Chapter Four

The prison transport wagon was bumpy, but Coley wasn't bothered. He was barely paying attention to the jostles and jumps. What were a few jolts when he was very likely to be executed upon reaching their destination?

He wrung his hands, staring out the window at the passing desert. In his mind, he could hear the future prosecutor screaming in the courtroom about the mass murder Coley had planned to commit, about all the evidence that he was going to commit it. And that when he didn't want to share his wealth with Dr. Kirby, the inventor of the fatal germ, he had shot the man down in cold blood.

No, no, no!

Coley ran his hands down his face. It wasn't true. The only particle that was true was that he had intended to shoot Kirby (for a different reason). But things had not even turned out that way. He had been forced to shoot in self-defense when Kirby had suddenly gone mad and fired on him without warning. And he had never agreed to commit mass murder. That was why he had finally done as the gang had wanted and said they had to leave. He would not stand for so much innocent blood on his hands. He'd be shot on sight.

Not that this fate was much better. No one would listen to his side of it. He didn't even have enough money with him to hire a decent lawyer. He would end up with some cheap public defender who probably wouldn't even try hard enough to win their case. Who would want to give an outlaw like Coley Rodman a fair chance?

He looked up when Lafe hissed in pain at the next, particularly painful bounce of the wagon. His second-in-command was clutching his wounded arm, which was now bleeding again.

Whitey was the only really lucky one of the bunch of them. Badly injured in a fall, he had been taken on a separate wagon to a hospital, which was where he still was. His sentence was being delayed; when he was better, he would still have the opportunity to escape.

Coley swore in his mind. This whole mess was his fault. He should have listened to Lafe and the others sooner when they wanted to get away from Kirby. The problem was that he had not wanted to leave the sweet set-up of using Kirby's paralysis germ while looting a town. No one got hurt, including them, and the townspeople were better after a few hours.

But now they were all on their way to their deaths. Lafe and the others would go down with him and be killed as accessories to the proposed mass murder. And if not that, they would never get out of prison.

He glanced to Lafe again. "Look, I'm sorry about your arm," he said gruffly.

"I know you didn't mean to shoot me, Coley," Lafe returned. "But I guess right now it doesn't make much difference, does it?" He swallowed hard, gazing out the window. "We're all goners."

The wagon was starting to slow in preparation for crossing a stream. Coley looked out the window too, a plan beginning to form in his mind.

"Maybe not," he mused.

Lafe perked up. "What do you mean, Coley? Are we breaking out of here?"

Coley shook his head. "We can't. At least, not right away. We've got to have transportation. But . . ." He looked out the window again, towards the driver and the guard sitting next to him. "If we could overpower those two, and get them back here, we could take control of this thing for a while. Then we could unhook the horses and ride off."

A bit of hope came into Lafe's eyes. "Could we really do it?"

"If we work together," Coley said. "There's four of us and two of them. Now, don't you think we ought to be able to handle two guys?"

"We should," Lafe nodded.

The others voiced their assent as well.

"We'll have to move fast," Coley said. "Right now might be our best chance for a while, since we're slowing down. And try not to kill either of them," he cautioned. "We're wanted right now for a lot of possible deaths we weren't even going to cause in the first place. If we want to have any hope of clearing ourselves someday, we can't go leaving people dead at the place where we're making our break."

"We might not end up having a choice," Lafe said, "but we'll try to leave them alive if we can."

And by some grand stroke of luck, their plan worked. They managed to make enough noise to get the wagon stopped and the guard coming after them to get them to shut up. As soon as he opened the door, he was mobbed by the gang. Coley delivered a knockout punch and they pulled him into the back. When the driver rushed to assist, the same thing happened to him.

They drove the transport themselves until they came close enough to a town that the trapped men would be found alive within a few hours. Then, unhitching the horses, they took most of the supplies with them and rode into the desert.

Four horses would be spotted more quickly than a lone rider, so by mutual agreement they were to go their separate ways. Coley and Lafe were the last to separate.

"Well . . ." Lafe looked to him, gripping the horse's reins. "I don't know what to say. Thanks for everything, Coley. We had some good times."

"And some bad ones," Coley said. "And I hope we won't meet up again unless we're both still free."

"You gave us both another chance for that," Lafe said. "The others, too."

"We'll see how long it lasts. Will you be alright, with your arm?"

"Oh sure." Lafe still hesitated, but knew he needed to leave. "Well . . . see you later, Coley. Good luck."

Coley didn't want to admit that he was hesitating, too. He had been with Lafe and the others for a long time now. The thought of striking out on his own was somewhat intimidating, especially when he would be on the run for his freedom and his life. But it had to be done.

"Yeah," he said at last. "You too." He cracked the reins and the horse galloped over the sand and dirt.

Behind him, he could hear Lafe's mount running off in another direction.

Coley woke up to the sound of horses' hooves in his ears. He lay there until they faded, leaving him completely awake in a modern, well-furnished room, where the only sound was the heat going through the ventilation system.

He wondered what Lafe had done for the past years, running here, there, and everywhere for his life. And he wondered what Lafe was doing now, tonight. Had he settled into some cheap motel, getting used to the world of 2012? Or was he camping out somewhere, maybe even close by the golf club?

Maybe Coley should have gone and looked for him. Coley and Ray's nightly check of the property had not turned up anything unusual, but they had not checked outside the gates.

He groaned, burrowing into the pillow. Lafe being back was stirring up all kinds of memories, both while he was asleep and awake. And it seemed surreal, remembering the last time they had met—in the 1870s—and then awakening to his new and current life in 2012.

He was no longer on the run for his life. Here, he was free. And Lafe could be too, if he abandoned his ideas of committing new crimes.

But Coley was not sure Lafe was or would ever be interested in going straight. And he doubted he could get it through Lafe's head why it would be a good thing for him to do so. Someone who really and truly wanted to remain a criminal would never listen to other points of view.

He smirked wryly to himself. He had not been receptive to the idea himself some time ago. He had finally, wearily decided he was ready for it not long before he had teamed up with Arte. Back then he had wondered how he would ever find a way of going straight, with the law chasing him and him unable to find a decent job and a place to settle down. Then, ironically, Dr. Faustina had provided the solution when Cyril's explosion had masked Jim being taken prisoner and Coley had been accused of Jim's "murder."

Even after that, when helping Arte solve the case, he had insisted he only looked out for and cared about himself. He had enough trouble just looking out for himself, he felt, without taking on other people's problems.

He wasn't even sure how caring about others had crept up on him again. Maybe it had never really left him, despite what he had tried to make himself believe. He had not wanted to kill all those people with Kirby's fatal germ, and he knew that the danger to his life was not the only reason why. He had never wanted to harm any innocent people if it could be avoided.

But even if his reputation as being cold and hard had never been fully deserved, as had been said, he had still used at least one layer of a frosty protective shield around himself. Then Ray had come along and eventually melted it down. Of course, Ray probably thought that Coley had done more for him than vice versa, but it went both ways.

Coley rolled over, staring up at the ceiling. With Lafe hanging around somewhere, did he feel the need to try to point his old colleague in the right direction?

He frowned. No, Lafe would have to find it for himself, as Coley had told him. Coley had already said his part, although he supposed he could say more if they met again and the occasion called for it. But he did not want to come off as preachy. That sort of approach had always annoyed him and he knew it would alienate Lafe further.

He sighed. When it was morning, he needed to perform another inspection of the grounds. Maybe then he would see if he could find Lafe.

Right now he had to sleep.

He just hoped he would be able to. Turning onto his side, he threw the covers over his head.

xxxx

Lucrece stirred, awakening to the feel of the soft pillow and the insistent, continuing pain. At least it had subsided somewhat, but it was still an annoyance. She sighed, raising a hand to her forehead and trying to avoid the bandage at the right side.

"Lucrece?"

She started at Pinto's hopeful voice. He was sitting in a chair next to the bed, perking up as he saw that she was awake.

She let out a sigh, both exasperated and touched. "You were supposed to be asleep," she said.

"Couldn't," Pinto replied. "I know the doctor said it was probably okay for you to sleep, but just in case there was trouble I wanted to be here."

Lucrece smiled a bit in spite of herself. "Well, there wasn't any trouble, and there isn't going to be, so you can feel free to go to sleep now."

"Only with you awake, I don't feel much like sleeping now, either," Pinto said.

Lucrece closed her eyes against the dimmed lights in the room. "Have you thought more about what we said at the hospital?"

"Yeah, I have." Pinto took her hand in his, gently running his other hand on top of it. "I don't quite know what to say. When I was trying to get you to feel it was alright, anything like this happening seemed so far away. I really thought we'd be able to fight it if it came at us. But then it did happen and we weren't able to do much of anything about it.

"You're right, Lucrece—we're not indestructible. I mean, of course I already knew that, but . . ." He shook his head. "After coming back from the dead, maybe I kind of lost track of that fact for a bit."

A wry smirk tickled Lucrece's lips. "So now you've finally come around to the ugly truth. But that shouldn't mean that we have to cast aside everything we wanted."

"I know. And you're right, that it would be senseless to stop now." Pinto kissed her hand. "I just need a little time to stop reeling. Maybe you're also right that a good night's sleep will fix it up."

Lucrece nodded in approval. "We'll talk in the morning. Go to bed, Pinto."

Pinto moved back and made a motion to stand. "If you're sure you'll be alright," he said, still hesitant.

"Of course I will," Lucrece retorted. "It's just a small bump."

"Those small bumps can cause a mountain of trouble," Pinto said. "You were just lucky, Lucrece." He got up and headed for the door. "Night."

"Goodnight." Lucrece leaned back, watching him leave.

They had come a long way since Pinto had returned to her and she had started to finally face the realization that she loved him. At first she had not known what to make of it. She had been rebellious and afraid.

Now, she liked it. And she was not about to let Florence destroy what they had been discovering they had.

But Pinto was determined too and he did not give up easily. He did not want Florence to influence their decisions any more than Lucrece did. Right now he was just, as he said, reeling. He would come around.

xxxx

Arte sighed in exasperation, pushing the file folder away from him on the bed. "I'm telling you, Jim, I still don't know what to make of this couple's dossier. I don't see anything that strange, but how in-depth is a profile from a golf club going to go?"

"Probably not very far," said Jim. "But it does mention that they each own a company."

"That's got to be interesting." Arte shook his head. "At least they're not rivals, since they each handle very different things."

"That's one bright side." Jim leaned back. "Doesn't it strike you as odd, Arte, that they're so accepting of Mr. Norman after what he's done, considering how uppity they acted around Rodman?"

"I guess it does, a bit," Arte admitted. "But I hoped that they were sincere, since it made Mr. Norman very happy."

"I hope so too," Jim nodded. "Another thing that's odd, though, is the fact that they have that note. What would bring them into contact with the Posey gang?"

"Maybe they have something the gang wants," Arte said. "Such as enough money to start seriously financing their devious plots."

"Maybe," Jim said noncommittally. "Or maybe the gang is telling the truth and they have no involvement with the Stones. Which would mean that we'd have to start searching for another Pinto."

"It's hard to believe the coincidence of someone else using that name," Arte frowned. "Especially where we of all people would chance to come upon it."

"It does seem implausible, doesn't it," Jim mused. "Then again, maybe it's even more difficult to believe that we would come in contact with that note if it wasn't a coincidence and was instead someone's deliberate design."

"True," Arte nodded.

Jim looked to him. "Arte, why don't you use your computer skills to go over the Internet in search of another person calling himself Pinto?"

"An excellent idea," Arte said. "And since the hour is not yet that late by 2012 time, perhaps I will commence the search now."

"Good," Jim said in approval.

But the Internet determined to not be very helpful. Searches resulted in many horse websites and a few stores selling beans. Every now and then, Arte would spot a site discussing the Posey gang and curiously click on it to see what it said. Nowhere, however, could he find any mention of another dangerous character called Pinto.

"It's just no use, Jim," he said at last, slumping back and throwing his hands in the air. "This mysterious danger, whoever he is, has managed to keep himself off of the Internet."

"Maybe we're just not digging deep enough or using the right search terms," Jim mused. "Or maybe this is one time when there really isn't anything that can be dredged up except by the old-fashioned way."

"And that would be by descending into the criminal underworld, I imagine?" Arte returned.

"Exactly," Jim nodded.

"Oh, that's always one of my favorite ways to spend an evening," Arte quipped, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"Why don't you try looking up the Stones as long as you're on the computer?" Jim suggested. "Maybe we'll learn something Mr. Norman's dossier doesn't say."

"Since people in 2012 enjoy gossip about the rich and famous as much or more than people in our day, we're sure to find something," Arte said as he typed. "The question is whether it will be accurate."

"That's always the price we have to pay when dealing with the fourth estate," Jim replied.

"Such a pity." Arte scrolled through the pages of results. "It looks like both Mr. and Mrs. Stone have been making themselves known throughout the most charming society circles."

"And every time they come here, reporters and photographers want to get a story on them," Jim noted, reading over Arte's shoulder.

"Oh yes, and look at the one for this time." Arte pointed in disgust at the screen. "'Mr. and Mrs. Stone return to Oak Bridge Golf Club, once again owned and operated by the formerly dead blackmailer Ray Norman.'"

"You'd know they'd jump on that," Jim said, but his tone spoke of his own revulsion.

"'Norman claims to be back on the straight and narrow,'" Arte continued to read, "'but while some are skeptical of this at best, the Stones are not. In a widely-publicized statement, they confirmed that they would be spending a weekend at Oak Bridge and said they were thrilled that Norman, an old friend, would be their host.'"

Jim leaned back. "Maybe they are on the level, Arte," he said.

"Maybe," Arte said without terribly much hope. "Another interesting bit of news—Mrs. Stone's jewelry collection is almost legendary with hotels and clubs. She always takes far too much of it wherever they go."

"Considering that Miss Posey's gang consists of her regional leaders of crime, I have a hard time believing that they would personally stoop to something such as jewel theft unless they were desperate." Jim stepped away from the computer. "They'd be more likely to have someone do it for them, unless maybe it was a particularly large caper such as the Crown Jewels."

"A very good point," Arte said. "And it brings us right back to the same old problem—if there's another Pinto, who is he?"

"That's why we'll be doing something potentially dangerous and venturing into the criminal underworld tomorrow," Jim intoned. "For right now, let's go to bed."

Arte closed the browser tab. "Oh, I can't now," he said. "I'll have to design a new disguise for our little trip. And first I'll have to study some of the modern clothing more closely to get the proper inspiration."

"I'm sure you'll come up with something devious and unique," said Jim. "As you always do."

Arte smiled. "Why, thank you, James. I do my best."

xxxx

Lucius took his current assignments, just as all previous assignments, very seriously. He intended to get over to the Oak Bridge Golf Club bright and early in the morning and commence his search for the spies.

He frowned as he dressed. His meeting last night with Snakes Tolliver had deeply disturbed him. Not only was Snakes a hated enemy in his book, but if that snake was telling the truth, Pinto and Lucrece were here in this time and place.

He was not sure what to make of that. Should he try to find them? Should he leave them alone? Would running into them distort the timeline? Was there really no need to worry about such things, since they had never been proven and for all he knew, only existed in people's imaginations?

His parents had deliberately given him a name that was at least somewhat similar to Lucrece. And he had taken Pinto's alias as his own when he had started to work and did not want his real name known. He had been taught about them and had heard tales of their exploits all his life. Now, for them to somehow be right here, right now . . . could he just ignore that?

Well, he couldn't do anything about it at the moment, anyway. He had a whole day of hanging around a golf club to get through. And trying to make friends with the spies, whoever they were. He had been sent pictures of all the registered guests, which he had been studying. None of the people were familiar to him; the spies could be any of them.

He was fairly indifferent to golf overall, but even if he disliked it, he would have to play it in order to complete his assignment. He was nothing if not efficient, and if he needed to pretend to be a complete aficionado of the game, he would do so without a second thought.

He could not ignore Lucrece and Pinto's presence anywhere as easily. He was still human, after all. With his mission plan in place, he thought about them all the way to Oak Bridge.

When he went through the gate, however, and examined the number of vehicles in the parking lot, he came to attention. He was on duty now. Personal feelings would have to wait.

But he stiffened as he got out and headed towards the lobby. Through the glass, two men lingering at the front desk and chatting it up with the receptionist seemed familiar to him. And as one of them half-turned, leaning on the counter with one elbow, he knew why.

"Ah, Georgiana, I must say, the golf club is so much brighter with you in it," the man exclaimed. "I wonder how it ever got along without you."

Georgiana set two files on top of the counter. "It got along for years without me," she said. "I was just hired to replace Mabel."

"And a most excellent choice it was!" her admirer gushed.

Georgiana merely half-smiled. She had heard it all before.

Lucius smirked as he approached. "He says the same things to every pretty girl," he said.

The Casanova jumped a mile. "And just who are you?" he demanded. "I've never seen you be- . . ." But he trailed off, his skin turning several shades lighter as he took in the sight of the newcomer.

The other man had a much more deadpan, but still very interested, reaction. "My friend has a point," he said. "How do you know about his behavior around the ladies? Do we know you from somewhere?" His eyes narrowed, just slightly.

"In a way," Lucius replied. "Mr. West, Mr. Gordon." He looked to the now-baffled Georgiana. "I'm Lucius Bowen, Miss. I'm here to golf for the day."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see both Secret Service men stiffen. Yes, the name Bowen had sent off alarm bells in their heads. Well, that, and they probably noticed he bore a certain resemblance to an enemy of theirs.

"Mr. Bowen," Jim said, stark serious, "may we speak with you for a moment?"

"Of course," Lucius sneered. His expression normal again, he said to Georgiana, "I'd like to get started as soon as we're done. Is there a group I could join?"

Recovering, Georgiana nodded. "Yes," she stammered. "Mrs. Featherstone's group leaves in fifteen minutes."

"Good." Lucius turned away from the desk and walked with Jim and Arte to an isolated corner. "Now," he said, "what is it you want?"

"I believe we should be asking you that question," Jim said, laying one hand over the other. "You deliberately sought our attention."

"I know," Lucius said. He took out an apple and bit into it. "Want one? I have a whole sack."

"No, thank you," Arte frowned. "We're not in the habit of accepting food from strangers who look oddly like an enemy and even bear the same name as an alias he's used."

Lucius shrugged. "Not only do I know who you both are, I know where you came from," he said. "You don't belong in this time. I've read letters and journals talking about you and I've seen newspaper clippings of your adventures. I also saw a photo of the two of you standing in front of a building. Now that I've seen the front of this golf club, I realize you were right outside the front doors."

"Where would you see a picture like that?" Jim wondered.

"The only copy is back in our time with our boss," Arte added.

"Then I guess someone made up another copy from the negative," Lucius replied. "Either that or someone took the picture from your boss."

"And just brought it back to show it to you." Arte shook his head. "Oh, that explains everything."

Lucius smirked, enjoying their confusion. "I think I'll let you wonder about it a while longer. I have to rent some clubs before my group gets here." He started to walk past them.

"Hold it." Jim stepped in front of him. "Why are you using the surname Bowen?"

Lucius leaned in close. "Because it's mine," he answered. "See you later, Mr. West." He straightened and started off. "Mr. Gordon."

Arte stared after the brazen man, his jaw slack. "Jim, I'm getting the most horrible, unsettling feeling," he voiced at last.

"Then you're probably thinking the same thing I am," Jim answered. "That it's no coincidence that he's using the same surname Pinto was using and he looks somewhat like Pinto."

"Exactly," Arte nodded firmly. "Remember how I finally noticed that Pinto and Miss Posey are in love? Or at least, as much in love as two treacherous criminals can be."

"Lucius Bowen might be their descendant," Jim intoned.

Arte ran a hand through his hair. "The very thought boggles my mind. Not just that Pinto and Miss Posey could have a descendant, but that he could be right here at the same time they're here."

Jim thought about it and tilted his head to the side. "I wonder if we have descendants in this time."

"Well, I wonder too," Arte countered. "I hope we both have very large, lovely families, with beautiful girls and dashing boys. But I really don't think we should go look them up and shock them out of their minds."

"If they are related, I wonder if Lucius plans to look up his ancestors," Jim mused. "I also wonder if he might be using the codename Pinto, in honor of the first one."

"Something to look into, perhaps," Arte said. "Although the thought of Pinto and honor in the same sentence sends chills up and down my spine.

"I suppose at least one encouraging thing is that if they are related, it means Pinto and Miss Posey must surely get back to our own time, or their family line would be all mixed up."

Jim nodded. "There's no evidence that we manage to catch them, though," he pointed out. "Maybe they go back and stay in hiding."

Arte sighed. "You always think of the most dreary possibilities."

Jim shrugged. "Someone has to."

Arte adjusted his belt. "I suppose so.

"James, shall we go golfing today? It's such a pleasant morning for it."

"Yes, Arte," Jim returned. "A game of golf sounds perfect."

xxxx

Coley glanced around the edge of the golfing green, watching the people beginning to appear on the course as well as at the rental shop. His right hand hovered near his gun.

At his side, Ray observed in concern. "Are you expecting trouble?"

"I don't know." Coley frowned. "I keep feeling like something's not right, but I can't put my finger on what. There shouldn't be anything wrong, but . . ."

He trailed off, suddenly going stiff. Following his gaze, Ray stopped and stared at a man just exiting the rental shop, a bag of clubs slung over one shoulder.

"Who is that?" Coley asked at last.

"I've never seen him before," Ray said helplessly. "He's dressed like a rancher, but who knows if he's really that."

Realizing they were looking at him, the stranger sauntered across the sidewalk to them. "Do you want something?" he asked.

"Err . . . no," Ray said, all the while still staring. "Well . . . I . . . I'm the owner and manager of the club, Ray Norman." He held out his hand. "I was just thinking you must be new here. I . . . wanted to welcome you to Oak Bridge."

"Thanks." The newcomer shook Ray's hand. "You're right; this is my first time here. It looks like a nice place."

"It is," Ray said. "Oh, and this is my security chief, Coley Rodman."

Something glittered in the stranger's eyes. "Coley Rodman," he repeated.

Coley gave him a suspicious look. "Do I know you from somewhere?" His eyes said more. He really wanted to say that the guy looked a lot like a creep Coley knew, but in the interest of making a good impression for Ray's sake, he held back.

"We've never met." But the supposed rancher touched the brim of his hat the way Pinto sometimes mockingly did and started to walk past them. "My group's probably leaving by now; I have to catch up. Excuse me."

Coley folded his arms, watching the other's departure. "Something's definitely not right," he proclaimed.

"He's going back to the main building," Ray noted. "I wonder if Mr. West and Mr. Gordon have met him yet?"

Coley started in that direction. "Let's find out. And in any case, let's keep an eye on him."

Ray was completely in agreement.