And Vincent could read all those things about Ellis so easily because it was how Vincent operated, too. Hadn't he proved it only moments before, when he came forward instead of slinking away? Not because it was right, but because it was the best chance to get what he wanted.
Ellis's smile curled a little higher, just for a moment, and Vincent was pretty sure Ellis knew exactly what Vincent was thinking.
"I will hold you to a higher standard now, Mr. Bradley. There will be no more hiding in the shadows for you."
Ellis's gaze was like a gun leveled at Vincent's head, and if the Ellis .36 was powerful, Ellis himself was a thousand times more so. He forged weapons and held the ears of politicians and businessmen. In Ellis, Vincent glimpsed a mad hope of true power for himself.
He just had to prove to Ellis that he deserved it.
~
It had stormed that night. Thunder had boomed hard enough to loosen foundations, and lightning had stabbed in stark white flashes through the windows. Rainwater had flooded the streets and dripped down the cellar's brick walls.
Ger had spent most of the night awake, staring into those jabs of harsh light and wondering how long he could live with himself if he gave up altogether on taking down Ripley. By the time he stomped along the wharves the next morning with Em Jacobs and Michael Finch, Ger had decided he had to leave the Widow's. He should never have stayed to begin with.
He had no belongings except the clothes he wore, so wouldn't even need to go back to the house. That was a good thing, most likely, easier on his resolve. He only had to see Kellen after he collected his day's pay, when he'd have enough to pay her his share of board through the end of the week.
He only had to see Kellen, just the one last time. That understanding hurt about as much as Ripley's fists had, reached into his chest and twisted and left him breathless.
"Ger! Aren't you even listening to me?"
Ger stopped walking and jerked his head up. Em Jacobs stood a step ahead, hands on hips and half turned to look back at Ger. Behind Ger, Michael Finch pulled up short, too. All around them, other dockers shoved past, their footsteps echoing over the indigo water only now touched with the first pink light of dawn. Beneath a layer of sweat and cargo stink, the river smelled green and new.
"I'm sorry," Ger said, trying to buy himself time to figure out what Em had been talking about.
"Damn but you are, Ger," Em said. "You've been sorry all day long, hardly talking and not paying any mind to anybody."
Finch chuckled. "We only been out here not even five minutes yet, Emmy."
"Yeah, well, it's still not very romantic."
Ger managed a weak smile.
"Not quite the right use of the word just yet, Em," Ger said. "But closer."
"No? Damn. I thought I was getting smarter."
"A little more every day," Ger said, but his mind was already back on the problem of Burke Ripley.
And on Kellen.
Em heaved a disappointed sigh and turned to lead the way out along the pier. Ger followed. A chilly mist wafted around the ships and touched his cheeks.
He only had to see Kellen long enough to give her the coins and let her know what he'd decided. That was all. Then he could go back to shaping up wherever Ripley happened to be, back to following Ripley through Philadelphia's streets and alleys until he made a mistake. Someone had to stop Ripley, and if it had to be Ger, then it would be Ger.
Ger's stomach knotted.
"Hey." Em stopped again, and again Ger nearly ran into him. "Something's going on."
Ger glanced back at Finch. Finch shrugged and spread his hands.
"We've got work to get to, Em," Ger said.
Em wasn't listening. Ahead of them, a tight knot of men huddled on the far side of the wharf, peering into the water beside the schooner moored there. A sound like the squabble of sea birds, only more feeble, rose from them. Em hurried up to join the crowd, and Finch and Ger ambled along behind him.
Closer now, Ger craned his neck, trying to see what the fuss was about, but the men crowded on the wharf blocked his view of the water.
"Lines are heavy," Finch said.
Ger lifted his gaze and looked over the schooner's mooring lines.
"You're right," he said to Finch. "Looks like maybe something's fouling them."
By unspoken agreement, Ger and Finch both eased around the side of the press of men, moving in closer. Em had gone ahead of them. When Ger spotted him again, Em was staring down into the ropes, his face drained of color and not a trace of his usual amiable smile.
A shiver crept across Ger's shoulders.
"Bloody fucking mess," a man ahead of Ger muttered. "He's been cut all to hell. Jesus."
"What's going on?" Ger asked.
"Some bloke got hisself killed." The man glanced back. He was as pale as Em. "They cut him open. Cut him open and hung him in the lines."
Ger stared, trying to both see and not see in his imagination what the man had described.
Finch grunted, a deep and disgusted sound. Ger had to peer a long way up to glimpse Finch's dark, heavy-featured face. Finch looked over the tops of the other men's heads. Judging by his expression, he could see clearly.
"He was nothing but trouble," Finch rumbled. "But good Lord Almighty, ain't nobody should go like that."
A strange, tingling chill crept across Ger's shoulders.
"Who?" Ger asked. "Who is it, Finch?"
The men in front of Ger shifted even as he asked. Between them, Ger finally got a look at the body in the ropes—an arm tangled in one rope, feet caught in another slightly higher, twisting and shifting as the ship rolled, as if the corpse danced. What hadn't been opened up and left to glisten wetly was covered in the remains of a docker's trousers and coat, stained so dark as to be black. The only thing left of him that even resembled human was his face; he was skinny, with dirty blonde hair and a sharp nose.
Ger recognized him in the same moment that Finch spoke his name.
"Alvie Fox."
Chapter 20
Aside from being the only one of them that everyone called by his first name, Petras Juszkiewicz was the shortest man among them. He was solid, though. Everything about him reminded Vincent of a block of stone, from the cut of his shoulders to the squared-off lines of his face. He had all the personality of a rock, too.
Holding a .36, though, Petras took on an eerie sort of grace. Out on the practice field, he lined up his shot and squeezed the trigger, not just once but five times in quick succession.
From where Vincent stood, the barrel of Petras's .36 never so much as trembled.
Jennett whistled. "That's some fine shooting, son."
Petras turned his never-smiling face toward Jennett and nodded somberly.
Vincent was abruptly annoyed. It was good shooting, but it wasn't any better than Vincent did every day. Not a single man had ever made a point of complimenting Vincent.
It didn't matter, though. It didn't matter at all what a single one of them thought of Vincent. The only opinion that carried any weight was Ellis's.
"Hmph. I'm every bit as good as Petras."
Jan Bosch, who was twice Petras's size in both height and width, threw back his shoulders and nodded at William Jennett.
"Uh huh." Jennett grinned a lazy grin and shook his head.
Bosch was a big man, with no neck and a perpetually-red face. In his uniform, holding a .36, he looked intimidating. But his best bet was going to be to scare people into doing what he said, because if he ever had to actually hit someone with a bullet, he was going to be shit out of luck.
Vincent very carefully didn't look at either Bosch or Jennett. Instead, he took his own gun to the far end of the field's edge, away from the other men. When he walked past Robert Langston and Johnny Rawle, just beyond and behind Bosch and Jennett, they had their heads together. Langston paused in mid-whisper and sneered at Vincent.
Someone, someday, Vincent thought. You're gonna piss off the wrong person, Langston, and
it's gonna be all over for you.
Vincent didn't much care what the two little bastards were up to, but he also didn't feel like turning his back on them right then. He moved to the outermost end of the line of men slowly forming up and took his time about loading his .36 so he could keep an eye on things.
Bosch was still talking down at Jennett, and Jennett was still grinning his lazy grin as he baited Bosch. Further down from them, Petras had eyes only for the target across the field. The other men were mostly lined up now, too, some cracking open their guns and others actually facing the targets and firing.
Closer to Vincent, Langston nodded emphatically and gave Rawle a little shove. Rawle stumbled, caught himself, and eased up behind Bosch.
"Hey. Hey, Bosch," Rawle said. "If you're as good as Petras, then how about maybe you give me some lessons?"
From the corner of his eye, Vincent saw Langston throw his hands in the air and shake his head.
Bosch turned around and narrowed his eyes at Rawle. Rawle grinned at him, just like the idiot he was.
"Oh, come on. Just show me, then," Rawle said. "Show us how good you are."
Rawle kept right on grinning, and Vincent waited for Bosch to tell him to fuck off.
"Well." Bosch frowned, like he sensed danger but couldn't quite figure out if it was real.
Langston snorted. "He's not gonna show us anything. He's not gonna, because he can't. Full of shit, that's what he is."
Bosch's face reddened. His frown took a sharp downward turn into a scowl. "Fuck you, Langston. I'll show you, all right."
Bosch turned toward the targets. He cracked open his gun's cylinder and tipped the gun side to side as he peered into the barrel. Down the line from him, Petras snapped off a firecracker-quick series of shots. The Irishmen, Byrne and Colley, side by side, lifted their guns and fired with nearly identical timing. The boom of their shots overlapped and twined together.
Bosch slapped his cylinder shut against the palm of his hand. He planted his feet. He lifted his gun.
Rawle stepped a little to the side.
Before Bosch could fire his first shot, Langston stepped in, grabbed hold of the back of Bosch's trousers, and yanked.
Vincent had never seen so much hairy white flesh in his life.
Bosch bellowed. Langston howled laughter. Rawle stood there with his mouth hanging open, looking at the other two like he was actually surprised.
Then Bosch turned, pants around his ankles, and leveled his .36 at Rawle.
Rawle flung his hands into the air. "I didn't do it!"
"Jan!" Viktor Kalvis barked. He strode down the line, his eyes fixed on Bosch's gun.
Bosch gave no sign of hearing Kalvis, and if he decided to shoot, Kalvis wasn't going to get there anywhere near fast enough.
Vincent was closer. Two steps and he was beside Rawle. One more, and he was right beside Bosch.
"Lower that fucking weapon," Vincent said.
Bosch jerked his head back, like Vincent's voice had startled him.
"Now," Vincent said.
Bosch's face went redder than ever. He took his thumb off the hammer and lowered the gun, then he made a grab at his trousers.
Langston cackled.
Vincent swung around and glared at him. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"
Langston rolled his eyes at Vincent. Before Langston could say anything, though, Jennett grabbed a handful of his long blonde hair and cranked back on it.
"I'll hold onto him for you, Bosch," Jennett said. "Get your pants up, and I'll even let you land the first fist before I turn him loose."
"Fucker!" Langston shrieked.
Bosch yanked up his trousers.
"Thank the good Lord for long shirt tails," Brian Byrne muttered.
Before Bosch could take a step toward Langston, Kalvis was there and got one hand on Bosch's massive forearm. It would've taken three of Kalvis to weigh as much as Bosch, but Bosch stopped.
"He's not worth the trouble, son," Kalvis said.
"I'll kill him." But Bosch just stood there, his face the color of a wine stain and breathing like he'd spent the last hour running.
"Gentlemen."
Every man along that line immediately stood a little straighter. Jennett turned Langston loose, and Kalvis took his hand off Bosch's arm. Even Langston looked remotely shame-faced.
Ellis didn't say anything else for a very long moment. He held his gloves in one hand and tapped them lightly against his leg and looked into each man's face in turn.
"It will be difficult indeed to form a cohesive unit if you all somehow manage to kill each other off," Ellis finally said, as smooth and unruffled as if he were only remarking on the day's chores.
"Yes, sir," Bosch said. Langston did a little shrug and nod that Vincent would've been tempted to slap him for, if he were Ellis.
Ellis didn't give either of them a second glance. He turned and paced toward the far end of the field, an obvious signal that the dispute was over.
Vincent stepped away from Bosch and Rawle and returned to the far end of the firing line. Behind him, he heard Petras Juszkiewicz's voice, pitched low but as full of scold as a leathery old hen.
"You should not listen to him, John. You should not believe even half the things that fool Langston says to you."
"I don't believe all the things he says." Rawle's voice was quiet but petulant.
Vincent turned to face the targets and glanced sidelong. Rawle was a good head taller than Petras, but Petras leaned in until Rawle had to look at him.
Petras frowned, his thick brows heavy across his straight brow. "Then why do you go along with him?"
Rawle's face screwed up, as if thinking up an answer was almost too much for him.
"Because he's a lot more fun than you are!" Rawle finally blurted out.
Christ, Vincent thought. What the hell had Ellis been thinking?
"Mr. Bradley," Ellis said from behind him.
Vincent was so startled, it was all he could do not to drop his gun.
Vincent lowered the gun as calmly as he could manage and turned. He had no idea how much Ellis had seen of Langston's prank, if it had been enough that Ellis would realize Vincent had been shutting down the trouble and not starting it up.
Ellis smirked. Vincent wondered if the man really always knew what everyone was thinking, or if he just smirked like that all the time so people would believe he did.
"I will require your presence up at the house this morning," Ellis said. "After breakfast will be fine. You may enter through the back door and meet me in the front hall."
A summons to the main house. Higher standards, indeed.
Vincent managed not to grin until after Ellis had walked away again.
~
"Heading up to the big house and meeting the important people," Ackermann said. His tone was jovial, but Vincent didn't fail to hear an edge of clever calculation. "I guess that makes you important too, yes?"
The rest of them were still seated at the benches along the long plank table. Vincent hadn't wasted much time on eating, not with an invitation like Ellis's still standing.
Vincent had no idea how Ackermann had heard what Ellis had said. The same way he found out every other thing that was none of his business, Vincent supposed. He took his time pulling on his uniform coat before responding to the big Dutchman's allegedly cheerful prying like he always did. He shrugged.
"You can bring us gossip about what really goes on with Captain Ellis and the other important people, hey?" Ackermann said, as Vincent left the barracks.
Vincent chuckled. It wasn't entirely faked.
Like hell, you son of a bitch. Like hell.
Vincent strode up the hill between the barracks and the main house. Spongy ground absorbed his footfalls, and hints of palest green peeked between tufts of winter brown grass and rotting leaves. A stray strand of warm air touched his cheek before lingering cold yanked it away again.
He wasn't trying to be quiet this time. His boots clocked on
the brick surface of the veranda. Vincent wrapped his hand around the knob of the middle door, pulled it open, and stepped into the house, just like he belonged there.
Because he did.
The house's main staircase spiraled up over Vincent's head. He crossed through the narrow hall alongside that ran from the back door right through the middle of the house. The entry door lay several paces straight ahead of Vincent, and the main hall with it. His footsteps thumped on the wood flooring as he advanced into it.
One of the doors opening off the main hall stood open. Firelight glow fell through the open door and into the hall.
Vincent hesitated, and the sound of his footsteps faded away.
The fire's glow rippled with shadows as someone inside the room crossed before it. The girl Vincent had seen now and again outside stepped into view, framed by the doorway. She regarded Vincent with wide eyes and a wary tilt to her head.
Vincent stared back.
"Captain Ellis asked me to meet him here," he finally thought to say. "I'm—"
"One of Mr. Ellis's men." The girl's wide eyes and wary head-tilt went away. She pulled herself up straight and looked Vincent in the eye. Her tone suggested she didn't approve.
Her face was still too rounded and her figure not rounded enough for her to be a woman—she might be getting close to marriageable age, but she wasn't there yet. Even so, she seemed pretty damned sure of herself.
The corners of Vincent's mouth twitched. He tried to catch the action before it got away, but he was far too slow.
The girl's eyes narrowed. She put her hands on her hips.
"I am Mr. Samuel James's daughter, Annie. I work with him. Here. Why did Mr. Ellis send you?" she asked.
Vincent grinned. He couldn't help himself.
She tilted her head back and made a game attempt to look down her nose at him. She was tall for a girl, but still a good head shorter than Vincent, and she didn't quite pull it off. Vincent imagined there must be a word for a cocky little shit like her, but he didn't know it. Even if he had, he probably shouldn't say it in front of her.
A Stillness of the Sun (Crowmakers: Book 1): A Science Fiction Western Adventure Page 14