by Laini Giles
His brain hummed as he tried to switch from his original plan to a substitute. He could try to catch a train somewhere else, ending up in another big city, but right now, he was too frightened and too out of sorts to think clearly. He would go back to his room to plan his escape. Everything would be fine.
Head down, fighting overwhelming fear, he caught the streetcar back to Mrs. Protts’s house in the rain and crept back to his room, trying not to wake any of his neighbors. Filling his bowl from the ewer, he rubbed cold water on his face to help him think. The night seemed never-ending.
As he sat on his bed, not daring to move or breathe, he knew he had to pull himself together. It was then that an unexpected knock came on the door. He opened it to find Jimmy Devenport, shirt and trousers soaking, hair plastered against his head, smiling a crooked smile.
“Jimmy, what are you doing here? You should be home in bed.”
“I could have said that about you as well, Tommy boy,” Jimmy said, walking in uninvited.
“What are you talking about? Look, it’s late and I’m tired. Not that I don’t want to be hospitable or anything.”
“Oh, I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
“Why is that?” Tom asked.
“Because it involves a certain local girl, Tom.” Jimmy closed the door behind himself and finished in a whisper, “In a certain local grave…”
Tom spun on his heel, his eyes narrowing, not daring to believe what he’d just heard.
“Oh, you heard me,” Jimmy said, his smile a broad accusation. He leaned in close to Tom and continued, “I saw the whole thing, pally. Imagine. I was just out minding my own business, shooting some rabbits for supper near the falls, when I heard this awful commotion, and there I saw Hi’s old car. And in it was my pal Tom and his oh-so-ladylike amour. You know, the honorable one who would never even consider something crass like spreading her legs for the likes of you? And wouldn’t you know I was right! She was the most delicious little cherry in Ithaca, wasn’t she, Tommy? You know how I know? Because I’d been up there before, hunting squirrels, and I saw you together. I saw her riding you like she was on the grand-prize winner at Saratoga.” Jimmy moved his hips suggestively, moaning in a falsetto the way Libbie had done.
“Sweet round little tits she had, and you were loving every minute of it, Mr. Honorable. Oh, and then came the best part. I heard from a little bird in the woods tonight that you’d knocked her up. And don’t think I didn’t laugh out loud over that. Her, marry you? It was never going to happen, my friend. How naïve could you be?”
Tom swallowed, terrified, as cold sweat collected under his armpits.
“Jimmy, it’s not what you think.”
“I think she freaked out and wanted to get rid of the thing, and you lost your mind a little. So I just want to be a civic-minded individual and let her loved ones know what happened to the poor dear. Unless you convince me otherwise.” He leaned back against the wall, thumbing a suspender as he winked at Tom.
“What do you want?” Tom croaked.
“The car for starters. It’ll come in very handy for all the farm chores I need to do. Oh, and squiring pretty ladies around town. It’s been working very well for you. Up until tonight, I mean. But I’ll be a bit more careful and visit an apothecary beforehand.” He chortled.
“I don’t have it,” Tom said.
“What? You don’t have it? Well, isn’t that unfortunate! Where is it?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does matter, since there’s blood inside, friend. That, you see, is what we gambling types call a trump card.” His green eyes glinted with a frightening glow that Tom had never seen before.
“It’s in the lake, Jimmy.”
“Well, shit on a stick. You little rascal, you dumped the evidence. That complicates things a bit, since I had planned on only hitting you up for a little of this. But now, I suppose I’ll have to get you to pay the whole thing.”
“What whole thing?”
“Oh, you know, Tom. Debts I owe at the sporting house, mortgage, farm bills, the mercantile, tack. That sort of thing. Now, since there’s no car anymore, I’ll just have to stick you with more of the total, you see.”
“Jimmy, how can you do this? We’re friends.”
“Friends? That’s what you call it? You and Hi got everything I ever wanted and I got a big fat goose egg. I got a little tired of you milking your looks to do it, too. Everyone loves sweet little Tommy Boy. Oh, his poor parents died. Let’s give Tommy a place to live. Here, we’re leaving town; let’s give Tommy Boy our car. Pretty girls fall madly in love with Tommy Boy and let him do whatever he wants with them. For FREE. Penniless, red-headed, farmboy sons-of-drunks like me never get anything because of pretty boys like you. Do you know what we got when my father died? Nothing! Not a damned thing! And I’ve been paying for it ever since!” Jimmy’s eyes were blazing now.
“Jimmy, stop this, please. We can talk about this. I don’t have any money. You know I don’t.”
“I know you make a heck of a lot more up here than I do on that shithole of a farm of ours down in Pony Hollow. So share the wealth, young man. So much for your big news this week, huh? You actually thought that rich bitch would marry you. That’s the saddest part.”
Tom’s brain began running through every possible scenario to rid himself of this suddenly malevolent presence of Jimmy Devenport. He had no funds to give Jimmy, and there was always the danger that Jimmy would tell someone what had happened to Libbie. What the hell could he do? He looked around in desperation, wondering what he could use against this evil, when his eyes lighted on his bowl and ewer set. It had been his mother’s, but he hadn’t planned on taking it with him anyway. The pitcher had a bit of heft to it, and he knew it would hurt.
As Jimmy rambled on, Tom silently picked the pitcher up from its spot on the side table and held it behind his back for a minute, waiting for the right moment to strike. When Jimmy got too cocky and turned his back on him, Tom brought it down on the other boy’s skull with all his might. He heard the sickening noise of bone crunching, and then as Jimmy crumpled to the floor with blood seeping through his hair, Tom grabbed Jimmy’s head and immersed his face as deep as it would go in the bowl of water until he stopped struggling.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It seemed like hours before he finally had the floor mopped up. He had stanched the bleeding on Jimmy’s head, using a rag and water to clean the wound and then the floor. He’d scrubbed so hard that the boards almost sparkled. When he was done, he’d tossed the rags into the hallway stove to burn along with the clothing he’d placed there earlier. Now, he had to figure out what to do with the body. He wished he’d known what was waiting for him at home; if he’d held onto the flivver a little while longer, he’d have been able to dispose of Jimmy very easily. But now he was in a fix.
When he looked out the side window, he could see Jimmy’s horse, Old Blue, hooked up to the Devenport buckboard at the hitching post next to the building. As near as he could figure, all he had to do was get Jimmy into the buckboard and then dump him in the lake. If he was lucky, it would be days or weeks until the body was found. He figured he had a solution to his train dilemma, as well. Cleaning Jimmy up a bit more, he rifled through the boy’s pockets, not expecting much but hoping there might be something he could use. He found a dollar in change and a sterling silver pocket watch that had to be the only thing Jimmy still owned of any value. He might be able to hock it, if he was lucky. He tucked the watch into his front breast pocket, hoping for the best, then picked up his satchel, depositing it in the back of the buckboard. On his second trip, he wrapped Jimmy’s arm around his shoulders and made his way out to the horse and cart again.
“Oh, Mr. Estabrook! Mr. Estabrook!” came the voice of Mrs. Protts behind him, looking out her door. She wore a long stripe
d nightdress and housecoat, and a nightcap covered her gray hair. “Is everything all right? I heard a noise.”
Somehow, he kept himself from visibly flinching.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Protts!” he called over his shoulder. “I must apologize for my friend and the commotion he’s making. I must get him home. He’s had a bit too much to drink, y’see.”
“You do that, son. Get that boy home. He can’t even walk upright, the poor dear!”
He struggled with the front door handle.
“Here, let me help you,” she said, beginning to enter the corridor.
“No!” he said, trying to sound relaxed, although he knew his voice was shaking. “We’re just fine…” he said, finagling the thing open with relief. “Thank you, though. Good evening, Mrs. Protts!”
“Good evening, young Tom.”
Tom heard her door shut, and slipped out the front door. As he bore his burden over to the buckboard, he saw with relief that the rain had lessened to a mere sprinkle. His clothes would remain in far better condition now. It took a bit of work, but he managed to dump Jimmy in the back and cover him with an old horse blanket. Thank goodness Mrs. Protts’s apartment was on the other side of the building. Old Blue looked annoyed that the driving had been taken over by an unfamiliar master but swished his tail at a fly and obeyed the commands Tom gave him.
Tom drove to a spot not far from where he had pushed the flivver into the water. Seeing no one about north of Myers Point, he grabbed his old friend, lifted him as well as he could, and tossed him into Lake Cayuga. The waves took the body, and it floated away, eyes still open and glaring at his killer. Tom hoped to be far away by morning, when he was sure the body would be found.
Tom arrived back at the station, and with a new ticket taker in place, he was less worried about being remembered. He’d also pulled his hat lower and remained engrossed in the day’s newspaper, which he held up for camouflage. He booked passage to Erie, Pennsylvania, in case anyone came checking around after him. Once he was in Erie, he could buy another ticket under a different name. Instead of heading east, which had been his original plan, he’d decided to use the extra dollar to strike out for Chicago instead.
Hackett and Flynn Pawnbrokers, Erie, Pennsylvania
September 19, 1916
Ephratus Hackett dusted a jewelry case near the front of his store, glancing out the window at the traffic passing on Sassafras Street. His store was around the block from the rail depot, so the people-watching here was always first-rate. The old man sported an impressive head of frizzy gray hair and mutton-chop whiskers.
He hoped business would pick up today. The last two days had been very slow. He and his partner, Isaiah Flynn, had barely managed to avert disaster the previous summer, when the Millcreek Flood had swept through their store, cleaning them out. Thank goodness they’d had insurance. He’d hoped for a better year in nineteen sixteen, but it hadn’t materialized. They were still scraping along, hoping for the next best deal.
Just seven months ago, Mr. Flynn had made a deal on a one-of-a-kind sapphire necklace. Its owner claimed it had been passed down from a great-great grandmother who had been a Lowell in Boston. According to her, the family, like many others in the area, had fallen on hard times after the flood. The woman wept as she pledged the piece, unsure if she would ever see it again. She didn’t.
Four months ago, an exotic-looking woman introduced herself as Miss May Hayes and handed him a hairclip with tiny rubies surrounding a sizable piece of topaz. She claimed that it had belonged to Lemonade Lucy, the wife of the late president Rutherford Hayes. She had represented herself as a Hayes cousin, but the truth was later revealed that the barrette had been absconded with from the home at Spiegel Grove. Mr. Flynn had received a commendation from the police in Fremont, Ohio, and from the Ohio state police for his savvy work in ensuring the criminal was apprehended.
And two weeks ago, Mr. Hackett had taken the offer of an unusual comb, inset with jade and mother-of-pearl. The woman sacrificing it, a Miss Bergstrom, claimed that it had been the property of Miss Jenny Lind and that her grandfather had been the Swedish Nightingale’s manager.
There was no limit to the number of outrageous stories he heard to make merely interesting items seem invaluable for the purposes of obtaining cash loans. He enjoyed his business, but he was growing tired after all these years.
Moving the dust rag over the wooden showcase, he glimpsed the comb on its velvet scarf within, sparkling under the glass. He hoped today would bring another piece as special.
The young man was non-descript. Hackett sized him up, seeing a handsome dark-haired fellow with somewhat shabby clothes but a shy smile.
“Good afternoon. Welcome to Hackett and Flynn, sir.”
“Good afternoon,” Tom said. “I’m interested in pawning this watch.” He crossed to the large wooden showcase and set the watch on the glass, looking around him at the store. The pawnbroker wore a sober black vest over his brown wool trousers. His tucked white shirt lent him a professional air.
Mr. Hackett picked up the antique and pulled his eyeglass into place. After carefully examining the engraving and construction of the watch, he opened the cover, revealing the timepiece itself, and continued to assess its attributes.
“Very nice,” he said.
Tom leaned on the glass of the showcase.
“A William Ellery model. Appears to be in very good working condition. Pure sterling silver, it is. Nice fob, as well. Do ya know what this G is for, son?”
Tom thought fast. “Why, that would be Gardner, sir, my mother’s name. This watch was my grandfather’s, y’see.”
“What a shame to have to part with an heirloom like this. I’m afraid I see a bit too much of that these days. Hard times all around, you know.”
“Yes, sir. We’ve had some bad luck the last few months.”
“Have you then? You have my sympathies. Where do you hail from, young fellow?”
Tom’s brain sped through a list of the depots they had passed between Ithaca and Erie and came up with Chautauqua, hoping the lie would suffice.
“Pretty area. Nice lake, beautiful scenery,” the old man said, one eye still busy with the appraisal. “This William Ellery was a very popular soldier’s watch for the men in the war between the states. Your grandpap a veteran, then?”
Thomas nodded, in solemn deference to his fake war hero kin.
“You know how they picked the name? William Ellery was one the signers of the Declaration of Independence. From Rhode Island he was.”
“Is that so?” Tom asked, feigning interest in the watch, although the only thing on his mind was its possible value and the cash he could receive from it. When Mr. Hackett handed him a more-than-fair sum, his eyes bulged.
“I’m sure my grandfather will appreciate your generosity, sir,” he stated.
“Well, you thank him for his service, young man.”
“I will do that.”
With some of the extra money he obtained from the watch, Tom purchased a sliced beef sandwich and a beer at a nearby pub, then strolled down 14th Street to buy his ticket to Chicago.
A train outside Ashtabula, Ohio
September 1916
The young man in seat 7A had been engrossed in the scenery, looking out the window for at least the last forty miles or so. He had dark hair combed to one side, a tweed jacket and trousers that were a bit on the shabby side, and a dark bowler hat, which now rested on the plush green frieze seat next to him.
“Stamp your ticket, sir?”
“Oh yes, here it is.” David Lawrence handed his ticket to the gray-haired old man and watched him verify the passage.
“All the way to Chicago then, sir?”
“Yes, all the way.”
“Very good.” The conductor nodded. “And you, sir?” h
e asked, speaking to the seatmate across from him.
“Chicago for me, as well,” said the big man, handing over his ticket. His expensive cologne and fancy gold pocket watch announced him as a man of the upper classes. He wore an expensive-looking suit with a carnation in the lapel, and had pomaded his hair into the perfect shape.
The old conductor nodded as he looked over the ticket, then made his way farther down the car to inquire of the harried young mother sitting with two young boys three seats behind.
David continued to watch the scenery flowing by. Here in northeastern Ohio, it was an abundance of thick wooded forests. But as they followed Lake Erie, one could sometimes catch a glimpse of the water. His copy of Sabatini’s The Sea Hawk sat abandoned on the seat next to him.
“Heading west, eh?” asked his seatmate, making polite conversation.
“Yes, I’m seeking employment there.”
“You don’t say,” the fellow said. “What is it you do, sir?”
“I design and build clocks,” David said, embroidering his experience just a bit.
“Do ya, now? Well what do you know! This could be your lucky day. It just so happens, son, that I own the largest clock factory in the Midwest. Blackhawk Clock and Watch. Ever heard of it?”
“I must apologize, sir, but no.”
“We’re in the market for a talented young man such as yourself. I could sure use some more help in my business, if you’d be interested. I’ve got the market cornered in Chicago, and we’re looking to expand. I would enjoy some new blood at the factory.” Winking, he finished, “And I believe my daughter Ethel wouldn’t mind meeting you as well. You’re a good-looking fellow, sure enough.”