And yet this futuristic fantasy was particularly detailed. Miss Sav-a-no was plainer to him now than any individual he had ever spied. He could make out the drops of sweat on her brow as she worried the plastic ties on her wrists. He could hear her teeth grind in frustration and see the cords of her long neck stand out like a schooner’s rigging.

“Are you looking at something in particular?” said Chevie.

Riley started to mumble a denial, but Chevie interrupted him.

“You want to hear something ironic, kid?”

“Yes, miss. As you please.”

She tugged on her cuffs, which held her arms fast around the toilet’s plumbing. “I find it ironic that I could really use a bathroom right now.”

Riley tried not to smile.

“And this is ironic because you are tethered to a bowl and yet cannot use it?”

“Exactly.”

“Thank you, Chevie. I have often encountered the term irony in my reading but never truly understood it till now.”

“To educate and protect,” said Chevie. “Though I’ve been falling down a little on the protecting.”

“It was bad luck that you came up against Albert Garrick. Of all the coves you could have scooped out of the past, he is the worst, no doubt about it.”

“He’s just a man, you know, Riley. Whatever you think about him, that’s all he is.”

Riley slumped in the bath. “No. There are men who are somehow more than men. Garrick has always been one of these, and now even more so. The trip from the past has given him gifts, I would swear on it.”

Gifts, thought Chevie. Or mutations.

“Garrick is truly beyond your experience,” continued Riley. “Mine too.”

“You make him sound like Jack the Ripper.”

This casual reference caused the blood to drain from Riley’s face as a memory hit him like a mallet, and while his mind wandered, Chevie shifted her focus to the room beyond. For the last fifteen minutes the only sounds had been typical agents-on-babysitting-duty noises: sharp comments, jock laughter, coffee percolating, and an almost incessant flushing from the second bathroom.

“Hey!” she called. “Waldo! Duff! You want to open the door? We’re feeling a bit unloved in here.”

In response someone turned up the TV. The loud bass of dance music bounced off the door.

“I hate those guys,” muttered Chevie. “I am going to work real hard, get promoted, then fire every last one of them.” She noticed Riley’s stricken face. “Are you okay, kid? Riley?”

Riley’s eyes came back to the present. “Garrick told me a story once about old Leather Apron, Jack the Ripper. He playacted the whole thing in our digs.”

“Don’t tell me, Garrick is Jack the Ripper.”

Riley’s head jerked backward as if Garrick would hear this accusation. “No. Certainly not. Garrick hated Jack the Ripper.”

Chevie kept one ear on the noises outside and the other on Riley’s tale.