Skyjackers - Episode 3: The Winds of Justice (Skyjackers: Season One) (6 page)

Chapter 22

Benedict swabbed his brow with the monogrammed blue
kerchief Gertrude had given him for his birthday. For all those who had ever
wondered what to get the man who has everything, the answer was, apparently, a
monogrammed blue kerchief. Benedict blew his nose and tossed the kerchief into
the jungle. There were nineteen more just like it in his cabin wardrobe—identical
copies Gertrude had embroidered while practicing for the real thing, which was
currently being displayed in a shadowbox on the wall beside his writing desk.

A twig snapped behind him. He whirled, bringing a bottle of
spiced rum to bear on his unsuspecting assailant. What appeared through the
overgrowth was no tribesman, however. It was his daughter Misty, trailed at
some distance by his taller and less angry daughter Vivian.

“Leave me alone,” Misty was saying. “I’m going to help Daddy,
and you’re not allowed to come. Oh, hello, Daddy.”

Benedict closed the distance and gave his youngest daughter a
warm hug. Her hands were full, but he didn’t notice what was in them at first.
“There you are, poppet. Daddy is so glad you’ve returned safe and sound.”

“You’re hurting me,” Misty said. “And I’m still cross with
you.”

Benedict released her. “What happened to the
Intrepid
?”

“She gave it to the sky marshals,” Vivian said.

“I did not. They stole it. Then we escaped aboard Vivian’s
ship, and Vivian tried to hold me against my will, so I vanquished her by the
sword and rose victorious from her evil clutches.”

“She held Mr. Buffner hostage until I agreed to a
swordfight.”

“Vivian,” Benedict snapped, “be nicer to your sister.”

“Oh, sure. It’s not as if I rescued her from an airship teeming
with sky marshals or anything.”

“Say, Misty… why are you carrying a tray of tea cakes and a
box of rat poison?” Benedict asked.

“I heard you were going to make peace with the brown men, so
I thought I might give them a peace offering.”

“Then what’s the rat poison for?”

“Oh, that’s for anyone who eats the cakes. It’s in them, you
see.”

Benedict gave his daughter a tolerant smile. “Now, Misty. We’re thieves, not murderers. I
intend to take this land from its rightful inhabitants without the use of violence.”

“Then why does everyone have weapons?”

“You ought to brush up on your one-hundred thirty-seven rules
of piracy, poppet. I trust you still have the brochure I gave you?”

“Of course I do, Daddy.”

She didn’t.

“I’m afraid there will be no poisoning today, my sweet.”

“You’re just saying that,” Misty said. She winked
conspicuously, several times in a row.

“No, I’m not joking. I mean it.”

“It’s alright, Daddy. I know what you really mean.”

“Yes, but I’m afraid you don’t.”

“Right.” Misty tapped the side of her nose and pointed at
him, then followed the crew down the path they were clearing through the
jungle.

“Keep an eye on her, Viv.”

“Have been,” said Vivian, maintaining her pursuit. “Don’t
intend to stop now.”

***

Today was the day. After leaving Mr. Dawson in charge
of the
Hummingbird
, Poleax went ashore and visited the building site of
the Caine family’s new home. Benedict wasn’t there. According to the foreman,
Caine had gone into the jungle to meet with the locals. Against his better
judgment, Poleax set off through the trees alone, following the trail of
hacked-off undergrowth Benedict’s crew had left in their wake.

Although Poleax had come of age far from the southern lands,
he’d grown accustomed to the stifling jungle humidity during his time living
with the Caines in Azkatla. By contrast, the Kailodean jungle reflected the
island paradise’s sandy terrain and cool offshore breezes. It was no less
dangerous, however; Poleax knew he was taking a risk by venturing out on his
own.

When he found Benedict’s embroidered blue hankie beside the
path, Poleax knew he was headed in the right direction. He wondered why
Benedict would’ve left his birthday gift from Gertrude by the wayside. Perhaps
it had fallen out of his pocket. Poleax picked up the snot-soaked hankie and
tucked it into a coat pocket.

After a gradual left-hand curve, the path ended in a small
clearing overgrown with ground cover. Across the clearing was a wide stream,
shallow water flowing over smooth stones. Poleax removed his shoes and socks,
then scanned the opposite shoreline for signs of where the crew had resumed
their cutting. He saw none.

There was a sudden commotion from within the trees on the
opposite bank. Gunfire echoed, quieting the birds and insects for a brief
interlude. Voices rose in a mass of unintelligible shouts. Poleax dashed into
the river, where he slipped on a moss-covered stone and fell backward into the
ice-cold water. He stumbled to his feet, but lost a shoe in the current. One of
his socks was inside that shoe—a sock he had only worn for six of the requisite
seven days.

Poleax glanced back and forth between the shoe floating
downriver and the opposite bank, where Benedict and his crew were apparently
facing resistance. Indecision froze him in place. If he didn’t retrieve that
sock, surely ill luck would follow him all the days of his life. But if he
didn’t help Benedict, he might never get the chance to tell him the truth. The
truth about everything.

***

Junior and Lily were helping Gertrude go through some
old family belongings aboard the
Stratustarian
. Given that their new
abode was to be much smaller than the former, Gertrude had seized the
opportunity to clean out the storerooms. The crew had retrieved boxes upon
boxes filled with everyday items from the mansion in Azkatla, but the objects
Gertrude and her children were rifling through now were the deeper things; the
long-forgotten treasures of attics and crawl spaces, of childhoods and back
closets.

“Look how adorable Junior’s little sailor outfit is,” said
Lily, lifting a blue-and-white toddler’s getup from inside a packing crate.

Gertrude fanned her nose. “It’s positively putrid with the
damp,” she said. “Toss it out. Toss the whole box out.”

“But I want that,” said Junior. “Perhaps I’ll have a son
someday and dress him up like we used to.”

“If you keep holding onto trifles, we’ll never get rid of
anything,” said Gertrude. She held up a metal device that looked like a tea
strainer with a built-in can opener on the side. “I suppose you’d like to keep
this atrocious thing… whatever it is.”

Junior turned to look. “You’re right. I don’t know what that
is, but I want it.”

“I hope you realize that whatever you keep is staying here.
We won’t have room in the new house for all your gizmos and wizmos.”

“That’s not how you say it.”

“That’s how I say it. And you’ll respect my freedom to do so,
gods help you. I’m your mother.”

“Junior,” said Lily, “I just noticed that pile of shovels in
the corner. Doesn’t it remind you of the time you tried to dig us a new septic
field?”

Junior laughed. “No one told me I was digging up the
old
septic field.”

“A testament to the dangers of plumbing textbooks for young
minds,” said Gertrude.

“Oh my goodness. And here’s Misty’s button jar. Remember,
Mum?”

“How could I forget? Positive reinforcement through
discipline. It worked on the rest of you.”

“Did anything work with Misty?”

“No, not really.”

“She didn’t appreciate it when you came along, June Bug,”
said Lily. “You were probably too young to remember the time she sent you down
the river in a dugout canoe.”

“I remember it,” Junior said. “I was four, and Misty had just
turned six. She told me we were going for a ride, then shoved off as soon as I
stepped on board.”

“Whenever she went to the club with your father, she’d go
round to the other patrons and ask if anyone was in the market for a slave
child. Can you imagine? A little girl in a flowered dress and black pigtails
conducting an auction with all those old cigar-smoking gentlemen in their top
hats and bowties?”

“She was sneaking me extra food for a while,” said Junior. “I
thought she was just being nice, but she must’ve been fattening me up for
sale.”

“Misty has always been the jealous type,” Lily said. “What
about the time she liked that older boy, and when he returned from his trip to
the Perenades he’d brought candies for Vivian and nothing for her?”

“That was rather recent, if I recall,” said Gertrude.

“Misty was livid. Do you remember what she did to that
fellow?”

Gertrude grimaced. “Ugh. That horrible tattoo. Don’t remind
me.”

“What was that chap’s name?” Junior asked.

“That was Lawrence Oakshott. He was the son of your father’s
friend Ernest.”

“I remember now,” said Lily.

Junior remembered too. “I wonder what ever happened to him.”

“He’s been off terrorizing the northern headlands, to hear
your father tell it. They still keep in touch. He’s mentioned having them for a
visit, in fact—though not until the new house is finished, I should think.”

“Let’s hope he never comes round here again,” said Lily.
“Misty will murder him.”

“Don’t joke about that,” said Gertrude. “Let’s change the
subject.”

***

Jonathan stayed at the cottage with Lydia and her
father for three days. They ate every meal together, talking and laughing about
life and hardship and memory. He bonded with the Lamberts, taking Lydia for
walks in her rolling chair each afternoon, chatting with Phillip while she was
napping, and reading a chapter or two from her book each night before bed.

The book was garish; the sort of wild, overwrought romance
novel Jonathan wouldn’t have been caught dead reading otherwise. Lydia had a
good time with it, though. She often told Jonathan she liked when he read to
her, simply because she enjoyed hearing the story told in his voice.

For a short period of time, Jonathan found himself enraptured
in that simple way of life. He forgot all about the outside world, and liked
it. Though he knew such a good thing must end eventually, he hated the idea of
returning to normalcy.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see his mother and sister.
It was that he dreaded telling them he’d lost his command. Captaining a Regency
vessel had been a lifelong dream come true; the culmination of the countless
hours his parents had worked to put him through the academy. How could he tell
Winny that not only had he been disgraced, but he wouldn’t be able to help them
financially the way he had before?

Jonathan’s mind raced the entire drive to Falstead. When he
arrived on Robard Avenue, with its rows of modest bungalows and ivy-covered
brick fences, he got a sick feeling in the pit of stomach. He parked Alex’s red
motorcar in the empty driveway of his mother’s square-faced rambler and knocked
on the door.

“Jon,” Winifred exclaimed when she saw him.

He stepped inside and accepted his sister’s warm embrace.
“Hi, Win. It’s good to see you.”

“I was wondering if you’d ever get around to it,” she said.

“Sorry I was late in coming. I was visiting a friend.”

“How is Alex getting on these days? Still drowning in money?
Or has he managed to squander it all?”

“Be nice,” said Jonathan. He considered telling Winny about
the trouble Alex was in; about Lydia and the accident and the constables’
search for the culprit. He decided against it. “Alex is… Alex.”

Winny nodded. “That’s no surprise. Quite the roadster out
there. How long is he letting you borrow it?”

“As long as I want. He only ever uses one or two of his
vehicles, and even then it’s the chauffeur who drives him around most of the
time.”

“You’ll have to take me for a spin,” she said with a smile.

“If you like.”

“Is something wrong? You seem… I don’t know. Distant.”

“Can I see her?”

“Oh, yes, of course. She still spends most of her time in the
den. And as always, she loves the backyard when the weather’s nice, though I
have to be out there with her now.”

The entry hallway led past the dining room and ended in the
den, where a pair of perpendicular sofas sat opposite the fireplace. Two
upholstered clawfoot armchairs flanked the arched picture window that looked
out on the backyard. Jonathan’s mother was seated in the left-hand chair as
usual. His father’s chair was just as it had been for the past five years—empty.

Jonathan studied the room. Nothing had changed; not a single
piece of furniture rearranged, not one pillow or picture frame out of place.
The mantelpiece was layered in dust. So was the side table where Winifred kept
mother’s medication amidst half a dozen glasses of water filled to varying
degrees.

“Jonathan?”

“Hello, Mum.” He crossed the room and gave her a hug. She was
thinner than he remembered; he could feel her ribcage through her clothing.

“You did so well,” she said.

Jonathan played along. “Thanks, Mum.”

“Charles and I are so proud of you.”

Jonathan stood and turned to Winny. “I’ll go upstairs and get
settled.”

“Where are you going, Zachary?”

Her brother’s name. Jonathan’s Uncle Zachary had died as a
young man about his age while serving in the merchant marine.

“Mum, it’s me… your son Jonathan. I’m just going upstairs to
put down my things and change clothes.”

She smiled and gave a little nod.

Jonathan stayed for a week. He never did take Winifred out in
the car. His mother was as bad off as he’d feared; mood swings, confusion, and
severe memory loss were daily occurrences in the Thorpe household. Now, with
his double demotion and even that job on the line, there was no hope of sending
her to a facility or paying a professional for in-home care like he’d wanted
to. On top of that, Jonathan could see by the weathered look on Winny’s face
that she was wearing thin. Dire straits didn’t begin to cover it.