Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

gushed from her ankle.
    “LUKE,” she screamed. “PLEASE LUKE, I’M BLEEDING … PLEASE … PLEASE….”
    But there wasn’t a sound.
    Still on her stomach, Prue jerked an oily rag from beneath a discarded refrigerator and clamped it frantically against her ankle, scattering the flies that had already begun to gather.
    She eased herself into a sitting position, leaning against the refrigerator as her eyes glazed over with the full horror of the thing that had happened:
    A man with no last name, a man she had loved, a man carrying the identification of Father Paddy Starr, had kidnapped the foster grandchildren of Frannie Halcyon in a small town in Southeast Alaska. And the Sagafjord would sail in less than two hours.
    It was time to pay the piper.

Atrocity
    R EMEMBERING AN ANCIENT TEACHING OF THE CAMP Fire Girls, Prue made a tourniquet from another oily rag and applied it hastily to her ankle.
    Three minutes later, she loosened the device enough to see that the bleeding had stopped, then raised herself cautiously to her feet. A pearl-sized drop of blood, dark as a ruby, bubbled to the surface as soon as she placed weight on the ankle. She blotted it warily, whimpering as she did so, until she felt secure enough to walk.
    Then she set off in the direction of the ship.
    As she left the litter-strewn lot, an angry voice called out to her. “Hey, lady!”
    She flinched at the sound, turning to see a heavy-set, redheaded man in his late forties. He was wearing overalls and carrying a hoe upright, like a spear.
    “Was that son of a bitch with you?”
    Prue struggled to find her voice. “I … if you mean … uh …”
    “Look, lady … I’ll kill the bastard if I have to! I’ll find out who he is and I’ll …” He stopped, seeing the blood on Prue’s ankle. “What’s that?” he asked, using a tone that was only slightly less hysterical.
    “I fell,” she said feebly. “I cut myself on that bedspring. Please don’t yell at me.” She began to sniffle. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t.”
    The man dropped his hoe and walked toward her. “Did he do this to you?”
    “A man in a blue blazer?”
    “Yep. You know him?”
    Prue nodded defeatedly. “I was … chasing him. Did you see which way he went?”
    “Through there,” said the man, pointing to a dilapidated wooden fence with two missing planks. “Through my goddamn garden, the son of a bitch!”
    For about five seconds, Prue considered pursuing him, but her spirit was broken now, and she knew that Luke and the orphans would be long gone. She thanked the man and resumed walking, adding lamely: “I’m sorry if he damaged your garden.”
    The man exploded. “Garden, hell!” He seized her wrist and pulled her toward the hole in the fence. “You’re gonna see this, lady!”
    See what, for God’s sake? What on earth had Luke done?
    Passing through the opening, they came into a small backyard—virtually indistinguishable from the junk-scattered lot it adjoined. A row of tractor tires, painted white and planted with petunias, was the sole concession to aesthetics. Along the back fence stood a shed of some sort, compartmentalized for … what? … cages?
    The man led her to the shed.
    “All right now, you tell me what the hell that means!”
    What she saw made her scream, then gag, then vomit in the weeds behind the shed.
    The man stood by awkwardly, finally offering her his handkerchief.
    “Your friend is crazy, lady. What else can I say?”
    Half-an-hour later, Frannie Halcyon was nervously pacing the Promenade Deck of the Sagafjord. Since two other cruise liners were already docked in Sitka, the ship was moored in the harbor, with launches making shuttle runs to the pier. The matriarch’s eyes were glued on those launches.
    “If something’s happened, I’ll never forgive …”
    “Nothing’s happened,” said Claire. “Relax, honey. You’re worse than a new mother.”
    “But we sail in an hour.”
    “They know that,” said Claire.
    “And I know that Giroux woman. She’s nothing if not flighty. She’s probably dragged that man off to a shop somewhere, with total disregard for …”
    “Look!” cried Claire, pointing to the dock, “there’s another launch heading this way!”
    Frannie’s tension eased instantly. “Thank God!”
    Claire scolded her with a grin. “You’re the worst worrywart!”
    “What deck’s the gangplank on?”
    “A-Deck, I think.”
    “I’m going to meet them,” said Frannie.
    “Want