing, and would brook no argument. "We 
came here to discover why Marcus is trailing him, not to put either of you 
ladies in the path of Jack the Ripper. And there's Marcus now, across the street 
there." He pointed to the dark hedge sheltering the ex-slave from view of 
Lachley's house. Marcus watched Lachley enter his home by the side entrance and 
gave out a warning call, a clear and piercing bird's trill in the gathering dusk 
and gloom. "Want to bet his friends are inside, searching the house?" Margo 
pouted and favored him with one of her famous stationary flounces, refusing to 
honor his friendly wager with an answer, but gave him no further trouble. 
"Driver," Malcolm said a little more loudly, "please be kind enough to wait here 
with the ladies while we determine whether or not our acquaintance is at home."
"Right, guv'nor."
Conroy Melvyn joined Malcolm on the pavement. "D'you want to go right up and 
talk to your friend?" the inspector asked quietly, nodding slightly toward 
Marcus.
"It is tempting, as Marcus appears to be alone."
"What's your plan, then?"
Malcolm was about to reply when someone left Dr. Lachley's house at a brisk 
walk. Poorly dressed, he would have looked more at home in Whitechapel than 
Cleveland Street. Whoever the man was, he was headed straight toward them. 
Malcolm's eyes widened when he realized who it was. "Bloody hell," Malcolm 
hissed, "it's Lachley." He turned at once to the carriage, leaning inside to 
murmur with the ladies as Lachley approached. Conroy Melvyn also turned to the 
carriage and said for Lachley's benefit, "Confound it, ladies, we shall be quite 
late! We haven't time to return and fetch your muff! If you'd wanted it, you 
should have secured it before calling for the carriage!"
Lachley strode past without a second glance.
Malcolm peered over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Marcus, who had been 
joined by Benny Catlin and the other man from the Egyptian Hall. They trailed 
Lachley straight past the carriage, Marcus and the others passing literally 
within touching distance. Margo was wailing, "But I must have my muff, Geoffrey, 
I simply must! Oh, you beastly man, I cannot face Lady Hampton without it, after 
that dreadful creature showed me up last Saturday with her ermine . . ."
The moment Marcus and his companions had passed, Malcolm handed both ladies 
down. "We dare not follow in the carriage," he murmured, securing coin to pay 
the driver. "I fear you ladies are not dressed for hiking, but there's no help 
for it."
Margo said cheerfully, "I'll worry about blisters on my heels after I've got 
'em."
The driver was shaking his head, mystified, as he drove off. Malcolm set out 
briskly, feeling some affinity for the tail end of a freight train as they 
whipped through the streets in pursuit. Lachley, far ahead, was moving rapidly. 
Both Margo and Dr. Feroz had difficulty keeping up. Their fashionably tight 
skirts and heeled shoes forced them to trot along with mincing little steps.
"Where the devil is he heading?" Inspector Melvyn wondered aloud as they moved 
steadily eastward, angling down toward the river. "It's the wrong night for 
another Ripper strike."
"Maybe he's hunting for Mary Kelly?" Margo suggested.
"Without Maybrick? Deuced unlikely, I should think. He kills to a pattern."
"Perhaps," Shahdi Feroz mused, "he works alone to locate the women, then strikes 
with Maybrick as his weapon?"
Margo put in suddenly, "Maybe the Whitehall torso is one of his victims? 
Somebody he meets tonight? The torso will be discovered just two days from now, 
after all."
"Another of these unfortunates in possession of his letters?" Inspector Melvyn 
frowned. "Blast, I wish we knew what these letters were!"
"You said a mouthful," Margo muttered, struggling to keep up.
As they trailed their double quarry steadily eastward, into increasingly poorer 
districts, Malcolm's misgivings increased just as steadily. They were dressed to 
the nines, all of them, and Lachley was leading them straight toward the East 
End, where gentlemen in fancy dress coats and ladies in silk evening gowns would 
stand out like beacon fires, inviting attack by footpads. Lachley took them down 
Drury Lane, echoing another night's anxious search, when they'd trailed Benny 
Catlin with bloodhounds. Tonight, at least, Catlin was in plain sight. They 
emerged, as they had that previous night, onto the Strand. Lachley headed down 
through Fleet Street, moving briskly.
Malcolm plunged into the crowds thronging the jammed pavements, trying to keep 
the others in sight. As the heart and soul of the British printing industry, 
Fleet Street was clogged by literally hundreds of newspaper reporters, 
ink-stained printers' journeymen and apprentices, bootblacks, newsboys scurrying 
along with stacks of the latest editions piled high, and women of dubious status 
all jostling elbows as they fought for space in the pubs, comandeered hansom 
cabs, and paid street urchins to run errands for them—all struggling to outwit 
one another in the business of keeping the Empire apprised of the latest news. 
From here, reports of the shocking, double Ripper murders had raced outward by 
telegraph to claim massive headlines across the length and breadth of the 
British Isles and far beyond.
From out of pubs with names like Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese wafted the 
multitudinous smells of cheap sandwiches, greasy fried potatoes, and enough 
alcohol to inebriate several herds of elephants. Malcolm wondered fleetingly 
just how many journalists affiliated with newspapers like the prestigious Times 
and the Star or penny dreadfuls with lofty-sounding titles like the Penny 
Illustrated Paper and Illustrated Times or the Illustrated Police News were 
combing the East End tonight, looking for leads to the Ripper case? Given the 
number of men and boys crowding these pavements, only a fraction of those he'd 
expected to cover the case. Fleet Street seethed. 
"The ladies can't keep up!" Conroy Melvyn called above the roar of voices and 
bar songs, the rumble of carriage wheels, and the neighing of several hundred, 
snorting horses in the street. Margo and Shahdi Feroz were struggling through 
the thick crowds, falling farther and farther behind. Malcolm craned for a 
glimpse of Benny Catlin and Marcus. "Blast it, we'll lose them! Margo, we can't 
afford delays. Hire a cab and take Dr. Feroz back to Spaldergate. Let them know 
what's happening."
"But—"
"No argument! We haven't time!"
"Oh, all right!" she snapped, cheeks flushed with temper as well as brisk 
walking. "Come on, Shahdi, let's go home like good little girls!" She stormed 
off in search of a cab for hire, taking the Ripperologist with her.
"I shall pay for that, presently," Malcolm sighed, hurrying after their escaping 
quarry. The Scotland Yard inspector gave him a sympathetic glance as Lachley led 
them down past Shoreditch into the heart of Whitechapel, moving steadily 
eastward and skirting his way closer to the river.
"He isn't going anywhere near Miller's Court, is he?" Malcolm muttered.
Before the inspector could reply, a roar of angry voices erupted from the street 
just ahead. An immense crowd of angry men spilled out into their path, shouting 
demands for better police patrols, more gas lights, for a reward to be offered 
by Her Majesty's government for the Ripper's capture . . .
"Hurry!" Malcolm cried, darting forward. He shoved his way into the mass of 
shouting workmen who were still spilling out onto the street, unable to push his 
way through. "Mr. Lusk!" someone was shouting at his elbow. "Mr. Lusk, is it 
true you asked the authorities to offer a reward for information on the Ripper's 
accomplices?" The man shouting the question held a notebook and a stub of 
pencil, trying to scribble down information as he was jostled by the swarm of 
angry Vigilance Committee members and loiterers swept up in the crowd.
"They told me t'bugger off!" Lusk shouted back, whipping up a roar from the 
crowd. "Aren't goin' to pay blood money, they said, t'catch nobody!" The head of 
the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee was furious, justifiably so. As a prominent 
East End businessman, Lusk had to live and work here, wondering which of his 
friends or family members might be butchered next, while police officials like 
Sir Charles Warren sat safe and insulated in their headquarters and stately 
homes to the west.
Malcolm fought his way past angry tradesmen, struggling to reach the far street 
corner where Marcus and the others had vanished. Several men flung curses after 
him when he shouldered past and one beefy lout swung at him, but by the time the 
punch landed, Malcolm had dodged past. Shouts erupted in his wake, then he was 
finally through the mass of seething protestors. Conroy Melvyn struggled out on 
his heels, panting. "Where'd they go?" the inspector gasped.
"I don't know! Dammit, I can't see them anywhere!" Malcolm plunged down the 
street at a run, heedless of stares, but within three blocks, they had to admit 
defeat. Marcus and Benny Catlin and the other gentleman trailing John Lachley 
had vanished into the maze of dark alleyways, swallowed alive by the black gloom 
which lurked just beyond Whitechapel's major thoroughfares. Malcolm kept 
hunting, stubbornly, for nearly an hour, while Conroy Melvyn questioned 
passers-by in search of clues, running into suspicion and close-mouthed wariness 
again and again. Not even the lure of shining crowns—coins worth more than a 
month's good wages in these streets—shook loose any information.
"Well," the inspector muttered, pocketing the last of his crowns, "looks like 
they've given us the slip, all right. What now, Moore?"
Malcolm grimaced, eying a knot of roughly dressed men loitering near the 
entrance to the Kings Stores Pub at the corner of Widegate Street and Sandy's 
Row, a building once famed as Henry the Eighth's arsenal. Several of the loafing 
roustabouts were buying roasted chestnuts from a poorly dressed woman who'd 
stationed herself outside the roisterous public house. Several of the men were 
staring speculatively in their direction. "Much as I hate to admit it," Malcolm 
muttered, "we'd best return to Spaldergate House. We're attracting entirely too 
much attention to ourselves. The longer we remain in these streets, the more 
likely we are to be attacked, particularly dressed as we are. It's getting late 
and blokes like those won't hesitate for long, looking for easy pickings."
Conroy Melvyn glanced around. "I agree, but where the deuce are we? Ah, yes, 
there's the Kings Stores. Been there myself, a time or two, when I was still 
walking a beat. Good God, that must be Mrs. Paumier!"
"Who?" Malcolm asked, glancing over his shoulder as he turned and headed west, 
moving briskly to put them out of easy striking distance of the men on the 
corner.
Inspector Melvyn caught up hastily. "Lady who claimed she spoke with a man in a 
dark coat, carrying a black bag. Chap asked her if she'd heard of a murder in 
Miller's Court, the morning Miss Kelly was killed. Claimed she had, indeed, and 
the bloke told her that he knew more about it than she did. She was standing 
right outside the Kings Stores, selling chestnuts. Pub still trades on the claim 
that Jack the Ripper was last seen outside its doors."
"I didn't realize that. It's been an age since I visited our London." He laid a 
slight emphasis on the possessive. "I wonder if the lady spoke with our good 
friend Dr. Lachley or his accomplice from Liverpool?"
"We'll find out, come November the ninth."
"If we survive so long," Malcolm muttered, glancing back. The men from the Kings 
Stores pub had followed them. "Step lively, we've got company."
The inspector swore under his breath and speeded up. Malcolm homed in on the 
roar of shouts from the Vigilance Committee's angry street meeting, steering the 
Ripperologist back into the chaos in an effort to shake off pursuit. They swept 
off their high top hats, which stood out like signposts, and edged their way 
through the mob, taking their time and avoiding any further altercations with 
the shouting vigilantees. By the time they reached the other side, someone had 
picked Malcolm's pocket, absconding with all his ready cash, but they'd shaken 
their more dangerous pursuers in the crush.
"Afraid they cleaned me right out, as well," the police inspector said with a 
grimace of disgust, searching his own pockets. "Got my pocket watch, as well. 
Looks like we'll have to hoof it, eh?"
"I fear so. I haven't even tuppence left."
Malcolm did not look foward to arriving at Spaldergate with the news that he'd 
discovered the identity of Jack the Ripper and located both Marcus and Benny 
Catlin, only to loose them all in the chaos of a street meeting. Margo would 
spit like an Irish wildcat, after he'd dismissed her from the search back on 
Fleet Street. And the Ripper Watch Team's work was not yet done for the night, 
which loomed endlessly ahead of them. They still had to stand watch over the 
Whitehall torso mystery, to determine whether that unfortunate victim could also 
be laid at Jack the Ripper's doorstep. Malcolm resigned himself to yet another 
stressful night of short sleep and kept walking.
* * *
Jenna unlocked the door to the little house in Spitalfields with shaking 
fingers, then stepped back to give Marcus room to pass. He and Noah carried 
Ianira upstairs, fumbling for the treads in the darkness while Jenna hunted for 
the gaslight. Once she'd lit it, they made better progress up the stairs. Noah 
called down, "I'll change clothes and pick up the girls from the Mindels."
Jenna nodded wearily. Shortly, Noah left the house in disguise as Marcus' sister 
once again, returning with the children and Dr. Mindel, who hurried upstairs to 
treat Ianira. Jenna followed, dreading Ianira's return to consciousness. She 
found Dr. Mindel bent over the cassondra, making worried noises, while Artemisia 
and Gelasia clung to their father in the far corner, eyes wide and frightened as 
they gazed at their mother for the first time in three years.
"Drugged, you say?" Dr. Mindel muttered, peering under her eyelids. "Such a 
hideous thing to do to a helpless lady. Her pulse is strong, though, and her 
breathing is regular. She should sleep quietly until the drug wears off." He 
rummaged in a satchel and came out with a small jar of salve, which he smoothed 
onto her wrists where the ropes had roughened her skin. "There is no way to 
guess how long the dose will last. When she wakes, please come for me."
"Thank you, Dr. Mindel," Noah said quietly. "We will."
The doctor left and Jenna met Noah's gaze. "There isn't much else we can do, is 
there?"
"No."
Marcus took the children across the narrow hallway to their little room and put 
them to bed. Noah rested a hand on Jenna's shoulder. "You'd better get some 
rest, Jenna. You're exhausted and you don't want to risk the baby."
Jenna nodded. There wasn't really anything else anyone could do, except wait for 
Ianira to regain consciousness and pray she was sane when she did. Jenna left 
the room blinking back tears and went quietly to bed, where she couldn't get the 
image of those dismembered bodies out of her mind, or that blonde woman's head 
sitting on a work table beside a dark-haired man's skull, left lying as casually 
as last week's empty milk bottles. 
She wished she'd paid more attention to the various theories about the Ripper's 
possible occult connections. Clearly, Dr. John Lachley was a practicing 
occultist, not just a theorist and scholar. There'd been symbols painted on 
those hideous brick walls, symbols of occult magic, satanic ritual, God knew 
what else. Lachley was a renowned physician and lecturer, a member of the 
Theosophical Society and a man of means, with royal connections. No wonder the 
police couldn't find Jack the Ripper. They were searching for some depraved East 
Ender, a foreigner, not a well-respected member of society. 
She could all too easily imagine Inspector Abberline's reaction or Sir Charles 
Warren's if anyone told the police they were up against a madman with ties to 
the royal family. A man who had perverted all notions of ancient Druidic rites, 
including the taking of trophy heads. Jenna shuddered, recalling his hideous 
lecture and the monstrous excitement in his eyes when talking about such things. 
And she had actually planned to film the Ripper murders! She and Carl, both. 
What innocents they'd been. Foolish innocents. 
The world was full of madmen like John Lachley, killers looking for power, men 
like John Caddrick, her father. Jack the Ripper had built himself a hideous 
house beneath the streets, filling it with death. Jenna curled protectively 
around her abdomen, where Carl's baby was growing, and vowed that her child 
would never become a victim of the slaughterhouse her father had built. Jenna 
would see his monstrous construction torn to the ground and her father dead, 
first. Even if she had to pull the trigger.
Weeping softly in the blackness of a Spitalfields night, Jenna Caddrick listened 
helplessly to the hushed whispering from Ianira's room across the hall.
 
As John Lachley's cab rattled its way up the approach to Battersea Bridge, his 
thoughts rushed and tripped across one another like spawning fish. He was eager 
to reach the end of the journey and discover what really lay beyond the "gate." 
Despite the images in the dead woman's fantastical camera, he could not truly 
imagine the world which had produced such marvels. Anxious and impatient, he 
tried to steady his hands, but they would not remain decently calm. He gripped 
more tightly the case hiding Miss Nosette's severed head and craned forward to 
see how much farther it was to the end of the bridge. Soon . . . 
God grant him patience, for soon could not come quickly enough.
Full dark settled inexorably across London's rooftops and chimneys as the cab 
jockeyed for position in the long queue of carriages and wagons crossing the 
river. On the far shore, Lachley could just make out Battersea Park's miniature 
lake where, on summer days, children chased ducks and swans or floated little 
armadas of handmade boats. There were no children in the park tonight, nor 
anyone else, for that matter, save a few modest carriages and the occasional 
hansom or barouche for hire. Black smoke pouring from Battersea's chimney pots 
snaked its way upward to merge with the ominous darkness of yet another 
rainstorm threatening to the east. Low clouds raced all along the southern bank 
of the river. From their vantage point on Battersea Bridge, lightning flared and 
flashed across the distant rooftops of Surrey and Bermondsey and damp wind 
slashed at Lachley's coat and hair through the open carriage, threatening to rip 
his hat loose. He secured it with an irritable jerk and checked his pocketwatch 
impatiently. It was now nearly eight and the journalist had guessed the "gate" 
would go at about eight-fifteen.
The cab finally tilted down the descent from the bridge and swung past the dark 
dampness of Battersea Park, cutting off in a right-hand turn which took them 
toward the long, lazy river bend which formed Battersea's western border. Once 
they reached Octavia Street, it wasn't difficult to suss out which house was 
Spaldergate. Carriages and hansom cabs lined the kerbs, disgorging elegantly 
dressed ladies and immaculate gentlemen and their servants, dozens of people 
arriving for what neighbors must imagine was an elegant dinner party. 
He ordered the cabbie to stop well back from the line of arriving carriages and 
paid the man, waiting until the battered cab had rattled away down the street 
before moving toward Spaldergate, himself. Hidden in the shadows, he watched the 
arrivals through narrowed eyes. If people were still returning to the house, the 
gate couldn't be open yet. He settled his back against a tree trunk, biding his 
time, more than anxious to step through the gate but forcing himself to wait 
until the last possible moment. He did not want to risk being detained by the 
gate's operators. At length, a final carriage arrived, disgorging its 
passengers, a portly gentleman who was saying to the lady with him, "Hurry up, 
Abby, we'll miss the gate!"
At last! 
Lachley stole softly down the pavement in their wake, then slipped into 
Spaldergate's side yard and found a wooden gate set into the high wall. Beyond, 
he discovered a vast and overgrown garden. Lachley eased into a clump of shaggy 
rhododendrons and peered into the garden, expecting he knew not quite what, a 
miniature version of a railway station, perhaps, with a gate leading into 
somewhen else, or perhaps the iron hulk of some inexplicable and infernal 
machine. The high stone wall ran right round the sprawling garden, its far 
reaches just visible in the gaslight from lamps spaced evenly along a patterned 
stone walkway. His brows rose at the extravagance, so many gaslights 
illuminating a mere garden, and one that was improperly maintained, at that. The 
walkway ended abruptly at the rear wall, as though some fuedal war lord had 
erected a fortress keep straight across an ancient Roman highway. Had that bitch 
Nosette lied? Was there no "gate" after all? No route into the distant future?
Yet something was clearly afoot, for milling about in a state of high agitation 
were more people than Lachley—in his own state of high-strung, sweating 
eagerness—could readily count. Upwards of seventy-five, at least, plus piles and 
haphazard stacks of luggage and porters swarming like angry mosquitoes, as 
though this garden were St. Pancras Station, that fantastical castle of brick 
and iron and glass with its bustling thousands. Most of the strange guests in 
Spaldergate's garden carried parcels or ladies' toiletry and jewel cases, 
bulging valises, carpet satchels with ironwood grips, all in a colorful and 
meaningless jumble of haste and nameless excitement.
Lachley felt the sting and ache of jaw muscles rigidly clenched, of teeth too 
tightly ground together. The confusion of voices scraped against his very 
nerves, until he had to close his fists to stop himself taking the nearest 
chattering bitch by the throat and squeezing until his knuckles collided in the 
center. The need to move, to do something besides huddle in the shrubbery, 
clawed at him, shrieked until the very substance of his skull vibrated with an 
agony like broken bones grating together. He reached for his throbbing temples, 
wanting to clutch at his head and hold the fury forcibly inside the cage of his 
fingers.
The vibrating pain had become a shriek when he noticed with a distant surprise 
that others in the garden were doing exactly the same thing. Some actually 
clapped hands across their ears, as though to shut out an inaudible noise. The 
unnerving sensation was not his imagination, then, nor the manifestation of 
multiple stresses on his overwrought nerves. He frowned, trying to comprehend 
what it might be—
—and a hole of utter, midnight blackness opened in the center of the stone wall, 
right above the flagstone path. Lachley sucked air down, a sharp gasp. The hair 
on his arms came straight up and his back muscles tried to shudder and crawl 
away down his spine, intent on running as far and as fast as possible, with or 
without the rest of him.
The gate . . . 
It pulsed open with a silent thunder, gaping wider, swallowing up more of the 
garden wall, which simply ceased to exist where that blackness touched it. The 
edges scintillated in the glow from the gas lamps, shot through with irridescent 
color, like a film of oil spilled from steamship bilges across Tobacco Basin's 
darkened waters. The fascination of it drew him, repulsed him, left him 
trembling violently. What power did these people possess, to open such a thing 
out of sheer air and solid stone? 
Ancient names and half-recalled incantations stumbled through his broken, 
sliding thoughts, names of power and terror: Anubis, destroyer of souls, 
guardian of the underworld's pitchy gates . . . Heimdall of the shattering horn, 
watching for any who dared to cross the glinting rainbow bridge . . . Kur, the 
coiled serpent of the fathomless abyss, destroyer of the world in flood and 
thunder . . . 
The outward shudder of the gate's receding edges finally came to a halt and it 
hung there, silent and terrible, beckoning him forward while his senses screamed 
to run in the opposite direction and never glance back. Then, as though such a 
thing were the most ordinary occurance in the world, the men and women in the 
garden stepped calmly through it, vanishing from sight like a cricket ball 
whacked solidly with the bat, rushing away to dwindle down to nothing. They were 
rushing through, hurrying, crowding on one another's heels. How long would the 
monstrous thing remain open? He took one step toward it, then another and a 
third, then rushed forward, impatient with his own gibbering terror, determined 
to step through, to discover for himself what horrors and delights might lie 
beyond.
Working himself into a state of frenzy, electrically aware of the risk, Lachley 
pulled Nosette's dismembered head from its carrying case and rushed forward into 
the puddle of light from the nearest gas lamp. A well-dressed lady in watered 
silk saw him first. She let go a high, piercing scream. Lachley was abruptly 
engulfed by a stinging cloud of liveried servants and distraught gentlemen. "I 
tried to stop her . . ." Lachley gasped out, waving Miss Nosette's ghastly head 
about, her streaming blonde tresses clotted with blood. Summoning tears, Lachley 
gripped a white-faced gentleman by the arm. "She wanted to follow that madman in 
the East End, to photograph him! By the time I got to her it was too late, he'd 
cut her to pieces, oh, God, all I could bring away was this . . . this little 
bit of her. Poor, stupid Dominica! I just want to go home, please . . ."
People were shouting, calling for someone. Lachley started toward the gate, not 
caring to wait. Just behind him, a woman's voice shrilled out, "My God! It's 
John Lachley!" He jerked around and focused on a woman who stood not ten paces 
away, a dark-haired woman of extraordinary beauty, who looked vaguely familiar 
to him. She was staring straight at him, eyes wide in recognition. Scalding 
hatred rose in his gorge, threatened to peel back his skin and burst out through 
his fingertips. She knows me! By God, she'll not stop me! Lachley whirled and 
plunged toward the gaping black hole. Behind him, the woman shouted, "Stop him! 
That's Jack the Ripper!"
Screams erupted on his heels . . .
Then he was inside. Falling, rushing foward with dizzy speed. He yelled. Then 
staggered across a metal grating, into a railing at waist height. He looked up—
John Lachley screamed.
It was a world inverted. Stone for sky, pendulous glowing lights hanging from 
iron beams and girders, booming voices that echoed and rolled, more terrifying 
than any thunder, speaking out of the air itself, a maze of twisting confusion 
that fell away at his feet, at least five full stories below, as though he stood 
at the top of Big Ben's clock tower or the highest point of St. Paul's arching 
dome. Wild displays of light in alien colors hurt his eyes. 
People moved in crowds far below, like flotsam caught in the eddy of the 
docklands' swirling waters. Down a rampway, down endless metal steps, down and 
further down still, the people who had come through the gate ahead of him wound 
their way toward the distant floor, while a few yards away, suspended on ramps 
and metal stairs in a mirror image, crowds of nattily dressed men and women 
pressed their way upwards, toward the very platform where Lachley stood.
At the base of the metal stairs, confusion reigned. A screaming mob shouted 
questions, inchoate with distance. Men dressed as guards shoved and pressed the 
crowd back. Lachley realized with a start that a number of those guards were 
women, women wearing trousers as though they had renounced their sex and thought 
themselves the equal of any man. Eddies moved sharply through the crowd as a 
fight broke out, unmistakably riot, brutal as any mob of drunken dock hands 
demanding pay higher than the handful of shillings a week they deserved . . .
Someone lunged through the gate behind him, shouting his name.
He whirled. The vaguely familiar woman had rushed through with two men, who dove 
straight at him across the platform. Lachley hurled aside Dominica Nosette's 
head and drove an elbow into an unprotected gut, then slammed the heel of his 
hand against a nose, felt bone crunch. Both men went sharply down, barely 
stirring. The woman's eyes widened as she realized her abrupt danger. She opened 
her mouth to scream and tried to lunge away from him. Lachley snatched her back 
by the hair. She fought him with unexpected ferocity. Her nails caught his face 
and her knee slammed into his thigh with a sharp flare of pain, narrowly missing 
his groin.
"Bitch!" He slugged her, putting his entire body into the blow. It caught her 
brutally across the temple. She collapsed, a boneless weight in his grasp. 
Someone was shouting from the stairs, where several shrieking women stood in 
ashen shock and one narrow-eyed, dangerous-looking man was rushing right toward 
him. Lachley couldn't fight the whole bloody station! 
He snatched up the unconscious woman as a hostage, heaving her across his 
shoulder, and plunged down the steps toward the distant floor. He skidded down 
flight after flight, one hand balancing the inert burden on his shoulder, the 
other gripping the railing as he slung himself around corners at each landing. A 
glance below revealed several uniformed men charging up from the floor, trying 
to cut him off. He snarled aloud, but Lachley was only a flight-and-a-half up, 
so he vaulted across the rail, dropping a full ten feet into the middle of the 
rioting crowd. He landed on someone's back and felt bone crunch under his feet 
as the man went brutally down. Lachley stumbled to hands and knees, dropping his 
hostage in the melee. Someone kicked him aside, sent him spinning and rolling 
under running feet. Bruised and shaken, Lachley finally skidded into a momentary 
pocket of clear space and shoved his way to his feet. He thrust himself past 
intervening bodies, reeled from a punch against his unprotected side, turned 
with a snarl and broke the bastard's neck with a wrenching heave and twist—
Then he was clear of the riot. Lachley found himself staring at cobblestoned 
walkways and park benches and wrought iron lamps, even a pub that reminded him 
incongruously of Chelsea. The riot surged behind him, shoving Lachley straight 
past a line of stunned security guards, who were busy to distraction searching 
the rioting mob for him. He bolted, determined to discover some way out of this 
madhouse. He needed to find a quiet place to think, to sort out what to do next. 
He was very nearly clear of the chaos when a group of wild-eyed men brandishing 
placards rushed at him.
"Lord Jack!"
"Lead us, holiest one!"
"Command us! We are your servants!"
Lachley opened his mouth, not entirely sure what might emerge. Behind him, 
someone shouted, "There he is!" He glanced wildly back toward the platform, 
where the two men who'd rushed through the gate on his heels were stumbling down 
the stairs under escort, pointing right at him. Lachley whirled on the 
placard-carrying lunatics, who were plucking at his very coat sleeves in 
fawning, worshipful attitudes.
"You want to help me? I need shelter, curse it!"
"At once, Lord Jack!" the nearest cried eagerly, tugging at his arm. "Anything 
you desire! We have awaited your coming . . ."
They surrounded him, rushed him away from the shouting guards who were shoving 
rioters aside, trying to reach him. Lachley ran with the madmen, insane 
sycophants who gibbered at him from all sides and hid his face with their 
hand-scrawled signs. Am I doomed to rely on madmen all my days? He'd traded 
Maybrick's lunacy for a whole crowd of insanity. But sheltering with madmen was 
preferable to hanging, should the wardens of the gate catch up to him.
His unanticipated escorts brought Lachley eventually to a place that—despite its 
overwhelming strangeness—appeared to be a hotel of some kind. The men who'd 
appointed themselves his adoring acolytes rushed Lachley across a brightly lit 
lobby, where a desk clerk glanced up only briefly, then ushered him straight 
into what proved to be a lift. They rose with startling speed and quite 
delightfully, the controls were automated, eliminating the need for a lift 
operator who would have to be eliminated for witnessing his flight. The lights 
overhead were strange, far too bright, and he couldn't determine what the 
translucent panels covering them were fashioned from. Then the doors slipped 
quietly open with a soft bell chime and he found himself in a luxuriously 
carpeted corridor. One of the madmen produced a small, stiff card, which he 
inserted into a metal box on one of the numbered doors. The panel opened to his 
touch.
Lachley stepped warily inside, finding two neatly made beds, a strange box with 
a flat glass front perched on a low table, several odd lamps, ugly artwork 
framed on white-painted walls, and just to the left of the door, a lavatory 
fitted with a large mirror and the strangest water closet he'd ever seen.
"Christ, but I need a drink . . ." he muttered, scrubbing at his face with 
unsteady hands.
"At once, Lord!" The man who had unlocked the room hurried across to a small 
cabinet, procuring a bottle of amber-colored liquor which he opened and poured 
while the other madmen crowded inside. Lachley knocked back a surprisingly good 
whiskey, then considered the men who stood in a huddle near the door, gazing at 
him with the intensity of utter reverence.
"Who are you?" Lachley demanded.
"Your Sons, Lord Jack. We have long awaited your coming. Command us. We are your 
chosen."
He narrowed his eyes as he considered the implications of that patently absurd 
answer. Were all the inhabitants of this world completely insane? No, not all, 
he frowned, thinking back to those guards at the gate. Lachley wondered what to 
ask first and finally decided on the simplest question in his mind. "What year 
is it?"
None of the madmen seemed at all surprised by such a question. The one who'd 
given him the whiskey said, "By station time, Lord, it is 1910. Beyond Primary . 
. ."
"Station time?" he echoed, startled.
"Yes, Lord. The station exists well over a century in our past and some thirty 
years in your future."
Lachley's mind reeled. Sanity slipped and lurched beneath his feet. He groped 
for it, finding, instead, the bed, which he sank onto simply to prevent a nasty 
fall. "Do you know the bitch who followed me through the gate?" he asked 
harshly. "The one I lost in the crowd?"
"Yes, Lord. She's a Ripperologist, one of the Ripper Watch Team, Dr. Shahdi 
Feroz. She went to study your great works in London."
Ripperologist? Lachley narrowed his eyes. She'd come to London to study him? The 
journalist had said as much, but he hadn't believed her. The unlamented Miss 
Nosette would have said anything to persuade Lachley to release her unharmed. 
Lachley shut his eyes for long moments, trying to place where he'd seen that 
Feroz woman's face before. The familiar features finally clicked in his mind. 
The lecture. She'd attended the lecture at the Egyptian Hall. Had spoken with 
him briefly, afterwards. Lachley frowned. Had she known all along, then? Known 
that he was responsible for the deaths of the whores in the East End? She must 
have. Hadn't she cried out that he was Jack the Ripper, back in the garden 
behind Spaldergate? Lachley narrowed his eyes coldly. That woman's testimony 
could see him hanged.
"I must find her," he growled. "Find and silence her."
"Do you want a knife, Lord Jack?"
The question jolted him. He blinked in surprise. "A knife?"
"Yes, Lord. To kill the whores on the station, once you have killed Dr. Feroz?"
The leader of the madmen was opening a leather case. He took from it a long, 
shining blade, nine inches of sharpened steel edge, with a thick wooden handle. 
The lunatic held it out to Lachley, balancing it across both palms, presenting 
it like a royal sceptre. He went to one knee, offering the weapon as a token of 
fealty. "My Lord, we are your humble servants. Take our knife, Lord, and command 
us."
Lachley picked it up slowly, realizing it was a far better tool than Maybrick's. 
Better, even, than his Arabian jambala, with its thick, slightly curved steel 
blade, nearly as wide as his palm. Better even than the scramasax—a weapon much 
like an American bowie knife with a hook at the end—which he'd used as a 
sacramental blade in Lower Tibor to take Morgan's trophy head. This blade, held 
out so reverently, was a delight to behold.
Command us, his followers offered, madmen from a hellish, sunless world he did 
not yet understand. 'Tis better, the blind poet's words rumbled through 
Lachley's memory, boulders crashing down a mountainside in a thundering 
avalanche, 'tis better to reign in hell . . . John Lachley began to laugh, a 
sound so dark and wild, it brought a sharp gasp from those worshippers still 
huddled near the door. The leader, holding out the knife across his palms, met 
Lachley's gaze and smiled slowly. Glorying in his newfound power, Lachley 
accepted the knife from his faithful disciple's hands . . . and gave the orders 
to kill his first victim: the dark-haired, petite, and lovely Dr. Feroz.
 
Chapter Twelve
Skeeter Jackson had never minded crowds.
But the packed mob in Victoria Station would've been enough to discompose the 
pope and his entire College of Cardinals. Skeeter hadn't even reached the rope 
barricade of the departures lounge when waiting newsies swarmed all over him, 
shouting questions and shoving microphones and cameras into his face with scant 
regard for damage inflicted.
"Mr. Jackson! Is it true you're leading the search team over the protests of 
Senator Caddrick—"
"—tell us your plan to locate the senator's missing daughter—"
"—how much they're paying you to risk your life, bringing terrorists to 
justice—"
Skeeter, lips thinned down to a tight, white line, had never been gladder in his 
life to reach a departures lounge. He fled past the barrier, gate pass in hand, 
leaving them to howl in his wake. Paula Booker had taken refuge in one corner, 
notably seating herself as far as possible from Sid Kaederman. The detective 
glared sourly at Skeeter and snapped irritably at a Time Tours employee who'd 
just brought coffee. Skeeter headed the other way, having no desire to renew his 
acquaintance until absolutely necessary.
"Coffee, Skeeter?" The voice came from the farthest corner of the lounge, 
startling him. He found Kit Carson leaning against one of the steel beams 
supporting the long flights of stairs and departures platform.
"Kit! What're you doing here?"
"Seeing you off, of course. Coffee?"
"Oh, man, how I need a cup! Thanks, boss." Skeeter gulped, while scratching his 
itching thigh surreptitiously and mentally castigating the British for insisting 
on woolen suits. He wasn't quite allergic, but misery was relative. He should've 
put on that synthetic bodysuit Connie had offered, which helped reduce the itch, 
rather than stuffing it into his luggage.
Kit refilled his coffee cup from a thermos flask and said, "There's just time to 
go over the use of your new scout's log." He handed over a satchel tucked under 
one arm. "I've been working on it for the last three hours, getting it set up 
for you."
"My scout's log?" Skeeter echoed, abruptly excited. He dug open the satchel with 
eager fingers. The computerized device nestled inside was, Skeeter knew, a 
mandatory piece of equipment for any time scout. "How come you're giving me a 
scout's log? I'm not a time scout."
"You've always relied on the time cards before, I know. But it occurred to me 
this morning, this search and rescue mission might just become far more 
temporally complex than anyone planned. You may well need a more substantial 
record of when and where you've been, to prevent potential accidents in the 
future. Don't worry, I'm not taking it out of your pay." The grizzled former 
scout chuckled, eyes glinting with wicked amusement. "I chalked it up to Senator 
Caddrick's account."
Skeeter grinned. "Bet he flips when he gets the bill." Skeeter peered curiously 
at the device. He'd seen time scouts carrying them, of course, but had never 
managed to lay hands on one, not even in the days when he could've turned a tidy 
profit snitching a new one and selling it on the black market. He would never 
have stolen a used one, of course, even if 'eighty-sixers hadn't been off-limits 
as prey. Ripping off someone's record of their gate travels would've been 
tantamount to premeditated murder. But he'd wistfully dreamed of the money a new 
one could bring, had spent many a pleasant hour drooling over the stuff he could 
buy with that kind of cash.
"Now," Kit was saying, "you haven't been down as many gates as the average tour 
guide, let alone a time scout, but you've done enough time travelling to cause 
potential trouble. Particularly since the Wild West Gate and the Britannia can 
be lethal, if you don't watch which direction you're moving through them. So 
you'll use this. I've already programmed in the two weeks we spent in Colorado. 
You'll want to add the time you've spent down other gates, as well. Your first 
trip to Denver, your previous trip to London, plus the brief minutes you spent 
there as a Time Tours porter. And your stay in Claudian Rome, of course, finding 
Marcus and bringing him back. When you get to London, turn the log on 
immediately and take your first set of readings. Before this search is over, God 
knows how many time zones or gates you'll have to jump through, particularly if 
Armstrong has left London for healthier climes."
"Aw, man, don't even suggest it!"
Kit grimaced, rearranging a whole ladderful of weathered lines. "Sorry, that's 
my job. Now, then, open it up. Like that, yes. You're going to learn how to use 
this thing in your sleep. Malcolm and Margo can help, they know the drill cold."
"Believe me," Skeeter said fervently, "the last thing I want to risk is 
shadowing myself." Dying instantly by stepping into a time where he already 
existed was not Skeeter's idea of a smart career move. "Okay, show me how this 
thing works."
Kit put him through drills right up to the two-minute warning, when Time Tours 
guides urged the departing tour to start climbing the stairs reserved for 
departures, so they would be ready to step through the Britannia the moment the 
returning tour cleared the gate. Kit gripped his shoulder in a friendly fashion. 
"You're doing very well, Skeeter. You catch on fast." The retired scout 
chuckled. "Margo took much longer, her first few tries, but she by God knows it 
now. You won't need an ATLS, but it wouldn't hurt to have her and Malcolm show 
you theirs, run you through the process of taking star fixes and geomagnetic 
readings when you get to London. Keep the log running as you step through the 
gate, so you won't forget to turn it on."
Skeeter fiddled with controls, then closed up the log and slid it into the 
trademark satchel Kit had been the first to design. "I'll check in with Malcolm 
right away. Thanks, boss."
Kit held out a hand and Skeeter shook it solemnly.
"Good luck, Skeeter," Kit said quietly. "Try not to get yourself—or anyone 
else—killed on this mission."
Skeeter held his gaze solemnly. "I'll do my best."
"I know you will. Scoot, then. Send word periodically with the returning guides, 
so we'll know what's happening."
"Right." Skeeter gulped the rest of his lukewarm coffee, then hurried for the 
stairs, giving Paula a high-sign. Kaederman was still sipping coffee. Caddrick's 
pet snoop finally began the long climb as Skeeter rounded the first landing and 
started up the second flight. Baggage handlers were already fiendishly at work 
on the high platform. In a dizzying moment of déjà vu, Skeeter halfway expected 
to see Benny Catlin barrelling through the piles of steamer trunks and 
portmanteaus. Then the gate rumbled open with a skull-splitting backlash of 
subharmonics and the returning tour staggered through, jabbering animatedly.
"—that poor woman, decapitated, they found nothing but her torso!"
"—left the body in the cellar tunnels beneath the new Scotland Yard building—"
"The Ripper Watch team said Jack the Ripper left the body there, himself! Poor 
Miss Nosette, if only she'd stayed with the Ripper Watch Team instead of 
striking out on her own, like that—"
Skeeter edged closer to the front of the platform, aware of his conspicuous 
place at the head of the departing tour. The press corps had trained cameras on 
him from five stories down. The gate was nearly clear, tourists down to a 
trickle and baggage handlers staggering through under heavy loads, when a 
wild-eyed man Skeeter vaguely recognized plunged through the gate. Whoever he 
was, the guy let out a bloodcurdling yell and went rigid, staring down into 
Commons. Then Skeeter noticed what was clutched in his hand and stiffened in 
shock. A decapitated head! A woman's head, severed with what must've been an 
axe. The grisly thing swung by the hair from the man's white-knuckled grip. 
Screams erupted from the women near Skeeter just as he recognized the dead 
woman: Dominica Nosette, the Ripper Watch photographer. Then two men Skeeter 
didn't know rushed through the open gate, with Dr. Feroz on their heels. The 
Ripperologist was shouting, "There he is! It's Dr. Lachley! Stop him!"
The man at the platform railing spun around—and attacked with single-minded 
fury, flinging the severed head aside. He hit both men like a pile driver; they 
went down hard and didn't stir. Then Lachley grabbed Dr. Feroz. She fought back, 
even as Skeeter shoved his way toward them, past screaming women and shocked 
Time Tours guides and baggage handlers, who stood with mouths gaping. "Don't 
just stand there!" Skeeter shouted. "Stop him!"
Lachley cast one wild-eyed glance in their direction, then slugged Dr. Feroz so 
hard her head snapped around. He threw her across one shoulder and bolted down 
the stairs for the Commons floor. Skeeter lunged after him—and one of the men 
Lachley had knocked down came to his knees right in Skeeter's path. Skeeter 
sprawled and they both crashed to the platform floor. A pile of luggage upended 
and fell straight off the edge. Screams erupted somewhere far below. Then 
Skeeter grunted and heaved himself up to look. The luggage had crashed to the 
floor, knocking half-a-dozen people flat. A panic-stricken riot was spreading 
through the crowd. Dr. Lachley was almost to the floor, running hard, with 
Shahdi Feroz dangling over one shoulder like a broken doll.
"Skeeter!" Paula Booker was shouting his name. He glanced back and saw the 
departing tour rushing through the gate. The Britannia had already begun to 
shrink back in on itself. A Time Tours guide had bent to help the injured. Paula 
was waiting at the very edge of the gate. "Hurry, Skeeter! The gate's going! 
Kaederman's already through!"
Whoever Dr. Lachley might prove to be—and Skeeter had a sinking sensation he 
might just be Jack the Ripper—Skeeter wasn't about to miss this gate and give 
Sid Kaederman eight solid days to search for Jenna Caddrick by himself. Skeeter 
plunged into the shrinking gate, grabbing Paula by the wrist on his way through. 
They skidded into the dark garden behind Spaldergate House and landed smack in 
the center of utter chaos. Time Tours guides were racing toward the gate and 
hysterical women were sobbing. Porters stumbled through into the garden, 
literally shoved through the rapidly closing gate by station-side Time Tours 
employees. One of the women was screaming, "My luggage! He knocked off my 
luggage! I must have my medicine!" Another, less sympathetically, was howling 
about her jewelry, presumably strewn all over the Commons floor.
"What's going on?" Skeeter demanded of a passing Time Tours guide, who 
completely ignored him. A tourist nearby gasped, "They said it was Jack the 
Ripper! He's crashed the Britannia!"
Paula gasped. "What?"
"That man who came through! That was Jack the Ripper! Burst into the garden, 
shouting something about one of the Ripper Watch reporters, said the Ripper had 
cut her to pieces . . ."
A final porter struggled through the rapidly closing gate, dragging five steamer 
trunks hastily roped together, then the Britannia shrank to a point of darkness 
and vanished, leaving only a tangle of vines and shrubbery along the high garden 
wall. For better or worse, TT-86 was sealed up tight as a drum. With Jack the 
Ripper inside.
"Skeeter?" a familiar voice jerked his attention back around. "Skeeter Jackson? 
What on God's green earth are you doing in London?"
Skeeter blinked up at Malcolm Moore, who had burst into the Spaldergate garden 
at a dead run. Margo, hot on his heels, slithered to a halt as lightning flared 
overhead, deepening smudged purple shadows under her eyes. "Skeeter?" she 
gasped. "And Paula Booker? What's going on? What are you doing here?"
"Uh . . ." Skeeter said helpfully. He struggled to pull his scattered thoughts 
together. "Was that really Jack the Ripper?" He gestured vaguely toward the 
now-vanished Britannia Gate. "Crashing the gate?"
Malcolm's lips thinned to near invisibility. "I'm afraid so, yes. Dr. Feroz 
recognized him and gave chase with some of the guides—"
"I've got bad news, then," Skeeter muttered. "He overpowered 'em. And took off 
with Dr. Feroz. Knocked her cold and hauled her down the stairs. The gate was 
going, or I'd have chased them down."
Malcolm's mouth worked for a long second before any sound emerged. "My God!" he 
finally erupted, voice cracking in unmodulated fury. "What in hell could be more 
important than letting Jack the Ripper escape into TT-86?"
Skeeter blinked. Then said unhappily, "Finding a pack of terrorists who 
kidnapped Senator John Caddrick's little girl and hauled her through the 
Britannia. She was in disguise. As Benny Catlin."
Malcolm's anger faded faster than an image from an unplugged television. The 
guide stood blinking for a full sixty seconds, then whispered, "Oh, dear God . . 
."
"You said it. We gotta talk. Somewhere quiet." Women were still sobbing 
hysterically over the severed head the Ripper had hurled at the departing tour, 
lamenting their lost baggage and the cash they'd left in their trunks, cash they 
needed for the trip.
"Yes, the sooner the better," Malcolm said thinly. "Margo, my dear, please ask 
Mr. Gilbert to meet us in his study. With a very large decanter of bourbon."
Margo shot toward the house, threading her way nimbly through wailing tourists 
and staggering porters. Malcolm asked, "How many men have you brought to search, 
Skeeter?"
"All the porters who came through are on search detail if we need 'em. Dr. 
Booker's come through to help make an identification. She gave Caddrick's kid a 
new face. Benny Catlin's. And there's a detective you're just gonna love. 
Caddrick hired him."
Paula Booker peered through the crowd anxiously. "I'd better find Mr. Kaederman. 
We don't want him slipping off on his own."
Malcolm followed her progress with his gaze, then turned to Skeeter, waiting 
expectantly. "Long story," Skeeter sighed. "Very long."
"Then the sooner we're inside, the sooner you can begin telling it." Malcolm 
ushered him through the chaos in the garden, steering him past the back door, 
which one of the servants had chocked open, leading him to another door farther 
on. They entered Spaldergate through a scrupulously maintained conservatory 
replete with hothouse flowers and overly green smells. From there, they followed 
a carpeted corridor toward the front of the house, bypassing the bulk of the 
arriving tour. Darkened, silent rooms closed away from public view for the night 
lay just off the hall, while the parlour, at the front of the house on the 
ground floor—rather than the more traditional first-floor arrangement found in 
London town houses—blazed with light. The whole front of the house was filling 
up with distraught refugees from the shaken tour.
Malcolm turned off the corridor well before they reached the parlour, entering a 
decidedly masculine room dominated by hundreds of leather-bound books and the 
unmistakable scent of beeswax and turpentine, used to polish the mahogany 
furniture. Margo had reached the room before them and stood in the corner, 
pouring bourbon from a decanter. A film of coal dust dulled every white surface 
to grey, despite scrupulous cleaning by the house staff. The feel of smooth wood 
under Skeeter's hand, the thick, rich carpet, and the mustiness of the air were 
all familiar from his previous visit. Like half-remembered ghosts, they filtered 
through his awareness while Malcolm headed for the bourbon. Margo handed over 
generously filled tumblers and Skeeter gratefully upended one.
"Thanks. God, I needed that." He refilled the tumbler and sipped more 
judiciously, this time. Paula Booker found her way into the room, lamentably in 
the company of Sid Kaederman, who thrust out his hand for the bourbon as though 
Margo were a mere servant. Margo handed him a tumbler, eying him curiously. 
Kaederman gulped, ignoring Margo and fixing his attention squarely on Malcolm 
Moore. Skeeter noticed that Kaederman's hand was slightly unsteady as he drained 
his drink. Skeeter decided he'd better make the introductions.
"Mr. Sid Kaederman is a detective, hired by Senator Caddrick to search for his 
daughter. Malcolm Moore is a freelance temporal guide in charge of the Ripper 
Watch arrangements. Margo Smith is a trainee time scout and is assisting the 
Ripper Watch Team, as well."
Kaederman shot Margo a surprised glance, then said, "Would someone care to 
explain how the hell you people let a thing like Jack the Ripper get into your 
station? Don't you put any security around your goddamned gates?"
Malcolm bristled. "It is not my gate, Mr. Kaederman. Time Tours has charge of 
the Britannia and I do not work for Time Tours. Neither does Miss Smith. Now, 
then, Mr. Jackson, will you kindly explain your remarks about Senator Caddrick's 
missing child?"
Marshall Gilbert appeared in the doorway before anyone else could comment. "What 
in the world can possibly be so urgent—" He rocked to a halt. "Skeeter Jackson? 
And Paula Booker? What on earth—?"
Skeeter smiled wanly. "Evening, Mr. Gilbert. Hope you don't have plans for 
tonight."
The gatekeeper frowned. "I don't believe I care for the sound of this. What's 
happened?"
"Benny Catlin, is what." Skeeter sank into in a leather-covered chair, took a 
long pull at his bourbon, then explained what had happened and why they were 
here. Sid Kaederman and Paula Booker sat opposite Skeeter, listening to his 
terse explanation. "So, after we got back from Colorado," Skeeter finished up, 
"Senator Caddrick threatened again to shut the whole station down if we don't 
find his daughter and this terrorist, Noah Armstrong." Skeeter passed around 
photographs. "And after what he did to Bull Morgan, with all that cockamamie 
crap he used to throw Bull in jail, we're taking him damned seriously."
"Good God!" Malcolm gasped, staring at the photos. "That is Benny Catlin! We saw 
him just last night! And this Armstrong chap was with him."
"You saw them?" Skeeter sat forward quickly.
"Where?" Kaederman had surged to his feet.
"At the Egyptian Hall. They were attending a lecture by the man we identified as 
Jack the Ripper. In fact, they were following him, for reasons we have yet to 
ascertain, although I suspect it has something to do with Ianira Cassondra. We 
trailed them right across London into the East End, but a street meeting jammed 
our way and we lost them in the crush."
While Skeeter's imagination betrayed him with monstrous visions of what Jack the 
Ripper would do to Ianira Cassondra, Sid Kaederman bellowed, "You lost them? My 
God! What a bunch of incompetant jackasses! I don't care what that interfering 
old bastard Carson said, I'm taking over this search operation—"
"Like hell you are!" Skeeter snapped. "Last time I checked, nobody had appointed 
you God."
"You insufferable little—! How dare you talk to me that way! I've a good mind—"
"Enough!"
Coal dust settled in the aftermath of Malcolm Moore's bellow. Malcolm pinned 
Kaederman with his gaze. "You will please be good enough to refrain from further 
outbursts, Mr. Kaederman. And we can do without the barbed remarks, Mr. 
Jackson."
"Huh. You weren't stuck for two weeks in Colorado with this pompous—"
"Enough!"
"Oh, all right," Skeeter muttered. "Shutting up." He sprawled deeper into his 
chair, wishing to God he'd never agreed to come in the first place.
"That's better. Now, then. We'll take this one at a time, gentlemen." Malcolm 
glanced at Kaederman, who returned his gaze coldly. 
"Where are you going to search?" Kaederman demanded. "And just how, exactly, did 
you manage to lose track of Miss Caddrick and her abductor?"
"As you have not been to the East End, do not presume to judge conditions there. 
Street meetings are always disruptive and frequently violent. The Ripper murders 
have sparked riots and serious violence, particularly against foreigners, for 
the past three weeks. We were caught right in the thick of one. It cut us off 
from Dr. Lachley and the group following him. Including your terrorist and Miss 
Caddrick. Not to mention Marcus, Ianira Cassondra's husband. We suspect Ianira 
is somehow involved, because Marcus had to be restrained from attacking Lachley 
during the lecture."
Skeeter caught a glimpse of Margo opening her mouth to ask something, then she 
thought better of it and scooted back in her chair again, brow furrowed 
slightly. From her corner, she levelled a slow, suspicious gaze at Kaederman. 
Good. With luck, she'd just picked up on the inconsistency in Kaederman's story. 
Namely, that Jenna Caddrick wouldn't be running around London voluntarily with 
Armstrong if she were his prisoner. Until Skeeter could get rid of Kaederman, he 
wouldn't be able to tell Margo and Malcolm the real story—or, at least, his 
suspicions.
Skeeter caught Malcolm's eye. "Yes, Ianira's involved, I'll stake my reputation 
on it. She was inside a steamer trunk I carried through, one of Benny Catlin's. 
Catlin chewed my ass when it nearly fell off the departures platform. Cost me a 
job with Time Tours."
Malcolm's mouth twitched. "Pardon the frankness, but that's no great loss." 
Malcolm was famous for his long-standing feud with Time Tours, which he held 
accountable for the suicide of a long-ago employer. "Well, this is quite a 
sticky wicket you've handed us, Skeeter."
While Skeeter was wondering what, precisely, a sticky wicket was, Kaederman 
said, "Is that all you've got to say? When are you going to get off your damn 
dandified butt and do something about it?"
Malcolm shot an intent stare at Caddrick's detective. "Mr. Kaederman, there are 
ladies present. Kindly refrain from vulgarities."
"You're kidding?"
"No, I am not, sir. You will please refrain from swearing in the presence of 
ladies. Unless you wish to provoke some gentleman on the streets into correcting 
your manners forcibly? You are investigating a kidnapping. And the London 
outside those windows," he nodded toward heavy damask curtains falling thick as 
honey down the long windowpanes to close out the rising storm, "is nothing like 
the London of our own time. You cannot safely behave as though you were in New 
York or even up-time London, not if you wish to escape serious injury. Now, you 
have raised the question we all must answer: What to do next. I feel constrained 
to point out that neither you nor Mr. Jackson nor Dr. Booker is particularly 
qualified to search Victorian London. I daresay the baggage porters have more 
experience down the Britannia than any of you."
Paula said hastily, "Leave me out, please. I had enough searching in Denver to 
last a lifetime. I agreed to come along because I can provide a positive ID on 
Miss Caddrick. And Kit thought it would be a good idea to have two surgeons in 
residence at Spaldergate, with the team going up against armed terrorists."
Malcolm's expression made it clear that he questioned the wisdom of sending 
through such an inept team, but he merely said, "You say Armstrong went through 
the Wild West Gate? I suppose he must have arrived in London conventionally 
enough, by steamship from New York to Liverpool or London, bringing Marcus and 
the children with him. They'll have had ample time to set up a hideout anywhere 
in the city, which means they'll be devilishly difficult to trace. On the other 
hand, we know that Miss Caddrick was wounded—"
"What?" Kaederman lunged out of his chair a second time.
Malcolm blinked. "I thought you'd been thoroughly briefed?"
The detective thinned his lips. "That particular detail was left out."
"I see. Well, the dog we used to trace Benny Catlin followed a blood trail away 
from the Royal Opera House. Not a great deal of blood, but clearly Benny 
Catlin's. Or rather, Miss Caddrick's. We don't know how seriously she was 
injured in the fight at the Opera, but we saw her just two days ago, quite 
recovered, so the wound was clearly not a life-threatening one. We'd been 
searching the hospitals and workhouse infirmaries without turning up anything, 
so I would suggest we now broaden the search to private physicians. We'll begin 
by contacting all the private doctors and surgeons in the region of the Strand, 
then spread out in sectors from there, trying to trace where Miss Caddrick 
received treatment for her injury. The baggage handlers can assist with that."
"You've got to be joking?" Sid protested. "That could take months!"
Malcolm favored him with a mild look. "Indeed. Your time might be well spent 
compiling lists of names and addresses to contact."
Margo leaned forward. "If they've set up housekeeping somewhere in London, 
they're likely to need a staff, even if it's a small one."
"Not necessarily. Servants gossip. Armstrong won't want to risk that."
Margo looked abashed. "I hadn't thought of that."
Malcolm smiled wanly. "You aren't accustomed to servants, yet, my dear. It's 
entirely possible Armstrong has chosen to hide in the East End, as the least 
likely place anyone would search. Conditions in Bethnal Green or Spitalfields, 
for instance, aren't quite as desperate as they are in, say, Stepney, 
Whitechapel, or Wapping, never mind Poplar and Limehouse. And Marcus' accent 
would blend in rather well with the European immigrants in Spitalfields. Whereas 
it would be quite remarkable in more homogenously English districts, even those 
as relatively poverty stricken as SoHo or Cheapside. Consider their position for 
a moment. Armstrong's group includes at least one Yankee gentlemen, or rather, a 
young lady posing as one, which is dangerous, in itself, plus a man with a 
decidedly Latin accent, two small children, and attendant guards. That would be 
extraordinarily memorable in the better London neighborhoods. Enough so, were I 
running from up-time legal authorities, I wouldn't risk that sort of attention."
"Okay," Skeeter nodded, "that makes sense. So we comb the East End, same as half 
the cops and reporters in London. And check out all the doctors." He wished 
Kaederman would leave, so he could tell Malcolm the rest of the story. "When do 
we start?"
"I suggest you begin by settling into rooms and unpacking your cases. Then you 
and I, Mr. Jackson, will spend a long evening at the Vault's computers, planning 
the search and assigning personnel to various sections of the city. Mr. 
Kaederman, you shall begin by working on your list of physicians."
"The sooner I get these goddamned wool pants off, the better."
Margo chuckled. "Better not say that, Mr. Kaederman. Not around here."
"Say what?" Kaederman asked, blinking in confusion.
"In London, the word `pants' refers to underwear. Call them trousers, unless you 
want the locals to laugh at you."
The look Kaederman shot her told Skeeter he planned to stay as far from the 
locals as humanly possible. Which suited Skeeter just fine. The Wardmann-Wolfe 
agent muttered, "If that's all, I'm tucking it in for the night." He stalked 
out. Paula pleaded weariness and also left.
"You know," Malcolm remarked to no one in particular, "I'd say that chap doesn't 
enjoy time travel."
"You don't know the half of it. That man is a major pain in everybody's 
backside. Now that he's gone, though, there's a few little things you need to 
know . . ."
Malcolm's glance revealed a surprising amount of dread.
Skeeter sighed. "This is the part where this mess gets really complicated. 
Although I think Margo's already tumbled to part of it."
Margo sat forward, eyes blazing with green fire. "You mean, if Jenna Caddrick's 
a prisoner, what was she doing at the lecture with Noah Armstrong? Running 
around London, free as a bird?"
"Exactly."
Malcolm shot his fiancée a startled glance. "I hadn't considered that. Yes, that 
does complicate things a bit."
Skeeter nodded. "You may not know it, but I was right beside Ianira when she was 
kidnapped. Armstrong knocked Ianira flat, swept her and me straight to the 
floor, just as Jenna Caddrick burst out of the crowd and shot a terrorist behind 
us. An armed one, about to murder Ianira. I started wondering why Armstrong 
would've knocked her out of an assassin's way, if he was trying to kill her, 
then I realized the kid who'd shot that terrorist couldn't be anybody but Jenna, 
herself. They hustled Ianira out of danger and pulled Marcus and the girls out 
of another terrorist hit at the daycare center. Then Armstrong and Julius took 
Marcus and the girls down the Wild West Gate—"
"And Jenna came here," Margo finished. "With Ianira."
"Right. And the hit men who went through the Wild West Gate killed Julius, 
thinking he was Jenna Caddrick."
Margo sat up very straight. "Then the men Benny Catlin killed were hatchet men? 
The one she shot at the Picadilly Hotel and the one who chased her all the way 
to the Royal Opera?"
"It certainly seems probable," Malcolm frowned. "But what game is Kaederman 
playing?"
"That," Skeeter answered softly, "is what I intend to find out. Somebody's 
lying. Either Kaederman is or the senator is."
"Or both," Margo muttered.
"Or both. So we've not only got to find Armstrong and Miss Caddrick, but we 
don't dare let Kaederman know, if we do locate them. Not 'til we know more about 
his game and why he's playing it."
"Skeeter," Malcolm sighed, "you have a distressing knack for handing out 
problems it would take Sherlock Holmes, himself, to untangle."
Skeeter grinned and dug out Goldie Morran's counterfeit banknotes and his 
Pinkerton badge. "Maybe so, but this time, I've got an ace or two up my sleeve . 
. ."
* * *
Kit Carson had narrowly avoided death hundreds of times during his career as a 
time scout. But no one had ever tried to crush him by shoving luggage off a 
five-story platform. The man who'd crashed the Britannia scored a first in Kit's 
life. Kit saw the big cases slither over the edge of the platform, slither and 
topple and fall straight toward him, where he stood trapped in the middle of a 
sardine-packed crowd.
He did the only thing he could. "Look out!"
Then shoved aside three women, knocked down two reporters, and lunged sideways, 
himself, trying to get as many of them as possible out of the way. People 
screamed and bolted, trampling one another in a rising panic. Then he was down, 
sprawled flat under running feet, as the enormous steamer trunks revolved in a 
slow-motion tumble . . .
Steel struck sparks when the first trunk smashed into the lobby floor. Catches 
burst and contents exploded as the other four trunks and a deadly rain of 
portmanteaus cannoned into the wild crowd. One of the smaller cases bounced, 
cracking down one whole side, then rebounded like a grenade into a hapless 
tourist just above Kit. The blow struck the man's arm so hard, all that broke 
loose was a sick gasp.
A woman in high heels ran straight across Kit's back, digging divots through his 
ribs. Kit dragged himself under the rope barricades into the departures lounge, 
away from the outward rush of fleeing spectators. He'd no more than pulled 
himself under the nearest staircase when the man who'd crashed the Britannia 
leaped over the railing, landing atop the hapless tourist with the shattered 
arm. The man went down with a scream. The gate crasher staggered, going down 
under the weight of the woman slung over his shoulder, then someone slammed 
against him and he dropped his hostage. The woman slithered, unconscious, to the 
floor as the gate crasher disappeared under the feet of the wild throng. 
Kit scrambled out from under the stairs, running toward the abandoned hostage, 
who lay ominously still. He checked gently for broken bones and tested the pulse 
at her throat, unable to reach her wrist under its tight Victorian sleeve. She 
lay crumpled on her stomach, long dark hair falling in disarray across her face, 
obscuring her features. Kit was afraid to move her until he was certain there 
were no broken bones. Very gently, he eased her hair back . . . and gasped 
sharply. Shahdi Feroz! What was the Ripperologist doing back in TT-86, weeks too 
early? She'd followed the gate crasher through, leading the efforts to capture 
him. Kit didn't care for the ominous implications.
A nasty bruise was swelling and purpling along her temple. She needed medical 
attention. Kit searched the confusion of screaming, running tourists. 
Half-a-dozen fistfights were in progress and a medi-van was just arriving at the 
edge of the riot zone.
"Medical!" The roar of the seething melee swallowed his shout as though he'd 
barely whispered. The only people who heard were a handful of vultures who'd 
descended on the spilled luggage, carting off cash and valuables. The nearest 
looter glanced up, looked right at him, then ran for cover, pockets stuffed with 
spoils. Kit cursed roundly. He'd have to go find someone.
Kit bolted through the chaos, heading toward the arriving medi-vans. He reached 
the nearest and flagged down a team. "Medical! Dr. Shahdi Feroz is back there, 
unconscious. The gate crasher knocked her out."
The emergency technician said, "Sorry, we're under a triage emergency. We're 
transporting critical cases first. There's already been one outright murder. 
Someone snapped a tourist's neck like kindling." The technician was stooping to 
work feverishly over a tourist whose broken leg lay at a ghastly angle, with 
bone protruding from the skin and blood spurting from a severed artery. The tech 
had tightened down a tourniquet and was trying to stabilize the break enough to 
transport for surgery.
"Do what you have to," Kit shot back, "but somebody'll want to talk to her ASAP, 
ask her why she came running through the gate after that maniac, and why he 
tried to snatch her."
The tech shot him a startled glance, finished strapping the leg brace over the 
tourniquet, then grabbed his squawky while others lifted the tourist into the 
back of a medi-van. "We need an assist, pronto, with Dr. Shahdi Feroz. Station 
manager's gonna want her story the minute she's awake. She's near—" the tech 
asked with a glance and Kit pointed "—the gate platform stairs."
The radio crackled. "Roger, we've got somebody on it."
"Thanks," Kit nodded.
He was pushing his way back toward Dr. Feroz when the entire station shook to 
the thunder of emergency sirens. Kit jerked to a stunned halt as the pattern of 
the maddened wail registered. "Code Seven Red! Repeat, Code Seven Red! Clear the 
Commons! All visitors to Shangri-La Station, clear the Commons immediately! 
Visitors are hereby restricted to hotel rooms for their own safety. Station 
residents, please assist security in clearing Commons. Repeat, Code Seven Red, 
Zone Three . . ."
"Code Seven Red?" Kit gasped.
That particular code hadn't been invoked in the entire history of Shangri-La 
Station. And Zone Three was right outside the infirmary, in Little Agora. Kit 
bolted, heading for the trouble zone, intent on finding out what had just broken 
loose inside the station. He met the answer at the door to the infirmary. Ann 
Vinh Mulhaney, bleeding badly, was being rushed toward surgery by station 
security. A gash ran down her shoulder, shallow enough, thank God, not to prove 
instantly fatal, but her collar bone had been laid bare by the slashing attack. 
She held one of her Irish Royal Constabulary Webley pistols in a white-knuckled 
death grip. From the look in her eyes, it would take an act of God to pry it 
loose again.
Rachel appeared at a dead run. "Get her onto a gurney!" she ordered, ripping 
open the remains of Ann's blouse to apply direct pressure with both hands. 
"Compresses, stat!"
A nurse ran for the supply cabinet.
Ann Vinh Mulhaney's lips were moving as the gurney rushed past Kit, on a direct 
course for surgery. "Bastard was on me before I knew he was there. Almost got my 
stomach. Dropped to the floor to get out from under his knife. Pulled my Webley, 
shot at him. Missed, God damn the son of a bitch . . ."
The Code Seven Red made abrupt, horrifying sense. Kit knew, without anyone 
having to confirm it, who their gate crasher had been and why Shahdi Feroz had 
bolted into the station on his heels. Kit shut his eyes for a long, horrified 
moment.
Jack the Ripper.
Loose on Shangri-La Commons.
And with Mary Kelly still very much alive in London of 1888, it was high odds he 
couldn't even be killed. History could not be changed. Jolly Jack had to survive 
long enough to cut that poor girl into mangled pieces. Kit began to curse, 
starting in English and moving through Portuguese, German, Latin, Old Norse, and 
every other language he'd ever learned. If the petite weapons instructor hadn't 
been so well trained, if she hadn't been the kind of woman who went armed 
everywhere but bed . . .
Station sirens slashed through the infirmary once more.
"Code Seven Red, Zone Five! Repeat, Code Seven Red, Zone Five! All resident time 
scouts and guides, report to station security immediately for emergency duty. 
Clear the Commons at once, this station is hereby under martial law. Code Seven 
Red, Zone Five . . ."
Kit bolted toward the door, glancing at the television in the infirmary lobby, 
tuned to Channel Three, which was permanently hooked into the Commons' extensive 
security-camera system. Station security, pest control, even BATF agents herded 
terrified and angry tourists toward their hotels, using riot batons to push them 
along when necessary.
"Caddrick is gonna eat this up like a hog in heaven," Kit groaned, abandoning 
the television and heading out the door at a dead run. He had barely cleared the 
entryway when it came again. "Code Seven Red! Zone Six! All Shangri-La shop 
owners, lock down and secure your areas. Any visitors not clear of the Commons 
in three minutes will be arrested on sight. Repeat, Code Seven Red, Zone Six . . 
."
Security rushed past carrying a woman with long, dark hair. She'd been gashed 
from navel to groin. A badly shaken security officer was holding her abdomen 
closed, keeping direct pressure on with hands gloved in blood, while two others 
carried her. Kit started rounding up shaken, confused tourists. "Clear the 
Commons!" he roared above the wailing sirens. "Get to a hotel!"
"But we're in the Neo Edo!"
"I don't care if you're camping out in the basement! Get to the nearest hotel 
and stay there!" He herded them toward the Time Tripper, which was closest. They 
could sort out who was supposed to be where later, after the innocents had been 
gotten out of harm's way. Within five minutes, Commons was nearly clear, 
echoingly empty. Scores of tourists huddled in shop entryways and restaurants, 
ashen and trapped, unable to reach their hotels. Security and Pest Control 
officers, even BATF, rushed through the station, driving remnant crowds toward 
safety. At the edge of Little Agora, Kit could just see two more ashen, 
grey-lipped security officers carrying the bloodied remains of yet another 
petite woman with long, dark hair. This one hadn't survived. Her throat had been 
slashed to the bone, her abdomen ripped and gashed.
Kit cursed long and harshly, driving his last charges into the Time Tripper's 
crowded lobby, then headed for the nearest security team to offer his services 
for the manhunt. Wally Klontz' radio crackled just as Kit jogged up.
"We need a medical team in Valhalla, stat! Massive coronary at the Langskip 
Cafe."
"On it!" a harried voice responded.
"What can I do?" Kit asked as Wally sent a team of Pest Control officers bolting 
toward the emergency.
"Kit, thank God. Try to find someone from the Council of Seven, get the 
down-timers organized. We need a station-wide manhunt. Jack the Goddamned Ripper 
crashed the Britannia and the Ripper Cults have gone mad, attacking every 
petite, dark-haired woman on station."
Kit's eyes widened. "My God! They're trying to kill Shahdi Feroz."
"What?"
"Shahdi Feroz! She came through the Britannia after the Ripper. He tried to 
kidnap her, but dropped her in the riot. I left her lying unconscious at the 
departures lounge, waiting for medical treatment."
Wally Klontz keyed his radio. "Alert, Signal Eight-Delta, repeat, Signal 
Eight-Delta, missing person, Dr. Shahdi Feroz. Expedite, condition red. We need 
a location on Dr. Feroz, stat. She's the Ripper's target."
The radio crackled and sputtered, then someone said, "Roger, Signal Eight-Delta, 
Shahdi Feroz."
Kit said tersely, "I'm heading back to Victoria Station to look for her."
Wally nodded as his radio crackled again. Kit broke into a run as Wally flagged 
down a pair of BATF agents. Commons had never been so echoingly deserted. A 
score or more of injuries, an outright murder during the Britannia riot, and 
three women slashed by the Ripper cults, sparking three Code Seven Reds in damn 
near as many minutes . . . How many more people would die before they could stop 
this maniac and his worshippers? If they could stop him? John Caddrick would 
have a field day with this, curse him. And God alone knew what those damned 
I.T.C.H. agents would do, faced with fresh disaster. Shangri-La Station needed a 
miracle.
Kit was very much afraid they'd just run out of grace.
 
Chapter Thirteen
Ianira Cassondra woke slowly from a long, blurred nightmare to the sound of 
rumbling wagons, bright voices speaking incomprehensible English, and the 
laughter of small children at play. She stirred beneath warm quilts and turned 
her head toward the sounds, deeply confused. The presence which had waited like 
a monstrous, ravening wolf, swooping down across her each time she had awakened 
from drugged stupor, was gone without a trace. For long moments she could not 
bring herself to believe that, even when her eyelids fluttered open to reveal a 
shabby, well-scrubbed room she had never seen before.
Someone moved close beside her and she focused her gaze slowly on a familiar 
face. She knew him at once, but the change in those familiar, beloved features 
shocked her speechless. Marcus' face was lined, his hair greying at the temples, 
and a terror of long standing burned hot in his eyes. His smile was radiant as 
the sunlight, however, as he took her hand. "You are home, Ianira. Safe."
She lifted a trembling hand, touching his face, finding wetness under her 
fingertips. "How—?"
"We followed him. He gave a lecture and we followed him when he went beneath the 
streets. We found you after he had gone, took you out of his horrible little 
room and brought you home. We're in London, beloved, in Spitalfields, hiding 
with Noah and Jenna. The girls are safe with us."
She began to cry, from sheer relief and the release of pent-up terror. Marcus 
held her close and she clutched him tightly, revelling in the touch of his hands 
and lips. "I tried to escape," she whispered, "but he caught me. Kept me 
drugged. Marcus, he wanted to use me, to gain power . . ."
"He is mad," Marcus said roughly.
"Yes. He is the Ripper."
Marcus' arms tightened protectively. "You will never see him again. This, I 
swear."
When the first storm of emotion had finally passed, Ianira tipped her head back 
and gazed into her husband's wet eyes. "I want to see our children, husband."
Marcus hesitated
Ianira touched the grey in his hair. "Tell me."
"We had no choice," he began, voice agonized. "They came after us, in Colorado. 
Julius . . ." He faltered. "Julius died, beloved. Their gunman murdered him. 
Noah and I took the girls away, ran for the train and fled east."
The grey in his hair, the lines that had aged his face, his reluctance to call 
the girls made abrupt sense. "You did not return to the station," she whispered, 
shaken. "It has been three years for you, hasn't it?"
He nodded. "Please forgive me . . ."
She could not stop the tears, but lifted a trembling hand and placed it across 
his lips. "No, there is nothing to forgive. I have seen what war does to people. 
Ephesus was fighting for her independence. Was not my marriage to an Athenian 
part of that war, with me as a sacrifice? You and I have been caught in another 
war, Marcus. We are under attack from these men who seek Jenna's life. They use 
madmen like the Ansar Majlis to destroy and terrorize. In such a war, losing 
three years of your company, three years from my children's lives is nothing. 
Nothing at all, compared to losing you."
The terror faded from his eyes, replaced by a flood of tears. He kissed her 
gently, as though she were made of fragile alabaster, and smoothed back her hair 
where long strands clung to damp cheeks. Then he went to the door and called in 
their children. Artemisia had grown into a tall, beautiful girl of seven, with 
wide, dark eyes and a curiously adult air of watchfulness and restraint. Gelasia 
clung to her sister's hand, eyes bright and inquisitive as she studied Ianira.
Little Gelasia spoke first. "Are you really my mamma?"
Ianira's throat closed and Artemisia said in a voice tinged with distinct 
British tones, "Of course she is, don't you remember?" Then Misia rushed across 
the room, flinging herself into Ianira's arms. "I missed you, Mamma!"
"Oh, my darling . . ."
Little Gelasia was more than willing to accept the return of a mother into her 
life, snuggling up to Ianira and telling her solemnly about her new doll and the 
lessons Noah had been giving them. "I can read!" she said proudly. "Papa and 
Noah taught me!"
"You have always been a clever girl," Ianira smiled. "You and Misia, both." She 
ruffled her older daughter's hair affectionately. "What do you study, Misia?"
"English and Greek and Latin," she answered promptly, "with Papa, and history 
and mathematics and geography with Noah and Jenna." A shy smile came and went. 
"And we study the future, too. Noah has a little computer, like a time scout's 
log, so we will understand science and technology when we go home to the 
station."
Home to the station . . .
"You miss the station?" Ianira asked softly.
Artemisia nodded. "Sometimes. I miss the school and the television and the 
music. And I miss Uncle Skeeter. Do you remember when we fed the big pterodactyl 
and the bucket of fish spilled down his shirt? I can just remember that. We 
laughed and laughed."
"We all miss Uncle Skeeter," Ianira agreed. "When it is safe again, we will go 
home."
Artemisia's eyes told Ianira that her daughter remembered the violence of their 
last day on the station only too clearly. "Yes, Mamma. When it is safe again. If 
the bad men come here, I will help Noah and Jenna and Papa kill them."
Ianira shivered. Another casualty of war: innocence.
"Then we must hope," Ianira said gently, "that the bad men never come, because I 
will never let anyone harm my beautiful little girls."
As she hugged her daughters close, Ianira could sense danger beyond the walls of 
their house in Spitalfields. It was not the same danger she had felt in John 
Lachley's presence. This was a cold, implacable danger which threatened from the 
future, from the world beyond the station's Primary Gate. Somewhere nearby, the 
killers who had sought Jenna's life in New York and their own lives on the 
station were searching for them in the dismal, rain-drenched streets of London.
* * *
Skeeter was up at the crack of dawn and on the street very shortly afterward, 
with Margo as a guide. They left Spaldergate House in company with a mass of 
Time Tours baggage handlers, groomsmen from the stables, even a couple of the 
housemaids, all detailed to the search team.
"We'll spread out through SoHo first," Margo briefed them in the dimly lit 
stable. "We'll search street by street, combing the clothiers shops. We're 
looking for a merchant or merchants who've been robbed with counterfeit 
banknotes. Strike up casual conversations, see what you can turn up. If you 
stumble onto a hot lead, get word to Skeeter and me. I'll be wearing an earpiece 
under my hat, so you can signal me by radio." She handed around miniaturized 
transmitters, which vanished into coat pockets. "I'd advise taking umbrellas, 
since it looks like more rain. And here are the photos Mr. Gilbert reproduced 
last night." She handed out thick, card-backed "tin-type" prints of Noah 
Armstrong, Marcus, and "Benny Catlin" as they'd appeared at the lecture, taken 
from Margo's scout log. "Any questions? All right, then, let's move."
A Time Tours carriage drove Skeeter and Margo to Regent Street, an 
ultrafashionable thoroughfare lined with ritzy tailors' establishments, fine 
bootmakers' shops, ladies' milliners, every sort of fashionable emporium a 
Londoner might want to visit. At this hour, Regent Street was very nearly 
silent, the shops deserted and the streets clear of traffic. "We won't actually 
be searching Regent Street," Margo told Skeeter, carefully holding her skirts 
and long umbrella aside as Skeeter handed her down to the pavement. "But Regent 
Street forms the western border of SoHo, which is jam-packed with the kind of 
shops middle-class businessmen frequent. These," she waved the tip of her 
umbrella toward the expensive establishments along Regent Street, "won't even 
open for a couple of hours, but SoHo gets up with the birds, same as its 
clientele."
She was right about that. As Skeeter escorted her eastward, activity and noise 
picked up sharply. Delivery wagons groaned through the streets, their heavy 
drays straining against harness and collar, heads thrust forward and hooves 
ringing against the cobbles with the sharp sound of iron on stone. Shop keepers 
rattled open doors, jangling tiny brass bells against the glass, while clerks 
arranged window displays to their liking and called greetings to the draymen or 
dickered over prices and freight charges with delivery men. Shop girls, neat as 
pins in their starched dresses and aprons, bustled to greet early customers. A 
tantalizing drift from a bakery's open door set Skeeter's mouth to watering.
"Let's start there," Margo decided, nodding toward a respectable looking shop 
advertising gentlemen's suiting off the rack.
Skeeter held the door, escorting Margo inside. A middle-aged clerk in a 
well-made if inexpensive suit greeted them. "Good morning. How may I assist you?"
Margo gave the clerk a surprisingly cool smile, causing Skeeter to glance more 
sharply at her. "Good morning," she inclined her head politely. "My name is 
Smythe, sir, and this is Mr. Jackson, of America. We're hoping you might be of 
some assistance in a rather difficult situation. Mr. Jackson is a Pinkerton man, 
a sort of private police agency. He's come to London on the trail of a 
counterfeiter, a man who's deprived me of a considerable sum of money I could 
ill afford to lose."
"Counterfeiter?" Genuine alarm showed in the clerk's guileless eyes. "D'you mean 
to say we've a counterfeiter working in SoHo?"
Skeeter produced a sample of Goldie's fake banknotes. "These are some of the 
forgeries recovered from Miss Smythe, here. I have reason to believe the men 
producing these banknotes are passing them somewhere in SoHo. This young lady is 
not the only vicitm they have damaged. I've traced this gang from Colorado to 
New York to London and I mean to locate them, sir."
The clerk's eyes had widened in sympathetic surprise. "I should hope so! I'll 
check the cash drawer at once!" The clerk searched carefully, but located none 
of Goldie's fake banknotes, nor could he recall having seen any of the gentlemen 
in the photographs Skeeter produced. The clerk frowned over them, shaking his 
head. "No, sir, I'm afraid I don't recognize any of them. But I'll certainly be 
on my guard and I shall inform my employer immediately to be wary of any fivers 
and ten-pound notes we receive."
"My card," Skeeter handed over the first of several dozen Spaldergate's staff 
had run off for him the previous night, "if anything should turn up."
"Deeply obliged, sir," the clerk said earnesly, "for the warning. I'll keep your 
card right here in the cash drawer."
Skeeter tipped his hat as Margo thanked the clerk, then they headed for the next 
shop. And the one after that, moving from street to street, until Skeeter's feet 
ached and his throat burned and the skies poured miserable, sooty rain down 
their collars. He and Margo hastily opened thick umbrellas against the downpour 
and checked the time on Skeeter's pocket watch.
"One o'clock. No wonder my feet are killing me."
"And my stomach's about to have a close encounter with my spine," Margo said 
ruefully. "Let's find something to eat, then keep searching."
The afternoon was no more profitable than the morning had been, just wetter. By 
the time Margo admitted they'd struck out, the sun was already below the 
rooftops and the chilly evening wind was biting through Skeeter's overcoat.
"I'm afraid there's not much more we can do today," Margo sighed.
"Maybe someone else found something?"
"They would've contacted us," she said with a slight shake of her head. "Let's 
get back to Spaldergate. We'll cross check with everyone else and come up with a 
new plan of attack for tomorrow."
"My feet aren't even going to speak to me by tomorrow," Skeeter groaned, 
flagging down a ratty-looking hansom cab.
The two-wheeled, open carriage slithered to a halt at the kerbside. "Battersea," 
Margo called up as Skeeter handed her into the cab, "and I've consulted Mogg's!"
"Why, I'd never cheat a lady, miss!"
The cabbie flicked his reins and they set out at a jolting trot.
"What's Mogg's?" Skeeter asked, hanging onto his seat and struggling with his 
stubborn umbrella.
"Mogg's maps." She pulled a little booklet from her handbag and passed it over. 
"Study it carefully. It lists the fares for every conceivable route through the 
city. Otherwise, cabbies will cheat you blind."
"I'll remember that," Skeeter said as the horse jolted around a corner and swung 
smartly into heavy traffic, nearly colliding with two carriages and a drayman's 
wagon and eliciting rude commentaries from cabbies they narrowly avoided while 
rounding a traffic circus Skeeter didn't recognize. "If we survive so long. Man, 
not even New York traffic is this nuts!"
Margo just grimaced and held on.
True to Margo's prediction, nobody else had found a trace of counterfeit 
banknotes, nor had anyone located a witness who could identify Armstrong, 
Catlin, or Marcus. Skeeter was feeling massively discouraged when he eased his 
aching, blistered feet into a basin of hot water in his bedroom. Maybe they 
hadn't bought their clothes in SoHo? Or maybe they'd lucked out and used genuine 
banknotes when making the purchase? What else would they have to buy, which 
could be paid for with Goldie's counterfeit banknotes? Food, of course, and coal 
for the cookstove and fireplace. But they weren't likely to pay for any of that 
with five- and ten-pound banknotes.
"Well," he mused aloud, "they have to live somewhere, don't they?" Had they 
brought enough cash between them to buy a house or were they reduced to renting? 
Probably the latter, unless Armstrong had found lucrative employment somewhere. 
According to Goldie's records, she hadn't changed enough currency for "Benny 
Catlin" to buy a London house, not even a really ratty one. But if they were 
renting, they might well use larger denominations to make the payments. "I 
wonder how somebody goes about renting a house in London?"
He asked that question at dinner, since Kaederman had announced his intention of 
taking all his meals in his room. Malcolm toyed thoughtfully with a spoonful of 
turtle soup—the mock variety, since no one in Spaldergate House would buy sea 
turtle, even if the creatures wouldn't be endangered for another century. As he 
pushed around bits of mock turtle meat, Malcolm's brow furrowed slightly. 
"We hadn't pursued that avenue of inquiry, Skeeter, because finding one man in 
all of London by knocking up every leasing agency in the city is an even longer 
shot than checking infirmaries and hospital wards. But we're not looking for 
Benny Catlin on his own, any longer, we're looking for a rather conspicuous 
group, aren't we? Yes, we might do well, at that, searching for some trace of 
such a group. One leases a house through a variety of means, generally via 
agencies which maintain lists of properties to let. Quite a few such agencies 
also have telephones, these days. We could put someone on it from Spaldergate 
while the rest of us continue to search along other lines. And there will 
certainly be agencies we shall have to check in person."
Miss Tansy, Spaldergate's capable administrative assistant, offered to compile a 
list. "I'll begin telephoning when the agencies open tomorrow."
"Thanks," Skeeter said, flashing her a grateful smile.
When he finally crawled into bed, he dreamed of endless shopfronts, their 
windows streaming with sooty grey rain, and of endless, babbling voices and 
blurred faces reflecting only puzzled bafflement as he posed question after 
question. When Skeeter finally woke, aching and tired with the unfair exhaustion 
that comes of too many stressful dreams, he roused into consciousness with an 
immediate awareness of a renewed throbbing from his feet, a gradual awareness of 
watery light and the spatter of rain falling against his window, and the unhappy 
knowledge that he would have to coax his swollen and protesting feet through 
several more miles of London's maze-like collection of storefronts. He sighed, 
eased gingerly out of bed, and got ready for another day of searching.
Surely there had to be an easier way to go legit?
 
Shahdi Feroz knew she was lucky when she woke up on the Commons floor. She was 
alive. Frankly, she hadn't expected to wake up again. She tried to move and bit 
her lips over a gasp of pain, then opted for lying very still, instead. A 
station riot had erupted as far as her swollen right eye could see. Given the 
shocking bruises she could feel the length of her body, Shahdi suspected panic 
stricken tourists had stepped on her, multiple times. John Lachley's single, if 
somewhat devastating, right cross to her temple couldn't begin to account for 
her stiff, unresponsive limbs and aching back muscles.
At the moment, she could only give profound and shaken thanks that John Lachley 
had dropped her at all. What he would've done to her . . . She shuddered, 
recalling the sight of Dominica Nosette's severed head clutched in his hand. 
Poor, stupid reporter. The rest of her lay in the basement of New Scotland Yard 
on Whitehall; they'd watched Lachley drop off the mutilated torso and bid her a 
flippant farewell, via the camera hidden at the construction site. Shahdi was 
gingerly flexing her fingers, trying to decide whether or not her body would 
accept being pushed to hands and knees, when someone literally dragged her to 
her feet. Blinding light caught her square in the eyes and the world erupted 
into a chaos of shouting voices.
"Dr. Feroz—"
"—comment—"
"—really Jack the Ripper—"
"—how could you allow that monster—"
She stumbled and swayed sharply, and would've fallen again if she hadn't 
collided with someone far taller and heavier than herself. The man grasped her 
by the shoulders, keeping her on her feet, then a new voice thundered into her 
awareness.
"By God, you're going to answer for this!"
Before she could even blink her vision clear, Shahdi was dragged forward, 
tottering off balance, literally hauled through the chaos by a man whose grip 
added another layer of bruises. Still half-stunned from Lachley's blow, she 
couldn't even offer a struggle for the first hundred paces. By the time her head 
was clear enough to realize she'd just been assaulted—again—and had been 
kidnapped by some new maniac, there wasn't a security officer in sight.
Shahdi dug in her heels. "Let go of me!"
She wasn't sure whose face she expected to swing furiously into focus.
Senator John Caddrick hadn't even made her list of possibilities. She gasped, 
then wrenched her arm free. "Who do you think you are? Take your hands off me at 
once!"
"Oh, no you don't!" Caddrick snarled, dragging her forward again. "You and I 
have an appointment with federal authorities. I want some answers!"
She twisted free once more, ready for combat. "Touch me again and I will have 
you jailed for assault and battery!"
Before Caddrick could reply—or grab her wrist again—a howling mob of reporters 
descended, screaming questions and thrusting cameras and microphones into their 
faces. From somewhere out of the confusion, a uniformed BATF agent appeared.
"Thank God! You found her!" the agent cried, speaking briefly into her radio. 
"Secure from Signal Eight-Delta, I have Dr. Feroz, unharmed."
"Roger, bring her in."
"Dr. Feroz, please come with me immediately. Your life is in danger."
Another security patrol rushed toward them, flanking Shahdi and pushing back 
reporters with a certain callousness that shocked her.
"What's going on?" Caddrick demanded.
"Dr. Feroz is being taken into protective custody. The Ripper cults have 
targeted her for murder."
While she tried to take in the implications of that shocking statement, the 
security agents hustled Shahdi through the station, leaving Caddrick and the 
reporters to trail after them, shouting questions nobody answered. They 
literally dragged Shahdi through the doorway into security headquarters, with 
the senator and fifty screaming newsies on their heels. The lobby was in chaos. 
Agents scrambled past them, swearing and shoving reporters aside with scant 
regard for broken equipment. Telephones shrilled for attention between deafening 
hoots from the station's emergency sirens. Dispatchers shouted instructions into 
radios, scribbled information from the reports crackling over the speakers.
John Caddrick stood staring at the confusion, then strode toward the main desk, 
mouth thinned to near invisibility. Shahdi was escorted past the uncertain haven 
of the dispatcher's desk where a harried woman was shouting into a radio. A 
moment later, Shahdi found herself in a nearly empty corridor lined with closed 
doors. "This way, Dr. Feroz," her escort said, steering her around a corner. 
They cannoned straight into someone at least two feet taller than Shahdi was. 
She staggered and fell against the wall, then found herself staring up at 
Ronisha Azzan, Shangri-La's Deputy Station Manager.
"Dr. Feroz?" Ronisha Azzan blinked. "Thank God, I was told you'd been located. 
Come with me, please. I was just coming down to meet you."
Behind the tall deputy station manager, a squat, fire-plug shape was storming 
down the corridor like a torpedo fired at a battleship. Shahdi blinked in 
surprise. Bull Morgan was out of jail. Caddrick rounded the corner at just that 
moment, then stood sputtering. "What's he doing out of jail?"
The squat station manager growled, "What the hell is he doing here?" reminding 
Shahdi of an angry pit bull.
Caddrick flushed, nostrils flaring with barely controlled anger as he stared up 
at the tall deputy station manager beside Bull Morgan. "Azzan, I will have your 
head for this! Letting a known criminal out of jail before—"
Bull Morgan shouldered him aside. "Get out of my security headquarters. You're 
obstructing an emergency operation during a declared state of martial law. Leave 
right now or pick out your cell in the detention block. The one I've been using 
is free."
"How dare you—"
The security agents who'd escorted Shahdi to safety produced handcuffs and 
startlingly effective grins. The nearest said with a chuckle, "Mr. Morgan never 
bluffs, Senator. And neither does the BATF."
Caddrick sputtered for an instant longer, then turned on his heel and strode 
away. Bull bit the end of a cigar he'd magicked out of a pocket. "Better give 
that schmuck an escort back to his hotel. God knows, we don't want anything 
happening to him out there."
Security pelted after him as Bull appropriated his deputy manager's radio. 
"Benson! Report, goddammit!" He strode off before Shahdi could hear the reply. 
Ronisha Azzan stalked after him, drawing Shahdi along.
"Ms. Azzan," she said, wincing as the rapid pace jolted her bruises, "I don't 
know what a Code Seven Red is, but I do know Jack the Ripper is loose on this 
station and right now, I know more about Dr. John Lachley than anyone else on 
TT-86. I'd like to help."
The tall deputy manager nodded her thanks. "Doctor, you just got yourself a 
job."
Moments later, she was at ground zero of the biggest crisis in the history of 
time tourism, wondering what on earth she was going to tell the harried, 
white-faced security officers looking to her for answers.
* * *
By the end of his first week in London, Skeeter Jackson had begun to think Jenna 
Caddrick and Noah Armstrong had made their own clothes. Or that Noah had bought 
their entire wardrobe in the States and brought it over by ship. Hundreds of 
tailors' shops and ready-made clothing stores, scattered throughout SoHo, had 
yielded not so much as a trace of the missing senator's daughter and her 
companions. Even the inquiry into leasing agents had drawn a blank. None of the 
agents they consulted had found any counterfeit banknotes, nor could they 
identify the photos Skeeter and the other searchers circulated.
At Malcolm's suggestion, they turned their attention to the East End, a far more 
dangerous territory to search. Teams consisted of three searchers minimum, for 
safety's sake. Also at Malcolm's suggestion, Sid Kaederman remained at 
Spaldergate, supervising the teams fielded to question private physicians and 
surgeons; the actual questioning was done by Spaldergate staff and Time Tours 
porters.
Skeeter's first run into the East End was supervised by two seasoned pros: 
Malcolm and Margo, who wanted to be sure he knew the ropes before turning him 
loose with a couple of groomsmen. Whitechapel, with its dismal, dirty streets 
and its stench of rotting refuse in the gutters, was open for business well 
before Skeeter arrived, less than an hour past dawn. 
Immense wagonloads of freight groaned their cumbersome way down Houndsditch, 
Aldgate High Street, and Commercial Street. Heavy drays with chipped, ponderous 
hooves and shabby coats of hair growing in thick for winter, strained against 
worn leather harness and collars. The big draft horses carted vast tonnages of 
export goods to the docks for shipment across the face of the world, and brought 
out staggering amounts of raw lumber and bales of cotton arriving from foreign 
shores, huge bundles of animal hides and fur for the leather and garment 
industries, ingots of pig iron and copper and tin for the smelting plants and 
iron works which belched their stinking smoke into Whitechapel's skies. The high 
whine and rasp of industrial saws poured from open factory windows, like clouds 
of enraged wasps spilling furiously from a nest shaken by a foolish little boy.
And everywhere, the people: dirty to the pores with coal smoke and industrial 
grime no amount of scrubbing with harsh lye soap could remove. Women in frowsy 
dresses ran bakeshops, trundled basketloads of fish and flowers, plied meat 
cleavers against stained butchers' blocks in grimy little storefronts whose back 
rooms often hid the misery and desperation of illegal abortions. Men hauled 
butchered carcasses over their shoulders or gutted fish in stinking open-air 
markets where feral cats and fat, sleek rats fought for discarded offal and fish 
heads. 
Other men hauled handcarts piled high with bricks and building stone or carried 
grinding wheels on frayed leather harnesses, calling out in roughened voices, 
"Knives to grind!" as they wandered from shop to doorstep. Boys ran urgent 
errands, clutching baskets of vegetables and heavy stacks of newspapers, or 
trundled rickety wheelbarrows spilling over with piles of red, coarse brick dust 
which they sold in little sackfuls. One boy jogged along with a ferret in his 
arms, leading a bright-eyed spaniel on a worn leather leash.
"Good grief, is that a pet ferret?" Skeeter turned to stare.
Malcolm followed his glance. "Not a pet. That boy's a rat-catcher. `You maun 
have a ferret, to catch a rat,' " he added in what sounded suspiciously like a 
quotation. "He'll spend the day over in the better parts of town, de-ratting 
some rich woman's house. The ferret chases them out and the spaniel kills the 
sneaky little beasts."
"And the boy gets paid a small fortune by some hysterical housewife," Skeeter 
guessed.
Margo shook her head. "More likely by some frantic housekeeper who doesn't want 
to lose her place because rats have broken into the cellar or littered in the 
best linens."
"There is that," Skeeter admitted as the boy dodged past, heading west. Then he 
spotted a long, shallow wooden trough where girls appeared to be dunking 
handfuls of dried leaves into stinking dye. "What in the world are they doing?"
"Dying tea leaves," Malcolm said drolly.
"Dying them? What for?"
Margo chuckled. "There's fortunes to made in the tea recycling business. 
Housekeepers in wealthy households sell used tea leaves for a tidy sum, then 
girls in the tea trade dye the leaves so they look new and sell them in the 
poorer parts of town."
"Remind me not to buy tea anywhere around here. What's in that stuff they're 
using? It smells horrible."
"Don't ask," Malcolm said repressively.
"You don't want to know what's in the food around here, either," Margo added. 
"They keep passing laws against putting in the worst stuff. Like brick dust in 
sausages, as filler."
"Remind me to skip lunch. And I'm not a squeamish eater." A guy couldn't spend 
five years in Yesukai the Valiant's tent and stay finicky, not if he wanted to 
survive. But he'd never eaten brick dust—of that, at least, he was morally 
certain. They passed the Ten Bells, a public house strategically poised on the 
corner of roaring Commercial Street and Fournier, within sight of the gleaming 
white spire of Christchurch, Spitalfields. Rough-dressed men loitered near the 
entrance, eyeing tired women who walked slowly past, returning the interested 
stares with calculating glances. A shabby woman selling roasted chestnuts beside 
the door paid the prostitutes no attention, reserving her efforts for paying 
customers. One woman who'd stopped to rest against the pub's wall was driven 
away by a nearby constable.
"Move on, there, or I'll take you in, so I will!"
The woman's reply was not precisely in English, baffling Skeeter with a sharp 
spate of incomprehensible syllables, but she moved farther down the street. 
Skeeter scratched his neck. "What was that all about?"
Malcolm said quietly, "They aren't allowed to pick a spot and solicit. They have 
to keep moving. Women walk from pub to pub, or simply circle a building like 
Saint Botolph's Church, known locally as the `prostitutes' church,' for the 
women walking in dreary circles around it, hours at a time. They often stake out 
little territories without ever stopping long enough to get themselves arrested. 
Mary Kelly patrols the area around the Ten Bells pub, there. Rumor is, she's 
very jealous of her beat. Of course, that may just be sour grapes from the other 
women. She's very pretty and vivacious. She likes to sing and the men like her."
Margo put in, "Women like poor Liz Stride would've hated her for it."
Skeeter had seen enough pictures of Long Liz to know she'd been a mannish, 
horse-faced Swede, missing half her teeth, poor creature. Word was, her lover 
had been utterly devastated by her death. "Well," Skeeter cleared his throat, 
"where do we start? I hadn't realized the East End was so big."
"Huh, this is nothing," Margo put in. "You ought to see the docklands. They 
stretch out to forever."
Malcolm cast a jaundiced eye at his fiancée. "I fear Mr. Jackson will have ample 
opportunity to tour the docklands before this business is done. Now that you've 
seen something of Whitechapel, Mr. Jackson, and have a feel for the territory, I 
would suggest we repair to Middlesex Street. If they're supplying their wardrobe 
from the East End, it's the likest spot to search."
"I'm following you," Skeeter said ruefully.
Malcolm led the way past Christchurch, which rose in startling white purity from 
the grime, and walked briskly down to Fashion Street, then cut over to 
Middlesex, a long block to the west. The Sunday cloth fair which had given the 
street its famous nickname was conspicuously absent, but shops selling 
ready-mades of a cheap cut, mostly stitched from mill-ends cloth, were open for 
business. Malcolm pushed open the door of the nearest, leaving Skeeter and Margo 
to follow. As the door swung shut with a solid thump, a well-scrubbed shop girl 
in a worn dress eyed them, taking in their fine clothes with a dubious, 
narrow-eyed stare.
"Wot you 'ere for?" she asked suspiciously. "You never come round 'ere t'buy 
togs, not the likes of you, wiv yer fancy city suiting."
Malcolm doffed his hat. "Good morning, miss. No, indeed, you're very sharp. 
We're hoping you might be able to help us. We're looking for someone."
"I ain't like to grass on nobody, I ain't," she muttered.
Malcolm produced a shining shilling and said casually, "The gentlemen we're 
looking for are foreigners, miss, foreign swindlers and thieves. They have 
cheated this young lady of a substantial sum of money by passing counterfeit 
banknotes and they have robbed me of quite a sum the same way, passing their 
filthy money at a game of cards last week."
Margo spoke up in a voice Skeeter scarcely recognized. "Give me a fiver, 'e did, 
miss, said 'e 'adn't got nuffink smaller, an' I give 'im near four quid change 
for it, when it weren't worth the paper the cheeky blagger printed it on 'is own 
self."
The girl's eyes widened, her suspicion dwindling under the twin onslaughts of 
Margo's East-End voice and alarmingly serious complaint. Skeeter stepped forward 
with one of Goldie's sample banknotes. "My name is Jackson, ma'am, from America. 
I've trailed these criminals all the way from New York, where they were 
counterfeiting dollars. This is one of their forgeries." He handed over the 
banknote and let her peer curiously at it, then produced the photographs. "Have 
you seen any of these men?"
The shopgirl took the heavy cardstock photos and gazed at them carefully, 
shuffling through them. "No," she said slowly, "never clapped me minces on any 
blokes wot stood for these 'ere likenesses. But I'll look sharp, so I will. Some 
tea leaf passed me a bad fiver, I'd just about as well shut me doors an' walk 
the streets or starve." She handed the photos and the fake banknote back with a 
grim, angry look in her eyes. "Mark me, I'll keep a sharp butcher's out, so I 
will."
Malcolm handed her a small white card. "If you do see them, here is where you 
can reach me." He handed over the shilling, as well, which she pocketed hastily, 
along with Malcolm's card. He put his hat on again, tipping the brim. "Good day, 
miss."
They tried the next shop on Middlesex Street, then the one after that and the 
next in line, with Malcolm sometimes initiating the questions and occasionally 
Skeeter stepping in to fill that role. They had reached the end of the lane, 
having covered every shop in Middlesex Street, when a voice rose behind them.
"Mister Moore, sir! Wait a bit, mister!"
They looked around to see the first girl they'd questioned, running breathlessly 
toward them. They waited, hope suddenly an electrifying presence in their midst. 
The girl reached them and gasped out, "Cor, but I'm glad you 'adn't gone yet! 
Mistress just come into the shop, y'see, it's 'er shop, like, and I told 'er 
what you said. She thinks she knows of 'em, mister."
Skeeter exchanged startled glances with Margo as Malcolm said, "By all means, 
let us speak with your employer."
A moment later, they were showing the photographs to a stout, sallow-cheeked 
woman with white hair and poor teeth. "That's 'im, I don't doubt," the woman 
said, pointing to Noah Armstrong's photograph. "Of a Sunday, when the market's 
in the street, me sister-in-law sets up a stall just outside, there. Sold a 
fistful of suits, Sunday last, to a bloke wot give 'er a fiver. An' it weren't 
worth no more'n me shoelaces, come the time she went off t'spend it. I remember 
the bloke, as I was set up next ter Sally an' she were that excited, she were, 
t'get a fiver when she needed the money so desperate. Like to put 'er in the 
work'ouse, bastard did, 'an 'er a war widow wivout no 'usband nor child t'look 
after 'er in 'er age. It's me own profits, small as they are, wot's paid 'er 
rent an' put food in 'er Limehouse this week past."
"Do you remember anything about him that might help us locate him? Did he say 
anything about where he was staying?"
"That 'e didn't, or I'd 'ave sent a copper after 'im."
"My dear lady," Malcolm said, producing two five-pound notes from his wallet, 
"you have been of incalculable service. Please see that your sister-in-law's 
losses are replaced."
The old woman's eyes shot wide at the sight of so much money. She took the 
banknotes with a shaking hand, turned them over and over, staring at them. 
Wetness spilled over and traced down both cheeks as she closed wrinkled hands 
around the money. The crackle of crisp paper was loud in Skeeter's ears. Voice 
trembling, she said to her shopgirl, "Go an' fetch Sally, luv, tell 'er God sent 
a right proper angel t'look out for us. God bless you, mister."
The girl's eyes were bright, as well. She dropped a brief curtsey and ran out 
the back way. A door thumped, marking her exit, then Malcolm tipped his hat. 
"Good day, madam. Thank you again. If you hear anything else, your girl has my 
card."
They left her clutching the money to her bosom.
The moment the door swung shut behind Skeeter, Malcolm said, "They are here, 
then, as surmised. It remains to locate their hiding place. It occurs to me that 
they cannot be staying anywhere in the immediate area, or the shopkeepers 
hereabouts would have recognized them as neighbors."
"Well, they have to eat, don't they?" Skeeter pointed out.
Malcolm's eyes glinted. "Which means they must procure victuals from a 
chandler."
"Remember what you said, Malcolm?" Margo said thoughtfully. "If you were going 
to hide in the East End and knew you would be marked as a foreigner, you'd find 
a place with a high concentration of immigrants, so you wouldn't stand out so 
much. Like Spitalfields and Bethnal Green. Let's try the Chandler's Shops up 
there."
"Indeed," Malcolm glanced north. "A capital idea. Let us begin at Spitalfields 
Market, shall we?"
They walked rapidly north and jogged west to Bishopsgate, which they followed 
north again through the bustle and crowds of carts and groaning freight wagons 
and strolling vendors calling their wares. The market, when they arrived, was a 
vast confusion of Cockney voices singing out in rhyming patter that echoed with 
a roar of alien sound. 
Fresh flowers spilled a heady perfume into the wet morning air, thousands of 
blossoms tied in dripping bunches. Flower girls piled them high into heavy 
baskets and trays for sale in better climes. Fresh vegetables heaped in mounds 
lent a more sober note to the riot of hothouse flowers. Fishwives haggled over 
the price of mussels and eels and ragged urchins bartered for coarse-ground 
flour while their harried mothers counted out pennies for bricks of tea.
"If we can't find a trace of them here," Malcolm shouted above the roar, "I 
shall be very much surprised. Mr. Jackson, why don't you take the right-hand 
side of the market. Miss Smith, try the left-hand way and I shall tackle the 
middle."
They split up and Skeeter approached the first stall, where a sweating woman in 
her fifties manhandled huge rounds of cheese, hacking off wedges for sale. He 
gave her the pitch, holding up a shilling to catch her attention.
"Ain't seen 'em," she said shortly, pocketing Skeeter's money.
He tried again at the next stall, where re-dyed tea sold briskly. The negative 
response cost him another shilling and several elbows in his ribs from customers 
anxious to buy a brick of tea for tuppence. He moved on to a flower vendor who 
gave him a suspicious glare over the nodding heads of pure white daisies, their 
centers yellower than the sun over Spitalfields' grey sky. The woman shook her 
head impatiently and pocketed the coin. Skeeter glanced around, searching for 
Margo and Malcolm, making their grim, determined way through the stalls. He 
turned back with a sigh and tried the next vendor, where slabs of fatty bacon 
hung from meathooks.
"Why d'you ask about 'em?" the man behind the counter demanded sourly, eyes 
narrowed as he peered at the photographs.
"We believe they're counterfeiters. They've cheated a young lady who runs a shop 
up in Bethnal Green, gave her a counterfeit banknote that nearly landed her in 
the workhouse, unable to pay her bills. I've followed them all the way from 
America, where they printed dollars instead of pound notes." The man hesitated, 
giving Skeeter cause to hope. He fished out a glittering half crown coin. "I 
realize you don't like to grass on anyone," Skeeter said, holding up the coin, 
"but these men are cheating women who can't afford the loss. An elderly war 
widow in Middlesex Street lost five pounds to them."
The man's jaw muscles bunched. He spat to one side, then tapped the photograph 
of Marcus. "I seen 'im, lots o' times. Lives wiv 'is sister and some chap who 
come over from America. And a pair of sweet little girls, God 'elp 'em, wiv a 
father like that. Comes 'ere regular, like, t'buy bacon an' flour, 'e does, 
along wiv 'is sister."
Skeeter handed over the half crown and produced a full sovereign, glittering 
gold in the light. "Where do they live?"
The man jerked his head to the east. "Be'ind Christchurch, someplace along 
Fournier Street, is all I know."
"Thank you," Skeeter said quietly, handing over the sovereign and retrieving his 
photographs. "More than you can know."
He hurried through the mob, finding Malcolm near the end of his own row. The 
guide wore an expression of frustration. Skeeter waved him over. "Malcolm! I've 
got a solid lead! Behind Christchurch, on Fournier!"
Malcolm's eyes came violently alive. "By damn, Jackson, good work! Where's Miss 
Smith?"
They found Margo deep in conversation with a woman selling flour by the scoop. 
Malcolm caught her eye, but she lifted a hand, so they waited. When the woman 
finished talking, Margo handed her a whole sovereign and turned toward them, 
cheeks glowing with excitement.
"You've found them, too?" Malcolm said without preamble.
"Yes! Fournier Street, seventh house on the right. Mr. Anastagio," she tapped 
Marcus' photo, "and his sister and their friend, Mr. Dillon, from America."
"All I got was Fournier Street," Skeeter admitted wryly. 
"Cockney women," Margo chuckled, "love a good gossip. Especially when there's 
money in it. Let's go beard Mr. Anastagio in his den," she added, eyes bright 
with excitement.
"By all means," Malcolm agreed, heading out of the crowded market. "And let us 
pray that Mr. Dillon and Miss Anastagio do nothing rash before we convince them 
we are Marcus' friends."
Skeeter's heart was triphammering as they turned into Fournier Street and passed 
poor but well-scrubbed houses where stout women called to one another in 
Yiddish. At the seventh house on the right, they found shuttered windows and a 
closed door, but flowers grew in pots along the steps and smoke curled upwards 
from the chimney. Inside, Skeeter could hear the squeal and laughter of 
children's voices. His throat tightened. Artemisia's voice . . . teasing her 
sister . . . Malcolm and Margo waited expectantly, gazes locked on him. Skeeter 
nodded once, then climbed the stone steps and knocked on the door.
The voices inside cut off sharply, then footsteps hurried their way. Margo 
joined Skeeter on the top step, just as an unknown voice called out, "Who is 
it?"
Margo glanced at Skeeter, winking, then raised her voice to carry through the 
door. "Eh, luv, you got a dog?"
"What?"
"I ast, 'ave you got a dog? There's a bitch wot's littered pups on yer front 
steps."
The door opened quickly and Skeeter found himself staring at "Benny 
Catlin"—Jenna Caddrick in the flesh, wearing woolen trousers and a heavy flannel 
shirt. Wide eyes swept down, looking automatically for the mythical puppies. 
Suspicion and wild terror leaped into Jenna's eyes and she tried to slam the 
door in their faces. Margo shoved her foot against it and said, "It's no use 
running, Miss Caddrick. We're here to help."
At that instant, a childish voice squealed from the dim interior.
"Uncle Skeeter!"
An instant later, Artemisia had flown into his arms.
Skeeter buried his face in her thick hair to hide the tears.
 
Chapter Fourteen
Kit Carson arrived at the security office complex with a mob of screaming 
reporters on his heels. As Kit fled through the doors, someone in a BATF uniform 
looked around at the howling noise. "Oh, God, who let them in?"
Irritated time scouts joined forces with security personnel to bodily shove the 
horde of newsies back out the door. Several cameras and more than one face 
failed to survive the process. A cordon of armed guards was hastily thrown into 
place in front of the doors, pulled from off-duty shifts called in for riot 
control and search teams.
"What can I do to help?" Kit asked the nearest harried desk jockey, who was 
manning five phones at once and handing out search assignments. The officer 
glanced up and three phones shrilled at the same time. She lunged for the 
nearest, listened, jotted notes, grabbed the next one without bothering to hang 
up the first. Then swore and grabbed a microphone.
"Code Seven Red! Zone Nine! All visitors on station are hereby ordered to seek 
the nearest available shelter. Repeat, Code Seven Red, Zone Nine!"
Somebody else was snarling, "I don't care who the hell you are, get off this 
channel! We're in a state of emergency, here . . ."
Kit ground his teeth and waited for somebody to tell him how he could help. He 
was still waiting when Bull Morgan, slightly thinner than the last time Kit had 
laid eyes on him, arrived. Bull had already managed to scrape up a cigar 
someplace, despite the fact he couldn't have been out of his own jail more than 
five minutes. The station manager was busy masticating the end of it into a 
pulpy, wet mess that indicated his current level of stress. Kit wondered who'd 
had the audacity to unlock his cell door. Ronisha Azzan, no doubt. With Jack the 
Ripper loose on station, she very well might have thrown the federal marshals 
into jail, just to keep them out of everyone's hair.
Bull caught Kit's eye and waved him over. "Kit, I need someone to hustle 
downstairs to the weapons ranges and open up the arsenals, Ann's and Sven's, 
both. We don't have enough arms for our security officers. And I want a couple 
dozen Found Ones deputized as security to search the subbasements. You know the 
Found Ones, and they trust you. Give 'em weapons from Sven's lockers, they'll 
know how to use bladed weapons. And if we had some clubs . . ."
"What about those 1880's style baseball and cricket bats the outfitters stock?"
"Good idea. Get 'em. Every Ripper cult on station has gone nuts, killing women. 
We need all the help we can get, stopping this mess."
"I'll organize the men in the Found Ones, put together sweep teams."
"Make damned sure the women stay out of harm's way. Especially the dark-haired, 
petite ones, who look like Dr. Feroz."
"Has anyone seen her?"
Bull twitched the unlit cigar to the other side of his mouth. "She's back with 
Ronnie, right now, telling us what she knows about this maniac. If he wasn't 
totally insane before he got here, chances are, he is now. Even the most 
balanced down-timers go a little bit nuts when they first arrive on station."
The coldness in the pit of Kit's belly deepened. At least the Ripperologist was 
safe.
"Kit, why don't you join the briefing Dr. Feroz is giving our sweep teams before 
you organize the Found Ones. You can pass along what she has to say. The 
briefing is back in Mike's office."
Kit found Shahdi Feroz speaking tersely to a group of security officers, Pest 
Control units, and BATF. Even the I.T.C.H. agents had put in appearance, 
listening intently and recording notes of their own.
The Ripperologist was just answering a question. "Yes, that would fit the 
pattern of a psychotic serial killer. They usually kill to a pattern. If you can 
unravel the pattern, you can go a long way toward stopping the killer. 
Unfortunately, in John Lachley's case, it is not so simple. He was killing women 
in possession of letters which he was desperate to recover. What sort of 
letters, we still do not know. Clearly, he didn't come to Shangri-La Station 
looking for them, which suggests he has abandoned whatever plans he'd made, 
which these letters threatened. I believe he has come forward in time looking 
for bigger game. Power is what lures him. He rose from obscure beginnings in the 
East End and pursued a medical degree as a means to greater power. Occult 
scholarship was another tool he used. Aleister Crowley studied under him and 
Lachley succeeded in positioning himself as personal advisor to the queen's 
grandson, Prince Eddy."
A nearby scout muttered, "Now there's a scary thought. The man who bills himself 
as the prophet of the anti-Christ, studying Satanic ritual under Jack the 
Ripper."
"What about the Ripper cults?" a BATF agent asked worriedly.
Dr. Feroz thinned her mouth. "That is part of the bad news. Lachley has already 
begun to wield immense power through the Ripper cults. We must deprive him of 
his new worshippers, quickly. Isolate him in a time he does not yet understand, 
while he is still vulnerable to technology which baffles him."
One of the I.T.C.H. agents spoke up. "You can isolate him all you like," the 
woman said coldly, "but it won't do any good if he can't be killed."
The Ripperologist surprised Kit—and everyone else—with her answer. "We have no 
guarantee he cannot be killed. After all, Jack the Ripper was two men. It is 
entirely possible James Maybrick will act alone in the murder of Mary Kelly. The 
girl looks enough like his adulterous wife to send the man into a frenzy. In 
crime scene photographs taken the day of her murder, there are initials visible 
in blood on the walls, an F and an M, suggesting the name Florie Maybrick. 
And Catharine Eddowes, poor woman, had an M carved through her eyelids, another 
clue to Maybrick's identity, had the police realized it. With Lachley out of the 
picture, Maybrick is on his own, without a mentor to guide or goad him into 
repeated murders. If one studies Maybrick's diary, one finds a startling change 
of tone and attitude after Mary Kelly's murder. It is almost as though Maybrick 
had roused from a murderous stupor of some sort, returning to sanity and 
remorse.
"Importantly, Lachley is a mesmerist of some note. I would not be at all 
surprised to learn that Lachley had used that skill to gain control of Maybrick, 
using hypnotic suggestion to bring his hatred of prostitutes boiling over to 
critical levels, then pointing him at the victims Lachley chose. Without Lachley 
to reinforce the hypnotic suggestions, Maybrick might well come to his senses 
after the butchery of Mary Kelly and look back on what he has done with the very 
shock one reads in the diary. Given all this, with Maybrick quite probably 
acting alone in the Kelly murder, we cannot assume that Lachley is impossible to 
kill. Not based on the assumption that he must be present for Mary Kelly's 
death."
Kit was impressed. Maybe there was hope, yet?
Mike Benson spoke up quickly, however. "We're going to play it safe and assume 
the worst, just the same. I don't want anyone tackling this guy alone. We've 
cleared Commons, which has robbed Lachley and his worshippers of easily 
available victims, but his fury will make him dangerously unpredictable. He may 
well go to ground somewhere. Or he may start breaking down doors, looking for 
Dr. Feroz or the next best substitute. There may be no way to stop his killing 
spree, short of evacuating the station."
"You can't be serious!"
"My God, Benson—"
"Quiet!" The bellow came from behind Kit's shoulder. He jerked around to find 
Bull Morgan striding into the briefing room. "I'm not evacuating this station, 
get that clear right now. One, it's impossible to do, not in time. There is no 
physical way to get everyone on this station through Primary during its next 
cycle, not to mention trying to herd every man, woman, and child in Shangri-La 
down to Primary precinct in the next three minutes, just to make the gate 
opening."
Glances at wrist watches caused a miniature sea of bobbing heads, a flock of 
guinea hens popping up and down in tall grass. As though on cue, the station 
announcer came on, the sound muted through the walls: "Your attention please. 
Primary is due to open in three minutes. Be advised, all station passes through 
Primary have been revoked for the duration of the station emergency. Remain in 
your hotel room or your current place of shelter with the door locked. Do not 
make any attempt to reach Primary . . ."
Bull Morgan waited for the echo to fade, then said grimly, "I've ordered a total 
lockdown of this station, including cancellation of Primary passes, so he can't 
slip out with panic-stricken tourists the way he crashed the Britannia. I want 
everyone on a search team to stay in radio contact. Work in teams of at least 
three and never lose sight of your teammates. If your team doesn't have a radio, 
see Mike Benson. That's it people, move out and comb this station like it's 
never been combed before."
The nearest I.T.C.H. agent collared Bull. "What do you intend to do with Lachley 
when you find him?"
"Since you ask, I hope to God he can be killed, because I have no intention of 
taking Jack the Ripper alive and then ending up stuck with him for the rest of 
his natural life. Up-time law says we can't ship him home and we can't send him 
to an up-time prison, either, because that same law prevents us from sending any 
down-timer through Primary. And frankly, there's not a cage I could build on 
this station that a psychopath couldn't eventually break out of. We're not 
equipped to hold a thing like that in a cell for the next forty or fifty years."
"What happened to trial by jury?" the I.T.C.H. agent demanded, her glare icy.
Bull Morgan chewed his cigar to shreds. "I'll tell you what, lady. You answer me 
this. What happened to four gutted women? And a man with a broken neck, who was 
unfortunate enough to simply be in Lachley's way? We have a station cram full of 
potential victims, here, and it's my job to see they don't become statistics. 
And just in case you've forgotten, down-timers don't have any legal rights, the 
honest and decent ones any more than some psychopathic butcher. And I didn't 
write those laws, either. I'm just stuck enforcing 'em. I'm not real happy about 
it, but, by God, I will protect innocents. This ain't New York, lady, and it 
ain't the Hague, and you're not in charge. You don't like it, get the hell off 
my station."
The I.T.C.H. agent gave Bull a combative glare, but she backed down. They might 
be stuck in the middle of the worst situation any station had ever faced, but 
Bull Morgan wasn't going down without a fight. Kit felt like cheering.
"Okay," Bull said briskly, "I want sweep teams out, combing the lower levels, 
and I want every searcher armed with a knife, bare minimum, and a pistol for the 
up-timers. Ronisha, organize the new teams by zone. And get the word out to 
teams we've already fielded, same rules. Let's find this bastard before anybody 
else dies."
* * *
A rush of footsteps brought Skeeter up from his crouch, holding Artemisia in one 
arm. She leaned her head against his shoulder, arms wrapped around his neck as 
the door was thrown wide. Jenna Caddrick vanished as someone thrust her aside. 
An instant later, Skeeter found himself staring at the wrong end of an enormous 
revolver.
"Put her down!"
It was Noah Armstrong, dressed in women's clothing. There was no mistaking the 
cold, murderous rage in Armstrong's grey eyes. Behind Noah's shoulder, Marcus 
appeared, ashen. When he caught sight of Skeeter, the former slave's mouth fell 
open. "Skeeter? And Margo! And is that Malcolm? What are you doing in London?"
Skeeter shifted Artemisia to his other arm. "Looking for you, of course. You 
might tell your friend, there, to put the gun down."
"Noah, these are my friends! From the station!"
Armstrong didn't even blink. "I don't care if they're Santa's elves. Anyone 
could've followed them here!"
"Sure, anyone could've," Skeeter agreed, "if they'd known where we were heading 
today. Which they didn't. And I'll put Misia down when you put that pistol away. 
If anybody's got some explaining to do, it's you, Armstrong. And you'd better 
start talking fast."
Armstrong's eyes narrowed over a cold glint, then backed up and gestured with 
the barrel of the gun. "Inside. All of you."
As Skeeter stepped past, Marcus said quietly, "They are my friends, Noah. 
Skeeter risked death in the Circus at Rome to free me from slavery. He is one of 
the Found Ones, a trusted friend. My children call him uncle. Malcolm is a 
freelance guide, friend to Kit Carson, and Margo is to marry him. She will be 
the first woman time scout, when her grandfather has trained her fully. We can 
trust them, Noah." Marcus turned to Skeeter, then, his face twisting in an 
expression that hurt to witness. "I am sorry I did not come to you on the 
station. Please try to understand, Skeeter. We could not risk it, then. Men were 
trying to kill us and I could not put my children in jeopardy, not to contact 
anyone."
"I figured that out," Skeeter said softly. "It's all right."
Marcus' eyes gleamed wet for a dangerous moment, then he managed to say fairly 
steadily, "I am glad you have come. Ianira needs to return to the station. So do 
our children. We must end this long terror and go home."
"You found her, then?" Margo asked sharply. "Did Lachley have her, after all?"
Surprise lit Marcus' dark eyes and Jenna Caddrick blurted, "How did you guess?" 
Even Noah Armstrong was momentarily taken aback.
Margo eyed the revolver still levelled at them, then answered Jenna's question 
with a faint smile. "We went to the lecture at the Egyptian Hall, of course. 
Malcolm and I did, that is. Skeeter wasn't in London yet. We're guides for the 
Ripper Watch Team and we'd finally figured out that Dr. Lachley must be Jack the 
Ripper, so we staked out the lecture—and saw you. We tried to follow when you 
left, but lost you in the crowd. Where was Ianira? Not in Lachley's house, 
surely? You left there without her."
Marcus' eyes darkened with grim memory that set Skeeter's skin to crawling. "In 
the sewers," he said harshly. "He had a place in the sewers, a room where he 
kept Ianira and other things, pieces of people he had butchered, a terrible 
place . . ."
"Good God," Malcolm breathed, eyes going wide as realization dawned, "the 
sewers! Of course no one could catch the Ripper. He was using the sewers to 
escape!"
"To hell with Jack the Ripper!" Armstrong said in a cold, hard voice. "How did 
you find us?" The revolver still tracked Skeeter's chest.
Footsteps on the stairs distracted everyone but Armstrong, who said sharply, 
"Get back upstairs!"
An instant later, Ianira rushed past Armstrong and flung both arms around 
Skeeter's neck, tears streaming, as she hugged him, Misia and all. "Skeeter! You 
are safe . . . We have missed you!"
She kissed Skeeter's cheek, then hugged Margo and Malcolm in turn, eyes 
brilliant with the tears streaming down her face. "It is good to have old 
friends among us again! But how did you find us? Noah and Jenna have been very 
careful and our hiding place was well chosen."
Skeeter handed Artemisia to her father, lips twitching into a faint smile. "We 
tracked you through your money, actually."
"Our what?" Jenna gasped.
Skeeter grinned. "Your money. The banknotes you picked up on station when you 
exchanged your up-time currency."
Her brow wrinkled above the ludicrous mutton chops Paula Booker had given her. 
"Banknotes? How in the world could you trace me through banknotes?"
"They're fakes."
Jenna stared, shaken so badly out of her composure her face ran dead white. Even 
Armstrong, who had finally put the revolver away, blanched. Clearly, they 
understood the implications of Victorian prison as well as Skeeter did.
"Believe it or not," Skeeter spoke into the shocked silence, "Goldie Morran 
admitted it before I left the station. She was terrified you'd been arrested in 
London for passing counterfeit banknotes, which would explain why nobody could 
find Benny Catlin. The last thing she wants is your father breathing down her 
neck, so she came clean, spilled the whole thing to me. They're not all fake, 
but she slipped you enough counterfeits to cause trouble. You bought some suits 
with a counterfeit five-pound note and we traced you through that. Once we knew 
you were in the East End, we started showing people your photographs until we'd 
tracked you down."
Jenna's ashen face ran ice pale this time and she swayed sharply, prompting 
Armstrong to steady her. "Oh, my God. You didn't? We can't stay here!"
"Perhaps," Malcolm said quietly, "you would be good enough to explain why not? 
The only information we have, your father supplied, through his own sources and 
from the detective he's hired. And we have reason to suspect that gentlemen's 
credentials, thanks to Skeeter."
Armstrong said brusquely, "Let's go into the parlour. I could use a drink and 
Jenna had better sit down."
Marcus brushed his daughter's hair back from her brow. "Misia, please go 
upstairs and finish your lessons with your sister."
"Okay." She kissed her father's cheek as he set her down, then ran to Skeeter 
and hugged him tightly before clattering up the stairs, hitching her dress up to 
her knees.
Jenna Caddrick brushed past, moving woodenly into the parlour, followed by Noah 
Armstrong. Jenna stood near the window, staring silently into the street, while 
Marcus and Ianira took seats on the worn upholstery of a high-backed sofa with 
carved mahogany legs and arms. Armstrong followed them into the parlour, 
stopping near the hearth, where a coal fire blazed cheerfully, then hesitated. 
"It's clear that Marcus and Ianira trust you. Very well, I'll give you the full 
story." Armstrong swept off a woman's hairpiece, revealing short, dishevelled 
brown hair which didn't quite reach the high Victorian collar of Armstrong's 
dress. Without the wig, it was abruptly difficult to tell whether Armstrong was 
a young man in woman's clothing or a young woman with short hair. "It's a very 
long story, but the upshot is, I'm a detective. I was hired to protect these 
people." Armstrong nodded toward Jenna, Marcus, and Ianira.
"You're a detective?" Skeeter blurted, then narrowed his eyes. "Who hired you?"
"Cassie Tyrol."
Skeeter's mouth dropped.
Margo gasped out, "Cassie Tyrol?"
"My aunt," Jenna said in a choked voice. "She hired Noah before they murdered 
her. They would've killed me, too, if Noah hadn't dragged me out of the 
restaurant. They killed my fiancé, Carl, at my apartment." Her voice began to 
quake as wetness spilled over from her eyes. "I was talking to him on the phone 
when they shot him, so I wasn't at the table when they shot Aunt Cassie. I'm . . 
." she bit her lip and pressed a hand against her abdomen, protectively. "I'm 
going to have Carl's baby. It's all I have left. I can't even call on my family 
for help," she added bitterly, "because it's my father who's trying to kill us."
Mouths sagged open, even Malcolm's. The silence was so profound, Skeeter could 
hear a clock somewhere out in Spitalfields strike the hour, its ghostly notes 
singing through the cold October air. Then Jenna swayed and Noah Armstrong 
hurried to help her to the nearest chair, guiding her with a tender look and 
gentle hands. Clearly, Noah Armstrong was anything but a murderous terrorist. 
Skeeter found his voice first.
"Miss Caddrick, your father is threatening to shut down the station unless 
you're brought back."
Shocking hatred blazed from her eyes. "If I could, I'd put a bullet through his 
skull!" Even as she spoke, fury transmuted into terrible grief. Jenna covered 
her face with shaking hands and began to cry, raggedly and very messily. Ianira 
produced a handkerchief and sat down beside her, sliding an arm around her 
shoulders. Jenna groped for the handkerchief and struggled to regain her 
composure. "I'm sorry," she whispered through hiccoughs. She finally blotted her 
cheeks, then looked up, shoulders slumped, face haggard with too much fear and 
far too little sleep.
Malcolm suggested gently, "Why don't you tell us your story, Miss Caddrick? I 
suspect Mr. Jackson, here, knows more of it than the rest of us do, but Miss 
Smith and I know enough to realize that we're facing a very serious threat."
Jenna rubbed reddened eyes with the backs of her hands, clutching Ianira's 
sodden handkerchief, then drew a deep, unsteady breath. "Yes. I literally don't 
know how many people have already died because of what we know. Noah and I, that 
is. And now Marcus and Ianira." She drew a second watery breath and met 
Malcolm's gaze. "Guess I ought to start with proper introductions? This is Noah 
Armstrong, a private detective with the Wardmann-Wolfe Agency."
Skeeter swung a sharp stare at Armstrong. "You're a Wardmann-Wolfe agent? Why, 
that lying, scum-sucking, low-life bastard!"
"I take it," Armstrong said grimly, "my reputation has been compromised?"
Skeeter snorted. "You might say that. Senator Caddrick's telling the whole world 
you're Ansar Majlis."
The look that passed across Noah Armstrong's face set Skeeter's hair on end.
"I see," Armstrong said very softly. "I suppose it's fitting, after all, since 
he put them on our trail in the first place."
"Senator Caddrick?" Malcolm asked sharply. "In league with the Ansar Majlis?"
"It's true," Jenna whispered, her watery eyes haunted with terrible shadows. 
"Daddy ordered his hit men to dress like Ansar Majlis."
"I was sitting right beside Cassie Tyrol when they burst in through the door, 
shooting," Noah Armstrong said heavily. "She was dead before I even had time to 
draw my pistol. If I hadn't thrown the table in their faces, they'd have shot me 
down, as well, then they'd have found Jenna and killed her. They did kill dozens 
of people standing near us as we escaped the restaurant. Caddrick and the men 
paying him off have stirred up the real Ansar Majlis, as well. Fed them money, 
munitions, transportation, names and locations of targets, helped them to attack 
Ianira on the station."
Margo was frowning. "Wait a minute. Am I the only one confused, here? I know 
I've been in London for quite a while, but what possible connection is there 
between Jocasta Tyrol and Ianira Cassondra? Would you mind starting at the 
beginning? Because this isn't making much sense to me."
Noah Armstrong spoke quietly. "Miss Tyrol came to me three years ago; at least, 
it was three years ago for Marcus and the girls and myself, just a few weeks ago 
for Jenna and Ianira." Grey eyes flicked toward the senator's daughter. "Miss 
Tyrol was curious about some very ugly things she had uncovered about her 
brother-in-law, Jenna's father. She hired me and also helped a young friend of 
hers get a job in Senator Caddrick's office. An actor doing role research. The 
boy stumbled across some very nasty evidence. He sent it to her, but was 
murdered for it. I'd been doing my own investigations, along the same lines, and 
as soon as Mr. Corliss was killed, I persuaded Miss Tyrol to go into hiding 
until we could take the evidence to the authorities."
Jenna said bitterly, "Aunt Cassie tried to warn me. She slipped away from Noah 
and called, arranged to meet me. I'm the reason she's dead! Aunt Cassie and 
Carl, both . . ." Tears tracked messily down her face, dripping into her 
surgically-implanted sideburns. "Carl McDevlin was going to marry me, in spite 
of my father's nasty habits and the chaos of the press following everything we 
Caddricks do. And my doting father gave the order to murder him, just on the 
chance I might have told him something."
Armstrong brushed wet hair back from Jenna's face, the gesture eloquent of the 
trust that had grown between them. "Miss Caddrick and I managed to get into 
TT-86," Armstrong sighed, "with the tickets for London she and her fiancé were 
planning to use, but the assassination squads followed. Two of them almost 
killed Miss Caddrick the night she arrived."
Jenna shivered. "I managed to shoot my way out of the Picadilly Hotel or I'd be 
in a morgue someplace. And so would Ianira."
Malcolm said very quietly, "I hope you have proof?"
"Yes." Jenna whispered. "Noah does."
The Wardmann-Wolfe detective nodded wearily. "There've been quiet rumors for 
years about Senator Caddrick's association with organized crime. The evidence 
Alston Corliss gathered is enough to hang Senator Caddrick and several of his 
cronies, particularly a paid enforcer named Gideon Guthrie. And Guthrie works 
for Cyril Barris, who has mob connections on three continents, just for 
starters. Ties to the Yakuza and the Russian mafia, you name it, he's diddling 
in it. Barris has been paying off John Caddrick for a couple of decades. 
Unfortunately, Alston Corliss was a total amateur up against seasoned killers. 
The pieces were found in several different locations."
Margo shuddered.
"What Alston Corliss found," Noah added, "were payoff records made through 
companies the senator owns, monies deposited into accounts only he had access 
to, as majority shareholder and CEO. Construction companies, mostly, both in the 
States and abroad, Asia and Japan, in particular."
This finally started to make sense to Skeeter. In the aftermath of the orbital 
accident that had formed the time strings, the whole Pacific Rim had been hard 
hit by earthquakes and tidal waves. The rebuilding had been going on for most of 
Skeeter's life.
Malcolm was nodding, as well, face set in weary lines. "And the construction 
industry in Japan is controlled by the Yakuza gangs, has been for centuries. The 
senator allied himself with these gangs?"
"Yes. There and in the States, in South America, anywhere the Yakuza gangs were 
active. In the States, particularly on the west coast, local gangs of American 
thugs started affiliating themselves with the Asian gangs coming in, running 
drugs, prostitution, and gambling. Years back, even before he launched his 
political career, the senator had ties to a local mafia boss in Los Angeles, a 
man who later affiliated his gang with a prominent Yakuza family. It turned out 
to be a very profitable affiliation. For all parties concerned. It certainly 
financed the senator's campaigns."
"Yes," Margo frowned, "but how does Ianira tie into all of this?"
Jenna's mouth thinned to a bitter line. "Think about it. You know what she was 
responsible for starting. The Lady of Heaven Temples are the fastest growing 
international religion in the world. What better way to smuggle drugs halfway 
around the planet, launder money, ship American girls out to Asian brothels—"
"Ianira's not involved in that kind of garbage!" Skeeter snapped.
Jenna was crying again. "No. I never said she was. But my father is. He's using 
the Temples as a cover. Several congressmen have been calling for an 
investigation of Templar possessions and financial activities, something Daddy 
couldn't risk. So he decided to turn the Templars into martyrs, so public 
sentiment would crucify anyone who dared investigate Temple finances."
Skeeter swore aloud. It made abrupt, sickening sense. 
"I see you've tumbled to it," Armstrong nodded, holding Skeeter's gaze. "Miss 
Caddrick's father also knew he was being investigated by one of the best 
detective agencies in the business and he knew Miss Tyrol had put us on his 
trail. But he couldn't order an ordinary gangland hit on a woman as widely 
popular as Cassie Tyrol. There'd be far too much press, not to mention police 
asking questions, if he simply had his regular paid thugs kill her. His one 
piece of luck was that both Jenna and Miss Tyrol were prominent Templars, and so 
was Miss Caddrick's fiancé. Miss Tyrol donated her share of the profits from 
Temple Harlot directly to the Temple."
Skeeter's blood ran cold. "So he used the Ansar Majlis. Of course. They were a 
perfect front."
"Yes. They made it look like a terrorist hit. Only the bastards in that 
restaurant were never part of the actual Ansar Majlis. Neither were the hired 
killers who came after us on the station. They activated real Ansar Majlis moles 
already in place on TT-86, of course, so the riots on station would look like 
the genuine thing. The senator targeted Ianira as one of his primary public 
martyrs, since the Ansar Majlis exists specifically to destroy everything she's 
responsible for starting. He knew very well what public sentiment would be if 
the deified prophetess of the Temple were murdered, along with her entire 
family." The bitterness in Armstrong's eyes was terrifying. The shame in Jenna 
Caddrick's was infinitely worse. Silence spun out like filaments of glass, 
waiting to be shattered.
"So that's the whole, sordid story," Noah finally shattered it. "We're in 
hiding, with Miss Caddrick posing as a gentleman and me posing as Marcus' 
sister, trying to stay alive long enough to put Senator Caddrick in prison where 
he belongs."
Malcolm rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment, eyes bleak when he met 
Armstrong's gaze again. "According to Skeeter, there have been multiple riots 
and murders on TT-86, with a number of cults, including the Angels of Grace 
Militia, at odds with supporters of the Ansar Majlis. Now we know why. 
Everything we've built on TT-86 is at enormous risk. The senator is making 
threats, very serious threats, to close down the station."
Jenna said in a low, hard voice, "He's been looking for a way to shut down time 
tourism for years."
"He doesn't even need to do it, himself," Skeeter muttered. "The riots and 
murders alone are likely to shut us down. He brought federal marshals with him 
and arrested Bull Morgan, the station manager, on trumped-up tax charges. 
I.T.C.H. has been brought in to investigate and God knows where that will end. 
The Inter-Temporal Court has shut down stations before, replaced their whole 
management operations. And with Bull Morgan and Ronisha Azzan out, only God 
knows what would become of the down-timer community on station. I.T.C.H. sure as 
hell doesn't care—down-timers have no legal rights to protect and not enough 
financial clout to influence a gnat, never mind the Inter-Temporal Court."
Malcolm added heavily, "Down-timers on other time terminals I could name live 
like animals, compared with TT-86. Most 'eighty-sixers have no idea how 
fortunate our down-time population really is."
"We must stop this!" Marcus cried, moving protectively to Ianira's side.
"Yes, but how?" Margo wondered, frustration burning in her eyes. "You're a 
detective," she swung abruptly toward Armstrong, "and you say you've got proof. 
What do you suggest we do? You can't hide forever and you certainly can't expect 
us to sit and bury our heads in the sand like a bunch of ostriches. Marcus and 
Ianira are our friends. We won't sit around and do nothing!"
Noah's lips thinned. "No, clearly we can't just sit here, not now. The senator 
and his assassins know we're in the city, since they sent you through to look 
for us. Hiding in London was only a stopgap measure, we knew that from the 
start. All we've done by coming here is buy ourselves time. We would've been 
gone before now, if Ianira hadn't been kidnapped her first night in London. It 
took us days, tracing and rescuing her. What has to be done is simple. I have to 
go back with the proof. Make sure the senator and his gangland bosses are 
arrested and stand trial for murder." Armstrong frowned. "Getting the evidence 
to the authorities is going to be a major battle, even if someone else takes it 
to them. And you know what mafia trials are like. Clearly, the senator has taken 
pains to ensure I'm shot on sight as a dangerous terrorist, so I won't live to 
testify." With a bitter twist of lips, Armstrong added, "I really do appreciate 
your not shooting me out of hand and asking questions later."
"I started wondering about Caddrick's story even before we went chasing halfway 
across Colorado on your trail," Skeeter muttered. "I was standing next to Ianira 
when that first riot broke out. What I saw didn't tally with the line Caddrick 
fed us."
"For that, I am deeply grateful, Mr. Jackson. I also suspect," the detective 
added darkly, "there will be at least one hired killer in London trying to trace 
us."
"Oh, yeah," Skeeter said softly. "There is, all right. And I know his name. At 
least, the name he's been using. Mr. Sid Kaederman. The senator's so-called 
detective. A Wardmann-Wolfe agent, so he says."
Noah Armstrong's brows twitched downward. "Sid Kaederman? There's no 
Wardmann-Wolfe agent by that name."
"You know them all?" Malcolm asked quietly.
"I'd better. The agency's founder, Beore Arunwode, is my grandfather. I know 
that agency and its employees better than most people know their own kids. Part 
of my job was running security clearances on every agent we hired."
"Great," Skeeter groused. "I knew there was something wrong with that guy, I 
just couldn't figure out what."
Malcolm favored him with a faint smile. "I've never known your instincts to 
fail, Mr. Jackson. It seems they were right on target, once again. The question 
is, how to deal with Mr. Kaederman? If he's a hired gun, the proof you have, Mr. 
Armstrong, isn't likely to incriminate him. At least, not directly. Which means 
we need to trap him into committing a crime we can hang him for. Or I should 
say, trap him into trying to commit that crime."
"Like what?" Jenna asked bitterly. "The only thing he's here for is to murder 
me. And Noah. And Ianira and her family."
The answer skittered across Skeeter's mind in a jagged lightning strike, a 
notion so wild, he actually started to laugh.
"Skeeter Jackson," Margo asked sharply, "what are you thinking?"
"He wants Jenna Caddrick and Noah Armstrong. So, let's give him what he wants."
"What?" Jenna came out of her chair so fast, it crashed over. "Are you insane?"
"No," Skeeter said mildly, "although I know a few people who might argue the 
point. When your father showed up, he mistook me for Noah. And Paula Booker's 
here in London with us. Kit insisted she come along."
Margo gasped. "Skeeter! You're not thinking what I think you're thinking?"
Malcolm moved sharply. "You do realize the risk?"
"Oh, yeah," Skeeter said very softly. "But do you have a better way to trick him 
into trying to commit murder, without risking the real Noah Armstrong's life? 
Not to mention Marcus and Ianira and the children, and Miss Caddrick, here. 
Noah's got to testify. He's the only one who can put a noose around Caddrick's 
neck. We can't risk Noah, but we can sure as hell hand Sid Kaederman a 
life-sized decoy. If you have any better ideas, I'm all ears."
Malcolm didn't. Neither did anybody else.
"All right," Malcolm said tersely. "I'll have to get him out of the road long 
enough for Paula to work her magic on your features. When Kaederman tries to 
murder you, we'll nab Kaederman, dead to rights, with enough evidence to hang 
him."
"Where do we spring the trap?" Margo asked, brow furrowing slightly as she 
considered the problem.
"Someplace open enough to give him a shot at Mr. Jackson," Malcolm mused, "but 
not so open he could give us the slip too easily. A public place, with plenty of 
witnesses, but not a crowd so large he can lose himself in it."
"Train stations are out, then," Margo frowned. "Victoria Embankment or maybe 
Chelsea Embankment?"
Malcolm shook his head. "Access to the water taxis is too great. He could jump 
into a waterman's boat and be gone before we could lay hands on him. It'll have 
to be someplace he wouldn't expect a trap. A place we could tell him we've found 
a clue to Armstrong's whereabouts and have him believe it without question."
"What about the Serpentine? Or Boating Lake in Battersea? We could say he's been 
seen there with Ianira and the children."
"I've got a better idea," Skeeter said suddenly. "We tell Kaederman you've 
discovered the counterfeit banknotes, which is something Kit and I kept secret. 
So we tell him you're running short of cash. Kaederman already knows you're in 
disguise as a man, Miss Caddrick, and we also know that Noah Armstrong can 
assume any disguise he feels like, male or female. So the two of you have been 
hitting the gentlemen's clubs, gambling, as a way to dump the counterfeits and 
make up your losses, fast."
Jenna frowned. "Gambling? But why would we do that? Gambling is a good way to 
lose money."
"Not—" Skeeter grinned, abruptly merry as any imp, "—if you cheat."
 
Chapter Fifteen
The tunnels beneath Frontier Town were a maze of immense glass aquaria, ranks 
upon tiers of them, which had been empty the last time Kit had searched 
Shangri-La Station's basement. Now they held all the live fish the station could 
import through its gates. Between the flock of crow-sized pterodactyls and 
toothed, primitive birds and the enormous pteranodon sternbergi, whose wingspan 
rivalled that of a small airplane, pest control had been hard pressed to import 
enough fish. Sue Fritchey had turned the corridors and tunnels beneath Little 
Agora and Frontier Town into a miniature biological preserve where pterodactyl 
lunches swam by the thousands.
In this dim-lit world of glass walls and gleaming fish scales and the patterned 
reflections of water on tunnel walls and ceilings, the caged sternbergi's weird, 
primordial cries vibrated eerily against the stacked aquaria, each cry drifting 
through the basement corridors like the soundtrack from a bad horror flick. The 
noise set teeth on edge as once-extinct screams echoed and reverberated for 
hundreds of yards in every direction, distorted by distance, inexpressibly 
strange.
Kit hunted the alien terrain with a team of four, Sven Bailey and Kit out front 
with riot shotguns, Kynan and Eigil behind them with bladed weapons and a couple 
of old-style wooden baseball bats, to reduce the chances that an attack would 
put friends in the line of fire. They had searched about a hundred yards of 
cluttered corridor, finding no trace of Jack the Ripper or his manaical 
worshippers, when they came to an intersecting tunnel. Kit held up a hand. "Stay 
back until I've had a look."
He had just eased to the corner when they came boiling out of hiding, at least a 
dozen of them, brandishing knives and hurling murderous threats into Kit's 
teeth. Kit fired into the thick of them. Men screamed and went down as Sven, 
too, loosed off a load of buckshot. A baseball bat smashed into an aquarium at 
Kit's elbow. Water and wriggling fish flooded the corridor floor, stained red 
where several attackers had fallen, gutshot and screaming. Kit fired again, 
trying to drive the madmen back. Eigil was shouting in Old Norse; the Viking 
barsark was lopping off limbs and smashing more aquaria to the floor. Screams 
and moans echoed amidst the shattering noise of smashing glass. Then the Ripper 
cult broke and ran, with Sven and Kit hard on their heels. Eigil and Kynan, 
their borrowed weapons dripping blood, were right behind.
Pounding footsteps echoed, distorted by the piled aquaria. Kit put on a burst of 
speed, rounded a corner on Sven's heels, and piled into the middle of a seething 
mass of bodies. The Ripper cult had turned at bay, blocked by the massive bulk 
of the pteranodon sternbergi's cage. Kit slammed into a would-be killer and they 
reeled against the cage. The gigantic pterosaur screamed, shattering eardrums, 
and lunged in a state of maddened agitation. The immense beak, longer than a 
man's body, shot between the bars as Kit flung himself aside. The Ripper cultist 
screamed, impaled on a razor-sharp beak. The sternbergi reared backwards, 
scraping the body off against the bars. Kit staggered off balance, buffeted by 
the backdraft of immense leathery wings. One of the cultists snarled and slashed 
at his throat. Kit dropped to the floor, under the blow, and fired his riotgun 
upwards into the man's gut. Kit's attacker reeled backwards against the bars, 
then screamed and dropped his knife as the pterosaur struck again, its wicked 
eye gleaming like a poisoned ruby. Its beak snapped shut with a clacking sound 
like two-by-fours cracking, taking off the man's arm at the elbow. He screamed 
and went down in a puddle of arterial spurts.
Kit rolled, trying to come to his feet, and heard Sven's shotgun roar. More 
screams rose, then a group of men burst around the corner and slammed full-tilt 
into the battle. Kit caught a glimpse of flying burnooses and grim, dark Arabic 
faces, then Mr. Riyad, foreman of the Arabian Nights construction crew, was 
fighting his way to Kit's side. A group of his workmen, proven innocent of 
terrorist affiliations, mopped up the remnants of resistance. Kit staggered to 
his feet, wiping sweat and someone else's blood, and met Mr. Riyad's gaze.
"Am I glad to see you," he gasped out.
"We came as quickly as we could, when we heard the screams and the shooting."
"Thank God."
They'd taken five men alive, having left a trail of nine dead and wounded behind 
them. Kit fumbled with his radio. "Code Seven Red, Zone Eleven. We've got 
prisoners and a helluva mess, down by the sternbergi's cage."
"Roger, Zone Eleven. Sending reinforcements."
"Better get a medical team down here and tell Sue Fritchey to bring a 
tranquilizer gun. The sternbergi's out of control." The immense pterosaur was 
still screaming and trying to attack anything that moved near its cage.
"Copy that, we'll do what we can. We've got casualties all over the station."
"Roger, understood. Anybody find Lachley yet?"
"Negative.
"He's not with this group, either. We'll keep searching once we've turned these 
guys over to security. Kit out."
"Roger, security out."
As Kit clipped the radio to his belt, Pest Control arrived with a dart gun. They 
shot three separate tranks into the immense pterosaur, which gradually ceased 
hurling itself against the bars. Its wings and head drooped to the cage floor, 
its baleful ruby eye heavy lidded and closing. Security arrived a moment later, 
taking charge of prisoners with rough efficiency. The battered cultists stumbled 
off in handcuffs and shackles, too dazed to protest. Pest Control agents opened 
up the cage and began treating lacerations on the sternbergi's hide and wings. A 
weird grunting moan issued from the pterosaur's immense throat, then its wicked 
little eyes closed completely and it lost consciousness.
"We'd better regroup and keep searching," Kit sighed.
The construction foreman nodded. "Yes. We should perhaps search together, this 
time? These men are completely mad," Riyad gestured at the dead Ripper cultists. 
"They fight like demons."
Sven Bailey, who was wiping blood off Kynan's gladius while Kynan wrapped a 
shallow cut in his ribs with makeshift bandages, muttered, "You just said a 
cotton-pickin' mouthful. Never saw anything like it."
They sorted themselves out, then spread into a loose fan, moving down the 
corridor past the open cage. As they searched, grim and silent, Kit couldn't 
help worrying about Margo's safety in London and cursed himself for not asking 
Dr. Feroz. He'd have to wait, now, because he couldn't clutter up security 
channels with a personal request. Besides, he needed to focus his entire 
attention on this lethal search for the Ripper and his maniacal followers. So 
Kit thrust the worry aside as best he could, telling himself that she was in 
good company with Malcolm and Skeeter, and kept hunting.
* * *
"You want me to what?" Paula Booker stared.
Skeeter grinned. "I want you to make me look like Noah Armstrong."
She blinked at him, eyes still blank with astonisment. "Here? In Spaldergate 
House?"
"Yeah. Here. Tonight, after everyone has gone to bed. Mrs. Aldis, the 
housekeeper, will let us into the vault, that's no problem. It's a little 
crowded right now, because the Ripper Watch Team is down there, but we won't be 
in their way. They aren't using the surgery, in any case, just the computer 
facilities. The surgery's modern, has all the amenities. And Mrs. Aldis is a 
surgical nurse, assists Dr. Nerian all the time."
"I know that," Paula said impatiently. "I've been down there already. But . . . 
Tonight?" The request had clearly thrown her off stride. Clearly, she thought 
Skeeter had taken leave of his senses.
He let his grin fade away. "Paula, we learned something tonight that . . . Well, 
let's just say I'm not going to sleep very well 'til this is over. Sid Kaederman 
isn't what he's pretending to be. If we don't trick him into giving himself 
away, he will literally get away with murder. And if we don't stop him, it'll be 
Ianira and Marcus on his hit list, them and their kids. And that's just for 
starters. This is one helluva mess we're stuck in, Paula. Believe me, I wouldn't 
ask you to rearrange my face with a scalpel if it weren't necessary. I happen to 
like my face, whatever anyone else thinks of it."
Paula Booker's eyes widened. "You found them, didn't you?"
"Shh!" he motioned frantically to keep her voice down.
She darted a worried glance at her closed bedroom door. Like Skeeter, she was on 
the third floor, bunking in the servants' quarters. Sid Kaederman, as a VIP, had 
been given the last available room on the "family" floor, one level down and at 
the opposite end of the house, overlooking Octavia Street rather than the 
rain-choked gardens at the back.
Paula whispered more carefully, "You did find them today, didn't you?"
Skeeter nodded. "Yeah. They're mostly all right. Once you're finished 
rearranging my face, though, Malcolm wants to talk to you. He wants you to run a 
checkup on everyone, make sure no lasting damage has been done. Particularly 
Ianira. She's had a rough time in London. Malcolm will explain all that later. 
Right now, I need that new face, so we can lay a trap for Kaederman. The sooner 
he's in cuffs, the sooner we can all go home."
Paula sighed, pushing back her hair in a weary gesture. "All right, Skeeter. I 
don't have everything I'd like, not to do a face job of that magnitude, but I 
think we can do a creditable job of making you look like Armstrong. Enough to 
suit, anyway. Fortunately, your bone structure and coloring are very similar, as 
you've pointed out. And we do have good photos of Armstrong to work from. 
That'll help. Let me get my medical bag. I brought through a lot of instruments 
and medicines to supplement Spaldergate's supply. You realize, this is going to 
put you out of commission for about a week? It'll take that long for the 
swelling and bruising to fade and the stitches to heal where I nip and tuck."
"Yeah, we figured it would take a while. That'll give Malcolm and the others a 
chance to lay the trap for Sid. And it'll give you time to work with Ianira, 
too."
"All right, Skeeter. We'll have to tell Sid something so he won't grow 
suspicious about your absence."
Skeeter nodded. "We'll spread the word I was hit by a carriage or a wagon and 
had to be rushed into surgery."
"That should work. Let's go down to the Vault, then, and get started."
Eight hours later, Skeeter woke up in recovery to a dull throb of pain all 
through his face and the muffling, claustrophobic feel of bandages. As he swam 
toward full consciousness, with the sounds of a heart monitor beeping somewhere 
beside his ear, his gaze focused slowly on Margo, who sat beside his bed.
"Hi," she said quietly. "Don't try to say anything, Skeeter."
He wouldn't have moved his face on a dare.
"Sid bought the story about you being hit by a freight wagon. The creep actually 
chuckled and said it was about time you got your comeuppance. Malcolm was 
extremely rude to him."
That surprised Skeeter, even as it warmed his heart. He still couldn't get used 
to the idea that Malcolm Moore and Margo Smith were giving him their friendship. 
Margo smiled. "Paula's gone to Spitalfields to check up on Ianira and the 
others. They're all moving to Malcolm's flat in Belgravia, just in case there's 
trouble about the counterfeit banknotes."
Skeeter regretted the necessity of ruining his friends' down-time cover.
Margo patted his hand gently, taking care not to disturb the I.V. leads. "Rest 
for now, Skeeter. We've got everything under control. I'll visit again tonight, 
after Paula gets back." She gave him a cheery smile, then vanished from his line 
of sight. Dr. Nerian appeared and spent several moments fussing with his I.V. 
lines, then injected something into the heplock. Whatever it was, it eased the 
deep ache in his face and left him drifting.
Skeeter fell asleep wondering what he really would look like, a week from now.
* * *
Goldie Morran was having the worst week of her life. I.T.C.H. agents had been 
prowling through her books, finding discrepancies she would have to explain, and 
Interpol agents had been breathing down her neck, curious in the wake of the 
Inter-Temporal Court's investigation. She would have been deeply thankful for 
the reprieve brought about by the Ripper, but for one detail. The entire station 
was locked down, leaving her trapped for three solid days in her shop, which 
she'd had the foresight to equip with a well-stocked back room, including a 
convertible sofa bed, a wet bar, and plenty of food. 
But all business was suspended for the duration of the search, which meant she 
was losing thousands of dollars, same as every other merchant on station. So 
Goldie sat in her back room in splendid solitude, listening to her Carolina 
parakeets chirp, tried to straighten out her books, and brooded over what news 
might arrive about Jenna Caddrick when the Britannia Gate opened again.
Skeeter, thank God, had kept his mouth shut about the counterfeits, but Goldie 
was terrified she would end up facing charges over them. She hadn't done 
anything so very wrong—she hadn't printed them, after all. She'd simply tried to 
recoup some of her own losses, passing them to that idiot, Benny Catlin. Goldie 
cursed her luck and poured another brandy from her rapidly dwindling supply. 
Who'd have dreamed that moronic little graduate student would turn out to be 
Jenna Nicole Caddrick, in disguise? Making an enemy of Senator John Caddrick was 
a dreadful business move. Worse, even, than attracting the attention of Interpol 
agents and the Inter-Temporal Court.
Her nerves were so frayed, when the telephone rang she actually dropped her 
brandy snifter from nerveless fingers. She left it lying on the carpet and 
lunged out into the shop where the telephone sat. "Goldie Morran!" Her voice 
came out breathless and unsteady.
"Goldie? Mike Benson, here. No wonder we didn't get an answer at your apartment. 
How long have you been trapped in your shop?"
"Since that maniac arrived, of course!"
"We're conducting a room-by-room search of the station. You're alone, I take 
it."
"Of course I'm alone! Did you think I'd be giving wild parties, back here? I 
want out of this shop, Mike. Send somebody over here to escort me home, for 
God's sake."
"I'll send someone," Benson retorted, "to search your shop, then your 
apartment."
"Thanks for the royal treatment!"
"Don't mention it, Goldie. Be ready to unlock your door."
"I'll be waiting," she promised grimly.
Five minutes later, a young BATF officer arrived, security radio in hand. Goldie 
unlocked her doors and stood tapping one foot impatiently while he searched her 
shop. She followed him into the vault to be sure he didn't appropriate anything.
"Nice birds," he commented with an avaricious twinkle in his eyes. "Carolina 
parakeets, aren't they?" He scribbled something into a notebook. "Mr. Wilkes 
will be very interested. He loves birds, you know." The arrogant booby was 
laughing at her.
Goldie seethed. It was perfectly legal for her to have them on station. But 
Monty, curse him, would be watching her like a hawk from now on, curtailing her 
profitable sideline in viable egg smuggling.
"All right, you can lock up, now," he said, snapping his notebook shut and 
pocketing it. She closed the vault door while he radioed in that her shop was 
clear. "I'll escort Miss Morran to her apartment and clear that, as well."
"Roger."
They left through the front door, which she bolted, then she rattled down the 
big steel mesh doors and locked them, as well. "I can't tell you how much I'm 
looking foward to a hot shower and a real bed," she muttered.
"You think you've had it rough," the BATF officer complained. "We've been 
running on two hours of sleep a day since that maniac got here. And things were 
no picnic before he crashed the Britannia."
They hurried across Valhalla, the fastest way to reach the section of 
Residential where Goldie lived. The emptiness of Commons was downright eerie. 
Their footsteps echoed. She could hear other security patrols in the distance, 
mostly when their radios sputtered where patrols reported in. "How much of the 
station has been searched?" she asked uneasily as they started around the end of 
the big wooden ship housing the vacant Langskip Cafe—
They ran slap into someone coming the other way. Goldie staggered under the 
impact. She had only a split second to register wild, inhuman eyes in a narrow, 
darkly Eastern-European face, then a wicked knife flashed and the BATF officer 
went down, throat cut to bone. Goldie drew breath to scream and he slammed her 
against the wooden hull of the ship. She hung there, stunned, while he pressed a 
gore-covered hand across her mouth and nose. She choked on the stink of blood.
"Do you live here?" he hissed.
Goldie nodded, so terrified she could barely keep her feet. He dragged her away 
from the ship, shoved the knife against her ribs, and stooped to secure the dead 
BATF officer's radio and pistol. He then marched her rapidly across Commons 
toward a Residential corridor. "My followers have told me much about your 
Primary Gate. Unfortunately, your guards have deprived me of my acolytes, so you 
will have to assist me through that gate. Take me there. And hurry up, bitch! 
The gate goes in ten minutes."
She glanced despairingly at her shop, safe behind its locks and steel-mesh 
doors. If she could get to the shop, she could trip the silent alarm, summon 
help. And she kept a pistol in the shop. When she tried to change direction, he 
pressed the knife against her ribs again. "Not that way! I saw him take you from 
your shop. I shan't allow you to summon help, woman, a fact you had better learn 
now. Take me to Primary, by a safe route. If you do not oblige me quickly, I 
will find someone else." The blade cut through her blouse. "Do you understand 
me?"
She nodded, still half-choked by the bloodstained hand pressed across her mouth. 
The entire left side of her face ached, where he'd slammed her against the side 
of the Langskip, and her eye was starting to swell closed. Senses whirling, 
Goldie took the nearest route into Residential, moving woodenly along with the 
Ripper's knife under her ribcage. Goldie staggered frequently, but her captor 
made no offer to assist her. He simply held the knife against her ribs and 
hissed, "Cry out and I will kill you where you stand." She guided the killer 
through twisting corridors until they reached a passageway that emerged at the 
junction between Edo Castletown and Primary Precinct.
She pointed toward the gate, since he hadn't freed her mouth.
He eased to the corner and peered around, surveying the stretch of open Commons 
beyond. Goldie, too exhausted even to try running, hung in his grip and waited 
to die. Tremors threatened to send her to the floor even sooner. As she sagged 
against the wall, waiting, the public address system blared to life.
"Your attention, please. Primary is due to open in three minutes. Be advised, 
all station passes through Primary have been revoked for the duration of this 
emergency. Remain in your hotel room or your current place of shelter with the 
door locked. Do not make any attempt to reach Primary . . ."
The Ripper jerked Goldie around to face him. "Explain this!" He laid the sharp 
steel against her throat and drew his hand away from her mouth.
She shook her head in a stupor. "They've shut down the station," she mumbled, 
voice shaking. "Locked down all the gates, so no one can leave. They'll have 
security officers swarming all over Primary, to keep anyone from coming in or 
going out."
Goldie could, in fact, see a whole cordon of security officers blocking the gate 
access, armed to the teeth with riot guns. The Ripper swore savagely, then gazed 
down at her through cold, implacable grey eyes. "You said you live in this 
insane place?"
"Yes—"
"Where?"
"Back—back that way."
"Take me there!"
Goldie's heart sank. Tears blinded her. "Please don't kill me . . ."
"Stop snivelling, you stupid harridan! If I had intended to kill you, I would 
have cut your throat already. Since my worshippers have been killed or taken 
prisoner by your station guards, I require shelter and someone to explain the 
operation of this infernal place! Now take me to your flat or I'll find another 
hostage!"
Goldie limped toward her distant apartment, hardly able to keep to her feet. By 
the time they reached it she was weaving so badly, all that kept her on her feet 
was his monstrous grip on her arm. She stumbled to a trembling halt in front of 
her door.
"Open it."
She fumbled with the lock, turning the key from her pocket, then he kicked the 
door farther open, dragging Goldie inside and shutting the door with a slam that 
echoed. He hunted through the apartment swiftly, then shoved Goldie into the 
bedroom. He threw her onto the bed and tied her to it, leaving her shaking in a 
film of sweat.
"Have you a name?"
"G-Goldie Morran . . ."
"What trade are you in?"
Humor him . . . that's what they always say, humor a madman . . . 
"I change currency," she quavered out. "Up-time money for whatever a tourist 
needs down a gate . . ."
"Tell me how to operate this device." He held up the stolen security radio.
"You press the talk button," she gulped. "Then someone from security answers."
He pressed the button. The radio sputtered. "Security."
"I've searched Goldie Morran's rooms. There's no one here."
"Roger."
Even if she'd dared scream for help while the radio was live, he gave her no 
chance, switching it off immediately and setting it down on her dresser. He 
considered her coldly where she lay sprawled, bound hand and foot to her own 
bed. "Where might I find a map of this accursed place?"
Goldie swallowed down a dry throat. "The computer would be best."
She had to show him how to use it. He tied her to the bed again, afterward, then 
returned to the living room and spent hours sitting in front of Goldie's 
computer. She heard keys clicking, listened numbly through a haze of terror to 
his soft-voiced verbal commands, not really taking in anything he said. Then the 
living room fell silent. Goldie strained to hear, trying to catch any hint of 
movement beyond the open bedroom door. Nothing came to her ears except the hum 
of the air-conditioning fan.
How long she lay rigid on the rumpled bedspread, Goldie wasn't sure. She 
couldn't see a clock from her angle. Pain and fright began taking their toll of 
her strength. She was nearly unconscious when the sound of footsteps jolted her 
back to full awareness. Oh, God, he's back, he's going to hack me to pieces . . 
. 
The Ripper smiled down at her. "You've done very well, my dear. Now, then, show 
me how to operate the devices in your kitchen. I could use a cup of tea."
"I'm in pain," Goldie whimpered. "I can't feel my feet and hands and my eye is 
swelling shut."
He frowned slightly, then pulled loose her bonds. He examined her ankles and 
wrists, then traced the extent of the bruising along her face with surprising 
gentleness. "Mmm . . . A bit swollen and there will be a bad bruise, I fear, but 
you're in no danger of losing the eye. Beg pardon for handling you so roughly. 
Have you an icebox?"
Goldie stared, trying to comprehend the shift of attitude. "What?"
"An icebox. You need a cold compress to bring down the swelling. And a tincture 
of laudanum would ease the discomfort. I fear I left my medical bag in London."
Goldie managed to whisper, "I don't keep any laudanum. You need a prescription 
for something like that. There's ice in the freezer. In the kitchen."
He tied her to the bed again, although less tightly than before and he wrapped 
her wrists and ankles first with scarves from her closet to keep the skin from 
chafing, then headed for the kitchen. She heard rummaging sounds as he searched 
through cabinets and finally tried the freezer door. "Ah . . . What an ingenious 
device! How is it powered, I wonder?" She heard the clink and rattle of ice 
cubes, then the hush of running water. A moment later, he was back in the 
bedroom, carrying a wet towel packed with ice cubes. He laid it carefully 
against her face, stroked her hair back from her cheeks and tested her pulse. 
"You've suffered a shock, dear lady. We really must bring the pain level down."
"In the bathroom," Goldie whispered. "Aspirin . . ." Nausea and pain were 
setting the room to lurching like a capsized boat.
More sounds of rummaging drifted to her, then he forced something between her 
lips and held a water glass to her mouth. She choked and swallowed a handful of 
aspirin tablets. He covered her warmly with her own blankets and checked the 
icepack, as though genuinely concerned for her welfare. Goldie closed her eyes 
as he searched her closets and bureau drawers, whistling contentedly to himself. 
"Have you been through many gates?" he asked at length, rousing her from near 
stupor.
"No. I don't go down time." Not since that disastrous trip to New Orleans a few 
years back. The gate had gone unexpectedly unstable, forcing her to leave behind 
a young historian she'd taken with her. She'd felt worse pangs of guilt, 
trapping him there, than she'd ever felt in her life, but there really hadn't 
been anything she could have done, or anyone else, for that matter. "I stay on 
the station and run my shop," she added with a shiver.
"Ah. How soon before Primary opens again?" he asked at length.
"Three days."
"In that case, my dear Mrs. Morran, make yourself comfortable while I learn the 
vagaries of your ingenious cookstove."
Goldie lost consciousness to the sound of rattling pots and pans.
* * *
Six days after Skeeter's surgery, on the tenth of October, Malcolm baited the 
trap. Sid Kaederman had made no secret of his disgust with the lack of modern 
amenities and repeatedly criticized the search efforts in scathing terms when 
Malcolm and Margo returned to Spaldergate each night to report their "lack" of 
progess. When Skeeter's new face was finally healed and ready, Malcolm returned 
to Spaldergate with news of a major and unexpected "break" in the case: 
Armstrong had been spotted.
"Who saw the bastard?" Kaederman asked eagerly. "Where?"
"An inquiry agent," Malcolm said smoothly. "We ran across the chap this 
afternoon. Runs a small agency out of Middlesex Street. He's done work for hire 
before, on behalf of Spaldergate."
"What did he say? How did he find Armstrong?"
Malcolm poured brandy as he explained. "Essentially, he was hired by an irate 
merchant to discover who'd been passing counterfeit banknotes."
"Counterfeit banknotes?" Kaederman's brows twitched upward in startlement. 
"Indeed. It seems the money changer he used on station was somewhat less than 
scrupulously honest. She slipped a number of counterfeit banknotes in amongst 
the genuine article. Just before Skeeter Jackson left the station, the money 
changer asked Mr. Jackson to look into it for her. She was afraid Jenna Caddrick 
might have been arrested for passing counterfeit money. We'd hired this 
particular inquiry agent before, looking for Benny Catlin, so this afternoon I 
hunted him up. Mr. Shannon had been hired recently by a local merchant, trying 
to trace a foreigner passing fake banknotes. The merchant was irate, wanted to 
find the counterfeiter to recover substantial losses."
Sid Kaederman laughed quietly, utterly delighted, judging from the glint in his 
eyes. "Imagine Armstrong's shock when he discovers he was swindled by a money 
changer!"
Malcolm frowned. "You appear to misapprehend this situation. Counterfeiting is a 
serious charge, Kaederman. If we don't get to Armstrong before the police, he 
will be in more trouble than we'll be able to get him out of—and God knows what 
that will mean in terms of recovering his hostages. We must move quickly. Mr. 
Shannon has identified him and only a substantial bribe kept him from reporting 
what he's learned to his client and the police."
"Where's he hiding?"
"He was staying somewhere in the East End, but moved out of his lodgings very 
suddenly, with his entire family—or rather, obviously, his hostages. According 
to Shannon, Armstrong has discovered the difficulty with his cash supply and may 
well have passed counterfeits to his landlord without realizing it. Clearly, he 
wanted to disappear before his landlord could create trouble. Shannon managed to 
locate him again and saw him purchase a fancy suit and silk top hat. Armstrong 
subsequently wrangled an introduction at one of the Pall Mall gentlemen's clubs 
and has been gambling at the gaming tables. Loses here, wins big there."
"Sounds like he's trying to get rid of the counterfeits without having to go to 
a bank."
"Precisely. Which means we should be able to lay hands on him tonight, when he 
returns to the gaming tables. Shannon overheard him make an appointment with 
some of his new acquaintances for the Carlton Club tonight. Unfortunately, when 
Armstrong took the underground railway out of Blackfriars Station, Shannon lost 
him in the crush of the crowds, so we still don't know where he's moved the 
hostages."
Kaderman ignored that last piece of information, eyes glinting with feral 
excitement as he latched onto the useful item in Malcolm's story. "Tonight! The 
Carlton Club, where's that?"
"Pall Mall, just west of Waterloo Place. All the fashionable gentlemen's clubs 
are found in Waterloo Place and Pall Mall. It's an ideal setup to pass 
counterfeit banknotes. So much money changes hands at the gaming tables, a man 
would be hard pressed to determine just who had passed the counterfeits. Are you 
a gambler, Mr. Kaederman?"
A small, secretive smile came and went. "Often."
"Might I suggest, then, that we arrange to play cards this evening?"
Kaederman chuckled. "With pleasure."
"I'll arrange for a hansom cab to take us down at eight o'clock, then."
"I'll be ready."
Malcolm wondered if Kaederman would wait until they approached "Armstrong" at 
the Carlton Club's gaming tables or if he'd try a hit from some distance, before 
his victim could realize Kaederman was there. They hadn't been able to search 
Kaederman's luggage—he kept both his room and his cases locked—so he could 
easily have any number of modern weapons stashed away. They were putting Skeeter 
in body armor, which Kit had thoughtfully sent along, but Malcolm still worried 
over the problem like a Staffordshire terrier with a soup bone. He hoped Skeeter 
knew what they were all doing. Far too many lives were riding on the outcome of 
this trap, Margo's and Malcolm's own, among them. With a final worried glance at 
Sid Kaederman, Malcolm arranged for the hired carriage and settled down to wait 
for showtime.
* * *
Skeeter fiddled nervously with his watch fob as he climbed out of the 
Spaldergate barouche into the elegant bustle of Pall Mall. He was a man 
transformed. His formal black jacket was the forerunner of the modern tuxedo and 
his diamond horseshoe stick pin, high collar, and heavy gold watch and chain 
marked him as a man of considerable wealth. The expensive macassar oil that 
slicked his hair back glinted in the dying light of sunset as his reflection 
wavered in the Carlton Club's windows. He did an involuntary double-take—his new 
face startled Skeeter every time he glanced into a reflective surface.
At least the swelling had gone down where Paula had tugged and snipped his flesh 
into a different shape, and the bruises had faded. He could even talk without 
pain and had finally graduated to solid foods after nearly a week on liquids, 
unable to chew without the aid of opiates. As the Spaldergate House carriage 
rattled away, returning to the gatehouse, Skeeter told the butterflies in his 
belly to settle down and behave. Any other night, he would've been thrilled 
beyond measure to play the role of wealthy gambler in one of London's finest 
gaming establishments. But springing a trap on Sid Kaederman left Skeeter scared 
to the bottom of his wild, adopted-Mongol heart. He'd accepted the risks when 
he'd set this in motion, but that didn't stop every monarch and swallowtail 
butterfly in the northern hemisphere from doing a rumba under his ribs.
Douglas Tanglewood, the Time Tours guide assigned to Skeeter for the night, 
flashed him a wan smile. "Feeling a bit keyed up?"
"A little."
"It's to be expected," Tanglewood said with forced cheeriness. The guide had 
been pressed into service with a critical role to play. He would provide Skeeter 
with the necessary introductions at the Carlton Club, since Malcolm had another 
mission tonight. Malcolm was bringing in Kaederman. As they crossed the pavement 
toward the Carlton Club's doorman, Tanglewood kept darting glances at Skeeter, 
clearly disturbed at seeing him wearing another man's features.
The entrance to the Carlton Club was crowded with laughing gentlemen, opportuned 
on all sides by unfortunates who made their living—such as it was—off the spare 
change flowing like wine through Pall Mall. Bootblacks and eel-pie vendors 
jostled shoulders with flower girls, all crying their wares while newsboys 
hawked the latest shocking reports out of Whitechapel. Skeeter spotted Margo in 
heavy disguise as a bootblack boy, diligently polishing some gentleman's shoes 
in the glow from the club's gaslights. Her unsuspecting customer had stepped up 
with one foot on her overturned wooden box, reading his newspaper while Margo 
darted quick looks through the crowd.
Margo caught his gaze and nodded imperceptibly. Skeeter nodded back, then 
followed Tanglewood into the opulent interior of the Carlton Club. The Time 
Tours guide greeted the liveried doorman by name as the man opened massive 
mahogany doors. "Good evening, Fitzwilliam. I've brought a guest this evening, 
Mr. Cartwright, of America."
Fitzwilliam accepted a small tip from Tanglewood's gloved hand. "Good evening, 
sir." The doorman spoke politely, his accent as carefully cultured as his 
gleaming livery. "Welcome to the Carlton Club."
"Thank you." The instant Skeeter stepped across the threshold, he knew he had 
just walked into money. The game rooms were in full swing with lively 
conversation and gambling activities, the air thick with cigar smoke and the 
smell of wealth. Skeeter and his guide checked their overcoats and wandered 
through the busy rooms to acquaint themselves with the club's floor plan, then 
paused at a craps table where Skeeter tossed a few rounds, just to "keep the 
hand in." He paid his losses with a polite smile, then, as they walked off, 
muttered, "Don't play that table. I tossed four sets of dice and every one of 
'em was loaded."
The Time Tours guide shot him a startled stare. "What?"
Skeeter chuckled. "Never try to con a con. He'll spot you every time. The first 
ones I tossed were weighted, probably with a mercury tumbler inside. Did you 
notice how that portly guy with the mutton chops kept tapping them? Dead 
giveaway. It's why I asked for a new set. Second pair was shaved on the edges. I 
could feel where they'd been rounded off on all corners but two. That means a 
better chance they'll roll until they hit a true squared edge, skewing the 
odds."
Tanglewood was gaping at him.
"Then there was a set where they'd shaved a few of the faces just slightly 
convex, causing 'em to tumble more readily along the bulged sides. The one 
concave face creates just the tiniest vacuum against the table's surface, 
causing the die to land on that face. Wouldn't happen every time, of course, but 
over a long enough period of throws, you'd get a consistent win. Or loss, if 
you're trying to prevent sevens or elevens from showing."
"And the fourth pair?" Tanglewood asked, visibly astonished.
"Weighted again, very subtle, though. The paint didn't quite match on all the 
dots. Your basic slick operator made those. Used heavy lead paint on the dots 
for the sixes on that pair, so they'd consistently end up on the bottom." 
Skeeter gave the gaming room they'd just left a disgusted glance. "I didn't say 
anything, because we're not here to create a scene and I didn't particularly 
feel like getting involved in a duel of honor with some stiff-necked British 
lord. But I think I'll avoid the craps tables from now on, thank you."
"Good God, Jackson. Where do you learn such things? No, don't answer that. I'm 
not sure I want to know. Ever consider a career as a detective?"
"As a matter of fact," Skeeter chuckled, "Kit Carson hired me to work security 
for the Neo Edo."
Tanglewood let out a low whistle. "I am impressed."
Ten minutes later, Tanglewood had introduced him as "Mr. Cartwright, of New York 
City, America" at the card tables and Skeeter found himself wallowing happily in 
a rip-snorting game of stud with the scions of several noble houses, all of them 
happy as clams to be playing "cowboy poker" with a genuine Yank. In the third 
hand, one of the players lit a thin, black cigar and gave Skeeter a friendly 
glance. "I was in America, once, had business in San Francisco. Met a fellow 
there who played this game very well, indeed. Perhaps you know him, if you've 
played cards widely over there?"
Skeeter glanced up. "What was his name?"
"Kiplinger. Mr. Kiplinger."
Skeeter sat back in his chair. "Kiplinger? Why, yes, I have heard of him, 
although we've never met." The corners of his lips twitched. "Quite a gambler, 
Mr. Kiplinger." Skeeter's eyes twinkled as a positively wicked mood stole over 
him. "Do you suppose you'll ever be going back to San Francisco, sir?"
The card player smiled. "No, Mr. Cartwright, I think it exceedingly unlikely. An 
uncle of mine had gone out there during the Gold Rush of '49, you see, made a 
fortune selling whiskey and victuals to the miners. Parlayed it into an 
astonishing sum, buying shares in mining operations. When he died last year, I 
went out to see to the estate, since I was named in his will. He'd never 
married, poor old Uncle Charles, left a fortune with no heirs but a nephew. 
Black sheep of a very fine family, let me tell you. But he added ten thousand 
per annum to my baronetcy when he passed on. Quite an astounding country, 
America."
Skeeter grinned. "Well, since you don't plan on going back, mind if I let you in 
on Mr. Kiplinger's secret? Quite a scandal it was, too. Happened just before I 
came over here." The other gentlemen at the table leaned foward, abruptly 
intent. Even Tanglewood, whose job was to keep watch for Malcolm and Kaederman, 
listened with keen interest. "Mr. Kiplinger," Skeeter warmed to his subject, "is 
what's known as a machine man."
"A machine man?" the baronet frowned. "What the deuce is a machine man?"
"In short, a cheat, a swindler, and a fraud. Maybe you've heard the term `ace up 
your sleeve'? Well, what Mr. Kiplinger did was invent an ingenious little 
machine that fit around his forearm and wrist. It had a little clip in the end 
of it, to hold a playing card or two, and it could be extended down along the 
inside of his wrist, like so," Skeeter pointed to his own forearm, "or pulled 
back again, to hide whatever cards he'd slipped into the clip. He tied a string 
to the end of the sliding arm of his machine, ran it down his coat and inside 
his trousers, to a little mechanism at his knees."
The gentlemen had forgotten their own cards, staring in open-mouthed delight.
"The devil you say! How did it operate?"
"The string was attached to a tiny little hook sewed to the inside knee of his 
other trouser leg. If he wanted to slide the arm of his machine down to his 
wrist, so he could palm a hidden card into his hand, he squeezed his knees 
together, which took the tension off the string and lowered the sliding arm with 
the cards clipped to it. When he wanted to sneak a card up his sleeve, all he 
had to do was pull his knees apart and presto! Away went the card, slick as a 
whistle. He practiced with that little contraption until he got so good at it, 
he could slip three or four cards into that clip during the course of a round of 
poker and nobody was the wiser."
The gentlemen at their table were gasping, both delighted and scandalized.
"Eventually," Skeeter chuckled, "he got greedy. About two months ago, it must've 
been, he decided to enter a really high-stakes poker game in San Francisco. And 
he kept winning. Every single hand. There were a number of very fine card 
players in that game, professional gamblers, all of them, and several of these 
professional gentlemen started to get just a little suspicious of Mr. Kiplinger 
and his phenomenal run of luck at the cards. So at a prearranged signal, they 
jumped him, dragged off his coat, and found his little machine with three aces 
and a queen clipped into it."
"Good God! Did they shoot him on the spot?"
"Oh, no." Skeeter grinned. "Not to say that didn't cross their minds, of course. 
Men have been shot for cheating less seriously than that. No, what they did was 
tell Mr. Kiplinger he had a choice. He could either die, right then and there, 
or he could earn his life back."
"How?" That from a heavy-jowled gentleman whose peerage earned him the right to 
wear a jewelled coronet in the presence of the sovereign. He'd told them so, 
within five minutes of their having joined the group.
Skeeter sat back, grinning triumphantly. "All he had to do was build one of 
these machines for each and every one of them. Which he did."
Laughter and exclamations of astonishment greeted the pronouncement.
"But I say, Cartwright, however did you find out about this?"
Skeeter laughed easily. "One of those fellows was my uncle. Black sheep of my 
family. Hell of a card player." He winked. "One hell of a card player."
Doug Tanglewood joined in the laughter as Skeeter scooted back his chair, 
gracefully slid off his coat and removed his cuffs, revealing no trace of Mr. 
Kiplinger's infernal contraption, then replaced cuff and cufflinks and evening 
coat and resumed his seat.
"All right, gentlemen, let's play poker, shall we?"
* * *
Kit was jolted from sleep by the insistent shrill of his telephone. He groped, 
bleary-eyed, for the receiver. "Mmph?"
"Kit? Are you awake?"
"No." He started to fumble the receiver back onto its cradle.
"Kit! Dammit, don't hang up, it's Bull Morgan. I need you in the aerie."
Kit hadn't slept more than ten hours during the last five days. In fact, he had 
just spent four of those days combing the station for Jack the Ripper, placating 
and browbeating by turns panic-stricken, infuriated tourists in the Neo Edo, and 
working gate control to keep any in-bound tourists from coming back into the 
station. Tours had backed up not only in New York, where in-bound tourists were 
refused admittance, but also in every down-time location TT-86 operated, leaving 
literally hundreds of tourists stranded down time, unable to return until the 
station neutralized the Ripper threat. Having just fallen into bed after nearly 
twenty hours of non-stop work, Kit told Bull Morgan exactly what he thought of 
the station manager's latest request. In graphic and shocking detail.
Unfortunately, Bull didn't speak medieval High German, which was Kit's favorite 
language for cursing. The moment he wound down, Bull said maddeningly, "Good. 
I'll see you in ten minutes. Caddrick's on his way with I.T.C.H. They're 
shutting us down, effective today, unless we can figure a way to stall 'em off."
"Oh, God . . ." Kit propped his eyelids open. "If I'm not there in ten, send an 
ambulance."
"Thanks, Kit. I owe you."
"You sure as hell do. I'll collect on this one, too, just see if I don't."
The line went dead and Kit crawled out of bed, feeling a certain kinship with a 
recently squashed garden slug. He dragged on the first clothes that came to 
hand, staggered in search of footgear, and finally stumbled out onto Commons, 
heading at a drunken pace for the aerie. He was halfway there, repeating to 
himself, I will not fall asleep on my feet every few seconds, before he woke up 
enough to realize he wore nothing but a loosely belted kimono that covered 
entirely too little of him and house slippers that had been new when Queen 
Elizabeth the First had taken the English throne. He'd stolen them, himself, 
from an Elizabethan house he'd entered under very unhappy circumstances.
"Ah, hell . . ." He pulled the belt tighter, which at least kept the more 
private bits of him from showing, and scowled at his hairy shins. No time to go 
back and change, now . . . He couldn't even stop somewhere and beg a pair of 
jeans. Commons remained eerily quiet, shops and restaurants resembling darkened 
caves behind their steel security-mesh doors. Scattered patrols of security, 
BATF, and Pest Control officers stood guard over major gates due to open, to be 
sure no one got into or out of the station. After that dead BATF officer had 
been found beside the Langskip Cafe, a few days back, not even Commons security 
forces made the rounds without partners along. A slow, door-to-door search of 
every hotel room and Residential apartment on station was underway, looking for 
both Lachley and a handful of Ripper cultists still at large, but the search was 
taking forever, with no guarantee that the Ripper wasn't simply changing 
lodgings to a room already cleared.
By the time Kit reached the aerie, he was almost asleep again, leaning against 
the elevator doors for the ride up from Commons. The elevator doors slid open, 
dumping Kit unceremoniously into the room. He staggered, recovered, and hitched 
the kimono around with an irritable twitch, then met the astonished gazes of 
John Caddrick, three armed bodyguards, and five I.T.C.H. agents impeccably 
attired—respectively—in six-thousand dollar suits and neatly pressed uniforms. 
Kit scratched absently at a thick growth of stubble, yawned, and wove his way 
toward a chair, where he promptly collapsed.
Caddrick glared. "You're drunk!"
"God, I wish," Kit muttered. "I just haven't been to bed in about five days. 
Thanks for waking me up. Now, what's this bullshit about closing Shangri-La?"
Caddrick glanced at the highest-ranking I.T.C.H. officer. "Agent Kirkegard has 
agreed to shut down this station. TT-86 is dangerously out of control, thanks to 
gross incompetence among the managerial staff."
Kit just looked at him. Then switched his attention to the immaculately groomed 
Kirkegard, her blond hair pulled back into a severe knot at the nape of her 
neck. "You wouldn't mind, would you, if I toss this jackass through the window?"
"This is not a time to joke!" she snapped.
"I'm not joking," Kit growled. "The only thing wrong with this station is John 
Caddrick's butt, sitting on it."
Bull Morgan stood up hastily, clearing his throat. "Kit, I know how hard you've 
been working during this crisis. I asked you to join this meeting to present 
your case as a station resident and business owner, before I.T.C.H. makes its 
final determination."
"I see. Tell you what," Kit leaned forward, holding Agent Kirkegard's gaze. "You 
people have been probing around in our books and our private vaults and auditing 
our tax returns until you've dug down to Himalayan bedrock. I'd like to issue 
you a real challenge."
"A challenge?" Kirkegard echoed, her Nordic brow creasing briefly.
"Yep. A real barn-burner. I'd like you to figure out why John Caddrick, here, 
would lie to the press, the FBI, Interpol, and I.T.C.H. about the circumstances 
of his little girl's disappearance."
For a long moment, utter silence reigned in the aerie. Every mouth in the room 
had dropped open, including Bull Morgan's. Kit was beyond caring if he'd just 
signed the station's death warrant—not to mention his own. He was simply too 
tired to keep pussyfooting around what he knew about Jenna Caddrick's vanishing 
act, and he was fresh out of other options. And it looked to Kit like he'd 
struck paydirt, with this one.
Senator Caddrick's face had utterly drained of color, leaving him virtually 
transparent for long instants. Then a scarlet flush darkened toward purple. He 
came out of his chair, snarling. "Why, you miserable, drunken, washed-up 
has-been! How dare you insinuate any such thing!"
"Sit down," Kit growled, "before you step close enough to call it assault and I 
retaliate in ways we'll all regret."
"Don't sit there and threaten me!"
"All right." Kit stood up. "I'll stand here and do it. Maybe you'd care to 
explain a few facts. You say your daughter's so-called kidnappers came to this 
station and tried to murder Ianira Cassondra, but we've got eye-witnesses who'll 
swear in court that your daughter came into this station of her own free will. 
Moreover, she came armed with a loaded revolver she used to kill the terrorist 
about to murder Ianira. Or what about Noah Armstrong, who's supposed to be a 
ringleader of these same terrorists? Armstrong shoved Ianira to safety, just as 
the man Jenna killed tried to shoot her. And why did Julius, not to mention 
Marcus and his children, voluntarily run to Denver with Noah Armstrong in 
disguise, smuggling the girls out in their luggage and setting up Julius as 
decoy for your daughter? For that matter, why was Jenna, who was supposed to be 
held hostage, allowed to wander around this station at will, changing money all 
by herself in Goldie Morran's shop just minutes before the gate departure? 
Furthermore, she strolled into Paula Booker's cosmetic surgical studio and paid 
for a new face, again totally on her own. She was all by herself when she 
stepped through the Britannia Gate, too—we've got witnesses who'll swear to 
that, too, in a court of law. Nobody forced that girl through any gates on this 
station. How about it, Caddrick?"
Caddrick's cheeks faded to the color of dirty ice. "This is preposterous!"
"Is it? Your story doesn't add up, Caddrick. I wonder what we'd find out about 
Noah Armstrong if we went back up-time and started digging? The man can't be an 
Ansar Majlis terrorist, not when he's kept Ianira's whole family from being 
murdered by Ansar Majlis operatives, and he can't be a kidnapper since he let 
Jenna and Ianira walk through the Britannia gate without armed guards. She was 
seen on the departures platform by one of the baggage handlers. There wasn't 
anybody close to her who could've been holding a gun on her. And she walked out 
of Spaldergate House in London with no escort except a Time Tours driver. No 
kidnappers in sight, nothing. She was followed, of course. Two men who trailed 
her out of this station, working as baggage handlers, tried to kill her at the 
Picadilly Hotel. Only Jenna shot both of them, with the same revolver she used 
to kill the Ansar Majlis gunman on station, killed both men and got away clean. 
Personally, Caddrick, I'd like to know why your story doesn't wash with the 
facts."
"I will not stand here and be slandered!" Caddrick shouted, causing dust to jump 
on the surface of Bull's immense desk.
"Good!" Kit shot right back. "I'll personally escort you to Primary and kick 
your butt through, the second it re-opens!"
Ms. Kirkegard stepped between them, holding up an imperious hand in either 
direction, forestalling whatever shattering curse was about to erupt from 
Caddrick's mouth. "Silence! All of you! Mr. Carson, these are very serious 
allegations."
"You bet they are. Believe me, I know exactly how serious they are. I wouldn't 
risk making such accusations lightly, because too many people who thwart John 
Caddrick's plans end up conveniently dead."
"I will sue you for every goddamned cent you own!" Caddrick snarled.
Kit grinned into Caddrick's teeth. "Like to see you try it. We're outside 
American jurisdiction, here. You'll have to convince the Inter-Temporal Court, 
if you want to sue my butt."
Agent Kirkegard said forcefully, "I want to see these witnesses, immediately."
"Sorry. They're in London. Looking for Jenna Caddrick. And keeping a very 
suspicious eye on the senator's private detective, Mr. Sid Kaederman. Caddrick 
rammed him down our throats with threats to shut us down if we didn't send him 
along. The man had never stepped through a single gate, was monstrously 
unqualified for a down-time search mission. I spent a couple of weeks in Sid 
Kaederman's company, on horseback in Colorado. Maybe the senator, here, can 
explain why Mr. Kaederman recognized the man who murdered one of our station 
residents in an abandoned Colorado mining town? Recognized him and didn't expect 
to find him dead? That man had committed cold-blooded murder of a 
sixteen-year-old boy, I might add, who went to Colorado as decoy for Jenna 
Caddrick."
"There are perfectly good reasons why Kaederman might not say anything," 
Caddrick began.
"Really? If Kaederman were legit and had recognized one of the terrorists, he'd 
simply have said so. But he didn't say anything. In fact, he took pains to make 
sure no one realized he'd recognized the man. Why? Mr. Sid Kaederman's story 
doesn't add up, either, does it? We sent him to London to avoid having your 
federal goons shut us down, but I sent Skeeter Jackson and Paula Booker through 
to keep an eye on him. Skeeter knows this case better than anyone—he's been at 
hand when every key piece of this mess has unfolded. And when it comes to Ianira 
Cassondra, Skeeter's the only man on this station I can guarantee no amount of 
money will buy off. A boy doesn't get adopted by twelfth century Yakka Mongols 
without adopting their moral codes. For Skeeter, clan is sacred, and someone's 
already killed one member of his adopted station-side clan and tried to murder 
several others. Believe me, Caddrick, that boy will kill to protect Ianira and 
her family, if he has to. And he will find Jenna and Noah Armstrong. The 
question is, what will they tell him when he does?"
"You're mad!" Caddrick shouted. "Completely insane! My God, Carson, is this the 
only way you can find to keep your precious pocket-book from being shut down 
around your ears? By making wild accusations and threatening me?"
"Why don't we let Jenna settle it?" Kit smiled coldly into Caddrick's eyes.
The senator swung on the I.T.C.H. agents. "Are you going to listen to this 
garbage? I insist you do your job! Shut down this station right now, before any 
more lives are lost! As for Carson," he flung a pitying look over his shoulder, 
"it's clear he's cracked under the strain. Up-time hospitalization is what he 
needs."
Agent Kirkegard frowned. "Senator, I cannot believe Kit Carson has gone raving 
mad in the space of one week. Not when he has worked so heroically to save lives 
on this station. No, do not interrupt!" she snapped, as Caddrick started to 
protest. "Grave charges have been made, charges which must be investigated. If 
what Mr. Carson says is true, your actions on this station must be considered 
highly suspicious. Until this delegation is satisfied that no evidence exists to 
prove these accusations, my fellow agents and I must take them seriously. You 
will return to your hotel, Senator, and you will not leave it unless you are 
summoned by this delegation. Is that clear? Mr. Morgan," she turned her 
attention to Bull, leaving Caddrick sputtering in naked shock, "I believe your 
security system records events on Commons?"
"It does," Bull nodded. "We recycle the tapes on a weekly basis, but we've kept 
the footage of every riot on station, for legal purposes."
"Very wise. I hereby subpoena all security tapes showing the disturbance 
surrounding Ianira Cassondra's disappearance."
"But she's a down-timer without rights!" Caddrick protested.
Kirkegard turned an icy gaze on him. "Indeed. But if your daughter and Noah 
Armstrong are shown in that tape doing what Mr. Carson claims they were doing, 
your entire story will come under serious suspicion. And they are not 
down-timers, but up-time citizens with full legal protection. Therefore, that 
tape is critical evidence. Mr. Morgan, if I may suggest it, the senator should 
not be privy to any further discussions this commission has with station 
management, until such time as these charges are proven or dismissed."
"You can't be serious!" Caddrick blustered.
She levelled a cool stare back into his seething grey eyes. "I would suggest you 
remove yourself to your hotel, Senator. Or I will have you removed."
Caddrick stood sputtering for several incoherent moments, then stalked to the 
elevator. His stunned bodyguards hurried in his wake, exchanging worried 
glances. The elevator swallowed them down and took them mercifully away. Kit ran 
a hand through badly disheveled hair. "Thanks. And now, if you don't mind, I'm 
going back to bed. You can subpoena me to testify later."
And without waiting for a by-your-leave, he stalked to the elevator and followed 
Caddrick's abrupt exit. Ten minutes later, he was sprawled in bed once more, his 
last conscious thought a worried one, wondering what he'd just unleashed on them 
all.
 
Chapter Sixteen
The cold night wind chilled Margo through her thin bootblack's disguise. She 
shivered and wished she could walk through the ornate doors to the Carlton Club, 
just long enough to get warm. Instead, she danced in place, hugging herself for 
warmth, and called out to passing gentlemen, "Shine, guv'nor? Farthing for a 
shine?"
She had just secured a customer and was diligently blacking his boots when 
Skeeter and Douglas Tanglewood arrived in a rented hansom. They nodded 
imperceptibly in her direction and vanished into the warmth of the club. Margo 
worked briskly, as much to keep warm as to maintain her disguise. The pistol 
inside her trousers was held snug against her abdomen by a belly-band holster 
and the dagger in her boot rubbed her calf as she moved about. She kept close 
watch on the arriving carriages, impatient for Malcolm to arrive with Sid 
Kaederman. More than a quarter of an hour passed without a trace of them, 
leaving Margo more and more uneasy. She was busily blacking another gentleman's 
boots when a hansom cab rattled to a halt some distance from the kerbside and a 
well-dressed gentleman swung himself down.
"Driver," he called out, "my friend wishes to continue on to London Docks, to 
catch his steamer."
Even as he spoke, he thrust his arm back into the dark cab, which jolted 
slightly on its high wheels. Margo slowed her strokes with the buffing brush, 
puzzled. The cab started down the street and the gentleman turned, heading 
toward the club entrance. Margo gasped. Kaederman! He strode past, nodding to 
the doorman. "I shall be joining friends this evening, a Mr. Cartwright and his 
companions."
"Very good, sir."
Margo dropped the buffing brush, abandoning her astonished client. She darted 
after the hansom cab, terrified of what she might find. It took her half a block 
to catch up and she only did so then because the cab was caught in a jam of 
carriages trying to turn into Waterloo Place. Margo flung herself onto the step 
and lunged up, ignoring the driver's startled demand to get out of his cab.
"Malcolm!"
He lay slumped against the side of the carriage, cheeks ashen in the gaslights 
from nearby club windows. "Margo," he whispered in a terrible, weak voice. 
"Sorry, love, took me by surprise . . ." He had fumbled one hand beneath his 
coat, was holding himself awkwardly. Blood had spread across his shirt, was 
dripping down his arm and spreading across the back of his hand. "Get back to . 
. . Carlton Club . . . warn the others." He sipped air. "I'm not hit bad. 
Managed to fling myself aside . . . when he told the driver to go to the docks . 
. . would've had me through the heart, otherwise."
Even as Malcolm was explaining, Margo was ripping his coat and shirt off, using 
her dagger to cut the shirt into bandage strips. She wound them around Malcolm's 
chest, folding a couple of thick pieces to act as compresses over the wound. Her 
hands shook violently, but she managed to tie them off snugly.
"Go, Margo," Malcolm wheezed. "I'll take the cab to Spaldergate. Go!"
She swore aloud, recognizing the necessity. "Driver! Your passenger's been shot! 
Take him to a surgeon! Battersea Park, Octavia Street! And hurry those horses!"
The driver let go a voluable flood of invective and cracked his carriage whip, 
urging his horses up onto the pavement to bypass the crush of carriages in the 
street. Pedestrians scattered, cursing, as Margo shoved her knife back into her 
boot sheath and flung herself down to the street, pelting toward the Carlton 
Club once more. She dodged carriage wheels and horses, gained the pavement, and 
slung herself around startled gentlemen strolling from club to club. She finally 
gained the Carlton and hurled herself at the doors—only to be snatched back by 
Fitzwilliam.
"Here, now, where d'you think you're going? This is a gentleman's club! Take 
yourself away, you filthy bootblack!" He dragged Margo by the back of her shirt 
collar and shoved her roughly to the pavement, where she landed in an 
undignified sprawl.
"Listen to me!" she shot back to her feet. "I have to get a critical message to 
Mr. Tanglewood and Mr. Cartwright! Send a message, yourself, if you won't let me 
in! Tell them Kaederman shot Mr. Moore and he's going to kill Mr. Cartwright! 
They're in terrible danger—!"
"Take yourself off before I summon a constable, you little lunatic!"
Margo darted past, but Fitzwilliam was quick. He trapped her between his body 
and the wall, pinning her like a bug on display. He boxed her ears so soundly, 
Margo's head rang and her eyes streamed. She swore in gutter langage, then bit 
his hand, flinging herself around him and running toward the now-unguarded door.
"Stop that boy! Stop him, I say!"
A group of startled gentlemen just leaving the club made a grab for her. She 
slithered past, cursing them, and dragged out her pistol—then someone seized her 
shoulder and spun her around and pain exploded through her head, sending her 
sprawling across the pavement like a ragdoll. 
* * *
Goldie rapidly discovered that John Lachley, while certifiably mad, was 
nevertheless no fool. Killing her was thankfully the furthest thing from his 
mind. She spent most of her captivity tied to the chair in front of her 
computer, teaching him everything he demanded to know about the up-time world. 
He needed her—for a while, anyway. And that gave her the courage to hope she 
might somehow survive.
"This," Lachley demanded, touching a finger to the glowing computer screen, "is 
the schedule for the various gates, then?"
Goldie nodded. "Yes." Her left wrist was bound to the chair, her right tied to 
the desk with a short length of rope, just enough to operate the mouse.
"Three different dates are given for each gate," he frowned.
"There have to be three. One is the time-frame of the up-time world, where the 
tourists come from, one is the time-frame of the station, and one is the 
time-frame of the tour destination beyond the gate."
He studied the readings for a moment. "This one has only two dates."
"That's Primary, of course. Gate One."
"Ah, of course . . . The way into the up-time world which your guards have so 
churlishly denied me. Of course there would be only two dates given. Yes. Show 
me how one obtains a proper gate pass for your Primary."
Goldie bit her lip nervously. "I can't. You get one in New York. When you come 
into the station. And a down-timer can't get one. Down-timers are never 
permitted to step through Primary. It's against up-time law."
Lachley scowled. "Deuced awkward. I shall simply have to obtain one from a 
tourist or station resident, then. No matter. A trifling detail. Make this 
machine show me what your up-time worlds looks like."
Goldie explained how to put in a CD encyclopedia which contained photographs and 
movie clips, since she couldn't reach the shelf where they were stored, then 
clicked into various files to show him what he demanded. As he frowned at the 
screen, she suggested nervously, "You'd get a better idea, watching videotaped 
movies on television."
Ten minutes later, Goldie sat bound hand and foot on her couch, while John 
Lachley sprawled at his leisure beside her, watching Goldie's movies. He 
exclaimed often, sitting forward with interest whenever cars or jets or 
cityscapes appeared, took particular note of new machinery and gadgets, and 
demanded explanations of everything he saw until Goldie's mind whirled in 
exhaustion. He watched videotapes until she fell asleep in her bonds and when 
she woke again, stiff and aching, he was still watching. He also spent hours at 
her computer, reading station library files, and studied every book on Goldie's 
shelves. Lachley's growing knowledge of the up-time world terrified Goldie. He 
correctly identified every item in the videos, explained each item's proper use, 
and had picked up modern slang and idiom with an ease that left her shaking. If 
he got loose in New York . . .
She couldn't see any way to stop him, short of reaching a telephone to cry for 
help, and since he was already familiar with their use from London, he hadn't 
allowed her near one—once he'd recognized hers for what it was; it bore no 
resemblance whatsoever to an 1880's telephone. When operating the computer, she 
wasn't even able to send an e-mail to station security. He'd grasped the e-mail 
concept with terrifying rapidity and had forced her to delete the programming 
from her hard drive. 
Goldie knew the entire station was being turned upside down, searching for him, 
but no one had come to her apartment, thanks to his trick with the dead BATF 
officer's radio, and no one had called her, either, not even to commiserate over 
lost profits. It hurt to realize that in such a crisis, not one of the station 
residents had thought to check on her, to see if she was alive or dead. People 
she'd thought of as friends had completely ignored her. Bitterness choked 
Goldie, but there was nothing she could do except wait and hope that her captor 
grew careless just long enough to scream for help.
Every day's passing, however, left Goldie sinking further into despair. He never 
relaxed his vigil for even a moment and Goldie entertained no doubts about what 
he'd do if he caught her trying to telephone. Lachley would cut her to ribbons 
so small, there wouldn't be enough to fill a casket. On the other hand, if she 
didn't anger him, he would probably let her live, at least until he made the 
attempt to crash Primary outbound. And he couldn't try that as long as Bull 
Morgan kept the tourists in their hotel rooms and refused to let anyone through. 
Goldie's greatest terror was that Lachley would simply kill her, waylay a 
security agent and steal his uniform, then slip through Primary that way.
As days passed, the intolerable situation left John Lachley deeply impatient, 
forced as he was to sit through two cycles of Primary without anyone allowed 
near it. He paced agitatedly, muttering under his breath, then finally snatched 
up another videotape from her rapidly dwindling supply. Lachley poured himself a 
generous brandy from the last bottle in the cabinet and slid in Goldie's copy of 
Temple Harlot, which she had just recently acquired through a video pirate. When 
the pre-movie interview of Ianira Cassondra flickered across the screen, Lachley 
jerked so violently, he knocked the glass to the floor. He stared at the screen 
and ripped off a shocked oath. "God's blood! It's her!" He turned a wild-eyed 
stare on Goldie. "Who is that woman?" He stabbed an unsteady finger toward the 
television.
"Ianira Cassondra. One of the station's down-timers. A member of the Found Ones, 
the down-time community of refugees. She sits on the council as their speaker."
He ran the tape back to listen to the interview in its entirety, then stopped 
the video and demanded a full explanation. Goldie told him everything she knew 
about Ianira, her flight from a murderous husband in Athens, her arrival on 
station, her marriage to Marcus, the adoring acolytes who had named her their 
prophetess, hailing her as the Goddess incarnate. "They flock to the station," 
she quavered. "When she was kidnapped, they went berserk. Staged protests and 
started brawls with the Ansar Majlis and half the station. The Angels of Grace 
Militia has sworn to defend Templars from harm until Ianira is restored." Goldie 
wanted to ask why he was so abruptly interested, but couldn't find the courage 
to open her lips again.
Lachley sat staring into empty space for long moments, mind clearly racing. At 
length, he murmured, "It is possible, then, to wield that much power, even in 
this strange world . . . If a mere chit can be taken for a goddess, then I shall 
certainly rule as a god." He smiled, laughed softly to himself, eyes twinkling. 
Then untied Goldie from the couch and hauled her unceremoniously into her 
bedroom, where he dumped her onto the mattress and tied her down again. He 
stroked Goldie's wild, unwashed hair back from her face and smiled down at her. 
"You have done very well, my pet. According to the time tables on your computer, 
Primary opens again tomorrow evening. You and I shall be ready, dear lady. 
Whether they permit it or no, I will step through that gate."
Goldie was too exhausted, too numb to ask how. She hadn't forgotten how he'd 
created his last diversion—or the severed human head he'd flung down into the 
crowd, its plunge caught vividly on SLUR-TV's cameras. It had been a woman's 
head, with once-beautiful blonde hair. Goldie knew in her creaking bones he 
would cut her to pieces, too, if he could find no other way through Primary.
Despite Goldie's soul-deep weariness, sleep was a long time coming.
* * *
Skeeter was winning the latest round of poker, hands down, when a liveried 
servant carrying a folded slip of paper on a silver tray entered the card 
parlour. "Message for Mr. Cartwright!" He spoke just loudly enough to be heard, 
without disrupting conversations under way over the cards. The servant was 
peering around the room, trying to locate the recipient. At the sound of his 
assumed name, Skeeter jerked his glance up.
"What is it? What message?"
"Ah, Mr. Cartwright? A message, sir." The man handed Skeeter the folded slip of 
paper and waited for the tip Skeeter produced, then departed with a slight bow. 
Skeeter glanced at Doug Tanglewood, who was frowning already, then opened the 
note. Every droplet of blood drained out of his face. There's serious trouble at 
home, come at once, someone's taken the children . . . 
The table flipped over with a crash. Cards and money went flying. Skeeter hit 
the floor running and took the stairs five at a time, leaving Tanglewood to 
follow in his wake. Skeeter was ruthless with elbows and shoulders. "Let me 
through, damn your eyes!" 
Shocked gentlemen scattered out of his path, staring after him. Then he was on 
the ground floor, retrieving his coat, rushing toward the door. He was nearly 
there when a voice at his ear said, "Where's the fire, Armstrong?" He jerked his 
gaze up, startled, to find Sid Kaederman at his elbow. An instant later, 
something hard, cylindrical, and terrifying jabbed his ribs, as luck would have 
it, between the front and back panels of his hidden body armor.
"Make any noise at all and I'll blow a hole through your liver," Kaederman 
hissed. "Outside, Armstrong. We're going have a friendly little chat someplace 
quiet. About your friends."
Shaking with fury at his own stupidity, Skeeter walked into the cold October 
night. The jaws of the trap had slammed shut, all right—only Skeeter was the one 
caught and where the hell was Malcolm? Nothing was going down the way it was 
supposed to! How had Kaederman gotten the drop on them all, leaving Skeeter off 
balance and everyone out of position? Kaederman pushed open the door and shoved 
Skeeter through, gun still jammed into his ribs. Skeeter raked the pavement with 
his glance, searching for familiar faces and not spotting any. Kaederman was 
lifting a hand and whistling for a hansom cab when Margo appeared, running 
toward them.
"Kaederman!"
The killer stiffened—and the damned, interfering doorman grabbed Margo by the 
shoulder, slugging her so hard, she sprawled across the walk. Her little .32 top 
break clattered across the pavement and into the street. Men were shouting, 
calling for a constable, and someone cried, "Good God! The boy had a gun!"
Kaederman shoved Skeeter away from the fracas, toward a hansom cab waiting for a 
fare, the horse's head bent low, the cabman bundled against the cold wind. 
Skeeter's fury faltered into the beginnings of real fear. 
"I say," a familiar voice said from behind them, "did you drop this, sir?"
Kaederman started to glance around, an instinctive response to the polite 
inquiry—and Doug Tanglewood kicked Skeeter's feet out from under him.
He went down with a startled yell, no more expecting that sudden move than 
Kaederman. A brief, sharp scuffle exploded above him. The muted clack! of a 
silenced pistol reached him. The scent of burnt powder and hot metal filled the 
air as the gun discharged almost soundlessly. Tanglewood gripped Kaederman's gun 
wrist with both hands while swearing savagely, oblivious to the hole through the 
loose side of a once-fine Prince Albert coat. The crowd of gentlemen on the 
steps stood like spectators at a sporting event, thinking this was an ordinary 
brawl; not one of them recognized the anachronistic, suppressed semiautomatic 
pistol as a dangerous weapon.
Skeeter kicked out and managed to clip Kaederman's ankles with one thrashing 
foot. Kaederman tripped, flailing for a moment off balance. Tanglewood suddenly 
had his opponent's full weight slipping through his hands and only slowed 
Kaederman's fall enough for the assassin to control it, leaving Tanglewood the 
one off balance and Kaederman rolling back up. Skeeter scrambled to his feet 
just as Margo rushed in low, under Kaederman's gun arm. She prevented his second 
shot from catching Tanglewood between the shoulderblades. The gun fired wild as 
Kaederman tried to avoid her. A giant's fist punched Skeeter in the chest and 
sent him sprawling, saved from the bullet by the Kevlar panel under his fancy 
dress shirt. Margo was still struggling with Kaederman. Shrill whistles sounded, 
police whistles, and someone shouted, "Constable! Over here!"
Tanglewood lunged at them just as Kaederman punched Margo in the solar plexus. 
She doubled up with a gagging sound and he dragged her back with the gun to her 
head. "Get back, damn you, or I'll kill her!"
Skeeter tried to crawl to his feet, stunned and gasping against pain to his 
ribs, bruising pain from that shot to his body armor. Kaederman kicked him in 
the gut, dumping him to the ground again, and dragged his hostage into the 
street where he flung her into a cab. Then Kaederman lunged up and shouted at 
the driver, who sped away with a clatter, swerving into traffic at a reckless 
pace. Skeeter and Tanglewood bolted in pursuit—and found their way blocked by 
two burly constables.
"What's going on, here?" the taller policeman demanded.
"That man's a killer!" Skeeter gasped, pointing at the vanishing hansom cab. 
"He's taken a girl hostage! We have to stop him!"
Tanglewood dashed into the street, scooping up Margo's revolver in one fluid 
movement while flagging down another cab. "Skeeter! Come on!"
The constables grabbed for him and missed. A moment later, the cab driver was 
racing down Pall Mall in pursuit. Skeeter clung to the side of the rocketing 
hansom to avoid being flung out as they whipped between carriages at a reckless 
pace. Douglas Tanglewood was swearing nonstop. "Goddammit, what a bloody mess!"
"What'm I gonna tell Kit?" Skeeter groaned, closing his eyes against the very 
thought. "What in the world am I gonna tell Kit? And the others . . ." He could 
hear the voices already, could picture the freezing contempt. And where were 
you, Skeeter, when Margo was abducted by that killer? Ah, gambling . . . Well, 
of course you were, Skeeter, who could expect anything better of you . . .  
He had to find her. Before Kaederman tortured her to learn where Jenna was. 
Skeeter wouldn't give a plugged nickle for her life, once Kaederman knew. 
Skeeter clenched his jaw. He vowed to hunt Kaederman to the ends of the world, 
if necessary.
And kill him.
 
Chapter Seventeen
Primary was due to open at eight-fifteen P.M., station time. Goldie spent the 
day in a mute daze, watching John Lachley prepare his escape. He had raided 
Goldie's wardrobe, finding a pair of her jeans and a sweatshirt that fit him 
reasonably well. He carefully studied the identification papers and cards in her 
wallet, requiring Goldie to explain the purposes of each. He knew, now, about 
the BATF kiosks and medical stations he would be required to pass, with 
identification in hand. Goldie didn't see how he could possibly fool anyone with 
her ID, but he clearly had a plan and that scared her even more thoroughly. If 
he used her ID, he wouldn't need her.
Lachley also tucked into her wallet all the loose cash Goldie had left in the 
apartment. He'd already appropriated her private stock of jewelry, gemstones, 
and rare coins, some of which she kept separate from her shop inventory in case 
of robbery or other disaster to her storefront. She reflected bitterly that the 
one contingency she hadn't planned for was kidnapping and armed robbery by Jack 
the Ripper. He was packing Goldie's suitcase, chatting almost gaily about the 
up-time world and his plans, when the buzzer sounded at her apartment door.
Goldie jerked her head up from the mattress. Lachley whipped around, transformed 
in the blink of an eyelash to a cold-eyed, ruthless killer. He snatched up his 
knife and advanced on her with a terrifying, soundless movement, a snake that 
had abruptly sprouted legs. The door buzzer sounded again, followed by an 
impatient pounding. Lachley dragged her from the bed and hauled her, trembling, 
into the living room. He laid the razor sharp blade at her throat and whispered, 
"Call through the door. Say you're ill and can't open it."
"Hello?" Goldie called, voice cracking with terror.
"Security!" a man's voice came back through the door. "Mind if we check the 
place again, Goldie? We sent you an e-mail, but you never answered, so we 
thought we'd check on you."
"Could you come later?" she choked out, shaking so violently the knife knicked 
her throat in a thin red line. "I'm not well. I slipped and fell and can't move 
around much."
"Do you need a doctor?" the security officer called back, sounding worried, now. 
"I'll send for someone . . ."
Lachley pressed the steel tighter against her jugular. "No!" Goldie cried. "I'm 
fine! Just bruised and shaken, is all."
"Open the door, Goldie," the man demanded maddeningly. "We'll let the doctor 
decide. And I have to search the apartment, no exceptions allowed."
Lachley cursed under his breath, then shifted the tip of the knife to Goldie's 
spine and slid around behind her. "Open it," he hissed.
Goldie's hands trembled violently as she reached for the locks and the doorknob. 
Lachley stood hidden from sight as the door swung open. She shuffled aside for 
the security team. Wally Klontz and a BATF agent stepped inside, the BATF 
officer entering first. Wally had barely crossed the threshold when Lachley 
shoved Goldie brutally to the floor. Lachley sank his knife into the BATF 
officer's throat in a lightning attack, leaving Goldie screaming and covered 
with spatters of blood. Wally flung himself at the killer, but Lachley twisted 
aside and slashed out. The blade tore Wally's shoulder to the bone, sending the 
security officer reeling back in shock and pain. Then Lachley was out the door 
and running. Wally fumbled with his radio while blood poured down his arm and 
spread across the front of his shirt.
"Code Seven Red!" he screamed. "Goldie Morran's apartment! Lachley killed 
Feindienst and laid my shoulder open, then bolted!"
Goldie dragged herself to Wally's side and tried to stanch the bleeding with her 
hands. The radio crackled. "Roger, security teams are responding. Medical's on 
its way. Did he kill Goldie?"
"Negative, but she's pretty shaken up."
Goldie's hands trembled violently against Wally's torn shoulder.
The radio sputtered. "Roger. Sit tight, help's on the way."
Ten minutes later, Goldie lay strapped to a gurney in the back of a medi-van, 
headed for the infirmary. Wally Klontz occupied the gurney next to hers, where 
EMT's worked over his gashed shoulder and threaded an I.V. into his elbow. 
Goldie still didn't quite believe she had survived. As terror finally dropped 
away, Goldie's mind gradually came back to life again, presenting her with 
several startling, lucrative possibilities. After all, very few people could 
claim to have survived a week as Jack the Ripper's prisoner. Why, there might be 
television appearances in this, exclusive magazine and newspaper stories, books, 
perhaps even a movie . . .
Feeling more like herself than she had in a full week, Goldie settled down to 
enjoy her notoriety.
* * *
For long moments, shock held Margo motionless on the floor of the cab. The 
driver had whipped his horse to a gallop, urged on by Kaederman's shouted 
promise of reward. By lifting her head, she could just see over the footboard. 
It was dark beyond the open side of the hansom, which swayed and jolted badly as 
they rattled over uneven paving, but as they whipped around a corner, she caught 
a glimpse of the Atheneum gentlemen's club. They'd turned onto Waterloo Place, 
then, which meant they now raced northward along Regent Street. 
The long, gentle curve of Nash's Quadrant left her slightly queasy as the 
windows and street-level doorways flashed past. A dizzy swing through Picadilly 
Circus sent them plunging past the County Fire Office into a broad, sliding turn 
down Shaftesbury Avenue. They rattled down Shaftesbury at a terrific clip, the 
SoHo district flying past on their left hand, then the cabbie swung sharply into 
a skidding right-hand turn that left them racing down High Holborn.
Margo was beginning to recover her breath, at least, despite the terrific 
jouncing against her ribs as she was jolted around on the floor. Her wits 
returned, as well, stirring into anger. She was alive and if she wanted to stay 
that way, she'd better do something fast. She'd lost her pistol, thanks to that 
idiot doorman, but she might still have the boot-knife, if all that thrashing 
around hadn't knocked it out of her boot sheath. He hadn't searched her yet, 
which was a small miracle. If she hoped to use that dagger, she'd have to do it 
quick. His silenced pistol frightened her, his prowess with it even more so, but 
they were in a flying cab with her sprawled across the floor, supposedly stunned 
and terrified out of her wits, so he probably wouldn't expect her to try 
anything yet. She groped cautiously toward her boot with one hand, trying to 
brace herself with her other arm to reduce the bone-shaking jar of the ride.
Cor, I'll 'ave bruises from me thri'penny bits to me toes . . . she thought 
sourly, lapsing into the Cockney she'd been speaking almost more than standard 
English, this trip. Margo stole her hand into her boot and closed her fingers 
around the grip of the little dagger Sven had given her. It wasn't a large one, 
only four inches or so of blade, thrust into a leather sheath sewn to the boot 
lining, but it was a weapon and she certainly knew how to use it, after all 
those lessons with Sven Bailey. Just closing her hand around the stout wooden 
handle lifted her flagging spirits. Kaederman shouted up to the driver, "Turn 
south! And you can slow down, now. We've shaken the bastard following us!"
"Can't turn, guv," the driver called down, "we're on the Viaduct, no way to turn 
'til we come to Snow Hill an' Owd Bailey!"
The Viaduct! Margo's hopes leapt like bright flames. Built to eliminate the 
treacherously steep drop along Holborn Hill, the Viaduct was essentially a 
bridge fourteen-hundred feet long, with shops and even a church built down the 
length of it. Where the Viaduct's single open space of visible ironwork crossed 
Farringdon Street—itself the covered-over course of River Fleet—there was a 
sheer drop of some fifteen feet. No carriage could get off the Viaduct anywhere 
between Charterhouse Street and Snow Hill, with the Old Bailey Criminal Court 
just beyond.
But a lone person on foot could.
Stone steps descended to Farringdon on either side.
The trick would be to create such confusion, he couldn't shoot her. She 
considered—and swiftly rejected—three separate plans of attack before settling 
on the one likeliest to work. It was also the riskiest, but she wasn't afraid of 
risk. If she didn't escape, Kaederman would kill her. Probably after torturing 
her for Jenna's location. So, as the cabbie slowed his horse to a swaying trot 
past St. Andrews' Church, she quavered out, "P-please, can I g-get up? I'm hurt, 
down here . . ." She slid the dagger out of her boot and held it tight in the 
hand farthest from him.
Kaederman muttered under his breath, "Try anything and I'll put a bullet through 
you." He grasped her wrist and levered her up. She swayed, losing her balance 
deliberately—which wasn't hard to do. Hansoms were notoriously tippy 
contrivances and they were still going at a fair clip. She slipped sideways with 
a gasping, frightened cry. She flung out one arm to catch her balance, which put 
the knife exactly where she wanted it.
Right over the trotting horse's rear quarters.
She slammed the blade home, hilt deep.
The horse screamed, a tearing, jagged sound of pain. It kicked and reared 
violently, sheering wildly to the right. The cab flung sideways. The maddened 
animal was kicking, lunging, trying to get the steel out of its flank. The whole 
carriage crashed sideways. Margo grabbed for the edge of the roof above her head 
as they went down. She lost her grip when they slammed to the street. The force 
crushed Margo back across the seat, with Kaederman under her. She kicked 
anything that moved and dragged herself up over the lip of the toppled hansom. 
The driver was yelling from his seat at the rear of the cab. From the sound of 
it, he was pinned by the weight of the carriage.
Then she was out and running, with no time to be sorry for the driver or the 
horse and no time to recover the dagger. Kaederman was shouting, cursing 
hideously. The iron railings over Farringdon Street flashed past, then she was 
skidding in a desperate lunge for the nearest of the step-buildings flanking 
Farringdon, plunging down the steep steps, clutching at the railing for balance. 
She heard thudding footfalls above, pounding in pursuit across the bridge and 
down the stone staircase on her heels. Oh, God, help me, please . . . She 
expected a bullet to slam through her back any moment. Margo reached the street 
and cut back toward Shoe Lane and St. Andrew Street. If she could just reach 
Holborn again, she wasn't far from the Old Bell. The ancient coaching inn would 
be busy, with lots of people coming and going. Famous along all the old coaching 
roads, the Old Bell beckoned as her only safe haven. The proprietor and his 
customers would help her and there might even be a constable, in for a bite of 
supper. She flew up St. Andrew, gasping for breath at the steep climb back up 
Holborn Hill.
Just short of Holborn Circus, a heavy hand closed around her shoulder. Kaederman 
spun her against the side of a closed shop, snarling and backhanding her 
brutally. Margo punched and kicked, screaming bloody murder—and a shrill whistle 
sounded, practically on top of them. A constable pounded down Holborn Hill, 
straight toward them, shouting at Kaederman to halt immediately. Kaederman swore 
and ran, instead, vanishing down a side street. Margo staggered and slid down 
the side of the shop toward the pavement, reeling with the shock of her near 
escape.
"Are you hurt, boy?" the constable cried.
She sat on the cold stone pavement, shaking violently. "N-no . . . He was going 
to kill me . . ."
The constable crouched beside her, than said in a surprised voice, "Cor, it's a 
girl!"
She glanced down and realized Kaederman had torn her shirt open during the 
struggles. She blanched and clutched the edges closed, hands shaking violently.
The constable's eyes widened abruptly. "Dear me, miss, was he—was that the 
Ripper?"
Margo's head whirled for just a moment. She found herself giggling shrilly and 
fought to get herself under control. "I don't . . . I dunno," she gulped, 
deciding she'd better stick with Cockney, given her current appearance. "Said 'e 
would give me somefink to eat, but 'e never. Just tried to kill me. Dragged me 
into 'is cab, only I got away an' run down the steps from 'igh 'olborn 
t'Farringdon. The cab tipped over, y'see, an' I think the driver's 'urt, up 
there on the Viaduct."
"You're all right, then, miss? Truly?"
She nodded. "Just shook, is all. You'd better go an' see about that cabbie, 
mister."
"Stay here, please. I'll see you're taken someplace warm and I'll certainly want 
a description of your attacker."
She nodded again, leaning against the shop wall while the bobby hurried up the 
steps toward the Viaduct. The moment he was out of sight, she dragged herself to 
her feet and headed the opposite way, walking as fast as she could push herself. 
Margo was still badly shaken, but she had to get away before that constable 
returned and started asking questions she didn't want to answer. She had to 
report Kaederman's escape, too, and Malcolm was injured, on his way to 
Spaldergate for treatment. She groaned aloud. It was a long way from Holborn to 
Battersea, which left her with far too much time to worry about Malcolm on the 
way. He had to be all right! Just had to be . . .
I blew it, Kit, she wailed silently, I really messed up! Worse than South 
Africa! 
Castigating herself every step of the way, Margo walked faster.
 
At Skeeter's harsh insistence, they moved Jenna Caddrick and the others into the 
vault beneath Spaldergate House within half an hour of the attack at the Carlton 
Club. Spaldergate's vault was, at the moment, quite literally the safest place 
in all of London. "Kaederman's got Margo hostage, which means he'll find out 
exactly where you're hiding," Skeeter had said ruthlessly, overriding Noah 
Armstrong's objections. The detective, shaken at seeing his own face mirrored in 
Skeeter's newly rearranged one, reluctantly agreed, even handing over the 
damning proof that would condemn Senator Caddrick. They packed up and moved yet 
again, returning to the gatehouse only to find another crisis underway. Malcolm 
had arrived twenty minutes earlier by hansom cab, shot through the chest and 
barely conscious. Both Dr. Nerian and Paula Booker were in surgery, working to 
save his life. Skeeter tightened jaw muscles over a whole spate of curses and 
carried his honorary nieces down the stairs leading to the vault.
The Spaldergate housekeeper took charge of Ianira, Jenna, and the others, 
settling them down on sturdy cots in one corner, but nothing Skeeter said would 
induce Noah Armstrong to stay in the vault, as well.
"No!" The detective glared at Skeeter, expression haggard. "Dammit, what kind of 
coward do you think I am, to hide down here when he's holding Miss Smith 
hostage! God knows what he'll do to her! I've only stayed in hiding this long 
because of them," he jerked his head toward Jenna Caddrick. Ianira and Marcus 
sat on one of the temporary cots, holding their frightened little girls close.
"What you've done for my friends . . ." Skeeter said quietly. "Nothing I do will 
ever repay that. Except, maybe, catching this bastard. But if Kaederman kills 
you while we're chasing him, you won't be able to testify and all of this will 
have been for nothing."
In the brief silence, while Noah Armstrong ground molars together, the vault's 
telephone shrilled. One of the housemaids on duty with the Ripper Watch Team 
answered. Her eyes lit up as she gasped, "Margo's back? But we thought she was a 
hostage!"
Skeeter ran for the stairs, Armstrong pounding right on his heels. They found 
Margo in the parlour, where Hetty Gilbert was fussing over her, wrapping a quilt 
around her shoulders and putting an icepack to her bruised face, while Mr. 
Gilbert brought a generous brandy and forced it between her teeth. She was 
shuddering, from cold or shock or both. "Malcolm's really all right?" she was 
asking anxiously as Skeeter and Armstrong burst into the room.
"He's in surgery, dear," Hetty Gilbert soothed, brushing back Margo's hair with 
one hand. "Doing fine, they said. Hold that ice on the bruise, child."
Margo noticed Skeeter and bit her lips, startling him when tears welled up. "I'm 
sorry, Skeeter. Kaederman got away."
"Thank God you got away," Skeeter said fervently, collapsing into the nearest 
chair and upending the brandy Gilbert poured for him. "Shalig, what a night! How 
in the world did you escape?"
She told them succinctly, glossing quickly over any details that might have 
betrayed her own terror during the experience. Margo was one tough cookie, all 
right, for all that she was barely seventeen. Malcolm was luckier than he knew, 
to have a girl like Margo. She sighed, at length, nursing her own brandy and 
shifting the icepack on her cheek. "When that constable shouted, Kaederman ran 
off and disappeared down a side street. I sent the constable up to check on the 
poor cabbie, pinned under the wreckage, then got out of there as fast as 
possible and came back here."
"Quick thinking," Marshall Gilbert nodded approvingly. "Very quick thinking. You 
not only saved your life, you kept the authorities from asking uncomfortable 
questions that might have led them here. And God knows, we've been under enough 
official scrutiny as it is, thanks to Benny Catlin's shooting spree at the 
Picadilly Hotel."
Margo nodded and leaned her head back against the chair, drained and pale, but 
her hand on the icepack was rock steady. "They'll assume it was the Ripper, I 
suppose. That's what the bobby thought, anyway, and I didn't disabuse him of the 
notion. Look, we've got to find Kaederman. And we have to get Ianira and the 
others to safety—"
"They're in the vault," Noah said, attracting her attention for the first time.
She did a double-take, then laughed weakly. "God, that's startling. You really 
do look like twins, now."
"Do you have a photo of Kaederman?" Noah asked, voice grim. "Something we can 
duplicate and use, the way you traced us?"
Skeeter nodded and rescued his scout's log from his room, replaying their 
arrival through the Britannia Gate. Noah swore. "Good God! That bastard really 
must be desperate!"
"You know him?"
Armstrong tapped the screen on Skeeter's log. "That's Gideon Guthrie. Provides 
security for the L.A. gangland boss who's been doling out Senator Caddrick's 
payola. For Guthrie to be handling this personally, they're running scared. He 
hasn't actually dirtied his own hands in years. Maybe," Armstrong mused darkly, 
"he simply ran out of hit men to send after us?"
"And now he knows we're onto him," Skeeter growled. "Want to bet he bolts? Jumps 
on the nearest ship and runs?"
Armstrong shook his head. "He's got a helluva lot to lose, if he just ditches."
"Yes," Skeeter countered, "but he's gotta figure Caddrick will do time, over 
this, and maybe his own boss, as well. There's no way he can get back onto the 
station, not without somebody putting him in cuffs. So he's down to just a 
couple of options. He can run for it and start over, in this time period. And 
surely a guy like Kaederman has enough experience to set up shop someplace like 
New York or Chicago, even San Francisco, maybe, put together a sweet little gang 
of thugs with all the up-time tricks he's accumulated. Or he can do what Marcus 
and you did, getting here. He can hot-foot it to New York by the first 
trans-Atlantic steamer, board a train headed for Denver, and slip through the 
Wild West Gate in disguise, try and get back through Primary to New York."
"Will the Denver gate still be operational in 1888?" Armstrong asked quietly.
Mr. Gilbert answered. "I don't see why not. The Wild West Gate is very stable, 
has been for years, or we wouldn't be using it as a tour gate. I can't imagine 
it going suddenly unstable and closing."
"Then our boy might try it," Skeeter mused. "All he'd really need to do is mug a 
Denver tourist for his ID to get through the gate."
Armstrong gave him a grudging glance. "Not a bad point. So, we comb the 
steamship ticket offices?"
Margo eased the icepack into a new position as color returned to her cheeks. 
"It's a start," she nodded. "And we'd better put one of the groomsmen in each 
major railway station, in case he tries to catch a train for another port city. 
Liverpool did a lot of trans-Atlantic shipping, passenger as well as cargo." She 
grimaced, wincing slightly under the icepack. "James Maybrick certainly shuttled 
back and forth between Liverpool and the States for years. In fact, he met his 
wife on one of the crossings, poor woman. I wonder how many trains leave 
tonight? Or how many ships are scheduled to sail? It's going to be a long 
night."
Fortunately, the Gilberts were able to produce a table of scheduled ship 
departures from the day's newspapers. Hettie Gilbert copied them out while her 
husband retrieved a map of the docklands. He spread it out across his desk, then 
turned up the gaslight for better illumation. Skeeter stared in rising dismay at 
the immense stretch of land to be searched. Wapping, the Isle of Dogs, Poplar 
and Limehouse and Shoreditch, not to mention Whitechapel, of course, and 
Shadwell. St. Katharine's Docks, London Docks, Wapping Basin, Shadwell Basin, 
and the Old Basin below Shadwell. And there was the great West India Docks 
complex and the smaller Junction Dock, Blackwell Basin, and Poplar Docks. And 
east of there stood the East India Docks, the Royal Victoria and Albert Docks, 
and south of the Thames, the vast Surrey Commercial Docks . . .
Skeeter groaned aloud. Hundreds of acres, tens of thousands of people to 
question if the ticket offices didn't pan out, and very few of those teeming 
thousands likely to part with a word of information without palm grease of some 
sort, even if it were only a pint of ale or a glass of gin. "My God," he said 
quietly, "we'll never cover all of that."
"It isn't quite hopeless," Marshall Gilbert insisted. "Look, we can probably 
discount this whole complex, and this one," he swept a hand across the map. 
"They're cargo facilities only, no passenger services offered. And these, too, 
no point in searching naval shipyards. No commercial traffic, just military 
vessels. I'll get Stoddard in to help, he knows the docklands better than anyone 
else on staff. And we'll put Reeves on it, as well as all the groomsmen, 
footmen, drivers, and baggage handlers. I would imagine," he added, glancing 
from Skeeter to Noah Armstrong and blinking mildly at their startlingly matched 
faces, "Miss Smith will be keen to assist, as well."
"You'd better believe it," she muttered.
Twenty minutes later, Hettie Gilbert handed over her finished list. "There's 
only one ship scheduled to sail tonight, leaving in an hour, but a dozen are due 
to sail tomorrow."
Skeeter nodded. "We'll just have time to reach the docklands, if we leave right 
now."
Groomsmen and gardeners and footmen were already clattering out of the stable 
yard on horseback, dispersing for every train station in the city. A woman in a 
housemaid's dress was leading more horses from the stable, saddled and ready as 
riders were assigned. Iron-shod hooves rang against the paving stones. Skeeter 
mounted in silence as Margo, who had changed into warmer clothing, hurried out 
of the house and took her own horse, still in masculine disguise but looking now 
like a young man of the middle classes, rather than a ragamuffin bootblack.
"All right," Skeeter said tersely, "we'll follow your lead, Margo."
They set out in silence.
* * *
Kit was in his office at the Neo Edo Hotel, trying to placate outraged tourists 
and worrying about the rapidly dwindling supply of foodstuffs in the hotel's 
larder, when word came: Lachley had been spotted at Goldie's apartment. The 
security radio he carried everywhere crackled to life with a generalized call to 
every member of the volunteer security force.
"Code Seven Red, Residential Zone Two. Lachley's on the run, last spotted 
heading into the subbasements. All teams are hereby reactivated. Report in for a 
zone assignment."
Kit clattered the phone down in the middle of a wealthy dowager's tirade and 
snatched up the radio. "Kit Carson reporting."
"Kit, take Zone Seventeen again, same search team and pattern."
"Roger."
He picked up the telephone and started calling members of his team. They met on 
Commons, which stretched away in an echoing, empty vista of deserted shops and 
restaurants, the floors scattered with refuse no one had yet cleaned up. Alarm 
sirens hooted at intervals and lights flashed overhead, red and malevolent. Sven 
Bailey arrived first, followed by Kynan and Eigil. To Kit's intense dismay, 
Molly and Bergitta were with them, both women moving with a determined grimness 
that boded ill for reasoning with them. "We aim t'help," Molly said without 
preamble, "an' nuffink you say will stop us."
Bergitta, who had finally recovered from a terrible beating and gang-rape at the 
hands of the Ansar Majlis, gave an emphatic nod. "I will not stay hidden when 
this man attacks our home. We will help drive him out."
Molly added, "We got Viking ring-mail shirts on, underneath." She plucked at her 
loose-fitting dress. "Connie give us the loan. Didn't 'ave no other armor would 
fit under a frock, so she didn't. B'sides, I know somefink about this 'ere 
bloke, might be important."
Kit rocked back on his heels. "You know him? John Lachley?"
Molly shrugged. " 'Corse I knows 'im. Come up out of Whitechapel, 'e did. Called 
'imself Johnny Anubis. Read fortunes and suchlike. Nasty little blagger. Wot's 
more, 'e ain't a normal man, so 'e ain't. I walked them streets, 'eard wot the 
girls said about 'im. They said 'is male parts weren't made right. Were 'alf 
woman, 'e were, wiv an Hampton Wick small as your little finger and wot a lady's 
got, besides, only that ain't made right, neither. A couple of girls wot laughed 
at 'im ended floating in the Thames wiv cut throats. Never could prove nuffink, 
but I say 'e done 'em, 'is own self."
Kit frowned. Had John Lachley been born an intersexual? He had to force aside 
quick pity. It didn't matter—couldn't be allowed to matter—what Lachley had 
suffered in London's East End, growing up with a blurred gender. Too many people 
had died already. Kit said quietly. "Whatever he once was, John Lachley is now 
Jack the Ripper and it's our job to end his career. All right, ladies. You just 
might help us flush him out, acting as bait. I know Bergitta started training 
with you, Sven, after that Ansar Majlis attack, and I'd trust Molly in any 
scrap. Bergitta, you and Molly take the middle. Sven, you and I will take point, 
Kynan and Eigil, bring up rear guard. We're searching Zone Seventeen again."
Sven grunted. "Just remember to stay away from that damned pterosaur's beak. I 
don't want any of us skewered."
"Amen to that," Kit muttered, leading the way.
They moved warily past barricaded shops and restaurants, past ornamental 
fountains and ponds and secluded alcoves formed by shrubbery and statuary and 
mosaic tile floors. They'd just reached Little Agora when the overhead sirens 
screamed.
"Code Seven Red! Zone Thirteen . . ."
"That's just downstairs!" Sven yelled above the ear-splitting howl of the siren.
Kit jammed his radio against his ear, trying to hear. "Down-timers have spotted 
him! He's in the tunnels under Frontier Town!"
They rushed down the stairs, sprinting past stacked aquaria where idling fish 
watched curiously as they raced past. Someone was screaming, a high and hideous 
sound that brought Kit's hair on end. Garbled shouts echoed and floated down the 
long, twisting corridors, then Kit burst around a curve and skidded to a halt. 
Two down-timers lay twisted on the floor, one man's neck obviously broken, 
another gutted and lying with sightless eyes. A third, the young Greek hoplite, 
Corydon, clutched at a gash across his arm, which had been laid open to the 
bone.
"He ran . . . that way . . ." Corydon gasped, nodding with his head. His radio 
lay on the floor, sputtering with static. "I called . . . security . . ."
Bergitta dropped to her knees beside him, ripping her own skirt and using a comb 
from her pocket to form a tourniquet band just above the massive wound. "Go!" 
she snapped. "I will watch Corydon until medical comes!"
Kit keyed his radio even as he pelted in the direction Lachley had taken. 
"Medical emergency, Zone Thirteen. Two dead, one serious casualty. Tell medical 
to shag butt, Corydon's nearly lost an arm!"
"Roger that. Medical's on the way."
Kit slowed when the corridor branched off in three directions. "We don't dare 
split up, Lachley'd just gut us one by one," he muttered, listening for any 
sound of footfalls. All he heard was echoing silence and an occasional, distant 
mutter and weird cry from the immense pteranodon's cage. "We'll take the 
left-hand fork," he decided, "and come back if we run into a blind alley without 
finding him."
They did not run into a blind alley. In fact, they ran into a deep maze of 
tunnels twisting through the bowels of the mountain, past doors where machinery 
chugged and hummed and rumbled and a distant rush and tumble of water could be 
heard through pipes and fittings. Kit marked the corridors they'd searched by 
scrawling on the walls with an ink pen, trying to sort out the tangle of 
passageways. Storage rooms were locked tight, but the heating and cooling 
plants, the sewage works, the generator pile all had to be searched 
painstakingly. Which they did, as time piled up in their wake.
The gigantic pteranodon was asleep when they eased past its cage, wicked red 
eyes shut inside their whorls of brightly colored, leathery skin. Bloodstains 
still marked the concrete floor from the pitched battle fought with the Ripper 
cultists, but they found no trace of John Lachley.
"He can't have vanished into thin air," Kit muttered as they pressed on past the 
pterosaur's cage. He'd begun to feel a superstititous prickle of sympathy with 
those befuddled London constables.
Kit glanced at his wristwatch and scowled. Upstairs in Commons, security would 
be preparing to turn back the incoming tour from Denver as the Wild West gate 
dilated open. If they could just find Lachley before the gate opened, they could 
end this monstrous blockade and get the station back to normal. 
"Molly," he frowned thoughtfully. "You told me Lachley grew up in the East End. 
Is there something we could use to drive him into the open, maybe goad him into 
attacking?"
Molly's eyes began to glitter. "I can't flush 'im out, nuffink ever will." Molly 
drew a deep breath and let go a flood of Cockney gibberish. "C'mon, then, let's 
'ave yer 'ideous Cambridge an' Oxford out where we can 'ave a butcher's, eh? I 
grassed on you, so I did, Johnny Anubis! You an' your disgustin' Kyber, 'ope you 
like it in a flowery, corse yer lemons 'as done caught up wiv you, so they 
'ave!"
Sven cast a dubious glance at Molly. "Do you really think any of that's going to 
flush him out? Somehow I don't think he cares about the crimes he's committed."
Molly's eyes flashed with irritation, but she changed her approach. "Eh, 
Johnnie, you got no cobbler's t'show yer ugly boat to a frog-chalkin' fanny like 
meself? Shouldn't wonder, you weren't born wiv none, was you, Johnny Anubis? An' 
you ain't pinched none from them fancy friends of yours, neither, 'ave you? I 
shouldn't wonder you don't show yer Kingdom Come! Corse you bloody well can't 
chalk, wiv as bad a case of Chalfont St. Giles as ever you saw, wot you got off 
lettin' a toff like yer lovin' Collars an' Cuffs run 'is great Hampton up yer 
bottle."
"This isn't working," Sven muttered.
"You got any better ideas?" Kit shot back.
Molly was still trying to goad Lachley into the open. "I don't give an 'orse an' 
trap, so I don't, Johnny Boleslaus, not for you nor your tea-leafin' ways, 
takin' a starvin' woman's last 'apenny an' tellin' 'er t'bend over again so's 
you can tell 'er she's fore an' aft, wivout a brain in 'er loaf. Gypsy's kiss on 
you, an' you'd better Adam an' Eve that, so you better. An' yer bubble an' 
squeak friends, 'ere, says the same to you!"
"Kit, Molly's just wasting her breath—"
He came in low and fast, lunging from a dark alcove where the corridor snaked 
around in a tight twist. Molly screamed and went down. Lachley's blade flashed 
in the dim light even as Kit whirled, trying to bring his pistol to bear on the 
struggling figures. Sven's gun shattered the silence. The bullet whined off the 
concrete wall. Molly was in Kit's line of fire, kicking and screaming at 
Lachley. Eigil waded in as Lachley rolled to the top, knife slashing again at 
Molly's unprotected throat. The Viking barsark snatched him up by the neck. 
Lachley rammed his knife into Eigil's gut and the Viking went down with a sharp 
grunt of pain. Kit fired, but Lachley was already moving again, slamming the 
point of the knife toward Sven. The blade just grazed the weapons instructor as 
Sven flung himself down and back, away from the knife's arcing path. Sven's 
pistol went clattering and slid into the pteranodon's cage. Kynan was dragging 
Molly away, sliding her across the floor on her back. Kit might have gotten 
another shot off, but Eigil was in his line of fire, clutching at his belly 
while blood poured out between his fingers. Kit lunged past, trained his pistol 
on the maniac—
And Lachley was away and running, knife in hand, twisting around a corner and 
vanishing even as Kit fired. The bullet shattered a door at an oblique angle, 
driving splinters outward. Kit swore and shouted into his radio, "Code Seven 
Red! Zone Seventeen! Converge on my signal! And get a Medical team down here, 
we've got casualties, bad ones!" Kynan was already stripping off his own shirt 
and shoving it as a compress against Eigil's gut wound. Molly was bending over 
Sven, saved from worse injuries, herself, by the chain mail under her dress. 
That steel-ringed undershirt had done exactly what ring-mail armor was designed 
to do: deflect the slashes of a bladed weapon. Connie Logan, I'm gonna buy you a 
whole case of champagne, maybe even a keg of Falernian through the Porta Romae . 
. . The boom and rumble of the station's public address system came echoing 
eerily down the open stairwells to the tunnels.
"Code Seven Red, Zone Seventeen, repeat, Code Seven Red, Zone Seventeen! Station 
medical personnel, report to Zone Seventeen, stat, for transport and emergency 
triage. Please be advised, Gate Three cycles in seven minutes. All tour passes 
are hereby revoked until the station emergency has ended. Repeat, all visitors 
are required to stay in their hotel rooms until further notice. Shangri-La 
Station is operating under martial law. Code Seven Red, Zone Seventeen . . ."
Sven was muttering under his breath and brushing Molly's hands away. "It's just 
a scratch, dammit! I can't believe I let him get that close to me in the first 
place!"
"You were a little distracted," Kit grunted, wiping his brow with a sweating 
arm. "We've got to trail him. Sven, can you move?"
"Hell, yes," the weapons instructor growled, coming to his feet to prove it. 
Kynan, shirtless and holding compresses against Eigil's gut, handed up his 
borrowed gladius. "Kill that son of a bitch, please."
Sven saluted him with the blade.
Kit muttered, "We'll give it our best shot, Kynan." He didn't add what he was 
thinking: We shot at that maniac from close quarters and missed. Maybe he can't 
be killed, after all. God help us . . . 
Then they whipped around the corner, following the Ripper's bloody footprints.
 
Chapter Eighteen
Grey dawnlight spilled like dirty bilge water across thousands of chimneys 
jutting up from factory roofs, refineries and foundries, from ironworks and 
shipyards as Skeeter entered the docklands, accompanied by Margo, Noah 
Armstrong, and Doug Tanglewood. Their search the previous night had turned up no 
trace of Sid Kaederman, either at the train stations or the docks near Wapping 
Old Stairs. Skeeter carried a list of ship departures scheduled for today, 
convinced Kaederman would be on one of them.
A forest of masts stabbed skyward, dark silhouettes against clouds which 
promised more rain before the morning grew much older. Furled sails and limp 
rigging hung like dead birds on all sides, marking the berths of hundreds of 
sailing vessels used mostly as cargo transports, now, too antiquated and slow 
for passenger service. The heavier, stubby iron snouts of steamship funnels 
jutted up alongside passenger quays, cold and silent until coal-fired boilers 
were heated up for departure.
Douglas Tanglewood led the way toward the main offices of St. Katharine's docks 
along St. Katharine's Way, Wapping. Carts and draymen's wagons bumped and 
jockeyed for space on the crowded roads. Surrounding the dockyards lay a jumbled 
maze of factories, foundries, food processing plants, icehouses, shipbuilding 
yards, and shops that fed, clothed, and supplied thousands of industrial 
workers.
"St. Katharine Docks," Tanglewood said quietly, "is the oldest and now one of 
the smallest dock complexes. More than twelve hundred homes were razed to build 
it. Left eleven thousand Londoners homeless and destroyed some of the oldest 
medieval buildings in the city." He shook his head, clearly regretting the 
historical loss. The dockyard gate, an arched entrance of stone, was surmounted 
by elephants on pedestals. Immense brick warehouses abutted the waterfront 
across from berthed ships. "On these small docks, like this, there's no room for 
transit sheds between water's edge and the warehouse doors. That gives our 
quarry fewer places to hide. It'll be much worse, if we have to search the other 
dockyards."
Skeeter watched a confusion of sweating stevedores off-loading valuable cargoes 
into vast, echoing warehouses, then asked, "Where do you buy tickets?"
"The Superintendent's office and transit offices are this way," Tanglewood 
nodded, pointing out the buildings beyond a stone wall that separated the 
dockyards from the street. "Mr. Jackson, please come with me. Perhaps Miss—ah, 
Mr. Smith and Mr. Armstrong could ask around for word of an American trying to 
buy passage."
Margo and the enigmatic Noah Armstrong, both decked out in middle-class 
businessmen's wool suits, moved off to talk to the dock foremen. Skeeter 
followed Tanglewood into the transit office.
The clerk glanced up from a ledger book and smiled a cheerful greeting, his 
starched collar not yet wilted under the day's intense pressures. "Good morning, 
gentlemen, how might I help you?" 
Tanglewood said, "We're hoping you might be able to assist us. We understand 
there is a ship scheduled to leave St. Katharine's this morning at six-thirty, a 
cargo ship. Do you know where we might discover if a certain man has tried to 
book a passenger berth on her? Or maybe hired on as shiphand?"
The clerk's smile reversed itself. "You're trying to find this man?" he asked 
cautiously.
"We are. He is a desperate criminal, a fugitive we're trying to trace. He 
kidnapped a young lady last night and shot a gentleman, leaving him nearly dead, 
and we have proof that he is responsible for several other deaths in the recent 
past. The young lady has escaped, thank God, made her way to safety last night. 
We have reason to believe he'll try to book passage on any ship that will have 
him, to escape the hangman. This gentleman," Tanglewood nodded to Skeeter, "is a 
Pinkerton Agent, from America, one of the Yanks' best private inquiry agencies."
Skeeter dutifully produced his identification.
The transit clerk's eyes had widened in alarm. "Dear God! Have you contacted the 
Metropolitan Special Constabulary, sir? The river police should be notified at 
once!"
"If this ship proves not to be the one we're looking for, we certainly shall. 
But it's nearly six already and the ship sails in half an hour, so there's 
hardly time to go and fetch them."
"Yes, of course. Let me check the books." He was opening another stiff ledger, 
running a fingertip down the pages. "The Milverton is the ship you want, just 
two years old, so she's new and fast for an iron sailing vessel. Western Dock, 
Berth C, opposite East Smithfield Street, north of the offices. Go along the 
inner perimeter at water's edge, is best. You'll have to go right round the 
basin, there's no way across the inlet on foot. Watch your step when you're out 
by the warehouses, we're very busy this season, and the stevedores will cause 
trouble if you get in their way. As to a passenger . . ." He was consulting 
another ledger. "There's no record of anyone booking passage on the Milverton 
this crossing, but a desperate man might well approach the captain privately, 
rather than risk transit office records or the presence of river police." The 
clerk shook his head, frowning. "Plenty of men are still shanghied off the 
streets round here, by commercial captains desperate for shiphands. A man asking 
for a berth or offering to work for his passage wouldn't even be questioned."
"Wonderful," Skeeter muttered. If Kaederman offered to work his way or paid a 
tidy sum the captain wouldn't have to report to the ship's owner, not a captain 
in the docklands wouldn't jump at the offer, no questions asked.
"You've been very helpful, sir," Tanglewood thanked the clerk, slipping him a 
half crown for his trouble. The young man pocketed the coin with a nod of 
appreciation and returned to his ledgers. Tanglewood opened the door and stepped 
quickly outside.
"We'd best hurry. They won't welcome interruptions at this late hour."
They hailed Armstrong and Margo, who stepped smartly out of the way when 
sweating stevedores cursed at them. The Milverton was a sleek ship, her iron 
prow and bowsprit jutting so far out over the wharf, the tip end of the bowsprit 
nearly scraped the warehouse opposite. Men bustled across her, shouting commands 
and unfurling her great sails in preparation for departure. Loading was still 
underway, stevedores by the dozens manhandling huge casks and crates out of the 
warehouse along her port side, hauling them up into her vast iron holds. Skeeter 
kept a sharp watch for Kaederman. The captain, when Skeeter and the others 
climbed the main gangplank, was not amused by the interruption. "Get the bloody 
hell off my deck! I sail in a quarter hour and we're behind schedule!"
"This won't take long," Tanglewood assured him, producing a conciliatory 
five-pound note and holding it up. "Have you taken any passengers aboard in the 
past twenty-four hours? Or a new crew hand, a Yank?"
"I bloody well have not and if you don't get off my deck, I'll toss you into the 
basin!" He snatched the five-pound note and stalked off, shouting at a hapless 
crewman who'd snarled a coil of rope leading from the capstan to the mainsail, 
which rattled lopsided in the rising breeze.
They searched the ship anyway, dodging irate ship's officers, but were finally 
forced to admit that if Kaederman were aboard, he'd stowed away as cargo. They 
jumped back to the quay with minutes to spare before becoming stowaways, 
themselves. Standing on the quay, they watched until the Milverton pulled slowly 
and majestically across the basin toward the river, under tow by steam-powered 
tugs. They held vigil to make sure Kaederman didn't show up at the last minute, 
but he remained a no-show. When the ship passed through the locks into the 
river, Skeeter pulled a rumpled list from his coat pocket and scratched off the 
Milverton's name.
"London Docks," he said quietly, "a ship called Endurance. She leaves Wapping 
Basin at seven."
London Docks, down in the heart of Wapping, dwarfed little St. Katharine's. The 
immense, double-armed Western Dock alone was larger than all the basins of St. 
Katharine's, combined. The smell of tobacco was strong in the air, coming from 
the central basin and its warehouses. When Skeeter mentioned it, Tanglewood 
nodded. "That's Tobacco Dock, of course. Rented out by Her Majesty's government 
to the big trading companies. You said the Endurance leaves from Wapping Basin? 
This way, then."
The appalling noise overwhelmed the senses. Beneath the level of the quays 
Skeeter could see vaulted cellars where stevedores trundled great casks of wine 
and brandy. Transit sheds stood between waterside and warehouses, temporarily 
sheltering a vast tonnage of goods and providing a maze in which one man could 
hide almost indefinitely. 
Lock-keepers worked incessantly, regulating the flow of ships in and out of the 
great basins, while draymen arrived with wagonloads of luxury goods for export 
to Britain's far-flung mercantile markets. The stench of raw meat and blood and 
cooking vegetables mingled with the smells of coke-fired furnaces from vast 
food-packing plants. Whole wagonloads of salted sea-turtle carcasses rolled 
past, off-loaded from a ship out of the Caribbean basin, destined for the soup 
canneries and luxury manufacturers who made combs, hair ornaments, boxes, 
ink-pen barrels, and eyeglass rims from the shells.
Past the canneries were great icehouses, bustling with men and boys loading ice 
into insulated wagons. Every time the doors opened, cold rolled out in a wave 
across the road. Skeeter began to realize just how overwhelming London's 
docklands really were as they passed the Ivory House, with its immense 
stockpiles of elephant tusks, and warehouses where eastern spices and enormous 
pallet-loads of exotic silks were trundled off the quays. The number of places 
Kaederman might hide was distressing; to search all of it would take a small 
army.
The Endurance proved to be a squat little tramp steamer, its days as a passenger 
boat eclipsed by vastly larger luxury ships. The hectic pace of loading was no 
less frantic than it had been aboard the Milverton. The captain was no less 
harried, either, but was slightly less brusque. "A Yank? No, I haven't laid eyes 
on a Yank today nor yesterday, neither, and not a paying passenger the last 
three crossings. New crew hired? Not a single hand, no, sir, I've a good crew, 
treat 'em right. They've turned down offers of more money working for harsher 
masters and that's a fact . . . No, no! The deliveries for the galley go into 
the center hold, not the bloody prow! You'll break every egg in that crate, 
storing victuals in the bow, that's where she takes the brunt of the waves!"
And off he went, correcting the error, leaving them to question crew hands. No 
one had laid eyes on anyone answering Kaederman's description.
"Strike two," Skeeter Jackson muttered, crossing the Endurance off his list. 
"Next stop, Regent's Canal Dock, Stepney."
Rain began falling in earnest, plastering Skeeter's hair to his forehead and 
horses' manes to their necks. Draft horses strained against their harness 
collars and slipped on the wet streets. Drivers shouted and cursed and wagon 
wheels churned piles of dung into a foul slurry carried into the nearby river 
and the sewers underfoot. They struck out at Regent's Canal Dock, as well: the 
High Flyer, sailing for Hong Kong, produced no trace of Kaederman. 
Perhaps it was only the grey and dirty rain soaking through his coat and snaking 
in runnels down his collar, but Skeeter began to think the task of finding one 
murderous lout in this overcrowded, reeking maze of humanity and bustling 
commerce was impossible. He tried to protect the ink on his slip of paper from 
spatters of rain gusting in beneath the broken eaves of a pub where they'd taken 
momentary shelter. "Next ship departs out of Quebec Dock."
"Where's that?" Noah Armstrong asked, rubbing hands together absently in an 
attempt to warm them. The October rain was cold. Keening wind cut through their 
trousers and coats.
"Surrey Docks, that's south of the river," Margo said, shivering. "We'll have to 
cross at London Bridge, there isn't any bridge closer. Which is why Tower Bridge 
is being built, to shave miles off the round trip from London Docks to Surrey 
Docks, for the draymen. But it's still just an iron shell, doesn't even span the 
river, yet. We'll have to backtrack. When does the ship go?"
Skeeter consulted his pocket watch. "Three-quarters of an hour from now."
"We'd best not walk it, then," Tanglewood muttered, "that's a bloody long way 
from Stepney to Rotherhithe and Bermondsey. There's a tram line nearby, we'll 
catch the next tram heading west. When do the other ships go, Jackson?"
He used his cap to protect the ink on his list. "Eleven o'clock, Blackwell 
Basin, West India Docks. Two p.m., Import Basin, East India Docks. Seven o'clock 
this evening, Royal Albert Dock."
"He might try for a later ship," Margo mused as they located the tram stop. 
"Just to give himself time to pull together the kit of goods he'll need. Money, 
clothing, sundries, a packing case or duffel bag to hold them in." 
"We might get lucky at the secondhand shops, if the transit offices don't pan 
out," Noah Armstrong said quietly. Armstrong didn't say much, but listened with 
an almost frightening attentiveness and the detective's ideas were always sound. 
The tram arrived a moment later, glistening a wet, cheerful red, its sides 
covered in advertisements. They managed to secure seats on the lower level, 
where they could sit out of the rain. Passengers on the upper deck sat huddled 
under the open sky, with rain pouring down their collars despite umbrellas that 
turned the top of the tram into a lumpy, domed canopy. The horses snorted, 
shaking their great, dappled heads against the downpour, and chewed at their 
bits, jingling their harness bells and tugging at the reins, then the tram 
rumbled into motion along the tracks.
They crossed the Thames, its grey water choppy in the storm. Hundreds of river 
taxis and sailing ships bobbed like forlorn, waterlogged birds. Steamers chugged 
and churned their way through the leaden water, spewing coal smoke into the dark 
sky. Rain spattered against the tram's windows, bringing Skeeter's spirits even 
lower as he caught sight of the vast Surrey Commercial Docks on the southern 
shore of the river. Surrey was exclusively commercial, offering no passenger 
service, which meant security would be tighter. 
Skeeter spotted only a few gates along the access roads, used by draymen and 
their wagon teams. It occurred to Skeeter that Surrey Docks could become a trap 
to anyone caught inside, if a security force could be thrown across those few 
gates. The four of them, however, did not comprise such a force, and they 
clearly couldn't involve the river police. How would they ever find one man, in 
all that immense sprawl? Surrey was bigger, even, than London Docks.
Entering the Surrey complex was like walking straight into a foreign land. 
Spoken English was in the minority, with half-a-dozen Scandinavian languages 
battling for dominance over harsh Russian and garrulous French as fur traders 
and timber importers argued tariffs with stolid dock foremen. And permeating it 
all came the scents of raw lumber and cured animal skins and dark, dirty water 
lapping and slapping against the sides of iron hulks tied up at the quays.
They entered through Gate Three, out of Rotherhithe, and found the 
Superintendent's office. "Berth 90, Quebec Dock," the clerk read from the 
ledger. "The clipper ship Cutty Sark. Yes, they've registered a new hand, galley 
cook from America, name of Josephus Anderson. He signed on as crew this morning 
after the regular cook took suddenly ill. Says he can't read, but he signed his 
name on the books." The clerk showed the signature, a laborious scrawl that was 
nearly illegible.
"Could be trying to disguise his handwriting," Skeeter said thoughtfully as he 
and Tanglewood rejoined the others. "Make himself look less educated than he is, 
so he won't attract as much attention. He wouldn't need to know a thing about 
sailing to work as a galley cook. And it would be just like him to drug or even 
poison the real cook, so they'd have to hire a new one in a hurry. Josephus 
Anderson sounds like Kaederman, all right."
When Skeeter told Armstrong and Margo which ship they were looking for, Noah 
Armstrong gave a start of surprise. "My God, the Cutty Sark? Bastard has a real 
sense of style, doesn't he? Haven't they retired her by now?"
Tanglewood said, "Oh, no, she's a few more years of work left in her career. The 
Cutty Sark's days as a trading clippership are numbered, of course. She might've 
been the fastest to make the tea run in her day, but they'll put her in drydock 
in a few years, never fear."
A passing trader who overheard the remark laughed heartily. "Drydock, eh? What 
on earth would you put a useless ship in dry dock for? Charge sixpence a tour?" 
He continued on his way, laughing and shaking his head.
Tanglewood chuckled. "Well, that is what becomes of her, thank God. Imagine, 
ripping up a ship like her for scrap!"
Skeeter led the way past the end of Canada Dock basin, toward berth 90. Rain 
pelted down harder as they headed down Redriff Road, dodging heavy wagons and 
piles of dung and sodden masses of sawdust heaped into ruts and holes. Mud 
spattered their trousers and squelched underfoot. Wet lumber towered in stacks 
higher than their heads; stevedores were throwing tarpaulins across piled crates 
in the shadows of those lumber stacks. French Canadian sailors grumbled and 
groused about the foul weather and asked for directions to the nearest pubs and 
whores. Near the immense warehouse beside berth 91, casks marked Black Powder, 
Explosive! formed a squat pyramid under the transit shed. A ship's officer was 
giving instructions to the stevedores.
"We've got an iron hull, boys. I don't want any man jack of you striking sparks 
or you'll blow my ship and half this dock sky high. Black powder is shock 
sensitive and friction sensitive and we're packing three tons of it into those 
holds. Thank God for this rain, it'll dampen down static electric charges. Be 
damned sure your men are wearing leather-soled boots, no steel heel plates, no 
hob-nails, no copper-toed work boots, have I made myself clear . . ." Skeeter 
edged past the massive pyramid of powder kegs, where unhappy stevedores were 
already grumbling about having to change footgear in the middle of a driving 
rainstorm thick enough to put out hell's own fires.
Berth 90 stood in Canada Yard South, opposite Bronswick Yard, Greenland Dock. 
The two yards were separated by Redriff Road, which snaked and twisted its way 
between Surrey's various basins. They found the captain on the quay, deep in 
discusssion with dock officials regarding fees the captain insisted were sheer 
piracy. One look at the captain's wrathful countenance and Tanglewood suggested, 
"Let's try one of the crew hands first, shall we? I'd say that chap's in no mood 
for polite inquiries."
A crewman passed them, headed up the gangplank toward the Cutty Sark's beautiful 
decks, and Margo darted forward. "Hey, wait a second, could I ask you a quick 
question?" Money changed hands, then Margo waved them over. "This gentleman," 
she nodded at the puzzled crewman, "will escort us down to the galley to meet 
Mr. Anderson."
Skeeter pressed elbows against ribs, where his pistols lay concealed in twin 
shoulder holsters: the Royal Irish Constabulary Webley he'd carried to Denver 
and a larger Webley Green borrowed from Spaldergate, a commercially popular 
revolver predating military models carried by British army officers. And snug 
against the small of his back, in a sheath worn sideways beneath his coattails, 
rode one of Sven Bailey's Bowie knives. Going after Kaederman, he would've felt 
happier carrying a Maxim machine gun, as well. 
As they climbed the gangplank and crossed the holystoned decks, Skeeter's pulse 
kicked in at triple time, jumping savagely in anticipation of Kaederman's 
violent reaction. Then they were climbing down into the ship's dark interior, 
following the narrow passageway to the cramped galley. Skeeter stole his hand 
into his coat and gripped the butt of his Webley Green, fully expecting trouble 
to break out the instant "Anderson" caught sight of them.
"Hey, Anderson!" the sailor poked his head into the galley. "You got company, 
mate!" He then sauntered away on his own business, jingling Margo's coins in his 
pocket.
"I comin', suh, I comin' . . . can I help you all, somehow? I got work to do . . 
."
Anderson's voice was soft, respectful, almost obsequious. And the moment Skeeter 
caught a glimpse, his spirits plunged toward despair. Their new galley cook was 
a Yank, all right. A very black one, at least sixty years old, with grizzled 
white hair, missing half a tooth in front. He spoke in a broad, drawling dialect 
that sounded like the deep South. Anderson proved to be a former plantation 
slave who'd signed as cook aboard the first ship out of Savannah after his 
manumission. Said he wanted to see something of the world, have a few stories to 
tell his grandchildren.
While Tanglewood thanked the cook and apologized for interrupting his work, 
bitter disappointment sent Skeeter striding back topside, fists clenched as he 
reached the rain-slick deck. A ship's officer sporting a vulcanized rubber rain 
slicker was telling someone, "Your bunk's below, stow your gear and report to 
the quartermaster for a uniform. Then shag your arse back topside and find the 
first mate, he'll tell you what your job's to be."
A man with a heavy sea duffel across one shoulder turned to locate his new bunk 
below decks . . . and Skeeter gasped. Then yanked loose his big Webley Green 
revolver, aiming for Sid Kaederman's heart. "Don't move! Don't even breathe, God 
damn you!"
Sid froze in astonishment. The officer in the rain slicker was staring at the 
Webley, slack-jawed. "Here, what's the meaning—"
"Tanglewood!" Skeeter shouted. "Get up here! He's on deck!" Running footsteps 
sounded below. The deck officer started forward, plainly furious. "What is the 
meaning of this outrage? Put away that pistol, sir, or I'll have you put in 
irons!"
"Stay back!" Skeeter shouted. But it was too late. The officer had stepped 
straight into Skeeter's line of fire. Kaederman dropped the heavy duffel with a 
thud and raced across the rain-slick deck, heading for the gangplank. Skeeter 
lunged around the officer and fired. Splinters flew as lead struck the ship's 
rail. Kaederman plunged down the gangplank and hit the quay running. Skeeter 
cursed and followed as Armstrong and Tanglewood ran across the wet decks of the 
Cutty Sark at full tilt, guns drawn. Tanglewood fired, as well, missing the 
fleeing Kaederman clean. Tanglewood skidded wildly across the slick decking and 
Skeeter's feet did a creative skid of their own, slowing him down so badly, 
Armstrong beat them both to the gangplank. The detective plunged down toward the 
quay on Kaederman's heels. Douglas Tanglewood was swearing as he scrambled up 
from the deck. Margo appeared just as Skeeter rushed down the gangplank in 
pursuit, shoving aside shocked stevedores and ship's crew to reach the quay.
Skeeter glimpsed Kaederman ducking through the transit sheds alongside berth 91. 
Armstrong plunged in after him, shoving his way past angry stevedores trying to 
shift heavy casks from a dwindling pyramid. A scant instant later, the detective 
came racing back Skeeter's way, white-faced and shouting. "Get down! Get down!"
A massive explosion rocked berth 91. Fire belched outward in a solid wall of 
destruction. The concussion hurled Armstrong to the ground. The shockwave 
knocked Skeeter flat, crushing the breath from his lungs. Heat seared his sodden 
coat as he flung both arms over his face. Then rain was pouring over him again, 
slashing down at the mass of flames that had, seconds before, been an immense 
transit shed. Blazing timbers and tin shingles crashed to earth in a deadly 
rain. The rigging and sails of the ship at berth 91 were on fire. Stunned 
sailors were already struggling aloft with buckets and heavy knives, chopping at 
the ropes, trying to put out the inferno before it reached the holds.
"Armstrong!" Skeeter yelled, scrambling to his feet. The detective stirred 
sluggishly, but staggered up. Skeeter braced the Wardmann-Wolfe agent when 
Armstrong nearly fell, again, reeling and dizzy on his feet.
"Was Kaederman in that shed?" Skeeter shouted, barely able to hear his own 
voice.
"What?" Armstrong shouted back, voice tinny and distant through the ringing in 
his ears.
"Kaederman! Was he in there?"
"No! Saw him bolt for Redriff Road, right after he broke open one of those 
casks. Struck a match and threw a damned blazing rag right onto the loose 
powder, then ran out the other side!"
"Black powder? Good God!" No wonder the whole transit shed had gone up like a 
bomb. Unlike modern, smokeless powders, black powder was genuinely explosive, 
deadly as hell in that kind of mass. How many stevedores were killed in there? 
Skeeter wondered as he dodged and jumped across burning timbers and twisted, 
smoking tin shingles.
He reached the terminus of Redriff Road and searched wildly for any trace of 
Kaederman. He swore. . . Then heard shouts and curses drifting down from the 
direction of Greenland Dock. Any disturbance was a good bet. Skeeter raced that 
way and pelted slap into an angry group of Scandinavian sailors, cursing to make 
a Viking raider proud. A whole stack of crates had been knocked down, breaking 
open to strew their contents of valuable furs into the mud, white ermine and 
sleek mink and glorious black sable. Then Skeeter caught a glimpse of Kaederman 
far ahead, running down Plough Way through Commercial Yard on a direct course 
for Gate Eighteen.
And Kaederman's diversionary tactics abruptly backfired right into his face. He 
hadn't quite reached the gate when a whole squadron of irate constables burst 
through, inbound. London's river police, responding to the emergency. Kaederman, 
clutching an up-time pistol in one hand, skidded to a halt. For an instant, 
Skeeter thought he meant to shoot the entire police squadron. Then he doubled 
back, instead, and raised his gun directly at Skeeter.
Shit—! 
Skeeter ate mud. He skidded face-first on his belly and tried to bring up his 
own pistol. There were too many innocents in his line of fire. He spat filthy 
muck and rolled frantically as Kaederman dodged past, firing at him on the way 
and shoving aside the furious sailors busy rescuing their sodden furs. Kaederman 
fired at Armstrong, Tanglewood, and Margo, too, as he ran toward them. The hail 
of bullets sent all three headlong into the mud. Then he raced along the very 
rim of the quay at water's edge and reached Redriff Road again before they could 
turn their weapons on him.
Swearing and spitting, Skeeter propelled himself to his feet, covered head to 
foot in slimy, foul mud that carried a rank stench into his sinuses. He didn't 
want to consider what might be in that mud. Armstrong was in the lead as they 
burst out of Commercial Yard in pursuit. Kaederman was a sizeable distance 
ahead, but even Tanglewood and Margo were gaining ground and Skeeter, abruptly 
in the rear thanks to the about-face, was steadily catching up.
Kaederman headed this time for Gate Three, the principle entrance to Surrey 
Commercial Docks. And once again, his delaying tactics with the black powder 
backfired. A horse-drawn fire engine, bells clanging madly, charged through, 
followed closely by four more. The fire engines completely blocked the way as 
they swung into the dockyards. Trapped inside the walls, Kaederman turned north 
toward the warehouses alongside Albion Dock. River police had taken up the hue 
and cry, as well, shouting at the fire officials to send word for another 
squadron.
"We've got us a bloody arsonist!" a policeman behind Skeeter yelled, fury 
lashing his voice. "Damned Fenian bomber, blew a shed of gunpowder to hell! Try 
and head him off at Gate Two . . ."
Rain slashed down across Skeeter's face in blinding gusts and unpredictable 
squalls. The mud under his boots sent him slipping and sliding for purchase in 
the choppy mess. At least it washed the reeking stuff off his face. Kaederman 
didn't try any delaying tactics at Albion Dock. He passed the warehouses and a 
gang of startled stevedores at full tilt, racing for Gate Two and escape. They 
charged past another huge basin in a straggling, strung-out line, then Skeeter 
caught up to Doug Tanglewood and Margo. They ran—as he did—with guns clutched in 
wet, muddy hands.
"If he gets out of this dockyard, we're sunk!" Skeeter gasped.
"Looks like we're sunk, then!" Margo spat back.
Kaederman had just slipped through Gate Two, with Armstrong hard on his heels. 
Skeeter put on a burst of speed and drew ahead. By the time Skeeter shot through 
Gate Two, a second squad of river police had put in appearance, running north 
from the direction of Gate Three. They were still in the distance, however, 
nowhere close to Kaederman. He was just visible on Rotherhithe Street, dodging 
past startled pedestrians on the pavements, cutting around large groups by 
ducking into the street. Horses flung their heads up and reared, shrilling a 
sharp protest at his erratic flight. Skeeter had just caught up to Armstrong 
when Kaederman cut sharp south again, leaving Rotherhithe Street.
"Where the hell is he going?" Skeeter gasped. "The river police are down that 
way!"
For a long moment, Armstrong didn't answer, too busy dodging past a protesting 
carthorse and its cursing driver. Then a startled expression crossed the 
detective's face. "Surely not?"
"What, dammit? Where's he heading?"
"The tunnel?"
It took a few seconds for Skeeter to call up his mental map of the area, 
memorized before leaving the station, then he had it: Isambard Kingdom Brunel's 
Thames Tunnel, connecting Rotherhithe and Wapping. Twelve hundred feet long, it 
had taken eighteen years and countless lives to build. It was also the only way 
to get from Rotherhithe's Surrey Docks to Wapping without detouring to London 
Bridge—or swimming.
"Isn't that a railway tunnel now?" Skeeter asked as they ran, heading 
helter-skelter straight for the tunnel's entrance.
"Yes! Trains from London to Brighton, owned by East London Railway Company. But 
the railway uses only one of the tunnel shafts! The other's still a pedestrian 
tunnel!"
"Aw, shit, you are kidding, right? If he makes it to Wapping . . ."
Unfortunately, Armstrong was not kidding.
He was also correct. Sid Kaederman plunged into the circular structure that 
housed the Rotherhithe entrance to the Thames Tunnel and vanished from view. 
They followed at a run, clattering past startled men and women in working-class 
garb. Skeeter and Armstrong pounded their way through the vast entrance, with 
Margo and Doug Tanglewood on their heels.
The entrance was a circular shaft at least fifty feet across. Skeeter peered 
past wrought-iron railings as they plunged down the broad, double-spiral stairs. 
The shaft was a good eighty feet deep and Kaederman was already halfway down, 
plunging three and five steps at a time. Skeeter's muddy boots skidded on the 
stone treads. Down and around, in a broad, lazy spiral, a dizzying gyre that 
would prove fatal if he put so much as one foot wrong. Down, down to goblin town 
. . . 
He was beginning to pant for breath when they finally reached the landing where 
the double spiral came together. Half-a-turn more and they were on the ground, 
paving stones clattering underfoot. The Thames Tunnel loomed before them, a 
double-barreled shotgun nearly a quarter of a mile long. The air was dank, 
foetid, cave-like. The tunnel walls exuded a chilly sweat, moisture running in 
tiny rivulets like the condensate on a beverage glass. Twin tunnels receded into 
infinity, dimly lit at regular intervals with gas lamps. Railway tracks ran down 
the center of one side.
"Which tunnel?" Skeeter gasped as Tanglewood and Margo bounded down the last few 
steps to join them. "Which one did he go down?" They listened intently at each 
entrance for the echo of footfalls. The chugging of water pumps growled and 
echoed. They couldn't distinguish anything like a sound of running footsteps 
against the background noise.
"That one!" Armstrong finally decided, pointing to the pedestrian tunnel. "I 
doubt he wants to risk meeting a train. He's no coward, but he's no fool, 
either."
Dank, chilly air closed in as they pelted down the echoing brickwork and stone 
tube in pursuit. A few handcarts loaded high with coal and wooden crates 
jockeyed for space in the narrow tunnel. Gas lamps gave plentiful if rather dim 
light the length of the shaft, which had been constructed as a series of 
connective arches beneath the river. Nearly forty-five years old, the long 
pedestrian tube remained the province of footpads, thieves, and innumerable 
prostitutes who led a troglodyte's existence beneath the river. They passed 
sleeping drunks huddled in the brick archways, women who'd set up stalls at 
which tawdry goods and cheap jewelry could be purchased. Ragged children begged 
for money. A pair of roughly dressed men eyed them as they shot past, then 
thought better.
A train deafened them as it roared past on the other side of the brick 
supporting wall. If Kaederman had chosen the other route—or if they had—they'd 
have been crushed under the wheels. Then they were through, emerging on the 
Wapping side of the river, somewhere to the east of the great London Docks. The 
eighty-foot climb up the dizzying double-spiral of the Wapping shaft, a twin of 
the Rotherhithe entryway, winded Skeeter badly halfway up. He staggered on with 
a stitch in his side and cursed Kaederman with every upward step of burning 
thigh muscles. They caught a glimpse of him from time to time on the way up, 
moving doggedly toward the street high above.
The raucous noise of workaday Wapping drifted down in distorted echoes and 
clangs, human voices and riverboat whistles and the slam of cargo being 
offloaded at the docks. The rumble and clatter of freight wagons mingled with 
the roar of the train chugging through the tunnel far below. Then they reached 
the street. Sunlight, dim and watery, replaced the gaslights of tunnel and 
shaft. Rain was still pouring in wind-blown gusts. A vast throng of people and 
horses and overloaded carts clattered wetly through the narrow streets, past 
ships parked at dead-end roads.
"Where is the son of a bitch?" Armstrong gasped, face contorted with frustrated 
anger. "We'll never find him in that stinking mess!"
Skeeter was too busy dragging down enough air for his starving lungs to answer. 
They started asking passers-by and finally obtained a lead from a ragged and 
muddy girl of twelve, totting bunches of bedraggled flowers in a basket over her 
arm. She pointed down Wapping High Street. "Cor, 'e went that way, mister, 
knocked me down an' never said nuffink, spilt me flowers all over the frog, 'e 
did, ruint' the lot, and never 'pologized, neither . . ."
Skeeter tossed a couple of shillings into her basket, eliciting a soprano squeal 
of astonishment, then pelted down Wapping High Street through the driving 
downpour. They finally caught a glimpse of Kaederman—just as he made a flying 
leap at a cart rattling smartly northward. He caught the tailboard and dragged 
himself in. The cart shot forward at twice, three times the speed a man could 
run. Cursing, Skeeter and the others lagged farther and farther behind, 
searching for some transport of their own. For an entire block, Skeeter 
staggered along with a butcher's knife of a stitch in his side, beginning to 
despair. Then a shopkeeper who'd clearly arrived a short time earlier came out 
to back his horse and cart up onto the pavement, unloading a pile of crates 
directly into his shop.
Skeeter dove toward the horse with a gasping cry of relief. A quick snatch at 
the Bowie knife concealed under his coattails, a few slashing blows at harness 
straps, and the startled horse was free, front hooves coming up off the pavement 
as it tried to stand on rear legs. "Whoa, easy there . . ." Skeeter stepped up 
onto the cart pole, its front end digging into the street, and threw a leg over, 
clutching the grip of the fighting knife in his teeth until he could slide it 
back into the sheath. The shopkeeper shouted just as Skeeter urged the horse 
forward with knees and heels.
"Hey! Wot you doin', that's me 'orse!"
Skeeter kicked the nag into startled motion even as he dug banknotes out of a 
pocket and tossed them onto the street as payment. "Come on, let's go . . ." 
Obedient, if puzzled, the horse slanted an ear back to catch the sound of 
Skeeter's voice and broke into a shambling trot, probably its top speed while 
harnessed. A solid thump of heels sent the horse into a surprised canter, 
stiff-legged and jolting from the unaccustomed gait. Skeeter gained ground 
rapidly on Kaederman's cart, while the shopkeeper screamed curses after him. 
A swift glance revealed Noah Armstrong halting a hansom cab at gunpoint. Margo 
and Doug Tanglewood piled in. Then Skeeter gave all his attention to guiding his 
aging carthorse through the crowded street, cutting and weaving between 
high-piled wagons, shabby cabs for hire, even a few gentlemen's carriages. 
Businessmen or merchant traders, probably, come to check on arriving cargo or 
oversee outgoing shipments. Gaping pedestrians and liveried drivers stared at 
the sight of a carthorse lumbering past at its top, stiff-kneed speed, trailing 
harness straps and the end of long reins which Skeeter was looping and pulling 
in to prevent their being caught in a passing wagon wheel or carriage axle. He 
had no desire to end his ride that abruptly.
Skeeter pushed his shaggy mount to a rumbling gallop. The carthorse burst past 
the boundary between Wapping and Whitechapel, steadily gaining ground on 
Kaederman. The cart made a right-hand turn, swinging smartly into Whitechapel 
High Street, which was jam-packed with hay wagons, oxen pulling loads too heavy 
for horses, and fast-moving hansoms. There was a near-collision that sent Sid 
Kaederman sprawling against the side. Skeeter saw his mouth move and the cart's 
driver turned his head sharply. The driver started shouting, then turned to 
crack his cartwhip at the stowaway. Kaederman's answer was to pull loose his 
pistol and fire at the irate driver, point-blank.
Either the jostling spoiled his aim or the driver was one of those down-timers 
who couldn't be killed, because Sid missed him clean from a distance of twelve 
inches. The driver, white-faced and still yelling, performed a diving roll that 
landed him on the cobbled street, spitting curses and running for his life. The 
carthorse picked up speed without a guiding hand on the reins. Kaederman's 
transport careened out of control down the congested road. Kaederman, thrown 
violently from side to side as the carthorse dodged and shied away from other 
wagons and horses, crawled awkwardly over the seat, trying to reach the reins. 
Skeeter leaned low over his horse's flying mane and urged the draft animal to 
greater speed. If I can just catch up while he's distracted . . . 
They raced down Whitechapel High Street in a grim, jolting chase. Kaederman's 
cart plunged into Whitechapel Road, careering past screaming women on the 
pavement and cursing draymen who swung violently wide to avoid collision. 
Children scattered like ants, shouting curses after Kaederman's runaway horse. 
Truant boys and chimney sweeps scooped up mud clots and pieces of broken brick, 
hurling them in Kaederman's wake.
The inevitable disaster struck just as Skeeter pulled alongside. A heavily laden 
team of drays, moving ponderously down the middle of Whitechapel Road, couldn't 
swerve fast enough. The driver tried. Tried hard, in fact. He succeeded in 
pulling his team broadside to the onrushing cart.
The shock of collision drove Sid's horse slam against the other team's harness 
poles. Wood splintered. Horses screamed. The heavy wagon toppled. Its driver and 
a stack of crates six feet high were hurtled under the wheels and hooves of 
other wagon teams. A human scream tore the wet morning air. The horses were 
still screaming, crashing down as wood splintered like shotgun blasts.
Sid's empty cart jacknifed around, airborne. It smashed down across the upturned 
drayman's wagon. Crates broke open under the force of the cart's landing. 
Hundreds of shoes and ladies' skirts, cheap dresses and steel bustles, men's 
trousers, and warm woolen coats spilled out into the mud. Sid, thrown violently 
airborne by the cart's twisting gymnastics, landed asprawl in a heap of dark, 
wet skirts on the other side of the broken wagon. The spilled garments cushioned 
his fall, probably saving his life.
Then Skeeter's galloping horse, presented with an impassable barrier, jumped the 
upturned wagon. The horse's rear hocks clipped the top boards, then they landed 
roughly on the cobbles beyond and slipped on the wet stones. The horse skidded 
and went to his knees with a ringing scream of pain. Skeeter was thrown forward 
across the horse's neck. His superb riding skills—mastered on wild, half-broken 
Mongol war ponies—and a desperate grab at the harness collar kept Skeeter from 
smashing face-first onto the cobbles. His horse neighed sharply again, a sound 
of pain and fright, then heaved and scrambled up, bleeding down both torn knees. 
Skeeter, badly shaken, slid down the horse's forequarters and landed on the wet 
street.
Poverty-stricken children, shrieking women, and idle louts from nearby gin 
palaces descended on the wreckage, a swarm of devouring locusts intent on 
carrying off as much as they could cram into their arms, toss over their 
shoulders, stuff into gunny sacks, or simply pull on over their own clothes. 
Hundreds shouted and cursed and scurried for the choicest pickings, using 
prybars to open unbroken crates or simply hauling them off, contents unseen.
Kaederman's horse, badly wounded, was lunging, trying to climb over the backs of 
the toppled drayman's horses. All three animals were down, kicking and neighing 
shrilly, trying to regain their feet. Harness lay tangled, fouling their legs, 
which kept them from scrambling up. A man in a blood-stained leather apron 
hacked at the harness leather with a broad meat cleaver, trying to free the 
trapped animals. Wagons and carts, blocked by the wreckage, piled up on either 
side, their drivers shouting curses or jumping down to help shift the broken 
cart and wagon out of the way. Someone mercifully shot Sid's mortally wounded 
carthorse, ending the agonizing, bone-grating screams. Skeeter—limping where 
metal harness fittings had torn a gash through his trousers and thigh—hunted 
through the wreckage for Sid.
Kaederman had regained his feet, bleeding from cuts down his face and arm. His 
coat was torn, smeared with mud and dung slurry from the street. The hired 
killer stumbled, visibly dazed, through the crowd of riot-happy scavengers, then 
drifted erratically toward the edge of the road. He staggered at every step, 
clearly having wrenched a knee on landing. He was still running, though, moving 
raggedly and glancing over one shoulder to locate Skeeter. At least with a bad 
leg, he couldn't run fast or far.
Skeeter abandoned his own injured horse and fought his way on foot through the 
near-riot. A hansom cab shoved and clawed its way forward along the crowded 
pavement, scattering irate pedestrians into the jam of wagons and carts on the 
street. It halted six feet behind Skeeter's limping carthorse, which an 
opportunistic girl of fifteen was leading swiftly away. The cab disgorged Margo, 
Douglas Tanglewood, and Noah Armstrong; the latter tossed a wad of bank notes to 
the driver before jumping down to join the pursuit.
"He's heading that way," Skeeter pointed as they slithered through the crowd of 
spectators and fighting scavengers. "Hurt and limping, but still on the move." 
The up-time killer had reached a three-story, eighteenth-century structure that 
might have once been a grand house, built of grey-painted stone and mellow 
brick. Coal smoke and soot had stained wide windows and trim a dingy grey. 
Kaederman peered through the windows, clearly trying to decide whether he should 
bolt inside or continue down the street. A semicircular, cross section of metal 
from what might have been the rim of a wagon wheel or maybe a large bell, had 
been mounted above the door.
Kaederman spotted them and thought better, limping past the entrance and 
rounding the corner to parallel a whole series of longer and lower, grey-painted 
buildings attached to the rear of the main structure. Skeeter and the others had 
already reached the corner when Kaederman found a set of double doors into the 
third building back, a three-story factory of some kind, judging from the noise 
and the smoke bellying up from a forest of chimneys. A wagon and team of horses 
stood in the open doorway where men drenched with sweat were loading heavy 
crates. Kaederman sidled past and plunged into the dim interior beyond.
Despite his own limp, Skeeter was at those wide double doors in a flash. On his 
way through, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a sign painted in neat white 
letters: Whitechapel Bell Foundry, est. 1420, these premises since 1570, home of 
Big Ben, Bells of Westminster, the American Liberty Bell . . . 
The appalling noise and stench of a nineteeth-century smelting plant struck 
Skeeter square in the face. Intense heat rolled outward in a visible ripple, 
distorting the foundry's interior for just a split second. Then he was inside, 
breathing the fumes of molten metal and burning charcoal. Rows of windows high 
up did little to dispel the gloom. The vast, clangorous room, fully three 
stories tall, remained in near darkness, aided and abetted by the wet, cloudy 
day outside.
Men shouted above the crash and slam of immense machines, heavy conveyors, and 
the boom of newly cast bells being tested for trueness of sound. Molten 
bronze—and possibly iron and silver and brass, judging from the color of the 
ingots on those conveyors—glowed in immense vats, surging like volcanic rock, 
seething and malevolent in the near darkness. Enormous, pulley-driven crucibles 
of liquified metal swayed across the room some eight feet above the foundry 
floor, moving ponderously down from the smelting furnaces to row after row of 
casting molds, some of them six and seven feet high. Filled molds were jammed 
and crammed to either side, forming narrow aisles—canyons in miniature—stacked 
high to cool.
Men with long, hooked poles tipped the crucibles to pour their glowing, gold-red 
contents into the open snouts of bell molds, every pour sending cascades and 
showers of sparks and molten droplets in a deadly rain that sent foundry workers 
scattering back for safety. Others used heavy iron pincers to lift smaller, 
filled molds aside for cooling, making room for new, empty molds beneath the 
I-beam pulley system on which the crucibles rode. Catwalks hung like iron 
spiderwebbing above the smelting furnaces. Conveyors brought heavy ingots up to 
be tossed by sweating men and half-grown boys into the fiery furnaces. They 
dumped ingots, secured returning crucibles from the pulley line for refilling, 
regulated the temperature in the huge furnaces, and fed charcoal from enormous 
mounds to keep the fires burning hot enough to melt solid bronze for pouring.
And straight down the middle of that hellish inferno, Sid Kaederman was limping 
his way toward escape. Skeeter plunged in after him, tasting the stink of molten 
metal on his tongue and in the back of his throat. We could die in here, he 
realized with a gulp of sudden fear. Every one of us. If Kaederman succeeded in 
ducking out of sight long enough to go to ground, he could use the darkness and 
that ear-numbing noise for cover, lay an ambush and pick them off one by one 
with that silenced pistol of his and nobody'd even hear the bodies hit the 
floor.
"Split up!" Skeeter shouted above the roar as Kaederman dodged and ducked past 
startled foundrymen, darting into the maze of miniature canyons. "Try and cut 
him off before he can get out through a back door—or go to ground and lay in 
wait someplace nasty! And for God's sake, be careful around those furnaces and 
crucibles! Go!"
Tanglewood and Armstrong turned right and jogged warily into the near-blackness. 
Their shadows flickered and fled into the surrounding darkness as they passed a 
backdrop of fountaining sparks from another massive pour. Margo followed 
Skeeter. "Are you all right?" she shouted in his ear. "You're limping!"
"It's nothing, just a shallow scratch! Stings a little is all!" He'd suffered 
worse as a boy, learning to ride in the first place. Skeeter had the big Webley 
Green out, held at the ready, up near his chest, elbows folded so Kaederman 
couldn't knock it out of his hands should he come around a corner where the 
killer was hiding. Leading with a gun, sticking it out in front of you with 
locked elbows, was a fast way to disarm yourself and end up seriously dead. Only 
idiots in the movies—and the idiots who believed them—were stupid enough to lead 
with a firearm.
Skeeter and Margo edged their way into the wood-and-iron ravines between cooling 
bell molds. They worked virtually back to back as they advanced, moving one 
haphazardly strewn row at a time. Molds of differing sizes and shapes jutted out 
unpredictably, threatening knees, elbows, shoulders. Heat poured off the stacks 
like syrupy summer sunlight, deadening reflexes and hazing the mind. It was hard 
to breathe, impossible to hear above the din of the foundry floor. Down the 
room's long central spine, bright gouts of light shot out at random, throwing 
insane shadows across the stacked molds to either side.
Skeeter moved by instinct, hunting through the alien landscape. Sidle up to a 
junction, ease around for a snap-quick glance, edge forward, check the floor for 
droplets of blood, peer along the rows down either aisle for a hint of motion . 
. . Then on to the next junction, row after row, sweat pooling and puddling, the 
wool of uncreased trousers raw on bare skin and stinging in the wound down his 
inner thigh, hands slippery on the wooden grips of the pistol . . . Another 
fast, ducking glance—
The bell mold beside Skeeter's head splintered under the bullet's impact. Iron 
spalled, driving splinters across his cheek and nose. Pain kicked him in the 
teeth, then he was dodging low, firing back at the blur of motion three rows 
down. The big Webley kicked against wet palms, the noise of the foundry so 
immense he barely heard the sharp report. Skeeter blinked furiously to clear his 
vision, waved Margo back and down. Wetness stung his eyes, sweat mingled with 
blood burning like bee-sting pain from the jagged slivers in his cheek where the 
bell mold had spalled. He blinked and scrubbed with a muddy, torn sleeve. When 
he could see again, he dodged low for another look, down at hip-height, this 
time. Sid Kaederman was leaning around a stack, waiting to shoot him, but he was 
looking too high. Skeeter fired and a wooden pallet splintered six inches away 
from Kaederman's chest. Skeeter cursed his blurring, tear-blocked eyes, and the 
sweat that had let the gun slide in his hands, and his lousy aim . . .
"Go!" Skeeter yelled as Kaederman ducked back. They rushed forward and ran 
flat-out, gasping hard for breath in the stinking, steaming air. Down three 
rows, risk the peek . . . Kaederman was running, stumbling every few strides on 
his injured leg. Skeeter sprinted after, gaining fast. The paid killer glanced 
back, but failed to fire at him. 
He's out of ammo! Skeeter realized with a rush of adrenaline. There was no other 
rational reason for Kaederman not to whirl and fire dead at him. A surge of 
confidence spurred Skeeter to draw ahead of Margo, relentlessly whittling down 
Kaederman's lead. The hit man ducked down a sideways aisle, vanishing from view. 
Skeeter swore and closed the distance, ducked low through his own skidding turn. 
Harsh, sulphurous light flared, momentarily blinding him. The smelters were dead 
ahead. Workers with iron poles nearly four feet long, hooked on one end, and men 
with heavy prybars snagged a big crucible and tip-tilted it, pouring its blazing 
contents into the mouth of a bell mold four feet across, using the prybars to 
control the angle of the tilt.
Sid Kaederman reached the newly-filled mold and started waving his gun at the 
stunned foundrymen, shouting that he would shoot them if they didn't get out of 
his way. The men stumbled back, away from the apparent lunatic. Then Kaederman 
ran along the line of pulleys, toward the far end of the foundry where access 
doors led to the street. Blistering hot crucibles, just filled with molten 
metal, swayed down from the smelters toward another big bell mold waiting to be 
filled. Kaederman glanced back, realized Skeeter was gaining . . .
He whirled around and snatched up a long iron pole from the floor where a 
terrified bell caster had abandoned it with a clatter. Kaederman dropped his 
useless pistol and reached with the hooked pole, instead. He snagged the lip of 
a brimming crucible swaying its way toward him, a big one that must've held a 
bathtub's worth of blazing liquid metal. Pulling hard, Kaederman slammed the rim 
down and ran. Molten bronze flooded out across the floor. Liquid metal splashed 
and crested in a wave of destruction, spreading across the entire narrow space 
between stacked, newly-cast bells, an inch deep and still flooding outward. 
There was no way around it and no way to climb those red-hot iron molds to 
either side. Skeeter's forward momentum was too great to avoid the deadly lake 
in his path.
So he jumped straight toward it.
Toward it and up. He stretched frantically, reaching for the massive iron I-beam 
of the pulley system overhead. It's too high, I'm gonna miss it, oh Christ, 
don't let me miss . . . He dropped the Webley, needing both hands free. It fell 
with a splash and vanished into the scalding, hellish glow. Then his palms 
smacked against the I-beam and he grabbed hold, swinging his feet up in a 
frantic arc. He clamped arms and ankles tight, then just hung there, sloth-like, 
panting and sweating so hard he was terrified his grip would slide loose. 
Uncurling his fingers long enough to wipe first one hand, then the other, 
against his coat took a supreme act of will.
Then he wriggled himself around, managed to crawl up and over the top of the 
narrow iron beam, and balanced on hands and knees, all but prone above the 
hellish puddle. A black crust had formed along the top, a thin scum of solid 
metal that seemed to breathe as it cooled. The molten metal beneath flashed and 
flared in a scaly pattern like the scutes on a crocodile's back. Kaederman had 
turned to run, dropping the long iron pole into the edge of the molten flood 
splashing back toward him, but he wasn't moving very fast, clearly tottering at 
the last of his strength. Margo, thank God, had dodged the lethal flow, ducking 
sideways into another canyon between bell molds.
Breath regained and balance secured, Skeeter moved forward along the beam in a 
scooting crawl that was taking far too long. Swinging himself cautiously down 
once more, he passed hand over hand above the heaving mass of cooling metal, 
moving ape-like along the beam, swinging up again only to avoid pendulous 
crucibles.
Kaederman, who'd managed to stumble maybe a dozen paces beyond the far edge of 
the puddle, glanced back . . . and tripped, sprawling flat. His mouth moved 
soundlessly as he scrambled up again. Then Skeeter was across and jumping down 
to face him. Kaederman lunged forward, snarling curses and giving him no time to 
draw his other gun. They grappled for long moments, gouging and punching. 
A blow from Kaederman's knee grazed the cut along Skeeter's thigh. Pain shot 
through the abused flesh. Skeeter staggered back a step and tangled his feet 
over the iron pole Kaederman had used to tilt the crucible. His stumbling 
footsteps kicked its far end askew, out of the puddle of molten bronze, trailing 
lethal beads across the foundry floor. Skeeter danced a wild jig-step and 
finally righted his balance, just a boot heel shy of the malevolent lake. The 
cool end of the long pole rolled and bumped into Kaederman's foot, a weapon 
ready for the snatching. Kaederman's face twisted in triumph. An unholy laugh 
broke loose. Before Skeeter could fling himself forward to stop him, Kaederman 
stooped and snatched up the pole in a two-handed grip—
By the wrong end.
Glowing and still half-molten, the pole dripped liquid bronze which flowed over 
both of Kaederman's hands. A terrible scream burst loose. He tried to let go. 
Kaederman staggered back, away from the puddle, face contorted, still screaming. 
The stench of cooking hair and meat struck Skeeter's nostrils. Then Kaederman's 
damaged fingers unclenched enough to let the pole drop. The skin of both hands 
sloughed away with it. Kaederman's knees gave way. He hit the floor and nearly 
splashed headlong into the glowing, syrupy-thick bronze. Skeeter snatched him 
back, dragging him bodily out of danger, and shoved him to the floor. Then held 
him there. Skeeter smiled down into stunned grey eyes.
"Hello, Sid."
He'd stopped screaming. Broken, gasping sounds tore free in their place. Shock 
was setting in fast, leaving him shaking and clammy under Skeeter's hands. 
Skeeter shook him slightly to get his attention. When that didn't register, he 
used the bastard's real name and shook him again. "Gideon! Hey, Guthrie! Look at 
me!"
Dull eyes focused. His mouth moved, but nothing came past his lips except those 
strangled, hideous whimpers. "Listen, pal. You got a choice," Skeeter slapped 
his face gently to keep his attention. "You listening?"
He nodded, managed to force out a single coherent word. "W-what?"
Skeeter fished out his little RIC Webley and let Kaederman see it. "What I ought 
to do is shoot you where you lie, pal. You don't rate the oxygen you're 
breathing. But I'm gonna offer you a choice. Your pick all the way. If you like, 
I'll step away and let you crawl out of here, free and clear. No charges for 
murder. No prison time. No gas chamber. Of course, with the state of medical 
care around here, you'll lose both those hands for sure. And even if you didn't, 
you'd probably die from shock and infection and gangrene."
Kaederman's eyes had glazed. "Wh-what's the—?"
"What's your other choice?" Skeeter's grin sent a shudder through the injured 
man. "Why, you get to come clean. Tell the cops everything they want to know 
about your boss. Hand them Senator Caddrick and his mafia cronies on a silver 
platter. Give us enough to send them to the gas chamber, instead of you."
Ashen lips moved, mouthing the words. "Goddamned little bastard . . . should've 
killed you on sight, Armstrong."
Skeeter grinned down into Kaederman's glazed eyes. "Too bad, ain't it? What'll 
it be, then? I'll trade the medical care you need to save your hands, trade you 
a surgeon and a burn-care unit, for Senator Caddrick in prison. That's a fair 
trade, I think. One of those new prisons he helped fund, a no-frills, maximum 
security cage without television or libraries or anything to distract a guy 
except Bubba's hard-on in the next cage over. Couldn't happen to a nicer 
bastard, don't you agree? Maybe you'll even get a reduced sentence for turning 
state's evidence. How about it? We'll keep you out of pain, stabilize your hands 
for you, keep you alive long enough to get you to a burn specialist. Otherwise, 
I'll just leave you here."
He jerked his thumb at the stench of the Victorian-era foundry. As the ashen 
killer shuddered, rolling his eyes at the grimy room, Skeeter added 
off-handedly, "Oh, and by the way. If you decide to stay here, and if you manage 
to survive shock and infection and amputation of those hands, I'm told Scotland 
Yard still hangs a murderer. And I know a couple of folks who'd be delighted to 
rat on you."
Kaederman didn't answer for a long moment, just lay there sprawled on his back, 
trembling and sweating, his skin grey and his hands curled into meaty, scorched 
claws. He glared up at Skeeter while making horrible, strangled sounds and bit 
his lips until they bled. His body twitched spasmodically, his whole nervous 
system overloaded with the pain of the burns.
"Okay," Skeeter shrugged, rising from his crouch and sliding his RIC Webley back 
into his shoulder holster. "Have it your way. Maybe you can actually crawl to 
the door. Dunno what you'll do once you're outside, though, with all that manure 
in the streets to drag yourself through and Whitechapel's toughs kicking you 
into the mud, just for chuckles . . ."
Skeeter started to step away.
Kaederman lunged up onto an elbow. "Wait!" He shook violently, eyes wild and 
desperate. "For God's sake, Armstrong . . . wait . . . Go ahead and take your 
revenge, curse it, kick my ribs in, smash my teeth, do whatever makes you 
happy—just don't leave me to die in this hellhole!"
Skeeter stood glaring down at him, drawing out the man's terror with cold, 
calculated loathing. How much pity had this bastard shown any of his victims? 
When Kaederman fell back, eyes closing over a moan of despair, Skeeter finally 
decided he'd had enough. 
"Okay," he said softly, crouching down again. "But you're gonna have to walk out 
of here on your own pins, Sid, because I'm not carrying you." He tugged the man 
by his coat lapels, levering him up to his knees and bracing him under one 
armpit. Noah Armstrong and Doug Tanglewood, their faces flushed from the intense 
heat of the bell molds, skidded up just as he got Kaederman onto his feet. Margo 
was close on their heels, having gone around the long way to avoid the puddle of 
cooling bronze. Skeeter glanced up. "Hi, Noah. Got a present for you. Sid, here, 
is going to teach us all a new song. Goes like this: `All I want for Christmas 
is my boss in jail . . . ' "
Sid Kaederman stared from Noah Armstrong's face to Skeeter's matching one and 
back again, eyes widening as the import of their ruse set in. Then his eyes 
turned belly up and his knees went south and Skeeter ended up carrying him out 
of the bell foundry, after all.
 
Chapter Nineteen
Kit hurled through Shangri-La's basement corridors, Sven Bailey pounding along 
in his wake, both of them grim and silent. John Lachley's footsteps echoed up 
ahead. He didn't have much of a head start. Kit flung himself around a twist in 
the corridor and caught sight of the quarry down a long straight-of-way, maybe 
fifty yards ahead. Easy shot. Kit fired—and missed. Three times. Sven's gun was 
back in the pteranodon's cage, in a spot nobody wanted to retrieve it from. 
Lachley whipped into a side corridor. Kit and Sven reached it seconds later. 
They were gaining on him. Kit lined up the pistol sights as best he could while 
running full tilt, and tried again.
He succeeded in blowing out the sides of four aquaria in rapid succession.
Water and fish flooded across the floor as Kit spat curses. "Goddammit! I 
shouldn't have missed! Not seven times!"
"Maybe he's got to go back to London, after all?" Sven growled. "And you're out 
of ammo, by the way."
Kit glanced down. The slide had locked back. He'd shot the pistol dry. When he 
groped in his shirt pocket, he discovered nothing but emptiness. The spare 
magazine had fallen out during the fight and he hadn't noticed. Careless is 
stupid, he snarled at himself, and stupid can be fatal. 
He mashed the send button on his radio.
"Kit Carson reporting. We're in pursuit, heading into Zone Eighteen! Sven and I 
are both out of ammo—looks like the bastard can't be killed, after all!" Either 
that, or he was phenominally lucky.
"Copy that, we have search teams triangulating on your location." In the 
background, he could hear the station announcer again. Gate Three is opening in 
three minutes . . .
"Set up blockades out of Zones Seventeen and Eighteen," Kit gasped as as they 
skidded around a corner. He slammed one shoulder into a ten-foot wall of stacked 
aquaria, which shifted with an ominous groan. Water slopped out of the topmost 
layer. A door slammed back and Lachley's footsteps receded upward. "Oh, hell, 
he's gone up a stairway!"
"Come again?" the radio sputtered.
"He took the stairs, heading for Commons!"
"Copy that and relaying."
Why was Lachley headed for Commons? Just running blind, heading up, same as many 
another fugitive, or was he planning something . . .
Kit's eyes widened. "Holy—Sven, Gate Three!"
He mashed the transmit button again. "I think he's headed for Gate Three! And 
even if he isn't, leave a corridor open, try to herd him into it!"
"What?" the radio sputtered. "Right into the middle of an incoming tour? Kit, 
are you out of your— Oh. Roger that. Kit, you are one devious bastard."
"So give me a medal—if this works. Sven, be ready for anything. I'm going to try 
something dangerous."
"Chasing Jack the Ripper isn't?"
He had a point, there . . .
How much time? Kit wondered frantically as they plunged up the stairs four at a 
time. Christ, how much time's left? They burst out onto Commons at the edge of 
Frontier Town. Chronometer lights flashed steadily overhead. The vast open floor 
lay deserted, as empty of life as a midnight cemetery. Their footsteps slapped 
and echoed off the distant girders high overhead. Kit jumped a decorative horse 
trough filled with goldfish, which Sven whipped around, too short to go over it.
He knew they were close when he felt the savage backlash of subharmonics from 
the gate. The sound that wasn't a sound vibrated through the vast, echoing 
stretch of Commons. A security team stood waiting at the entrance to the Wild 
West Gate's departure lounge, charged with keeping the in-bound tour from 
re-entering the station. Behind the security officers, the massive gate dilated 
slowly open, right on schedule. Lachley, running flat out, ran straight toward 
the rapidly widening black chasm which hovered three feet above the Commons 
floor and whipped through the open lanes snaking outward from the departures 
lounge. He clearly intended to shake pursuit by jumping through the moment it 
opened wide enough. 
Kit shouted into the radio, "Get those security officers away from the gate! For 
God's sake, move 'em out before he veers off!"
Too late! Lachley had seen them. He skidded sideways, trying to vault over a row 
of chairs. Kit charged, frantically trying to recall where he'd been in early 
August of 1885. It didn't really matter. He was the only one in position to take 
out the Ripper. Kit's flying tackle caught Lachley's knees—and sent them both 
reeling straight through the gaping black hole of the Denver Gate.
They fell headlong down the dizzying drop. The station end of the tunnel lay at 
the end of a spyglass inverted, far away and shrinking. Lachley brought the 
knife up even as they fell like doomed meteors. The Denver end of the gate 
loomed huge. Kit tried to brace himself, wondered what it felt like to die . . . 
Then jarred his back. He sprawled, badly winded, across the dirt floor of the 
Time Tours livery stable. John Lachley snarled above him, teeth bared, knife 
poised to strike—
And almost made it to the floor.
His whole body wavered like candle smoke and vanished, a shadow eaten whole by a 
moonless night. For just an instant, a lingering look of shocked surprise 
floated where Lachley's face had been. Then his blood-stained knife clattered to 
the dirt beside Kit's ear and a heavy pouch thumped down beside it, inside a 
flutter of stolen, up-time clothes.
Sven thudded into the stable at Kit's feet, grunting on impact.
Kit lay flat, just gulping air, oblivious to the shocked demands erupting on all 
sides. Furious guides tried to calm hysterical tourists who had just watched a 
man die, shadowing himself. Several women were sobbing, abruptly too terrified 
to go anywhere near the open gate. Kit shut his eyes for long, shuddering 
moments, trying to convince his own muscles that it was safe to move, now.
He was still alive.
Jack the Ripper was finally dead.
Slowly, wincing at pulled muscles and bruises, Kit picked himself up and dusted 
himself off and gave Sven a hand up, as well. Tour guides were shouting above 
the general roar. Kit picked up Lachley's knife, plucking it out of the dirt 
with trembling fingers, and managed to retrieve the heavy pouch. He said to the 
nearest guide, "It's safe to bring them into the station, now. Quarantine was 
just lifted." Then he jerked his head once at Sven, turned his back on the whole 
shouting mob, and stepped back through the open Wild West Gate to go home.
Once there, he intended to get quietly, massively drunk.
 
I must be crazy . . . 
Jenna Caddrick couldn't believe she'd agreed to this. Couldn't believe she'd 
just stepped through the Britannia Gate to confront her father in front of half 
the world's television cameras. Camera flashes and television crews lit up the 
whole departures lounge, illuminating a sea of spectators beyond the velvet-rope 
barricades. A sniper could be lurking anywhere in that vast, heaving mob. Noah 
Armstrong, silent at her side, descended the stairs with eyes narrowed, intent 
on the business of keeping them alive long enough to testify. She rubbed her 
chin nervously, wishing Paula Booker had left her muttonchop whiskers in place. 
But Noah had inisted the surgeon remove the implanted disguise and restore 
Jenna's face to her own appearance, for the benefit of the cameras. Jenna felt 
naked, defenseless.
Below them, Malcolm Moore's gurney had nearly reached the Commons floor, 
followed closely by Sid Kaederman's—or rather, Gideon Guthrie's. The man who'd 
trailed her from Colorado to London, bent on murder, was unconscious, his burnt 
hands cradled in special harnesses above his chest. Margo Smith walked beside 
her fiancé's gurney, holding his hand as they carried him down to the station's 
medical crews. Jenna's throat closed at the thought of what these people had 
risked for her sake. Malcolm had nearly been killed and Skeeter Jackson had 
undergone plastic surgery, rearranging his whole face. Skeeter had been shot 
outside the Carlton Club, as well, saved only by his Kevlar vest, and had almost 
been killed at the bell foundry . . .
She and Noah had nearly reached the floor when the inevitable shout came.
"It's Jenna Caddrick!"
The roar hurt Jenna's chest. She flinched back from the solid wall of noise, 
having forgotten during the weeks in London just how terrible it was to face a 
sea of screaming reporters.
"Steady," Noah muttered at her elbow. "I don't see a sniper anywhere."
Not yet . . . 
She glanced back and found Skeeter Jackson right on their heels, his face still 
a mirror of Noah's. He gave her a brief, tense smile. "You've got that Kevlar 
vest of mine on, right?" She nodded and Skeeter muttered under his breath, 
"Good. I know it works." Then they were down the last of the steel-grid steps 
and pushing foward between a cordon of security guards. 
Questions battered her from every side. Reporters screamed her name, demanding 
to know where she had been, how she'd escaped the Ansar Majlis death squads, a 
thousand, million questions that raked up old wounds and inflicted new ones. 
Then her father was there in front of her, open-mouthed and staring. Shock had 
dilated Senator John Paul Caddrick's grey eyes. A white pallor washed across his 
face as he met her gaze. She wondered how she had ever looked him in the eye 
without a reptilian loathing.
Then he recovered his composure. Her father presented the cameras with a smile 
worthy of an Oscar and cried, "Jenna! Oh, thank God, baby, you're safe . . ." He 
rushed forward, arms outflung. Jenna had no idea what she intended to do or say. 
She'd been thinking about this moment for weeks, drenched in sour-smelling 
terror sweat each time she imagined it. But when he rushed at her like a demon 
from her worst nightmares, Jenna reacted without a moment's hesitation.
She slugged him, point-blank. Slammed her fist so hard into his nose, the shock 
jarred her shoulder and left her hand numb. He staggered back, blood welling 
from both nostrils. For just an instant, a sewing needle dropped to the concrete 
floor would have sent echos bouncing through the vast station. Even the 
reporters had turned to stone, stunned motionless.
Jenna drew a sobbing breath. "Don't touch me, you murdering son-of-a-bitch! You 
paid those bastards to kill Aunt Cassie! You paid them to pose as Ansar Majlis, 
so the hit couldn't be traced back to you. Damn you to hell, you murdered her, 
and you murdered my fiancé, then you put out a contract on me, you sorry sack of 
shit! I've got enough proof to bring you down, you and your mafia pals with you. 
Gideon Guthrie's been singing for his supper and believe me, they're gonna throw 
away the key! If they don't pull the switch on the electric chair. And frankly, 
after what you did to Carl and Aunt Cassie, I'd pull it in a heartbeat. I hope 
you fry!"
Her father stood swaying, waxy-pale, mouth working soundlessly. As the crowd 
roared its shock, his face twisted in a blurred grimace. Then he snatched open 
his coat and jerked out a small-caliber handgun. Noah Armstrong flung himself 
forward. The detective slammed Jenna down, away from the discharge of flame 
erupting from the muzzle. Another shot exploded as her father snarled, "Goddamn 
you to hell, Armstrong!"
Then Skeeter Jackson was on the floor beside her, swearing in some language she 
didn't recognize, with a hole torn through his coat where her father's shot had 
barely missed him. Jackson's reflexes were good—he twisted aside even as her 
father fired again, mistaking him for Noah. The real Armstrong lay full length 
on top of Jenna, face down to protect her. Then a swarm of security officers 
buried her father, shoving him down under an avalanche of live bodies. The mob 
went mad, shrieking and hurling abuse that left Jenna numb. Skeeter Jackson 
grunted once, lying prone practically on top of Noah, and muttered. "I gotta get 
my own face back . . ."
Jenna just shut her eyes, quaking under Noah's weight, too exhausted to move.
"C'mon, kid," Noah's voice finally broke through, "you've got to testify, make 
it official."
"Yeah . . ."
Security officials were pulling them to their feet, surrounding them in a ring 
five bodies deep, hustling them out of the danger zone to a waiting security 
cart. Skeeter dragged himself up and followed. Through the numbing roar of the 
mob, another shocked cry went up.
"Ianira Cassondra!"
Then Jenna and Noah were thrust into the cart. Skeeter slid in after them and 
scooted over as Ianira and her family crowded in. The children sat on the floor, 
dark eyes wide and scared. The driver cranked the siren up full blast and the 
cart shot down Commons, taking them away from the whole screaming mess. Ianira 
leaned down to wrap both arms around her frightened children and Marcus held 
Ianira. Jenna's vision blurred as she met the cassondra's gaze. Ianira, at 
least, had come home. The cassondra and her family would be welcomed by people 
who loved them. Jenna had no one left in the world who cared about her. No one 
at all. Except her unborn child.
And Noah Armstrong.
Jenna leaned her elbows against her knees and buried her face in her hands and 
cried. Welcome home, Jenna . . . welcome the hell home. 
* * *
A quarter of an hour later, Jenna told her story to a roomful of station 
officials, Interpol officers, and a whole, terrifying retinue of I.T.C.H. 
agents. Jenna would've frozen up, tongue-tied and shaking, if Noah hadn't been 
there, backing her up and presenting their evidence. Her father was in jail, 
sedated and under heavy guard. Skeeter Jackson was with Jenna, testifying under 
oath. Margo Smith and her grandfather, Kit Carson, had already given their sworn 
affadavits. When everyone had finished their preliminary testimonies, Skeeter 
handed over the tape from his scout log, recording Gideon Guthrie's confession 
to posing as Sid Kaederman in order to murder her and Noah.
A long silence fell, finally broken by Agent Inga Kirkegard, the senior ranking 
I.T.C.H. officer. "I'll start by acknowledging the courage it took for all of 
you to do what you've done. You've saved countless lives, shut down a major 
international terrorist organization, exposed a ruthless conspiracy between mob 
interests and government officials, and kept this station operational. Not to 
mention ridding the world of Jack the Ripper. And you did so with surprisingly 
little loss of life, when the Ripper cults are taken into account." One corner 
of her mouth quirked slightly as she inclined her head toward Kit, acknowledging 
his pivotal role in on-station events Jenna had learned about on the way to the 
station manager's office.
Then Kirkegard's eyes frosted over and she stared coldly at Jenna. "However, 
your methods are something else entirely. We won't even list the number of laws 
and temporal-travel regulations broken in this unfortunate situation. I suspect 
most charges will be dropped, since it is quite clear you and Mr. Armstrong 
acted in self defense, killing the contract murderers sent after you. There is 
also a matter of jurisdiction, since the killing was done down time.
"In light of the large number of mitigating circumstances, I will recommend a 
judicial review and waiver of fines, rather than formal charges. That goes for 
all station residents who participated in the efforts to extract you and Mr. 
Armstrong alive. Now, Senator Caddrick brought a number of charges against the 
management of this station," Kirkegard said, turning her gaze to Bull Morgan and 
Ronisha Azzan. "After a thorough investigation of those charges, as well as 
countercharges filed by Mr. Carson, this team has officially dismissed all 
criminal counts initially brought by the senator. Those charges were clearly 
part of the overall fraud he perpetrated upon the public, including those made 
personally against you, Mr. Morgan."
A weight visibly lifted from the station manager's broad, squat shoulders. Bull 
Morgan settled back in his massive chair and switched his cigar to one corner of 
his mouth. "Much obliged."
Kirkegard nodded. "Ms. Azzan will be receiving a commendation from the 
Inter-Temporal Court for her superb handling of the multiple crises which struck 
this station in rapid succession, while Mr. Morgan was incarcerated. So will Mr. 
Carson," she glanced gravely at the world-famous former time scout, "for 
safeguarding hundreds of lives and restoring the station's normal economic 
operations through his ingenious solution to the Ripper difficulty. We've taken 
into custody those members of the Ripper cults your searchers apprehended. They 
will be prosecuted to the full extent of up-time law. As will Senator Caddrick 
and Mr. Kaederman, or rather, Mr. Guthrie."
She then turned her attention to Skeeter Jackson, who sat up straighter in his 
chair and swallowed hard. "It has come to our notice that you have led a rather, 
ah, checkered career, Mr. Jackson. We uncovered several old warrants and 
complaints filed, regarding your activities during the past several years." 
Sweat popped out along his brow. Kit Carson sat sharply forward, the brooding 
look turning his eyes abruptly dangerous. Jenna gulped, abruptly thankful she 
wouldn't be the one on the receiving end of Kit Carson's temper. Agent Kirkegard 
flicked a glance up at Kit, then smiled slightly. "Given the pivotal role Mr. 
Jackson played in this case, plus the character testimonials filed by this 
entire group, I believe the Inter-Temporal Court will vote to grant a general 
pardon and amnesty, in lieu of a commendation for services rendered."
Skeeter relaxed so abruptly, Jenna thought he'd fainted.
"I would suggest, Miss Caddrick, that you and Mr. Armstrong consider remaining 
on TT-86 for some time. Until the members of Mr. Guthrie's organization are 
rounded up and jailed, this station is without doubt the safest place for both 
of you. I.T.C.H. and Interpol can provide additional security to screen persons 
entering the station from New York. You will need to testify at the trial, of 
course, but I suspect you would prefer staying here to being placed in a witness 
protection program."
Jenna shuddered. "No contest."
Noah gave the I.T.C.H. officer a wan smile. "After my experience in London, I 
may just switch careers and offer my services as a temporal guide."
Kit chuckled, startling everyone. "I'd say you've stumbled onto a lucrative 
career opportunity, there. Granville Baxter is always happy to find guides who 
know how to disappear in a down-time crowd."
Armstrong grinned. "I hadn't thought about guiding in quite that way."
"Consider it. I'll tell Bax to give you a call. You'll stay at the Neo Edo, of 
course, until permanent quarters can be found in Residential. Penthouse suite. 
And don't even try to argue. My pleasure."
"Thank you," Jenna said quietly. "There isn't much I can do or say to show how 
deeply grateful I am to all of you. You helped save all our lives. My father may 
be a sorry bastard, but I won't forget that kind of debt. Ever."
"Neither will I," Noah agreed. "And I suspect Mr. Jackson wants his own face 
back, after nearly taking a bullet meant for me. Twice, in fact."
Skeeter grinned. "Now you mention it . . ."
The meeting broke up with Bull Morgan handing around congratulatory drinks, then 
they crowded into the elevator. Noah slipped an arm around Jenna's shoulder 
where they stood jammed together in one corner. She leaned her head against the 
detective's shoulder, grateful for the warm gesture and so weary she could have 
fallen asleep on her feet. Kit Carson was saying, "Malcolm is still in surgery, 
but the orderlies left word. He's doing just fine."
"Thank God," Margo breathed out.
"By the way, if you're interested," Kit chuckled, "I've got another little job 
lined up for you, in a few weeks. A real field test of your scouting skills."
"The Ripper Watch wasn't?" she shot back, causing even Jenna to smile.
"Well," Kit shrugged, "we had a major new gate open up while you were chasing 
Jack the Ripper."
"We did?" she asked breathlessly. "Are you really going to let me scout it?"
He shook his head. "Sorry, imp, but Ripley Sneed already did." His apology 
visibly deflated her hopes. "But it's a real dilly. Ought to give you a good 
workout for your final field test."
Margo caught her breath sharply in the crowded elevator. "Final field test?" It 
came out tiny with breathless hope. "As in, final exam before I really start 
scouting?"
He chuckled. "If you pass. And no solo work for a good long while, yet, even if 
you do pass the field test. Malcolm goes with you or you don't go at all. I'll 
conduct the field test and put you through your paces, myself. And this is one 
gate you won't have to worry about shepherding tourists through. Bax has already 
agreed. Scholars and scouts only, for the next couple of months."
"Just where does this thing lead?" Margo asked warily.
"Chicago. 1871."
Intrigued despite herself, Jenna sifted back through her skimpy knowledge of 
American history, randomly absorbed during her academic career. What was so 
special about Chicago in 1871?
Margo's eyes had narrowed, however. "What month in 1871?"
Kit grinned. "October."
Margo's eyes shot wide. "Really? Omigosh! How soon do we leave?"
"Four weeks. You'd better hit the books hard, imp."
"You're on!"
Jenna couldn't stand the suspense. "Where are you going? What's so special about 
Chicago in October of 1871?"
Kit chuckled. "Well, Miss Caddrick, my granddaughter and I intend to discover 
whether Mrs. O'Leary's cow did or did not start the Great Chicago Fire."
Jenna's eyes widened. Skeeter grinned. Noah started to laugh.
"I have a feeling," Jenna muttered, even as her lips twitched, "that living on 
Time Terminal Eighty-Six is going to prove very interesting . . ."
She fully intended to enjoy every minute.
 
Epilogue
At four o'clock in the morning on November 9, 1888, the Ripper Watch Team's 
video cameras captured James Maybrick committing the brutal slaughter of Mary 
Kelly in the cramped little room at number thirteen, Miller's Court. At eight 
o'clock that morning, those same cameras captured the arrival of a midwife who 
was known to perform illegal abortions for girls in trouble. The woman let 
herself in with a key Kelly had taken from Joseph Barnett after he and Kelly had 
quarelled and separated.
The horrified midwife, who slipped in the blood and gore, badly staining her 
clothing, changed into one of Mary Kelly's dresses and shawls and burned her own 
in the hearth before fleeing the room, too deeply shocked and terrified to go to 
the police or even scream for help. Doing so would have required explanations 
for her arrival in the first place, which would have led to a stiff prison 
sentence. Mrs. Caroline Maxwell, a neighbor in Miller's Court, glimpsed the 
midwife leaving Kelly's room and mistook her for Mary Kelly, herself, thus 
confusing police with sober testimony that Mary Kelly had been seen alive at 
8:00 A.M.
London police never solved the Ripper mystery and never made a major arrest, 
although many suspects were named. The case destroyed Sir Charles Warren's 
career as police commissioner and sparked a massive social reform movement to 
alleviate the appalling conditions of poverty in which the Ripper's victims—and 
more than a million other souls—lived. The following spring, James Maybrick died 
of acute arsenic poisoning. His complicity in the Ripper case did not come to 
light for another century. His innocent American widow, her unfortunate affair 
with Mr. Brierly having come to public notice, was convicted of murder—largely 
because of her adultery—in a trial that shocked all of England and sparked a 
decade and a half of protests from the American State Department. Florie 
Maybrick served fifteen years in prison, then returned to the United States and 
lived in quiet anonymity under an assumed name, never realizing she had lived in 
the house that Jack built.