Dead Man's Reach

by D. B. Jackson

  “The next…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. My mind’s on other things.”

  Kelf regarded him with a deepening frown. He gestured for Ethan to follow and lumbered back to the bar.

  “There’s chowder,” the barman said over his shoulder. “Do you want some?”

  “Please. And an ale.”

  As they reached the bar, Kannice emerged from the kitchen carrying a stack of bowls. Seeing Ethan, she smiled and leaned across the counter to kiss him. “I was afraid you wouldn’t get back tonight; it’s blowing something fierce out there.”

  “Aye. Snow’s starting to fall.”

  Her expression grew more guarded. “How was it with Lillie today?”

  “I only stayed long enough to tell him that I wouldn’t be working for him any longer.”

  She beamed. “Really?”

  “Aye. There’s blood on his money. I don’t want it.”

  “You did the right—”

  He held up a hand, stopping her. “Before you say more, you should hear the rest.”

  Her smile faded. She nodded for him to go on.

  “The sheriff paid me a visit earlier today. Thomas Hutchinson wished to speak with me. It seems Greenleaf related to him what I thought I felt before Chris Seider was shot. Hutchinson wants me to find whoever was responsible.”

  “So, you’re working for Hutchinson?”

  “I’m working for the Province of Massachusetts Bay.”

  “But only to find…” She glanced around and leaned closer to him. “Only to find the conjurer, right?”

  “Aye, to find the conjurer.” Perhaps he should have mentioned as well that he would need to speak with Samuel Adams, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her just then.

  “Well,” she said, “if there’s someone using spells to hurt children that way, he should be dealt with. And who better than you to find him?”

  “So you’re not angry with me?”

  Kannice shrugged. “How much is Hutchinson—or rather the province—paying you?”

  “Five pounds, if I succeed.”

  “And how much of that will you be spending on me?”

  Ethan laughed. “A good deal it would seem.”

  “Then no, I’m not angry.” She grew serious once more. “You need to earn a living, Ethan. I understand that.”

  He cupped a hand around her cheek. “Thank you.” They kissed again. “Will you be closing early tonight, Missus Lester? On account of the weather, I mean.”

  Candlelight danced in her blue eyes. “That’s my plan. On account of the weather.”

  It was another late evening.

  * * *

  Throughout the night, the storm raged outside the Dowser, rattling the shutters on Kannice’s bedroom window and filling the chamber with billows of smoke from the blaze in her hearth. Falling snow scratched at the shutters and every new gust of wind seemed to suck from the room what little warmth came from the low-burning fire.

  Ethan woke often throughout the night, and knew that Kannice did, too. He knew as well, though, that in a storm such as this, there would be few people abroad in the streets. He had nowhere to be, and Kannice had no reason to open the tavern. Shortly after dawn, he fell into a deep sleep, only to be awakened again sometime later by a deep rumble of thunder.

  “Did you hear that?” he whispered, wondering if perhaps it had been a pulse of magic.

  “Aye,” Kannice whispered. “I can’t remember the last time we had thunder during a winter storm.”

  He let out a breath, relieved that she had heard it, too. Thunder growled again, closer this time. From the frenzied scrabbling at the shutters, it seemed that the snow was falling harder than ever.

  Kannice moved closer to him, her skin warm against his. “I think we’re stuck here for the day.”

  He ran his fingers through her hair and down over her back. “Now that,” he said, “is a shame.”

  Hunger drove them from her bed some time later. They dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen, where Ethan, savoring a rare morning of leisure, cooked them a grand breakfast of pancake, bacon, and eggs. Thunder continued to shake the tavern, and lightning flickered around the edges of the window shutters.

  While they were eating, and sipping English tea that Kannice swore she had purchased months before the nonimportation agreements took effect, there came a pounding at the tavern door.

  “Could that be Kelf?” Ethan asked.

  Kannice stared at the door, a frown on her face. “I suppose. But he and I agreed last night that if the storm was as bad as some said it would be, he wouldn’t come to the bar until late in the day, if at all.”

  Ethan stood, drew his knife, and pushed up his sleeve. They approached the door together. Kannice drew the lock key from within her bodice.

  Whoever had come hammered at the door a second time.

  “Who’s there?” Kannice called.

  “Kannice?” came the reply. “Ethan? It’s me, Diver. Derrey.”

  Kannice looked back at Ethan and rolled her eyes. She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  Diver stood before them, his coat, scarf, and Monmouth cap caked with snow. Beyond him Ethan could see that the entire city was blanketed in white. There must have been at least a foot of snow in the street, and it was still falling so hard that he could barely see the shops on the far side of Sudbury Street.

  Diver made to enter the tavern, but Kannice planted herself directly in front of him.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “But, I’m cold!”

  “And you can get warm as soon as you take off those boots,” she said, gesturing at his feet, which were completely covered in snow. “But you will not track all that snow into my tavern.”

  Diver looked at Ethan, a plea in his dark eyes.

  Ethan held up his hands. “I can’t help you, Diver.”

  “Well, at least give me a shoulder to hold on to.”

  Ethan moved to the threshold, putting himself as close to Diver as he could without stepping into the snow himself. Diver gripped his shoulder with one hand and wrestled off his boots with the other.

  “All right?” he asked Kannice when he was done.

  She regarded him with a critical eye, then pulled off his hat and shook the snow off it. Still holding it, she brushed snow off his coat.

  “Very well,” she said at last, stepping aside.

  Diver hurried past them both to the hearth. Kannice and Ethan shared a smile. Kannice closed the door and Ethan joined his friend before the fire.

  “What possible reason could you have for being out in such a storm?” he asked.

  “You haven’t heard then. I told Deborah that you wouldn’t know.”

  Ethan’s pulse quickened.

  “Know what?” Kannice asked.

  “Samuel Adams is arranging a funeral for Chris Seider. It’s to take place the day after tomorrow. He expects it will draw a crowd the like of which the lobsters have never seen.”

  Chapter

  EIGHT

  Ethan’s conversation with Henry had prepared him for this, but still he didn’t want to believe what Diver was telling them.

  “He’s going to use the boy’s funeral to gather another mob?”

  “No!” Diver said. “It’s not like that. Not really.”

  “Tell me how it’s different.”

  Diver opened his mouth, closed it again. “Well, what do you expect, Ethan? Richardson shot the lad while trying to defend Theophilus Lillie and the other importers, didn’t he?”

  Ethan shook his head. That wasn’t precisely what had happened. But thinking about it he knew that for Adams’s purposes it was close enough. “Go on.”

  “So, it’s like people are saying. Chris Seider died for the cause of liberty. He’s the first, but probably not the last. And he deserves a hero’s funeral.”

  Kannice had joined them by the hearth. She slipped her hand into Ethan’s. “You say this will be in two days?”

  “Tha
t’s right. Monday. We’re to gather at the Liberty Tree.”

  Ethan shuddered. The Liberty Tree had long been a symbol of Adams’s cause, beginning back in 1765, when effigies of Andrew Oliver and other Crown officials were hung from its branches. But the tree was also significant for Ethan. That same summer, he was chained to its trunk and tortured by the conjurer who killed Jennifer Berson. He managed to win his freedom and kill his captor, although, ironically, only after Adams shot the man.

  He gave Kannice’s hand a quick squeeze and then released it. “I have to go,” he said.

  She rounded on him. “Go? Go where?”

  “I have to speak with Adams.”

  “Why?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “Does this have anything to do with your new employer?”

  She was as clever as anyone he knew.

  “Aye, it does.”

  “Who are you working for now?” Diver asked, looking from one of them to the other.

  Ethan caught Kannice’s eye and gave a small shake of his head.

  “Ethan?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Diver. But I have to go.”

  Kannice didn’t look at all happy, but she said, “Come back when you’re done.”

  “I will.”

  He retrieved his greatcoat from her bedroom, pulled on his scarf and gloves, and put on his hat.

  “You didn’t finish your breakfast,” Kannice said, as he came back down to the great room.

  “Give it to him,” he said, waving a hand at Diver.

  He stepped to the door, but halted and faced his friend again. “Is Adams at his home or at the Green Dragon?”

  “I’m not sure,” Diver said. “The Dragon, I think.”

  “My thanks.”

  Ethan pulled the door open and squinted against the glare of the snow. The air was thick with flakes, and the wind still blew, though not as fiercely as it had. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Ethan struck out southward on Sudbury.

  The distance between the Dowser and the Green Dragon was not great. But the streets were choked with snow, which made for slow going. With every step, Ethan sank knee-deep, until his legs and feet were wet, heavy, and cold. Snow flew into his eyes and gathered on his shoulders and back. His bad leg ached, and though his face and hands were freezing, by the time he reached the Dragon, he was sweating within his greatcoat.

  The tavern was housed in the basement of a plain, two-story brick building that was owned by the Freemasons. A cast-iron dragon sat perched over the entryway, its wings raised, tongues of sculpted flame issuing from its open mouth. Ethan paused in the doorway to shake the snow off of his hat and coat before descending a dim stairway to the tavern.

  The storm might have kept much of Boston’s citizenry at home on this day, but the Green Dragon overflowed with people, their voices raised in a din of conversations. A few drank ales or ate from plates of oysters. Most however, appeared to be there to talk and plan. Ethan threaded his way through the patrons, searching for Adams and moving in the general direction of a small room at the back of the tavern where he last had encountered the man.

  Reaching the door, he knocked once.

  Immediately the door opened, revealing a chamber as crowded as the great room, its air hazed with pipe smoke.

  Ethan didn’t recognize the young gentleman who blocked his way.

  “Who are you?” the man asked, sounding more harried than threatening.

  “Ethan Kaille. I’m looking for Samuel Adams.”

  “You and half of Boston. He’s busy right now.”

  The man started to close the door. Ethan put out a hand to stop him.

  “Now see here—”

  “Mister Adams and I have had dealings before. And today I bear a message from Thomas Hutchinson.”

  The man’s expression turned cold. “And why should any of us care what he has to say?”

  “Because like him or not, he is the acting governor.”

  “Aye. Fine. Give me your message. I’ll see that it reaches Samuel.”

  Ethan shook his head. “No. I’m to give it to him personally.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  A second man, one Ethan recognized, appeared at the shoulder of the first. He was young as well, tall, with expressive dark eyes.

  “What is this, John?” Joseph Warren asked.

  He glanced at Ethan, looked a second time. Recognition flashed in his dark eyes, though his expression was no more welcoming than that of the first man.

  “Mister Kaille, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, Doctor Warren. It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir.”

  “He wishes to see Samuel,” John said. “He claims to bear a message from Hutchinson himself.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye,” Ethan said. “I know that Mister Adams has more important things to do than treat with me. But I need a moment of his time.”

  Warren looked over his shoulder at the throng, leading Ethan to believe that Adams stood at the center of it. He faced Ethan again, and Ethan was certain that the doctor would send him away. But he said, “Yes, very well. Wait here, Mister Kaille.” He patted the other man on the shoulder. “It’s all right, John. Thank you.”

  Warren wandered back into the crowded room, leaving John to guard the door. He made no effort to shut it in Ethan’s face, but he did seem determined that Ethan would not, under any circumstances, enter the chamber.

  After several minutes, Ethan saw Warren detach himself from the cluster of men in the room. He was followed by a shorter figure wearing red breeches and a matching waistcoat. This man had gray, plaited hair and penetrating dark blue eyes.

  Samuel Adams was but a few years older than Ethan, but, as with Hutchinson, the occupation of the city had taken its toll on him. His face, while still pleasant and open, appeared somewhat sallow. The palsy that had afflicted him all his life was more pronounced than Ethan remembered; his head and hands shook noticeably. Nevertheless, he smiled as he proffered a hand.

  Ethan grasped it. Adams still possessed a firm grip.

  “Mister Kaille,” he said, speaking softly and yet managing to make himself heard over the voices of the men around them. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “And you, Mister Adams. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me. I know how busy you are right now.”

  “More than at any point in our struggle. But perhaps that is why you’re here.” He turned to Warren. “Joseph, Mister Kaille and I require a few moments alone. I believe we’ll find a bit of privacy upstairs. In the meanwhile, you should continue with the arrangements.”

  “Of course.”

  “With all the snow that has fallen today, it will be more difficult than usual to communicate our intentions to those most likely to attend the funeral. We’ll need to use the Gazette and other sympathetic papers. Have James and Paul work on an announcement.”

  “Very well.” Warren’s gaze flicked toward Ethan. “Don’t keep him long,” he said.

  Before Ethan could answer, Adams chuckled and said, “He’ll keep me no longer than I wish to be kept, and no shorter either.” He gestured toward the great room. “This way, Mister Kaille. To the stairway.”

  Ethan and Adams began to wend their way through the packed room, but progress came slowly. At last, Adams stepped past Ethan and said in a ringing voice, “Please make way, gentlemen.”

  He might as well have been Moses with his great staff. The crowd parted as by divine intervention, allowing Adams to lead Ethan to the stairs.

  By the time they reached the top of the stairway, Adams was breathing hard and his face was flushed.

  “Do you need to rest, sir?” Ethan asked, masking his alarm.

  Adams waved off the question with obvious impatience, and led Ethan down a corridor to what appeared to be a small office.

  “This belongs to the junior warden of the Freemasons,” Adams told Ethan over his shoulder. “Usually I wouldn’t presume, but he won’t be coming today, and I doubt he’ll mind.”

&n
bsp; He shut the door behind them and went to the glazed window that looked out onto the building’s grounds. The snow was piled so high on the outer sill that the bottom half of the window was obscured.

  “It’s still falling,” Adams said. “Perhaps God doesn’t wish for us to go ahead with our plans.” He turned to look at Ethan. “I know the lieutenant governor does not. Is that not why you’ve come? To tell me that Hutchinson requests our forbearance?”

  “I’ve come for a number of reasons, sir.”

  “Including that one. I’m disappointed in you, Mister Kaille. There was a time when I thought you might join our cause, when I saw in you a man who would come to embrace the notion of liberty. And now here you stand: a messenger for the greatest enemy of liberty in all of Boston. How did this happen?”

  Ethan bristled. “You mistake me for a servant of the Crown, sir. I am not. I remain, as I have always been, a subject of the British Empire. Beyond that, as you well know, I’m a thieftaker and a conjurer, and it is in those capacities that I stand before you.”

  A small smile played at the corners of Adams’s mouth. “You have some fire in you, Mister Kaille. One need only stir the coals a bit to see it.”

  Ethan tried to maintain a hard glare, but before long he had to look away. He allowed himself a small breathless laugh. “Since the day we met, you’ve reveled in provoking me. Why is that?”

  “It is, as I’ve said, because of the potential I see within you. I still hope that someday you’ll join the patriot cause.”

  “You and everyone else,” Ethan muttered.

  Adams quirked an eyebrow. Ethan wished he had kept that thought to himself.

  “In recent months, a friend has joined your cause. And there is … someone else as well who would like to see me a … a patriot, as you put it.”

  “A woman.”

  Ethan laughed again, openly this time. “Is it so obvious?”

  “Always,” Adams said.

  “In truth, sir, I can imagine a day, not long from now, when I’ll be willing to join you and the Sons of Liberty. But this is not that day. We have other matters to discuss.”

  “Very well, Mister Kaille. Proceed.”

  “First, you should know that I was on Middle Street two days ago when Christopher Seider was shot. I had been working for Theophilus Lillie.”