“Yes, sir.”
“Well, don’t just stand there, goddammit! Move!”
The lackey scrambled for the door.
John Caddrick yanked open the hotel room’s wet bar and upended an entire, miniature bottle of scotch, then hurled the empty against the wall. The thing didn’t even have the decency to shatter. It just bounced off. His ragged temper left a considerable hole in the drywall above the television set, along with a broken lamp and three overturned chairs. Damn that meddling detective! And God damn that brainless bitch, Cassie Tyrol! His only child . . . who’d never quite forgiven him for all the missed birthday parties and recitals and graduation ceremonies, stranded on the campaign trail or conducting Congressional business . . .
But there wasn’t a stinking, solitary thing he could do to save his little girl. And once Jenna knew the truth, Caddrick’s ungrateful wretch of a daughter would do whatever it took to see her own father behind bars. If he wanted to keep his butt out of the electric chair, he’d better make damned sure she died. And before this business was done, Noah Armstrong would bitterly regret having ever interfered in Caddrick’s business. The senator ripped out another savage oath, then stalked out of the hotel.
Cassie had finally been paid in full for the trouble she’d caused.
All that remained now was to finish the job.
Chapter Two
Of all the souls wandering the Commons of Time Terminal Eighty-Six, none felt as out of place Skeeter Jackson. He wasn’t lost, which was more than he could say of three-quarters of the people around him. But his status was so changed, he couldn’t help but reflect wryly on how odd it was to be trundling a heavy cart stencilled “Station Maintenance” through Edo Castletown, past crowds of kimono-clad tourists jostling elbows with Victorian gents and bustled ladies and a few forlorn, middle-aged men with paunches, bald knees, and Roman tunics.