Stolen Justice

by Shawn Wickersheim

Owen coughed and vomited.

  “Tell me quick!” the voice demanded. “I don’t have all day.”

  He didn’t give a damn about the bitch’s question. She didn’t have the stones to kill him! “Go fu-”

  She slammed his face back into the water-vomit mix and the rest of his words became nothing more than scream-filled bubbles. Infuriated anew, he fought to free himself, but again to no avail. Just as the edges of darkness were beginning to close in around him, she tugged on his hair. He came up gasping.

  “Next time I’ll leave you down there.”

  Owen wasn’t a bright man, but he was smart enough to recognize the truth when he heard it. “Gold,” he sputtered.

  “What gold?”

  Water ran down his face and dripped from the tip of his snot-filled nose. “I figured there’d be a reward for your capture, what with so many important men wanting you dead.”

  “You’d actually deal with the men responsible for killing your brother?”

  “You don’t understand nothing. I’ve worked with the Bloody Fists before, back when Hans Mesbone was in charge. This Lipscombe fellah pays even better.”

  “So, it’s a matter of greed?”

  “Edgar’s dead.”

  There was a pause and when the bitch spoke again, her voice wasn’t so harsh. “He didn’t mean all that much to you, did he?”

  “Course he did!” Owen snapped. “He was my brother. But, he was also a damn fool. I told him mooning over you would be the death of him and I was right. You got him killed. Not me. My hands are clean. I figured . . . I figured the least I could do was make some money off this whole stinking mess.”

  “I thought you were going to avenge his murder.”

  Owen snorted. “Against Lord Ragget, the royal wardens AND the Bloody Fists? Are you mad, woman? Those odds are much too long. Even for me. No, I figured I’d collect my reward, keep my head down and consider myself a lucky man. But I see that ain’t going to happen now, so I’ll tell you what, you let me up before those two collectors come back and you can walk away, and I’ll forget I ever saw you. I swear.”

  “You expect me to trust your word?”

  “What choice do you have? The collectors are coming back, any moment now. My way gives you a chance to be free.”

  The weight lifted from his neck and his trapped right arm was released. It flopped to his side and lay next to him useless. Owen groaned and climbed slowly to his feet. Josephine backed away, but she didn’t run.

  “You want to get caught?”

  “I want to know what they do with the bodies they’re collecting.”

  “How should I know?”

  “You said you worked with the Bloody Fists before.”

  “Yeah . . .” He inched his left hand toward his sheathed knife. If she had run, he might have kept his word and allowed her to live. “But not since Lipscombe took over. I figured bringing you in would get me on his good side.” His fingers wrapped around the hilt. “I still do.”

  He dragged the knife clear and raised his arm to throw it. Something punched into the center of his chest.

  For a big man, he was fast.

  The bitch and her crossbow had been faster.

  Josephine stood tall. Her crossbow didn’t waver. Owen’s raised hand dropped to his side. His fearsome knife fell from his fingers and clattered on the stones next to his boots. Josephine’s jaw clenched. Rainwater dripped from her chin. Owen’s gaze slid down to the crossbow bolt jutting from the center of his chest. He blinked three times before finding her face again. The wicked look of greed which moments earlier had burned so brightly in his eyes was gone. Now, he just looked scared and it wasn’t a look he did particularly well. Josephine shuddered.

  Owen’s mouth opened. No words came. Only a little bit of blood. His jaw relaxed further, and his knees buckled. His body sagged to one side and he ended up slumping awkwardly against the rear of the collection wagon. Josephine stared down at him. He was very still.

  The sight of him lying there reminded her of her dead father. He had been very still too after she had shot him. Even now, she had a hard time believing he was gone. They were all gone. Edgar, Leigh, Mother, Father. Now Owen. True, he had been in the act of trying to kill her, and she had merely defended herself, but still, the mighty Owen Wilde was dead. Killed by her hand.

  “I’m sorry . . .” Josephine crouched beside him and closed his staring eyes. She had acted opposite him, night after night, show after show, for months now and while she didn’t consider him a close friend, he had been . . . a fellow actor. A member of the theater troupe. Edgar’s brother.

  Voices from the nearby tenement building brought her out of her grim reverie. The collectors were returning. Josephine glanced down at Owen again. He was much too big for her to move him anywhere swiftly. She stood and scanned the street. Besides, where would she stow him? There wasn’t anywhere close even for her to hide.

  She shoved her crossbow into its sheath strapped down along her outer thigh, its extended metal arms folding inward as it clicked into place and dove under the tarp and into the back of the wagon. The putrid stench from the dozen or so corpses stole her breath and it was all she could do to keep from retching and running away.

  But then, where would she go? Even if Owen had kept his promise and she’d walked off clean, she’d never truly be free. Not of this. Not until she fulfilled her father’s last request. She’d find a way to reach Bel’yowlye. She’d seek out her grandfather, Bonn Tysh and unlock the secrets of the magical discs. She’d see Lord Ragget pay for his crimes . . .

  Then, and only then, might she actually . . . be . . . free.

  But right now, she wanted . . . no, she needed . . . to satisfy her morbid curiosity. Where were the collectors taking these bodies? What further depravity was Mister Lipscombe inflicting upon these poor souls and had he already inflicted additional horrors upon her mother and sister?

  And finally, she found herself trembling at the thought . . . could she stop him?

  The tenement building’s door banged open and the two collectors tromped down the steps. They were muttering and grunting about something but when they reached the back of the wagon, they fell quiet. Josephine held her breath.

  “What the hell we got here?” one asked. He had a gruff, mean-sounding voice and Josephine wished she had drawn one of her knives before jumping into the back of the wagon. Now, it was too late, and she didn’t dare move.

  “Looks like a dead body,” the other offered. His was a squeaky voice.

  “I can see that,” Gruff said. “I got eyes.”

  “Then wha’ja ask for?” Squeaky shot back.

  “You being smart with me?”

  “Nah. I ain’t got the brains for it.”

  The two shared a laugh.

  “Whatcha think we should do with him?” Gruff asked.

  “We are collecting bodies . . .”

  The two started chuckling again.

  “Hey, ain’t this Big Owen?” Squeaky said after a moment.

  “You know, I think you’re right,” Gruff said. “Whatcha think happened here?”

  “Someone must’ve shot him.”

  The two men burst out laughing. Jo frowned. From the sounds of it, the two were either mildly drunk or a touch crazy. Perhaps a bit of both. She tried to move her head slightly to one side to get a better look at them and ended up clunking her forehead against the skull of the body next to her. She winced.

  “Uuuungggh.”

  It took every bit of Josephine’s willpower not to leap out the back of the wagon. What had made that noise? What manner of beast was hiding under the tarp with her?

  “You hear something?” Gruff asked.

  Josephine froze. Her heart thundered in her chest. If they took a hard look under the tarp they’d probably realize she didn’t belong there. Or worse yet, they’d try to make sure she did.

  “Just my poor rumbling stomach,” Squeaky moaned. “I didn’t get a proper supper.”

&n
bsp; “Well let’s get these two loaded and head on back to the factory and put some food in your belly.”

  “I like your thinking, but I can’t. Lipscombe told me earlier he wants us to work at the dockside warehouse when we get back. He’s gotta shitload of crates that need moving around before he sets sail tomorrow.”

  Josephine frowned at the news. Lipscombe was leaving Belyne so soon? She had hoped . . . what? If she were being honest with herself, what had she wanted? Revenge for the rape, sure, but beyond that she hadn’t really thought it through. She had assumed she’d have time later to collect her thoughts, perhaps plan her revenge carefully . . . but now . . . Her frown deepened. This new world she’d entered was unlike anything she’d ever faced. Sure, she’d prowled around with Edgar and had dabbled with a few things outside the law, but plotting revenge . . . plotting a man’s murder . . . Was this . . . her? Was this her new ‘normal’? Was this the woman she wanted to become?

  “Someone oughta tell Lipscombe where he can shove those gods-damned crates,” Gruff muttered. “I’m tired of moving them.”

  The tarp was yanked to one side. Josephine didn’t flinch. She didn’t breathe. This was just another performance, she told herself, an important performance to be sure. Playing dead. She’d done it before on stage and had been told she’d done it rather convincingly. This time, she had an audience of two and only one chance to trick them both.

  “Someone oughta tell Lipscombe . . . Tell Lipscombe? You planning on being that someone?” Squeaky asked. He bent down and grunted. “Gimme a hand here!”

  The two lifted Owen and tossed him into the back of the wagon. He landed partially on top of Josephine and obstructed her view of the two collectors. Owen’s dead weight shifted and the bolt protruding from his chest jutted painfully into her side.

  “Do you think I’m stupid? Hell no, I ain’t saying a word to Lipscombe,” Gruff said. “He’d gut me or worse and ship me off with the rest of these here bodies before I could even draw my knife.”

  “So, your wife was right about you,” Squeaky said. “You’re all talk and no action.”

  “Whatcha know about my wife?” Gruff snapped.

  “I know she likes taking it from behind and considering how ugly you are, I don’t blame her.”

  Gruff snorted. “Considering how ugly she is, that’s the only way I can do her. She ever get it in her head to turn around, she’d scare me limp.”

  The two men snickered and tossed the second body in on top of Owen. Josephine gasped as the weight of the two men pressed down upon her.

  “What was that?” Squeaky said.

  “Probably just one of the bodies letting out some air,” Gruff said. “I was at a tavern once . . .”

  “Once?”

  “Shut the fuck up and let me finish. A gravedigger friend of mine said he shat his trousers once when a body done sat up and groaned right next to him. He’d thought the damned thing had come back to life. Maybe it had. Anyway, he swung his shovel and caved the man’s skull in. Laid it right back down, he did. Dead as dead. He made sure and everything. Then, it let loose a low groan. Only thing he could figure was some air had gotten trapped inside him and it was coming out again.”

  “What’d he do next?”

  “He went home and changed his trousers. Weren’t you paying attention, I told you he’d shat himself.”

  The two men laughed as they secured the tarp, leaving Josephine to lie alone in the darkness. Fat raindrops danced across the surface above her and drummed out the rest of their inane conversation.

  The wagon lurched forward, and the corpses shifted around her. She was shoved against the body next to her and again it made a low grunt.

  But this time, it hadn’t sounded like escaping air. This time, it had sounded like someone in pain.

  Josephine slid her free hand up across the man’s chest until she found his face. A bit of warmth rose from his open mouth.

  “You’re alive,” she whispered directly in the man’s ear.

  “I am?” a voice rasped. “I ain’t so sure.”

  Josephine’s heart raced. The voice sounded like . . . “Edgar?”

  There was a pause. “Jo?”

  “Gods above! I thought you were dead!”

  “You ain’t my protector angel and this ain’t heaven?”

  “We’re in the back of a collection wagon with a bunch of dead bodies.”

  “That explains the smell.” Edgar sniffed. “Or is that you?”

  “It’s not me!”

  “Gods is that me?”

  “I think it might . . .”

  “I suppose it could be worse . . .” Edgar sniffed again. “No, I ain’t sure it could. I’ve done pissed myself, haven’t I? Gods, this is rank.”

  Despite the smell, Josephine kissed his cheek. Edgar winced.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Something’s digging into my side . . .”

  “You were knifed,” Josephine said.

  “Yeah, I remember being there when it happened. It ain’t a pleasant memory.”

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “I thought so too. And, in case you’re wondering, that ain’t a pleasant memory either.”

  Josephine swallowed the lump in her throat. “I watched you die.”

  “I hate to state the obvious, Jo, but since you’re claiming I’m alive, you must’ve seen . . . something else.”

  “What do you suppose this ‘something else’ is?”

  “What you mean?”

  “How . . . what . . .” She fumbled with how to phrase it. “You’re not . . . you know . . . stuck in between, are you?”

  Edgar was silent for a moment. “Not that I know of . . . I think that would be something a person would know, don’t you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I’ll tell you what I do know. Just as everything was going dark, I . . . I tasted something . . . strange.”

  “My kiss tasted strange?”

  “You kissed me?”

  “I thought you were dying.”

  “Gods, Jo! If I’d known that’s all it took, I would’ve died much sooner. Did you like it?”

  Josephine’s face grew warm. “There wasn’t anything to like! I only did it because I thought you were dead!”

  “That’s kinda disgusting, Jo.”

  “You asked . . .”

  “Do you usually go around kissing dead men?”

  “Maybe I should kill you and we can both find out?”

  “While that is a tempting offer, I’ll pass on the killing part. However, I’m all in favor of the kissing part. Should I lie very still? Does that make it better for you?”

  “If it’ll keep your mouth shut . . . sure.”

  “Kinky. Though if you must know, I prefer open mouth kisses with a bit of tongue.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I’m often on your mind, ain’t I?”

  “Not as often as you might like,” Josephine said. “Can we get back to how it is you’re still alive?”

  “It must’ve been your kiss. It brought me back to life.”

  “That only happens in fairy tales.”

  “I like fairy tales, especially the one where the thief gets the girl in the end.”

  “I don’t know that one.”

  “I’ll have to tell it to you someday.”

  “Does it end badly?”

  “Nah. They wind up living happily ever after. Perhaps we could do something like that someday. What do you think?”

  “I think you should get serious.”

  “I . . . I was going to say quit being so cruel, Jo, but you’re probably right. I ain’t exactly the marrying kind. How about we just have a happy ending instead?”

  “First things first.”

  “You ain’t ruling that out?”

  “You said you tasted something strange.”

  “When?”

  “When I was kissing you.”

  “Perhaps you should refresh my memo
ry.”

  “Edgar!”

  “No need to say it all harsh like that, Jo. I tasted . . . well, now that I think about it . . . I tasted campornil.”

  “Campornil?”

  “It’s a weed. Chew on a few leaves and it kills your pain. Chew on too much though and it just kills you.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I ain’t stupid.”

  “I never said you were. I’ve just never heard of it before.”

  Edgar shrugged. “An apothecary friend told me about it. He said it ain’t from around these parts. It only grows in the Scylthian jungles way up north.”

  “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “My friend was looking to replenish his stock. He told me about another apothecary who still had some and I told him for the right price I could get it for him. He told me the right price. Simple as that.”

  “So that’s what you were doing the other night when I found you.”

  Edgar nodded.

  “But what does all this have to do with you tasting campornil?”

  “I think the blade that creepy spidery-man used must’ve been treated with it,” Edgar said. “Not quite enough to kill, but definitely enough to knock me out. That’d explain the taste and why I’m still alive.”

  Josephine considered his words. “Why would he want to do that?”

  “Dunno, Jo. He started out trailing you. I guess the better question is; why would he want to do that to you?”

  “I . . .” Josephine fell silent. Anyone who lived in Belyne, especially those in the seedier areas along the docks knew people were often stolen away, some from their homes, others straight off the streets. When her family had lived in the tenements she’d heard The Screams almost every night. People speculated about what happened to those who were taken. Most assumed the missing was sold into slavery. Still others whispered about torturous experiments being done by fanatical cults. Those rumors had started last year after a couple of mutilated bodies had washed up along the shore. She’d seen one. At first, she hadn’t recognized the . . . thing . . . as a man. And when she did, she’d suffered nightmares for weeks after. Josephine shuddered at the memory. Was this what the spidery-man and Furland Pervis and Mister Lipscombe were all about? Snatching people and turning them into . . . living nightmares?