Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

I assumed," Sam said as he again removed his leather money purse. "If I find it satisfactory, you'll be well-paid for your service… and your silence."
    Wickenbe dipped into the back room. Sam waited with some impatience. And then Wickenbe reappeared carrying a crimson and gold hand-tooled leather fitted respirator mask. As masks went, it was really quite eye-catching, although Sam sensed it was more decorative than functional. Not quite the same as what Wickenbe was wearing. Perhaps somewhat better quality than what Sam wore. It was eye-catching, though, and might have been fashioned at one of the exclusive uptown shops in Abbington Square. Wickenbe certainly had outdone himself. He proudly held it up for the two men to see and inspect.
    "Didn't I tell you? You said it was a birthday present for someone special."
    "Yes. It is." Sam took the mask from Wickenbe. Soft, pliant leather, although the gold and glass eye coverings, the shaped gold metal nose guard filter, and the rectangular metal mouthpiece filter gave it some heft.
    "You'll see it splits up the back with fairly simple adjustable brass fastenings. The leather overlaps for a more secure fit." He placed another box onto the table. "Here are the extra replacement filters."
    "It truly is quite an amazing piece of work, Wickenbe."
    Wickenbe turned to Bobby. "A lovely young lad. Why don't you try it on him? I would love for you to see the full effect of my creation."
    Sam turned to Bobby, mask in hand. He was loath to put it on him. Soon enough Bobby would be interred in an unredeemable manner.
    "It's fine, sir," Bobby said, as though understanding Sam's hesitation. But Bobby didn't possess emotion, so it couldn't be some measure of empathy that prompted him. Bobby held himself still as a mannequin in a shop window. Something about that disturbed Sam. He brushed the sensation aside.
    "Well, then, let's see how it fits. That way I won't be all thumbs when it comes to presenting it at the proper time."
    He fitted the mask to Bobby's head. With such thick locks of hair, it took some doing. Bobby turned and Sam fastened the small brass closures that lined the edging at the back. One after the other locked firmly, until finally Bobby's gorgeous head was entombed inside. The bottom of the mask fitted long and closed in like a second skin around his throat, slipping beneath the edge of his shirt. Sam turned Bobby to face him. Something squeezed his insides as he gazed at what seemed a very alien creature without personality, without identity. Almost reptilian.
    "Absolutely beautiful. Just as I imagined it," Wickenbe exclaimed. "You must agree it's absolutely brilliant workmanship, Constable."
    "Yes, yes, of course," Sam said faintly. No one would ever guess the face behind this mask. And that was the exact purpose for which it had been made.
    He spun Bobby around and quickly unfastened the mask and removed it from Bobby's head. "It is acceptable." He tossed it onto the counter. Then he reached up to comb his fingers through Bobby's tousled hair, putting it back into some measure of order. Silky and soft. He hesitated for just a fraction of time, lingered as he patted, and then smoothed a hand down to Bobby's shoulder. Quickly he turned away before he did something he'd regret. His course was set– and so was Bobby's.
    He turned to Wickenbe. "It is satisfactory. Package it up please." He upturned his purse, spilled at least half the number of gold coins that remained onto the scratched wooden counter. Wickenbe's eyes lit up. He held out the brown paper-wrapped package to Sam. Sam replaced his purse and then accepted the package. He turned to leave.
    "Good day to you, Constable Dart," Wickenbe called after him.
    "Good day, Wickenbe, and remember our agreement."
    "Of course, Constable. Of course."
    "Let's get out of here, Bobby. We're late. I'll hire a cab to get us to the rail station. We mustn't be late." Sam put his respirator back on and adjusted the mouth covering.
    The carriage Sam waved down was one of the horse-drawn variety. The nag with deeply bowed back was old and well-used, the driver, with ruddy, chapped hands and long gray-whiskered, the carriage well-used.
    "Where to, Constable?" the driver asked in a tinny tone, half muffled by his worn cheap respirator. Obviously the mouthpiece was long past its recommended replacement and barely covered his mouth and nose. The goggles were a separate piece, tied around the back of his head. His black coat was patched