“Nah. They look like they’re on a pub crawl. They’ll probably go in a while. If we move, they’ll only catch us again.” Hal also drained her tankard. “I’ll buy you another.”
Ellen scrambled for her purse. “It’s my turn.”
Hal was already on her feet. Something of her earlier grin returned. “It’s okay. I’m hoping that if you end up feeling sufficiently indebted to me, I might be able to demand certain favors in repayment.”
Ellen sank back in her seat, staring at the rafters in the ceiling and thinking about what Hal had said. Strict rules governed the treatment of prisoners. Surely the Rangers would not have broken them. But then Ellen remembered Aitkin’s resolute manner. The Ranger captain would be ruthless, a dangerous woman to have as an adversary, far more so than Cohen, for all her bluster. Would Aitkin have allowed the beating of a prisoner—a badly injured woman? Would she condone torture? Ellen chewed her lip. Cohen might fail in her duty through incompetence, but she would never blatantly ignore the law. Aitkin was not so predictable.
Ellen turned her head, recalled from her musing by an awareness that Hal was taking a long time at the bar. Some of the Rangers were on to their second drink, monopolizing the barkeeper, which explained some of the delay. However, Hal had two full tankards in her hands, without showing any sign of leaving the counter. The Rangers were milling around, laughing, chatting, clowning. The song had, thankfully, come to an end.
Hal saw Ellen watching and returned to the table. She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Okay. I confess. I was trying to hear what they were saying. I was curious.”
“And?”
“They were pretty flattering about you, which was what caught my attention. Apparently, you’re the one member of the Militia who’s worth a fart in a barrel.” Hal put the drinks down and grinned. “Do you reckon the fart is a good thing, or should you be insulted by anything less than a complete shit?”
Ellen laughed and took her drink. “As long as they include the barrel I don’t mind. I wouldn’t want to try picking either up otherwise.”
Deliberately, Hal reached across the table and ran her forefinger over the knuckles of Ellen’s empty hand, causing a rush of goose bumps to flare up Ellen’s arm. She gently turned Ellen’s hand over and pressed their palms together, while tracing small circles on the inside of her wrist.
“So, if you don’t play footsie until a second date, how long is it normally until you fuck?”
Ellen half choked on her beer. She put down the tankard and wiped her mouth with the back of her free hand. “Um...I think I’d have to check back through my diary on that one.”
Hal laughed, but before she could say anything Valerie again staggered over to their table. Hal released Ellen’s hand and sat back.
Valerie crouched down at the end of the table, so her head was at the same height as Ellen’s and leaned on her folded arms. She seemed oblivious to the idea that she might be interrupting. “What are you doing tomorrow night? Are you on duty?”
“I shouldn’t be.” Ellen tried to control her flash of irritation.
“My patrol is going to be at the White Swan. Come over. It’ll be a good night. You’ll get to hear all the details.” The emphasis on the word “all” was unmistakable.
“I’m not sure if your Mel Ellis wants a Militiawoman as company.”
“Ah, Mel’s okay. She’s a good Ranger. She can be a bit prickly, but Jay knows how to cure her when she gets the ass-ache. That’s why they’re friends. Jay’s a laugh.”
Ellen looked over Valerie’s head at the assembled Rangers. The press at the bar had spread out. She spotted Jay Takeda off to the side, her arms wrapped around a civilian—a thin-faced woman with hair in a ponytail and the tar-stained clothes of barge crew. As Ellen watched, the two heads drew together in an ardent kiss. Everyone knew that many women were attracted to Rangers and would throw themselves at anyone in the green and gray uniform. Everyone also knew that a good percentage of Rangers were only too happy to catch them.
Valerie twisted, following the direction of Ellen’s eyes. “Hey. It looks like Jay’s scored.”
“Do you think you Rangers will be staying in here for long?” Hal asked frostily.
Valerie was clearly taken aback at the unfriendly tone. She glanced quickly between Ellen and Hal, and then an expression of understanding spread over her face. She stood and backed away. Her smile returned and she gave a double thumbs-up gesture. “No. It’s okay. I won’t be, er...bothering you again this evening. Have fun.” She winked at Ellen and turned back to the bar.
Ellen sighed and slumped in her seat. She looked apologetically at Hal, who leaned forward, about to speak when there was another loud outburst.
“The Butcher’s gonna get the chop.” Jay Takeda’s voice was slurred. She had the barge crewwoman pinned in a corner. By the look of them, without the aid of the wall to lean on, they might have had trouble staying upright.
Mel Ellis was close by. She elbowed her friend in the ribs. “Quit the bragging and get back to making out. You know what you always tell me—play to your strengths.”
A movement of the table made Ellen look back. Hal had slid out from behind it and stood up.
“Are we going?” Ellen was surprised.
“I am. I have to get back to the farm tonight. The sheep need me.”
Hal was standing over Ellen. She twisted down, leaning with one hand on the table. Her lips brushed against Ellen’s and then returned more forcefully, pushing Ellen back into the chair. Hal’s lips were firm and soft in perfect proportion. Ellen felt herself melting in the heat. And she wanted more. She wanted all of Hal. She reached out and her hand found Hal’s hip, but before she could take charge, pulling Hal down onto her lap, the contact was gone.
Ellen gasped and opened her eyes. Hal was grinning at her from mere centimeters away.
“I’m sorry,” Hal said.
“What?”
“It’s August.”
Ellen shook her head, trying to clear her confusion. “What?”
“This is my month to play hard to get.”
Without another word, Hal turned and left the Three Barrels.
Chapter Seven—Crossing the River
The Town Hall bell was chiming midday when Ellen pushed open the door of the Militia station and stepped inside, ready to start her shift. Zar Thorensen was sitting at the table, dealing out the cards for yet another game of patience. She looked up and smiled, tilting her head as if to catch the last peal of the bell.
“On time.”
“Aren’t I always?”
Zar scooped the cards up in a wad and rapped them on the table to form a neat deck. “I guess so.”
“Anything exciting happen this morning?”
Zar pointed over her shoulder. “We’ve got one customer in the lockup.”
“Who?”
“Fran Paparang.”
Ellen took a step closer and dropped her voice. “Did Cohen order her brought in on spec?”
“No need. She’s been playing her usual games.” Zar rubbed her nose. “You’d think she’d be more careful, after what happened to Trish Eriksen. I guess some girls never learn.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Being an asshole.”
Ellen kept on looking at Zar, waiting for a better answer.
“She was in the market, hanging around the stalls, obviously on the lookout for what she could nick. A couple of the stallholders told her to piss off. She started spoiling for a fight, and kicked some things over. Jude dragged her in here a couple of hours ago. I think she’s been drinking.”
“This early in the day?”
“Who knows? Maybe she really is cut up about her mate.” Zar shrugged and stood. “Anyway. I’m off.”
Before Zar could leave, Ellen pointed at the door of the captain’s office and whispered, “Is she in?”
Zar shook her head. “Ain’t seen our beloved leader all morning.” The street door swung shut behind her.
Ellen stood indecisively by the table, drumming her fingers. Cohen’s absence was a definite plus, although it might not last. There was no saying when the lieutenant might wander in. Regardless of whether she would want to repeat her thoughts about the warehouse skirmish, Ellen was happy to have as little contact with her as possible. This made a change from normal, when she would welcome just about anyone as company.
Station-minding duty was the most tedious of the routine assignments. Some days, nobody at all would call in. Those who did were invariably angry—if they did not feel that they were the victim of some wrong, they would not be making the report. All too many would vent their anger on the officer on duty and take as a sign of ineptitude that the Militiawoman did not immediately rush out to hunt down the girls who were knocking on doors and running away, or whatever the complaint was. No point in explaining that the rules said the station should be left unmanned only in urgent and serious cases.
Ellen slumped onto the bench and picked up the pack of cards, but made no attempt to deal them out. She stared at the top card, the jack of hearts, while trying to order her thoughts.
Hal was playing silly games—games such as rushing off the previous evening. It annoyed Ellen. But what annoyed her even more was that she was totally ensnared by the game playing. Previous girlfriends had always let Ellen take the lead. They had signaled their interest, and then waited for Ellen to make the moves. They might try to manipulate her, as with Mandy’s tears, but never taunt and challenge her. Ellen had known exactly where she stood with them, and that was wherever she wanted to stand. She picked them up and she dropped them. With hindsight, it had all been so safe and predictable it was boring.
Hal was not predictable and she was the one calling the shots. Ellen was not in control. She wished to hell that she did not find it so exciting. Hal had a grip on her emotions beyond anything that Ellen had experienced before. She was surprised at how desperately she was looking forward to their next meeting, and the fact that she had no idea how this meeting would go only increased the anticipation. Hal had her. She was hooked and helpless, and loving it.
The faint sound of movement from the lockup caught Ellen’s attention. Francesca Paparang was Valerie Bergstrom’s younger sister. They both had a reckless self-confidence, but expressed it in very different ways. Valerie had been a hardworking member of the Militia, the first to put herself in the way of danger. Fran would need a dictionary to look up the meaning of work. As a young child she had the reputation of being a daredevil. Becoming friends with the Eriksen sisters had turned her into a hell-raiser.
Ellen blamed Tilly Paparang, Valerie’s gene mother, who had raised both girls on her own after her partner deserted her. She had not raised them equally. Tilly Paparang had indulged Fran to the point of criminal culpability. Valerie, on the other hand, had never been coddled or shown much in the way of affection. Ellen suspected the blatant favoritism was, consciously or not, punishing Valerie for the way her birth mother had walked out. It was grossly unfair—not the least because Valerie had only been five years old at the time. But whatever the reason, Tilly Paparang had done Fran the greater injustice. Fran had been quite literally spoiled, and anything worthwhile she might have achieved in her life had been lost.
At sixteen, Fran was old enough to be responsible for her own fines, but there was no doubt that her mother would again be the one to do the paying. The thought crossed Ellen’s mind that before long, Fran’s behavior would earn her a flogging, or even a hanging. Would it come as a shock to Fran when her mother was not allowed to take her place?
Ellen pulled open the small barred hatch on the lockup door and peered in. Fran was sitting on the floor in the corner, resting her head in her hands.
“Fran.”
She looked up blearily. “What?”
“How you feeling?”
“Like you care.”
Ellen hesitated before replying. As a friend of Valerie’s, she knew Fran on a personal level far better than she did either of the Eriksen sisters. Before Fran had come under Trish and Ade’s influence, they had even met socially a few times at birthdays and the like. They had never been close, but they had shared affable conversations in the past.
The Eriksens had both joined the Eastford gang. Surely they would have tried to drag Fran along with them. Fran was not stupid—far from it. It was what made her such a dangerous accessory to the Eriksen sisters, adding her brains to Trish’s brawn and Ade’s malice. Perhaps Fran even had the sense to steer clear of the Butcher and her Knives, but she would have been told something, if only as a lure to get her to join. And Trish Eriksen would never have been able to withstand the temptation of bragging to a friend.
At the moment, Fran was their most likely source of information about the Butcher, but Ellen needed to play it right. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry about Trish.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Honest. When I saw her lying dead, it...”
Fran scrambled unsteadily to her feet and lurched to the other side of the grill. There was no “maybe” about the drinking. Ellen could smell the alcohol on her.
“Which one of the bitches did it?”
“The name of the Ranger doesn’t matter. In the end, Trish did it to herself. She was the one who attacked first. She should have known she’d stand no chance against a trained Ranger.”
Fran spat, but at her own feet rather than Ellen—a good sign. “Trish never thought... She... It just wasn’t—” Fran dashed the back of her hand across her eyes.
“She and Ade got mixed up with the big gang from Eastford, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Did they try to get you to join?”
“I’m not that fucking stupid. I told them to stay clear. But Ade was...”
“She was what?” Ellen prompted gently.
“When she was in Eastford, she got to know some of them. And when the Butcher—” Fran broke off sharply and scowled at Ellen, suddenly a touch more sober. “Hey, no. You ain’t going to get me to fucking run my mouth.”
“You aren’t one of the Knives. You said you weren’t stupid enough to join.”
“And I ain’t stupid enough to sell them out either. I don’t want to end up in an alley with a hole in my back and my head kicked in.”
Several shouts rang out in the town square, the voices muted through the station walls, but loud enough to catch Ellen’s attention. She glanced over her shoulder, frowning. However, it did not sound like a fight and nobody was screaming for help. She turned back to Fran, trying to ignore the disturbance.
“If you help us catch them they won’t be a threat to you.”
“You bunch of jerks stand no frigging chance of catching them.”
“Believe me, we’ll get them in the end.”
“In your dreams. I’m keeping my ass out of it.”
“It—”
The disturbance was becoming more riotous. Ellen turned around and stared at the street door, wondering if she should investigate. She had the time. Fran was not going anywhere until her mother had paid yet another fine.
The decision was made for her when sudden furious thumping shook the door on its hinges, sounding as if someone was trying to break in. Whatever the cause, the pounding was excessive and unnecessary. It was not as if the station was locked.
Ellen crossed the briefing room and yanked the door open. “What do you—”
From all directions, people were converging on the square, shouting, pointing. Others hung from windows, staring down. Her elevated position at the top of the steps meant Ellen had no trouble seeing over the heads to the center of the mob, where a farm cart was being led by two Rangers. They were clearly heading for the infirmary, but the crowd was blocking their path. A half dozen figures in green and gray lay in the back of the cart, blood-soaked and unmoving. Seven more Rangers, some of them also clearly wounded, staggered on at the rear, buffeted by the throng.
Ellen slipped her baton off her belt and swi
ped the alarm bell hanging by the station doorway as hard as she could. The discordant chime resounded deafeningly around the square, cutting above the uproar, and for an instant freezing everyone where they stood.
“Back off and give them space.” Ellen bellowed at the top of her voice and then leapt down the steps.
Clearing a route for the cart was not easy. Ellen had to physically elbow the mob aside, jabbing with her baton where people were slow to move. However, the determination on her face had its effect and the crowd shuffled back, opening the way to cover the last few meters to the infirmary.
Mel Ellis was one of the Rangers at the front. Her uniform was also bloodstained, although from what Ellen could tell, none of it was hers. Ellen could not imagine what had happened, but the questions would wait. She did not need to check the injured women in the cart to know they needed medical care as soon as possible, and for some, even that would be too late.
Before the horses had come to a standstill, the door of the infirmary opened and Dr. Miller with her assistants spilled out. Ellen picked several fit-looking women from the crowd and propelled them toward the rear of the cart.
“Don’t just gawk. Help carry the wounded in.”
While the infirmary staff and co-opted porters did their work, Ellen paced around the cart, shoving back any onlookers who appeared likely to get in the way and threatening with her baton where necessary.
Valerie Bergstrom was one of the Rangers shuffling behind the cart. She appeared unhurt, although Ellen could see her trembling convulsively. Her face was red and swollen. As she stumbled through the infirmary door, fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. That sight, more than anything else, shocked Ellen. She had never seen Valerie cry before—never seen her show fear. What had gone so wrong?
Mel Ellis also stayed outside, working in unison with Ellen, keeping the morbidly curious crowd at bay. Only when all the others were inside the infirmary did Mel relax her guard. She had been by far the most focused and alert of the Rangers, the only one seeming fully in control of herself. Now she sagged against the wall, dazed. Ellen took her arm and coaxed her through the infirmary door, the last Ranger to go in.
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