Righty withdrew his sword and drew a large circle, within which he began laying out an exhaustive list of persons and locales that were to be the subject of ceaseless surveillance.
The konulans then took off.
Righty was left alone with Harold and approached him.
“My ability to plan and act is going to depend heavily on the faithful reporting of the konulans, Harold. If they fail, I am doomed.”
Harold’s heart beat rapidly with excitement. He had found Righty to be one non-stop adventure compared to his dreary years of hunting for a commoner elevated to knighthood status in Sodorf, but the last several days were simply beyond anything he had ever imagined. He owed all this happiness, this purpose, to one man, and there was nothing on earth that would prevent him from keeping this man safe.
“Rest, Mr. Simmers. You will need all your energy to plan and act appropriately as soon as the konulans begin to bring back information on what the government is planning.”
Righty put his hand on Harold’s neck and patted it gently. “I will lay down my life for you, if necessary, friend.”
Harold’s blush could not be seen due to his feathers, but some trace of it could be seen in his slightly moist eyes.
He took off after the konulans before Righty could notice—or so he thought. Harold was going to be involved in a lot of micromanagement over the ensuing days. And while he had no qualms about Mr. Simmers playing the role of the friend, he would not hesitate to flay any konulan in whom he detected the slightest trace of treachery or apathy in their mission.
Righty headed to the house, surprised when he looked down at his watch to see it was merely 3 p.m. While he briefly considered the possibility of seeking some work-related task until evening, he quickly decided he should follow the advice he gave to Tats and enjoy what could be one of his last days as a free man.
He headed towards the house, anxious to tell Janie the good news about the ranch. He would spend a heavenly afternoon and evening of sweet, innocent relaxation with his family.
Tomorrow, if he had no major updates from the konulans, he would take a trip to the ranch and pay whatever it took to make it his within days. He needed to get Janie and the baby out of here fast.
Chapter 42
When the last of Governor Sehensberg’s sniveling advisors had left his mansion, located a solid hour outside of the city of Sivingdel, yet still within the boundaries of the state of Rodalia, he privately bade them good riddance.
It had been several days since the police station was burned and exploded to smithereens in broad daylight, eliminating about half the total police force. More specifically, it had taken out somewhere around ninety percent of the police force’s hierarchy and administrative personnel and around a third of the street cops; the police chief was decapitated in his own home, which was then burned down for good measure; two federal drug agents had been horrifically mauled; the mayor, a senator, a private detective, and two councilmen had been murdered; and a police officer had been hacked in two in the woods of the city’s park.
It had taken at least a couple days just for the full body count to come in, and even the most ardent critics couldn’t fault him for not having a full-blown response plan just yet. He had declared a state of emergency and taken several steps that would have been wholly unconstitutional in peaceful times.
He had converted an abandoned warehouse into a makeshift jail until the city approved funds for construction of a new facility and had ordered the remaining police to sweep the streets, arresting anyone who even looked suspicious and take them into custody either until the emergency ended or they determined the detainees were innocent, whereas those who could be charged with a crime—any crime, no matter how low a misdemeanor—were to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
Additionally, he had requested the city council to immediately approve funds to recruit new police officers to replace all the fallen, plus a few hundred more for good measure. And he had made sure to appear once a day in the city square to loudly proclaim these fervent measures being taken to assure that the guilty would be punished.
He had kept his speeches brief, however, as it seemed the vast majority of the population had become convinced—thanks to The Sivingdel Times—that the real culprit was dead: the city’s now infamous mayor.
Thus, he had whisked himself off stage, surrounded by a platoon of bodyguards, each time the questions started:
“Did you know the mayor was this evil?!”
“Did you know the mayor was in bed with organized crime?!”
And on and on.
He knew that the information would be trickling into the capital city around a day or two behind, so they were probably just now beginning to get a grasp on the basic facts of the situation.
They would likely be willing to sit back for a few more days to see what the governor would do about the situation, but if he didn’t do something dramatic very soon, then pressure would begin to build in the capital. And that would mean federal interference. President Beldenshire might swarm the state and city with a bunch of over-zealous troops and declare nationwide martial law while the hunt for the guilty ensued.
Although Governor Sehensberg was relatively clean—he had been born into wealth and had never taken bribes, more out of a sense of aristocratic pride than a proper sense of right and wrong—but that didn’t mean he wanted the feds poking around his state’s capital and uncovering all the dirt in the world on the late mayor and the city council. He had heard stories about the mayor’s corruption and had chosen to ignore them rather than investigate.
Thus, his mind had reached a singular objective but not the means to reach it: Do something sufficiently dramatic to keep the federal authorities out of this and make this whole thing blow over.
He had watched his grousing advisors wring their hands at the prospect of a “federal invasion of Rodalia” but had heard little in the way of a solution to keep this embarrassment from happening.
It was now 8:45 p.m. and time to retire to his study. He ascended the stairs and entered his cozy office. He had a proper governor’s mansion in the capital city, but he greatly preferred his private mansion out here in the country. A refreshing breeze whispered through the open window soothing his spirits like a gentle kiss.
Feeling he had earned the right to an hour or two of uninterrupted, pleasant distraction from his now odious job, he picked up a book on Seleganian history and approached his desk, ready to perhaps alleviate his own distress by learning of a far more unfortunate historical figure or perhaps even to be inspired by the shrewd actions of some ancient politician.
To his great surprise, there was an envelope on top of his desk composed of what was clearly fine stationery and closed with an elegant seal.
He could have sworn he had read all of the day’s mail by noon that day, so he wondered how this letter could have made its way to his desk unread.
He opened it quickly and began to read:
Esteemed Governor Sehensberg:
Our interests are aligned beautifully like the strings of a masterfully crafted guitar. Let us strum a beautiful melody and leave behind the odious violence that has filled our days and evenings with despair.
You are a man with sparse time, so I will be direct.
You seek a solution to the recent, unfortunate violence that will prevent that pompous President Beldenshire—who beat your father twice in a race for president and thrice in a race for senator—from sending federal troops into your state in order to pose as the nation’s savior and pound one more nail into the coffin of the Sehensberg name.
You also seek a solution to prevent any such future violence.
I can deliver you all these things on a grand scale.
Firstly, attached is a list of villainous cutthroats, along with their addresses. They are complicit in the recent crimes and many others. Arrest them and hang them promptly and publicly pursuant to the harsh exigencies of martial law. Remem
ber—time is of the essence if you are to obviate President Beldenshire’s “heroic” intervention.
He will no doubt use the deaths of the federal agents as an excuse to impose federal jurisdiction and fill your state with federal troops, yet their deaths also constitute the state offense of murder, so you will not want to lose the race to assert jurisdiction in a conclusive fashion.
What lies might roll out of the mouths of these rogues if given the slightest incentive by federal agents? Mayor Roverdile was corrupt, as was Chief Benson. Do you think if these lifelong rascals were given even the slightest hint from their federal interrogators that they wanted to hear your name that they would hesitate one moment to claim they had personal dealings with you? Even if you were not indicted, it would be a blemish on your family name you would never wash away.
The ringleader of these knaves is a soulless scoundrel named Crabs. He will serve as the focal point for the righteous wrath of the state. No heed shall be paid to any name that this rascal or any of his fellow rogues issue from their lying mouths. Attached is the written confession you will have read when he and his fellow cutthroats are properly hanged before the entire city.
Secondly, I will assure that the press writes of your actions in glowing terms of praise, painting you properly as a hero who restored justice and preserved the inviolate sanctity of Rodalian sovereignty. This could be the foundation for a future presidential campaign, perhaps one more successful than that of your late father, may he rest peacefully.
Finally, upon the realization of these things, I will use my influence within the city to ensure that crime rates are reduced by half. I will ensure full credit is given to you in the press, which will describe the situation as “the dawn of a golden age in Sivingdel.” Remember those exact words.
In exchange for these magnanimous acts, I ask very little in return. You will simply understand and accept the reality that there is a de facto ruler of Sivingdel, one whose aims are the same as yours—peace and prosperity—yet who does not seek the limelight.
You must understand that SISA is unconstitutional and that the contraband known as Smokeless Green cannot be stopped, just as alcohol could not be stopped by our forefathers centuries ago. But even in this area, you will have your victories, as I will give you the names and addresses from time to time of those whom you may arrest.
Should you fail to act quickly upon all of these humble recommendations, or should you be so imprudent as to seek to discover the source of this letter, I will have no need to use violence against you. The hammer of the national government is already poised above this state, and particularly above this city, waiting to smash its sovereignty into smithereens with full-scale military occupation.
Were this to occur, do you really think you would escape unscathed? The press would only have to begin to publicly question whether it is possible for the mayor to have been so embroiled in bloody corruption without considerable complicity on the part of the governor. Such speculation alone would serve to quickly condemn you in the court of public opinion and soil your family’s name forever, if not result in your incarceration or worse by orders of President Beldenshire.
Would he hesitate to hang you to remove a future political opponent?
I can be your best ally or your worst nightmare. There is no middle road.
You have an impressive study. But you would not want to find me one day standing inside of it.
Sincerely,
De Facto Ruler of Sivingdel
The governor barely noticed the threat at the end. Like a bloodhound, he could sniff out a bargain when one was a mile away. He had nothing to lose by ordering the immediate arrest of the rascals indicated in detail on the attached page, and if the promised praise from the press did not immediately ensue, then he would know that the “de facto ruler of Sivingdel” was nothing but a knave himself.
But if this man delivered as he promised on these successive points, then, the governor would gladly accept this alliance.
He sprinted downstairs, startling several of the armed guards on the bottom floor of the house.
“We’re going to Sivingdel!”
Chapter 43
Crabs’ stomach was growling viciously. He and about ten of his pals had been holed up inside this house ever since the day they had helped Tats block all exits from the police station while that maniac Mr. Brass had somehow managed to set fire to the place and blow it up for good measure.
It had been superfluous when Tats had passed the word for them to lay low until told otherwise. They had locked themselves inside the house like money in a vault, locking every door in the house, putting heavy furniture in front of each door, and ultimately pounding pieces of wood across most of the windows.
Nearly every time a carriage drove by, they about jumped out of their skin, thinking that it must have been whatever was left of the police force headed their way and about to get more than their pound of flesh for what they had done to their colleagues back at the police station.
But anxiety was giving way to boredom, and boredom to insatiable hunger, the likes of which few of them had ever experienced, although Crabs had known the experience of skipping a few meals each month when he grew up in the junkyard.
But only a couple of the people here with him were from the junkyard, so they wouldn’t know anything about hard times like that. And even though he had lived them, it didn’t mean he was eager to repeat the experience. They had cleared the pantry by day two and had spent the subsequent three days grousing about whose wise idea it had been to stuff themselves when they could be stuck in here for quite some time.
Several fistfights had already broken out, and the sweltering temperatures weren’t helping anybody’s mood. Without opening the windows at night—which they still dared not do—the house just soaked in all the rays of the sun in the entire city, and by the time each evening came around, most of them were wringing sweat out of their pants, having long since discarded their shirts.
They had seen an occasional police patrol go by whenever they dared peer through the cracks between the boards covering the windows, but only small units of around three or four. That wasn’t too much of a surprise once they thought about it, given that the number of policemen in the city had probably gone down a number or two after the central police headquarters had been blown to splinters.
But Crabs wasn’t just afraid of the sight of half a dozen angry-faced coppers heading up the steps, billy clubs in hand, ready to smash skulls into fragments far tinier than what was left of the police station.
The sight of Mr. Brass or Tats might have spelled equal trouble.
He was pretty sure Mr. Brass didn’t know of his treachery at the time that he busted him and his fellow ne’er-do-wells out of jail. And in fact, the odds were stacked even better on his side once the police department went up in smoke because that place just might have had his name written down with the word “informant” or “witness” a little too close-by for comfort.
And since Mr. Brass had surely gotten chummy with the chief and paid him a lot of money to get the lot of them released, how much time could go by before the chief happened to mention to him that it was thanks to Crabs and his excellent cooperation that the arrests had happened in the first place, thus leading to the chief’s and Mr. Brass’s excellent business relationship?
But with any luck, that old chief had gotten blown into as many pieces as the rafters and would never have the chance to tell that tale over a stiff whiskey with a good laugh.
He would be more careful from now on. He would make sure not to ever let himself get into that situation in the first place. But what was he supposed to do when the sergeant had told him, “You’re lookin’ at twenty to forty hard years, son. But if you help us a little, we’ll help you a little”?
After all, he had suspected Mr. Brass would make it all right in the end anyway by paying a bribe. Why hadn’t he done that beforehand anyway? This was really what Mr. Brass
got by trying to be clever and not pay his tax. Heck, even an ignorant third-grade graduate from the junkyard like him knew that the top dog in the game had to pay the chief to keep his dogs at bay.
That was something he learned around the same time he learned water ran downhill, leaves fall from trees, and birds can fly. Sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder how a dumb ass like Mr. Brass ever got to be so rich in the first place. Sure, he could box, but he had the smarts of a barnyard swine.
But there was no reason to be too hard on Mr. Brass, he supposed. After all, this house was his because of the work Mr. Brass gave him—though it wasn’t a mansion, like the several mansions Tats had. But it was a decent house, far better than that miserable shack he had grown up in in the junkyard and that he had once figured he would spend his whole life in: that one-room pigsty smaller than any of the closets in this house but that once upon a time had him, his two brothers, his three sisters, and his mom practically stacked on top of each other like firewood.
But at least that shack had windows, and you’d feel a cool breeze from time to time. Not like this place. No, here you just—
“I’m going out!” Crabs roared.