The Reunion

by Michelle E Lowe

  It appeared he wasn’t going to put up much of a fight.

  Joaquin approached the terrified man and held out his hand. “Give me the keys to the room above the workshop.”

  “I . . . I don’t have them,” he stammered.

  Joaquin pretended to be angry.

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  “I swear, I never carry the keys with me.”

  “Then, where are they?”

  “Sa-Samuel has them.”

  Sam lived in the very same building as Daniel, the place he had resided in since Artair was a tyke.

  “And do you have any idea where he lives?” Joaquin said, rehearsing his line.

  Joaquin suspected Artair would not risk his life to protect Sam’s. When he dawdled, Joaquin clicked the hammer back.

  “Yes!” he shouted, holding up his hands. “Oh, God, please don’t shoot me! Yes, I know where he lives!”

  Joaquin grabbed Artair’s arm and shoved him toward the exit. “Let’s go for a ride, eh?”

  He escorted his hostage out and brought him to the rear of the building where the horses waited. Artair offered little resistance and mounted up.

  “If you try calling for help, I’ll shoot you in the gut,” Joaquin warned.

  They rode side by side, passing very few travelers. With a gun aimed at his side, Artair stayed quiet the entire time.

  They headed straight to Stoney Lane, near Ladypool Road, and entered Sam’s apartment building. They came to Sam’s flat and stopped.

  “Knock,” Joaquin commanded.

  Artair breathed in deeply and rapped on the door. His heavily applied cologne stung Joaquin’s eyes.

  “Who is it?” came Sam’s voice from within his apartment.

  “It . . . it’s me, Samuel. Artair.”

  “Artair?” Sam said with confusion while a lock clicked on the other side. “What on earth are you doing here, my boy?”

  Joaquin wasn’t looking forward to what he needed to do next. When the door opened, Joaquin shoved Artair forward, forcing Sam to retreat into his flat.

  “What’s going on here?” the clockmaker demanded.

  Once they had crossed the threshold, Joaquin kicked the door shut. He held onto the collar of Artair’s jacket and kept the muzzle pressed to the base of his skull. Tilly sat at a table with a draughts board game sitting in front of her. She stood, pretending to look mystified.

  Sam was bewildered. “Jake? What are you doing?”

  “Over there, old man,” he instructed, pointing with his pistol. “C’mon, move it!”

  Sam stared at him with shock as he moved to the table.

  Tilly then recited her lines. “What do you want?”

  “The keys,” Joaquin demanded, shoving Artair forward to get closer to Sam.

  “What keys?” Sam queried.

  “The ones to the room upstairs above the workshop, you old fool. Give them here.”

  “Just give him the keys, Samuel,” Artair pleaded fearfully. “He’ll kill us all!”

  Sam’s expression stiffened. “No, he won’t. I don’t believe he has it in him.”

  In the event Sam put up a fight, Tilly was assigned to be the tipping point. Joaquin turned the gun on her and thumbed back the hammer.

  “Do you wish to test me?” he challenged.

  Tilly put on a good show. When she spoke, he almost believed she actually thought he’d shoot her.

  “No, please,” she sobbed. “Please, I am not ready to die!”

  “One,” Joaquin counted.

  “Oh, God!” Tilly cried.

  “Bastard,” Sam seethed. “Daniel has the keys, damn you! He closed up the shop tonight, remember?”

  “He did?” Joaquin said, acting dumb. “Where does he live?”

  “Upstairs,” Tilly blurted out. “Apartment 34.” She slapped her hands over her mouth as if it was the fear that drove her to talk. “Oh, no. What have I done?”

  “Thank you,” Joaquin said, pushing Artair down into a chair. “Sit, both of you.”

  As they did, Joaquin holstered his pistol and brought out the chloroform bottle and the same rag he had used on Jones. He tilted the bottle over it and came at Sam first. He stood behind him where he could keep an eye on Artair and pressed the cloth over Sam’s mouth and nose. He held him without hurting the clockmaker as he struggled. When his body went slack, Joaquin adjusted him in the chair to prevent him from falling out of it, and then he approached Tilly.

  “Stay still!” Joaquin shouted at Artair, taking out his pistol and aiming it right at his face.

  Instinctively, the git threw his hands over his head and twisted away. Joaquin knew he’d do so. He needed to keep him from seeing what was coming next in case it wasn’t believable enough. Joaquin pretended to subdue Tilly with the chloroform. She performed the ruse of a struggle before dropping to the floor.

  He yanked Artair up off the chair by the arm. “Let’s go.”

  They stepped out into the hallway, up a flight of stairs, and knocked on Door 34.

  “For the last time, Tilly,” came Daniel’s voice as the door opened, “I’m tired and don’t want to play draughts.”

  When he answered, Joaquin pointed the gun at his face.

  “Move back,” he demanded while standing behind Artair.

  Daniel did so with hands raised. “Whoa, now. What’s all this then, eh?”

  Joaquin shoved his real hostage forward. Artair caught himself before he fell. He seemed to be on the verge of collapsing with fright.

  “Give me the keys to the workshop.”

  “Y-yeah, sure,” the Irishman stammered, pointing to a coat rack standing in the corner. “They’re in me jacket pocket over there.”

  “Retrieve them,” Joaquin demanded of Artair.

  As the trembling man did so, Daniel eyed him hatefully. “So you’re a thief, eh? Thought there was something not right about you, you feckin’ savage. I hope they catch and hang you until your bleedin’ head pops off!”

  This was what they had rehearsed over at Tilly’s place. Joaquin swung the gun, hitting nothing but air. Daniel dropped all the same. From where Artair stood, he only saw Joaquin from behind. A single blow to the noggin did not usually render someone completely unconscious, but, most likely, the git wouldn’t be aware of that.

  Joaquin turned to Artair in time to see him standing with the keys rattling in his shaky hand.

  “Oh, good, you found them,” Joaquin said. “Let’s go to the workshop, shall we?”

  * * *

  Luca and Giles were passing the time with a game of darts in the backroom of a pub when Luca got a bull’s eye on the octopus-decorated board.

  “Huzzah!” he exclaimed with exuberance. “That’s game.”

  “I hate playing this with you,” Giles grumbled, handing shillings over to his opponent. “You’re too bloody good.”

  “Then stop playing me at it.” Just before Luca was about to take a victory drink, Giles’s eyes grew very wide. “What is it?” Luca asked.

  “It’s the fuckin’ British Guardians,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

  Those words sucked years out of Luca, and when he looked, another two more decades fled. Four British Guardians had entered the tavern, wearing their official gold pins on their coat lapels. They also wore them on their vests.

  Giles followed the hunters with his eyes as they approached the bar and started asking customers questions. “How did they find us?”

  “It must have been those highway robbery bits we pulled.”

  “Maybe they’re not after us,” Giles offered naïvely.

  “Of course, they’re after us, you nitwit. C’mon, we’ll slip out the back.”

  * * *

  At the workshop, Joaquin had Artair open the vault. The man shook so badly Joaquin almost feared he’d forget the combination.

  “Please don’t kill me,” Artair pleaded as he pulled on the spoke.

  Joaquin simply covered Artair’s face with the rag drenched in chl
oroform and held it there until he passed out. He loaded the currency into his rucksack and departed.

  “Never have I seen so much loot spread out before me,” Daniel said, standing beside Tilly’s kitchen table.

  “The total comes to forty-five thousand,” Joaquin reported. “And some change. I’ll be taking my share of twenty-five thousand. The rest is yours to divide amongst yourselves.”

  “Why do you get such a chunk?” Daniel contended.

  “Danny,” Tilly snapped. “Ten thousand is plenty for you and me.”

  “Indeed,” Joaquin agreed. “Tilly, can I have the box now?”

  Tilly owned a strongbox she had found in an antique store. The original lock had been replaced with a decorative one that required a key shaped like a dragonfly.

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said, taking it from her. “Remember what we discussed. You’re the victims and must keep up your act as victims. Work at the workshop until it closes down, and refrain from doing any lavish spending.” He put the twenty-five thousand into the strongbox. “I need to leave. Good luck to you both.”

  “Jake,” Tilly said. “Thank you.”

  The corner of his mouth rose. “Call me Joaquin. That’s my real name.”

  “Wait,” Daniel cut in, “your name isn’t Jake? Have you been planning to rob the workshop from the start?”

  “Yup,” he admitted gaily. “Cheerio.”

  Joaquin had a final stop to make before collecting his mates at the hotel.

  Sam’s apartment had remained unlocked, and so, Joaquin slipped in quietly. No one was about. The old clockmaker must have regained consciousness and perhaps left to fetch the police. He crept over to where the board game still sat and placed a money sack beside it, as well as the folder. He slowly spun away when a click froze him in place.

  “Hold it,” Sam ordered. “Turn around.”

  Joaquin raised his hands and gradually faced him. Sam stood in the doorway of the kitchen, holding an old flintlock rifle on him.

  “What are you doing here, Jake?”

  “Easy now. I mean no harm.”

  The clockmaker approached, forcing him to back away.

  “What’s this?” he demanded, referring to the money sack and folder.

  “It’s yours,” Joaquin stated.

  Sam was downright gobsmacked.

  “What do you mean mine? Is this stolen from the workshop?” He again advanced with the gun, narrowing the space between the barrel and Joaquin’s chest. “I am no thief like you. I don’t want this.”

  “Gibby Clacher wanted you to have it,” Joaquin quickly explained.

  Sam tilted his head sideways. “Come again?”

  “His will explains it all. Look.”

  Sam focused on the folder. With a vigilant eye, he flipped it open. Joaquin had placed the document on top of the other papers so it would be the first thing Sam saw. As Sam read the last will and testament of his late friend, his body slumped.

  “I can’t believe it. He bequeathed fifteen thousand pounds to me?”

  “He did, indeed,” Joaquin explained, keeping his hands up. “Apparently, his son discovered the will and drew up a new one for the lawyer.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  Joaquin snorted. “What’s unbelievable is that the dolt didn’t destroy the original document.”

  The shock hadn’t completely disappeared, but it subsided enough to pull Sam back into focus. “Then it was all an act? You coming here, threatening to hurt Tilly and me? Who are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. That money is yours by right, Sam. Enjoy it.” He lowered his hands. “I’m leaving. If you wish to stop me, you’ll have to shoot me.”

  Sam kept the gun on him while Joaquin backed up. Eventually, he slid his eyes off Sam and nervously showed his back to him. He left the flat, closing the door behind him. In the hall, he exhaled the air he had been holding inside his chest.

  When Joaquin reached the hotel, he learned the dreaded news.

  “They’re here?”

  “Aye,” Luca confirmed. “We need to clear out—now!”

  They mounted up and fled Birmingham, heading north for Nottingham. With the British Guardians pursuing them, Joaquin had decided it was best to stash his bounty somewhere safe. In a day’s time, the British Guardians caught up to them and Luca was seized. He disclosed Joaquin’s whereabouts and informed them about the funds Joaquin planned to hide. Luca managed to escape and find his leader. He explained to him what had happened. Joaquin, on his own, had already hidden the eight thousand pounds stored inside the strongbox at the Major Oak Tree in Sherwood Forest. After Luca arrived, they took the remaining two thousand and buried themselves underground.

  Before the workshop was scheduled to close, Joaquin mailed the dragonfly key off to Tilly for safekeeping, along with a letter explaining everything. He promised to return to collect it whenever possible.

  * * *

  Tilly Lincoln remained in Birmingham after the shop closed. She bought a brand-new sewing machine and created her clothing designs inside her flat. Daniel returned to Ireland and opened his own woodcarving workshop.

  Joaquin and his gang remained underground until the loot ran dry. They resurfaced only to run into trouble with Tarquin Norwich at the Pagan Tree-Dressing Church.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Amsterdam

  The chill prompted Rupert to come around. He lifted his eyelids and noticed he was no longer in the same place. Instead of being in the grove of bent trees and noisy birds, he was lying on a prickly thorn bush with tiny thorns digging into his skin.

  “How did I end up out here?”

  He had his suspicions. He’d been aware of those forest-dwelling bastards for years, yet he had never encountered one. Perhaps, if he survived, he would return and burn the goddamn forest down. For now, he had other things to worry about.

  The pain came next. A sharp agony thumped mercilessly through his severed wrist and pulsated up his arm to the base of his skull. He had been lying on his arm, which had helped slow the bleeding. Sharp pains lanced his jaw like electricity where his tooth had been, the taste of blood still thick on his tongue. He had no idea how long he’d been lying there, but he needed to tend to the wound before the blood loss did him in. He staggered out of the thorn brush, cutting himself in many places as he did. Once he clambered out, he stood on weak legs and pulled off his coat to wrap around the bleeding limb. Everything spun as he rose. Not enough blood was left in his body to keep him warm, and he shivered uncontrollably. When he spied the town of Koudhoorn nearby, he half expected it to be a hallucination.

  Without his horse to carry him, Rupert slowly closed in on the town. He asked some of the gawking townspeople where he might find a blacksmith, his swollen mouth making it somewhat difficult to speak. Someone directed him to a metal craftsman workshop. When he finally located the metalsmith, Rupert was as pale as a ghost, and close to becoming one.

  The workshop doors were wide open where the craftsman was hammering away on a scythe blade upon the anvil inside. His entire armory was filled with all sorts of metal art and sculptures, as well as common items used on a daily basis.

  “Wat is dit?” the metalsmith demanded, lifting his work goggles from his eyes.

  The searing hot metal was exactly what Rupert sought. He staggered toward him and collapsed to his knees. He unwrapped the blood-soaked coat and held up his severed limb.

  “Cauterize it,” he ordered in Dutch.

  The man stood gaping at the bloody mess before him, utterly taken aback.

  “Do it, or I’ll die!” Rupert shouted.

  The direness in his tone forced the metalsmith to focus on the situation. He waved over a pair of bystanders who’d been watching since Rupert stumbled in.

  “Hold him.”

  The men stood apprehensively.

  “Hurry!” the blacksmith bellowed. “Put his arm down on the anvil.”

  They stepped into the workshop and grabbed Rupert. A man with a stron
g grasp, seized Rupert’s wounded arm and pinned it firmly to the anvil. He groaned loudly through clenched teeth as the metal craftsman slipped the goggles down over his eyes and set the scythe blade to the flame, burning it even hotter. Smoke plumed when he lifted it. The glowing red steel reflected in the craftsman’s goggles like the fiery portholes leading into hell itself. The fuming scarlet blade matched Rupert’s mood. He vowed that if he ever found Pierce Landcross again, he would string him up and dismember him piece by piece. His vow grew even more sincere when the hellfire heat pressed against his wound, sealing the flesh closed. Rupert’s whole body roasted from the inside out, evaporating the chill that had clung to him. His screams could be heard throughout the town. Sweat poured from each pore, but he felt none of it. When, at last, the blacksmith lifted the blade away, Rupert’s world blackened.

  “Go fetch the physician,” the metalsmith ordered just before all went dark.

  * * *

  Although Pierce wanted to stay the night by the brook, he thought it wise to continue moving. He and Taisia rode their horses abreast of each as they traveled through the forest, smiling and laughing for no particular reason. Pierce was in a state of pure bliss. Making love to Taisia was absolutely the best experience he had ever had. Nothing compared to how he felt when being with her in that sensual way.

  He reached over and pulled a leaf from her hair. They both had several leaves and twigs stuck in their hair, and that also got them laughing.

  Night closed in fast, and the forest melted into one large shadow. Pierce decided it was safe to make camp. He didn’t expect the bounty hunter to come after them unarmed, without a horse, and with a severed hand. For all he knew, the cocker had died out there.

  Once the fire was stoked, he and Taisia sat on a blanket and ate the food leftover from the tavern. Afterward, Taisia rested herself against him, and together, they listened to the crackling of the fire.

  “How did you get this?” she whispered as her hand slid under his shirt and over the branding scar on his chest.

  The ointment Fan had given him had healed it good and proper, and it was no longer tender to the touch.