Albert Garrick plucked another twenty-first-century phrase from the store in his mind: the runner’s high. I ain’t a jot tired, he thought, as the adrenaline coursed through his system, maximizing his muscles’ performance. That is because my adrenal gland is releasing epinephrine. Fascinating.
Garrick leaned into the wind, pumping his arms in the style of Carl Lewis, one of Felix Smart’s favorite athletes.
The feeling didn’t last, and darkness clouded his morning mood. Garrick couldn’t rest until the Timekey was destroyed and the landing pad dismantled. He wouldn’t be completely safe in this time until that happened.
Riley shall know that I am his master, even unto dust.
When this is resolved, I will need to find myself a new apprentice. A less reluctant one.
I spared the rod. That will not happen again. I will select an indigent from the Old Nichol, feed him up, and teach him respect. And if he doesn’t learn it, he shall go to the grave, as his predecessor is about to do.
Garrick cut through the park, vaulting the iron railings onto Bayley Street, just in time to see the tail of Riley’s coat disappearing into the shadowed hallway of Charles Smart’s house.
Garrick’s bloodlust rose in his throat like bile.
I shall have them both, he thought with raw savagery, then away, before the alarm is raised.
Garrick drew himself up to avoid conspicuous glances and strolled across the street, as easy as a man with nothing more on his mind than the purchase of morning coffee and sweet rolls. This casual manner was sloughed off once he put his shoulder to Charles Smart’s door and found it unbolted.
They are mine, he thought, but then urged himself toward caution.
Chevron Savano has considerable training. She is young and impetuous, but still capable of surprises.
Garrick bolted the door behind him, then drew the lasersighted pistol and walked rapidly toward the stairs. There was clattering ahead as someone went down to the basement. Garrick knew from the weight of the footfalls and the whistle of breath that it was Riley.
It is possible that the boy is slightly asthmatic? Formative years spent in London’s poisonous smog will have that effect, he realized. And soon Riley’s breathing problems will become more severe.
His own lungs were as clean as a whistle, thanks to the wormhole.
Garrick took hold of the banister with his free hand and swung himself into the stairwell, using a shoulder to check himself against the wall.
Riley was in view. Ten steps below! A piddling, easy shot.
“Riley!” he thundered, rather enjoying the melodrama. “Halt!”
The boy did not even turn, but his legs wobbled and something slipped from his hand.
The Timekey! Riley has dropped it.
Garrick could not quell an exclamation. “Aha!”
The Timekey slipped from Riley’s fingers, and the boy knew that he must be seen to return for it, or else the plan counted for nothing. He spun around, only to find Garrick already crushing the key under his heel.
“You betrayed me, orphan,” said Garrick. “And your punishment will be a slow death.”
You orphaned me, thought Riley, fury building in his heart like steam in an engine, and he attacked, which was most certainly not part of the plan.
Riley balled his fists, as he had been taught, and punched Garrick in the nerve cluster above the knee. The assassin’s leg had no choice but to collapse, causing Garrick to list sideways in the narrow stairwell. Riley got off one more punch to the gut before Garrick raised his guard.
“Some fighting spirit,” he said, his voice reedy from the blow. “Too late for that, my boy. We are at the tail end of this story.”
Riley fought on, searching for the chinks in Garrick’s guard, finding them down low, around the hips and kidneys. And though Garrick’s expression was untroubled, he was reluctantly impressed by Riley’s skill, and surprised at how difficult it was to defend himself against the boy.
I have never fought someone who employs my exact style, he realized.
Finally Garrick grew tired of the game. He swept one arm around in a rapid arc, clouting Riley soundly on one ear, disorientating him utterly and sending him tumbling to the base of the stairs, into the basement corridor and out of sight.
Riley will turn on his master no more, thought Garrick.
All that stood between him and total peace of mind was one American teenager, who was probably unarmed. Still, he would take no chances.
Garrick spared a moment to finish crushing the Timekey beneath his boot, grinding the innards with great relish.
I could leave now. Just ascend and go. I have destroyed the Timekey.
This voice Garrick now recognized as the last wisps of Felix Smart’s conscience, attempting to manipulate him. Garrick was delighted to realize that he could not be turned from his path.
Riley knows my face. His voice must be silenced.
Death was the only answer. Unto dust, as he always said. And now he could proceed to the basement bedchamber without fear. The bed’s metal frame was nothing more than that without a Timekey to activate it. In truth, Garrick knew he should have come here during the night and disassembled the bed, but he had been wary of ambush and had to ensure the price on his head was removed. No need for fretting now.
Garrick almost wished for twenty-first-century surveillance cameras so that he could record what was going to happen next. This was an episode he would like to view critically, to confirm that his presence was as striking as he supposed.
There is always room for improvement in a performance.
Garrick banished such thoughts and allowed a cold, efficient sense of purpose to encase his brain, like the cold steel of a dragoon’s helmet.
I must be the assassin now. Tomorrow my world changes—in fact the entire world may change—but for now, I am performing a job of work. And Albert Garrick always takes pride in his work.
He strode down the corridor, eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom. There was scratching in the shadows that perhaps an amateur would have wasted ammunition on, but Garrick knew the claws of rats when he heard them and held his fire.
Riley moved slowly ahead of him, hampered by steamer trunks and mannequins, hunched over and casting fearful glances toward his mentor.
“She has deserted you, son,” Garrick called after him. “You are alone.”
“You murdered my parents!” Riley said. “I am no son of yours.”
Garrick was about to deny it—after all, how could Riley know what had transpired all those years ago?—when the truth occurred to him: The boy saw it in the wormhole.
“It was a job of work,” he admitted, shooting a wheeled mannequin for fun. “I did what I was hired to do. It was a matter of trust. And did I not save you? Against orders, I might point out.”
“Murderer!” howled Riley, darting through the bedchamber door,
into the gloom beyond.
Garrick prudently took up a position beside the doorway, unwilling to follow Riley directly, in case Agent Savano attempted an ambush.
Remember, you have both had the same training. What is standard operating procedure when defending a room with a single entrance?
Chevie would be waiting in a blind spot, aiming whatever weapon she possessed at the doorway.
If she is there at all.
Perhaps Agent Savano was not even in the building. Still, better to lose a few seconds than waste the opportunity to close this sordid chapter of the book.
Garrick summoned his memories of the room. He had passed quite some time here, waiting for Felix Smart to turn up.
A rectangular space with a small alcove in the southern wall, with a dresser and writing desk. Rows of barrel-sized cylinders—crude batteries, I would guess, which Smart was building to power future visits to Victoria. Agent Savano will be in cover behind the desk. Upon my entrance she will have a clear shot at the optimum target zone.
Garrick checked his pistol’s load.
Very well. Albert Garrick will indeed enter as expected.
Chevie knelt behind the writing desk with Barnum’s revolver pointed at the doorway. The instant Riley appeared, she was on her feet with the weapon cocked.
Come on, Garrick, she willed the assassin. Show me that greasy smile.
Garrick talked all the way, cock of the cockney walk.
“We have shared quite the adventure,” he said. “But for me to realize my full potential, I need to be allowed to invest time in myself without constant interference . . .”
This speech surprised Chevie greatly, as she had shot Garrick three times between the first and third syllables of the word adventure. His cloak had twirled to the ground, and the magician keeled over stiffly, yet he continued to speak. And though she had been forewarned that there would be trickery, Chevie left herself exposed for a fraction of a second, which gave the real Garrick the chance to step calmly into the doorway and shoot Chevie square in the chest while still projecting his voice into the wheeled mannequin on the floor.