REAPERS - Book Two: The Hunger and the Sickness

34

Back in the Gutters. Back in the 'The Last Leg.' Upon which Skinner stood, figuratively speaking, as did many of the sinhouse's regulars. "I'm all mucked out," groaned a gambler as he threw his cards to the table.

Skinner went to the bar and leaned over it. "Got a message for Church."

The barman's eyes leaped past Skinner's shoulder on the utterance. Bootsteps approached from behind. "Turn around, Skinner. Easy, now." The voice was clear and confident. Skinner did as ordered. Standing there was a fairhaired fellow who had stepped from the dim back, one hand on his hilt and the other wiping his last swig of beer from his mouth. Two other men had their crossbows out on their tables, already aimed and ready to fire. If the repeater didn't want to spill his own guts onto the floorboards, he had no choice but to submit. Skinner held out his hands and once again they were shackled with cold iron. That heavy final click felt like an anvil dropping upon the repeater's battered soul.

— • —

Dimia sat outside Sister Chalice's office and winced as she heard Quint take his lickings for his sins through the thick door. It went on for some minutes, the smacking and the yelping and the whimpering. The boy finally came out shuffling and rubbing his ass. His rear cheeks raw with pain and his front ones wet with tears.

"Did you say anything about the cat?" Dimia whispered as Quint passed.

"Fuck off," Quint said and went on down the hall.

Dimia awaited her turn. She'd been caught passing her bread to Quint at dinner by the nun's shrewd eye and the two were brought here by their pinched ears to pay the price for their transgressions. Now it was her turn. "Dimia, come in here," Sister Chalice commanded from that damned other room in an ominous tone. Dimia walked toward the door and grimaced at the thought of the punishment to come. She braced herself and went in, swearing to herself that she would take it like a Reaper.

— • —

The officers hauled Skinner to Strotham Yard in a barred stagecoach. The cage was covered, hiding him from the world. The officers ignored all his questions. Refused to explain his arrest. Skinner sensed a deep tension and permeable hate. After a long and bumpy ride he was pulled from the wagon and pushed through the rear doorway of a large stone building. His captors dragged him down a hall and threw him alone in a square holding cell and there Skinner waited. He knew this drawn feeling well. Went into the place that kept him from going mad in Fetterstone.

Finally the blond officer entered the room with a chair. He sat and put his grim face to Skinner. "My name is Inspector Valen. You are under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of several children over the past few months." His eyes were knives. "Fiend."

"I've been in prison that whole time, beak," said Skinner. "Was hired to look into them minnows. We're on the same side."

"Even if that were so," said Valen, "we don't appreciate citizens nosing around in our investigations."

"I hear you ain't doin' a spectacular job of it, yourselves."

"We caught you, didn't we?"

"Aye, the wrong man."

Valen glared. "We have witnesses who can place you at the scenes of several of the crimes. We know you animals like to revisit such 'sacred' places. And that you are also fond of hanging on to mementos of your victims. Keepsakes." The detective tossed something at Skinner's feet. It clattered on the floor. "Which explains why a man like you would be holding on to this." It was Georgene's bracelet.

"Proves nothin'," said Skinner. "I want an advocate."

"We've also got a vendor saying you recently bought pies and candy for two little local boys who have also now vanished," said the Inspector. "What about that?"