Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Death and the Girl
My baby has a father and a mother,
Rich little baby!
Fatherless, motherless, I know another
Forlorn as may be:
Poor little baby!
- My Baby Has A Father And A Mother, Christina Georgina Rossetti
~o0o~
It started as it always did. She was lying in the dark as she braced for what was coming. Anticipation locked her small limbs in place like electrocution, painfully rigid yet shuddering with an overflow of prickling energy. Her insides hurt like she was sick, nauseating and heavy and twisting.
“Cassie!" Tatty’s voice called from outside the large dark room, muffled and distant as if just walking in the front door. Her breath caught. "Where are you, Cassie?! I'm home from work!”
She heard footsteps. They sounded like her tatty’s shoes on the floor of the hall but the rhythm, the tempo… it wasn't him. He had never walked that hallway. He never would.
She could smell just a hint of smoke and it was getting stronger. Not like tobacco or the woody smoke of a fireplace but acidic and sharp, chemical as burnt paint and mortal terror.
The footsteps got closer as she heard it knock on each door in the hall, one after another, calling out for her. Knock knock knock. “Sunshine!” Knock knock knock. “Pumpkin!” Knock knock knock. “My dearest!” Knock knock knock. “My heart!”
Her heart was pounding, and hurting, and her hands were sweaty and aching where they gripped the sheets tight; the voice getting closer and closer with every call, the knocking nearer and nearer until eventually it went silent.
It was outside the door.
“Cassie, are you in there?”
She could not quite stifle the whine.
She drew the covers up to her chin and sat utterly still on the bed. The smoke smell was thickening as if it were filling the room like wool in her throat, and it was getting warmer as well. Her eyes strained in the dark to make out the rectangular shape of the closed door on the far wall.
The knob jiggled, straining against the lock. The thing with her tatty’s voice but not their language was trying to get in. "You know not to lock this door, young lady! Let me in!”
Was it the smoke, heat, or fear that made it hard to breath? She was sweating through her nightgown, hair plastered to her forehead and only the metal of her pendant cool against her flushed chest. The whole door rattled in its frame and she began to mouth her auntie’s prayer knowing it would do nothing, not even comfort, the words tasting dead in her mouth. Terror consumed her like so many forks in her stomach and tiny centipedes in her veins.
"Let me in, pumpkin," her tatty’s voice crooned but far less patient. "Cassie? Sweetheart?! Baby!”
Her tatty was gone, she knew. She was all alone.
"LET ME IN!" The door shuddered on its hinges, and then with each BANG BANG BANG it shook, the plane of wood pushed inwards from the force smashed against it. She whimpered but didn't dare call out. “LET ME IN!” Even if she screamed, no one would come.
The bedroom was sweltering and hazy with smoke, blinding and stinging even as she squeezed her watering eyes shut and muffled her coughing with her blanket. It rubbed her insides raw and turned every breath into a struggle. With her tatty’s voice the thing at the door began to describe what it’d do to her if she didn’t let it in, terrible horrible things to her body and mind, the door rattling and groaning but never breaking beneath the onslaught. Then it switched back to sugar-sweet nicknames with none of the softness and warmth, thick and sickening, and then to promises of surprises and presents if she would just. Open. The door.
Hours passed like this, terrified in her bed as it cried and consoled and raged against her bedroom door, rising in intensity as the night progressed. She never quite suffocated but it was a close thing, almost intentionally so; struggling harder and harder until she was given one clear gasp of air and it started all over again. She never quite burned, but the heat was enough to sicken and pain like standing too close to an open flame.
Finally the bursts of anger began to become more and more sparse. The air cooled. She could taste wisps of the fresh night and breathing came easier. The rage dissipated, trailed off into a tremulous quiet.
“It’s okay,” her tatty’s voice finally said, truly soft for the first time since it first called to her tonight. Despite herself she slid out of bed, knowing it was about to be over soon. Whenever it sounded soft—whenever it sounded something like her tatty again—she knew it was going to leave.
“We can try again tomorrow,” the thing with her tatty’s voice promised, warm and loving, and she felt herself about to cry. She raced over to the door, bare feet smacking loudly against the wooden floor. The slats were still warm on her soles but cooler with every step.
“Tsuzog mir?” she asked, pleaded, voice hoarse and ragged as she whispered through the door as if it’d respond in a kindred’s tongue. It hurt to speak. It hurt to breath. She imagined her insides filled with black gunk, just like the phlegm she coughed up after–
She rested her small hand on the now cool metal of the doorknob, cold as if it had never been hot at all. Her cheek pressed up against the varnished wood.
There was beat.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
She sobbed.
“Cassandra.”
The first light of dawn shone through the window and with it came silence. It was gone. Only the faint scent of smoke lingered, as it always did, and the choking gasps of her sorrow.
“Cassandra!”
As always, it never called her by her name.
“Cassandra!”
Three sharp raps.
“CASSANDRA!”
Several years later a much older girl jolted awake as light streamed through the open window of her bedroom, vague formless dreams dissolving like dew in the summer’s yellow sun. She rolled over to squint blearily her bedside clock, strands of hair clinging to the corner of her mouth. It was roughly three hours past the first light of dawn and therefore three hours since she fell asleep.
Three sharp raps against the bedroom door, one more time. “CASSANDRA KOHEN!”
“I’M UP!” Cassandra hollered back, words somewhat slurred with sleep.
“Get out of bed!”
It was the summer of 1934. FDR was trying to fix the Great Depression, the Hayes Code was about to make films a lot more boring, and Cassandra Kohen was doing just fine.
~o0o~
Arthur Lester (and company) left Amanda Cummings’ apartment with a new sense of purpose, book in hand and each new connection clicking together one after another in his head, gladly relayed to his current… companion? Tag-along, perhaps? Whatever the case, it was movement forward, it was actual progress, and satisfying progress as well. He descended the stairs from the third floor to the first, prepared to rush through the unattended lobby and out into the town once more, when–
“Mrs. Williams! Mrs. Williams could you let me inside?!” a feminine voice—a little rough, but youthful, like someone who had already taken up the habit of heavy smoking, and with a bit of a Scottish accent as well—shouted alongside the sound of knocking at the door. His head turned in the direction of the sound. “Mrs. Williams, please let me in!”
You are looking down a short dim hallway lined with doors, John informed him. There is person roughly three doors down near to where the hall ends, knocking frantically at the last door to your right.
“This way?” Arthur muttered, turning towards the noise and walking forward.
This is the floor that lady was one. The one in the wheelchair. We should leave, John cautioned, for some reason still unnerved by what seemed to be the mere existence of an elderly woman.
“She might need some help,” Arthur muttered then cleared his throat. “Excuse me, miss?” Arthur called out and strode forward, closing the distance and giving John a better look.
It’s a girl with a soft face and floppy cap on her head, John described dutifully and with a slight air of suspicion. Her eyes are dark with deep bags beneath them as if she has not slept well in a while, and her hair is tied back in a braid that is slowly coming undone, several stray curls sticking out. She’s wearing a button-up shirt and dark green skirt with sturdy lace-up boots and a leather satchel over her shoulder. Close to her is a contraption of some kind leaning against the hallway wall. It has two large wheels not that unlike those of a wheelchair attached to a metal frame with handles, one wheel in the front and one in the back. There is a canvas bundle lashed on to the back with rope.
It took a few moments to realize what “contraption” John was referring to. “It’s a bicycle, John,” Arthur muttered, lips quirking up in a shadow of an amused smile. The way John didn’t recognize everything on sight was… endearing. A reminder of how new he was. Though it did beg the question as to why John recognized of the majority of what he saw but demonstrated ignorance of other things at random.
You want to stop here. Yes, good. You’re right in front of her. Look down a little, she’s shorter than you.
“Uh,” she mumbled. “Hi. Can I… help?”
She took a step back. She looks nervous and keeps glancing at the door.
“No,” Arthur said, hoping he didn’t appear too haggard. He didn’t want to frighten her and the situation—a man and a young woman, alone in a hallway, in a building where there had just been a murder?—he could easily scare her off. She sounded rather skittish already. “And what are you doing here, miss? Do you need help?”
There was the sound of a truly painful cough from behind the thin door. The kind that tore at the throat and strained the lungs; the kind that sounded like the terrible wrack of influenza.
She flinched when she heard the cough. Arthur, she is looking at you with a petulant, defensive distrust.
“Just making a delivery, mister,” the young woman said stiffly.
“Ah,” Arthur nodded. “I see. And the apartment’s owner is not responding.”
She’s shifting uncomfortably, looking to the side as if to avoid your gaze. She nodded.
“I can hear her coughing inside,” the young woman admitted, sounding distressed. As if waiting for a cue, another round of wet hacking noises came from the door. “She won’t let me in– I’m here to deliver her groceries, y’see?”
She just gestured at her bicycle and the canvas pack tied to it.
“The woman who lives here is in a wheelchair, correct?” Arthur asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Williams, but she can get to her door just fine. She always answers the door,” the girl insisted. “Should I… should I call someone?”
No! Arthur, she’s looking at you as if seeking some kind of direction. Do not tell her to call the police, John ordered fiercely, as if Arthur needed his advice to not call the cops on himself.
“No, no, I don’t think we want to bother anyone until we know she’s in trouble for sure,” Arthur soothed. “She may just have a bad cough.”
She is biting her lip and staring at door to the apartment, expression one of deep doubt.
“Mrs. Williams needs to pay me back for the groceries and I’m getting worried,” she explained uneasily. “She’s really old and she’s all alone. She can’t go far with her wheelchair and sometimes she forgets where she is.”
“She might have just forgotten you were coming?” Arthur suggested. But the more he listened to the coughing the more he felt that there was something else wrong, as well as a nagging paranoia to get the young woman away from this place as quickly as possible.
“No, she always answers the door,” the delivery girl stated with confidence. “She’s waiting for someone to come home.”
Arthur nodded slowly, thinking. “All right. How about I perform a wellness check,” Arthur offered.
NO! Jesus Christ, Arthur– John growled. Arthur ignored the voice in his head and discreetly tucked his clenching left hand behind his back.
When Arthur had been fresh off the boat from England, a young man in a new country, he had gotten deathly ill. The Spanish flu, or maybe pneumonia, or some combination of both. It didn’t really matter. He had been entirely bedridden for weeks in an overcrowded hospital room surrounded by the dead and dying, and left weakened for months after.
What he did remember from his fever-stricken daze was the complete and utter certainty that he was going to die there; the sleepless terror of his own body drowning itself on its own fluids, alone and unknown in a foreign land he had yet to make his home. That, and pulling handfuls of bloody mucus out of his own throat before he could choke to death on it.
It was a terrible way to go. A terrible thing to see as well.
“I can make sure Mrs. Williams is okay. I’m a detective, you know. It’s what I do,” he told her, letting a little bit of professional confidence strengthen his voice. While detective wasn’t entirely accurate, it was close enough for his purposes and far more trustworthy than a private investigator.
Arthur, you–! She’s smiling at you now. It’s small and shy and just a little bit lopsided. Arthur, I swear if you– her eyes are wide and shining with excitement goddamnit–
“Really? Like in radio shows?” the girl asked, hesitant yet undeniably tinged with excitement.
Arthur chuckled a little, feeling uplifted by her likely rose-coloured interest at his supposed profession. The grin he could hear in her voice… Radio shows… “Yes, yes, exactly like that,” he lied, then lowered his voice just enough to be dramatic. “I’m on a case right now but I can spare the time to check on an elderly lady who may need some help. I have the skills to pick the lock. Can’t say much more though.”
She’s smiling properly now, nodding her head– I fucking swear Arthur–
“Okay, okay, so how about you open the door and I’ll come in with you–”
“No!” Arthur interjected sharply, then recollected himself. “No, no. Really, I– how much did all this cost?” He gestured in the vague direction the bike should be.
She looks disappointed, Arthur. The excitement has dimmed from her eyes, John said pettily. You hurt her feelings.
“2.25 plus a 10 cent delivery fee,” she answered promptly, if a little sullen.
“Yes, well, I’ll pay for it and bring it to her,” Arthur insisted. “I’m friends with someone who lives in this building and I have the time to spare in case Mrs. Williams needs someone to stay longer. I assume you have more deliveries to get done? There’s no need for you linger.”
He is braced for her to ask more questions—who does he know, why is he here—but she didn’t.
“I– really? I… I really shouldn’t…”
“I’m sure. I’ll see if Mrs. Williams is okay and if she’s not I’ll call the police,” Arthur assured her, using the same voice he used on anxious or doubtful clients and got them to just trust. “If she truly needs help there’s no need for you to see her in such a state, and you’d need to stay to answer any questions the police may have which can take quite a long time. It wouldn’t do for you to get in trouble for breaking and entering either. It’s better if I take care of this.”
She still looks conflicted, torn between her concern for the old lady and her desire to leave, John observed. I think she needs just one more push.
“How about… here, my ID. If I cheat you or hurt anyone you can call the police on me,” Arthur offered, pulling out his wallet with his new (fake) ID.
Arthur! John exclaimed, shocked as much as he was furious. She’s seen us in the same building where we just broke into a crime scene! She looks conflicted, her brow furrowing as if in deep thought as she inspects the ID– Arthur, I can’t believe you’re fucking do this. Do not go into that apartment!
“Alright, Mr. Holder,” she finally said.
She’s offering back the ID, John said shortly, his displeasure winding taut in Arthur’s skull right behind the eyes, not unlike a tightness in the ribs.
Arthur held out his hand, palm upturned in expectation, and she placed the card in it.
“But you must promise to make sure Mrs. Williams is okay,” she burst out fiercely, the boldest Arthur had heard from her so far. “And I’ll be checking up on her tomorrow, and with the police if she’s not okay!”
She’s pointing at you like she’s giving you a warning, John said, deeply unimpressed.
The words stuck in his throat for a moment but he managed to force them out smoothly. “I promise.”
“Good.”
She nodded decisively, as if making a decision of some great importance.
“Shake on in,” the delivery girl insisted, presumably holding out her hand.
She’s holding her right hand out in front of her, palm facing sideways. Roughly at the height of your stomach.
Arthur smiled. “Of course.” He held out his hand—waiting for her to make contact rather than blindly flailing for it—and she grabbed on to it readily.
Her hand was small in his, slim and bony and cool.
“Now, there’s some things you need to know…”
Three minutes later the cash had been exchanged and the delivery girl had relayed all the relevant information—at least from her perspective, such as the fact Mrs. Williams may need help finding her grocery money or to get through the house or even know what’s happening but just be patient, and also to breath through his mouth if he could. Whatever shyness that had initially marked their meeting had faded quickly beneath her forceful, rapid-fire instruction.
Then she was on her way, the faint sound of her rolling her bike down the hall as she left for the front door. She was so trusting it bothered Arthur; no doubt a product of living in a small town where a single murder made the front page. One day she’d learn not to be and there was even the possibility that it was going to be this—him—that taught her so.
Though this would at least be a lesson that let her go home alive.
Jesus, he had become quite morbid lately.
Finally. She’s gone.
“If this ends with Mrs. Williams getting hurt she’s going to blame herself,” Arthur sighed as faced the door, holding the bag of presumed food goods with John’s his left hand. The wretched retching sounds from inside continued.
Yes, Arthur, but if you leave with the groceries then she will think she trusted someone who stole food from a sick old lady, John chuckled, grim and snide. And if you leave them in front of the door someone else could steal them. Then she will call the police and ruin the fake ID we just bought for avoiding the law. Good job. You could have remained uninvolved but now there’s no way you win.
“If this is as dangerous as you think then I wouldn’t want that girl going into the apartment anyway,” Arthur insisted, then faltered. “But maybe… maybe we can just leave the groceries inside the door,” he allowed. “So they don’t get stolen. And it’s not like we didn’t pay for these groceries so it’s not even stealing, it’s like a gift even! But if this Mrs. Williams is in trouble–”
We should leave her. Leave this place.
“No,” Arthur shook his head. “A simple wellness check is all we need to do. We don’t even need to have Mrs. Williams pay us. We can duck in, leave the groceries on the counter, check around and make sure she’s okay, and then we can leave.”
John growled. And if things are not okay?
“Then we give the police an anonymous tip,” Arthur told him. “You heard that girl, this woman is harmless. At worst she needs help.”
She’s unwell.
“Sick does not mean dangerous,” Arthur chided and knelt down to force the lock. John grumbled but cooperated.
As it turned out, Mrs. Williams was absolutely not doing well and with what little context the delivery girl had given them, Arthur felt a kind of pity even within his revulsion. Even after the elderly woman tried clawing at his leg. It was disturbing, yes, but he mostly hoped she would get the help she needed.
She’s waiting for someone to come home. That’s what that girl said, John remarked, oddly neutral despite being proven right as they walked sombrely down the street. Arthur’s ankle still burned with the imprint of poor Mrs. William’s grasping, desperate hands.
“Yes,” Arthur confirmed quietly. He wondered if whoever Mrs. Williams was waiting for knew how much they were missed. That they were needed. He wondered if they were still alive at all.
That girl cared about her wellbeing, John added carefully, the implication of a question hanging unfinished, unsaid.
“That she did, John,” Arthur agreed. “Basic human compassion, I suppose, felt for even the most pathetic of sorts. Perhaps she knew Mrs. Williams before she got so bad. Perhaps she’s just a kind person.”
John scoffed as if that was not the answer he was looking for.
There was something wrong with the old woman. With all of this, John declared.
“Sometimes humans get sick, John,” Arthur sighed, absently rubbing his upper arm as if that would wipe off any lingering stench. “I can’t say what it was, but…”
It could have been age. It could have been fever cooking her mind. It could have been pain rending sense from her brain. There were a great many ways to render a person incoherent, especially with disease at play.
That’s not what I meant. Something has been strange with many of the people we’ve met… John insisted. That woman seemed far sicker then the girl described her as. She reminded me of Kellin.
Arthur’s breath caught.
John told Arthur his theory as they made their way to the train station, that something was influencing the people around them. And on the way, Arthur stepped into a payphone to call the police. Hopefully poor Mrs. Williams would get the care she needed.
John did not say a thing against it.
~o0o~
Harper’s Hill was a small town if John were to be believed, and Arthur thought he had no reason to lie. It could even be described as quaint, or at least as much as a town with a hospital could be. Small towns tended to be reserved around strangers, Arthur knew. Small towns were often even less welcoming to men who were anything but lily-white and god-fearing, of which Arthur was neither.
The city was no paradise but it was at least less grating. There were more options. More anonymity. More people willing to do business, regardless of their personal reservations. Arthur was so close to answers he could feel it like an itch beneath his skin, like crawling ants in his bones, and yet– and yet–
One might think a depression would make a man eager for any kind of business. Apparently not.
He was sick of it. He was sick of being pushed around, pulled along blindly, blocked at every turn, let alone for something like this. So he was going to take what he needed.
He was going to steal a boat.
You're going to steal a boat? John asked in a tone that verged on disbelieving delight.
"Yes," Arthur confirmed surely. "It’s what I should have done last time, we don’t need to rely on anyone else, and frankly we shouldn’t."
Alright, I like this, John affirmed, finally happy with something Arthur was doing. And it felt good. There’s a rowboat tied to one of the docks we’re heading to. The man is still watching us, though.
"I don't care," Arthur said thoughtlessly, determinedly shuffling down the dock.
He was going to steal a goddamn boat.
Then, very suddenly, he was not.
“Oy! Mr. Holder!” came a not-so-distant shout. It took a moment to realize that the voice was calling out to him—that was the name in his fake ID, after all—and that it was not someone coming to arrest him.
Of course not. He hadn’t stolen the boat yet.
There was the sound of bicycle wheels spinning, coming closer, and then the scrape of rubber dragging against gravel.
It’s that girl again, Arthur, John reported, sounding somewhat baffled in sharp contrast to his satisfied anticipation from but a moment ago. The one from the apartments with the old woman. She is sitting on her bicycle, one foot on the ground where she slowed to a stop right where the docks meet the land. The canvas bundle on the back of her bike is once again filled and she has a small but genuine smile on her face.
Arthur was taken so genuinely off-guard that he stammered for a moment, the momentum he had been riding for boat-theft disrupted and lost. Then he waved a hand in what he hoped was her direction with a feeble “hello again,” feeling terribly awkward.
Arthur, I thought we were going to steal a boat, John complained. She’s gotten off the bike now and is rolling it up the dock. She’s approaching us. Arthur, are people usually this friendly to strangers?
“She knows us, John,” Arthur muttered, listening to her boots on the wooden dock come closer. “We helped her. Of course she likes us. Let’s wait until she leaves.”
Then they could steal the boat. In broad daylight. In front of a witness. Who he had given the name on his ID. Which, now that he was actually thinking about it, was becoming less of an appealing idea by the second. He did not want to deal with police, let alone small town police with something to prove, one of whom had already stared suspiciously his ID while he was buying a gun.
They could wait to steal a boat after dark, even if it would be less satisfying.
“How was Mrs. Williams doing?” she asked once she was close enough—Arthur presumed—for politenesses sake. “She okay? Did she pay you? I ought to say thank you for doing my job.”
She let out an awkward little laugh and his mouth went dry.
He could feel her hopeful gaze boring into him, for all he could not see it. Arthur had never been the people person between the two of them. Between him and Parker, that is. He could fake it, yes, earn trust and confidence and present himself as entirely capable of whatever task was at hand, but Parker–
Don’t tell her anything. We were never there.
Of course John, Arthur thought. Let’s just pretend we didn’t enter the apartment of her elderly sick neighbour after sending her away. That would end well.
Instead of saying that out loud, mostly due to the need to not appear too overtly insane, Arthur took a breath and adopted the steady tone he had to use far too often when the trail went cold or led to something even worse. One of the worst parts of being a private investigator.
“She’s alive,” he began with so she wouldn’t assume the worst.
There was a slight, sharp intake of breath.
Her hand is covering her mouth. What happened to listening to me? Your whole speech about how I was right and you were wrong? Go back to that, John demanded.
Arthur ignored him. There wasn’t much room to explain why that lie wouldn’t work with her right there.
“She was very… unwell,” Arthur settled on. “I called the authorities so hopefully they’ll be able to help her.”
“Oh. Oh, poor Mrs. Williams,” she said, sounding upset. “I’m glad you called for help. But she’s so old… thank you for staying with her. I shouldn’t– I shouldn’t have left.”
A small pit of guilt twisted Arthur’s stomach. He had very much not stayed with her and if John’s theory was correct, he might even be the cause of her sudden decline. Either due to her proximity to Amanda, whose location he gave away, or his own presence.
“Cassie!” came a sharp cry from the other side of the docks. His sightless gaze jerked automatically in the direction of the noise. “What are you doing with the likes of him?!”
“The likes of him?” Arthur muttered, offended but not particularly surprised. He swallowed back the irritation.
It’s the boat man who refused us! He is approaching, Arthur, very quickly with his bushy brows knitted together like one big caterpillar of worry. He’s looking at the girl he called Cassie with the occasional suspicious glance at you.
“Oh, hi Ian,” the newly named Cassie said, sounding politely unenthused and still rather glum. “He was just… Mr. Holder was giving me some bad news. He helped me out a little this morning on one of my deliveries.”
The man—Ian—grunted. “Yeah? Well, forget about that. He’s bad news.”
“Excuse me sir,” Arthur cut in stiffly, leaning into his accent a bit more than usual. “I have done nothing worthy of that sort of suspicion. I was simply trying to charter passage to an island.”
Yes, he had been about to steal a boat in a fit of spite but Cassie had interrupted him before he could. He was, as far as this man knew, completely innocent.
He’s scowling at us. Perhaps he knows we were planning to steal from him, John speculated baselessly.
“Where to?” Cassie asked. “I mean, Mr. Holder, where do you need to go?”
She’s looking at us expectantly, as if we’re just going to tell her, John scoffed, then he noticed Arthur pulling the map out. Arthur. Arthur! Don’t give her the map!
Arthur held out the map in direction of Cassie’s voice, ignoring John’s protests or the tension he could feel radiating up from his numb left hand. There was a crinkle of paper as she took it. “See that island in the middle of this lake? That is where I need to go but I can’t find it on any official maps.”
She’s looking at the map. Arthur, Arthur! She recognizes it! Fuck, that asshole was lying to us! John exclaimed furiously, his anger switching quickly from Arthur to Ian with ease.
“That’s the Devil’s Graveyard,” she said almost immediately. Arthur, she’s giving back the map. “You don’t find it on most maps because people don’t like to admit that it exists. It’s not even on the mail route.”
“Really now,” Arthur breathed as he tucked the map away, turning his head towards where he last heard Ian to hopefully aim his glare correctly.
“And it’s cursed,” the man grunted, and Arthur adjusted the aim his foul look. “Cassie, you shouldn't be telling strangers these sorts of things. What business do they have in a place like that?”
“Good business,” Arthur interjected. He recalled what Cassie said—not even on a mail route—and tried to make it fit his previous lie. “I have a delivery to make. Friend of the family owns the island, remember?”
“There is no good business there,” Ian insisted. “Don’t you make that face, lassie. You know I’m right.”
“I know you’re a big baby still scared of ghost stories,” was Cassie’s retort.
She’s turning to look at us.
“I’ve been there plenty of times. I can give you a ride,” Cassie offered. “My last delivery of the day is to the island. We can split the cost of the boat rental.”
“That’d be wonderful! Thank you kindly,” Arthur exclaimed, grinning at the stroke of good fortune, and also out of spite for Ian’s refusal to rent to him.
I don’t know, Arthur. She could cause us problems, John cautioned, frustrated. Didn't we just talk about the chance of something interfering with the minds of those around us. What about relying only on ourselves? Remember Kellin?
“She seems perfectly sane,” Arthur whispered. No need to look a gift horse in the mouth and it was hardly as if they'd be relying on her.
And, not that he’d say it within earshot of Cassie, but according to John she was considerably smaller than him. If he needed to he could overpower her.
Ian had complaints of his own. “No. I’m not letting you out on the water alone with some strange man,” Ian refused, firm as iron. “Let alone a man who wants to go to the Devil’s Graveyard! Didn't you hear what happened to that Cummings girl?! It’s not safe.”
Arthur kept his expression calm. Small town, it made sense that Amanda’s murder had everyone on edge, even if the apparent perpetrator had been caught.
“You could come with us,” Cassie countered mulishly. “This is my job, Ian.”
He’s thinking, Arthur. “How long are you planning to stay?” He’s directing the question at Cassie, not us.
“Until evening,” she said.
Arthur felt a stab of surprise at that and John spoke his thoughts for him. What business could she have there for so long?
“Until evening might not be long enough…” Arthur muttered back. It was the afternoon. Depending on how long it took to get there they might have very little time to investigate properly.
“I’m not staying near that island that long,” Ian refused curtly.
“Can I just take the goddamn boat?” Cassie huffed.
“No,” Ian repeated. “Not with that man, Cassie. He’s got a look to him.”
“Do I have a look to me?” Arthur wondered quietly.
You are fresh out of a month-long coma and have lost some weight. Your eyes carry in them the weight of what you have experienced. You are not in the best shape, John said bluntly, then as an afterthought, …I think you look fine though.
Well, if the homicidal voice in his head said he liked it.
“I’ll be with André on the island,” Cassie argued. “And if he tries to do anything to me on the water he won’t be able to find his way back easy. He doesn’t know the current and fog like I do.”
That’s reassuring, John grumbled. Ian does not look convinced.
“Please, Ian, he really did help me out,” Cassie pushed.
Ian’s stoic expression wavers, then folds into reluctant resignation.
“Fine. But be back before dark else I’m calling the coppers to get you,” Ian warned seriously. “You got a curfew and you know how they don’t like going to the Devil’s Graveyard or fetching you from causing trouble. The usual price for the usual boat?”
She just nodded and pulled a wallet out of her satchel, Arthur. She’s handing him a dollar. He’s tucking it away in his pocket.
“Stay safe out there, lassie,” he said. He’s glaring at us, Arthur!
“I will, Ian,” Cassie promised hurriedly, as if eager to get away. “All right, let’s get going.”
She’s gesturing for us to follow.
Arthur followed the sound of her footsteps on the dock and John’s guidance, keeping one hand trailing along the rope guardrail so he didn’t fall. Cassie led them to a different rowboat, much the same as the one Arthur was originally planning to steal according to John.
It’s another rowboat but it seems to be in even better shape. It is sturdy with a lantern affixed to the front and supplies under the seats. It is also a bright yellow, John commented, the last part almost an inane afterthought.
“Yes, at least that makes it easy to see then,” Arthur mumbled. “Now help me get in.”
“Huh? I didn’t quite catch that,” Cassie said.
“Uh, nothing! Just talking to myself!” Arthur deflected as he knelt on the dock and grabbed the boat’s edge.
You were about to steal a boat ten minutes ago. Hurry up, it’s right below your foot, John said impatiently, though still used his hand to help Arthur hold on to the dock while he transferred his weight into the craft. The boat wobbled under his feet—which was a thousand times more disconcerting without sight—and he quickly transferred his grip from the dock to one of the benches. With a relieved sigh Arthur sat down, listening to the water lap at the sides, then turned his head when he heard footsteps on the dock.
Cassie is coming back without her bike, Arthur. She has chained it to one of the posts of the dock. In her arms is the canvas bundle, John informed.
“Alright,” Cassie sighed and there was the sound of canvas and a soft thud. Arthur felt the boat shift in response. He supposed there wasn’t anything particularly fragile in this package if she was tossing it around. She just dropped the canvas bundle into the middle of the craft. She’s untying the knot and climbing in.
The boat once again shifted beneath him as Cassie settled in.
“You ready, Mr. Holder?” she asked.
“Are you okay with rowing the whole way?” Arthur asked instead.
She shrugged and grabbed the oars, using one to push further away from the docks. She’s dipping them in the water.
“I might need a break or two,” she admitted, already sounding a little strained with even the first swoosh of the oars through the water. “But I’ll get you there.”
“Well then,” Arthur said mildly, his blindness making it feel as if the boat was adrift in a vast ocean bordered only by an unending horizon. He clenched the bench beneath him with his hand. “Let us be off.”
Cassie huffed and kept rowing.
~o0o~
1930s ERA INVESTIGATOR
Name: Arthur Lester Birthplace: England Pronouns: He/Him Age: 34
Occupation: Private Investigator Residence: Arkham, Massachusetts
Stats
STR 50 CON 60 DEX 70 INT 80 SIZ 65 POW 90 APP 60 EDU 70
MAX HP 13 HP 11 Luck 57 MAX SAN 90 SAN 74
Skills
Art/Craft (Piano) 73
Art/Craft (Poetry) 30
Credit Rating 15
Cthulhu Mythos 9
Fast Talk 42
Firearms (Handgun) 48
Intimidate 67
Locksmith 56
Persuade 33
Psychology 54
Spot Hidden 0
Gear & Possessions
Satchel
Wallet
Fake ID (Laurence Holder)
Lighter
Flashlight
45. Automatic (1D10 + 2)
Lockpick set
The Magic Mountain (book)
Map of Lake Crawford
Matches
Effects:
Coma, lingering weakness (10 days): - 1 Move, STR penalty dice
Keepers Note: High rolls for this guy! I’m sure he’ll be able to handle whatever is thrown at him ;)