Firefly coup de grace, p.4
Firefly--Coup de Grâce, page 4
The front door was painted black, with a decent security system, customary mixture of the old and the new. A big brass door knocker in the shape of a stallion’s head with a horseshoe underneath, which Mal lifted and banged against the door. After a quick security scan, the door was opened by a young woman dressed as a maid.
“Captain Reynolds,” she said. “You’re expected. Come this way, please.”
Mal followed her, Zoë and Book close behind, into a square hallway filled incongruously with sacks. The maid led them through this maze and through a door on the right that led into a tasteful parlor. “Make yourselves comfortable,” said the maid. “I’ll tell Miss Annie you’re here.”
“Nice place,” said Book, when the maid left. “Poor girl, mind. Losing her father like that.” He eyed Mal. “You sure you want her along on this?”
“Like I said,” said Mal, “let’s be calm, mind our manners, find out whether she’ll be help or hindrance. We’ll do this our own way—in and out, quick as we can—but an extra pair of hands won’t do any harm.”
Mal took the opportunity to look around. Pleasant room, decked out in pale greens and yellows, windows looking out towards the street, catching the early morning sunshine. Couple of deep sofas, into one of which the Shepherd was already easing himself, and shelves full of the type of books been read for pleasure and not out of duty. Kind of place you’d like to spend time. Mal went across the mantelpiece, upon which stood a series of framed pictures. Baby pictures. One of a little girl, digging, and the same girl, a mite older, sittin’ on a pony lookin’ mighty pleased with herself. Man and woman, in wedding clothes, smiling out their happiness for the whole ’verse to see. Couple of other pictures of them, dressed more casual, in different places that looked to be the Core. If that was Isaac Roberts, he looked like a nice fella. Mal, sitting down in the other sofa, wondered where the woman was now.
He heard voices out in the corridor, and stood up again (might as well show their soon-to-be employer some courtesy). The door opened and Miss Anne Imelda Roberts came into the room. She looked much as she had done in her message: stern-faced and serious. Her left arm ended above the elbow.
“Tian xiao de!” exclaimed Malcolm Reynolds. “Kid’s only got one arm… I knew there was a catch!”
“Mal,” murmured Book. “Mind your manners.”
Probably good advice, thought Mal. Their employer—potential employer, he should say, and oh gŏu shĭ wasn’t he supposed to makin’ a good impression right now?—was looking at him like he was a complete yē sū tā mā de fool.
I pride myself on telling the truth, therefore I shall not hold back. My first impression of Captain Malcolm Reynolds was that he was exactly the fool Sheriff Peters had warned me about, indeed I might say somewhat more. You would think that anyone might assume that I am well aware of my appearance. You might also assume too that I would have no particular need to be told that I have lost my arm from a little above the elbow. And yet even so, out them words came from his fool mouth. A catch. I lifted my chin, stood up straight, and gave Captain Malcolm Reynolds a hard look. You can believe I have perfected this over the years, since there’s always someone ready to say somethin’ that does them no credit.
“Somethin’ the matter, Captain Reynolds?” I said. “Somethin’ you want to say to me?”
This man recommended by Sheriff Peters to find my daddy’s killer was a tall fellow, and he was wearing that old style of brown coat that used to be everywhere. You still see such here and there on Abel, particularly among them folks from the countryside whose farms have been failin’, and have come to Yell City in search of work. Why they would wear these coats has always been a puzzle to me. The Independents lost the war. So why would a fellow looking for work and seeking to make a good impression want to advertise that he was on the losing side? Some people put pride before good sense, and it’s been my observation that many of them wear brown coats. But we all know what they said about pride and how it comes before a fall. I myself was startin’ to think that perhaps I shoulda hired Moody Jones after all.
Captain Malcolm Reynolds’ mouth opened and closed and opened again. I was starting to wonder when I might hear anything come out, and I was thinking I’d settle for more of his foolishness if it meant this fellow to whom I was meant to payin’ a fine sum of money would start speakin’. At last, he said, “Ain’t nothing the matter, miss, but we might have to discuss some of the details of this job more before we, er, commit…”
A quiet voice intervened at that point; quiet, yes, but with authority.
“How ’bout we all sit down? Get to know each other a little better?”
This was from the man dressed like a shepherd. Book, I learned his name was, not long after. Ever hear of a team of bounty hunters travelling about with their own preacher? I’ve never heard of such, before or since. First impressions count for nothing, so they say, but in the case of Shepherd Book I do not believe I was wrong in my assessment. He struck me as a man of good sense and vast experience. Someone who knew how to smooth troubled waters, if the need arose. Must have been why Captain Reynolds brought him along.
“Shepherd…” said the captain.
“No harm in hearing more, Mal, you said that yourself,” replied the preacher. “Besides, think of that starboard catalyzer Kaylee’s off purchasin’ right now. They don’t grow on trees, you know.”
That didn’t make much sense to me, but seemed enough to stop Captain Reynolds from shootin’ off his mouth any further.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Roberts,” said the preacher, smiling. “Might we sit? Hear a little more of your story?”
“You might,” I said, and nodded towards the sofas. Shepherd Book, who had stood up when I entered the room, took the seat next to me. Nice manners, that fella. The woman that was with them sat on the other sofa. I recall my first impressions of her were of how tall she was, how easily she moved, with great confidence in herself, and an expression that gave little away. My instinct was to like her, and this instinct was borne out. Zoë Washburne, as her name turned out to be, was someone with their head screwed on right, and she had the measure of her captain, that was for sure.
As for Captain Malcolm Reynolds—he stood uneasily for a moment or two more, shifting from foot to foot, until Shepherd Book turned to him and said, in a voice so mild you might not catch the warning, “Take a seat, Mal. Let’s hear this young lady out.”
Whereupon the captain fell into the seat next to Zoë, shaking his head.
Book turned to me. “Let me say how sorry we are, Miss Roberts, to hear of your loss. Your father’s been in my prayers.”
“Thank you, preacher,” I said.
“It’s our understanding that you know who committed this crime—”
“Young Bill Fincher,” I said.
“And there’s no doubt in your mind about that?” said the Shepherd.
“Ain’t only in my mind,” said I. “More’n a dozen people saw him shoot my daddy. On the steps of his office. There ain’t no doubt.”
“I have to ask,” said the Shepherd. “Because we can’t be going after the wrong man.”
“You won’t be.”
“Do you know why he did it?” said Zoë.
“They say it was a quarrel went suddenly wrong,” I said.
“Happens,” said Zoë.
“Fincher ain’t the smartest,” said I. “Shoots before he thinks, and doesn’t always get round to thinking even so. That’s what they’re saying.”
“That young man may be regretting a split-second’s bad mistake,”observed the Shepherd. “This is a sad story, Miss Roberts.”
“If that were the case, then perhaps so, though I’d still want justice done. But I don’t believe this was spur of the moment. On the contrary. I believe he was sent to kill my daddy, by other men, and that’s what he done.”
I saw the three of them share a look. Shepherd Book sighed, and leaned back against the cushions. “Carry on, child,” he said. “Let’s hear this tale in full.”
“Fincher runs with a gang,” I explained. “The Collier gang. Causing a whole lot of trouble out in country. Times are hard out there right now, and folks can’t afford to be held to ransom.”
“We’ve taken out gangs like that before,” said Zoë. She turned to Mal. “You, me, Jayne—reckon we can send those boys packing.”
“We certainly can,” said Captain Reynolds. “But looking at Miss Roberts’ face there, I think we still ain’t had the full story.”
At least the fella was listening now. “Folks are saying this was all a misunderstanding,” I said. “That Daddy had the misfortune to say something to Bill Fincher that made him mad, and Fincher, being the worse for drink, shot him without forethought. But I know that ain’t true—it can’t be true! Someone paid Bill Fincher to go to Daddy’s office and shoot him dead. I don’t only want him hanged, I want the Collier gang hanged, and I want whoever paid those boys to murder my daddy to hang too. That’s the job, that’s why I’m payin’ so well, and I’ll be there to see it when you take Fincher.”
Well, I’d made my terms clear, and it was up to them to say yes or no.
“That’s a whole ’nother job from the one you laid out in your message,” said Reynolds. “That sounds more like you’re in need of an investigator, not a…”
“A bounty hunter?” I said.
“As good a name for what we’d do as any,” said the Shepherd, calmly.
“Miss Roberts,” said Zoë. “May I ask you a question?”
“Call me Annie,” I said. Yes, I liked her. “And please do.”
“Annie,” she said with a smile. “How’re you so sure there’s more behind this?”
“Daddy was a lawyer,” I said. “He had a big case coming and I think he got on the wrong side of some powerful folks. He… liked to take care of the underdog, you see.”
“Your daddy sounds like he was a good man,” said the Shepherd, softly.
“He was a gosh-darned fool,” I said, and maybe it was the Shepherd’s gentleness, or maybe simply that for the first time since my daddy died I felt like someone was listening to what I had to say, but the next thing I knew I was cryin’ away, like a babe in arms. And that good preacher man—a good shepherd if ever there was—laid one of his hands upon mine, and said, “That’s it, Annie. Let it all come out.”
Oh, but I cried on and on. The whole works, messy old tears they were. I heard the woman, Zoë, go to the door and call for Maisie. Soon enough there was tea, and we was all drinkin’ it (even Reynolds) and feelin’ a mite better. After a while, the Shepherd glanced round at his friends, and nodded.
“Well,” he said, “Miss Annie. We have taken up a great deal of your time this morning.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. “I’m glad you came, Shepherd Book.”
“I’m glad too. Now, I’m looking at Captain Reynolds and I’m thinking that we have a number of things we need to discuss—by which I mean our whole crew—before we can give you an answer to as to whether or not we can take on this job. You do see, don’t you,” he said, and he looked me straight in the eye, “there’s quite a lot more involved than we understood would be when we set out for Abel.”
I knew my story sounded wild; sounded wild even to my ears. But I don’t mind when folks are straight with me—I prefer it— and I could see now that perhaps I could well have been clearer in my message. Ain’t right to want straight talk and not give it in return. “Yes, I see,” I said. “Sounds fair to me. I’m sorry, Captain Reynolds,” I said, looking at him direct, “if my message to you was misleading. But this is the job. I want justice for my daddy— and I want to be there to see justice done.”
I stood up—so did Reynolds—and I offered him my hand, which he shook.
“I hope you’ll take this job. Otherwise I don’t think there’ll be justice for Daddy ’til Judgement Day. And that ain’t right.”
The Shepherd, when it was his turn to say goodbye, laid his hand upon my head. “God bless you, child,” he said. “You’ll be hearing from us soon.”
I followed ’em to the front door and watched ’em go. I believed the Shepherd meant every word he said, and I would hear from them soon—but I’d caught the expression on Captain Reynolds’ face as he got into their transport. I knew in my heart that the news wouldn’t be good. Maybe I could go back to Sheriff Peters and tell him I wanted to speak to Moody Jones or the other fella, the one who liked his drink, but it struck me, watching the three of them head off down the road, that a bounty hunter in the hand was worth two in the black. Captain Reynolds was here, now, on Abel, and I didn’t see why Bill Fincher should be walking round free for a single day more. Reynolds was the one for me, whether he liked it or not. All I had to do was make him see things my way.
So I went back inside, got on the Cortex, and sent a message to the port authorities to check on a ship called Serenity, lately arrived on Abel, that might not be safe for travel, given the problems with the starboard catalyzer. They weren’t minded to help me ’til I mentioned my daddy’s name. That always did the trick.
* * *
Sheriff Ned Peters was a man who wanted nothing more than to retire to his tiny cabin up the coast with his sweet wife, Nell, and live out his life in peace fishing in the river and chopping wood. Problem was that people—quite fairly—kept on expecting him to perform his duties as sheriff, and, being a conscientious fellow, and one who didn’t quite know how to say ‘no’, he did indeed keep on performing them. He performed them as best he could, given how tired he was these days, but he couldn’t shake the feelin’ that he wasn’t as on top of things as he used to be. Never enough people to hand to be doin’ what needed to be doin’, and all kinds of trouble in parts of the city that used to be quiet, and too many folks comin’ in from the country, lookin’ for work and places to stay when these things were in short supply, and then what happened to that fine young fella Isaac Roberts…
When his daughter, Miss Annie, came to see him, all sharp eyes and sharp words, Ned Peters felt ashamed, and put a few names her way that might help. It was only later, talking to Nell, that he fell to wonderin’ whether he’d not been wise, makin’ those suggestions.
“So she came and asked you to do something?”
“Yup.”
“And you said you couldn’t.”
Ned, from long experience, was starting to see the hole opening up in front of him.
“Um… yup?”
“And you said, ‘How about instead you go and hire some vigilantes?’”
One hell of a hole. “Weren’t quite what I said, Nell—”
“And have you heard from Mayor McQuinn yet?”
He hadn’t, but she waved first thing in the morning that Malcolm Reynolds arrived on Abel, and she was not a happy woman. Ned didn’t like to see women unhappy. Partly because he was, in his own ham-fisted way, a gentleman, and partly because Mary McQuinn struck him as a tough player in a city getting tougher by the day.
“Might have preferred, Sheriff,” said McQuinn, “if you’d asked me first before outsourcin’ some of your responsibilities to some fella might be more of a villain than Frankie Collier himself.”
“Ain’t how it is, ma’am—”
“That remains to be seen. But in general, Ned, I’d prefer we kept our own house rather than hirin’ in help.”
“Now that ain’t fair, Mary. You know how I’m fixed right now. Stretched thin as ice and close to crackin’. You know what it’s like on the ground. All them new folks streamin’ into town, rubbin’ the locals up the wrong way.”
Moment that was out of his mouth he knew he’d made a misstep. Them folks from the country—they were the ones who’d voted her in. Come as a surprise to many in the city, rich and poor alike, both of whom had their own candidates in mind, and yet here she was, in charge of running Yell City, and everyone here used to having things their own way, or used to complainin’ about how things was always done, was suddenly left lookin’ round and thinkin’, What the hell’s going on ’round here these days?
“Those troubles cut both ways,” said McQuinn. “Maybe we could say something about the folks already here, taking out their grievances on those poor folks come down from the country to put food in the mouths of their kids. I hear some locals been struttin’ ’round places like Westerly and Keyside and so on with pistols on their hips like they’re some kind of deputies of yours. And you hirin’ in some offworlder to pull in Bill Fincher—that’ll make ’em bolder. You’re stirrin’ up trouble, Ned—and not only for yourself. Me too, and City Hall.”
Well, she was making some good points, and he knew he’d misspoke, but he’d told her the truth, too, about not havin’ enough people, and she was the gorram mayor these days. What was she doing? Ned Peters wasn’t roused to anger easily, but he did stir himself, sometimes. “Way I hear it, you’re doin’ your own part there, ma’am.”
There was a pause. Then: “Excuse me?”
“Them fellas from the Core. Blue Sun, or Blue Moon, or whatever they call themselves. I hear they been sniffin’ ’round City Hall, offerin’ their services.”
Oh, now, that had struck home.
“If you can’t see the difference between contractin’ a professional company to do some tidyin’ up round here, and hirin’ a gorram bounty hunter to go after someone shot a fella dead in Main Street, then you’re more of a fool than folks say you are, Ned Peters,” McQuinn snapped back.
“Ma’am,” said Peters. “That ain’t well said. We’re all of us trying to do a difficult job here, as best we can. This week been the worst I’ve known it and it’s only hard work by me and my fellas been keepin’ the place from goin’ pop.” He wasn’t sure how much longer that would last either. Every day, by the time the sun went down, you saw folks out on more or less every street corner, hopin’ for trouble. “We’re stretched thin, doin’ more than our share That ain’t well said.”
