Allie Pleiter - Masked by Moonlight

How could he not?

Matthew took four huge strides, readying the whip as he went. Silently, staying in the building’s shadow, he lifted his arm. Set up. Turn. He sent the long arc of leather hissing through the air, to crack angrily half a foot to the right of the boy’s captor. The knife was too close to the lad’s throat to chance it, but the crack had the effect needed. As the burly man yelped and flinched, Matthew sent his whip out again, this time around the small bag.

He gave a precise yank, sending the purse sailing into the air to land a few feet in front of him.

“What the…?” The other man spun in Matthew’s direction, his own blade raised. At least the lad knew enough to bolt out of his captor’s grasp the second he flinched.

Matthew drew a breath to hiss something threatening when his brain cautioned him to stay silent. His British accent would give him away in a heartbeat. Or at least make him easier to identify. Instead, he sank as far into the shadow as he could and pulled the whip back a third time. This time it wrapped around the legs of the second man and pulled him down on top of his companion.

Why didn’t the boy run to safety? Matthew remembered the bag. He considered throwing it to the lad, but that would force him to step into the light again, and the men were already scrambling to their feet. When Matthew noticed the pair lacked guns or holsters—a rare but fortunate circumstance—he calmly drew the revolver from his side. The unmistakable click of the hammer stopped them cold. He let the silver tip of the gun catch the moonlight, and the pair promptly fled, disappearing around the corner.

Exhaling, Matthew holstered the gun and picked up the bag. The boy stood gaping at him with wide eyes. Matthew tossed the bag to the lad, who was too busy straining to see into the shadows to catch it.

There was a long pause. Matthew held his tongue, but finally nudged the purse with his foot.

“Oh. Uh-huh.” Still staring, the boy crouched down and groped for it.

Matthew forced himself to focus on coiling his whip. When he looked up, the child was gone.

Then, just as he turned back toward his box, Matthew heard it—the long wail of a running boy calling, “Thanks, mister!”

If Georgia Waterhouse was going to save the world one child at a time, someone had beaten her to it.

At least as far as the scrappy newsboy before her was concerned. Snapped from the very jaws of death, to hear him tell it. And tell it he had. He was on his fourth rendition of the morning, the pertinent details growing with every repetition as they sat in the Grace House Mission hallway.

“I thought you said he had one whip last time, Quinn. Now he’s wielding two.” Georgia smiled and put down the package of clothes she was wrapping. She knelt in front of the boy, tight as they were for space as they moved packages from the hallway into the mission linen closet.

She handed the boy a shirt to hold. “You know, Quinn, this is a pretty tall tale. Men don’t just appear out of the shadows with whips and guns in the middle of the night to save boys.” She knit her brows together as she reached behind her for another garment. “And what was it you were doing out so late, in any case? Did anyone know where you were?”

He shot her a look that said she didn’t know anything. “Everyone knew,” he said, with the whine of someone who felt he was stating the obvious. “I always run back to Uncle Hugh with the coins from the newsstand.”

“At three in the morning?” Georgia pivoted around to pack up the shirts she held with the ones she took back from Quinn. The mission was running out of storage space. Again.

“No, most times it’s closer to two.”

She sighed. The fact that ten-year-old newsboys were ferrying money through back alleys at three in the morning was exactly why God had asked her to save the world—or at least San Francisco’s corner of it—here through Grace House Mission.

“You know, Quinn, it’d be easy to make up a tale that some man saved you and your money from those robbers, especially if you thought people might admire you if you did. God—and I—would rather you tell the truth.”

“I am telling the truth. God knows that, anyhow!”

Georgia pointed to another pile of clothes and switched tactics. “Hand me those, will you, please? I’m simply saying that it’s all right to make up stories. I do it all the time. But passing them off as real is another thing altogether.”

Quinn’s eyes took on a nasty edge. “I knew no one’d believe me.” He threw the pile onto the hallway floor. “Prob’ly not even God, and He should know better.” Disgusted, he tore off around the corner, leaving the clothes scattered on the floor behind him.

Georgia heard Reverend Bauers call out down the hall as he dodged out of Quinn’s angry path. The clergyman appeared at Georgia’s side a second later, looking down the hall after Quinn’s exit.

“Told you the tale of his midnight hero, has he?”

Georgia gathered up the clothing. “Four times. It got more heroic with every telling.”

Bauers chuckled. “How many whips in your version?” He was a jovial soul of solid German stock, and Georgia was very fond of him and the work he’d done here at Grace House. The struggling “South of the Slot” neighborhood—named for its position south of the cable car line—was far better off for his efforts.

“I stopped him at two.”

“It got to the point where I thought our hero would resort to cannon fire in my set of renditions,” he grunted as he bent his considerable frame to gather the last of the shirts. “Oh well, I can’t say as I blame the boy.”

Georgia eyed him. “Telling lies?”

“More like exaggerating, I’d say. I believe someone got Quinn out of a scrape last night. Whether or not he wielded a trunkful of weaponry, I am not so sure. But boys need heroes, and San Francisco is in painfully short supply.”

“Georgia, you always get these kinds of ideas after you’ve been to Grace House.”

Georgia stared at her brother. They sat talking over breakfast in the family dining room. The sun had overpowered the morning fog, to produce a victorious wash of bright light. Unlike the estate’s massive formal dining hall, this was a warm and comfortable room. Georgia had seen to its welcoming palette of honey-colored wood, gold and tan wallpaper, with a few hints of green and burgundy in various accents. She loved that the petit point chair cushions were their late mother’s needlework. That the impressive gold candlesticks and clock on the fireplace mantel had been a favorite of their late father’s. Even though they were long gone, this dining room was one of the places she most felt her parents’ presence. Perhaps that’s why she had chosen to launch her extraordinary plan over breakfast here.

“That place has cost me thousands of dollars in your brand of philanthropy. They’ve got you hoodwinked,” her brother was saying.

Georgia gathered strength from the room around her and silently held her ground. Or, as she liked to think of it, she held ground for God.

Stuart finally looked up from his paper. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.” With one hand she instinctively gripped the cushioned arm of her chair, as if her mother’s needlework would support her cause.

“Peach, I can’t just run something like that in the Herald,” said her brother, who often called her Peach, especially when being difficult. “You know that.”

“You run whatever you please in that paper, Stuart. Facts or no facts.” Georgia knew she had him there. Stuart Waterhouse ran a highly successful but highly disreputable paper.

“Peach,” he moaned at her display of determination, “be reasonable. We’ve already had a Black Bandit Bart. People aren’t going to believe that some man with the same name as that stagecoach robber has suddenly sprung up to play the noble hero. They aren’t going to believe it at all. It’s fiction.”