Dead Man's Reach (7 page)

“Aye, he would. I've just seen it.”

Ethan pulled the door open.

“Where are you going now?”

“I'm done here for today. I'm going to the Dowsing Rod for an ale.”

“I hired you! You leave when I tell you to!”

“No, sir. I leave when I'm good and ready. You pay me by the day. You can have this morning for free. The afternoon is mine.”

“But that mob—”

Ethan wanted to put as much distance between himself and this shop as he could. But he read genuine fear in Lillie's round face and so paused on the threshold.

“They no longer care where your goods come from. Not today they don't. I don't know what they'll do to Mister Richardson; I meant what I said before: I don't care a whit about him. But I believe that you and your shop are safe, at least until tomorrow. Go home, Mister Lillie.”

Ethan swept out of the shop and pulled the door closed with a bang, intending to make his way back to Sudbury Street and Kannice's tavern. But the mob had worked itself into a frenzy once more, and Ethan could guess why. He squeezed through the throng until he had a clear view of the Richardson house.

The customs man, and the other gentleman who had entered the house and brandished a musket alongside him, stood together near the doorway. Young toughs gripped their arms so that they couldn't escape. Another man held the muskets, and yet another held a cutlass; Ethan didn't know where he had gotten it. Richardson and his companion had been beaten. Their faces bore cuts and bruises, and their clothing was torn and bloodstained. The mob shouted obscenities at them. One man held aloft a rope that had been tied into a noose. Seeing this, the crowd cheered. Richardson and his friend were borne down to the street none too gently and dragged toward a post, which the fellow with the rope was already turning into a makeshift gallows.

Without giving much thought to what he was saying, Ethan had told Lillie that he hoped Richardson would be killed. Now, with that outcome seeming likely, he had second thoughts. Hanging the villain in the street would only confirm for Lillie and other Tories that the crowd was made up of ruffians and bloodthirsty miscreants.

Apparently, he was not the only person on Middle Street thinking this way. Another man stepped forward from the crowd and approached the would-be hangman. He was tall, broad-shouldered. Ethan recognized him as one of the leaders of the mob, and thought he might have seen him on other occasions when men took to the streets to make their case against the importers.

This gentleman and the hangman conversed for several moments; their exchange appeared, at least from a distance, to be most congenial. At last the hangman pulled down his rope and shook hands with the tall man. Many in the crowd jeered.

Soon enough, however, the mob found another means to make sport with Richardson and his friend. They bound the two men's hands and then began to drag them through the lane, while men and boys in the throng kicked and beat the prisoners and pelted them with stones and refuse.

Ethan wondered if the two would have been better off with ropes around their necks. Rather than remain there and watch, he walked southward along Middle Street, away from the revelers and back over Mill Creek. By the time he reached the Dowsing Rod, he could no longer hear the crowd, though the church bell still pealed in the distance.

When Ethan entered the Dowser, Kannice and Kelf were at the bar, she polishing the wood, he drying tankards. A few British soldiers sat at tables, drinking ales and eating oysters, but otherwise the tavern was empty.

Kannice smiled at the sight of him. “You're here early.”

A couple of the soldiers swiveled in their chairs to see who had come, but after regarding Ethan for a few seconds, they went back to their meals.

“Aye,” Ethan said, crossing to the bar. “My work's done for today.”

She frowned. “Done? I don't understand.”

“I left. I had no interest in collecting this day's wage.”

Her frown deepened.

“I thought you'd be pleased,” Ethan said, his voice falsely bright. “We haven't passed a day together in weeks.”

She knew him too well.

“I don't like the sound of this. What's happened, Ethan?”

He glanced at Kelf, who filled a tankard and placed it in front of him. “My thanks, Kelf.” He took a long pull, draining most of the cup's contents.

“Ethan?”

“There was a mob there today. I think they planned to make an example of Lillie, as they have some of the other importers in recent days. But then Ebenezer Richardson showed up. He tried to bring down some signs they'd put up, and before long the mob turned their ire on him. One thing led to another and … and he fired a musket into the crowd.”

“May the Lord have mercy,” Kannice whispered.

Ethan shook his head. “If only. He shot a boy. I doubt the lad will last the night.”

“And Richardson?” Kelf asked.

“He's being dragged through the streets as we speak. I'm not sure he'll see the morrow either.”

Kannice canted her head to the side, her brow furrowed as she searched his eyes. “And Lillie sent you away?”

“No. As I said, I left. He was more worried about Richardson than the lad; he said the boy probably deserved what he got. I should have quit on the spot, told him I wouldn't be coming back.” He looked away. “Some would say I should have done that some time ago. But all I did was leave. I suppose I'll be going back in the morning. I'm not sure what that makes me.”

“What will you tell him when you go back?” Kannice asked.

Ethan sighed. “I don't know.” He couldn't bring himself to look at her. “I know what you'd like me to do.”

“You have to decide what you want, Ethan. You need the money; I understand that.”

“Aye, but now there are other considerations.”

Lillie had been paying him fifteen shillings a day, which, while not a fortune, was more than enough to keep him fed and housed. As much as he wanted to end their arrangement, he wasn't sure that he could afford to take so drastic a step. Besides, in all his years as a thieftaker, he had never abandoned an inquiry or stopped working for a client before his job was done. He was known to be reliable as well as honest and competent. He didn't wish to mar this well-earned reputation.

But could he bring himself to work for the man after all that had passed this morning?

“No one would blame you if you quit,” Kannice said, reading the doubt on his face.

“Lillie would. And so would his friends.”

“You don't have to work for them. There are other jobs. Even if you give up this one, you won't be idle for long.” A smile crossed her lips. “And while you're looking for a new employer, you and I could make up for lost time.”

“I'll be in the back,” Kelf said, stomping into the kitchen, his ears bright red.

“So you'd be willing to take me back if I stopped working for Lillie?”

Kannice's expression turned serious. “I've been ready to take you back all along, Ethan. You're the one who wouldn't stay.”

“I was waiting for an invitation.”

“And I was waiting for some indication that you wanted one.”

He gave a small, mirthless laugh. Kannice took his hand, and laced her fingers through his.

“Let me get you some bread and chowder. I'd wager every coin in my till that you haven't eaten a bite today.”

“You'd win that wager.” He fished in his pocket for a half shilling.

“Ethan, don't.”

“I'm not so desperate that I can't pay for my supper. Not yet at least.”

She glared at him, trying with only some success to look stern. At length she relented and held out her hand. “Very well.”

He gave her the coin and she started back into the kitchen to get his meal. But then she halted and faced him once more.

“Do you know the boy's name?” she asked.

“No. But I have a feeling we all will before long.”

*   *   *

Christopher Seider.

He was the son of a German laborer. And he was eleven years old.

The other young man who had been shot was Samuel Gore, the son of a captain in the colonial militia.

Word of the shootings spread through the city like smoke from a fire, until by nightfall no one was speaking of anything else. Gore was expected to recover, although Dr. Joseph Warren, who had treated the young man, said that he might never regain the full use of his hand.

Seider's condition was far more grave. He was alive still, though only barely. Several doctors, including Warren, had tried to remove the shot from his lung, but none had succeeded. Most said it was merely a matter of time before the lad died.

Kannice's tavern filled up as it always did, but on this night her patrons were unusually subdued. They ate and they drank, but conversations were spoken in hushed voices. Ethan heard not a thread of laughter.

Diver and Deborah came in and walked to a table a good distance from Ethan's. Diver wouldn't even look at him. Ethan considered joining them and telling Diver that he had decided he would no longer work for Lillie. But he was still wavering on what he should do come the morning, and he wasn't convinced that Diver would care even if he did choose to terminate his arrangement with the merchant. He had been working for Lillie this morning, when Christopher Seider was shot. Nothing else mattered.

Instead, Ethan sat alone, sipping an ale. Like every person in the Dowser, he awaited news of the boy's condition, looking toward the door each time it opened. But again and again he was disappointed.

As he sat, he turned over the morning's events in his mind, sifting through his memory of what had been said and done. And so it was that at last he recalled something that should have been foremost in his mind.

“
Veni ad me,
” he whispered. Come to me.

Uncle Reg winked into view in the chair across the table from him, his eyes burning as bright as brands. He had balled one of his glowing hands into a tight fist; with the other hand he gestured wildly. Ethan had no idea what he was trying to convey, but he didn't think he had ever seen the ghost more angry.

Calm down.
Ethan said this in his mind. No one who wasn't a conjurer could see Reg, and Ethan didn't wish to draw the attention of every person in the Dowser by appearing to speak to himself.
You're angry with me. Because you didn't want me to dismiss you earlier today?

Reg threw his arms wide. Ethan knew that if he were capable of speech, he would have berated him.

I'm sorry. I was thinking about the boy and nothing else.

The specter's expression softened. He offered a curt nod, and then opened his hands: a questioning gesture.

There's been no word yet, but I fear the worst. You wished to tell me something?

Another nod.

You felt a conjuring a short while before Richardson fired into the crowd. I did, too. At the time, you couldn't say where it came from. Do you know now?

Reg shook his head.

Do you know what kind of spell it was?

No.

So then it's possible that the conjuring had nothing do with what happened on Middle Street.

Reg did not respond at first. After a few seconds he gave a slow shake of his head. He tapped his chest with his fingers and then made a sweeping motion with his hand.

You believe the spell was related to the shooting of the Seider boy. I understand that much. But the rest …
Ethan shrugged.
I'm sorry. Sometimes I really wish you could speak.

The ghost nodded at that.

Were there other conjurers there today? Did you sense that anyone was casting spells on the street?

No.

Is there a conjuring I can try that would—

Reg held up a hand, forestalling Ethan's question. He tapped his chest again.

“You,” Ethan whispered.

Reg nodded. He made that same sweeping gesture again.

Ethan shook his head. “I don't—”

The ghost frowned and rubbed a hand over his face. After considering the matter, he placed an open hand to his brow and swiveled his head, as if he were searching for something.

You were looking around. On Middle Street?

A nod. He pointed to his chest again, then to his eyes, and once more to his chest.

I don't—
A chill passed through Ethan, making him shudder. “My God,” he said under his breath.
You were looking around, and you saw a ghost, a spectral guide, a being like you.

Reg nodded with great enthusiasm.

A ghost,
Ethan said within his mind, wanting to be clear on exactly what Reg was telling him.
Not an illusion spell.

Reg tapped his chest again, more emphatically this time. A ghost.

Ethan's heart had started to labor. “Was it one you had seen before?”

A man seated at an adjacent table glanced Ethan's way, his expression a blend of dismay and alarm. At that moment, Ethan didn't care who heard his question or what they thought of him speaking to himself.

“Was it Nate Ramsey's guide?”

Nate Ramsey was the merchant captain and conjurer who, during the previous summer, had nearly managed to kill Ethan, as well as Mariz and Ethan's friend Tarijanna Windcatcher. He did kill Gavin Black, another friend and an accomplished conjurer in his own right. The captain had raised an army of shades by desecrating graves throughout the city, and had come within a hairsbreadth of rendering powerless every conjurer in Boston except himself.

During their final confrontation on Drake's Wharf, Ramsey set a warehouse ablaze and appeared to perish in the conflagration. But though Sheriff Greenleaf had men of the watch search through the rubble, no one ever found the captain's body. To this day, the possible implication of that fruitless search haunted Ethan's dreams, and lurked in the back of his mind during his waking hours.