‘But, Master Witchfinder …’ began Cryer, but his words trailed off as he could not muster a reasonable objection. He had been bested by a drunkard. ‘Yes, Witchfinder Garrick. As you command.’
Garrick bent low for a wink and whisper to his one-time apprentice. ‘Riley boy. Hark at this. I have always wanted to speak the following lines.’
He stood ramrod straight, threw back the folds of his black greatcoat and thundered: ‘Citizens! Prepare yourselves for the hunt. At first light we go!’
With that, he took dramatic flight down the aisle, drawing a wedge of townsfolk in his wake as though he were some class of Pied Piper.
In moments the small chapel was empty but for Riley and a handful of guards, and two notions occurred to the tethered boy in quick succession.
The first was grudging: That indeed was a stirring performance. Albert Garrick has this audience in the palm of his hand.
Then: If Garrick left bludgers to watch over me, he must believe that escape from this contraption is possible.
The glinting of the arrowheads aimed at the tender flesh of his own neck gave Riley pause. He would not begin plucking strings just yet. In any event there was a disgruntled constable and his cohorts to be overcome even if he could dislodge the device.
And then a third notion:
Fairbrother Isles.
Fair Brother Isles.
FBI?
Could he be a member of Chevie’s Pinkerton-style organization?
How had Chevie referred to her brotherhood of lawmen?
The Federal Bureau of Investigation or, with a witticism that Riley had never understood, Club Fed.
Perhaps they were not alone.
Perhaps there was hope.
Once again the arrowheads flashed in his vision.
A sliver of hope. A whisper.
But they had survived on less.
The Big Picture
The field office. The fens. Huntingdonshire. 1647
Chevie opened her eyes.
Eyes that now had eight times more photoreceptor cells than they once had, so, even though the light in the cabin would barely register in the pupils of the average human, to Chevie everything in her field of vision was as clear as high noon. This was because Chevron Savano was no longer the average human. She was a mutation. Not that she realized this at the time. All Chevie knew was that it was daytime as far as she was concerned.
It felt good to be concerned about anything. Her memories of the past day, if that was even the correct way to describe the time span, were a jumble of pain, sorrow and animal terror. It felt as though the wormhole had stretched her consciousness behind her on an elastic band and it had only just snapped back into her head.
The tangle of thoughts began unravelling into a linear order and Chevie brought herself up to speed.
Garrick kicked me.
I was dying.
Then the wormhole took us and I thought of Tinder.
Then I was alive somehow and further in the past.
They locked me up and took Riley.
Oh, Riley. My Riley.
Chevie knew the tunnel had done something to them both. Made them see what could be. It had never even occurred to Chevie before – after all, Riley was more than two years younger than she. And, as far as teenagers are concerned, two years might as well be two centuries.
We could be … we could be … happy.
It was something Chevie had never even considered for herself: actual happiness, beyond not being in fear for her life. Beyond taking a swim in clear Californian water.
And he felt it too. I felt him feeling it.
But later for all of that. There was more urgent information to be processed.
Someone had rescued her from that wooden cell.
An agent? Could it be?
And then … this must have been a hallucination.
A talking dog and the ghost of Professor Smart.
Wormhole dreams, surely.
That was the only explanation and Chevie would have banished these last faux memories to the dream section of her mind had not a large brown hunting hound’s head loomed in the corner of her eye.
‘Hey,’ said the dog. ‘Look who’s awake.’
A fizzling man-shaped spectre rose through the floorboards, illuminating the entire space. ‘I imagine you have some questions, my dear,’ said the ghost of Charles Smart.
‘Emmmm,’ said Chevie. ‘Ehhhhhhh.’
The dog sniffed Chevie’s leg. ‘I dunno, Prof. She still smells stupid to me. Sounds stupid too. Like a cat.’
‘It’s a dog!’ said Chevie, sitting bolt upright. ‘A dog with human talkings.’
‘That ain’t great sentence structure,’ said the dog. ‘Plus you hurt my feelings with the dog crack, and also you might wanna take a look at yourself in the mirror.’
‘Ehhhhhh,’ said Chevie again, and augmented it with: ‘Oooooooh.’
/> Professor Smart raised his transparent hands. ‘Now, now, my dear. I can explain.’
‘Sure,’ said the hound, then snuffled. ‘He can explain. He’s been explaining for years.’
Chevie jabbed a finger at Pointer. ‘Dog!’ she said.
‘Cat!’ responded Pointer. ‘And how come a floaty ghosty is no problem but a conversational canine you can’t abide? You better watch your mouth, kid.’
The confrontational tone kick-started Chevie’s natural moxie.
‘I never punched a dog before, pooch,’ she said. ‘But, if there ever was a day for new experiences, this is the day.’
Smart clapped his hands and they sparked at the contact. ‘Wonderful. Signs of intelligence.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ muttered Pointer.
Smart did his utmost to soften his perennially harsh features. ‘I know this must all seem very strange, young lady.’
‘You think?’
The professor persisted. ‘As you seemed to know, my name is Charles Smart –’
‘I know. Professor Smart,’ said Chevie, interrupting. ‘Don’t you remember me? Agent Chevron Savano? Or Chevie maybe?’
‘We met, I take it? We were friends perhaps?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Chevie. ‘Once I saw you dead, stabbed, and once I was sent to kill you.’
These confessions were met with a growl from Pointer and a lowering in Smart’s wattage so Chevie hurriedly added, ‘Which I didn’t, by the way. Someone else murdered you. Both times.’
The dog slapped a paw on the floor. ‘Hey, don’t sugar-coat it, whatever you do. Heartless. Ain’t that just like a cat?’
Chevie wrinkled her nose. ‘Why’s he talking about cats?’
‘I always hoped I might get home to my family,’ said Smart forlornly, ignoring the question, perhaps not even hearing it. ‘Be reunited with myself, you might say, but I never really believed it.’ He held up his glowing arms. ‘I suppose this is all that’s left of me now.’
‘Where’s the other guy?’ asked Chevie. ‘The one who rescued me?’
‘Agent Isles is checking the perimeter,’ said Professor Smart. ‘To use federal lingo.’