Without A Trace, Henry's Thread [closed]

[Davion Murphy]

/_________________________________________________________________________________________\

November 22nd, 1869
Lower Manhattan, New York City, NY
About 9:30pm

Well Davion hadn’t cut his hair as the judge had asked, to be honest it was really beginning to annoy but not long after that night of his griping and complaining he had awoken a new man with an outlook on this situation that had grown in acceptance. The two lawmen now had a common goal and as they both sought to achieve it circumstances were much more bearable. The Montana lawman was still finding life here difficult to adapt to but now knew to just relax and hide his shock and surprise when he saw something out of the ordinary, like walking down an alley and seeing a prostitute with one of her clients, just going at it in the back doorway of some ill-fated establishment, not giving any mind that people could see and hear them. The tall hats really threw him, standing over a foot above a man’s head, what was the point of all that empty space, did they keep things in there, was it to imply a certain status symbol or just to make a man appear taller? He now knew what timber was and for the past few days had been getting chummy with the local Irishmen. It seemed there was a bit of discrimination among the Irish just like there was discrimination anywhere else. Some said screw it, what did it matter? Don’t matter where a man is from in Ireland, whether he was rich or poor, a farmer’s boy or the daughter of a banker. Now that they had crossed the pond, they were all one in the same here, they were all hated by the ones that had called New York home before them. Davion and Cyrus had already been to the harbor, watching the immigrants leaving their boats only to get pummeled by bricks, rocks and even shoes. A sweet hearted country boy found it hard to understand, and even harder not to intervene. A woman would cry out at the stinging bite of a stone to the face, her husband would be wise not to seek out her tormentor, if he did he would be beaten within an inch of his life if the boys in blue were slow to respond. Rushing into the masses, a crowd of angry “natives” was never a bright idea. So they gritted their teeth and had to bear it or else risk widowing their wives after just arriving, if they managed to survive the journey at all. On the other side of the loading docks, apart from the arriving immigrants, shipmates unloaded one pine box after the other of those that had contracted the plague, pneumonia, syphilis, cholera or dysentery on the way over. Thus was the life of an Irishman coming to America.

Spotting a regular hang out at an Irish pub last week Cyrus and Davion had waited outside, looking over everyone within the establishment. According to Corey Blaylock they were looking for a tall, lanky dark headed fella and a very short, bald guy who was probably now wearing a hat much like every other loudmouthed, drunken Irish Mick in this damn ass pimple of a city. It rained too damn much, the rats were f***in scary, looked like they could drag a newborn child from a crib, the dogs weren’t friendly and the people weren’t much better always wanting to know who the hell Davion was looking at, why was he smiling like that, who da fack was he wavin at? The marshal had never been accused of being too personable. Apparently everyone here was expected to go on about their business, no eye contact unless they were conducting business with someone else, whether that be bartering for wares or starting some meaningless scuffle. But they didn’t see their men in the pub that day but the judge was not about to scrap this stakeout too, it was clearly time to change their tactics. Firstly Davion looked far too pretty to be a roughneck, Irish boy and so Cyrus took the liberties of dunking his head into a rain barrel, quite by surprise at that. The soiled marshal glowered at his counterpart, reminding him that he knew where the notorious judge slept at night, then swept his mop of mangled dirty hair back out of his face. Murphy had more than a bit of five o’clock shadow going on as well, scruff didn’t really define it either and the prim and proper lawman was quite unsettled by his reflection, “I look like a f***in drunk . . . a gutter rat, my mother would roll over in her goddamn grave.” but the goal of the operation had been achieved as the marshal had acquainted himself with a few Irish lads.

There was Mickey Walsh, Sean Cunningham, David Fitzpatrick and a colored boy they simply called Laddie. Either the boy came off the boats with no name or his original name was too complicated or too long to bother with. Of course there was Fitz’s ratting terrier Riley, a champ in the pits. Well at least Davion didn’t have to worry about those big ass rats in that run down pub, which from the looks of it from the outside . . . and hell even the inside, looked like more souls within were those of vermin than human. It was so dirty here and the lawman could almost feel the disease lingering in the air, “THIS is where Henry was from? Damn no wonder he was so f*cked in the head. Makes me regret ever thinkin bad of ‘im.” Murphy pondered regretfully as they waited in the alley for his usual crew to show up, “Henry grew up in Brooklyn, not quite this bad, the middle class, this is lower than lower class. Bella came from upper class, in beautiful upper Manhattan.” Davion rolled his eyes and mumbled that these boys should drink there rather than here.

Finally, one by one the boys popped up and went on in, sat at the very back and settled in for the evening, “Best go in, start talking before they get too hammered.” the boys greeted him in the usual Irish way, loudly with lots of rough handshakes and claps on the back, kicking a chair out for him and ruffling his already disheveled hair. It was so much wavier than he remembered when it was this long back in the war, when he was too busy killing Mexicans to bother with personal appearance, or hygiene for that matter, “AYE! Davo, how ye been?” as the marshal situated himself he wondered what Mickey had meant by that, looking across the table at him, “ . . . since yesterday?” he lilted his head and roused a boisterous laugh from the boys, all younger than thirty he could tell, making him wonder how he had gotten in with them, “Uh, yeah, since yersterd’y Country Boy.” cocking a fake half grin Davion pretended to join the mockery and finally nodded, “Fine, doin just fine.” the laughing stopped and everyone got a bit still as if he had just insulted the queen, “Yer fine? . . . Fine? As opposed ta coarse?” they laughed again.
“No, fine as in well, I’m doing well, I’m okay I’m . . . fine.” he enunciated. Those cheesy Irish grins popped up all around and all was well again,
“Oooooh, fine . . . okaeh! Drinks all around!”

An hour later Davion slipped out of the bar, or rather stumbled out, colliding with a trash barrel he righted the container laughing at himself and then raked his hair back out of his eyes in the gloom of the musty street. There was a ruckus across the way where he had left his colleague to await his return, the hell was going on? Pushing his way through the crowd, smelling no better than the brewery up the street, he found a fat and happy judge seated at a . . . beer keg playing cards, and playing them well it would seem, “Uh . . . Cy, Cyrus we uh, we gotta . . . go.” he managed to garble out in his inebriated state, hadn’t drank like that in a while and he felt like a light weight again but he was getting his kick back. Smiling triumphantly from around a fat Cuban in his teeth, Savage gathered his winnings, tipped his hat and bid everyone a fine evening.

“You have . . . you make more money’n . . . me an’ you’re in an alley in the slums o’New York playin poker with Pikers, you sir are a sick man.” Davion staggered into the dimly lit apartment, shedding his coat and shoes then collapsing on the bed as Cy laughed at him, still chewing on that cigar.
“You’re just jealous.” rolling over a bit, Murphy gave him that disapproving look,
“I’m workin . . . foregoin baths, a haircut an’ a shave for this shit, while you’re playin . . . no I ain’t jealous, I’m pissed. You c’n kiss my ass if you plan on f***in around anymore an’ expectin my help, I’ll go the f*** home Cyrus.” tilting his head at his friend Cy had that sympathetic look about him, stubbed out his cigar and crossed his arms,
“Davi needs a nap, he’s grouchy.” a muffled ‘f*** you’ into the pillow was all he got in return, “Did you find anything?” and at that, the marshal rolled over and sat up, wavering on the edge of the bed,
“Yep, Cullen Callaghan an’ Quinlan Gallagher hang out in a pub at the Five Points called the Chatham Square Tavern, every weekend.” peeking over at Savage he noted the floored expression,
“You shittin me? You better not be shittin me . . . you just . . . ASKED?” Davion shrugged, “They wanted t’know what I had t’do with somebody like that, like Cullen since he’s the son of a Senator.” Cy tilted his head, “But I made sure they were drunk, they finally gave em away, they hang out t’gether too . . . easy.” almost too easy.
“Wait, the son of a senator? A United States senator?” Murphy looked at the judge like he was a moron.
“Yeah, a senator . . . I dunno what senator, ever heard o’Senator Callaghan?” Savage lapsed into a moment of deep thought before shaking his head, rubbing at the thick stubble on his jawline, “We could always, ask Cullen.” but unfortunately for a very much alive Henry Scarborough, today was Monday, putting their investigation on hold until Friday night.

Word Count: 1771
Tagged:NA
Lyrics:Eminem
Notes:NA

LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.

[Henry Scarborough]

/___________________________________________________________________________________________________\

November 26th, 1869
Fort Warren Stockades, Georges Island, MA
About 4:45pm


No matter what time of day, it was perpetually dark. His own world in the cold concrete belly of the Fort Warren Stockade where he had been imprisoned for the past eleven days, seventeen hours and forty-two minutes. The obscure marks he had been scratching onto the wall behind his cot counted off nine days and he had stopped counting since it was impossible to tell where one day stopped and another began, especially when he was unconscious for hours at a time, sprawled on this very blood stained cot. Even if and when he left this twelve by twelve cell, the essence of Henry Scarborough would remain. His blood stained the floor, his sweat and tears on the straw mattress, sometimes he thought he could still hear his echoing screams resonating in the corridor, or was that all in his head? He felt his mind going, or at least thought he did, or did he think at all, was this all a vivid nightmare? Men on the outside took for granted the very simple little fact that they could simply look into the sky and tell what time of day it was. A sense of time, a schedule even as simplistic as sleeping when it was dark and working in the light of day. Henry no longer had that, it was purely maddening. Breakfast came and he could assume it was morning, but those lapses in time where he was out of it haunted him. Sitting in the dark with his mind working, grinding and bogged down in the dark and unknown, searching for something that wasn’t there to answer a simple question that he could not solve. How long had it been, was the sun shining outside, were the stars glittering in the clear night sky, was there snow on the ground or was it already spring, was it a Wednesday, a Sunday? God it felt like he had been here for months.

He hated them for it. Curled into his corner, crouching on his cot like a caged animal he brooded silently in his solitude, seething with his loathing for the people responsible for his situation and wanting nothing more than for them to die horribly painful deaths. But, at the same time those crippling thoughts also invaded his mind, he needed them. In order to live, for however long they decided he should, he needed them for food, warmth and shelter even as they threatened to take it away every time he refused to give them what they wanted. However, simultaneously they seemed to feel they somehow needed him as well, it was just too bad he would never give them a goddamn thing even as they promised him shit in return. Just as he expected he was only given twenty-four merciful hours to think about his option of getting sent to New Zealand. After that it was right back to being strung up to the ceiling. A strand of clean silver metal flashed up there in the darkness where his rope had cut a line through the thick black grime. Over the past five days he had been tied up there four times, at one point twice in one day he was sure. With his sleep cycle so out of whack it was a wonder he had not lost his mind yet, that in itself was unadulterated mental torment.

Yesterday they had come for him, sleeping heavily as usual he was disoriented when jolted awake by the sound of his door opening and unlike he was the first few times, Henry would no longer accept his treatment lying down and sprang from the bed but there was little room to run as usual. He had blankets still and that was a god-send because he was soaking wet when they got done with him yesterday, resorting to holding his head down in a bucket of ice water until he was just on the verge of drowning. They’d pull him out sputtering and gagging, ask him for the numbers, wait a few moments and dunk him again. His vision would frame itself in a fuzzy black ring, slowly closing in as he lost consciousness and then he was granted a brief reprieve from the suffocating seawater. Dry heaving so much had left his stomach ravaged with cramps but that blow to the face from a frustrated guard hurt worse at the moment. He probably shouldn’t have spat water in his face but the billy club to the jaw was sort of worth it. The angered guard came back later, from a world above, and stood over that grate in the ceiling of Henry’s cell. The bright lantern light cascaded through the iron bars casting black lines across the man looking up at his capture with a bloodied lip as he called down to him before dumping a spade of fresh horse shit from the cavalry stables down onto his head. It was degrading, especially after he spent a good hour fumbling around in the dark gathering the manure in his hands to put into the chamber pot, but he kind of had to get it off his bed and out of his hair. He may have been born and raised in New York but Henry now considered himself a country boy, a little horse manure wouldn’t hurt him.

Louie had come and gone twice today, he had his breakfast, his lunch, now dinner with a side of drowning perhaps and he would be good for bed. Scratching at his itchy face he was well aware that he was on his way to looking rather unfavorable for his wife. She was never a big fan of beards, at least not his, not a fan of his facial hair in general he supposed. She would probably like his more muscular appearance as his boredom became productive when he took the time to do his pull ups. He lay awake some nights, listening to a cricket chirping in the quiet of the stockade. What a lucky little bug, he found this place a sanctuary, a warm space to winter while Henry was subjugated to being beaten nearly every day, worrying about life back home. He vexed for the lives of his friends more than anything, no longer concerned with dying since he had accepted that fact from day one when he quietly admitted it to himself in the dark. Was Bella already moving on? Was she in New York, was she courting again, being set up with someone, did she wear her wedding band anymore? The banker had no idea where his ring was, his Saint Christopher pendant either, and his watch Bella had given him.

Leaning forward a bit he visibly grimaced as his shirt peeled away from the open wounds on his back, now resembling the abused hide of the property of some southern plantation owner. A sudden calm washed over him, his jaw set and his unseeing eyes cut to the side in the filmy dark, he moved not a muscle, he barely breathed as the heavy oak doors at the top of the stairway cracked open and the light beyond spilled into the cell block. They came for him once more.

Word Count: 1205
Tagged:NA
Lyrics:NA
Notes:NA

LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.

[Davion Murphy]

/_______________________________________________________________________________________\

November 26th, 1869
Chatham Square Tavern, the Five Points, Lower East Side Manhattan, New York
About 10:45pm


It was well past closing time in the Chatham Square Tavern, situated on the infamous streets of the lower east side of Manhattan in what was known as The Five Points. It was more so just barely on the outskirts but still crawling with the filthy, disease-ridden vermin that infested this part of town. The muddied streets were far more shit than cobblestone or dirt, a man could relieve himself anywhere around here especially when he hadn’t a pot to piss in nor a window to toss it out of. The Montana lawman had to wonder if the piles of excrement he happened upon were crawling with worms before or after it plopped to the street. He had suppressed his gag reflex on several occasions and now it took a whole hell of a lot to make him feel sick around here.

They had helped themselves through the back of the tavern after Davion had covertly staked the place out for the past four days and was once again pretty chummy with the regulars, particularly the owner. Murphy had convinced the man that two of his regular customers owed him a great deal of money and if he did not interfere he would be getting a share and Tommy Walsh humbly agreed. He was a greedy Mick, why not?

They sat in the back and waited, Cyrus insisted on playing cards and smoking a rather odiferous Cuban the owner had given him, fogging up the little room that would soon be the scene of a bloodbath. Neither man planned on taking it that far when they set up for the meeting. Mimicking a well-practiced Irish accent Davion sidled up to Cullen Callaghan, his body guard and Quinlan Gallagher. He invited the gents to a friendly private game of poker in the back where the pot was already rather sizable and the boys were betting big. Once again it was easy to con a drunken greedy Irishman and they willingly followed. The tavern was empty when the shot rang out. Mickey McCarthy reached for the Derringer in his jacket but only found a spreading crimson stain coating the front of his shirt from a double dose of crippling buckshot before his knees went weak. And there he stayed, slumped against the wall tainted with that red smear blackening as the minutes turned to hours and Davion and Cyrus continued to ask their questions, mostly waiting for the two men to sober up and become a bit more intelligible. The darker haired Quinlan was in for it and there would be no escaping, but Cullen was the son of the senator and may be getting off a bit easier, at the expense of his friends of course.

“I can’t believe ya kilt ‘im, ya kilt me best friend ye spudless fooker!” Cullen spat at the big fella that had shot and killed his body guard. He had been begging for the past hour for one of them to cover the body and show a little respect but they refused, saying he needed to see it and know they were not f***ing around, “It’s funny you say that.” Davion spoke in a normal voice, looking at the beaten faces of both men, “Because Henry Scarborough had friends, good friends, and a wife, a daughter and two sons that’ll never see him again.” as he spoke he pulled his Smith & Wesson, the gun he had been leaving in the apartment because it was too difficult to conceal, because apparently one hid their firearms in the east whereas they had them out for all the world to see out west but whatever, “Daniel Helm was Henry’s best friend, and he is consumed with a wrath that would rival a scorned Greek God, sir.” he spoke slowly, removing the cartridges from the cylinder of his break-action revolver one by one, agonizingly slow and setting them up on their ends in a row on the card table. Quin looked less than impressed, sitting in his chair with his hands bound behind him. His bald colleague however was very much on edge, watching every movement of the marshal, “So, what’s yer point, why ain’t he here?” pausing as he set up that last bullet Davion held his breath much like Cyrus did when he allowed that insanity inducing silence to pass between them, Murphy knew how damn crazy it made him and utilized the tactic accordingly,
“Busy, but he wanted me t’send y’all a message.” Quin perked up with a scoff, tilting his head back to flex his stiffened neck a bit. Producing a bullet from his pocket Murphy slipped it into one of the six chambers in the cylinder, “He gave me this bullet, I plan t’use it too . . . on which one of ya now . . . that depends on you.” Savage kept an eye on the window, the sawed off ten gauge loaded with two rounds of buckshot resting across his knees, pointing toward the door just in case. The marshal snapped the action of the revolver closed and gave the cylinder a good spin, “One in six chances fellas . . . now, who was responsible for the hit on Henry Scarborough?” the dark haired fella just stared at his adversary, Cullen only had eyes for the gun, “Cullen? . . . I know you’re dyin t’say somethin.” Jesus Christ why did he have to smile when he said that? Too panic stricken to speak Cullen couldn’t find his voice until the hammer of that cannon cocked back, “Okay! Okay, okay it was . . . me fadder, me fadder da senator o’Massachusetts.” he garbled and the marshal sat back some, lowing the hammer and buying both men a few extra minutes, “Does he have a name?”
“Killian, Killian MacDermott.”
“MacDermott? . . . he any relation t’Lachlan MacDermott?” that slippery son of a bitch!
“Yeah, e’s ‘is uncle, Lachlan’s me cousin.” Davion gave Cyrus that heavy look, knowing they couldn’t go all the way back to Colorado to question Lachlan, hell he was in San Francisco by now he was willing to bet, “Which one of ya killed ‘im.”
“Who?” Cullen winced and refused to open his eyes as the marshal jumped to his feet, the chair clattered to the floor and the cold barrel of that damn gun was flush with his forehead, “HENRY! WHO F***IN KILLED ‘IM!?” well this was not what the owner thought would be going down but he had already been paid and was busily wiping down his counters in the next room without a care in the world.

Completely at a loss for words was the poor lad until his friend spoke up, “I did.” the lawmen turned to the man that hadn’t spoken a word up until now, “I beat ‘im so bad e’ died on da train.” which he technically did, so he wasn’t lying was he? The pearl handle grip of that revolver came across his face so hard it rocked the chair onto two legs, threatening to topple over. After settling his friend down Cyrus looked around and there was no suspicion yet, “Why did MacDermott want ‘im, what did he want with ‘im?” no response and the marshal was already fed up with Gallagher so he pointed the gun at him, and cocked the hammer, “Why didn’ ya just kill ‘im, why put ‘im on a train goddammit!?” still nothing and the hammer clapped down but there was no resounding gunfire, “Ya got lucky that time, what the f*** did the senator want with Henry?” Quin could only sit and flinched again as the hammer struck the firing pin, still nothing, “You’re runnin outta chances son, answer me or I swear t’god you will die right here, right now.” repeating his question he still got nothing, saw the shining gold sliver of brass peeking at him from the next chamber as it rotated into position at the cocking of the hammer, “You remember the name Daniel Helm, he’s the one that sent ya t’hell, boy.”

Word Count: 1347
Tagged:NAME
Lyrics:Eminem
Notes:LASNOTAS

LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.

[Cyrus Savage]

/___________________________________________________________________________________________\

November 27th, 1869
Chatham Square Tavern, the Five Points, Lower East Side Manhattan, New York
About 12:45am

The marshal’s bedraggled, overgrown hair and scruff made him look like a ragamuffin and it was driving him crazy, so crazy in fact that as he stood outside the tavern he held a smoldering cigarette between his fingers, shivering in the cold. It was nearly December and they finally had their lead, but Cullen had revealed some very interesting information.

“E’ ain’t dead.” Cyrus had looked down at the very much deceased Quinlan Gallagher with his brains strewn across the floor and assured Cullen that his friend was very much dead as a bag of shit, “No, no, no Scarboruh . . . e’ ain’t dead, e’ was alive when I handed ‘im off t’me fadder.” going on to explain that MacDermott wanted Henry for something and was keeping him alive somewhere Cullen also claimed that he did not know where Henry was, just that his father was holding him some place.

“It’s been a while since Cullen saw his father or Henry . . . he’s probably killed him by now.” Cyrus gave his two cents very somberly, drawing off his own rollup when what he really wanted was a drink. They had cleaned up their mess and thanked the owner for his cooperation, paid off a madam in a local brothel to keep Cullen chained to a bed in one of her spare rooms until Gio got word of him. Cyrus had been keeping Giovanni Clair in the loop in hopes that the Sicilians could help them out here and there, essentially pitting the Italian Mafia against the Irish Mob. After a lengthy silence Davion ran his fingers through his dirty, wavy hair, “Cullen specifically said he’s not dead, he could be anywhere . . . where would you keep a man like that?” the judge looked across the street at a flickering street lamp, his breath visible on the cold night air, “I would keep a prisoner in a prison, it’s the most logical choice. With as much political power as Killian’s got he could put Henry anywhere so that nobody can find ‘im.”
“You mean imprisoning ‘im illegally, without records . . . Jesus it’d be like a needle in a haystack.” Cyrus nodded and they stood there quietly for another few moments. The bodies of Mickey McCarthy and Quinlan Gallagher had already been chained and sunk in the New York Harbor not far from here. So now the lawmen gathered their thoughts.
“Well . . . you know this place better’n I do . . . how many prisons’re in Massachusetts?” Cy looked thoughtful for a moment before sighing, “There are two big state prisons but I imagine he’ll choose a more discrete one, something smaller, maybe even an asylum.” he flicked his cigarette to the gritty curb and crushed it under his boot heel. “But we can’t assume that so those two big ones hafta be checked too.”
“And by checked you mean going in and looking in every single cell at every single inmate, shit if we don’t find ‘im they better not say we didn’ f***in try, man.” tomorrow they would set off for a twelve hour train ride to Massachusetts and then head for the Charlestown State Prison for a day, then on to Bridgewater Hospital for the criminally insane. From there it would be hit and miss.

Word Count: 527
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LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.

[Henry Scarborough]

/_________________________________________________________________________________________\

December 1st, 1869
Fort Warren Stockades, Georges Island, MA
About 10:25am


That cold and vile glower from the man strung up in the cell before him, never left the Massachusetts State Senator as his two guards worked to get the banker to talk, to spill the beans on the combinations to the safes in Colorado. It had already been made clear to him that the banks could have since changed the combinations to the safes since a man who knew the numbers had gone missing. But there was no harm in trying and the fellas he had on the inside that had been watching the banks and stages like hawks, assured him that no one had tampered with the vaults, the combinations could very well still be the same. However it was now a game between the senator and the forever mute Henry Scarborough, the man that dug his heels in and refused to budge like a stalwart mule. No matter how many times they hit him, made him bleed, made him scream, he wouldn’t utter a word. MacDermott took it personally, loathed the banker for his obstinacy, hated the way he watched him now as he was being beaten, clearly in pain as it flashed in his eyes with each punishing blow, but his stare never waved nowadays. Killian could feel the heated glare, but something about today just pissed him off all the more, his frustrations at an impasse, all this trouble for nothing and he barked for his men to continue well past the usual two hour mark.

It was telling, subtly but it was there. Henry curled his toes into the cement, leaning forward in an effort to ward off his punishment, that anger in his expression fading until the fire in his eyes died down and the men let up but their boss shouted for them to keep going. Pushing the banker past his breaking point his legs finally knuckled over and buckled for the last time and he didn’t catch himself, Killian saw his eyes go up and that was it, the limp body slumped forward, “Salt ‘im, NOW!” both men looked reluctant to fetch the smelling salts, “Maybe we should-"
“Do as yer told ye stupid fooker!” holding the unconscious man by a shock of his wet blonde hair, the second man did as he was told, wafting the odiferous concoction under Henry’s nose, but an eerie silence soon consumed them in the dark corridors of the stockade, “Well, what’s wrong?” the impatient senator snapped and the urgency of the man with the salts was palpable as he pitched it to the floor of the cell and went to get more, without a word, “Goddammit, answer meh Portman!”
“He’s not responding.” a worried Phil Portman mumbled as he tried to awaken Scarborough with a second pass of ammonia and salt, “Not respondin?” Killian repeated in a quieter tone as the gag was removed from his prisoner, “He’s not wakin up, sir.”
“Well, is e’ dead?” he asked with no concern in his voice.
“Uh . . . it looks that way, let me check.” well, Killian shook his head looking at the crown of disheveled blonde hair, Henry was certainly making no effort to move as the guard returned from the cart with a stethoscope. If he was dead then this whole venture would have been for nothing, he still owed people money, money he had been hoping to come by for free. Not free to Henry though, it would cost him his life it seemed.

His back was turned when it happened, a deafening crash as Portman collided with the iron bars of the cell. With his rope slackened Henry had cleared the three foot jump to the grate above and slammed both feet square into the man’s chest. Whirling on the guard holding the other end of the rope Henry lunged for him next but not before Gillespie yanked the tether taut, cutting his attacker short. Still dazed from the blow to the head, Portman staggered toward the cart as their rampaging charge took hold of that damn rope with both hands and gave a solid jerk, lifting his nearly two-hundred pound adversary off his feet, then freed himself when Gillespie succumbed to rope burn and let go. Killian fumbled with his keys trying to find the one that unlocked the door while the banker pinned his assailant against the back wall and made the only voluntary sound he had since arriving on the island. From all the way up the corridor and through the thick oak doors said to be soundproof, prison guard Hugh Page heard the enraged roar of what sounded like a madman. Gillespie’s ears rang, his face hot from the breath of his attacker who he was sure was about to kill him but no matter how hard he struggled the cords and veins standing out on the banker’s neck and arms meant he had a hell of a grip, he wasn’t going anywhere. MacDermott got the door open about the time Portman found a stout club and cracked it over the head of his comrade’s crazed attacker. The eyes boring into his own blinked at the force of the impact and Gillespie felt the hold on him slacken as Scarborough listed slightly to one side, allowing him to wriggle free. Fully expecting him to go down all three men were astonished when Henry swiveled on his heels and looked ready to pounce again, “Git da fook outta dere right NOW!”

A fervid rolling cloud of vapor poured from the silhouette in the feeble lantern light, like an angry bull he closed on his targets just as they were squeezing past the wooden cart into the corridor about the time Page was coming down to see what was going on. His adversaries were now out of reach, but only from his physical self and Henry unleashed another infuriated bellow and took a viselike hold of the cart that outweighed him by nearly one-hundred pounds. Killian grabbed a bleeding Portman as quickly as he could, jerking him to the side, “Watch out, Boyo!” coming down the corridor echoing with the thunderous clamor of the wooden cart tumbling from the cell as it flipped end over end and crashed into the opposite wall, Page stood by and stared blankly at the splinters of wood, icy seawater and various instruments of torture that now littered the floor, “The hell’s goin on?” he demanded. Killian slammed the door shut and stepped away quickly, “I didn’ even know we had prisoners down here.” the nosy young guard exclaimed like it was a thing of excitement, a monkey in a zoo and peeked into the cell, “Git awaeh from da bars ye stupid git!” a heavy grasp on his shoulder saved him from the arms that lashed out through the iron staves at him as Scarborough slammed into them and made a wild grab for the guard. Retracting from the cell door Henry had eyes only for MacDermott, a wild look about them that the warden had warned him of, more animal than man. As if to further drive the point home, Scarborough emitted a low rumble from his throat, not differing all that much from the guttural growl of a pissed off mountain lion.

Jerking back to the crazed banker Killian’s expression hardened, “Have ye lost yer fooken mind?!” the senator’s voice was the only thing drowning out all the heavy breathing after the adrenaline rush began to wear off. Henry’s hands just tightened on the bars of his prison. Portman pressed his hand to the back of his head and felt the blood pooling in his hair where he had collided with the bars Henry was glowering at them through now. Phil’s gun belt went lax when his boss relieved him of his .32 revolver. Not a flinch, not a quiver, in fact Henry almost seemed calmer when MacDermott leveled the sights between the eyes that had seemingly stared down the barrel of a gun far too often. It would be like putting down a mad dog, or a dog having a bad day. Scarborough was bleeding so profusely that even in the yellow light of the lantern Killian could see how ashen he was, as his legs trembled in their last reserves to hold him upright, “Shoot the crazy son of a bitch!” a voice broke through the fog and it was Gillespie, “He coulda killed us, he’s no use t’you now . . . and I . . . you couldn’ pay me t’go back in there, sir. I quit.” with his ears still buzzing, the larger of Killian’s two guards turned and made his way up the corridor as the senator lowered his gun and handed it back to Portman, “With all due respect Mister MacDermott, I think he’s right,” casting a glance at a still quietly fuming Henry, “there’s nothin you can do with that man, not anymore. I won’t go back in there either, you couldn’t pay me enough.” poor Hugh had no idea what the hell was going on.

When it was all said and done, Killian came back down an hour later, took a chair and sat on it backwards outside Henry’s cell. If he so much as breathed too loudly it warranted an ice cold glare from the banker huddled on his bed against the back wall. Killian’s men had beaten him, cut him, burned him, partially drowned him, not a word. The senator himself had bribed him, cut deals with him, pleaded with him, not a word. As much as he hated him, Killian had to admit he was downright impressed with the son of a bitch.

Louie came by right on time and set a bowl of rice on the tray for the man he now watched like a rabbit watches a wolf. Having heard what had happened, he was warned to keep his distance from now on. A few remaining splinters from the fragmented ruin of that cart crunched under the heels of his boots as he flashed a brief greeting smile to MacDermott and left to tend to other prisoners. It took him a good twenty minutes but Henry finally eased from his bed and painfully made his way over to the door and took his soggy grain and wooden spoon. He never felt much like eating but it was the reason why he had kept his strength up and now that Killian could get a proper look at him, Henry’s arms were surprisingly more robust than when he had arrived. His beard had thickened, but he was wearing his clothes again, probably put them back on after he cooled down. Both men watched one another with well-deserved vehemence as Scarborough ate quietly. The ominous doors at the top of the stairs creaked open and a clatter of chains rang through the passageway, “Enjoy dat rice, Henreh.” the first thing the man had spoken in a good hour and Henry narrowed his eyes at him, but found the senator’s outline had tripled. Almost looking down at the empty bowl in betrayal, Henry felt that lightheadedness he often got after drinking too much and half crawled half stumbled off his bed with an expression of bewilderment as the room spun sickeningly from the cold concrete floor, “Chain ‘im to da wall, gents.”

Word Count: 1891
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LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.

[Henry Scarborough]

/_____________________________________________________________________________________\

December 5th, 1869
Fort Warren Stockades, Georges Island, MA
About 9:30pm

The goings on at the mighty fort sitting atop the rise in the Boston Harbor seven miles off the mainland, were fairly normal what with rounds going accordingly; breakfast, lunch and dinner, visitations, and then lights out. Over the past few days the work load had increased slightly out on the yard as snow continually fell to the ground and accumulated so much so that the strain on the roofs of some outlying buildings became a concern. Shackled and more trustworthy, predictable inmates were given the duties of clearing the wintery mix from the buildings under the watchful eye of armed guards. It was one of few privileges for prisoners, which were slim enough in winter as the summer and spring months were committed to rock busting with those heavy mallets on the chain gangs. Clearing brush from the rear of the island fort had also become a season chore and the warden himself dragged the limbs into the basement to burn them in the furnace. He could have burned them elsewhere but the furnace brought the frigid temperature of the lower floor to a tepid but reasonable fifty-five degrees. Another outdoor activity that had recently seen an unusual and perhaps unsettling influx was grave digging. On average a stockade of the size of Fort Warren saw to the burial of three or four inmates a week at most; be it old age, sickness, murder or an “accident.” In the last week prisoners had buried thirteen of their own as the temperatures dropped. But the guards were also on edge, just two days ago Nelson Thurman had been killed in the lower floor of the prison stockades where everyone had heard a commotion a few days prior. To say the poor bastard had been killed was putting it lightly.

Thurman and his fellow watchman, Joey Baker slipped into the lower stockade where they were actually not permitted to go but it was the quickest way out the back onto the sandy cliffs overlooking the ocean where they liked to take their smoke breaks. Like every other guard on the premises Thurman and Baker had been assured that the noises downstairs on the morning of December first was due to furniture being moved around in the storage rooms and were not aware of any prisoners being kept on the lower floors but habitually walked down the center of the corridor anyways on their way out the back, unimpeded. But something did lurk in the shadows of that subterranean prison, the monster of their nightmares and the reason why they left for work every day with that impending, sickening wave of foreboding that they may not ever come home again. Their jobs were dangerous, unpredictable and not for the faint of heart and certainly no job for a couple of young men screwing around like they were on their way back through the pitch black corridor. In a series of events that led up to the perfect timing for a horrible incident that would be labeled ‘misjudgment of a violent inmate’, the pieces fell into place and just as Baker pushed his friend into the bars of a nearby cell when he jokingly said something vulgar about his wife, it sealed Thurman’s fate. In his confusion he thought it was a steel bar that had lain across his throat, nothing he did could break the grip even clawing into the arm robbing him of the ability to breathe. Lifting his lantern to the sound of two bodies colliding with the iron bars, Baker saw his friend struggling in the grips of an unknown prisoner, the only sounds Thurman emitted were strangled gags, his eyes already popping as he looked to his friend for help. This floor was off limits for the very reason it was built, to house the insane and violent prisoners and he knew his fellow guard was in deep trouble. Joey cried for the assistance of the man standing guard at the top of the stairs but he couldn’t be heard through the thick oak doors. Moments later a pained scream did manage to penetrate those doors, rousing the suspicion of Hugh Page who had not heard the last of troubling sounds from the other side of that damn door. Pulling the iron reinforced entry open he caught sight of the grisly condition of a dazed Joey Baker as he crawled up the steps, a hand clasped over the right side of his bleeding face and mumbling incoherently, “You gotta go find it, you gotta help me find it and put it back, help me find it please.”

A smear of blood just outside the now empty prison cell still stained the floor, no matter how many times they had scrubbed it, no one could cleanse Thurman’s blood from the pitted concrete, nor the walls for that matter. Most of Baker’s gory trail up the corridor had come off fairly easily, but the right eye he pined for like a child was never to be recovered and in coming hours it would be rumored that the crazed prisoner had eaten it. Coming to the aid of his friend the ill-fated Baker had struck the mystery inmate over the head with his billy club and the man’s other hand had lashed out so quickly and latched onto his face he hadn’t the time to react. He had felt the thumb curl into the corner of his eye, after that he didn’t care to remember. Thurman had to be identified only by the fact that Baker said that was who he was. After abandoning his club in a state of shock, staggering up the hall he had left Thurman to the unadulterated fury of Henry Scarborough. It wasn’t all blind rage though, after his adversary had blacked out and crumpled to the floor, Henry pulled his body up to the bars, parallel with the cell door and had searched him for sets of keys, finding nothing he took out his frustrations with the club Baker had left behind. Nelson’s mauled corpse had to be retrieved with the warden’s walking cane as no one was brave enough to venture within arm’s length of the silently fuming prisoner who hovered over the body like a lion would a fresh kill.

Henry had crawled out of his bed on the evening of December second, taken the piece of stone he had found on day one to mark his days on the wall behind his cot, and scratched out seven digits on the floor of his cell, stretching out as far as his shackles would allow and as best he could under the numbing effects of the sedatives he was on. Nine, nineteen, one, two, five, twenty-four, and one. Killian MacDermott had been rather ecstatic and should have just stopped it there and given Henry what he promised, a pen and paper to write a letter to his wife before he was walked out for one last look at the sky and executed. But of course there were two more safes, so maybe he could persuade Henry to give those up too. The various drugs being laced into his food to keep him in an utterly harmless dazed and drooling stupor, were neglected as MacDermott and his men readied a wire to Denver for his men awaiting the numbers to the Wells Fargo safe. On the evening of December third as the last of the disorienting sedatives wore off and Henry became much more lucid, he folded his thumbs into his palms and easily slipped free of his shackles. From there he had lain in wait.

Sullivan Pierce was an easy going guy, surprisingly soft hearted in certain ways, like the lighting of the downstairs furnace so Henry wouldn’t freeze to death. The morning after the man had brutally slain one and badly disfigured another of his guards, the warden lit the furnace anyways and sat outside Scarborough’s new cell to talk to him and keep him company through the slot in the thick solid metal door. He was heavily anesthetized again and could hardly manage to hold his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time but in the pitch black of his nine by five prison aptly designated as “the hole” it didn’t much matter if his eyes were open or closed, but he appreciated the warden’s efforts. Not only had he been moved across the corridor to this tiny room, but he was also chained to the wall in a system that could be controlled from the outside, giving anyone wishing to open his door the ability to pull the shackles taut and restrict the man’s movements so they could better come in and clean up or give him a crude version of what they called a bath. There was no more chamber pot, Henry curled into one corner, his waste in the other a mere four or five feet away filling the tiny void with its rancid stench that soaked into the floor and walls no matter how many times the cell was cleaned. But he was too heavily sedated to really mind or care at all. They had put whatever cocktail of “medications” they chose in his fish, an Atlantic cod caught just off the coast of Maine north of here. Fish was cheaper than beef and in the winter to cut back on food cost and make room for means of heating the facilities, the warden brought in white fish from the fisheries up north. The banker had to eat it and submit to being sedated, borderline poisoned out of his mind, or starve. Of course what little food he had been given over the course of his stay here had him looking rather gaunt as it was after dropping about twenty pounds. His skin had not seen the light of day in weeks and was ashen and pale under the grime he had been stained with in the filthy state of his living conditions, particularly on his wrists where the metal of his shackles had oxidized and turned it a dark green. Deep purple bruising down his sides explained the wheezing, shallow and painful gasps he took, trying to breathe with cracked ribs, the scars across the majority of the trunk of his body was old news. All he had was the soiled clothes on his back and one thin, tattered blanket that appeared to predate the war.

It was late now, not that he would know, all he knew was the radiating pangs in his arms and ribs, a sharp twinge in his chest when he breathed, a numbed but oddly throbbing face and that dizzying feeling of nausea and of course the omnipresent darkness he was so afraid of. His stomach pitched and rolled as he lay there curled in a ball in his corner where Pierce had wrestled his battered body to a few hours ago. He didn’t remember much, a forceful awakening as he was dragged from his cell into the spacious corridor, a blow to the face and he had instinctively wrapped both arms around his head and pulled his knees to his chest. The guards were angry, this man had not been tried and hanged for the murder of Nelson Thurman and so they sought to right the wrong themselves. The authoritative bark of the warden had broken through the haze and the barrage of boot heels to his ribs had subsided. That was two hours ago and he was still balled up with his head cradled by the nook in the corner of his chamber, dearly missing that straw mattress and damning himself for ever thinking it was uncomfortable, chained to the wall and having no idea what had happened to him or why, under the watchful eye of the only man that Pierce trusted to keep guard over him, the warden himself. Tomorrow Pierce would find that watching a single prisoner was too time consuming and would wire the locksmith to come and swap out the locks to the doors at the top of the staircase, the back door and the cubicle that housed the much reviled but understandably slightly insane Scarborough. The grate above this chamber would not be closed and locked until several days later when someone dumped a bucket of horse shit on him again and Marshal Helm would show up after Pierce was done shoveling out the cell with the same spade he had used to scrape Nelson off the floor ten days prior. It would not seem strange for a marshal to pop up either since Pierce would have sent for one to move Henry for his own safety, all under Killian’s nose. But the senator would be wise to the move and intercept the wire, but that wouldn’t stop Daniel Helm. But until the arrival of Henry’s rescuers he would only have the company of the benevolent warden who would sit outside Henry’s cell and talk to him once in a while through the opening for his food tray. The senator would still come once in a while, shining a bright lantern in Scarborough’s sensitive eyes or banging a metal pipe against the door to shock his senses, demanding the combinations to the safes, but that was as intimidating as he got. It was clear his prisoner was on his last leg and couldn’t handle much more than that as just simply an hour of torturing what was left of the man’s sanity was enough to leave him screaming in the fetid cubical for an hour or two afterward. Pierce would sit there in the dim glow of an oil lamp and read, sometimes aloud unless it was clear his mute companion was asleep. Some did not condone their superior being in such close quarters with an inmate that had brutally slain a guard, but with Scarborough chained to the wall and deeply sedated Warden Sullivan Pierce saw no real danger of him reaching through a small opening to grab him. Something told him Henry had probably been a sweet natured fella before all of this transpired, a man that wouldn’t harm a fly but sadly it appeared that Henry was gone. However he still held faith that the man would not harm another intentionally, especially if Pierce treated him civilly but then again Henry had killed a man he had never even met just days prior. Looking in on him once in a while Sullivan saw no grey in the inmate’s thick beard or unkempt hair, a few lines around the eyes so he guessed him to be nearing his thirties. His eyes were as close to dead as he had ever seen, non-reactive to light the pupils were distended under the effects of his sedatives, what life had been there before was gone. He would sleep for hours only to be awoken by a nightmare that jarred him back into the cold, dark cell, pressing his palms to the walls trying to figure out where he was. If Pierce was there he would say something to let Henry know he was not alone and that was usually enough to keep him semi-calm and reduce his hysterics to a comforting slow rocking motion he would take up in his corner, hugging his knees to his chest. If not he seemed to draw great security in the shiny ticking pocket watch Pierce gave him. Shortly after arriving to the stockade Henry’s personal effects including his shoes, jacket, glasses and timepiece had been plundered. Pierce had gotten his hands on the watch when he found it in the man’s jacket and had held onto it until now. To avoid having it stolen he of course couldn’t let Henry keep it when he left to go home in the evening and had to take it back, stoke the furnace and then catch the ferry back to Boston. It was an act of kindness for an ill-fated and, in the warden’s opinion, dying man he took great pity on, that lasted for more than a week until Helm, Murphy and Savage came to fetch him.

On the morning of December tenth Russell Scarborough would head to the Wells Fargo in Denver to take care of some business after unofficially inheriting Scarborough Enterprises on November eleventh as a result of the disappearance of his cousin. The boys in blue would be there investigating an attempted break-in where one of the clerks managed to grab a potential robber by his jacket forcing the perpetrator to leave it behind. A quick search of the pockets would reveal a seven digit code on a piece of telegraph tape. Rusty, being forever clever, inventive and of course eccentric would take up pencil and paper and match the numbers up with letters and spell out ISABEXA. It was almost a word, maybe a coincidence? Well a combination didn’t make sense if two of the same numbers came one after the other, so he divided twenty-four in half and got two twelves to spell ISABELLA, “I’ll be damned . . . he’s alive.” back tracing the source of the telegraph Rusty ran the trace back to a fort on Georges Island off the coast of Massachusetts. Unable to reach Cyrus and Davion as they hopped about the state from prison to prison searching blindly, Rusty instead relayed the information to newly appointed Marshal Daniel Helm, who would head out that day, and prayed that heaven help anyone in his path while secretly hoping Helm would kill every one of the motherf***ers involved in the abduction of his cousin.

Henry's Rescue

Word Count: 2937
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Notes:NA

LISS AT CAUTION 2.0 LOVES ME.