Snow flew as the lynx chased the nimble hare. Veering and twisting amongst the trees, the hare tried desperately to lose his pursuer. Muscles bunched as the lynx powered forward with one final dedicated drive. The hunting cat’s mouth closed over the squealing hare and razor sharp teeth and claws sank into flesh. The cat’s momentum carried them forward and both animals tumbled into a large drift at high speed. Rolling to a stop, the lynx’s sides rose and fell heavily as he clung to the limp hare dangling from his mouth. For a moment, silence filled the forest again.
An arrow streaked through the trees, hitting the lynx in the throat. The cat jumped in shock, the hare forgotten. The animal’s scream of pain turned into a low whine as it rolled upon the snow. The boy’s shot had been true and it was over quickly. Soon the cat was as still as the rabbit. Elated with his shot, the boy fumbled with the strap on his snow walkers before hurrying to inspect his trophy. ‘Grandfather will be pleased,’ he thought, running awkwardly to his kill. ‘Two pelts and only one shot!’
Reaching the bloody snow that marked the site of his shooting, he realised he’d left his bow under the great white spruce. Removing his hood, the young hunter leaned in to inspect his kill. It was a magnificent pelt for the first true predator he’d taken. It wasn’t a wolf, but grandfather would be proud. Grabbing the large cat by its back paws, he struggled to stand. From behind the boy, a low menacing growl froze him quicker than any wind could.
Searching the area out of the corner of his eye, his heart skipped as he watched two timber wolves emerge from the forest behind him. The pair stopped, staring at him, teeth bared and hackles raised. Dropping the lynx the boy reached for the strap holding the snow walker to his right foot. “You don’t want to eat me,” he whispered. The blood pumping in his ears deafened him as he fumbled with the shoe’s fastening. Behind him the first wolf growled and leaned forward threateningly. “I said you don’t want to eat me,” reinforced the youngster, a little louder. The strap came undone under the prodding of his cold fingers. Lifting his boot free, he risked another glance at the wolves.
Haunches bunched and muscle rippled as the first wolf jumped toward him with a snarl. Dropping to one knee, the boy brought the snow walker up in front of his face like a shield. The impact drove him backwards and off his feet. Snarling and snapping, the wolf tried forcefully to wrench the snow walker from his hands. Beneath the predator, the child hung on for dear life, warm breath assailing his face. Teeth gnawed at the webbing of his shield, saliva splashing his cheek. Averting his eyes, he turned his head and pushed upwards with all of his strength. Something whistled over the struggling pair and the second wolf dropped instantly to the snow. Blood pumped from a hole in its rib cage. The arrow through its heart had brought a swift end.
Setting his crossbow down, the old hunter un-slung a cedar bow from his back and notched an arrow. Below him, in the clearing, the webbing of the child’s snow walker gave way with a snap and a mouthful of teeth burst through the meshing.
The boy’s arms burned with the effort of holding the wolf at bay and slowly the snapping mouth closed toward his face. He could feel the weight of the wolf pushing him down into the snow. The beast’s canines descended on his shoulder and incisors punctured through heavy layers of sable coat. Closing his eyes, the boy felt the pressure of closing jaws against his skin. His arms gave out with a final protest and the wolf was free to take its final crushing bite.
The savage bite never came though, and the child realised the wolf had stopped struggling. Opening his eyes, he looked up to see the wolf’s head being pulled back by his grandfather. With the weight of the wolf gone, he realised how hard it had been to breath. He latched onto his grandfather and began to sob.
“Oh you ok, son. He not get you with old hunter like me around. I shoot a squirrel in the eye from a hundred paces.”
“Grandfather I didn’t stay where you told me. I shot a lynx, and then the two wolves attacked me. They ripped my new coat and wrecked my snow walker.” The boy carried on blubbering, the shock of the incident still not fully realised.
“You a good grandson; good hunter too. Tonight I mend your coat. Come, collect your furs. We go get sled.” Helping the child out of the snow, the old man looked down at his grandson and smiled. “Remember, son, hunter must take care to not become hunted.”
Hugging his grandfather, the boy wiped the tears from his eyes and nodded. Looking up into the old man’s eyes, the boy suddenly asked, “Grandfather, what’s my name?”
* * * *
The streets were empty at this hour, the muggy night coating all with an impenetrable humidity. Clouds rolled in from the sea, making their way across the docks, through the slums, up mugger’s lane and finally settling over an old, leaning shack on the back side of Deep Cove’s oldest cemetery. Inside the hovel, a single candle cast shadows across the boards of the floor and walls. A young man tossed and turned on a cot in the corner. His blankets were a tangled mess around his arms and legs as he mumbled in his sleep. “You can’t go yet. You haven’t told me my name. Tell me my name!” The man’s voice was desperate, and he stiffened on the cot. “Tell me my name or I’ll break every damn bone in your body, old man!” Taking his yellowed pillow between his powerful hands, the sleeping figure twisted and pulled. With a loud tearing noise, the pillow’s seam let loose and a cloud of feathers exploded onto the bed. The man’s posture softened, and he relaxed. What was left of the pillow dampened his sobs of frustration.
Overhead, a crack of thunder echoed across the dark sky. The naked man sat up slowly. His muscled arms and legs glistened with sweat in the candlelight. He rubbed at his shoulders, trying to ease the tightness there. Vividly he recalled the snapping wolf trying to get at him through the snow walker. Throwing the blankets with irritation, he stood and made his way to a desk beside the table. Sitting at the desk, he opened the top drawer and removed a leather bound book. Flipping to the last page, he read aloud. “Entry Six hundred and fifty-six: Today I finished the snow walkers I started building last fall. I don’t know why or how I made them; I just did.” Scanning the page, he found another entry and read again, trying to force his memory to work. “Entry Six hundred and sixty-four: Today I discovered I have the ability to throw a stone with great accuracy. I killed two seagulls down at the docks without ever taking a practice throw.”
A soft plinking against the shack’s only window informed the young man that it had started to rain. Reaching for the quill and ink, he leaned over his book and wrote a quick entry. “Entry Six hundred and sixty-eight: The man in the snowy forest still haunts my dreams. He knows who I am, but he will not say!” Behind him, a loud knock on the door stopped his quill in mid stroke.
“Enter,” he called.
The door opened inwards with a groan. The sound of the rain grew louder as a boy in his early teens entered the shack. “Uh, sorry to interrupt you, B.S., but Mr. Kline would like you to go and collect Mr. Cobble’s debt.” The boy looked nervously at the floor, trying to avoid the older boy’s nakedness. “Mr. Kline says that in order to remain respectful to Mr. Cobble’s neighbours, you should do it tonight while the storm rages.”
‘Mr. Cobble has made a payment each of the last two months,’ mused B.S. ‘At this rate he won’t be in business much longer.’
The newcomer’s eyes glanced about the room and halted briefly on the mess of feathers coating the cot. “I will inform Mr. Kline that you need new bedding again. If you have a message for Mr. Kline I would take it now and be on my way back to the ranch before the full brunt of the storm hits.”
“Tell Mr. Kline to sleep easy. I will do as he bids. Mr. Cobble will be making another loan payment before sunrise.” B.S. bid the boy to close the door tight. He made his way to the foot of the bed and a pile of clothes. As he dressed, B.S. realised he hadn’t eaten anything before going to bed. ‘Maybe Mr. Cobble will have something good in his pantry.’
9
Making the List
Daniel Kline’s warehouses were
located inland from the dock district. They were close enough to transport cargo from the ships, but far enough from the downtown area to remain inconspicuous. A separate roadway had been cleared through the surrounding fields and forest, skirting the main town. Commodities of a not so legal nature could be shipped to and from the compound via this route. Kline had numerous hired goons to patrol his highway and warehouses, and security was high within the fenced-in district. The acreage and the men to patrol it cost the gangster significantly, but he considered it an acceptable sum for privacy.
Lightning split the sky over the storehouses, illuminating the yard and the parked carriages out front. The double doors of the largest hanger were closed, but a soft light spilled from the window in the main office. Outside, two hooded men approached each other in the downpour and stopped to share words before continuing their patrol.
Inside the office, a grey haired clerk was penning the monthly sums. He’d been at it for hours now and his face showed signs of fatigue. Sal Rogers was in his late fifties and the weather affected him greatly. Often he had thought of moving inland from Deep Cove, but he always told himself he’d retire the following year. He had stockpiled enough money from working Mr. Kline’s books to keep him rich for years’ to come, but somehow he always found himself back in the warehouse, filling out another months’ ledgers.
Last winter had been especially hard on the old man, and he’d come down with a lung infection that had almost killed him. In the end, Mr. Kline had sent a carriage for the stick-thin accountant and relocated the old man to his manse. Kline’s very own doctor had attended Sal and under the man’s careful ministrations, the skinny bookkeeper was nursed back to health. ‘I’m Grateful to Mr. Kline. I can’t up and retire without giving him good notice,’ He reasoned. ‘I just wish the weather would cooperate.’ Outside, the spring storm ravaged the stockyard. The drumming of the incessant downpour increased in tempo on the warehouse’s tin roof, as if mocking the old man’s silent plea for warm weather.
Kline had indeed been good to him throughout his sickness. Nothing had touched the old accountant more than when Mr. Kline had presented him with a gift of a giant viewing globe so the man could stay in touch with his family out east.
“Vic insisted you have one so you can talk with your son whenever you like,” Kline had told his old friend. “I don’t have the slightest idea of how these things work, but I’m sure the two of you will figure it out in no time. The salesman even told me you can do your accounting on here. Technology these days is amazing isn’t it?”
Sal had not been allowed to refuse the gift, even though he knew it to be worth a small fortune. When his son and family appeared on the globe for the first time, he had wept openly to see his two small grandsons. He chatted often with his son, but never truly realised the potential of the large viewing device. Now it hung near his desk in the warehouse and was mostly used by Vic to play his game.
Leaning back, Sal cracked his upper back and rubbed at his eyes. Gazing at the lone lantern on the desk, he reached for his quill and dipped it into the inkpot again. Pulling one of two heavy black ledgers toward him, he moved to the last line of the page, wrote a name in the left hand column, traced across the page to the far right column, and then wrote a sum. Tallying the right hand column, he circled the amount at the bottom and signed off on the sheet. Pushing the book to the side, he pulled the second tome toward him.
The open page looked similar to the one he had just completed. All of the names were identical, but the amounts in the right hand column were a third less. Adding the same name he had added to the first book, he wrote in a sum that was a third less than previously written in the other ledger, totalled the operations amount, and signed off again. Waiting for the entries to dry, he closed both books, laid his quill down, and tied off the ledgers. Pushing his chair back from the table, he stood and steadied himself when he nearly toppled over. ‘Damn infection robbed me of my strength. I should go to Ronnie’s in the east. I’d like to play with my grandchildren before I die.’ He grabbed up the second ledger and his cane and limped across the dusty floorboards to a large safe in the wall. Turning the tumblers, he opened the heavy door and laid the book inside.
For a second only, the sound of the splashing rain was amplified and Sal turned toward the far door. “Who is it?” he called out. “I’m not done yet. You know the rules; wait outside ‘till I’ve completed the tallies.” No one responded. Sal searched the shadowy corners of the distant entryway, but the light from his lantern did not penetrate the far off darkness. After a moment of silence, he turned back to the safe and removed a bag of coins and a second empty leather sack. Counting out an amount of gold equal to the sum listed in the first ledger, he transferred the funds to the empty pouch.
One of the floorboards creaked behind him and he spun, his cane whistling through the air. The walking stick was thrust aside and something hit him hard in the face. He felt himself falling, the pouch of coins dropping from his hand and spilling across the floor. Sal tried to focus on the figure above him, but a trickle of blood half blinded him. With the lantern behind his attacker, only the outline of a man could be seen. “B.S?” he asked uncertainly.
The assailant kicked Sal’s cane away and leaned down indifferently. Sal pulled back when he realised the man held a knife levelled at him, but with the wall behind him, he had nowhere to go.
“You are Daniel Kline’s accountant?” asked his attacker in a thick accent.
“Please, let me go,” begged Sal. “I only keep the books for Mr. Kline. I don’t partake in any of his ventures.” The newcomer grabbed Sal by the front of his jacket and lifted him to his feet. “You can’t come in here,” sobbed Sal. “There are a dozen guards outside. They’ll be coming for me soon and they’ll kill you when they see you here.” The other man shook his head, his hood dislodging droplets of rainwater as he raised his knife again. “NO!” screamed Sal, fighting for his life and throwing punches when he realised the man was going to stab him – but no one heard his screams, and no one came.
* * * *
Garrett’s run wound down as he rounded the corner before his and Merle’s apartments. The street remained damp from last night’s storm and puddles had gathered in the many ruts and holes of the roadway. Garrett removed his sweat soaked shirt and used it to wipe his chest and upper back. Pacing back and forth, he assessed the roof after last night’s rain, while allowing his body to cool down. ‘Might be pushing it to ask for new shingles so soon after missing the rent,’ he thought. Swinging the door open, he walked through the office, passing Merle who was sipping his morning coffee and browsing the paper at his desk.
“Don’t know why you bother with that running crap,” said Merle, without looking up. “You’re still in okay shape for an old guy,”
“Thirty-one is not old,” snapped Garrett. “Besides, we can’t all live off pizza and beer and not gain an ounce.”
“I can,” grumbled Merle, swilling his coffee.
“My, we’re in a fine mood this morning,” acknowledged Garrett. “A little hung-over, are we?”
“Hey, I wouldn’t have indulged if you were there to stop me. It’s not my fault everyone wanted to buy the new champ a beer.”
“You didn’t have to accept,” returned Garrett, wiping under his arms with his shirt. Walking to the entrance of the inner apartments, he set a small brick before the door to hold it open so he could continue the conversation.
“You could have let me keep some of the purse,” whined Merle, watching the man through the doorway. “I worked hard for that. They posted odds of thirty-eight to one.”
Inside the living quarters, the rooms were two stories high with an open ceiling. A balcony ran around the upper floor, enclosing the loft section where Merle’s bed was located. On the ground floor, Garrett’s double bed was nestled on an upraised platform and pushed against the left hand wall. In the back corner of the room, a workbench was covered in rags and pieces of P.C.
“Tw
enty gons will hardly pay for P.C’s repairs, let alone any back penalties that Kline is likely to charge us. You’re just lucky P.C’s aura marble wasn’t damaged. The school of magic nearly bankrupted us to have it repaired last time.”
“Do we have to fix him?” complained Merle.
“Too late,” shot back Garrett, removing his breeches and underwear. Walking to the stove beside the back counter, he dipped a rag into a cauldron of water and began scrubbing at his skin. “I dropped his torso and legs off at the blacksmith’s on my way out this morning.” Garrett smiled to himself at Merle’s audible groan.
“Hey,” said Merle, “I thought you said you took care of the shipment for Kline and that we were probably caught up on rent. What do you mean by back penalties?”
“You know Kline,” said Garrett, holding up a chunk of mirror to his face and shaving off a patch of stubble, “if he can stick us with late fees, he will.”
“We need to get out from under him,” returned Merle. “Paying rent for this dump is crazy. It’s no wonder we can never get ahead.”
“Agreed,” said Garrett, holding his head to the side and carefully shaving his neck. “I’ll have a talk with Mr. Kline today and see exactly where we stand with our payments.” Garrett rinsed his razor in the lukewarm water and angled the mirror so he could see Merle through the doorway. “You returned Mrs. Wichuster’s cat like I asked?”
“Uh, ya,” agreed Merle, shuffling his newspaper.
“And the pennies, you deposited them?”
“Ah, well…I may have spent them on a tankard when we got to the bar last night.”
Welcome to Deep Cove (The Vellian Books Book 3) Page 8