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  But if not ill, then why? Had Appleton been warned by someone about what Porter was really after? If that was the case, who had warned Appleton?

  Heron had an idea, but he was not completely sure. In any event, this was not something he could do on his own. He had legionaries or their future equivalents in most of the eras he frequented. In 1899 New York City, they would be in the building on Mulberry Street, putting in its final decade as Police Headquarters –before the New York City Police Headquarters, serving the newly unified multi-borough city, opened at 240 Centre Street in 1909.

  Heron had walked enough to reach a decision. The Millennium Club was across the street. He walked in. No one was at the door. He walked quickly up the flights of stairs to the Chairs, took one to March 1899, then walked out again onto the street where he boarded a noisy motorized public transport vehicle south. He was tired of the freezing weather, anyway.

  [New York City, March, 1899 AD]

  Heron's original legionaries were utterly reliable. They had started as literally Roman legionaries, whom Heron had hired away from Rome's employ with the promise of adventure, money, and the chance to really influence history. And there was nothing inflated in those goals -- all were attainable.

  Once recruited, the former Roman legionaries were taken to one of Heron's camps, in the late 21st century, where they were trained in the arts of combat with weapons that did not exist in Roman times, as well as given intense practice with knives and swords and weapons they already knew.

  These legionaries were eventually situated in many times and places. They had served Heron well in Athens in the time of Socrates and in Alexandria in the time of Hypatia. But these men were not invincible, and, sooner or later, most of them perished in battle. Since there was not an inexhaustible supply of true Roman legionaries, Heron had been obliged to look elsewhere for replacements, and for trustworthy people to post in new positions. With the human population constantly increasing, there naturally were more candidates in the future than the past.

  The disadvantage was that they could not be easily deployed in the ancient world or the Middle Ages – not without lengthy training in the relevant culture. And they were not as blindly loyal as the original legionaries, whose punishment for disobeying orders in ancient Rome was usually far more severe than in the military or the police of the United States of America, for example.

  But the advantage of recruiting a legionary from the 20th or 21st century is that he or she – there were some women in Heron's employ, though not as many as men – would already be well versed in guns, explosives, and, in the case of the 21st century, laser weaponry. Often they came from law enforcement, but sometimes not. In the United States of America, guns were in abundant supply throughout the populace until the middle of the 21st century.

  James Flannery had been with the New York Police Department in the 1990s – still was, in fact, a Lieutenant with "Giuliani's finest," as Flannery put it, when he wasn't working for Heron a century earlier, under cover of working for the 1890s New York police. He was well versed in the firearms of this era, and had no problem fitting in with his Irish ancestors, who were just a few generations closer to the Emerald Isle than was Flannery. Heron had provided him with extensive, forged documentation of a career with the Boston police that Flannery never had, which made it easy to get hired as a Lieutenant in the 1890s New York City police.

  Now Flannery waited to meet Heron in front of the police headquarters on Mulberry Street, ruddy cheeks and Phillip Morris cigarettes imported from London in hand and mouth.

  Heron was punctual to a fault. Flannery didn't have to wait long.

  "Let us walk," Heron said to Flannery, as to the two exchanged nods of greeting.

  "Lieutenant," several rookie cops paid their respects as Flannery and Heron walked down the street. He gave a curt smile in response.

  "I have a task for you," Heron told Flannery, when they were clear of the police headquarters and any cops who might overhear.

  Flannery nodded. "Something I can do myself, or should I assemble a team?"

  "You should be able to do this yourself," Heron replied. "It is a simple apprehension, questioning, and, if necessary—"

  "I understand," Flannery replied. "Do you have a name?"

  "Mary Anderson," Heron replied.

  "That's a very common name," Flannery said.

  "She's an actress," Heron said.

  "That Mary Anderson? I've seen her picture in the paper – she is one fine looking woman."

  "Will that be a problem?" Heron asked. "Do you have qualms about doing your job when beautiful women are involved?"

  Flannery laughed. "Of course not. I assume you want to me to question her as soon as possible."

  "Always," Heron replied. "She and Edwin Porter attempted to see William Henry Appleton last week – that might be a good place to start."

  "Porter the film pioneer?" Flannery had flirted with being a film major when he'd been a student at New York University in the late 1970s.

  "Yes," Heron replied, "though they're still referring to it as 'photo-play' back here."

  Flannery nodded. "I gather Porter and Anderson were unsuccessful in their attempt to see Appleton? Why was that?"

  "Illness," Heron replied, "or so Appleton's man said."

  "You think he was lying?" Flannery asked.

  Heron made an I-don't-know gesture with his hands. "That's why I'm bringing you into this."

  "Ok – you'll hear from me soon," Flannery said. "Anything else I should know?"

  "No," Heron replied.

  "Good," Flannery stopped, turned, and walked away from Heron, back in the direction of police headquarters.

  Heron watched Flannery walk away, and thought about the fact that, having hunted someone who was acting as Hypatia in ancient Alexandria, he now was doing the same for an actress who would soon be playing Hypatia in a turn-of-the-century theatrical production in New York City. This seemed strange, even to Heron.

  ***

  Flannery had no love for this Heron, or whoever the hell he was. But he liked Heron's money – with his wife's father in and out of the hospital needing heart-bypass surgery not covered by Flannery's insurance at the end of 20th-century America, a lame-brained son who couldn't hold down a job, and a daughter knocked up when she was 19 and who knew who the father was, Flannery had need of money. And Heron had this time travel timed just right. Flannery could spend as long as he liked or was needed back here in the 1890s, and when he went back to the 1990s, he'd have been missing just the hour or so it took him to get back and forth between One Police Plaza on Park Row and the Millennium Club uptown. He could even snip that hour if it mattered, by setting his return for an hour earlier. Sweet deal.

  And from what he understood of Heron's motives, Flannery agreed with them. Heron wanted to keep the world as it was. That made sense. Because even if someone stopped a terrible thing from happening, like the assassination of John F. Kennedy, who knows what unexpected bad things Kennedy's survival might bring into play. Like that Ray Bradbury story he'd read as a kid in high school.

  Flannery stopped at his secretary's desk when he reached his office. "Juliet, please have Detective Woodruff come in to see me." She was an attractive woman, but her long skirts drove him crazy. To her, they were provocative, because they showed some ankle. To him – well, Juliet reminded him of an Amish woman in that Weird Al Yankovic send-up of "Gangsta Paradise," flirting and sexually suggestive in a dress that went down to her mid-legs. These women in the 1890s had a lot to learn.

  "Of course," Juliet said and smiled at him.

  There was a knock on his door a few minutes later. "Come in," Flannery said.

  Oliver Woodruff entered. He sported sideburns, a moustache, and a nice suit.

  "I need you to find out what you can for me about Mary Anderson, an actress – her current whereabouts, home address, anything of interest," Flannery said.

  "Very good," Woodruff nodded and left.

  Flan
nery had made a decision by bringing Woodruff into this. Whatever Heron had meant by "if necessary," Flannery would not be making Mary Anderson disappear. He was a hired gun, yes, but he was no murderer.

  ***

  Woodruff returned two hours later. "She wrote a book," Woodruff said. "I purchased this in Brentano's." He gave the book to Flannery.

  Flannery looked at the cover and opened the book. "A Few Memories," he read the title from the front pages, "by Mary Anderson. Published by Harper and Bros, 1896."

  "She's staying at this hotel, on 65th Street, off Fifth Avenue," Woodruff said, and handed a piece of paper to Flannery with the address written upon it.

  Flannery looked at it and nodded. "Very good. Anything else?"

  "She fainted on stage in 1889," Woodruff replied. "The newspaper report said it was 'nervous exhaustion'. It was during a performance in Washington, DC. She announced her retirement with great fanfare shortly after. But my friend in the theater thinks she's due to come back soon, possibly in a play about Hypatia that's been in rehearsal on and off for years. She's an ancient Greek woman, right? – or maybe Egyptian, I'm not sure."

  "That's very helpful," Flannery said. "Thank you, Detective."

  Woodruff left, knowing better than to ask Flannery what all of this was about, if the Lieutenant had not volunteered the information.

  ***

  Flannery called Mary the next morning. She was amenable to seeing him on short notice. "March is beginning to go out like a lamb," she said. "Does a walk in the park appeal to you as venue for our interview?"

  Flannery told her that it did, and they met in the park, across the street from Mary's hotel, about an hour later.

  He had been briefed by Heron about his goals, including retrieving the Chronica, when Heron had recruited him in 1990s New York City.

  Mary took his arm as they walked in the park. At forty years old, she was ten years his junior, but to Flannery she looked much younger. He was glad there was no way his wife could see this stroll.

  "We're investigating some threats that were made against William Henry Appleton, the publisher, based upon some long-standing grievances. I understand that you and Edwin Porter – the, photographer, I believe he is – tried to see Mr. Appleton earlier this month?"

  "Yes," Mary replied.

  "May I ask the reason for your visit?"

  "Mr. Porter wanted to make a photo-play based on Charles Kingsley's Hypatia. Mr. Appleton apparently has a great interest in her – it is said he fell in love with her historical personage, and deeply regretted that his company, Appleton's, was not the publisher of the Kingsley novel. Mr. Porter thought Mr. Appleton might be ripe for an appeal to support the making of Porter's movie."

  "I see," Flannery said. "And your role in this?"

  "Why Lieutenant Flannery," Mary batted her eyelashes, "I was to be suggested as an actress who might portray Hypatia in the photo-play – I'm preparing right now for that part in a stage play of that story adapted from the novel by G. Stuart Ogilvie."

  "I'll make sure I have a front seat for that," Flannery said.

  "I shall look forward to it!" Mary replied.

  Flannery smiled. "Has anything more come of Porter's idea for a photo-play?"

  "Not that I know of," Mary replied. "We haven't spoken since last week. Perhaps he decided to pursue the idea with another actress." She pouted slightly, with a twinkle in her eye.

  "I doubt that," Flannery said. "But to return to Mr. Appleton – he was unable to receive you?"

  "Yes, he was indisposed – actually, ill might be a more appropriate word," Mary said.

  "Did you actually see him? Did you believe him – perhaps he was just making an excuse?"

  "I think not," Mary said. "Indeed, a doctor came to the house."

  "Did you catch his name?" Flannery asked.

  Mary furrowed her brow. "Dr. Stanley, I believe it was. Not the explorer," she added. "I met him once at a dinner in London!"

  Flannery chuckled. "Thank you – that's very helpful. One more question, if I may, for now?"

  "Of course," Mary said.

  "Do you know Sierra Waters?"

  Mary furrowed her brow again. "I don't believe I do. Is she an actress?"

  "I don't believe she is," Flannery replied.

  The two walked back to Fifth Avenue. As they started to cross the street, a motor car came towards them. Mary, making a point to Flannery, didn't see it. Flannery did. He made a split-second decision. Heron might well have wanted him to not pull Mary out of the way. For all he knew, Heron might have hired the driver. But that wasn't Flannery's style. And, besides, he liked Mary, and the fantasies he had been having about her as they walked in the park. He yanked her back, out of the way of the car, at the very last minute.

  "Slow down, you mo--," he screamed at the car, one of those Duryeas, if Flannery was right. It didn't slow down a bit. It was only going a little faster than 15 miles an hour, Flannery reckoned. The turning point for likely pedestrian death by automobile was 35 mph – 2 out of 10 dead at 30, 5 dead at 35, 9 out of 10 dead from being hit by a car moving at 40 mph, Flannery knew -- but even 15 miles per hour was fast enough to badly hurt and possibly kill someone on direct impact.

  "Sorry about the language," he said to Mary. He turned back to the receding car, waving his hand and gesturing to the sidewalk. "Pull over," he shouted, then realized the driver was out of earshot. He touched his chest then reached into his pocket for his radio, to summon police help, and found nothing -- of course not, walkie-talkies were more than fifty years away from becoming standard issue! He had a whistle, but there was no way the driver could hear that now. He turned back to Mary.

  "Don't be sorry," she said, and kissed his cheek. "You saved my life!"

  He brought her back to her hotel, and asked if he could see her again if further questions arose about Appleton.

  "Of course," she said, and thanked him again.

  Flannery watched her walk into the hotel and thought, she's a good actress but I'm a better cop. He was sure she was lying when she said she didn't know Sierra Waters.

  ***

  Flannery took a Fifth Avenue motorbus or whatever they called this contraption downtown. He enjoyed looking out of the window. There was an optimism in this 1899 which was lacking 100 years later. Maybe it was the two world wars, maybe it was the atom bomb, who could say? But people were more cynical in the time he came from, and more innocent now. Heron had told him things would get worse in a quick hurry in the 21st century. Flannery had asked him what he meant, and Heron had refused to answer. Maybe it was better that Flannery didn't know.

  He also wondered if he really had saved Mary's life – if she would have died from the impact – and what that would have meant to history if he had let her die. Henry Bliss, as every traffic cop knew, was the first person to lose his life in New York City due to being struck by a motorized vehicle. That would happen in September of this very year, on the other side of the park, on West 74th Street. But if Mary Anderson had just been killed, what would that have done to the history books, to his memories – this time travel stuff was mind boggling beyond belief! For that matter, he could now make sure that he was standing on West 74th Street at the crucial moment when Bliss was hit – Bliss was exiting a trolley car on 8th Avenue in the evening – but saving Bliss could also up-end history. Heron had strictly warned him not to interfere with any historically recorded events.