Dishonoring Jack

Chapter Twenty Three

 Jack's heart pounded erratically in her ears as she pumped the bicycle pedals as fast as she could. She had to stop this madness before one more person died because of the Slates' greed. She would confront them with everything she knew about their nefarious dealings and threaten to expose them to the entire town. She would beg Margaret to see their infamy. She would shoot them between the eyes if she had to--except her shotgun was at home. Drat.

"Jack, stop!" Donovan's voice sounded in her ears and she could almost hear his frantic footsteps as he raced after her.

She turned behind her and caught sight of him between errant wisps of her blonde hair. He tore after her up the road, arms flailing and chest heaving with exertion.

"This is...reckless, dangerous! You can't, Jack!"

But Jack could. That's what Donovan didn't understand, or at least refused to say. Jack could take care of herself, and taking care of herself meant taking care of Donovan as well. In the course of the past month, Donovan had become a part of Jack and she would sooner saw off her own leg than lose him.

I have to, Donovan. I have to try to save us before this grows any worse.

She had seen the effects of the Slate brothers' greed and vengeance, and it had to stop. She would confront them. Hot breath expelled itself from Jack's lungs in short, greedy gasps and her hands grew slick on the plastic handlebars. Night was falling and the road before her was illuminated by the waning carmine of the sunset and the luminescent glow of the moon. The wheat and corn and bean fields waved when a cool wind washed over them and Jack forced the bicycle to go faster, the muscles in her legs burning.

The Slate brothers were staying with Margaret Hunt. Margaret was focused on destroying Jack, and the Slate brothers wanted Donovan dead. Perhaps I should stop and fetch Titus--but no. There was no time for the sheriff, and she was growing tired. She would make it to the Hunt house on the edge of town, but not into Irvington.

What's your plan, Jack? She asked herself as she pedalled. But no plan arose out of the knowledge that she had to do something. Perhaps her bluff at exposing their treachery would work, but her confidence was fading. Would something as insignificant as the judgment of a small town deter them from their goal? Unlikely.

Perhaps the only thing Jack's confrontation would accomplish was to put a face on the serpent that had stolen so much from Donovan.

Warm candlelight gleamed at Jack over the next rise and she realized she was nearly there. The Hunt house. Jack's heart quailed with fear. She had nothing with which to defend herself--no gun, no knife, no back up. They could kill her now and get her out of the way. But Jack's time for conjuring a better plan was up. She had been spotted.

"Who goes there?" a low, growling voice called as Jack slowed her approach.

One of the Slate brothers was keeping watch over the house. "I'm here to talk to you," Jack said, dismounting and walking her bike closer to the house in case she needed to make a quick exit.

The man rose from his seat on the crooked front porch that was collapsing in on itself, a rifle in one hand and a jar of whiskey in the other. "Who are you?" he said, gesturing towards her with the jar, liquid slopping over the edge. "And what are you doing here?"

Perhaps his drunkenness will keep him from shooting straight. Jack's confidence surged and she stepped to the bottom of the stairs, hands on her hips.

"I'm Jack Harrison. I think you've heard of me."

Jack could now see the man better, the moonlight highlighting his sharp features. His hair was almost black and untrimmed below his ears, his nose, jaw, and cheekbones sharp and gawky. His eyes were deepset, hollow, and dark, reminding of her of an abused horse or a lost dog gone feral. Perhaps in another light the man could have been considered handsome in a sharp, dangerous kind of way, but in the moonlight he was nothing short of monstrous.