Crosswind

by Steve Rzasa

  “Funny girl.” Winch scratched at the bandage on his neck, again. “You can’t read my handwriting, anyway.”

  “Whose fault is that, I wonder?”

  Gil emerged from his office and wagged his pipe at him. “Is Winchell Sark’s wound preventing him from writing?”

  Konrad and Annora shook their heads. “No.”

  “Then praise be to the Allfather, and let this man get back to work!” Gil gave Konrad a push. “Go on, lad: Get down to the bakery and find me some more news.”

  “But I already brought back five things for the columns!” Konrad stomped his boot. “Look, Pearl and Huk are tired—especially Huk, since somebody—” he glared at Winch—“left him at the aerodrome all morning.”

  “Not listening! Get back to it.”

  Annora intercepted him. “This is most unfair. Send Winch home immediately.”

  “I’m fine, really. Please, I’ve only just gotten started…”

  “Attention, all.” Gil waved his arms like a windmill. “News bulletin: Perch Advocate’s editor demoted by mob of sobbing twits! Will you let the man work?”

  Annora glared. “What did I tell you about having that pipe indoors?”

  Gil glanced from his pipe to Annora, and to his pipe again.

  “Extinguish it, or I will find a nice pail of water in which to drown it.” Annora hurried back to her desk and pounced on the line-puncher.

  Konrad skulked away, muttering under his breath about “poor treatment of animals.” Gil stood still, chewing on the end of his pipe.

  “Problem, Chief?” Winch asked.

  He scowled. “Don’t call me that. Between you and that woman, I might go grey well before my time.” He chewed for a bit more. “When you’re done with the aeroplane story, get it to Annora to line-punch. Then leave.”

  Winch’s fingers froze. “For the day?”

  “No, for one minute and a half. Of course, for the day! Hmph. Just don’t expect any more preferential treatment. And you know precisely what to do with this so-called time off.” Gil walked off to his office.

  “What do I get if complete this new assignment and bring prestige and fame to the Advocate?” Winch asked lightly.

  Gil tossed the words over his shoulder: “My undying gratitude.”

  • • •

  Long before he left the Advocate offices, Winch knew the first place to stop. The Double Tusk Hotel was a few buildings farther down South Street. Its tan brick exterior was similar in design to most of the hotels in this neighborhood of Perch, with three stories reaching up above the streets. Dark maroon curtains were visible through the seven tall and narrow widows on each floor.

  Winch found the owner, J.D. Borman, wiping down the bar with a rag that had to be the one he had cleaned every surface of the Double Tusk with since it opened forty years ago. He was of indeterminate old age and undeniable fire, with a right eye that perpetually squinted—whether from age, ailment, or injury, Winch did not know. He didn’t bother with a jacket over his black and red checked flannel shirt.

  Like Borman, the bar room was ill-maintained. It had pale yellow wallpaper festooned with memorabilia from across the Sawtooth Range—ranch brands, aeroplane pamphlets, and the like. The tables were rickety, the chairs were of five different colors of wood, and the mirror behind Borman was cracked. Everything needed dusting.

  Borman hooked a thumb under his suspenders as Winch approached the bar. “Winchell Sark.” He said the name like an epithet. “What’s got you all jo-fired this morning?”

  “Do I look ‘jo-fired’ to you?” Winch asked

  Borman slammed a hand down on the Double Tusk’s bar. The sound echoed loudly in the long, wide barroom. Only a handful of men—businessmen from out of town, judging by their attire—looked up at the noise. This late in the morning, Winch was surprised anyone was still here.

  “Ain’t nothing you can do to hide that fear in your eye, son. Something’s got ya watchin’ over your shoulder like there was a saber-tooth in the trees.” Borman’s voice rasped.

  That did not ease Winch’s nerves. Embarking on a new story—especially one with this much potential for difficulty—always unsettled him. His stomach was roiled, and his throat was tight. He called to mind the letter from Govannon the Witness: “You’re afraid because you’re frightened of punishment, and if you’re afraid, you’re not perfect in love.”

  Ifan, help me to be your worker and to love others like you did.

  Winch exhaled. “What have you heard?”

  “That you and Cope almost got yerselves killed down at that crash site.”

  So much for the mayor-general’s idea of keeping this all quiet. “And I suppose if I said that I had nothing to say about it…”

  “Then I ain’t one to ask.” Borman smiled slyly. “What brings you to my fine establishment?”

  Winch leaned over the counter. He dropped the token. It clinked on the wood surface and spun a few times before Borman snatched it up. His good eye studied it intensely. “The man who attacked us had this on him,” Winch whispered. “And I know you only provide these to patrons who purchase at least a night’s stay here.”

  Borman’s mouth worked. “What’d he look like, this feller?”

  “My height, thicker build—”

  Borman sniggered. “That could described nearly all the men in town.”

  Winch ignored the jab at his physique. “Blond hair, icy grey eyes, and a scar on his chin.” Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t the startled expression that flitted across Borman’s face before disappearing like a teratorn in the clouds. “Eyes like ice,” he murmured. “Yep. I know this one.” He waggled a gnarled hand.

  Winch followed him into the next room. In contrast with the bar, the lobby of the Double Tusk was demure. The walls here were covered in cream wallpaper that showed off a series of rustic scenes including a ranch house, a tree-lined brook, and a small biplane sitting in a field.

  The front desk was a U-shaped affair with a gap on the side to allow the clerk access. Its wood paneling was in serious need of polishing. Borman rounded the side gap with the ease of someone who had navigated the same course for years. There was even a patch of wood almost bare of polish from what Winch assumed was Borman’s less than gentle touch.

  Borman flipped intently through the yellowing pages of a huge register bound in red. “Lessee…it was two nights ago he arrived. So…ha!” He drummed his fingers as if in victory. “Right here.”

  Winch peered at the entry scrawled hastily in black ink. Reardon Ray. What were the odds this was yet another pseudonym? “And you are sure that was the same man?”

  “You’d better believe it.” Borman waved a finger in his face. “Can’t never forget eyes like that ones. Like ice!”

  Winch nodded. The horrid image of the same man—Jack, or Reardon, or whatever his name was—being shot hung in his mind like a portrait.

  “So that were the one that tried to punch you two full of holes?”

  Winch shivered. He fingered the bandage at his neck.

  “What’s the sheriff intend to do?”

  “Well, he doesn’t want a word in print, for one.”

  “Nah.” Borman scowled. “Tedrow just don’t like you. He don’t like me, neither. If I weren’t on the panel of trustees, he’d be looking for a way to close my doors on some cussed law violation or some nonsense.”

  “Uh-huh.” Winch scribbled down Reardon Ray in his notepad. Hmm. It said here the man came from Megunticook. But that didn’t fit with the accent or comments.

  “You might have better luck trackin’ down his room partner.”

  Winch’s eyebrows leapt. Room partner? “That man, Ray…he had a traveling friend?”

  “Friend, co-worker, fellow creep…?” Borman shrugged. “Alls I know is this one was different. Quieter. But he was only here one night. Then he up and vamoosed.”

  Borman tapped the register. “Here’s the one.”

  Winch read it. Crittenden Beam, from Naxothrac
e.

  “What did he look like?”

  Borman’s eyes searched the tin ceiling. “Very tall. Big fella. Long moustache. Eyes dark brown. Seemed almost—friendly-like. Almost.”

  “All right.” This was good. Very good. Winch scribbled faster. There had to be something on these names—maybe the telegraph office would know if there were notes sent. No, they wouldn’t tell Winch that. There were privacy rules.

  Still…

  “Is there anything else you can remember regarding this other man, Mr. Borman?” Winch made a circle in the air with his pencil. “Their conversation? Habits? Anything?”

  “There ain’t much else to say, ’cept that the one with the eyes—the bad’n, by my reckoning—was talking with the other fella, see? And whatever he was arguing for, the big one didn’t agree. That’s why I figure the big one was in charge.” Borman nodded slowly. “Yep. He paid for the rooms, he called the shots.”

  Winch wrote. “All right.”

  “Is that helpful?”

  “I don’t honestly know.” Winch hoped it would be useful. It didn’t seem like much. But he was serving two overseers right now, and he had to simply do his best. He was grateful the nervous churning of his stomach had diminished.

  Borman squinted. “Now how come you’re talkin’ to me if ya can’t print nothin’? That Crims Davies lookin’ for a better story than he’s got?”

  Winch straightened. “Sir, he’s doing his best to find out the truth, and so am I. He may be Tirodani and a grandson of slaves, but he’s a citizen of Perch just like you and me.”

  Well. That certainly got Borman’s attention. Winch didn’t think he’d ever seen the man so surprised. Best if I clear out of here now, before he unfreezes and comes at me with that register.

  To Winch’s everlasting surprise, Borman grinned widely. “That’s some sand you got there, Sark.” He chuckled. “Didn’t much think I’d hear it. You tell Davies I think he does a fine job, even if he is a shifty cuss.”

  Winch grinned. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to let him know.”

  “And you’re coming to the trustees meeting tomorrow, aren’t you? Ten o’clock?”

  “Well, possibly. We don’t go to every single one, you know.”

  Borman snorted. “I’d sure make it a point to come, if I knew there were a big Trestleway delegation makin’ a showing.”

  Trestleway delegation? Winch jotted that down. “Why are they going before the panel?”

  “Same ol’ same ol’. They want to offer us the finest benefits of Trestleway civilization—means they want to hook their railroad up to us and run us into the ground like they do every independent city-state they roll into.” Borman scowled. “At least, that’s what I figure they’re here for. They ain’t exactly been forthcoming, see?”

  “Yes, I do.” Winch’s mind was whirring like the pistons in Cope’s biplane. The mayor-general wasn’t forthcoming, either. If Trestleway had indeed sent a quiet delegation to Perch, their timing was awfully coincidental with Reardon Ray’s appearance at the crash site this morning.

  “We’re supposed to lunch with them afterwards at City Hall. I wouldn’t have those vipers here, even if they asked. Blamed Trestleway,” Borman grumbled, stalking off.

  Winch had to agree.

  Tuesday

  The next morning, Winch stood over the cast iron stove in his kitchen. The walls were painted pale blue, and the floor was done in black and white tile. Sunlight poured in through a small window, making their white cabinets glow. The flapjacks were almost ready. He breathed in the scent of the batter and the raspberries as they warmed. His mind, however, kept pointing out to him that he had run into nothing but dead ends Monday afternoon. Nobody else had had much to say about the deceased Ray and his elusive associate, Crittenden Beam. Was Beam still in town? What had they both been doing here?

  Dead ends. Shaken heads.

  “Father! They’re burning.”

  “Hmm?” Winch saw the smoke in time to flip the two flapjacks out of the pan. Clouds above, they were burned. “Ah. Sorry. They did get a bit black on the bottom, didn’t they?”

  His children crowded around him, plates at the ready. His oldest boy, Fremont, who was seven, wrinkled his nose. He had the same straight black hair and brown eyes as Winch. “I don’t want those.”

  “Oh. Well, there’s plenty of others.” Winch gestured at the large stack beside the stove. “McKinley, do you want any of the burned ones?”

  The five-year-old girl with freckles on her nose and curly auburn hair stuck out her tongue. “No, Daddy. They’re revoltating.”

  “You mean ‘revolting,” Fremont said.

  “No! My teacher said ‘revoltating’!”

  “Sorry, McKinley, but I think Fremont is correct. Wade? Burned flapjack for your plate?”

  Wade grinned wide. He had the same freckles as his twin sister, the same blue-grey eyes, and the same color curly hair. “Yes, please!” He held out his plate.

  “I can always count on you to eat my mistakes. Here, let’s split them.” Winch ushered everyone into the adjacent dining room.

  It was far warmer in color here, with sunny yellow wallpaper. The table in the center seated eight. A china hutch of mahogany and glass sat by the entrance. Once he was satisfied the children were all seated around the eight-place table, Winch served up the flapjacks.

  He was generous with the maple syrup—except on Fremont’s plate. The oldest child accepted only a dollop and cautiously spread it around, being careful not to let any drip or make a mess. Winch helped McKinley and Wade cut their flapjacks. They were still in the early stages of knife training. They were proficient with forks, though.

  McKinley speared three pieces and stuck them in her mouth. “Where’s Mommy?”

  “She’s out in the greenhouse,” Winch said. “She awoke very early today to get some tending done before the shop opens.”

  “Oh.”

  Fremont made a face. “Like she does every Tuesday, dope.”

  McKinley stuck out her tongue.

  “Manners, children.” Winch gave Fremont a look. “Don’t call your sister names.”

  “Yes, Father.” Fremont stabbed at his flapjacks.

  “Do you have to work today, Daddy?” Wade asked.

  “Yes, but not in the office.”

  “Why?” Wade chewed some flapjack and noisily sucked syrup off his fingers.

  “Use your utensils, please, Wade.”

  He made a face.

  Winch chose his answer carefully. “I have an important story to follow up on. But it doesn’t have to be done for this week’s issue.”

  “Why?” Wade took another bite.

  “Because the deadline is always Tuesday night, and this story needs more time than just a day.” Much more. “Mr. Davies is getting the newspaper ready to print today.”

  “Is that why Mr. Davies is always so grumpy?” McKinley asked.

  “He’s not grumpy, he’s just very busy,” Fremont said. “He has to put lots of things in the newspaper. Right, Father?”

  “Very good, Fremont.” Winch smiled. “But your sister is also correct. He is grumpy.”

  McKinley and Wade giggled. “Grumpy Davies!” Wade said in an exaggerated adult voice.

  Winch chuckled. He poked a forkful of flapjack.

  The door chime rang.

  “Daddy, you should answer that.” McKinley eyed Winch’s plate covetously. So did Wade.

  “Very well, but I have already counted every morsel on this plate.” Winch narrowed his eyes in mock seriousness. “For every piece missing, I will have to eat one of your fingers!” He grabbed for their hands, eliciting another round of squeals and laughs. Even the more serious Fremont grinned.

  Winch went out into the front hall. He could see a short silhouette through the frosted pane of the front door.

  A young boy in the blue and silver of Sawtooth Parcel & Letters stood on the porch. A bulging leather bag hung from his back, the strap over his right shoulder
. He tipped his small dark blue cap when Winch opened the door. “Mr. Winchell Sark?”

  “Good morning.” Winch noted the bicycle resting against one of the aspens along the sidewalk below.

  The boy thrust out a grey envelope. “Note for you from Mr. Copernicus Sark.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Winch accepted the note. He dug into his pocket and found a few coins, for a tip. “Here you are.”

  The boy shoved the bronze coins into his coat pocket. “Welcome! Morning!” He fairly flew to his bicycle and raced off at high speed. Winch chuckled. All hurry, the messenger boys were. Winch opened the envelope. It was indeed Cope’s scrawl:

  Brother! Hungry? I am—always. Meet me at Ridgik’s for breakfast. 8. Cope.

  “Daddy!” McKinley hollered from the hall. “Wade ate some of your flapjack!”

  Winch shook his head. He checked his pocket watch. Seven o’clock on the nose. “Then someone is going to lose some fingers!”

  • • •

  It took little time to get the children through breakfast, supervise their rounding up of books, and usher them out the front door on their way to school. Winch watched them round the corner on to Klondike Avenue, then gathered up his own gear for work.

  He closed the front door and stepped down onto the sidewalk. Across the street, deliverymen emptied wares from their wagons into the back loading docks for the businesses fronting on Pine Street. The diprotodons nipped and grumbled at each other, occasionally eliciting a sharp rebuke from their respective owner.

  Winch knew his wife was at work. Fortunately he didn’t have to go far.

  The family greenhouses—three long, wide structures of glass and brick—stood between the Sark’s modest two-story home and the similar sized house of Lysanne’s parents. Winch pushed open the side door to the main greenhouse. The warm, moist smell of dirt and a wall of humid air hit him immediately. The steam generated from Perch’s steamworks, siphoned off the hot springs and geothermal vents, provided plenty of heat all year round. He brushed his hand along the tops of some blooming gardenias as he walked down the aisle to the racks of petunias.