Curiously, "Did you kill him?"
"No," Skeeter bit out. "But I beat the hell out of him and Claudius spared him."
Brian Hendrickson gazed at nothing for a moment. `That," he said, "would have been something to witness. Claudius spared very few" Then he shook himself slightly an a mournful look appeared on his face. "I'm afraid these cannot count toward your wager, Skeeter. You earned them honestly."
He'd half expected that answer, anyway, so he just nodded and scooped up the coins.
"Going to exchange them somewhere"
"No." They represented a pivotal moment in his life, when-for just a few minutes-the crowd really had treated him as the god Yesukai the Valiant had once called him. He stuffed the coins back into his pocket. Some god. All the years he'd spent fooling himself into thinking that what he did was correct was simply time wasted from his life, on delusions and fantasies that kept him from seeing what he was and where he was inevitably headed with genuine clarity. Thank God for Marcus. Without him, Skeeter might never have woken up.
"Thanks, Brian."
He stalked out of the library, unsure what to do next, or where to go. Surprisingly, he ended up at Dr. Mundy's door. A few minutes later, relaxed in a deep, easy-on-the-back chair with the whir of a tape recorder in the background, Skeeter started spilling all of it out, every single thing he could recall about Yesukai, Temujin, and the yurt he'd lived in as bogda and then as uncle of the Khan's firstborn son. Then, under Dr. Mundy's gentle persuasion, he let out the rest of it, as well. When he'd finished, he knew the hurt and fear weren't gone, but much of it now inhabited that whirring strand of metallic recording tape rather than Skeeter's belly and nightmares.
He refused the usual payment, startling Mundy into stutters, then left quietly and closed the door on that part of his life forever.
Margo and Malcolm got word from Primary just about the time Skeeter Jackson was punching Mike Benson into the ground. A sealed letter with official letterhead and stamps arrived for them.
"Open it!" Margo demanded.
"Patience," Malcolm laughed.
"You know I haven't got any!"
"Ah, yet another lesson to explore."
The Irish alley-cat glare, at least, had not changed since she'd begun college. Malcolm carefully slit the envelope with his pocketknife, replaced the little folder in his pocket, then slid out a crisp, official reply.
"Re: William Hunter, a.k.a. Charles Farley. Above was apprehended while digging up an illegal hoard of downtime artwork from Denver. Your recordings were most helpful in getting his cooperation and should serve very nicely at trial. I know you're wondering, and ordinarily I wouldn't commit words to paper before a trial, but you are, after all, on TT-86, many, many years in `our' past. He was, indeed an agent, collecting unusual pieces of art from the past and returning with them to his employer." Malcolm's eyes bugged when he saw that employer's world-famous name.
"We'll have a separate trial for him, of course. Seems he and another rich gentleman, on whom we have not a shred of evidence beyond Mr. Hunter's statements, had several years ago engaged in a little wager as to which of them could smuggle uptime for their private collections the most, ah, aforementioned artwork We've already seized one collection and will be turning it over to an IFARTS office as soon as the trials are completed. No one expects either trial to be long. I thought you should know, as you went far beyond the extra mile, and citizens, not law enforcement, at that-to bring this temporal criminal to justice. Good luck to you and thank you most sincerely for your incalculable help in cracking this illegal wager wide open."
The signature block caused even Margo's eyes to pop. "Wow! The actual justice Minister, not one of his flunkies!"
Malcolm chortled and folded up the slip of paper, sliding it back into the envelope. "I'd like to have seen old Chuckie's face when they caught him with the goods. He'll get life for the illegal trafficking alone and probably a death sentence for the people he killed along the way." He sighed slightly. "I always did fancy happy endings," he mused, smiling down at Margo.
She leaned up and kissed him, not caring who was watching, then breathed against his mouth, "Let's go make a few copies, eh? Give one to what's left of Benson's carcass, another to Bull Morgan, maybe even one to that horrid Montgomery Wilkes. Tax evasion is, after all, in his jurisdiction."
Malcolm laughed hard enough to draw stares, then brushed a kiss across her lips. "Sounds good to me, fire-eater."
"Huh. Fire-eater. You just wait until I get you alone, you prudish, staid old Brit, you."
They set out toward Bull Morgan's aerie of an office, grinning like a couple of Cheshire Cats.
Wandering aimlessly, Skeeter finally ended up inside the Down Time Bar & Grill, where-of all people, Marcus was on duty at the bar. He flushed and nearly walked out again, but Marcus was pouring his favorite brew and saying, "Skeeter, have a beer with me, eh?"
He halted, then turned. "No money, Marcus."
"So what?" Marcus said a shade too seriously. He came around the end of the bar, handed Skeeter a foaming mug, then sat down with his own. They drank in silence for a few minutes, popping peanuts in between sips and longer pulls at the beer.
"Been wanting to thank you," Marcus said quietly.
"Huh. Been wanting to do the same."
Another long silence reigned, filled with peanuts and beer.
"Just returning the favor," Marcus said at last. "Isn't nearly enough, but it's a start."
"Now look here, Marcus, I'm not going to put up with any more of your honor is sacred bullshi-"
Goldie Morran appeared at the entrance.
Marcus winked once at Skeeter and resumed his place behind the bar. Goldie walked over and, to Skeeter's dismay, took a chair at his table. "Marcus, good to see you back," she, said, with every evidence of sincerity. He just nodded his thanks. "Would you get me a tall bourbon with a touch of soda, please?"
Back in his bartender role, Marcus made the drink to Goldie's specifications, then delivered it on a tray with another beer for Skeeter.
"Well," Goldie said. "You have been through it, haven't you? I didn't expect you to survive."
Skeeter narrowed his eyes. "Not survive?" he asked, his tone low and dangerous. "Five years in the yurt of Genghis Khan's father, and you didn't think I'd survive?"
Goldie's eyes widened innocently; then, for some reason, the mask shattered and fell away, leaving her old, tired, and oddly vulnerable. She snatched at her drink the way Skeeter had snatched at that hunting spear in the stinking sands of the Circus.
He wondered which of them would say it first.
Before either of them could summon up the nerve, Mike Benson-both eyes blacked, limping a little, entered the bar a bit gingerly and sat down very carefully at their table. He looked from one to the other, then said, "Got a copy of a communique from the Minister of justice today." Skeeter's belly hollowed. "I, uh, just wanted to ask for the record if either of you had run into a professional antiquities thief by the name of William Hunter during these last few weeks? He's one of the best in the world. Steals ancient pornography for an uptime collector as part of a wager with another collector. Oh, by the way, one of his aliases was Farley. Chuck Farley."
Skeeter and Goldie exchanged glances. Neither of them spoke.
"Well, do let me know if either of you've seen the bastard. They'll be needing witnesses for the trial next month."