Part 2: little girl lost and found by Mark Danelaw
Part 1: an error in judgement can found here.
The safe house was a third-floor walk-up above a butcher shop that hadn’t seen fresh meat since Prohibition. Lorraine’s heels clicked against the warped linoleum as she followed Dacre up the stairs. The air smelled of rancid lard and something sharper, like gun oil, maybe, or fear.
Dacre didn’t knock; he just shouldered the door open, his free hand resting near his holster. The room was dark, the blinds drawn, but the thin strips of light from the hallway illuminated a figure slumped in the armchair.
The figure in the armchair didn’t move. Lorraine’s fingers twitched toward the .38 in her pocket, but Dacre held up a hand to wait. He flicked on the overhead bulb with his elbow, the sudden light revealing a girl curled into herself like a discarded newspaper. She had dark hair, sharp angles, and all wide eyes.
Mary Baxter looked younger than her photo, her knees drawn up to her chest, a man’s oversized coat swallowing her frame. A purpling bruise bloomed across her left cheekbone. Dacre exhaled through his nose, of course, and kicked the door shut behind them.
“You’re late,” Mary said, her voice raw. She didn’t look up.
Lorraine shot Dacre a glance. He ignored her, shrugging out of his overcoat and draping it over the back of a chair crusted with decades of grease. “Your sister hired us to find you,” he said, pulling out his cigarettes. “Dutch Vickers is looking too. Difference is, he doesn’t plan to bring you back breathing.”
Mary Baxter’s fingers tightened around the hem of the oversized coat, her knuckles whitening. “Margaret didn’t hire you,” she whispered, her voice cracking like thin ice, “She sent you.” Her gaze flicked to Lorraine, a quick, assessing glance, then back to Dacre, “There’s a difference.”
Dacre lit his cigarette with deliberate slowness, the flare of the match illuminating the deep lines around his eyes, “Explain.”
Mary swallowed hard, her throat working. “My trust fund releases when I turn twenty-one; that’s in six weeks,” She tugged the coat tighter, as if it could shield her from the words. “Margaret’s been bleeding it dry through ‘administrative fees,’ but she can’t touch the principal. Not without my signature,” A bitter laugh escaped her, “Or my death certificate.”
Lorraine’s stomach lurched. The .38 in her pocket suddenly felt heavier. “Christ,” she muttered, leaning against the doorframe. The safe house walls seemed to press closer, the air thick with the scent of Dacre’s tobacco and something darker, desperation, maybe. “She plans to kill her own sister.” Lorraine had heard some dark shit before, she had even had a spell in gaol, but this twisted in her guts.
Mary’s fingers trembled as she reached into the coat’s inner pocket, producing a folded document yellowed at the edges. “She’s got Vickers on payroll,” she said, thrusting it toward Dacre. The paper shook like a leaf in a storm, “These are payment logs, all back dated, all signed by her.”
Lorraine stepped forward, snatching the document before Dacre could. Her eyes skimmed the cramped ledger entries, dates, amounts, initials that curled like barbed wire, “Six grand a month,” she breathed, “For what, ‘Security services’?” Her laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. “Dutch couldn’t secure a ham sandwich.”
Dacre plucked the page from her fingers, his gaze never leaving Mary. “Where’d you get this?”
The girl’s chin lifted. “I took it from Margaret’s study, the locked drawer,” A shadow passed over her face. “I picked it after she backhanded me for asking about the missing cheques.”
“Six grand a month,” Dacre repeated, his voice low. “For a year,” He tapped the ash from his cigarette with deliberate slowness. “Seventy-two thousand dollars is enough to buy a lot of loyalty.”
Mary’s fingers twisted in the coat sleeves. “Or silence,” she whispered.
Dacre crushed his cigarette into the ashtray with more force than necessary. The ember sizzled against the ceramic like a dying gasp. “Dutch doesn’t do hits,” he said flatly, “He does disappearances.” His gaze locked onto Mary’s bruised cheekbone. “Your sister wants you gone… not dead, at least not right away.”
“Margaret needs your signature first,” Dacre continued, stepping closer. The floorboard groaned under his weight. “That’s why you’re still breathing.” He tapped the ledger page against his palm. “This just became evidence, which means…”
“…Dutch will kill us all,” Lorraine finished. She’d seen Dutch’s work before, a dockworker who’d “voluntarily relocated” after testifying against the wrong man. They’d fished what was left of him out of the harbour three months later, his fingertips dissolved by lye.
Mary finally broke the silence. “They’ll check the trains,” she said, her voice thin, “And the bus depot. Margaret knows I don’t have a car.”
“They might not be checking the freight yard,” Dacre tossed his jacket onto the chair with a rustle of lining silk, “Something like a midnight shipment heading west.”
Mary’s hands clenched in the coat sleeves, “So we just, what? Hop a freight car like hobos?”
Dacre shrugged, “You got a better idea?” he said as he went into the other room.
He emerged from the bedroom shrugging into a railroad worker’s jacket, the patches frayed but the fabric smelling faintly of bleach. “Get changed,” he ordered, tossing a bundle at Mary. The girl caught it with fumbling hands, men’s coveralls, grease-stained and reeking of diesel.
Mary’s nose wrinkled. “I’m not…”
“You’re cargo,” Dacre cut in, buttoning the jacket with quick, efficient movements. “Not a passenger.” His gaze flicked to Lorraine. “You’re the brakeman’s niece, drunk, lost your ticket.”
***
The freight yard loomed in the distance, its skeletal cranes black against the orange haze of the city. Lorraine adjusted the too-large cap Dacre had shoved at her, the wool scratching her forehead. The smell of diesel and hot metal clung to the air, thick enough to taste. Mary, now swallowed by the coveralls, shuffled behind them, her breaths shallow and rapid.
“Stay close,” Dacre murmured, his hand resting near the revolver under his jacket. His eyes never stopped moving, tracking the night foreman’s flashlight and the shadows between boxcars. There was a flicker of a match near the switching yard.
Mary’s fingers dug into Lorraine’s arm as they passed under the flickering yard light, “This isn’t going to work,” she hissed.
“It will if you do what you’re told, I have friends here, I called ahead,” Dacre growled.
“It won’t work,” Mary insisted, she twisted against Lorraine and tried to run.
“Quit squirming princess or I’ll slug you,” the secretary hissed, “Stay calm and watch…”
The rail yard swallowed them whole, a labyrinth of steel and shadow where the scent of hot oil clung to the night air. Lorraine stumbled forward on purpose, her heels catching between the gravel and ties, while Dacre’s grip on her elbow kept her from face-planting into the cinders. Mary’s coveralls swished like a poorly fitted sail behind them.
They found the boxcar tucked between two flatbeds, its sliding door cracked just enough to reveal the yawning blackness inside. Dacre rapped three times on the rusted metal, pause, then twice more. A match flared in the darkness, illuminating Eddie Loomis’ pockmarked face.
“You’re late,” Eddie hissed, shoving the door wider. The match light glinted off the fresh bandage taped above his eyebrow. “Vickers’ boys have been sniffing around since sunset,” His gaze darted to Mary, then away, like he’d seen a ghost, “Get in.”
The boxcar smelled of rotted wood and stale sweat, the air thick enough to choke on. Lorraine stumbled in first, her heel catching on the uneven floorboards as Eddie’s match guttered out. Darkness swallowed them whole. Mary’s sharp inhale cut through the black, too loud, she began to panic: Dacre’s hand clamped over her mouth.
“Not a sound,” he breathed against her ear.
Outside, boots crunched gravel. They were getting close, the night held its breath.
Lorraine’s fingers found the .38 in her garter holster, the metal cold against her thigh. The footsteps paused just beyond the door. A flashlight beam sliced through the gap, sweeping over the stacked crates marked ‘machine parts.’ Lorraine held her breath.
The flashlight beam froze on Mary’s grease-stained boot peeking from behind a crate. Lorraine’s finger tightened on the .38’s trigger, one pound of pressure away from changing all their lives. Dacre’s free hand found her wrist in the dark, his grip iron. He slowly shook his head.
The beam wavered. A phlegmy cough echoed outside. “Goddamn dust,” a man muttered, Dutch’s voice, rough as a cheese grater. The light flicked away. Then they heard the footsteps on grave moving away.
Lorraine exhaled through her nose, the .38’s sight digging into her palm. Eddie’s sweat smelled like cheap whiskey as he leaned in. “You got five minutes,” he whispered, “Then she rolls.” The boxcar door screeched shut behind him, plunging them into blackness again.
Mary’s trembling hands found Lorraine’s sleeve. “He… he didn’t see…” her breathing came in shallow, panicked bursts as Dacre finally released his grip on her mouth. The stale air of the boxcar pressed in around them, thick with the scent of oil and old wood.
“You nearly got us killed,” Dacre growled, low and dangerous.
Lorraine shifted in the dark, the .38 still warm in her hand. She knew that tone, had heard it directed at her more times than she cared to count. Mary, however, clearly didn’t.
“I didn’t do anything,” Mary hissed, her voice trembling.
Dacre’s hand closed around her wrist with a grip that made her gasp. “You froze,” he said, each word deliberate, “You panicked. In our line of work, that gets people dead.”
Mary’s wrist twisted in Dacre’s grip, her pulse hammering against his fingers like a trapped bird. “You don’t understand…”
“I understand perfectly,” Dacre said, his voice colder than the steel beneath their feet. The boxcar lurched suddenly, throwing them all off-balance. Lorraine caught herself against a crate marked ‘fragile,’ the .38 digging into her thigh. Dacre didn’t stumble and his grip on Mary didn’t waver.
“You’re going to learn a lesson,” he said, steering Mary toward a wooden crate with the same inexorable force as the train building speed beneath them, “And you’re going to learn what happens when you jeopardize this operation.”
Mary’s laugh was half-hysterical. “You’re not my…”
Dacre picked Mary up and placed her firmly across his lap as he sat on a crate and yanked the heavy coveralls down to her knees. The sharp crack of his palm across her backside cut her off mid-sentence. Mary yelped, more from shock than pain, her hands flying back to cover herself. Dacre caught both wrists in one hand, forcing them to the small of her back.
Mary bucked like a wildcat, her knee jerking up toward Dacre’s groin, but Lorraine caught her ankle mid-air, twisting it sideways with practiced ease. “Nice try, kid,” Lorraine muttered, pinning Mary’s leg against the crate. The girl thrashed, her breath coming in ragged gasps as Dacre tore down her delicate silk panties so that they ripped to expose the girl’s bottom. The cold air hit Mary’s bare skin just before Dacre’s palm did.
“Oh my god,” Mary squealed, “He can see my hiney…”
The first smack echoed through the boxcar, sharp as a gunshot. Mary stiffened, her gasp swallowed by the clatter of wheels on tracks. Dacre didn’t pause, his left hand anchored her wrists to the small of her back while his right painted quick, stinging swats across her bare bottom. Mary’s toes curled in her scuffed Oxfords, her shoulders hunching forward as if she could shrink away from the burn.
“You kick me?” Dacre’s voice was dangerously calm over the rhythmic whap-whap-whap of his hand connecting with her naked ass, “What after I pulled you out of Margaret’s crosshairs?”
Mary’s reply dissolved into a yelp as Dacre landed three more rapid smacks to the same spot, the crest of her right cheek, already glowing red. Lorraine watched, her grip tightening on Mary’s ankle. She knew this drill. Knew the exact moment pride gave way to penitence.
“You can’t do this to me,” Mary said through gritted teeth, “You bastard, you… ow… ooh…”
The boxcar swayed violently, sending a crate skittering across the floor. Dacre adjusted his stance without breaking rhythm, his hand descending in hard, measured strokes. Mary’s breathing rapid now; she was no longer indignant, but not yet defeated.
Lorraine could see the exact instant the pain outweighed the rebellion: the girl’s fingers flexed against Dacre’s grip, her spine arching instinctively away from the next smack. She licked her lips. This was better than a movie.
“How do you figure that?” Dacre said as he spanked in hard, the tight curves of the young woman’s bare bottom yielding to his hand, “I think you need to be taught some manners as well as gratitude.”
Lorraine watched from the shadows, her back pressed against a crate of machine parts as Dacre’s palm painted fresh heat across Mary’s utterly defenceless and by now fire red behind, which even in the shadows was enough to almost glow. The girl’s legs kicked involuntarily, her stockings snagging on the rough wood of the crate. Lorraine’s breathing elevated as she watched; she adjusted her hips as thigh brushed against thigh, and indulged her dark libido. She recognized the rhythm of Dacre’s discipline, the way his wrist flicked at the last second to maximize the sting. She’d been on the receiving end enough times to know the precision of it.
“Please, I’m sorry,” Mary wailed as she twisted under the relentless spanking hand. It hurt so much she longer cared that she was half naked, “Please…”
Mary’s gasps turned to yelps as her earlier defiance crumbled under the growing bottom burn. Lorraine bit her lip, the .38 forgotten in her garter as her thighs pressed together. There was something hypnotic about the way Dacre handled her, no wasted motion, no uncontrolled anger, just a firm paternal correction. Lorraine’s fingers twitched with the urge to touch, to trace the reddened skin Dacre was methodically darkening.
A particularly sharp smack jerked Mary forward with a yell. Dacre’s grip on her wrists tightened, hauling her back into position. “You don’t get to squirm out of consequences,” he growled, landing three rapid strokes to the same spot. Mary’s toes curled, her breath ragged.
Lorraine’s pulse throbbed in time with the strikes, her own skin remembering that exact cadence, the way the pain built, wave after wave, until you’d promise anything to make it stop.
Dacre paused the spanking, his palm resting heavily on Mary’s blazing skin. “Are you going to listen now?” he asked, his thumb brushing the crest of her right cheek.
Mary nodded frantically, her hair sticking to her damp forehead, “Yes Sir, I was scared…” she was crying and a little snotty.
Lorraine exhaled sharply through her nose. She’d seen this before too, the moment the fight drained out of them, leaving only raw obedience.
The boxcar lurched again, sending a loose bolt skittering across the floor. Dacre steadied Mary with one hand, the other delivering a final, deliberate smack that made her gasp.
“I think you can go stand in the corner,” he ordered, releasing her wrists.
Mary looked aghast, like he had just told her to walk to the moon or across hot coals. Then seeing his iron gaze she flushed red and stumbled upright, her hands flying back to cover herself.
Dacre caught her elbow before she could bolt. “Hands on your head,” he corrected, guiding her toward a stack of crates, “Until I tell you can move or we start over.”
“But… my… b-bottom… everyone can see it…” her eyes were wide with horror, but there was also a touch of wonder there.
“That’s the idea sister and you had better believe I can spank a whole lot harder,” he warned.
Mary nodded earnestly mortified that two veritable strangers could see her completely bare bottom, but she had got the message, loud and clear. The two tight spheres of her curves were hot and tight to give her strange feelings. She could not resist cupping the rounds to sooth and feel the heat.
“Hands on your head,” Dacre warned.
“Yes Sir,” she said in a tone of awe and girlishly chewed at her lip.
Part 3: Another error in judgement can be found here.
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