Private Dicks

by Samantha M. Derr

  Elliot laughed dryly. "All the time. But he'd always find me, take me back. After a while, I stopped tryin'." He sat up to look the Gentleman in the eye, his own dark eyes still flat and emotionless as he spoke. "This last time? We were down around Denver, and I was first getting sick. Just awful, terrible sick. Couldn't hardly get out of bed. So, I took off and checked myself into the hospital, thinking he wouldn't think to look there. But he found me. He always finds me."

  The Gentleman brushed at Elliot's hair with a gloved hand. "He won't find you this time."

  "You're not gonna kill him, are you?"

  "I doubt it'll ever come to that, but I think I could if I had to."

  Elliot settled back against the Gentleman's shoulder with a sigh. "I kinda wish you would."

  "Then there'd be two murders on my record for you to be concerned with."

  "He said he'd kill me if I screw up tomorrow. He'll do it, too. You don't know what he's like." The Gentleman reached a hand out and patted his leg reassuringly. "Laurence?"

  "Hm?"

  "You're the first person I've ever talked to like this." Moving his arm to wrap it around Elliot's shoulders, the Gentleman reached a hand up to ruffle his hair, pushing his head lightly against his chest. The ruffling soon turned to petting, the Gentleman running his gloved hands through Elliot's hair. "Think you'll keep me around after I'm useful?" Elliot asked.

  The Gentleman's hand paused. "You'll always be useful." He leaned over to brush his lips lightly over Elliot's forehead, his mustache tickling the thin skin there. The frightened jackrabbit-like look from two nights previous over took Elliot's features once more. He sat bolt upright, staring out into the night, his eyes wide, wild, and wondering. Should he stop in his tracks, hunker down, and hope he wasn't seen, or should he run, run as far and as fast as his legs could carry him, and never look back?

  "Don't make that face," Laurence said sternly, pulling Elliot back against his shoulder to kiss him gently once more, brushing his mustache against Elliot's cheek as he held him tightly. "He will never hurt you again, you hear me?" He stroked Elliot's hair gently, running his fingers through to the scalp and then slowly brushing them back. "I swear."

  *~*~*

  The warm July sun was nearly half way up on its daily climb across the ever blue Montana "big sky." The meadow grass that had grown cool during the night grew warm and humid as midday approached, and the myriad of pink, violet, blue, yellow and gold wildflowers that had bloomed across the mountainsides in the passing weeks let loose with a thousand different scents and pollens, making the air close to the ground heavy and uncomfortable. Elliot awoke as he usually did, fighting to breathe and clasping his chest in an attempt to keep his ribcage from splitting open. He coughed and coughed until Laurence feared he might pass out. He rubbed a strong hand along Elliot's back, hoping to ease the chokes and gasps that followed. Only after he'd taken a few shaky deep breaths did Elliot begin to stir to life and begin to free himself from the confines of Laurence's oilcloth duster. He pushed the coat off, Laurence's hand going with it.

  Laurence sat in a crouch, looking down at him with a mug in his hand and a mischievous gleam in his eye. "Mornin'. I was wonderin' when you'd wake up," he said. "I've got some coffee on; figured tha'd keep us 'til we got back to town to grab a bite. Who knows? They might even have some pie for you."

  Memory suddenly flashed across Elliot's face, followed quickly by panic. He scrambled to his feet and began pacing about as though he didn't know what to do first. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Where are the horses? Laurence, where are the horses?"

  "Up the hill where we tied 'em last night." He waved his hand toward the hillside. "Figured we'd leave 'em 'til we were ready to go. They deserve a little rest the same as us."

  "Shit. Lee's gonna kill us." He knelt to pick up his saddle, jerking the dead weight off the ground and into his grasp. "No, he's gonna kill me, that's what he's gonna do. I am a dead man for sure." He headed toward their horses as quickly as he could manage with the saddle resting on his stomach while he walked.

  Laurence lowered himself to the ground to sit with his legs sprawled out to either side as he usually did. He reached for the kettle on the fire to refill his mug. "Why? You're not the one that let the good men at the railroad know he and Wil were comin'." Elliot stopped dead in his tracks. "Yep, I bet ol' McCoy's locked up good and tight by now. I do feel sorta bad about Wilton, though." The Gentleman scratched at his freshly shaven chin. "He was harmless. A little stupid, but harmless. Might have to look up that girl of his and see that she's doin' okay."

  Elliot slowly lowered his saddle to the ground, drawing the pistol he kept holstered there in a side pouch. He cocked the hammer and turned on Laurence with his weapon drawn. It was an awkward, unbalanced weight in his hand, and he fought to keep it pointed straight, bring his empty hand up to steady its twin. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice straining. "Who are you really?"

  The Gentleman smiled over his mug, coffee still clinging to his mustache. "Laurence Collins, formerly of Staunton, Virginia," he answered, "currently of a nameless Montana mountainside, with my office in St. Louis, Missouri." He fished in the breast pocket of his vest, digging out a photo and two neatly folded telegram sheets. "Which is where a young Miss Elizabeth O'Hern—" Elliot's eyes grew wide at the name, "—contacted me about tracking down her long-lost little brother." Laurence held the papers up, Elliot hastily crossing the few steps between them to snatch them away for further inspection. The moment his eyes fell on the old family photo, his resolve broke, and he lowered the gun to his side.

  The longer Elliot looked at the photo, the more his hands began to shake. He fell backwards, dropping the gun in the grass so he might hold the precious image with two hands. He brushed a finger lightly over the faces of his mother and sister, nearly identical in long white dresses, their hair left to fall across their shoulders in loose curls; his dearly departed father in his best three piece suit with his watch on a chain, beard and hair neatly trimmed and styled. Even a younger version of himself in knee pants and dress shirt stared back at him across space and time. He looked up at Laurence after a long silence, his dark eyes brimming with questions. "But … you're … if you're the Virginia Gentleman, then …"

  Laurence's expression sobered. He found it hard to return Elliot's glance. "I killed Virgil Arborghast-Blankenship, the real 'Virginia Gentleman,' last winter out in the Badlands, 'round about Sioux City. The weather got the best of me so I had to bury him out on the trail and couldn't collect the bounty. But I kept his horse, kept his guns, and once in a while, I use his name to do what I need to do. Nowadays he's just some character I play when I need information. But let me assure you, and don't make any mistake, everything I said last night, everything I've said the past few nights, everything we did. That was not the Virginia Gentleman. That was me. Just plain ol' Laurence."

  Elliot returned to his photo, touching his sister's face once more.

  "You said you wanted to ride with me," Laurence continued, "and I still want you along if you'll go. You've got a pretty little sister back home who's waitin' to see your own pretty face. And after that, I'd still be happy to have you stick with me. I said before it's not always exciting. It might be years before I get another case like this one that takes me all across the country. Most of what I do is actually pretty dull. But I'd be happy to have you along, no matter what I'm doin'."

  He pulled his feet under him and rocked forward onto his knees to inch along the ground to where Elliot sat. He placed a hand tenderly on Elliot's leg, running his thumb along the outside seam of his trousers. "I dunno what it is, but … I like having you around. You're a good guy, Elliot."

  Elliot dropped his hands to his lap, pulling his eyes away from the photo to look at Laurence. The flat dark of his eyes teetered on the brink of emotion, his soul beginning to peek out from around the edges. Laurence had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

  He grinned and gave the top of Elliot's leg a h
ard pat. "And in order to keep you around, first thing we're gonna do is find you a hospital so we can get all that nonsense outta your lungs and you can breathe again. Then, we'll send your sister a telegram to let her know you're comin' home. And after that, I figured we'd take our time headin' back east. Maybe stray through the Badlands a little bit. See if we can't find a sheep farm or two that'll let us stay the night before pressing on."

  Elliot laughed, a shaking, confident, joyous noise that moved through his entire body. It grew louder and louder, going from a soft chuckle to a hearty belly laugh until it triggered something deep inside of him. He pulled his knees tight and wrapped a hand around his mouth, the dry, heaving hack dragging itself out into a breathless, suffocating agony. Laurence rubbed his back, concern written across his every movement. Elliot choked and gasped for breath, clinging to Laurence's shirt and vest for dear life. Just as Laurence thought Elliot would strangle in his own grip, an airway cleared and he could breathe normally again, drawing in every breath he could manage, filling his lungs greedily as though not wanting to exhale for fear the air may never come back. His face still red and his eyes still watering, he righted himself to put a hand to Laurence's face, holding his gaze. "I don't care where we go," he rasped. "Just let me go with you."

  Laurence ran the back side of his ungloved hand up Elliot's cheek, straying around his forehead to push back his golden, straw-colored hair to get a better view of his eyes, dark brown eyes full of life and love, a beautiful soul shining through them to light his face. Laurence wiped the remains of tears from Elliot's cheeks and smiled. "Always."

  CASE 05: The Royal Inquisitor

  INVESTIGATOR: Megan Derr

  It was raining when he arrived, a cold autumn rain that felt as though it were a moment away from turning into ice. Esmour ignored it as best he was able, guiding his horse carefully through the dark streets toward the dull torchlight of the castle at the top of the hill. His breath misted in the air, barely visible in the moonlight that was all he had to guide his way.

  Stifling a sigh as he reached the dark stone castle, he lifted a hand in greeting to the guards walking the battlements. As he approached the outer curtain, the portcullis was raised to let him pass.

  Esmour tugged on the hood of his cloak, drawing it further down over his face. Torchlight glinted off the thick, wide, silver cuffs on his wrists. He let his hands fall back into the folds of his cloak, gripping the reins as he crossed the ward. Dismounting smoothly, feet splashing in the muddy water covering the stones of the ward, he gave the reins to a page that came running out to take his horse off to the stables.

  Inside the keep, the great hall was filled with grunts and snores and snuffles of all the servants and soldiers sleeping there. It already smelled of too many people and too few baths, a prelude to the stench that would set in when winter arrived and it was too cold to do much of anything past bare necessities.

  Though grateful he would not be stuck there serving the king's whim, Esmour dreaded to think where he was being sent that he was being called to duty in the dead of night. His spurs jangled through the keep, startling several people awake, but they fell immediately back to sleep as they registered the sound as that of a knight. When he reached the king's solar, the guard at the door reached for his sword, but then the dim torchlight revealed the cuffs on Esmour's wrists and the guard relaxed. Curiosity overtook caution as he eyed Esmour, but he remained silent, for which Esmour was grateful.

  Walking past the guard, Esmour entered the king's solar when the guard opened the door. The guard closed it sharply behind him, and the finality of it seemed to punctuate Esmour's own feelings about being there. He approached the fire, spurs cutting the silence with a steady, even jangle, but stopped abruptly when he realized it was not the king sitting before the fire. It was Prince Teigh, youngest son of the king and Chief Royal Inquisitor.

  Esmour felt suddenly sick. Teigh, sitting before the fire, looked up. The light of the flickering flames caught his hair and made it glow like dying embers. His eyes appeared black, but Esmour knew they were a brilliant green. You have such beautiful eyes, like emeralds. He swallowed his dismay and forced his steps to resume, fighting the urge to turn and run with every fiber of his being.

  He knelt before Teigh and bowed his head low. "Highness."

  "Inquisitor," Prince Teigh greeted. "I have come with a new mission for you. We will be leaving at dawn."

  Esmour's gut twisted at the word 'we,' but he only said, "My honor and my duty to serve, Highness." He was proud he got the words out evenly, without the slightest hint of tremble. On his wrists, the penance bracelets felt too hot, too tight. He wished he were anywhere else in the world.

  "Castle Ashby, do you know it?" Teigh asked.

  "I know of it, Highness, but only vaguely." Esmour raised his head and, at Teigh's gesture, continued, "Ashby is a holding to the north, close to the border with Resmore…." He trailed off, suddenly realizing where the conversation was headed—where he was headed—and what he would be doing, more or less.

  Teigh smiled in a way that made it hurt to look at him. Esmour remembered when he had been given those smiles often, usually right before Teigh kissed him. Of course, back then, he had thought Teigh was merely Master Amabel, a spice monger new to the city of Batlory. He had thought Amabel had cared.

  He had been a fool.

  At present, and for the foreseeable future, he was a shackled fool pressed into service as an Inquisitor to stealthily investigate matters that required a delicate touch. Problems that required deception. Problems like he had once been.

  "As you have clearly surmised, the mission is slave traders. Someone in Castle Ashby is kidnapping men and women from around the country and selling them off to Resmore. Our investigation into Ashby is twofold. You will take up a position in the castle and determine how they are getting people across the border."

  Esmour bowed his head again. "Yes, Highness. Might I be permitted to know the second half of the investigation?"

  "Finding out how they are getting their victims to Ashby. That part of the mission falls to me. Originally it was the only element of this mission, but an unexpected opportunity arose and I intend to take full advantage."

  Esmour tensed at that, but he said nothing. It was not his place to speak unbidden to a prince, no matter what he had once whispered to Amabel in the dark of their bedroom. Instead, he only asked, "Has a suitable position within the household already been arranged for me, then, Highness?"

  Teigh shifted slightly in his seat and stared at the fireplace, and Esmour fought against the urge to stand and go to him, smooth the lines from his forehead and ease that troubled frown. Those days were past, and they had been a lie, and he only wished that he would get that through his head so his heart could stop wishing for something that never had been.

  But the longing would not die. He had been happy in those days, when a handsome merchant had given him a glance, when that man, who had loved him despite everything—

  Who had not loved him at all, who had only seduced him to get what the Crown wanted, who had ordered him put in penance bracelets and made him a Royal Inquisitor. That he was good at it, so good he was called the King's Lymer for his ability to find and follow any trail, was no consolation. He would rather be a criminal again, working toward being an honest citizen for his merchant lover, than the king's favorite scent hound.

  He was drawn from his thoughts when Teigh replied, "A clerk in the employ of the Ashby Seneschal died of illness recently. They need to replace him, but the qualifications are more expansive than usual because Ashby deals with a great many foreign merchants. He requires a clerk well versed in multiple languages, reading and writing as well as speaking, who is also comfortable with foreign currencies, customs, and legal documents. I can think of no other Inquisitor so perfectly suited."

  "As you say, Highness," Esmour replied.

  "He does not retain the clerks on the premises; they are expected to obtain their own lodgings i
n the city. That works out well for us, since we will be working from very different directions on this assignment. You will be spending most of your time in the castle, obviously. I will be in the city, learning what I can from that direction."

  Esmour knew he was going to hate the answer, but he asked the question anyway, simply to have done with it. "Might I know our disguise, Highness, that we will so easily be able to speak throughout the course of the investigation?"

  "I think you have already guessed that I am resuming my spice mongering ways. This time around Master Amabel will be arriving to peddle his wares with a spouse at his side—a spouse who is highly qualified to take up the position of clerk in the Lord's household."

  "No," Esmour said flatly.

  Teigh turned away from the fire to look at him, brows shooting up in surprise. "What did you say?"

  "I will do the job, I have no say in that, but I will not pretend to be married to you. I will go to gaol before I crawl back into your bed for any reason, Amabel. Even on pretense—even if pretense was the only reason we ever fucked."

  He almost thought he saw Teigh flinch, but attributed it to wishful thinking and a trick of the light. Teigh had never cared about anything, but catching him and the band of robbers for whom he had worked. Esmour was the only one stupid enough to have genuinely cared. He clenched the fingers of his right hand, and the way his wrist suddenly seemed to ache had nothing to do with the heavy cuff weighing it down.

  "You have no choice in the matter," Teigh replied. "The arrangements have been made; we are expected at Castle Ashby in six days. Be prepared to depart at dawn, Inquisitor."

  Esmour bowed his head again. "Yes, Highness."

  "Give me your wrists."

  The words made Esmour look up in surprise and accidentally catch Teigh's gaze. It was like a solid blow to his gut, staring into those green eyes.

  "You have such beautiful eyes, like emeralds."

  "Are you using bits of bad poetry to sweeten me, Esmour?"