Chapter Four

The Oak Bridge Golf Club was located near the base of the mountains at the edge of the city. Desert flora and palm trees dotted the landscape as the yellow cab drove up the road to their destination. Arte was taking in everything from the smoothness of the journey to the scenery around them, his expression one of perpetual awe. Jim sat back, absorbing everything about their experience and enjoying the trip.

The driver probably found Arte's amazement strange as it was. Luckily, however, Arte refrained from whatever enthusiastic commentary and questions he had. He knew that if he spoke any of them, it could immediately point out that something was not quite usual with him and Jim. And of course he did not want that.

Jim crossed his arms, pondering on what to say and how to say it when they arrived. Some things could, of course, not be properly gauged until they saw the entire situation. But others could and should be determined beforehand, such as how to capture Ray's attention if he just wanted to dismiss them without hearing them out.

Jim could scarcely comprehend having been tortured for two years. He had met many people who had been damaged and disturbed by various things, including the Civil War several years prior, but never anyone who had been held prisoner by an insane tormenter for so long. It was hard to even begin to know how to handle that. He and Arte would do their best, naturally, but it might not be good enough.

The cab ground to a halt in the large parking lot, near the front offices. "This is it," the driver announced. "Do you want me to wait for you?"

"Yes, please," said Arte, as he climbed out. "We'll let you know when it's no longer necessary."

Jim followed him up the walkway and towards the doors, memorizing the path as much as he could.

"So this is a golf club," Arte mused. "And it's not just for one-day use, either. That driver said people can stay here in rooms or cabins."

Jim nodded, pulling open the heavy door. "Judging from how full the lot is, it must take in a lot of business," he commented.

It was apparently very busy at the moment, as there was no one at the reception desk. Arte sighed. "And here I was hoping for a lovely lady to direct us to Mr. Norman's office," he bemoaned.

Jim grinned, clapping Arte on the shoulder. "We'll just have to find it ourselves, Arte."

The long hallway to the left seemed a good place to start. And indeed, as Jim and Arte wandered down the corridor, they eventually came to an open door with Ray's name. Inside the office, their mysterious man was engrossed in something he was looking at on a screen in front of him.

"I wonder what that invention is," Arte said quietly.

Jim had no idea. And at the moment, he did not particularly care. He gave a quick rap on the door. "Mr. Norman?"

Ray jumped a mile. "Yes?" But when he looked over and saw his visitors, all color drained from his face.

"There's nothing like almost making someone faint to make you realize your presence is both unexpected and important," Arte intoned.

Jim advanced into the room, holding out a hand to shake. "Mr. Norman, I'm sorry we barged in on you like this, but it's important. We're Secret Service agents. I'm . . ."

"James West," Ray said weakly. "And you're Artemus Gordon."

Now both guests stopped in their tracks. "Pardon me, but how on earth do you know us?!" Arte exclaimed.

Ray responded by turning his device to face them. On the screen were their pictures, side by side, well-preserved and important indeed. "I've been doing my research," Ray announced. "I . . . I was expecting to meet you sometime, but I didn't think you'd come directly here. And especially not today."

"Why not today?" Jim frowned. He walked closer to see the screen. Arte was already there, leaning on the desk with both hands as he stared at the device. Famous Secret Service Agents of the 19th Century was written above their pictures, with their names underneath in smaller type.

Ray drew a deep breath. "Maybe we should start over," he said awkwardly.

"Yes, I think that would be a good idea." Again Jim held out his hand. Ray took it, delivering a firm shake. "Good afternoon, Mr. Norman."

"Good afternoon, Mr. West, Mr. Gordon," Ray returned.

Arte finally tore himself away from the screen and straightened up. "So, I see you're aware of where we're from," he said, nodding to the screen.

"I am," said Ray.

"It's a strange coincidence, that you're looking at our pictures right when we walk in," Jim commented.

"Yes. Well, there's a reason for that." Ray laced his fingers. "But first, since you're the visitors here, how about you tell me why you've come to me?"

"Fair enough." Jim leaned back. "Mr. Norman, we came because we read about you in the paper and we wondered if we should talk with you," he began.

"How do I put this delicately?" said Arte, still feeling awkward. "We thought that perhaps your . . . experience somehow connects with the last case we were working on before we were sent here."

"The Dr. Faustina case?" Ray said.

Jim and Arte exchanged a stunned look. "Why, yes," Arte said.

"You know about that?" Jim asked carefully.

"I know quite a lot about it. Gentlemen . . ." Ray looked from one to the other. "Are you looking for Coley Rodman?"

Arte stiffened. "Among other people, yes," he said. "Have you seen him, Sir? Do you know if he's alright?"

Ray sighed. "He's alive, but he's not alright," he frowned. "For two weeks he was tortured by someone named Little Pinto. Last night he came to me, wounded and burned, pleading for my help."

Arte rocked back, sickened. "Oh no."

Jim laid a hand on his shoulder. "How badly is he hurt?"

"Badly enough that I'm afraid some of his injuries are going to scar," Ray said. "And I don't just mean physically." He looked down. "Right now he's delirious, as he has been off and on since he came here. I just looked in on him a few minutes ago. He's asleep at the moment. And I don't think he's had much decent sleep since before he was captured."

Jim frowned. "He told you about us?"

"Well, yes and no. He mentioned you briefly when he was more aware of things, but the majority of what he said was when I'm sure he didn't know he was saying it." Ray ran a hand through his hair. "He knew he was bad off. He was afraid he might say something in a hospital that would make them think he was insane. So far he's refused to leave. Not that I want him to go, you understand," he added quickly. "Only if it would help him more than I could. At this point, however, I think it would only make things worse."

"You're probably right, if he's been talking about dates and times," Arte said. "Mr. Norman . . ." He hesitated, wanting to ask his next question but dreading the answer. When he spoke again, his voice had lowered. "Mr. Norman, is he going to live?"

Ray looked at him in surprise, picking up on the pain and regret in his tone. "I don't think he's been fatally wounded, Mr. Gordon," he said kindly. "I'd offer to let you see him, but I don't know if he would want that, in his condition. And he badly needs to rest."

Arte nodded, drawing a sigh of relief. "We can wait."

Jim nodded as well. "If you have a spare room or cabin, we might want to rent it for a while. We can pay."

"Of course." Ray crossed to the doorway. "There's keys for all the empty rooms at the front desk. I can try to find something for you that's near where I put Rodman, if you want."

"Yes, please," Arte said.

They followed him to the front lobby. "I have to say, this is quite a surprise," Arte declared. "We didn't expect that you would be receptive to us at all."

"Or that you would believe we were from the past," Jim added.

Ray glanced back at them. "If not for my guest, I'm sure I wouldn't, on either count." He pulled out a plastic card. "This will open the room across the hall and down two doors from Rodman. Here, I'll show you how it works."

With that he took them down the hall and to the door in question. He slid the card into the slot and turned the knob, pushing open the door.

"That's all it takes to unlock the door?" Arte said in amazement.

"Yes, but just like the keys you're familiar with, each card is unique. Only this one, and my master cardkey, will open this door." Ray handed the card to him.

"Well, that's good to know," Arte said as he pocketed it.

At that moment, a bone-chilling scream from across the hall had them all jumping a mile. Ray tore over without a word, unlocking another door and hurrying inside. "Rodman?!" he exclaimed.

Arte exchanged a sickened look with Jim. He slowly walked over, peering through the open door. Perhaps he should have just gone into their room without another thought, but the cry had pierced him. He could not just ignore it.

He gripped the doorframe as he stared at the scene before him now. Coley, wild-eyed and flushed, had rose half-off the bed, grabbing at Ray in desperation.

"He's trying to kill me!" Coley screamed. "He electrocuted me when I couldn't do anything to stop him. Keep him away from me! Keep him away!"

Ray held him firmly but gently, not wanting to further hurt his injuries. "He's not here," he said. "You're safe now. I promise you, you're safe." He trembled, a bit of haunted horror from the past seeping into his own eyes. "I won't let anything happen to you," he whispered. "Never again."

That was all it took to clearly see how badly affected he still was by what Portman had done to him—and how tormented Coley was right at this moment. Arte turned away, a hand over his eyes.

"I can't watch any more of it, Jim," he said quietly, pained. "This is what's become of Coley Rodman, and it's all thanks to that madman Little Pinto."

"Maybe it's because of the delirium, Arte," Jim suggested. "Later on he might be the way we remember him." He tried to sound unaffected, but Arte knew better. Jim was troubled too.

Arte nodded. "That's what I want to believe. But even so . . . oh, Jim. . . ." He glanced over his shoulder once he had crossed the hall to their room. From this angle he could not see anything. But he could still hear Coley's quieting moans and cries.

Jim gently pulled the door shut. "He's calming down," he said. "This might be the best place he could have ended up, with someone who knows what it's like to be tortured."

"That makes sense," Arte said. "But . . . Jim, what if he never gets better?" He looked to his friend, agonized. "Apparently he and Pinto got here at least two weeks before we did. And fourteen days . . . I'm sure that would be more than enough time for Pinto to drive someone out of his mind."

Jim found he wasn't sure what to say. He hated to address that possibility when it distressed Arte so badly, but they had to face its potential existence. ". . . It wouldn't be your fault, Arte," he replied at last.

"I know that." Arte turned away, trudging into their room. "But it would eat at me anyway. I can't stand to think of Rodman like that. Especially not after what we've been through."

Jim followed Arte inside, watching as he sank onto one of the two beds. If he had thought Arte was overwhelmed before, it was far worse now. Whatever Arte had thought they had would find, it had not been this.

". . . Oh no," Arte mumbled. "Jim, I forgot about the cab."

"I'll take care of it," Jim promised.

He headed back out the door, silently delivering a prayer for the outlaw across the hall.

And for Arte, if Coley did not recover.

xxxx

Pinto wandered down the busy street, his hands in his pockets. He was alone; he and Lucrece had split up, as usual, making plans to regroup by a statue in an hour. That was how they had been handling these daily searches since their arrival in 2012. They covered more ground that way, and hence, it was more practical. Lucrece always believed in practicality.

So far the most that had happened was that they had gained a better education of what this time and these people were like. There had been no sign of Cyril, Sergei, or any of the rest. But if they had come to this time period, they had to be around somewhere. Lucrece was determined to find them.

Pinto was sure they were around, or that at least if they were not, they would be before long. But he still managed to jump a mile when he was suddenly called.

"Pinto!"

He spun about, searching for the speaker. He recognized the voice, and he relaxed when he saw Cyril beckoning to him from around the side of an old brick building. The firebug looked both nervous and relieved.

Pinto strolled over with a casual air. "Well," he greeted, "fancy meeting you here, Cyril. I was starting to wonder if you'd make it to the party."

"Yes, but why are we here?" Cyril exclaimed. "And where is Miss Posey?"

"She's looking for everyone, same as I am," Pinto said. "How long have you been here?"

"I came last night," Cyril told him. "I was in a park where West and Gordon settled in to rest. I stayed and watched. Today they left and I followed."

"Didn't they suspect?" Pinto raised an eyebrow.

Cyril threw up his hands in frustration. "I am not a good tail," he said. "When many people came down the street, I lost them. But I know they sold their old coins for crisp new money."

Pinto nodded, thoughtfully. "Lucrece came up with the same plan," he mused. "We have some bills stored away now.

"You haven't seen any of the others?"

Cyril shook his head. "What is this place?!" He looked around in tense amazement. "I don't understand. What kind of future is this?"

"It's a great place, Cyril. A great place!" Pinto clapped him on the shoulder. "You wouldn't believe some of the devices they have around here."

Cyril could read between the lines. He knew what would interest Pinto most about devices. "They are for torture?" he asked.

Pinto shot him a wicked grin. "Oh, very much. I've already tried some of them out."

Cyril's eyes went wide. "On someone here?!" He stiffened again. "Are the police . . ."

"No, no. Relax! I was using them on Rodman." Pinto smirked. "He's been a tough one to break, but it's been fun trying."

Cyril fumbled in his pocket for some matches. Striking a few would calm him down; it always did. "Is he dead?"

"I doubt it. He escaped and ran off. He's probably in some hospital by now."

Pinto watched as Cyril lit one match, then two more. Cyril stared at the little flames, completely entranced.

"Well, come on," Pinto said with impatience. "Let's get going. We still have all the others to find."

Cyril let the used matches drop to the concrete. "This is a big city," he said. "They could be anywhere!"

"All the more reason to get started." But Pinto could see that Cyril's attention was already elsewhere again. Frowning, he followed his ally's gaze. Across the street, a man in a bluish-gray suit was watching them.

Cyril struck a fourth match, particularly furiously this time. "It's Snakes!"

Pinto's expression darkened. "It figures he'd be here," he said. "Let's see what he's up to."

He had long ago figured out that the strange moving vehicles stopped whenever the lights above them went red. And what luck for them; it was happening right now. Keeping hold of his lasso, he crossed the street in determination, Cyril trailing after him.

Snakes realized instantly that they were coming after him. He bolted, fleeing down the street. Pinto increased his speed, letting his lasso fly as he ran. The loop caught hold of Snakes around his waist, binding his arms to his sides as Pinto pulled it taut. Snakes yelled in protest. The other people on the street, utterly baffled, stopped walking to look.

Pinto sneered as he moseyed over, keeping a firm grip on the rope. "Just like ropin' little dogies," he drawled. "Only they're a lot prettier.

"What are you up to, Snakes?"

Snakes glowered. "I was just looking," he said. "There's no law against that, even now."

"Looking, but why?" Cyril held up another lit match threateningly, as though about to drop it on him. Snakes went rigid.

"I just saw the two of you by accident," Snakes insisted. He stared at the flame, transfixed, albeit not for the same reasons Cyril always was. "Look, if you saw West and Gordon, you'd want to hang around to see what they were doing, wouldn't you?"

"I guess," Cyril said noncommittally. The match ran down and he let it drop to the ground at Snakes' feet. It passed dangerously close to the hem of his suit coat as it fell.

Pinto smirked, letting Cyril handle the interrogation while he held onto the lasso. His silence was one of the things that made people nervous about him. No one knew what he was thinking.

"Hey, this isn't some movie stunt, is it?" someone in the gathering crowd spoke up. "This looks like it's for real."

"I'm calling the police!" a woman exclaimed. She started digging through her purse.

Now it was Cyril who was growing tense. "Maybe we made a mistake, Pinto," he gulped. "If the police come, we'll be the ones in trouble."

Pinto glanced at the crowds, weighing the problem in his mind. At last he conceded, loosening the rope and taking it off of Snakes.

"You've got a lot of friends here, old pal," he said low as he leaned in. "Next time, don't expect anyone to come to your rescue."

"I'm not after you or Posey or any of the others," Snakes retorted. "I swear!"

"Show Miss Posey the proper respect," Cyril snapped.

Pinto nodded in agreement as he turned away, gathering the lasso in his hands. He could feel Snakes, as well as everyone else, watching him and Cyril as they walked away.

"What do you think, Pinto?" Cyril asked.

"Oh, I might believe that he's not plotting against us . . . yet," Pinto mused. "But if we're here long enough, I betcha he'll find some way to use us."

"Maybe he will stay away from us to stay alive," Cyril suggested. "He won't want to meet Miss Posey's poison again."

"No, he won't," Pinto agreed. "But I'll feel better keepin' an eye on him anyway."

"What about West and Gordon?"

"We'll try to find them again, without drawing attention to ourselves in the process." Pinto smirked. "After all, if they never figured out you were there, there's no sense spoilin' that."

"And Coley Rodman?"

"Wherever he is, people probably either think he's bonkers or have found him too jarred up to say much of anything at all." Pinto looked sickeningly satisfied. "No one'll be looking for me over that."

"That makes sense, I suppose," Cyril said slowly.

"Sure it does," Pinto said. "Now, come on. We have just enough time to get to the meeting place before Lucrece does. Maybe she'll have found someone else. We've been here two weeks, but you and West and Gordon just seemed to show up last night. And Snakes. I'd say it shouldn't be too hard to round up all the old gang now."

xxxx

Ray sighed sadly as he ran the cloth through the pan of water and wrung out the excess liquid. Gently, he bathed Coley's face and neck with the moisture before leaving the cloth on his forehead. The unconscious man seemed to sense it; his eyes fluttered as he turned his head to the side. He did not, however, make any motion to regain consciousness.

Ray had stayed with him almost constantly since his delirious outburst, which had been hours ago by now. Ray had managed to soothe him into sinking back into the bed, where he had finally dozed, and since then there had not been another incident.

He would get better, or at least, Ray hoped and prayed he would. Ray wanted to help him, as he himself had been helped. But, he mused, he also could not help but hope for the companionship, even friendship, that he had been seeking.

Apparently he was not choosey about who he sought it from, he frowned. He could get in trouble for taking a known criminal under his roof. But then again, the rule surely would not apply to Coley unless he committed a new crime in the present day. He wouldn't be wanted in 2012 for crimes committed in the 1870s.

Still, it was dangerous, wasn't it? Coley could turn against him, even try to involve him in a new crime. Or he could try to engage in one behind Ray's back.

That was what logic tried to tell him. And still, in spite of it all, he felt that what he had told Coley earlier was the truth. He was not in danger; Coley would not betray someone who had helped him. Coley had admitted that.

If he could be believed. And Ray did believe him, after hearing his semi-conscious ramblings. Coley could not control what he said at those times. He had revealed his true self.

The knock on the door brought Ray to attention. "Come in," he said in surprise.

The door opened slowly and Arte peered in. "How is he?" he asked quietly.

Ray leaned back. "Peaceful, for now," he said.

"I could watch him for a while, if you have other things to do," Arte suggested.

"Thank you, but no. I'll stay." But Ray watched Arte, curiously tilting his head to the side. "You seem very concerned for him."

"Yes, well . . ." Arte threw up his hands as he entered the room. "It might be more guilt than anything else. I feel like I dragged him into this and then couldn't even look after him well enough to keep him safe."

"From what he's been saying, he considers that he made his own choice," Ray said.

"That's all well and fine, but it doesn't do much to ease my own sense of responsibility," Arte returned.

"Are you sure that's all it is?" Ray wondered. "Your sense of responsibility?"

Arte let out a frustrated breath. "No, frankly, Mr. Norman, I'm not."

A small smile of understanding tugged on Ray's features. "You find it strange and uncomfortable, to care about a battered, professional criminal. Oh, it's alright; I'm familiar with that attitude. I've gotten that from all my old friends. Once it came out that I'd been a blackmailer, they weren't sure what to make of me. Although I supposed being a formerly dead blackmailer didn't help, either."

Arte managed a weak smirk. "No, I imagine it didn't."

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "You have to admit, it's not usual for a Secret Service agent to find himself caring about someone he thought was the scum of the earth."

"I'm sure it isn't," Ray said. "But caring doesn't mean you've abandoned your duties."

"That's what Jim said too," Arte remarked. "Of course, I don't want to turn against any of my legal responsibilities. I won't. But I'm discovering that I really don't like the idea of Rodman either being killed or ending up in prison for years, if not life. I actually wish that I could help him get immunity. Provided he wants to change his ways, naturally."

"Maybe he does. And maybe you can."

Arte looked up with a start as Jim appeared in the doorway. "How long were you there?" he asked.

"Long enough to hear about your conflicted feelings," Jim said. "And don't worry about it, Arte. It'll work out."

"I hope so," Arte sighed. "First and foremost, Rodman has to start getting better. And next, we have to figure out how to get home."

"There has to be a way," Jim said. "But meanwhile, Arte, there's no point in you staying here being gloomy. Why don't you come out for dinner? It's getting late."

"Yes, you should go," said Ray.

"What about you?" Arte queried.

"I'll eat something in here." Ray leaned back. "And Mrs. Featherstone will be checking on her cat before long." He indicated the silver Persian perched on the nightstand. "She's worried about Rodman, too. The cat is, I mean."

Arte reached over, patting Jane's head as she purred. "A beautiful animal," he said. "Unusual, but beautiful."

"As many women are," Jim grinned. "Come on, Arte."

Arte nodded and followed Jim to the doorway. "Oh . . ." He turned back. "Mr. Norman, you'll let us know if he regains consciousness, won't you?"

"Of course," Ray said. "Go on now."

The door closed quietly.

Ray studied Coley thoughtfully as they were left to themselves once more. "So, it looks like Jane and I aren't the only ones who want to see you get better," he mused. "I'm glad."