by Tonia Brown
“Al?” Dodger asked. “What did that bastard do to you?”
Al either didn’t hear the question or didn’t care. “You need to get away from me. You need to get outta here. Now.” With a sneering wince, he raised the gun again, taking a one-handed aim at Dodger’s head.
Dodger raised his hands to show he wasn’t holding a weapon, but he didn’t back down. “Al, please. I promise it really is me.”
“You don’t think I know who you are? Trouble. That’s what you are. Now, git on out of here. I ain’t got time to deal with a fool like you.” He fired just to the left of Dodger’s waist, blowing chunks of charred wood into the air.
Dodger tried his best not to flinch, a mighty difficult act, considering how close that shot had landed. Yet he knew Al was just toying with him. If the man wanted, he could’ve killed Dodger ten times over by now. So what was with warning shots after a lifetime of claiming warning shots were bullshit?
“Shoundsh like he ain’t buyin’ what you’re shelling,” Ched said.
What do we do now? Boon asked.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dodger said without taking his eyes off of his mentor. “We need to talk.”
“Please, boy,” Al pleaded, his bruised face softening for just a moment. “Just leave me be. Ain’t I suffered enough?”
“Al, I know who did this to you.”
“No you don’t. You can’t. And you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Hell, I don’t believe me.”
Dodger wanted to laugh aloud at the idea that anything could baffle him after everything he had seen in his time aboard the Sleipnir. “I am willing to bet your next bullet I know exactly what happened to you.”
“Is that so?” Al snarled as he aimed the gun square at Dodger’s chest. “Go ahead, then, smartass. Tell me.”
Dodger fell into the routine as easily as stepping in a fresh cow pat in a grazing field. “I’m small and brown and low to the ground. I can talk when I shouldn’t, but I only talk down. I keep a pretty young redhead and a clockwork servant around. What am I?”
Al’s anger slipped into confusion. His mouth dropped open, just a bit.
“Redhead?” Ched asked in a low voice. “What’sh thish about a redhead?”
Yes, Boon said. You never mentioned a pretty redhead.
Dodger kicked out to silence the driver still hiding behind the wagon. “Am I right? If I’m wrong, then shoot me.” He raised his hands higher.
“How do you know that?” Al asked.
“Because that yippy son of a bitch made the mistake of getting us back together.”
Al gave in with a sigh, lowering his rifle and hanging his head in defeat. “You would do best to get as far away from here as you can, as fast as you can.” He raised his face to Dodger, finally showing signs of a grin. “But you never did know how to listen. Or keep the meter of your rhyme. Come on in, then; let’s get this over with. You ain’t got much time, son.”
Dodger waved for Ched to join him, and they followed Al into the dimly lit house.
The inside of the place wasn’t in much better shape than the outside. The furniture was broken apart, curtains shredded, floor scuffed and gouged. There were some signs of an attempt at cleanup, a pile of debris swept into the corner and some of the broken bits piled in another. The whole scene tore Dodger’s heart apart. Al was never what one would call neatly minded, but he was by no means a slob. No, this wasn’t hard living that made for an untidy house. This was deliberate destruction, pure and simple.
“I would say put your guns on the table,” Al said, “but the table isn’t up to it right now.”
“Geesh,” Ched said. “You I undershtand, but did they have to busht up the plashe too?”
“They started with my house,” Al said. “When I wouldn’t tell him what he wanted, that thing had his men move on to me.” He eased himself into what was left of his favorite chair and nodded to Ched. “Well, Rodger, you still as rude as ever, or are you gonna introduce me to the walking stiff that smells like a brewery?”
Dodger couldn’t help a short laugh that time. “This is Ched. He drives the train parked outside. Ched, this is Al.”
“Nish to meetcha,” Ched said as he tipped his cap at the injured man.
“Well met,” Al said. “I would offer you my hand, but they are both in a fair bit of pain.”
Boon, now made manifest by the lack of direct sunlight, also tipped his hat in greeting. Perhaps out of habit, but more likely out of the manners he never seemed to forget, despite the fact that Al couldn’t see the spirit.
“Ched,” Dodger said. “Would you run back to the train and escort the doc back here with his bag?”
“I can go,” Boon said.
I need you here, Dodger said in his newly acquired underspeak.
As you wish, Boon whispered into Dodger’s mind. And may I commend you on picking up the underspeak so quickly? I once again find myself jealous of your many talents.
“You two just go on and chat away,” Ched said, probably sensing the quiet conversation. “Don’t mind the resht of ush.”
“Just how drunk are you, son?” Al asked.
Dodger thought the question was directed at him, until he realized Al was staring at Ched.
“I’m exactly ash drunk ash I need to be,” Ched said. “Thank you very much.”
“That’s as straightforward an answer as anyone could expect,” Al said, smiling as best he could. “Thanks for the honesty.”
“My pleashure. Honeshty hash alwaysh been my polishy.”
“As if,” Boon said.
Ched ignored the spirit’s jab, nodded again to Al, then left through the open door to fetch the doc.
“Well now,” Al said. “Pull up a broken chair, and tell us what brings the high and mighty Rodger Dodger to my doorstep after all these years. Because I know you didn’t come just to see me.”
Dodger turned over a footstool and sat. “I was being serious, Al. Rex sent me to you. He told me what he did. I’m so sorry I got you into this.”
“No, son. I’m the one who’s sorry. This is my fault. It only made sense that you’d get mixed up with such a beast. I made you the monster you are.”
“Monster?” Boon asked.
Don’t ask, Roger said.
Boon pressed on. “But you’re not a monster, Dodger. You’re one of the kindest men I have ever met.”
Dodger did his best to ignore the ghost. “Al, you never did this to me. You taught me how to fight and defend myself, but you never taught me to be a son of a bitch. I did that to myself.”
“Tyler Crank did that to you,” Al snapped. “Don’t take blame for his wrongdoing. He changed you when he took you from me. Warped you. Made you love the gun for all the wrong reasons. Undid everything I taught you all those years.”
Dodger looked to the floor, unable to hold Al’s gaze with such truths bouncing between them. “Yes, sir.”
“And I know what my floor looks like. I don’t need you to count the knots for me. You look me in the eye when you speak to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Dodger said, raising his eyes again.
Al held out his hand and waggled his fingers at Dodger. “Let me see what you’re carting around in that oversized belt of yours.”
Dodger pulled Hortense and passed her over.
Al accepted her with a low whistle. “Ain’t she a beaut? A bit big for my tastes, but you always did like the full-figured lady.”
Boon snickered.
“They don’t belong to me,” Dodger explained. “I got them from the train’s last security man.”
“Took it from a dead man, did ya?” Al clicked the gun closed and handed it back to Dodger. “Figured as much.”
Dodger returned the gal to her holster with care. “I see you haven’t changed at all.”
“I haven’t had time. Been pretty busy, what with those kids you sent my way.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That pregnant woman and her daughter? Don’
t tell me you forgot them too. Though I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten them.” Dodger didn’t bother to add that he thought about them almost every single day. “Why did Patricia and her kids stay with you? I sent them your way so you could find them a safe house, not take them in.”
“Rodger,” Al said as he leaned forward. “This is a safe house. It always was.” He paused to look around at the devastation before he relaxed into the chair again. “That is to say, it used to be, before that maniac mutt and his wrecking crew got here. I kept her and those kids safe for years.”
“Al, geesh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to strap you with a family like that.”
“Strap me?” Al grinned and gave a soft laugh. “Don’t ever think that. Those kids are little angels, far better behaved than you ever were. And that woman of yours made the best pecan pies this side of the Mississippi before she left four winters ago-”
“I told you in my letter that she isn’t my woman.”
“So you said. All I know is you sent her to me, with child, and asked me to keep her safe. That sounds like you had a bit of an investment in her. A baby boy investment to be exact.”
“Al, I swear that child isn’t mine. I told you she was a senator’s mistress. That’s how she got herself in trouble.”
“Then why was it so all-fired important that I take care of her? Huh? You never did explain.”
“No, I didn’t.” Dodger grinned. “But you did what I asked anyway.”
Al huffed. “Of course I did, boy. What else could I do?”
“Thanks.”
“I would say you’re welcome, but look what it took to send you asking after them.”
Dodger pulled the half-map from his jacket and unfolded it. “Actually, I came about this.” He held it up to Aloysius, who winced at the sight of it.
“Put that thing away, son. Ain’t you got no decency?”
“Sorry, Al, but Rex said you would know where the other half is.”
“He did, did he?”
Dodger nodded.
“And you believe everything a talkin’ dog tells ya?” Al asked.
“He has you there,” Boon said.
“No,” Dodger said. “But I have very little else to go on. And I figured that, since I had a map that you signed in your own blood, you might-”
“Nope.”
“What do you mean, ‘nope’?”
“Tain’t my blood, son.”
Dodger looked down at the torn map. “Then whose is it?”
“Rodger, really?” A hurt rose to Al’s aged eyes, something deeper than his terrible physical pain he was already in.
Who in the hell was the old man talking about? How could the blood be someone else’s? As far as Dodger knew, Al lived alone. Always had. Save for the time with Pat and her kids … Dodger stood and glanced around the room. The place was so broken up, yet hints of visitors showed through. Little visitors, to be exact. He looked down at the footstool on which he’d just spent five minutes parking his rump, and realized it wasn’t a footstool at all.
He was sitting on a child’s chair.
“Patricia?” Dodger asked. “But that can’t be! You just said she left four winters ago. You just said she and the kids were gone.”
“No,” Al said. “I said she was gone. And if you hadn’t interrupted me like the big, rude mule you always was, then you’d have let me finish my sentence with ‘God rest her soul.’”
Dodger’s mouth fell open. “She passed away?”
“Died of the consumption a few years after she birthed that boy.” Al sucked a breath through his crooked teeth. “Tragic. Such a pretty young life cut so short.”
“Then who has been taking care of her kids … all this …” Dodger’s words trailed off as the obvious smacked him in the face. Boy, oh boy! He had been slow on the draw today, hadn’t he? Then again, there was something about being around the old man that did it to him. Made him feel inadequate. Made him question his abilities and smarts. “Al? Tell me those kids aren’t still living with you. Tell me they weren’t here when Rex did all of this.”
“I wish I could,” Al said.
Dodger slumped into the chair again, running his shaking hands through his hair. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees and hung his head. “Be honest with me, Al. I want to know the truth. Did Rex hurt them?”
“No,” Al said. “Me he beat all to hell, but he was surprisingly gentle with the children. ‘Course, he had that mechanical man of his nick Sarah’s thumb to get enough blood so I could leave you that awful message. But nothing more than that. So far.”
Dodger looked to the bedrooms at the end of the hallway, then raised his eyes to his old master and asked, “Can I see them?”
Al shook his head. “Sorry, son. I’m afraid not.”
“They aren’t here,” Boon said, joining them in the living room again.
Dodger hadn’t even realized the spirit had slipped away. “What?”
“I had a look around,” Boon said. “The place is empty. He is the only one here.”
Getting to his feet, Dodger stared down at Al. “Where did he take them?”
The old man sighed, heavy and sorrowful. “If you can answer one question, you will know.”
“Al, now isn’t the time for your questions-”
“Ain’t my question needs answering.” Al reached down beside his chair and lifted something, bringing it up to greet Dodger. “Your friend left you a little present. I didn’t think you’d be foolish enough to show up for it. Thought I raised you better than to walk right into a trap.” He tossed a metal cylinder to Dodger, who snatched it in midair.
“Another message?” Boon asked.
Dodger nodded as he popped the lid on the tube and slid the tin cylinder free from its packaging.
****
back to toc
****
Chapter Eight
Flash from the Past Part III
In which Dodger remembers the fall of 1850
Rodger was almost packed and ready to go. Butterflies filled his stomach to bursting, and his throat was bone dry, yet his palms were wet. He had never been so excited about something in all of his life. The last three years of training with Al had led up to this: his first official job as an agent. He sat on the edge of his cot, waiting for the government man to come and take him away.
A knock sounded from the living room door, and it took every ounce of willpower Rodger could muster not to leap from his bed and race to answer the door. He sat, patiently and obediently, just like Al asked him to. Don’t seem too eager. That was what Al had said. The government men don’t like it when kids act too eager. So Rodger sat on his cot and waited.
The hiss of hushed voices carried down the quiet hall, teasing Rodger as he strained to hear what they were saying. Pleasantries, to be sure. Greetings, a handshake, a nod, then Al would escort the agent—make that the fellow agent—down the hall to meet the new blood. Sure enough, after a few seconds of whispers, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, toward Rodger’s room. Someone rapped on his door, lightly, as if he weren’t expecting it and they didn’t want to surprise him.
“Rodger?” Al asked in a muffled voice through the door. “Ya in there?”
“Yes, sir,” Roger said, trying his damndest not to seem as eager as he felt.
Al swung the door wide open and smiled at Rodger. “I got a fellow here I want you to meet. I believe he is the gentleman you’ve waited so patiently for.”
Rodger stood as the stranger entered his room.
The young man—and truth be told, he didn’t look much older than Rodger’s seventeen years—strode into Rodger’s small room with the kind of swagger Rodger expected from a proper agent. Not that Al wasn’t a proper agent, but one had to remember that the old man had retired from the game years ago. This new agent stood a little taller than Al and had hair so blond it was almost white, with a pearly smile to match. He wore a fanc
y-looking black suit, and carried a black bowler in one hand. He grinned at Rodger and stuck out his other hand in greeting.
“Rodger Dodger, I presume?” the man asked.
“Yes, sir,” Rodger said, and took the offered hand, squeezing it with all the firm confidence that Al had taught him. “I’m Dodger.”
“Dodger?” the man asked. “I like the sound of that. I’m Tyler Crank. I’ll be your partner for a few years. I’ll show you the ropes of being a field agent.”
“Oh, Mr. Jackson showed me that already. Sir.”
The man smiled wider. “I’m sure he did.” Mr. Crank turned to Al and nodded to the open door. “Can you give us a minute?”
“Sure,” Al said, but the worry in his eyes suggested he didn’t want to leave Rodger alone with the new man.
“I’ll be fine,” Rodger said.
Al nodded and smiled, just a bit. “I know you will. I’ll be just outside if you need me.”
“Oh, and Al?” Mr. Crank asked.
“Yeah?”
“I will need to talk to you before I go. In private. Just for a few minutes.”
Al lost the sliver of a grin. “All right, then. I’ll wait for you in the parlor.”
“You do that.” Mr. Crank closed the door on Al’s curious face. The man brought his hands together in a huge clap, then rubbed them as if trying to stay warm. “Well, well, well. What have we got here? I have heard an awful lot about you, Dodger.”
“You have?” Rodger asked.
“Yes, sir. An awful lot. All good, don’t get me wrong.”
Rodger’s face flushed with warmth. “Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Crank looked to the ceiling. “All this and modesty too? I love this kid.” He joined Rodger on the cot, plunking down without regard for the care of the furniture. “You excited?”
“I sure am, Mr. Crank, sir.”
“Cut out that sir and mister business. I am Crank to you. Agent Crank. And you are soon to be Agent Dodger. How does that feel?”
Rodger’s face flushed deeper. “Feels pretty good, si—I mean Crank.”
“There you go. Got the hang of it already. Listen, kid …” Crank paused to wrap a long arm around Rodger’s shoulder, pulling him closer. “I just wanted to let you know that the powers that be expect big things from you. Very big things. Huge things. Understand?”