D. Jackson - Dead Man's reach

Reg sat back in his chair and nodded, a look of relief on his lined face.

I see. Thank you.

The door to the tavern opened, and a man stepped inside. Every person in the Dowser turned to look at him.

“Richardson and Wilmot have been before Justices Ruddock, Pemberton, Dana, and Quincy,” the man said, his voice carrying through the great room. “They’ve been sent to the gaol and will be tried before the superior court on the thirteenth of March.”

“We don’ need the court!” someone shouted back. “We all seen what they done. They should be hanged, and good riddance to them!”

Others cheered this.

The man at the door shrugged. “That’s not for me to say. I’m only tellin’ you what’s happened.”

“What about the lad?” another voice called.

“I’ve no word on him. I’m sorry.”

He tipped his hat to Kannice, and left the tavern.

Ethan turned back to Reg. Is there anything else you wanted me to know?

Reg shook his head.

Very well. Thank you. I’ll be more attentive next time and I’ll try not to send you away before you’ve had your say.

A rare smile curved the ghost’s lips.

Dimitto te. I release you.

Reg faded from view, leaving Ethan to ponder the implications of what his spectral guide had seen. The pulse of a random spell could be dismissed as mere coincidence, even if it did come only moments before Richardson fired his musket. But if there had been a specter there, watching all that happened, waiting for the precise instant when a spell might do the most harm … that was a different matter.

He recalled Gordon’s sudden attack on Will Pryor the previous night, and the spell he and Mariz thought had preceded the assault. Were the two incidents related? Ethan didn’t see how they could be-one mattered only to himself and to Sephira Pryce. The other had implications for all of Boston. Once more he wondered if he and Mariz had imagined that pulse of power the night before.

On that thought, something else occurred to him. It seemed like folly, but before this night was through he might have no choice but to test his theory.

He had few ideas of how he might proceed, none of them very good. But he couldn’t sit there doing nothing. Making up his mind, he drained his tankard, stood, and walked to the table Diver shared with Deborah.

“May I join you?”

Diver looked up at him, but said nothing.

Deborah eyed her beau before indicating the chair between them. “Of course you may, Mister Kaille. Please, sit.”

Still Ethan waited, watching his friend. At last Diver offered a slight shrug, which Ethan took as an invitation.

He sat and, holding up his tankard, caught Kelf’s eye. “Can I buy you one?” he asked Diver.

“No, thank you.”

If Ethan needed further proof of the depth of Diver’s anger, here it was: He couldn’t remember the younger man ever refusing a free ale.

“I was there today,” he said. “I saw Christopher Seider get shot.”

“I thought you might have.” Diver didn’t face him, but at least he replied. “I knew that they were going to be at Lillie’s shop, and I know that you’re working for him.”

Ethan’s anger flared. Diver had known that there would be a mob on Middle Street, and he had given him no warning. He held his tongue, knowing that no good would come of another confrontation. But something in his chest tightened. Once he had been Diver’s closest friend; now, apparently, Diver felt greater loyalty to the Sons of Liberty than to him.

“I have been working for him. I don’t know if I can anymore.”

At these words, Diver met his gaze.

“Truly?”

“He made excuses for Richardson; he said the boy deserved what he got.” Ethan cringed. “How can I take his money after that?”

Diver leaned forward. “You can’t,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve to have you working for him, Ethan.” It was the nicest thing Diver had said to him in months.

Kelf arrived with Ethan’s ale and glanced first at Diver and then at Ethan. “It’s nice to see the two of you chattin’ so amiably,” he said, the words a great jumble.

A smile crossed Diver’s face, though it vanished as quickly as it had come. Once Kelf was gone he said, “I owe you an apology, Ethan. With all the fool things I’ve done over the years, and all the times I’ve made trouble for you-and you’ve always stuck by me. I shouldn’t have said all those things to you last night.”

“It’s all right,” Ethan said, waving away the apology. “I have to ask you, though-” He dropped his voice. “Do the Sons of Liberty ever use conjurers to help them with all they do?”

Diver fairly beamed. “You’re ready to join the cause?”

Ethan was too pleased by the civil turn their conversation had taken to disabuse Diver of the notion. Also, he didn’t think Diver would take well to being told that Ebenezer Richardson might have been the victim of a spell, and was not the villain so many thought him to be. “For now I’m asking out of nothing more than curiosity,” he said, hoping that he sounded coy rather than evasive. “Do they have access to spells?”

“Well, not that I know of, but I’m still new to the Sons. I’ve been to only a few meetings.”

“Of course.”

“But if you want me to ask-”

“No, that’s not necessary.”

“Right,” Diver said, grinning. He cast a look at Deborah. “Our friend here has had dealings with Samuel Adams himself. You don’t need my help talking to them, do you, Ethan?”

“At some point I might, and I’ll be sure to let you know when that time comes.” He sipped his ale.

Diver did the same, clearly pleased.

An instant later, though, the Dowser’s door opened again and a different man stepped inside.

“He’s dead,” this man said, his voice forlorn. “Chris Seider’s dead.”

Ethan placed his tankard on the table and closed his eyes, a dull pain in his heart.

“God grant him rest,” came a voice from near the bar.

“To Chris Seider,” another man said. “May he rest in peace.”

“Chris Seider,” the other patrons answered, the lad’s name resonating like a spell through the tavern.

Ethan opened his eyes again. Deborah was crying. Diver had walked around the table to where she sat and put his arm around her shoulders. Ethan searched the tavern and soon spotted Kannice near the bar; she was already looking his way. Her cheeks were dry, but he could see grief in her lovely eyes.

He stood with a scrape of his chair legs on the tavern’s wooden floor, and picked up his hat off the table.

“Where are you going?” Diver asked.

“There’s something I need to look into. I told you, I was on the street today when Richardson shot him, and while I was there … well, it’s hard to explain.”

Diver’s face fell. “You’re not going to try to prove that he didn’t do it, are you? I know that you protect people when they’re innocent and all, but this-”

“He did it, Diver. I saw him pull the trigger. I could no more prove Ebenezer Richardson innocent than I could teach him how to fly.”

“Good,” Diver said. “I want to see him swing for this.”

Kannice was not happy to see him leaving, but he assured her that he would be back before long, and that he would try to explain where he had gone and why.

Leaving the warmth of the tavern, he found the icy street hushed save for the tolling of several church bells around the city-no doubt a tribute to the fallen lad. He had feared that a new mob might take to the lanes upon hearing the news of Christopher Seider’s death, but for now at least, all remained quiet. A pall had fallen over Boston.