Clip Joint

by Debra Dunbar

  Hattie. Hattie was the only thing he could truly cling to. When Gertha started breaking bones, and his mind was awash in agony, Hattie was his refuge. No matter how bad the pain, he could crawl into that little corner of his mind and envision her, imagine her singing, smiling at him, laughing at something he’d said. Two weeks, two months, two years. He knew he could make it through this place with her as his refuge.

  Footsteps crunched behind him, and Vincent heard a whip of the baton and a grunt that announced the arrival of his partner in misery.

  Good. At least she hadn’t gotten out of here before he did.

  He glanced to his side to see Betty on all fours in the same snow bank. Her hair was a tangled mess, her face haggard and drawn. Her eyes were dull and empty, her mouth no longer set at a resolute angle. There was no argument, no profanity, no recrimination. This place was having its effect on Betty. By the looks of her, they were nearly done with her training.

  Hopefully that meant they were nearly done with his as well.

  A quick rushing sound swept up the hillside toward their cottage. Loud huffs sounded in the air behind them.

  Vincent peered over his shoulder to find Sebastian in a long wool coat atop a chestnut draft horse.

  With a cheerful smile, the man looked them both over. “Good morning, you two! The sun’s finally out.” Sebastian gestured to the bright, crystal-blue sky. “Such a magnificent day. I thought perhaps we’d stretch your legs a bit with a morning constitutional.”

  Gertha slapped her baton in her open palm, and the two clambered to their feet. As they turned to face Sebastian and his horse, Vincent noticed that Betty had also been denied footwear.

  “Come on, then. Do keep pace.”

  Sebastian swiveled his steed around and sent it forward into a trot. Vincent stumbled through the snow behind the horse, finding he had to set a decent run to keep up. He checked for Betty over his shoulder. She didn’t keep as healthy a pace and paid for it as Gertha sent a diagonal blow against her shoulders. Gertha, for her part, seemed able to keep up with the horse without difficulty and could probably do so all day long.

  Vincent gasped as the jog sent frigid air into his tired lungs. His feet tingled with the painful bite of the cold snow. Soon, the needles dropped into numbness. Not a good sign.

  Sebastian held up at a closed gate set into a pasture fence. He waited for Gertha to sweep around the prisoners to open the gate. As she untied the chain, Sebastian glanced down at Vincent. He reached for one of his saddle bags to produce a pair of boots and some wool socks. He handed them down to Vincent with aplomb. “Here. Can’t have you getting frostbite, can we?”

  Vincent held them at arm’s length, distrusting the gesture at first. But as he shuffled his feet in the snow and mud, he decided the comfort was worth the risk. He wandered to a felled tree trunk nearby to pull on the socks. As Gertha rounded Sebastian’s horse, Vincent spotted a flicker of a grin on her face.

  Betty approached Sebastian, her eyes narrow slits as she peered up at the man against the bright sky. The woman held out her hands. “May I have shoes? Please?”

  Sebastian pursed his lips, then shook his head. “I’m afraid I only had one set on me. Sorry.”

  He kicked the horse forward through the gate.

  Vincent tied his boots and stood, while Betty shot him a glare so full of hate it could have peeled the paint right off the side of a barn. And then, as if someone had pulled a plug, the starch in her body drained. Her face dropped into a puddle of despair. Vincent reached for her to offer some word of consolation but she just trotted on after Sebastian.

  The rest of the constitutional was far easier on Vincent. He managed to look out over the fields of snow now that he wasn’t so focused on his feet. They trotted in a wide circuit, passing several small cottages like their own. Probably the same floor plan. Three rooms total, two cells and a “processing” room. Most of the smaller buildings ran in a semi-circular trail that ran halfway up a hillside, all doors facing the center of the valley they encircled.

  They reached another gate, and Vincent tried to check on Betty. She simply shook her head to him, and he decided to leave her in whatever hiding place she’d found to endure this exercise. Beyond the gate the trail turned downhill and they had an easier passage on a paved lane. As a fold of the hillside fell out of sight, the tall gable of a chalet slipped into view. The building was long and narrow, its steep-pitched roof held against the blue sky with enormous timbers. Glass covered most of the walls between posts, and what was likely a luscious garden had been tarped for the winter. Several trucks parked along the side of the building with servants in white uniforms carrying in crates of produce and meat.

  Vincent looked away, focusing now on the return path that loomed ahead. It would be a long uphill slog.

  Back at their cottage, Vincent felt a little winded but otherwise intact. The boots and socks helped. Betty staggered forward, lifting hands to catch herself against the door. Gertha brought up the rear without so much as a flush on her cheeks.

  Sebastian dismounted and tied off his horse near the corner of the cottage, then opened the door for them to enter. Inside he produced some warm cider. He poured some into a small mug for Vincent and stood with magnanimous self-congratulation.

  Gertha entered the interrogation room with the same old pitcher of ice water. She poured Betty a glass and walked out.

  Betty stared at the glass, and Vincent at his mug. He considered offering the warm cider to Betty but felt Sebastian’s eyes on him. Another test. He couldn’t show weakness, not at this stage. So he just reached out for his mug and sipped the cider slowly in silence.

  Betty took her glass and gulped the water, setting it back on the table without ceremony. Vincent almost wished she’d set into him with one of her hair-wilting barrages of blue prose. He gauged her condition as he sipped the cider. Betty sat askance on her chair, trembling visibly. She’d pulled her frostbitten feet underneath the chair.

  Sebastian nodded to himself, then clapped. “A good morning. This was fun. Well, I have duties elsewhere for most of the day. I suggest you take advantage of your free time today and ponder your place not only in this world, but in future service with one of the East Coast families.” He turned to the door. “Gertha?”

  The blonde entered the room again.

  Sebastian pointed to Betty. “I think there’s some soft tissue damage. I’ll have the boys send up one of Dominguez’s special tonics later. Meantime, best chain her up.” His eyes swiveled to Vincent. “Hmm. I think maybe we can give Mister Calendo the benefit of free movement.”

  Sebastian clapped Vincent’s shoulders in a bizarrely chummy gesture before exiting.

  Gertha pulled Betty to her feet. The two lumbered for the door as Betty’s feet had completely seized and were nearly useless. Whatever this special tincture was, Vincent figured it was good enough to mend whatever Sebastian couldn’t. And therein was the trick. Sebastian could literally do anything he wanted to them short of killing them, all thanks to the water pincher who ran this place.

  Vincent realized he was left alone yet again. Was he truly nearing the end of the method Sebastian seemed so enamored with? Surely the proctor was smarter than that. He should see Vincent was still clinging to his own free will.

  And yet, here he was unsupervised. Held only by the threat of what would become of both him and his handler should he become a hassle for Ithaca.

  But what was it Sebastian had said about them finding future service with an East Coast family? It almost sounded as though he wasn’t intended to return to Baltimore. That couldn’t be right.

  And then there was the preferential treatment Sebastian had demonstrated. The socks and boots. The cider. Being left unshackled when Betty would spend the day chained to the wall. Vincent wanted to feel guilty, but he simply felt relief that he was no longer on even footing with Betty. That he was somehow…better.

  Gertha reappeared in the doorway and escorted him to his cell. She locked
the door behind Vincent, leaving him to wander the confines of his room. He took a seat on his cot and unlaced the loaner boots. As he kicked them off, he realized they were exactly his size.

  These boots were always meant for Vincent and only Vincent.

  Every word and deed…a lie.

  Vincent huddled up on his cot, lying on his side, staving off the fear that had leeched into his mind. These people were so practiced at this method. How could he ever hope to beat them?

  A voice slipped through the masonry between the cells. “Comfortable?”

  Vincent sat up to stare at the wall. “You’re talking to me again?”

  “Nothing better to do.”

  Chains rattled. She was bound to the chair on her side of the wall.

  Vincent got up and wandered across the cell to lean back-to-back with Betty.

  “They’re pitting us against each other,” he told her.

  “I was always against you.”

  “My point is they’re making sure we don’t connect. Rise up. Whatever might happen. Both in here and after we get out. They’re treating us differently to keep us hating each other.”

  After a long silence, Betty replied, “More like to keep me hating you. Joke’s on them, because I’d hate you even if they hadn’t given you special treatment.”

  Vincent winced. “I’m genuinely sorry for what they’re doing to you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They’re going to break us, anyway. Listen, this was a mistake. Leave me alone. Don’t want to hear your weasel voice right now.”

  Vincent pushed off the wall and returned to his cot.

  He sat for a while just staring at the wall. They’re going to break us anyway. Was that a foregone conclusion? Could they set the pinchers against each other?

  A thought came into focus inside Vincent’s mind for the first time. It was a thought Hattie had shared, and even the Bratva had hinted at it. Pinchers had no good reason to be on the same side as their masters beyond indoctrination.

  Indoctrination and fear that freedom would take away what small privileges they’d earned and leave them with nothing.

  Vincent scowled. This sort of thinking was precisely what Ithaca was built to weed out. Not to foster. And yet, as Vincent laid down to try and sleep, all he could think about was how much the Crew suddenly felt like the enemy.

  Chapter 19

  Hattie got behind the wheel of the Runabout as Raymond took a seat beside her. He was almost breathless, sweat popping from the pores of his forehead despite the frigid weather. The sun had come out finally, bathing the entire Chesapeake in a relentless if hollow cast of bright white sunlight.

  Raymond cleared his throat. “Damn. Those barrels never get any lighter, huh?”

  “You’re getting old, is all. Happens to the best of us.”

  He shook his head. “That’ll take care of Wilmington, sure enough. That’s it for the year.”

  Hattie nodded. “Last shipment of 1926. Imagine that.”

  He grinned at her. “Helluva year.”

  “Hell of a year, aye.” She started the engine and steered the truck away from Winnow’s Slip, trying not to look too eager.

  “Listen,” she offered half a mile up the road, “you’re practically home. Why don’t I just drop you off. Lizzie loaned me the truck to run a personal errand.”

  “Personal errand? You’re not running off to find that boy, are you? Or…” He turned to eye her. “Need me to go with you? Watch your back?”

  Everyone wanted to watch her back. It was reassuring to have friends like that.

  “I’m just visiting a shop.” She tossed an elbow into his ribs. “You’ve got a family. Go be a Da.”

  Hattie dropped Raymond off at his shack on Curtis Creek. He closed the door and gave her a meaningful nod. “See you in the new year, baby girl?”

  “Drink one for me.”

  She steered back onto the county road, her jaw set as she headed north for the Pennsylvania border.

  Absalom, Pennsylvania, was little more than a crossroads in the midst of Amish country. A bevy of clapboard storefronts lined up like a compass rose in the center of the tiny hamlet. Hattie steered the Runabout to the side of the road and peered up and down the street, then left and right at the intersection.

  A dark heap caught her eye to the west, and she hung a left to investigate. As she stepped out of the truck, she was greeted by the familiar scent of charred timber. Before her lay a ruined building recently burned to the ground. Blackened posts and beams sat at skewed angles as they huddled amidst the snow-covered ashes.

  Hattie peered across the street to find a young boy in a cabbie watching her with suspicion. She waved the boy over, but he stood his ground.

  “Eh there, boy-o,” she called. “Do you speak English?”

  The boy curled a brow toward his scalp, then trotted across the road.

  “Yes,” he replied with incredulity.

  “Well, didn’t know if you were one of the farmers or not.”

  The boy shook his head. “My father’s shop.” He pointed to the wide glass windows that declared “Clocks & Watches Sales & Repair.”

  “I see. So you live here, then?”

  The boy nodded.

  Hattie gestured at the wreckage. “This was the apothecary, right? What happened?”

  “Oh, it burned down. Thought that was pretty obvious.”

  She snickered at the boy’s unapologetic cheek. “Right. I see that. How’d it happen?”

  “Dunno. My father says they probably didn’t clean their chimney. It happened in the middle of the night so nobody saw it.”

  She winced. “Did the shopkeeper…die?”

  “Nope. He doesn’t live there. No one does. They didn’t find no bodies when they came to put out the fire.”

  Hattie tilted her head in thought. “So if no one was there and it was in the middle of the night, then I doubt it was a chimney fire. Unless the shopkeeper made a habit of burning his stove all night with no one around.”

  He shrugged. “Fire department couldn’t find a reason. Place just burned.”

  “No one in town says it was set on fire, then?” she asked, crouching down to meet his eyes. “No strangers in town?”

  “Just you. Did you set the building on fire?”

  She nodded. “You’re too bright for your own good, you little scamp.”

  “Well,” the boy added, eyes lifting to the sky, “there was the one man back a week or so ago.”

  “One man? What did he look like?”

  “Short. Fat. Dressed in a suit. Black hair. Red face. My father said he looked like one of those Philadelphia hoodlums.” He cocked his head. “What’s a hoodlum? Lady, do you know?”

  She nodded. “It’s a man who’s up to no good.”

  “Are you a hoodlum?”

  Hattie stood with a wink. “I’m not a man, am I?”

  He sized up her outfit. “You wear pants.”

  “So this stranger, what did he do while he was in town? Where did he go?”

  The boy pointed toward the apothecary. “Here. And my dad’s shop. He was asking questions to see if we knew any magic people.”

  Hattie blinked. “Do you know any magic people?”

  The boy froze for a second, then shot a quick glance toward the building before shaking his head. “Magic people? You crazy, lady? No such thing as magic people.”

  “Go on, now.” She handed him a coin and the boy trotted off, leaving Hattie alone to investigate the burned-out building. She nudged around the ashes looking for anything of note. A piece of furniture that could have been a sofa, or perhaps a table, collapsed as she tested it with her finger. The charcoaled form disintegrated, lifting a haze of ash as it sank into the snow that had covered the wreckage.

  Hattie squinted as a shiny surface within the ash caught the sunlight. She reached into the soot, sweeping away the loose debris to reveal a small marble. Picking it up between two fingers, she rubbed it against her coat to inspect it in the
sunlight. The finely polished black-and-ruby orb gleamed in the light, the veins of crimson glittering almost as if it had captured some flame deep inside.

  “Look at you,” she whispered as she gazed into the deep veins of garnet.

  The world around her seemed to grind to a halt. It wasn’t one of Vincent’s time pinches. This was deeper, as if literally nothing else in the world had value. Only her.

  And this marble.

  The moment passed as the dancing light within the stone fell inert. Hattie shook her head and regarded the lump of rock between her fingers.

  The light seemed to pale. The town crept back to life all around her.

  Glancing around, Hattie pocketed the curiosity and turned for her car. Absalom, for all its concern in Cooper’s journal, seemed to be a bust. She was guessing the hoodlum the boy had referred to had been Cooper, but this fire? Could it have really just been a chimney fire? Perhaps the Hell pincher had been here at some point, but if he had, he was long gone now.

  Another dead end.

  Hattie started the engine and considered her next move. It was a few hours back to Baltimore, but only a half-hour east to Philadelphia. Might as well stop by to see if DeBarre had found out any information before she headed home.

  * * *

  The cannery was abuzz with activity. Workers manned the machines as the stench of freshly-gutted fish washed over Hattie’s face. The smell steeped into her clothes. She’d have to give this outfit a good wash when she got home.

  Enough of the workers recognized her by now that she didn’t hit any resistance as she made her way to the cellar door, and the passage that led to DeBarre’s private salon. Voices carried up the hallway leading to the salon. Hattie stepped lightly past the gaslights mounted to the plastered corridor walls, ears piqued. When she reached the doorway to the salon, she peeked inside to find DeBarre lounging in his chair, a leg slung over one of its arms, as he conferred with two businessmen. Arnoud lingered against the far wall, his arms crossed. It was Arnoud that noticed Hattie in the doorway. He swept around the gathering, giving DeBarre a calming gesture as he made a line for the doorway.