Page 62 of By Any Means

The bed looked lumpen in a shared kind of way. There was nothing beneath the pillow. Laurie lifted the mattress and inspected the rope supports beneath—he couldn’t help but notice it had a fair bit more bracing than the usual frame—“Next thing, welds here, too, boys, Bethlehem Steel,” he murmured—but there was nothing. Dust beneath the bed, too.

The cedar chest, unlocked by a key left in it, held clothes and nothing else. No false bottoms or false lids or sliding compartments.

Laurie went out to the outhouse. He was amused by a little glass cloche specifically made to hold a roll of toilet paper, splinter-free. Priorities. But the outhouse yielded nothing hidden; at least, if there were anything, it wasn’t worth the trouble. He went back into the cabin.

There was nothing concealed in the mirror backing. Nor under the table or stuck beneath the chairs. Nothing in the cold stove, which was even swept of ashes. Laurie was reluctant to put his hand up the hearth’s old guts but did it anyway, lastly; nothing but greasy creosote across his fingers.

As he’d suspected, nothing to be found there—except jam jars—but it didn’t seem like paranoia. Simply a lack.

Laurie turned to leave.

Voices carried through the windows, muffled and agitated. Stomps crunched through pine needles. Running, sliding, cursing stomps.

“Damn. Damn.” He was caught. He spun for a moment, helpless, then—as whoever was outside banged into the front door like a drunkard or in a panic—he convinced himself, boots first, under the bed’s rope lattice.

Just in time. The door opened, and boots came across the plank floor, skittering like tap dance, throwing sand and needles, like the man had been shoved.

A splutter: “For the love of— Sidney!”

August Wright, back already from his fun. In his playacting poverty, he hadn’t even the fortitude to stick it out one morning. Laurie held his breath, a little needlessly, since August seemed to be loudly turning to hysterics.

“No,” August hissed. “No! What if I simply refuse? What— If— Then.”

A second pair of shoes, shiny black ones, followed August’s. The sunlight clicked off with a surprisingly gentle shut of the door.

Jesus Christ. Laurie was locked in.

Brasher rumbled, “You have to stay.”

“Like a dog? What’s the point of staying if I am already found out? He isn’t stupid. Can we really trust Chary to keep him back at the house? No. We can’t.”

Uh-oh. Laurie began to sweat. August knew he was found out. Had Laurie been seen?

Brasher’s response, whatever it was, was silent. August flumped onto the bedstead, making the ropes bow dangerously close to Laurie’s hair. “Tjo’s attention’s only held by a pretty face. Chary won’t last through supper.”

Raberding. There, in Maine, at the house? That was worse than Laurie having been found out. Much, much worse.

“And then the machine…” August muttered. “Is Chary’s… friend… still there? How about him? Is he captivating enough to keep him busy, d’you think?”

A grunt from Brasher, negating. Laurie smothered a disbelieving laugh. To hell with you, too, ex-copper. It’s mutual.

He put his forehead down onto his fists, nearly kissing dust. If Tjofabier Raberding had come to Maine, of course August’s current lover had promptly plucked him from the fields to keep him secreted away from his former one.

Particularly if that former lover had been the impetus to the whole damn ruse.

Laurie understood the instinct. He was feeling it nearly as keenly. Chary had been left to entertain Raberding, alone, and had likely been woken to do so, which meant he was groggy, half-rested, unguarded.

Above him, the ropes creaked, and August stood abruptly. “Well, unless you’re to physically bar me, Sidney, or lock me in on some kind of godforsaken house arrest, I’m taking the Cadillac to Bangor and going. You can’t stop me.”

Going where? Laurie wondered. Gotham?

Brasher said nothing. After a pause, his double monkstraps scraped left as he yielded, and then were lit gleaming by a lit-doorway path of swooping sun, on and off, as August exited. This time, he didn’t slam the door.

Laurie waited. Brasher didn’t follow. The man allowed himself one unsteady breath and then moved.

He stepped toward the bed.

Laurie cringed back, but when big knees creaked audibly and bent, and bigger hands reached out for him, grabbed fistfuls of shirt and suspenders, and yanked, hard, Laurie was defenseless. He was pulled out from under the bed like a sliding trundle, and then, just as effortlessly—though Laurie was not small—hauled up to a stand.