FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 15]

[splix]

Title: The Need of Comrades
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice: kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.
Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.






*

Sean let the elevator glide past four and five. The next floor was the last. He yanked on the lever just before six and the car shuddered to a halt. He set it into motion again, and it dropped downward, taking his stomach with it. Despite the little lamp set into a top corner, the car felt dark and close, and his heart raced faster. He stopped it at RC, unlatched the gate, and pushed aside the pocket door. He'd miscalculated about a foot and a half; clearly he'd never make a living as an elevator operator. He leapt down and almost collided with a well-dressed couple, who regarded him with astonishment.

"What the devil? Where's the operator?" the man questioned indignantly.

Sean saw the operator at the other end of the lobby. "There," he said, and pushed past them, making for the door at a sprint. The old man and his nurse were still beside the window, dressed identically to the night before, as if they hadn't moved at all.

"Hey! Hey you! Come back here!"

Seeing them reminded Sean that he'd lost an entire day. A day! Anything could have happened in a day. He pushed open the brass and glass door, glad there was no doorman on duty, and ran through the now-deserted public square toward the river. The city was familiar to him, and there were a hundred places to hide, but he hadn't time. He stopped at the corner of Market and Franklin, gasping for breath. Distant shouts echoed from the square, and a police whistle shrilled alarmingly close.

He was a fool! He hadn't a plan for rescuing Viggo, nor the slightest notion of where he might be. There wasn't a soul on the face of the earth who'd be willing to help him, except maybe for Gavin, and he didn't want to make Gavin responsible for aiding him. Gavin had a family to think about, and Sean had nothing but coppers on his tail, Viggo's margin notes, and the missing carpet. And every minute that ticked by meant that Viggo's life was in the balance. How in the name of God was he to piece it all together?

There wasn't time for dithering. The detectives had a horse and buggy, and they'd be combing the streets for him. Suddenly he remembered Viggo's car; it was kept in the carriage house, and if Sean could break the lock and wear Viggo's cap and duster, no one would recognize him at night. He'd go to McGerrity's. Someone there would know where Harry lived. He'd beat Viggo's whereabouts out of the bastard if it took him all night.

Fleetly, he ran the three blocks to Viggo's house on Franklin Street, thankful for the darkness. The detectives wouldn't come here first, would they? A single lamp burned in the front room; otherwise the house appeared deserted. He hurtled over the low iron fence and darted toward the carriage house. Unsteady from his long run, he breathed hard as he examined the lock, an ordinary padlock in a steel shell.

Sean glanced toward the house. Would it be easier to break in and steal the keys, or try to worry the rusty hinges off the door? He didn't know how to pick a lock, and the image of the keys, neatly sorted in a small wooden key cabinet in the kitchen, floated before him temptingly. If there was no one about, it would be a matter of moments. He prayed the house was empty, or that the servants had gone to sleep.

He stole back to the house and stood beneath the pantry window. It was partially open, but the window was a good six feet up from the ground, just a bit taller than he was, and the sill was narrow, nothing to grab hold of. Standing back, he put his hands on his hips and scrutinized the problem.

"And just what do you think you're doing?"

Sean wheeled abruptly, simultaneously uttering an undignified squawk of surprise. Not five feet away was the hulking silhouette of Viggo's valet, Pearce. He must have been lounging in the summerhouse. Sean took a wary step back. "I – I were just –"

"Oh, good Jesus. It's you. Are you soft, boyo, or what?"

The amused contempt in the big man's voice incensed Sean beyond his fear. "I've come to borrow Viggo's motor car."

"Is that right? Just going to borrow it. Going to make a quick getaway, is that it?" Pearce took a step closer. "You know Mr. and Mrs. Mortensen are offering a reward for your capture."

Sean saw a dark object in Pearce's hand and stepped back. "I'm going to find him."

"Right. And he's here in Wilkes-Barre, I suppose."

"He is! He's here, and Harry Slater's got him hid hereabouts."

"His mam and dad say he's in Philadelphia somewhere. And like I told you yesterday, he hasn't been home. So where could he be?"

"But he did come home," Sean said. "I know he did." He explained about the margin notes and missing carpet without hope. Nobody else believed him – why should Pearce?

Pearce stood still for a moment, then lifted the dark shape in his hand and tilted it to his mouth. Sean smelled beer. Pearce wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's not 'til tomorrow that the lassie cleans," he murmured.

Sean looked up at Pearce, monolithic in the starlight. He wanted to cry, but he was too exhausted and despondent for tears. "I don't understand."

"Come on." Pearce grasped Sean unceremoniously by the arm and hauled him across the flagstone walk. He steered Sean toward the kitchen stairs and went inside. It was cool within; an electric fan sent the fragrance of peach pie across the room. "Sit down and don't move a bleeding finger," he said, switching on the light and pointing to a chair. He set his bottle of beer on the table and strode out of the kitchen. Sean heard his heavy tread on the steps a moment later.

Sean waited. Contrary to Pearce's admonitions, he got up and went to the icebox. He lifted the cover from a dish and saw rosy slices of ham. He stole one, stuffing it hastily into his mouth. He sat again and took a surreptitious swig from Pearce's beer, soothing the plaintive sensations in his belly.

Pearce's footsteps boomed back down the staircase. He opened the swinging door and paused, staring uncertainly at Sean.

"What?"

Pearce stepped into the kitchen, holding a valise. "This was in his bedroom." Cautiously, he set it on the table and opened it, revealing shirts and stockings stuffed in haphazardly. "No trunk."

Sean rose to his feet. "I told you. I bleeding told you that yesterday. And nobody believed me. Don't you tidy the frigging room, by Christ?"

"Noreen tidies the room. She's been in Carbondale for the weekend, visiting her family."

Sean snatched the valise from Pearce's hand. "Now do you believe me?"

Pearce examined Sean's face. "I don't know."

"I only want to find Viggo," Sean said. "That's all. I don't know where he is…."

"You say someone's holding him somewhere here?"

"Aye, Harry Slater. But I don't know where."

Pearce picked up his beer. "It would have to be somewhere far off, I'd say. Unless he's got him locked up in his root cellar."

"Not the root cellar. McClure had a look this morning." Sean thought of the moor where Freddy had been found. That was certainly far off. No one would have heard Freddy's screams. He shuddered. The carpet. Harry had rolled him up in the carpet and taken him…where? Somewhere out of the city and yet close enough to keep an eye on him, somewhere Viggo couldn't be easily detected. Somewhere secret.

He clapped a hand to his mouth. "Oh, Christ."

"What?"

Sean tried to swallow against a suddenly dry throat and failed. "The colliery. Of course he did. He's taken Viggo to the mine, right under our bloody noses. It's been closed for days, and if he went at night, nobody would have seen him…bloody, buggery hell." Fear lurched in his stomach. "You've got to summon the police there."

"What, now? It's turned nine. They'll laugh."

"You've got to. I…." The thought of going down there, in the pitch black, hundreds of feet under the earth, made him want to heave up the ham and beer he'd consumed. Was that why he hadn't thought of it right away? Had his own cowardice assured the loss of Viggo's life? He looked down at his hand and saw it shaking at the mere thought of being closed up. He pressed his palm to his chest and felt the rapid skittering of his heart. Coward.

"I can't," he whispered. He looked at Pearce. He couldn't ask him to go down in his stead and possibly risk his life, nor could he rely on the police to believe him. Even if he showed them the valise, would they believe him? Or would they lock Sean up and ignore his pleas, or search the mine at their leisure, if at all?

No. If Viggo's abduction was Sean's fault, then saving Viggo's life was his responsibility.

"I'll go with you," Pearce said.

Sean considered it. Pearce's size and strength would be handy in a scuffle. But if Sean discovered Harry there, he wanted no witnesses to what would happen. And no matter Pearce's might, he couldn't do a thing to assuage Sean's nonsensical fears of close spaces. "Nay. You go to the coppers. There might be more than a few men in on this scheme, and we'll need all the help we can get." That was a plausible enough lie. "Will you lend me the car?"

Pearce went to the pantry and opened the key cabinet. He took a key from its hook and held it up. "Come on, Sassenagh. I'll crank it for you."

Sean followed the big man out of the house. He'd thank him later, if he survived.

*

He stopped the car a few hundred feet from the Lynwood colliery entrance and walked the rest of the way. The silent breaker was a vast sloping tower blotting out the stars and the indigo sky behind it. Gripping the heavy wrench he'd taken from the Daimler's tool kit in one sweat-slippery hand, he stole toward the gate.

A thrill of surety traveled down Sean's spine. The lock was hanging open. Harry still had his key, then – either he hadn't turned it in when he'd been sacked, or he'd had it duplicated beforehand. Had he been planning this for weeks? Months? Sean transferred the wrench to his other hand and wiped his sweating palm on his trousers as he moved through the yard. It was as quiet as on any ordinary Sunday night, but he was certain it wasn't deserted.

Lamps first, four or five of them, and a wheelbarrow to carry them, he decided. The storage shed on the west side of the breaker was locked, but Gavin kept a set of keys in his office, and Sean still had his keys to the place. He was thankful King hadn't demanded them a few days ago. He might be able to manage the descent well enough if he had plenty of light.

With swift steps he went to the office and slid the key in the lock. The door opened silently, Sean crossed the threshold, and stopped with a gasp at the sight of Tom Gwynnett, softly illuminated by an old Davy lamp, dozing in Gavin's chair. He stumbled back a step, and the wrench hit the doorknob with a noisy clang.

Tom came awake with a snort. He squinted past the light of the Davy lamp. "Who's that?"

Sean hurled himself across the desk and swung out with the wrench. He heard it connect with solid flesh, followed by a grunt of pain. Tom stumbled up, and Sean caught him around his thick waist, dragging him to the ground and straddling his knees. Tom flailed out with his fists, catching Sean in the temple. Blinking hard, Sean swung the wrench against Tom's swinging hand and heard bones snap like the crunch of breaking pretzels. Fierce, hot exhilaration surged through him, and he brought the wrench down against Tom's throat with both hands and pressed down hard. "Not so tough when it's just one on one, are you? Bloody ox."

Tom scrabbled uselessly at Sean's hands. A panicked cawing noise escaped his throat.

Sean bore down with grim implacability. A moment more and he'd be out. Just as Tom's eyes rolled backward and his tongue began to protrude, Sean let go. He scrambled off the prone body and snatched up a coil of dynamite fuse. He rolled Tom onto his belly, and quickly and methodically bound his hands and feet with the cord. He wound the end of the cord around the radiator, tied Tom's ankles to the leg of the desk, then locked the office door and sat on the desk, waiting for Tom to regain consciousness.

Tom coughed weakly, curling inward. He thrashed a bit, moaned, and then made a feeble attempt to sit up. Hampered by the cord tethering him to the desk, he could only raise himself up a few inches. "You son of a bitch," he rasped. "You almost killed me."

"Shut up," Sean said. "Where’s Harry? Is he down the pit?" Tom refused to answer. Sean stepped over Tom and put his foot close to the broken hand. "Where is he?"

"I don't know."

Gently, Sean put his toe on Tom's hand. Tom howled. "Where is he, you stupid arse?"

"He's gone to Philadelphia!" Tom wailed. "Get off my fucking hand!"

"You're frigging lucky I didn't break every finger. So what are you doing here on a Sunday night, Tommy?"

Another series of coughs wracked Tom's frame. He spat blood. "Why should I tell you?"

"Because if you don't, I'm going to beat you to death."

"Yeah? Go ahead. Try it."

"You've got Viggo Mortensen down that pit. I want you to tell me where he is." Tom spit at Sean and missed. He tried again, and Sean deftly stepped out of the way. "You oughtn't to spit upwards, Tom. It usually hits you back in the face."

"Go fuck yourself, nancy boy. Harry told me all about you."

"Oh aye, I'll bet he did," Sean snorted. "The police are on their way, and it might make the difference between life in prison and a reward for bringing Harry to justice if you told me now."

"Yeah, I'll just bet the cops are coming," Tom sneered. "Why should they believe you? Everyone thinks you're to blame. It's all over town."

Sean laughed softly, but there was no mirth in the sound. "God didn't bless you with brains, did He? Did Harry tell you that somebody once paid me to kill him?"

"He told me," Tom said. "He said you couldn't go through with it. Chicken-hearted little fuck."

"I'm not going to make that mistake twice."

Tom was silent a moment. He looked up into Sean's face and then away.

"Why are you protecting him? He doesn't give a tinker's damn about you, you know. He's going to toss you away like yesterday's rubbish when he can't use you any longer. Already has, like as not. Did he leave you to guard Viggo?"

"Nancy boy," Tom taunted.

Sean brought the wrench down hard on Tom's knee. Tom let out a wail and thrashed like an eel. "That were a lot easier than I thought it would be. Want another one, you bastard?"

Tom sobbed. "It wasn't my fault! I didn't want to leave him down there!"

"Where?" Sean seized a fistful of Tom's hair and yanked hard. "Where is he?" Tom didn't answer, and Sean slammed the wrench down again. Tom shrieked like a firebell. "Where?"

"Larkspur Path!"

Sean's heart twisted. Larkspur Path was the newest tunnel in the mine, and the furthest away from the surface. It ran alongside the river about three miles from the beginning of the slope. And Viggo had been there since Friday. Three days in the dank blackness. Sean grasped one of Tom's broken fingers and squeezed it. Tom screamed. "Is he hurt? Answer me, you bastard."

"He – he – we tied him to a timber, that's all! We didn't hurt him!"

"You'd better tell me you gave him food and water."

"We did! We did!" Tom bawled.

"You're a bloody liar. Harry wouldn't give him owt, would he? Never mind." Sean reinforced the knot that tethered Gwynnett to the desk. "If Viggo's unharmed, I might let you go. If I find you've hurt him, God help you." He went to the cabinet that held the mine schematics and found the newest map in short order. Larkspur Path was no more than a penciled heading in Gavin's neatly printed hand. He opened the desk drawer where the keys were kept. "Where are the keys?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't take them?"

Tom looked away. "No."

"Now why don't I believe you? Does Harry have them?"

"No. I don't know where they are."

"I'll have to break the shed lock." Sean slammed the desk drawer shut and strode to the door. He paused and turned on his heel. "Did Harry promise to split the ransom with you?"

"Yeah," Tom muttered.

"You poor, stupid sod. You'll never see him again. Don't you know that?" Tom closed his eyes and refused to answer. Sean turned away, filled with equal measures of pity and scorn. Harry spared no one, not even his own accomplices, but Tom Gwynnett was no longer his problem. Justice would deal with him. Sean was only sorry he couldn't deal with Harry himself.

*

Fifteen minutes later, he stood in the cool night air at the mouth of the slope, staring down into pitch blackness. His hands on the barrow were cold and clammy, and the four carbide lamps did little to dispel the darkness. It would be better in the tunnels, he told himself. The light would be concentrated, illuminating the broad gangway. There would be plenty of air, adequate light.

Sean bent over the wheelbarrow and then sank to his knees. He couldn't be having an attack already – he hadn't even ventured a foot inside. "Coward, coward," he whispered. Sweat ran into his eyes, blinding him. He scrubbed it out viciously. Viggo was down there, waiting for someone to help him, and he was kneeling in the dirt, too afraid to walk down a simple path.

He staggered to his feet and turned on the lamp attached to the soft cap he'd filched from Gavin's office. Settling the cap on his head, he took a few dragging steps forward, pushing the barrow with its cargo of lights, an axe, a sharp knife, and a shovel. The ordinary noises of the night had been absorbed by the unsteady pounding of his heartbeat. It thudded in his ears and sent nauseating reverberations through his fluttering stomach. He wanted to be sick.

"Quit stalling and go in!" The sound of his own voice frightened him enough to move forward. He eased the wheel of the barrow over the track and walked down its center. If he stayed on the track, all would be well. It was so far, though. So far to walk.

The darkness seemed to swallow him up immediately and tighten around him. He reached down and angled the lamps slightly toward the walls. Better; they shone off the cold, slick stone on either side of him. If the passage could accommodate cars full of one-ton loads of coal, it could certainly fit him and his foolish little wheelbarrow. He gulped against a throat that felt like sandpaper and kept moving down the slope.

There was no means of measurement along the gangway to mark his progress. He refused to look behind him, to see the star-filled sky disappearing from sight. He refused to glance from side to side, or to think the walls had grown closer together. The air became cooler, and he breathed it in deeply, smelling damp stone and the odor of mules growing stronger as he moved deeper into the mine. The stables would be coming up on the right. They'd all been moved to pasture when the mine had closed. He found himself wishing for one as company. As stubborn as they were, they were surefooted and unafraid of the dark, and even one would have been a better companion than most humans.

Sean trundled the barrow along with one hand and fished his watch from his pocket. Seven minutes past ten. How long would it take him to get to Larkspur Path? He could walk a mile easily in thirty minutes, he reckoned, but pushing the barrow along the track was a woolly bit of business, and he knew he was walking more slowly than usual at any rate. It would be faster to take the lift down, but he couldn't operate it on his own, and wouldn't go down that shaft again if Harry Slater suddenly came up behind him and put a pistol to his head. The three mile journey, then, might take him two hours, maybe as much as three if he didn't take a wrong turn and go wandering about for a while.

His heart larruped along in his chest, and he licked dry lips that tasted like coal dust. If he fainted now, he'd slow himself up. And he wouldn't get lost. He'd memorized the route, and besides, he had the map right in his pocket, next to his watch. He patted it, reassured at the crinkling noise it made.

There were the stables. Sean looked forlornly at the empty stalls. A few rats scurried to and fro, nibbling at the leftover tufts of hay scattered across the floor. He'd come perhaps six hundred feet. That wasn't so bad. The ground beneath him seemed to incline more sharply than before. Increasing his pace, he moved with surer strides. Not bad at all.

He reached the mine office, the only whitewashed chamber in the entire network of rooms and passages. A pegboard hung next to the office door, filled with identification tags. On an ordinary day, the board would be cluttered with the wooden tags that held the names of the miners written on one side, their location on the other. Now it was empty, the tags likely in a heap on the foreman's desk. On the other side of the door was the fire boss's slate. Chalked on it was the notation Gas ck A. Uncofsky 20 Jul, indicating that the mine was free of poisonous gas.

Just past the office was the first set of chutes, the corridors branching off the main gangway. Three hastily painted signs hung above each tunnel: Apple Grove, Rosemary, Brandywine Hill. He turned the barrow under the Brandywine Hill sign. This corridor led to Larkspur Path, and it was closer to the river. The smell of damp rock grew stronger as the odor of mules fell away, and the tunnel was narrower. Sean's stomach lurched, and his steps slowed. The lamps seemed to dim, and suddenly their presence ratcheted up his fear rather than soothing it. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, feeling grit and sweat under his palm. The bumping scrape of the hard barrow wheel along the track set his teeth on edge.

"It's nowt," he said aloud, and his voice bounced against the walls, mocking him, nowt, nowt, nowt, and disappearing. He flinched and stifled the sudden yelp that rose in his throat. That might sound too much like a scream, and the echoes of a scream might drive him mad. He wanted to turn and flee, run up the slope, wait for the police. He could easily tell them where Viggo was, and they could go down equipped with ropes and lights and all sorts of things to make the job simple.

No. He would press on if it killed him. And it just might, he reflected with bitter amusement. The police might find him dead of apoplexy, clutching the barrow handles with stiffening fingers.

He came to the door that forced the air into the chambers. The fans were still on, to prevent the buildup of explosive gases. That, at least was a relief; Viggo wouldn't suffocate down here. He pulled the door open and pushed the barrow through. The door banged shut behind him with a great whoosh of air. He gritted his teeth. He wasn't shut in. There was plenty of air.

Something skittered past his feet – a rat in search of food. He thought of the stories his dad had told his mam when they thought he wasn't listening – that the rats knew the mines better than the men. They could tell when the roof overhead was cracking, or when there was gas in the tunnels; when danger was imminent, they scurried up the slopes in droves, and the miners followed. It was bad luck to kill a rat, even the bold ones who stole food right out of a man's dinner pail, or who attacked the mules that kicked or bit at them. The humble rat was the miner's friend and ally.

Sean watched the flames from the carbide lamps flickering against the shining walls as he passed the monkeyheads, the smaller chambers. He'd made sure their carbide and water reserves were full. A full lamp would last a miner far longer than his ordinary ten-hour shift. He wouldn't be down here that long.

A shiver rippled up his spine. It was far colder down here than the surface – about fifty degrees all year long. Viggo would be uncomfortable, for surely Harry hadn't given him blankets, but he wouldn't freeze to death, thank God. To have endured three days in the chilly, damp darkness, tied to a beam – if their positions had been reversed and Sean had been the one Harry had kidnapped, he'd have gone mad. Viggo would have found him a gibbering idiot. But Viggo had a quiet courage and deep reserves of strength; he'd be all right. God help Harry if he wasn't.

A sharp crack sounded to his left. He jumped and couldn't prevent a hissing gasp. A gust of cold air seemed to push past him. He dropped the barrow and stumbled backward. The lights danced and shimmered.

"Settling," Sean muttered, softly enough so that his voice wouldn't echo. "Just settling." He dropped into a low crouch and rested his head on the rim of the wheelbarrow. Icy sweat trickled down his back and into his eyes. He wiped at them, dimly aware that he was crying. "Quit your blubbering, you stupid sod," he whispered. Cautiously, he righted the fallen lamp. "It'll be all right. Viggo's waiting. Get your arse moving."

But try as he might, he couldn't stand. His legs wouldn't support his weight. He was kneeling in a puddle of cold water, but it didn't matter. I can't, he wailed silently. I can't, I can't! He'd die down here, alone and afraid. It was worse than when he'd gone down the shaft with Viggo, even worse than the first time he'd plunged into the pit as a boy, weeping and clinging to his father. Then, he'd had his father's steadfast calm, a safe harbor for the battered little boat that had been his heart. His father had dried his tears and held him gently. Now here he was, twenty-three years old and still weeping like a bairn. I can't, I can't.

The police would come soon enough.

And what if they didn't come? What if they hadn't believed Pearce, or waited until morning? How long could a man go without food or water? Viggo had been down in this hole for three days. Sean wasn't fool enough to believe that Harry was compassionate enough to give him food or water. No, he'd make Viggo suffer. He'd come back, perhaps, without Tom dogging his steps, and –

Helpless, trembling rage surmounted his fear. Oh, God, no.

For the first time he permitted himself to contemplate the unthinkable. Harry was brutal. Why would he leave Viggo alive, if there was the slightest chance that he'd be apprehended? What would stop him from doing what he'd done to Freddy? If that had happened, Sean would simply surrender the last of his reason. Or he would kill himself – there was no point in living a life that was one long, endless road of pain that took him nowhere and gained him nothing.

Even as he contemplated that last, his spirit revolted against it. He wouldn't kill himself. He'd kill Harry, and he'd stop at nothing to do it. Nothing.

Anger finally gave him enough purpose to move. It was shameful, perhaps – Viggo would have been shocked at his murderous heart – but if the worst had happened, punishing Harry would be all Sean would have to live for. He rose on shaking legs, and gripped the barrow with chilled, slippery hands.

Pray he's alive, Harry. Else I'm going to cut your throat. I promise.

Blind instinct drove him forward, quickening his steps and making them sure and swift. He no longer paid attention to the creaks and groans surrounding him, nor did he look at the walls and feel them closing in. He watched the path ahead of him, certain that with each step he took, he was coming closer and closer to the most terrible discovery of his life.

The irregular patter of water droplets on the stone floor became heavier, and the incline was imperceptible here. He was as close to the river as the tunnels ran. Setting the barrow down, he pulled out the map and unfolded it. He was close. Another quarter mile, no more. He stuffed the map back into his pocket and moved faster. The carbide lamps burned steadily, shining on the black, gleaming veins of coal sandwiched in the rock.

There it was. A wooden sign hung above a chute. Larkspur Path.

Sean stifled the impulse to shout Viggo's name. He didn't want to hear his voice echoing through the corridors, and worse, he feared not getting a reply.

He walked with stealth and caution, listening carefully, but only heard the erratic dripping of water. He peered in each chamber, but found nothing. His confidence crumbled. What if Tom had led him astray? Why had he trusted him so easily? What if Harry were nearby, waiting to set off a charge of dynamite and entomb him –

"Bugger that!" he hissed. Viggo was here. He had to be. Sean renewed his grip on the barrow and moved on.

The end of the tunnel wasn't far. Despair threatened to overwhelm him. If he didn't find Viggo, then –

A rat scampered past his feet, then another, then another. Sean lifted one of the lamps. There were several rats crawling near one of the chambers about fifteen feet away. Sean's heart beat in his throat. He pushed the barrow closer, hearing an outraged squeal as one of the wheels ran over an errant tail. There was a rustling sound that increased in volume as he drew closer. Fearfully, he set the barrow down, kicking at a rat that ran over his shoe, took a lamp, and shone it into the chamber.

There were rats – dozens of them. And then, Sean saw the object of their attention, prone and motionless on the stone floor.

"No!" Nearly fainting with horror, he turned his face away, his hand clamped over his mouth. He was going to vomit. His eyes clouded with tears. "No, no…." A feeble motion caught the corner of his eye. Oh God, more?

He heard a soft noise, like a shallow intake of breath. Dreading what he might see, he turned.

Viggo sat bound to the supporting pillar. His head was bowed; lank hair fell forward, obscuring his face.

Sean rushed to him, dropping to his knees. The body nearby was forgotten. "Viggo, Viggo!" He swung his wrench at a rat that scuttled toward him. "Bastard. Sod off!"

He dashed tears from his eyes and reached out with gentle hands, lifting Viggo's head. "Oh, God." Viggo's face was dirty, his eyes closed. A wad of cloth was stuffed into his mouth and tied there. Carefully, Sean eased it out, hissing at the dried blood at the corners of Viggo's mouth and crusted on his swollen lips. Sean took the cap off his head and set it on the ground, angling the lamp up toward Viggo's face. He leaned forward and planted a kiss on the dirty, stubbled cheek. "I'll get you out of here. I'll get you out."

Viggo was so white beneath the grime, so still. His skin was cool and clammy to the touch. But he still breathed; he had made a sound, he had moved. Sean dashed into the corridor to the barrow and retrieved the knife. He came back, ready to cut the ropes, and cursed. It wasn't rope at all that bound Viggo, but copper wire.

Sean sat back on his heels. "Frigging bloody sodding bugger shite bastard!" He threw the knife against the closest wall, near a rat that squeaked in alarm and ran away. The knife bounced off the rock and landed nearby, hitting something with a metallic click. Sean turned to pick it up again and saw a set of snips. He glanced at the body in the corner – who was it? Surely not Harry? No, Harry's body was more solid. Unless the rats had –

"Enough," he said shakily, picking up the snips and swinging viciously at another bold rat who ventured too close to Viggo's bound ankles. "I told you to sod off!" He slipped the blade of the cutters under the wire and sliced through them carefully. "Won't be a moment," he said to Viggo's still form. "Hold on a bit." The wires fell away from Viggo's ankles, and Sean moved up to his knees. He worked quickly but prudently, taking care not to cut into sensitive flesh. When Viggo's legs were free, he cut the wire binding his waist and torso, then moved behind the wooden pillar and set a lamp close to Viggo's hands.

Dull brownish-red blood stained the pale, lax fingers, but Sean saw no bites. His stomach roiled as he realized the blood had come from Viggo's wrists. He had tried to wrest himself free and failed. Harry would pay for this.

Sean sliced into the wires with care, and after some time, they fell away. Viggo fell forward, and then slumped to the side. Sean scrambled to pick him up. "Viggo? Viggo, it's Sean. I'm going to get you out of here." Viggo stirred but didn't open his eyes. "Viggo? Wake up. Please wake up."

Viggo's eyes slitted open. They were red, sunken, the bones surrounding them oddly prominent. He didn't seem to recognize Sean at all. He made a soft noise in his throat.

Sean swiped angrily at his eyes. "It's all right. We'll get you to hospital, fix you up. Harry starved you, but we'll – come on, we'll go." He would have to carry him. He'd been absolutely daft to think that Viggo would be able to walk under his own power. "I'll have to put you in the barrow. I'm sorry." He took one of Viggo's hands in his.

Viggo let out a whimper of pain.

"Sorry, sorry." Sean laid the cold hand down. The pain in them must have been terrible. Or was it in his shoulders, from being tied for days? And it must have been days, with no relief – there was a stench of urine from Viggo's waterlogged trousers and a sick-sweet odor on his breath. "We've got to get you out of here. I've got to lift you. It's likely going to hurt, but I promise I'll –" Sean got his arms beneath Viggo's and rose with a grunt. Viggo moaned and lolled slackly against Sean. "Don't worry, don't worry, love. We'll be out of here in no time." He dragged Viggo out of the chamber, sparing a last puzzled glance to the body in the corner.

He cleared the barrow, holding Viggo tightly around the waist, then lowered him into it. Viggo's arms and legs sprawled outside, and another soft moan of pain came from Viggo's cracked lips. Sean folded Viggo's legs and arms into it as best he could. "There you are." He hung the carbide lamps from the handles and went back in for his cap.

When he came out, Viggo's eyes were open again. As he drew close, Viggo looked up at him, then cringed away, trying to hide from the light.

Sean winced in sympathy. Of course, Viggo would be night-sighted now, and the light would be torture. He took his cap off again and set it at the far end of the barrow, then knelt and brushed limp strands of hair from Viggo's face. So thin, the angles of his skull uncomfortably close to the surface. Three days of privation had done this? There wasn't hell enough for Harry to burn in. God help him if he'd made Viggo suffer in other ways – not that this wasn't bad enough. "Viggo, please – it's Sean."

"No," Viggo rasped. "No." His eyes stayed shut, and a dry sob shook his frame.

Sean rubbed his sleeve against his nose. Enough of this. Viggo could be dying, and here Sean was trying to have a bloody conversation with him. He got to his feet, put the cap back on, and gently swung the barrow round.

The journey to the surface was going to hurt Viggo. The track was bumpy. But it would be faster than trying to carry him. Sean set his aching teeth – had he been grinding them the whole time? He supposed he had – and began the slow climb to the top.

*

He nearly wept with relief as he saw a sliver of gold ahead of them. He tore off his cap and threw it aside. "We've made it, Viggo. You'll be all right." Viggo neither moved nor made a sound, but that no longer mattered – they had reached the surface. As he pushed the barrow up the steep incline, panting with exertion, the sliver of golden sky grew wider, revealing a band of pink fading into a dusky blue dotted with gilt-edged clouds. It was morning, blessed and beautiful morning. He put on a final burst of speed and shoved the barrow to the top of the slope. He fell to his knees, breathing hard. He laughed, though his laugh sounded high and strange in his ears, as if he were really weeping. "We've made it. It's all right now, all right."

"All right, son. Why don't you move away from the young man and let us take care of him."

Sean uttered a low cry of surprise and fell on his backside and hands. He blinked foolishly at the uniformed policemen surrounding him, each with a baton at the ready. "I found him."

"I can see that," one of the policemen said. "Now come on, we'll get him to the hospital."

Sean rose to his feet. He looked down at Viggo, still unconscious, curled up in the barrow. He looked even worse in the light of day. "He's starved. He needs water. I didn't want to give him any of that filthy water down the pit." He stopped himself in the act of reaching to stroke Viggo's face and focused on the policeman nearest him. "There's a body down below. I don't know who it is."

"Righto." One of the policemen motioned him away from the barrow.

"Be careful with him."

"We will." Quick as a striking snake, two of the uniformed men grasped Sean's arms and wrenched them behind his back. "Come on, you."

Too late, Sean realized the truth. "Wait! Wait! I went down there to find him, not –"

"Sean." Detective Thomas McClure stepped from behind the fire wagon beside the ventilation house. "Enough already."

Sean twisted violently in the policemen's grasp. "No! It weren't me, it –" A hard thud landed behind his ear, and he slumped forward. His vision greyed, then narrowed until a yawning tunnel of blackness surrounded him, like the entrance to the mine.

*


Viggo heard noises for a long time, but it was too much of an effort to open his eyes. Besides, what good would that do? He would only see blackness. He would die in the dark, and there was no point in struggling to see absolutely nothing. For one glorious and fleeting moment he thought he'd seen Sean, but that had been a dream. He turned onto his side and curled his knees up. That was more comfortable.

Comfortable? He kept his eyes shut. He was delirious. He'd succumbed to the horror of his plight at last. Now he was beyond pain and fear, and it was wonderful. Perhaps he was dying. No matter. He pushed his head deeper into the pillow, sighing in pleasure despite the rough linen that scratched against his face.

He opened his eyes, an exertion as they seemed glued shut, and saw an expanse of bleached linen. He stared at it, uncomprehending, for a long moment. Was he conscious or suffering from delusions? He moved his eyes and saw a clean expanse of wall, deep gold in the soft light of a hidden lamp, and stiff brown curtains moving in a slight breeze that stroked his cheek, soothing and cool.

"Where am I?"

The sound of his own voice frightened him, for it was weak and scarcely audible. But he was able to speak. He'd managed somehow to get that wretched rag out of his mouth. Thank God. He didn't want to shout any longer – it didn't matter if he shouted or not since he was utterly alone, and no one was coming to rescue him. Now he only wanted to sleep, and die quietly, with the last of his dignity. He wet his lips. What a luxury that was.

"Viggo?" A gentle hand fell on his shoulder.

Viggo started with a raspy cry. He turned over on his back. The motion made him dizzy, and he shut his eyes again. He'd become completely unbalanced, imagining touches, voices. God was unmerciful. Why wouldn’t He just let Viggo die? Numb, he waited for the maddening sound of dripping water.

The same gentle hand caressed his cheek. "Viggo. Darling."

Unwillingly, Viggo opened his eyes and saw his mother. She was as elegant as ever in a cornflower-blue suit and lacy shirtwaist, and her hair was in its usual flawless pompadour – no errant wrinkle or stray hair would ever dare to contradict Katherine Mortensen's studied perfection of dress and coiffure – but her posture was unnaturally rigid, and even in the dim light Viggo could see that her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying.

It was no dream, no hallucination. He would never dream of his stoic, implacable mother crying. "Mother?"

Katherine bit her lip and stroked Viggo's hair back from his brow. "Yes. It's all right now."

Viggo let his gaze drift. He saw a narrow table holding a jug of flowers, steam pipes painted white. "Where am I?"

"Mercy Hospital, in Wilkes-Barre."

"I'm free?"

Katherine blew her nose. "Yes. You're quite safe, dear. Quite safe."

Viggo closed his eyes again. He wanted to weep, but couldn't seem to produce tears. "Oh, God. How did I –" He tried to lift his hands, but they refused to oblige him.

"Hush. Hush. You mustn't excite yourself. The doctor says you need complete rest and quiet."

"What day is it?"

"It's Wednesday." Katherine consulted the little gold watch that was pinned to her lapel. "Three-fifteen in the morning. You've been unconscious for the better part of two –" She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, shut her eyes tightly for a moment, then coughed. "Two days," she finished.

With some difficulty, Viggo did the necessary mathematics. He'd been here for two days; that meant he'd been rescued on Monday. Friday to Monday in that dank hole. "How did I get here?"

Katherine straightened his bedclothes. "Terrible linens they have here. I should have brought something from home. The police brought you here on Monday morning. You did wake a few times, but you weren't yourself. The nurses managed to give you some beef tea and water."

"I'm famished." Viggo felt his eyes closing. He felt as if he could sleep for days. He was safe. It would be a wonderful thing when he could truly feel it.

"No solid food for a few days yet, the doctor said. Plenty of fluids, though." His mother's hand rested on his cheek again. "My poor boy."

Viggo forced his eyes open. "Are you in a hotel?"

"We're at the Sterling."

"I'm thirsty."

"Here." Katherine put a drinking straw to his lips. "Slowly, though."

The water was cool and delicious. Viggo sucked it up greedily, protesting when Katherine took it away. "Please –"

"Your stomach wants gentle stretching. Not too much at once, you'll become ill."

"All right." He curled up again. His knee hurt.

"Sleep now, Viggo."

Viggo nodded. "I will." Something nagged at him, though, and he couldn't relax. "I can't remember what it was."

"What, darling?"

"Oh…did they get him?"

"Yes." Katherine's voice was tight and grim. "They got him."

"Did you get the money back?"

"Not yet. Don't worry about that, Viggo. We have you back. That's all that matters." Her hand was on his brow, cool and smooth. "Sleep now."

"Where's Sean?" he wanted to ask, but he was too tired to form the question, and he knew his mother wouldn't approve. He closed his eyes, stretched his limbs, and fell into blissful, dreamless sleep.

*

When next Viggo awoke, the stiff brown curtains had been pulled back and sunlight was streaming into the room. He blinked and squinted, his eyes tearing. What a sight, though! He'd never hoped to see sunlight again. He moved to rub his eyes and found his hands swathed in bandages past the wrist. Odd; they seemed to have no feeling at all. He scrubbed clumsily at his eyes and pushed himself up on his elbows.

"Glory be, you're up."

Viggo turned toward the voice and saw Michael sitting in a chair beside the bed. A breviary lay open in his lap. "Michael." Viggo lay back and held one arm out.

Michael rose and gathered Viggo into his arms, hugging him fiercely. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he whispered, "you damn near frightened me to death. Stupid brat." He pulled back and held Viggo by the shoulders to examine him. Lightly, he struck Viggo upside the head. "There. That's for worrying me." His eyes wet, he thumped back into his chair and blew his nose with vigor. "Well, what have you to say for yourself?"

Viggo pondered a moment. "Sorry?" He grinned, and Michael laughed. Viggo winced at a pain in his mouth. "Good Lord. Everything hurts."

Michael turned and addressed a tiny nun who stood in the corner of the room, winding bandages. "Sister Patrick Eileen! A nice cup of tea for my dear brother, if you will, and God love you."

"I can hear you just fine, so," the nun sniffed. "No need to be after bellowing as if I were deaf as a stone." She dropped the bandages and marched out.

"Lovely lady," Michael said, adjusting his cassock over his knees. "She's been taking wonderful care of you, herself and the rest of the sisters too."

Viggo stretched. He saw he was wearing his silk dressing gown. "Did Mother collect this from my house?"

"I suppose. She hasn't slept much, you know. She wouldn't leave your side. I only convinced her to go home this morning after she'd extracted a promise from me not to abandon you. Father's here too, but –" Michael shrugged. "I think it unnerves him to see you so helpless."

"I'm not helpless, though. Not any longer." Viggo beamed, then frowned at his bandaged hands. "What's this, though?"

"Ah." Michael shifted and set his breviary on the table beside the bed, pushing aside a vase of drowsy pink peonies. "Well, you see…it seems that your hands have been…they were bound very tightly."

"And?"

Michael's gaze shifted to the floor. "Well. Apparently there was some damage done to the nerves."

A cold chill crept up Viggo's back. He sat up. His back gave a twinge of pain. "What does that mean?"

"Sit back, Viggo." Michael pressed him gently against the pillows. "It means that it may be some time before sensation returns. If…if at all."

Viggo tried to wriggle his fingers. He felt nothing, and saw nothing move beneath the layers of gauze. "Oh."

"The doctor is recommending that you visit a sanitarium in Ohio," Michael said. "There's a physician there who's performed truly astounding feats of healing on patients who have nerve damage. Viggo – you mustn't worry about it. It's early days yet, and there's no telling what will happen as you begin to heal."

"Will I walk?" Viggo asked in a whisper.

"Oh, yes." Michael pulled the covers back, revealing Viggo's bare feet. He slipped his hand under Viggo's heel, looked down at the bandages round the ankle, and scowled ferociously. Then he made a visible effort to brighten, grinning at Viggo and running a fingertip down his bare sole.

Viggo pulled his foot back, laughing. "It works."

"Told you."

"My knee?"

"Torn – ligaments or tendons or some such. Should heal nicely in a few weeks."

"What else?"

Michael's face clouded. "You were starved and deprived of water. Your kidneys are in a delicate state. You had a nasty bruise on your temple, and the doctor had to remove a back tooth. But your hands got the worst of it. And that's not so bad – you're lucky to be alive." He clenched his breviary in white-knuckled hands. "It was inhuman what was done to you. I'm harboring hatred in my soul, and it's going to take a deal of prayer and penance to rid myself of it."

"But they caught him."

Michael shook his head. "Viggo, I found it difficult to believe. He came to see me on Saturday. Came right into the confessional."

Bewildered, Viggo shook his head. "Harry Slater came to confession?"

"Harry Slater? No, Sean Bean."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Sean came to speak to me on Saturday. He said he was looking for you. The worst of it was that he sounded so sincere, and I believed him – whatever's the matter? Good Lord, you're white as a sheet. I'm getting the nurse."

"Michael." Dizziness swamped him for a moment. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows while the world righted itself around him. "Michael, Sean didn't have a thing to do with this. It was Harry Slater. I thought Mother said they caught him!"

"Was he Sean Bean' accomplice? They didn't catch the fellow who took the money at Broad Street Station. It was very clever, the way it was all set up. Right in the middle of two trains disgorging. Snatched the bag right out of Father's hand, and the police didn't see a thing. Still, that's the Philadelphia police department for you, they –"

"God damn it, haven't you listened to a word I've said?" Viggo pushed the covers back with one clumsy hand. "Where's Sean? Where is he?"

"Why, he's in jail. I hear they're going to send him back to England to hang for another murder. You don't really mean he's innocent? But Viggo, Viggo…." Michael's strong hand clamped on Viggo's shoulder, keeping him pinned to the bed. "He murdered the mine boss, Gavin Rowe. He attacked another fellow and left him tied up in the mine office. He only retrieved you because he knew you were close to dying."

"What other fellow?"

"I can't remember his name. Oh – Gwyneth, Gwynnett? Something like that."

"Oh, God." Viggo shoved Michael's hand off and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Sean's innocent, Michael. He saved my life." He remembered a flash of Sean's face now, hovering over his, tearful, creased with anxiety. "He dragged me out of that filthy hole, and they think he's the one who took me down there?"

The nun came in with a cup of tea. "Here, now – what's this? You've got to stay in bed, boyo. You're weak as a kitten, so."

Viggo scowled at the nun, then shifted his gaze back to Michael. "Michael, listen to me. You fetch the chief of police here this moment, or I swear before God and all the saints that I'll never speak to you again."

Michael lifted an eyebrow. "So he was telling the truth after all?"

The last of Viggo's energy was gone. He sank back against the pillows. "What did he say to you?"

"Sean? Ah, now, that was in confession. I can't be telling you a thing like that."

"Sean isn't a Catholic."

Michael winked. "I'll fetch the chief of police if you promise to lie there and be still."

"I promise. Now leave this instant." He watched Michael's departure and lifted his hands to his face. He pulled them away abruptly and stared at them. A shriveling hatred for Harry Slater burned in his heart. He'd got away with the money and left the blame to rest on Sean's head. And Sean would hang for rescuing him! It was pure insanity.

The little nun, Sister Patrick Eileen, interrupted his thoughts. "Drink this, boyo." She held the cup of tea close to his lips. He sipped gratefully. "Now then. He might be your brother, but he's a priest for all that, and it's respect you should be showing him, not sass."

"He's a lunkhead," Viggo replied, "and I'd thrash him if I had the strength."

"You boyos are all the same. Incorrigible."

"I suppose we are at that." Viggo drank more tea, wondering what Sean could have possibly said to Michael. And in confession, no less – it passed all understanding. He comforted himself with the thought that he'd find out from Sean himself, soon enough.


*


"Hey! Hey, Limey! Look at me! Hey, Limey! Over here!"

There were no windows in Sean's cell. His only view was of the cell opposite his and its occupant, Lawrence Walzer, a man who had been arrested for beating a bartender half to death in a tavern brawl. Walzer loudly protested his innocence whenever the guard came in to deliver their food or collect their waste pails, and when that proved futile, commanded Sean's attention by banging on the bars with his tin cup and talking nonstop. Sean had wearied of him after a day and had done his best to ignore him, but it was difficult to shut out all the banging and howling, especially as Walzer and Sean were the jail's only prisoners.

"Hey, Limey! What do English girls taste like?"

Sean turned on his side to face the wall. The straw-stuffed mattress of his bunk needed changing, he suspected the blanket had lice, and it was stained with Christ only knew what. He stared at a crude etching in the wall, a poorly done representation of a man with a gigantic penis penetrating a woman with stupendously large breasts. Surrounding this charming rendition was an eye-boggling variety of names, dates, declarations of innocence, declarations of love, rhymes, prayers, and obscenities. It was a disheartening sight, but less disheartening than Lawrence Walzer, who took every fleeting glance toward his cell as a gesture of camaraderie and an encouragement to babble. He was like a clockwork figure that never ran down.

"C'mon, Limey! You heard me. What do English girls taste like?"

"Sod off, you bastard."

"Oh, c'mon, Limey. What, are you too good to talk to me?"

"That's right," Sean snapped, sitting up on his bunk. "I'm too bloody good to talk to you. Now will you please shut your frigging gob?"

"Jesus!" Walzer's voice spiraled upward, injured and aggrieved. "Try to be friends with a fellow and he tells you to sod off! That's nice, you prick. See if I help you out once I get out of here. I've got lots of friends on the outside, you know. See if any of them help you, either. Limey prick."

Sean thumped back onto the mattress and covered his face with his hands. Another day of this and they wouldn't need to ship him back to England; he'd hang himself.

A nightstick tapped against the bars. "Bean!"

Wary, Sean sat up again, eyeing the blue-uniformed officer. A summons for him usually meant another long session of interrogation. He had been dragged out two or three times per day, taken to a bare little room, and manacled to a chair. There, two or three policemen and sometimes McClure and Hart would question him about his accomplices. The police had roughed him up a bit – nothing to put him in the infirmary, but a good blow or two to his midsection with a truncheon, enough to send his breath gusting from his body, and some hard slaps across the face. As time passed, the treatment became rougher as the police grew more frustrated. Soon, Sean thought, his continued insistence on Harry's guilt would wear their patience down completely, and they'd start breaking bones.

It was a minor miracle he hadn't been sent to England yet. It seemed the state attorney was petitioning with some ardor to keep Sean in Pennsylvania to be tried for murder, kidnapping, extortion, and criminal neglect. Maybe, Sean thought morosely, they'd try and hang him in Pennsylvania, then send his corpse to England to be tried, drawn, and quartered. They could probably hammer out some sort of agreement.

"Let's go," the guard ordered. "Chief Willoughby wants to see you."

Sean heaved himself to his feet and moved toward the bars. He faced the wall, ready to put his hands through the space where the guards manacled them before opening the door, but the guard shook his head.

"Never mind that. Come on."

That was an odd thing, but he didn't question it. There were likely seven or eight policemen on the other side of the door, waiting for him to try to make a break for freedom. He stepped into the corridor and allowed the guard to take his arm. They moved through the hall, their footsteps scraping on the filthy cement.

Lawrence Walzer watched the process in silence. As Sean and the guard neared the end of the hall, he began banging on the bars with his cup. "Hey! Let me out of here! I didn't do nothing! That son of a bitch had it coming! Why does that Limey always get to leave? Hey!"

The officer pushed Sean through the doorway and clanged the door mercifully shut on Walzer's hectoring shouts. He paused at another door, unlocked it, and gestured for Sean to precede him.

Sean peered through the door. It wasn't the bare box with its single chair bolted to the floor; the room was a brightly lit chamber with wood floors and white walls. At the far end was a man behind a desk – Willoughby, Sean presumed – wearing a police officer's uniform, though his tunic was embellished with more brass buttons and braid than an ordinary officer's. He was balding, with a few strands wetted down and plastered across his shiny scalp. Perhaps to compensate, he wore a luxuriantly curled and waxed mustache. Gold pince-nez perched on his red bulb of a nose.

"Go on," the guard said.

The wooden floor creaked with every cautious step Sean took. At last he came to a stop a few feet from the desk and waited. The officer was poring over some papers, his thick fingers sliding beneath each typed line as he read. Sean waited, staring up at a portrait of Theodore Roosevelt hanging on the wall behind the desk. It was a rather woeful representation of the President; he appeared to be cross-eyed, and seemed vexed or belligerent, as if challenging the viewer to summon the temerity to point out his malformation.

"Sean Bean, no middle initial?"

"That's right." After two days and nights of dreadful food and blows to the face and belly, he was in no mood to be polite.

Chief Willoughby glanced up and lifted one bushy black eyebrow. "You're free to go."

Sean gaped. "I…what?"

"I said you're free to go. It seems Mr. Mortensen has recovered his senses and has accused Harry Slater of abducting him and murdering Gavin Rowe."

"Viggo's awake?"

Willoughby peered over the top of his pince-nez. "Yes."

"He's all right, then? Where is he?"

"He's at Mercy Hospital at the moment, and well enough to accuse Slater and state that you were the one who rescued him. You're a very lucky man."

"Thank God," Sean whispered, clasping his hands together. "Thank God."

"Thank Him, or Mr. Mortensen. He argued quite vehemently on your behalf."

"I shouldn't bloody wonder. You probably didn't want to admit you had the wrong man."

Again Willoughby regarded him over the spectacles. "Mr. Hart and Mr. McClure left post-haste."

Sean snorted. "They're looking for Harry? Oh, aye. Good luck to them."

"We'll see. It's a question as to who will catch him first. Telegraphs are being sent to police along the rail lines even now. There will be a nationwide manhunt, I daresay." The police chief pulled distractedly at his earlobe. "Quite exciting."

"Harry's not stupid enough to let himself get caught. He got away with the money, didn't he?"

Willoughby reddened. "He'll be caught. I assure you of that. We're seeking his accomplice even now."

"I told you he were guilty."

"That will do," Willoughby replied shortly. "Officer Lernard, will you collect Mr. Bean' effects, please?"

The policeman behind Sean nodded and marched to a small door on the opposite side of the room, closing it after himself.

"You gave Harry a two-day start," Sean said to the chief. "He's as good as disappeared, he is. The courts back in England will probably want your head alongside his."

Willoughby gave Sean a tight smile. "I think, Mr. Bean, that you might consider your precarious situation before you spout your opinions quite so freely."

Sean chose not to reply. It was true that the police might feel justified in one more beating before releasing him. He watched Officer Lernard re-enter with his suitcases.

"If you'll just sign here, and here," Willoughby said. "We've inventoried the contents of your luggage, Mr. Bean. You're welcome to check it if you wish."

"Never mind," Sean said, snatching the pen and scrawling his signature. "Nothing worth stealing from it anyroad. Where can a fellow get a bath round here?"

"Try the YMCA." Willoughby retrieved his pen. "They have rooms for rent, also. Though I wouldn't encourage you to stay too long, Mr. Bean. People tend to talk – about all sorts of things, if you take my meaning. You might find yourself unwelcome after some time."

Sean hefted his bags. "Aye, I reckon that's true. God knows I've met my share of Nosy Parkers round here. Where's the door?" Lernard pointed toward a heavy, barred wooden door. Sean nodded, pivoted on his heel, and left without a backward glance. Gossips be damned – he was on his way.


tbc....