The clerk looked up from his ledger, pushing his glasses up his nose as he squinted across the counter at the man with the scruffy beard and threadbare jacket. “I’m sorry, where?”
Émile smiled pleasantly, though that did nothing to change his vaguely threatening appearance. “Moncton, please. One way.”
The clerk checked his tables again, up and down, but couldn’t find what he was looking for. But then, by chance, he saw the entry. “That’s…hmm. Quite small, and out of the way. We may have to drop you off on the way. Nearby, at any rate. Have you much luggage?”
“None,” said Émile. “I travel light.”
“Good, well, I suppose that’s easier on the knees.” He scribbled on a little slip of paper, filling out the details of the ticket. Émile slid some coins across the counter and waited patiently for his ticket. The other clerks in the office watched him warily, like they thought he might rob the place. He smiled to them, too, gave a respectful nod.
“Here we are,” said the clerk, handing the ticket over. “Carriage leaves at noon. No refunds for no-shows. Do be on time, Mr Deschênes.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Émile. “I’m going home.”
He stepped outside on the street and stretched his arms out wide. St John was a nosy town, with gossips at every corner, so they noted his over-the-top gestures immediately, and started trying to figure out who he was, and why he was there. He smiled to a pair of ladies who were being particularly obvious about it, and carried on his way.
Down the street he went, whistling to himself, with a spring in his step. Up ahead, he saw a handful of constables milling about, laughing to each other in the calm of the midmorning sun. Émile very subtly turned down a side-street, winding his way through the back alleys as he kept the sound and smell of the harbour ahead of him. A woman dumped her chamber pot out right in front of him, gave him an unhappy glare as he passed. He gave her a smile in return.
After nearly losing his way a dozen times, he caught sight of the stone church in the distance, its gleaming white towers glowing brightly against the distant storm clouds. He re-focused his energy, moving faster, more determined. The sun was getting higher in the sky—he was running out of time.
He paused across the street from the church, tucked against a wall and out of the way, hands in his pockets, head tipped down as his eyes watched the door carefully. Folks wandered past, discussing the weather or business or politics, not noticing him at all.
Then, just as he was about to change positions, to get a better view, the door opened, and a short woman in an austere black habit emerged, squinting at the sunlight before heading down the steps, to the street.
Émile waited for her to pass him, then very gracefully turned and followed, keeping a half block away, always looking anywhere but after her. She paused to check herself in the glass of a shop window, and Émile paused, too, like he was suddenly fascinated by stirrups and saddle bags and the like.
Then the nun continued on her way, and so did he, keeping a careful watch on their destination ahead. He had to time this just right, or—
A figure stepped in front of him, and he stopped suddenly. The man was a little younger than he was, with the plainest of outfits, and the plainest of beards…but with one hand in his pocket which was holding the most auspicious of knives.
“Hello, Mr Deschênes,” he said, pleasantly.
“Hello, Mr Wheelock,” replied Émile.
Wheelock tipped his head to the other side of the street. “Join me for tea?”
“I’m busy at the moment,” said Émile, taking in as much of his surroundings as he could, without giving himself away. He needed an escape route, and fast.
Wheelock took his hand out of his pocket—no knife—and sighed. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
Émile looked across the street, into the tea room. It was largely empty, but for a few ladies near the window. No sign of Jeffries. No sign of anyone. But that didn’t make it any less terrifying. Still, he nodded and let himself be led over. He saw the nun slip into the schoolhouse at the end of the street and close the door, and cursed his horrible luck.
“So tell me,” said Wheelock, after they were settled at a table. “What’s in Moncton?”
“Family,” said Émile, setting his napkin on his lap.
“Hmm, family,” said Wheelock. “And suppose I know that’s not true?”
Émile shrugged, straightened the tablecloth.
“It seems to me,” said Wheelock, “that Émile Deschênes has been buying a lot of tickets to a lot of places all over the place lately. Two tickets to London, one to Paris, one to Lisbon, and Porto, and Barbados, and Cuba—”
“Well as you can see, I’m right here,” said Émile.
“Indeed. But the cumulative effect, I’m afraid, of all these Émile Deschênes sightings is that now, when we get word he’s on a boat somewhere, we immediately discount it. Assume it’s a distraction. Assume you’re actually somewhere else, under an alias, sending us on a hunt for spectres.”
“Ah, clever,” said Émile. “Just imagine how lively it will be when the men I paid to say they were me start arriving in their various destinations around the world…”
Wheelock laughed as the waitress arrived with their tea and sandwiches. She set the tray down between them, then placed a saucer before each man, then a cup, and a spoon. Wheelock’s smile didn’t falter through it all. Émile wished he wasn’t facing the back, so he could see out the window.
The waitress poured a cup for Wheelock, and then for Émile, and set the pot back down.
“Sugar, sir?” she asked Wheelock.
“No thank you,” he said, eyes never leaving Émile.
“And you, sir?”
Émile shook his head ever so slightly. “Thank you.”
She took her leave, and the conversation continued anew.
“He’s furious with you,” said Wheelock. “Says you owe him. Called me back from Boston just to find you.”
“And you came,” said Émile.
“We don’t get to choose our missions, Deschênes. You know that better than anyone.” He picked up his tea. “It’s good to see you, though. I really did think you were dead, so this is a pleasant surprise, all things considered.”
“Likewise,” said Émile, but didn’t touch his tea at all.
Wheelock sipped, seemed to enjoy the drink. “Why did you do it? Leave, I mean.”
“After the Admiral opened fire, I—”
“No no, not that,” said Wheelock. “Halifax. After Jeffries’ offer. He was giving you a free pass back in, and you just…disappeared. Not even a reason why. I think that’s what got him more than anything. You didn’t try to explain, you just vanished in the night, and made him look a fool.”
Émile remembered that night, the thought of dreading the sunrise, feeling so cold and alone and ruined…and then hearing the words that gave him purpose again.
“I’m done with that life.”
“We’re all done with this life,” laughed Wheelock. “But we do it all the same. But no, there was something else. I can feel the shape of it, in the way you’ve been moving, but I can’t quite figure what it is. You’re looking for something. For someone…?”
Émile nudged his tea cup, avoiding eye contact.
Wheelock grinned. “Interesting. Have you found her?”
Émile winced, ever so slightly. “Maybe.”
“And does she want to be found?”
“I hope so.”
Wheelock set down his cup. “You know what his orders are, of course. What I’m here to do.”
Émile nodded.
“And I know you won’t make it easy for me. So I propose a bargain: I’ll let you finish chasing your nun, to do whatever it is you intend to do. And in exchange, you won’t put up a fight.”
Émile saw Wheelock’s hand settle on his pocket. On the knife. Even in this tea room, with all these people around, either one of them could kill the other and get away unscathed. It was just a question of who had the better weapon…and it wasn’t Émile.
“I’ll make it quick,” said Wheelock, with a compassionate nod.
Émile set his hands on the table, palms down, a safe distance from his tea cup and the spoon next to it. A show of peace. Wheelock didn’t change his stance one bit.
“I didn’t mean to leave,” said Émile. “The first time, I mean. It just happened. I saw the things I’d done, the person I’d become, and I just…I stopped being me. Walked away, and for a time I just did the opposite of what I’d been trained to do. I had been neck-deep in it for so long, I had forgotten how to think for myself.”
“There’s a comfort in the straight line,” said Wheelock.
“There is,” said Émile. “But you know what we never do? We never see things through to the end. Yes, we complete the mission, do the deed, tidy up afterward. But we don’t get to the end of it, solve the whole problem. By the time the ashes fall, we’re long gone. On to the next straight line.”
“The rest is not our business.”
“But it is,” said Émile. “The rest is our legacy. And if we turn a blind eye to it—”
“If we stop to right every wrong, Deschênes, the rest of the world will burn.”
Émile looked him dead in the eye, jaw tensing. “A world full of half-healed scars is worse.”
Wheelock’s hand stayed on his pocket. Émile’s stayed on the table. The waitress watched from a distance, curious about what these two odd customers were up to. The ladies by the window chatted away, pretending not to be watching, too.
Then, without warning, Wheelock’s face twitched back to a smile, and he stood. “Well, this was delightful,” he said. “I believe we have a nun to see.”
Émile set his napkin on the table and gave the waitress a nod of thanks as Wheelock set some coins next to his saucer. They stepped out into the street again, paused side by side, and watched the sun overhead.
“Missing your carriage,” said Wheelock.
“It’s a habit of mine,” said Émile.
They walked down the street, Émile only inches from a violent end, until they reached a newish school house built painted dark brown, with a cross on the door and a sign hanging crooked off a chain by the boarded-up windows.
Émile checked with Wheelock before knocking, and then rap-rap-rapped at the door with a hand he was fighting hard to keep from shaking.
A few moments later, a young nun came to the door and frowned at them both; Émile, because he looked ragged and worn, and Wheelock because he didn’t seem bothered by it at all. “Yes?” she asked.
“Sister Agatha, please,” said Émile. “It’s about the tithes.”
The nun nodded quickly, then hurried back inside.
“Nicely done,” whispered Wheelock. “Still got it.”
Sister Agatha, the nun Émile had been following, arrived at the door, flustered and pale. She was middle-aged, but held herself much older than that, like she was trying to be a wisened old woman before her time. She looked at the two strangers outside with confusion and fear.
“What about the tithes?” she said.
“It’s best if you see,” said Émile, and stepped back so she could exit.
Sister Agatha didn’t give it a second thought. She hurried past them, back toward the church—but only got as far as the corner before Émile grabbed her habit and shoved her into an alley, pinning her against the wall.
Agatha gasped in horror before he covered her mouth with his hand and leaned in close.
“You scream, and you die,” he said. “Understand?”
She was so shocked, she didn’t know how to react. Wheelock rolled his eyes, pulled the knife from his pocket and held it to her throat.
“Clearer?” he asked.
She nodded urgently.
Émile removed his hand. “The girl. African. A dozen years old. Marie. You know her?”
Agatha was trembling, eyes darting between him and Wheelock. “I…I…” She swallowed, trying to keep her throat away from the blade. “A great many girls come through—”
Wheelock leaned closer. “You don’t want to lie to him,” he said.
“Y-yes, I knew her,” she whimpered. “The slave girl from the shipwreck. She—”
“What do you mean ‘knew’?” Émile asked, his threatening tone faltering. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know!” pleaded Agatha. “I don’t know, I swear I don’t know!”
“Did she run away? Die? What?” Émile asked, mind racing to all kinds of terrible places.
“I…I…”
Wheelock pressed the knife harder, and blood seeped through the white of her collar. She whimpered loudly, closing her eyes and whispering a frantic prayer for mercy.
“Answer him,” said Wheelock.
Agatha let out a long shaky breath. “Jesus forgive me, she was sold.”
“Sold?” growled Émile.
“Through a broker,” she said. “To a family…I don’t know where. They don’t tell me where. I just find the ones they need and they—”
“This broker, what’s his name?”
“His…his…”
“His name!” Émile yelled, and she cowered.
“Winnaker!” she cried. “Edwin Winnaker! From Montreal. That’s all I know, I swear.” Émile turned away, running a hand through his hair, ready to scream. Agatha sobbed. “I only wanted to better their lives, the poor savages. I just—”
Wheelock shoved the knife through her throat, twisted it, and pulled it free. She gurgled in shock, mouth moving silently, trying to figure out what had happened…and then he put his hand at the back of her head and tossed her to the ground, face-first.
“Evil bitch,” he grumbled, wiping the blood off his blade on the back of her gown.
Émile stared in shock, but didn’t move.
“Th-thank you,” he said. “For giving me a chance.”
Wheelock stood, inspecting his knife for stray red. “I’m a man of my word,” he said. “When I say I’ll do something, it’s done.”
Émile nodded, let his arms go loose at his sides.
“Which is why it’s so frustrating that I missed you before you boarded that ship to Trinidad.”
Émile gaped, unable to comprehend what was happening before Wheelock put the knife back in his pocket.
“Jeffries will tear a strip off me for that,” he said. “So make it worth it.”
There was so much to say, but no time or words to say it. Émile took an unsteady step backward, and then paused, a thought bubbling to the top of his mind. “Thank you.”
“See this line through to the end, Deschênes,” said Wheelock. “For all our sakes.”