Linda Evans - Far Edge of Darkness

"Red—button—preset—mash it—takes ten—fifteen minutes to—open time hole—"

She closed the lid. Carefully rewrapped it. Then relieved him of the money pouch at his outer tunic belt. She dumped out the Roman coins and slid the recall device snugly inside it, then ripped off the lower half of Bartlett's tunic. Sibyl used the strip to fashion a belt and tied the pouch securely to her waist. When she glanced up, Tony was watching her. Pain had dulled the characteristic glitter of his eyes.

Blood-sucking leech...

"I'm going to need this, Tony." She took hold of the knife with both hands. She straddled him and braced both feet, then thought better and placed one foot on his chest. Sibyl yanked up, hard.

He jerked. Screamed. Then fell back, panting hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut. Blood soaked the front of his tunic, welling up in a terrible flood. He reeked of fear, dirt, and the coppery stench of blood. She searched him more thoroughly and relieved him of a short, wicked-looking dirk. There were a lot of people out and about on the streets. Granny Johnson had always told her, "Sibyl, never overlook options."

She stuck the dirk through her belt. Smart old Granny... .

He opened pain-dulled eyes as she rose to her feet. He blinked and slowly focused on her. It took him several moments to assimilate the stony expression that seemed to have frozen her face. She imagined the headsman must have looked much the way she did before he relieved Anne Boleyn of her lovely head... .

"Sibyl?" he whispered. "Sibyl—please—"

She held his gaze for a long moment. Thought about forcing him to quote Poe for her.

Settled for: "Burn in hell, Tony."

He screamed her name until she was so far away, the noise from volcano and earthquake-tossed surf drowned out the sound. She gripped the blood-slippery handle of the knife until her hand ached. Sibyl gritted her teeth as she waded through angry, frothing water.

She'd vomit later.

Right now, she just didn't have time.

Charlie began his search with the shipyard. Any boats that might have been in the harbor earlier in the day were gone now. Xanthus' ship was conspicuously absent. At least he wouldn't have to worry about search parties looking for him . He scowled, then urged the horse down into the pounding surf. Silver protested once, tossed his head, then waded doggedly forward. Breakers slammed into the horse's side and drenched Charlie within seconds.

"Hold tight, Lucky!" he called, tightening his own grip on the little girl. Small fingers closed over his arm. He checked dark boat chambers, holding his lantern out on the end of his sword to light the dark, wet spaces. There were a few dinghies left, far back in the chambers, and a couple of masted fishing boats with the masts unstepped, but nothing which looked capable of handling that seismically ravaged sea.

There was no trace of Sibyl, either.

He worked his way down past the main part of town and shivered under the ghostly outline of the Suburban Baths above him. Its wide, glassed-in main windows overlooked the sea like monstrous black eyes. Charlie hunched his shoulders unconsciously, aware that Bericus' villa was just above that terrace wall. He kept searching.

When he saw a faint glow coming from one of the chambers ahead, his heart shuddered to a halt. Then his pulse kicked in at triple time. He urged Silver forward and gained the entrance. Charlie reined the horse around to find a huddled figure lying far enough back that the breakers didn't swamp across it. He started to dismount—

—and the man he knew as Antonius Caelerus lifted his head. Tony! The man stared dully up at Charlie. Bartlett had bled into a crude bandage he'd pressed to his shoulder. The thug wet his lips and tried to focus his vision. Charlie debated whether to address him in Latin or English.

"Help... me," the man croaked in Latin. "Slave escaped... attacked me... got to find..."

Charlie had to know.

"How were you planning to get home, Tony?" he asked in English.

The grey pallor of Tony Bartlett's skin washed white in the lantern light. "What—? Who—?"

"I was Big Joe's middleman."

Tony blinked. Licked his lips. "Mr... ." he seemed to search for the name Charlie had used when dealing with Carreras "... Mr. Ireland ?" His voice wavered badly. "Listen—I know you've got to be furious, Mr. Ireland, I don't blame you." He tried, and failed, to manage a disarming grin. "But you got to know, you have to understand—I wasn't part of that deal, I had nothing to do with that decision—"

Charlie reined Silver closer and stared down at the fallen thug. "Tell me how you get back."

He shook his head. Frustrated rage transformed his dying face into a ghoul's mask. " Can't get back. Bitch stole the device. Got to find that—"

"Sibyl?"

Tony started badly. "You know her?"

Charlie's instantaneous, visceral reaction was, Thank God, thank you, dear, sweet Lord, she got away . His next thought shamed him to his bones: She didn't take me with her . He knew Sibyl would have had no way of finding him, but the overpowering loss of coming that close, and failing to make it home, made breathing difficult. He tightened his grip around his child and hated the man at his feet.

Tony glared up at him. "Mr. Ireland, you've got to find this bitch, I'm telling you! She's got the recall device."

"Get real, Tony. She's long gone."

Tony shook his head, his face a sculptor's study in pain and desperation. "No, she can't be gone yet. Hasn't been a storm."

"What?" Hope and fear blossomed simultaneously. "What are you talking about?"

"A storm. No thunderstorm out there. When she pushes that button, gonna be one Holy Mother of a thunderstorm. It's a side effect, like. Takes time to build up. Maybe quarter of an hour. You see the storm brewing, you got maybe ten minutes. No storm, then nobody's pushed the button."

Charlie frowned. If this slimeball weren't lying...

"Strip."

"Huh?"

"Down to the skin. Move it!"

"But—my shoulder—"

Charlie shifted his sword. "I could always drop this lantern off my sword tip and kill you first. Searching corpses doesn't bother me much, Tony. Thanks to your boss, I spent two years killing men in the arena. Lots of tough men, Tony. Now strip !"

Tony undressed. He was slow and he whimpered like a baby, but he undressed. Charlie made him dump everything from his clothing onto the ground. There was nothing larger or more sinister-looking than a pack of cigarettes. Charlie made him rip open the pack and shred each one.

He was telling the truth about the device, at any rate. Charlie didn't think he'd ever seen anyone more genuinely terrified.

"Huh. So you want my help finding the broad? What's it worth?"

"Anything—God, you name it—"

Charlie parted his lips in what might have been a grin. Naked, bleeding down his chest, Tony swallowed hard. Very softly, Charlie said, "Tell me about Jésus Carreras, Tony, and the family's new business... ."

Twenty minutes later, Charlie was at the end of the seawall, where a torrential stream cascaded into another small harbor. He'd run across several surly fishermen guarding their beached boats from thieves and had seen some hastily negotiated transactions between a rich patrician family and one particularly seedy-looking lout with a good-sized, masted fishing sloop. There was, however, no sign of Sibyl. Tony hadn't possessed a clue as to which direction she might have gone.

Charlie grimaced. He would hear Bartlett's curses in his dreams, but he wasn't in the business of rescuing cold-blooded killers caught in their own traps. He was a cop, sworn to uphold the law—but this was a.d. 79, and Charlie'd been a tough street hood long before he'd taken a badge. Tony "Bartlett" Bartelli would get his own ass out, or die in Sibyl's place. Charlie peered up at the sky, but saw no hint of a storm brewing. Where had she gone? Looking for him ? Charlie spat an oath into the teeth of the wind and reined Silver around toward town again.