Chapter 9

Chapter 9

HE WAS TRAPPED, and there was no obvious way out. A victim of his own actions, Rory had nobody to blame for his current predicament but himself. Had he the foresight to see this coming—or the sense to pay attention to it—he would not be in the dank prison, counting off the ticking seconds of his life. Rory was nearing the edge of his sanity, practically about to scratch at the walls to keep from bursting at the seams.

At least there was bacon.

“Thelma, this is delicious,” Rory commented to the police secretary as she handed him another plate of breakfast, smiling bashfully as she did. “You are an exquisite woman!”

The middle-aged woman giggled to herself and bounced back to her stove. Considering all the times he had been arrested, thrown in a dungeon, or tied to the gallows, Rory did not think this arrangement was half bad. Thelma was the best cook the pirate had come across in some time, and between the two deputies, Vincent adored the ground he walked on and Bartholomew seemed to be equally star-struck—though he tried not to show it.

A perfect situation for a master manipulator of Rory’s class!

“Gentlemen,” Rory asked between bites of savory bacon. “Here’s what puzzles me: you are deputies, but who is in charge exactly? I mean, one of you should be promoted, wouldn’t you say?”

“Bartholomew is pretty much in charge around here,” Vincent admitted, moving on to his third plate of pancakes.

“Ever since ol’ Patrick retired,” Bartholomew added, puffing his chest out and plucking his thumbs into the armholes of his vest. “Doesn’t seem right not having him around, but what can you do? We just have to wait for the mayor to make the promotion official.”

“That’ll be nice,” Rory congratulated. “How long since Patrick retired?”

“Three years,” Bartholomew answered, the answer coming forth like reflex.

Interesting… “Any day now, my friend,” Rory assured him. “Any day now.” And any minute until I get out of here…

* * *

“IT’S KILLING ME!” Rory moaned, tugging at his shirt. His vest lay atop his boots in the corner, as the pirate was making himself right at home. “I’ve been wearing this same shirt for four days! What are people going to think? At this point, I would take anything. Vince, surely you can find me something!”

“We’ve got a duty to uphold, Rory,” Bartholomew cut in, placing a hand on Vincent’s shoulder to keep him from leaping at the opportunity.

“A duty?” Rory asked. “My dear Bartholomew, is it not your duty to keep your prisoner safe and comfortable?”

“Comfortable? Not really. I mean, we fed you, didn’t we?” Bartholomew asked. “And how are you not safe?”

“I’m the victim of fashion homicide, Bartholomew!” Rory pleaded. “It’s the worst crime of all! My shirt is trying to be the death of me!”

“It is a pretty nice shirt,” Vincent commented.

“Thank you, Vince, you have impeccable taste,” Rory bowed. “But the issue is not necessarily the shirt itself, but the fact that I have not been relieved of its fine company for some time now. Four days!”

“We don’t have anything here for you, Rory,” Bartholomew regretfully spoke.

“But you could get me something,” Rory stated. “If you were so kind.”

“With what money?”

“Oh, no money, my captain, no money at all!” Rory assured him, appealing to Bartholomew’s rank—or desire thereof. “I would easily accept one of yours, or even Vince’s.”

“You would wear one of my shirts?” Vincent’s eyes lit up as if a room full of presents just opened up before him.

“Vince, I would be honored,” Rory bowed again.

“Surely we could get him a shirt, Bartholomew,” Vincent begged. “It wouldn’t take long at all!”

Bartholomew’s face turned grim. “Sorry, but it’s out of the question. Lord Grey will be here soon for you, and you can take up your request with him.”

“Callus Grey? Come here?” Rory tried hard to force out a believable laugh. “For me? Don’t be silly.”

“He’s the one the posters say to report your capture to,” Bartholomew eyed Rory with a pensive glance. “It’s a shame to say it, Rory, but you’re a criminal.”

“Criminal? I’ll admit, I’m a thief—truly, a pirate—but do you know what it is I stole?” Rory asked, pausing in wait for an answer that never came. “The hearts of millions!”

Thelma wiped her eyes in sympathy, handing a handkerchief to Vincent, whose eyes were also getting damp. “That’s it!” the plump deputy said, leaping to his feet. “I won’t stand for this injustice! Rory, I will get you a shirt!”

Rory smiled with pride as Vincent turned to leave, but his way was barred immediately by Bartholomew. “If anyone’s running off to fetch him a shirt, it might as well be me,” the acting chief determined. “Thelma, come with me. I could use your fashion sense.” Rory doubted that, as the woman wore a baggy, flower-print dress big enough for two Thelma’s—and that was a whole lot of Thelma!—covered in a raggedy, home-knit gray fleece. Still, two less people guarding Rory were better than one.

Now he and the malleable Vincent were alone.

“Thank you, Vince,” Rory nodded. “Sometimes a man needs a champion, and you stepped up to the challenge.”

“All in a day’s work, Rory,” Vincent smiled, sitting down with a pastry, quite proud of himself. “Though neither of them is going to know a paisley from parsley, but I tried to go for you instead.”

“That you did,” Rory agreed, taking a seat. “You know, you could go anyway.”

“And beat Bartholomew and Thelma back?” Vincent asked. “I know it’s hard to believe looking at me, but I’m not in as good of shape as I used to be!” This said while he proceeded to spill jelly-filling down his shirt.

“I bet you could do it,” Rory continued. “And wouldn’t it be famous if I was wearing a different shirt when they came back?”

“Rory, I’m a big fan—”

“I know, you asked for three autographs!”

Vincent paused a moment, licking jelly from his fingers. “Don’t think I don’t know your reputation! I love all the stories about the famed Pirate of Vimiland!”

“And the songs!” Rory cut in. “Don’t forget about them.”

“Oh, of course! Checkmate the Queen is one of my all-time favorites,” Vincent agreed. “But what I’m saying is that I know the moment my back is turned, you’ll pick that lock and be on your way, and I can’t afford to lose my job.”

“Dear sweet, ignorant Vincent,” Rory appealed. “Do you have any idea what goes into the art of lock pickery? It’s not as if I stare the lock down and will it to open. Do you think it takes a tap of my finger to convince the tumblers into place, the mechanisms to deactivate? Everyone thinks it’s so simple, but it’s not!’

“A lock is a work of art—an example of pure perfection—and each is different.” Rory continued. “What was the locksmith thinking when he made her? Who was his muse? You searched me when you brought me in—which, reminds me, I would like my money back, please. Did you find anything on my person that would suggest I could free myself? A set of precision tools, perhaps? A bump key? A list of combinations? No, of course not! Do you know why? Because I don’t have my tackle on me! Ipso facto, I cannot break out of this cage!”

“Ipso what-o?” Vincent asked.

“Some dead language, I just use it for emphasis,” Rory waved off the question. “Point is, were you listening? Vincent, you could walk out of here and go home, and I would be sitting right here come morning! Now, please, don’t make me wear whatever hideous garment those two bring back. Go, take that impeccable sense of fashion you possess and get me something that looks good!”

“I will!” Vincent agreed, wrestling himself out of chair and to his feet. “You deserve it, Rory!”

“Good man!” Rory cheered, leaning on the bars of his cell and pumping his fist in the air. “Go get it! Remember I’m partial to maroons, reds, purples; they really accentuate my raw sexuality. And, Vincent…” The guard paused at the door, waiting on Rory to complete his thought. “I wasn’t kidding about the money; I really want it back.”

Vincent nodded and pulled Rory’s coin purse out of a drawer, handing it over.

“Very good,” Rory thanked him. “Don’t want to be stealing money now. Once you start down that road you never go back! Now, get out of here! Leave me festering in my prison to think on the mistakes I have made that lead me to this point!”

Vincent marched out purposefully, leaving Rory alone in the jailhouse. The pirate lifted up two purses to inspect them, noticing the one he pinched off of Vincent’s belt was noticeably lighter than his own. Not exactly the keys, Rory considered, but it will do!

Rory immediately strapped on his boots and vest, and got to work. Every second was precious, and the clock was ticking. From his boot he pulled out two long pins and got to work on the lock. It always surprised Rory how few locks could not be sprung with a simple application of pressure and patience—quite similar to his approach with the female anatomy. Feeling around for the tumblers, he found the shearline—the proper spacing to create between the tumblers within the lock—and with a click and a twist, felt the lock spring open. Odd, Rory was certain he almost hear the heehaw bray of a donkey as well…

Suddenly the back wall of his cell burst open just as the gate pushed away. Turning, Rory saw Bozius and Rafule standing in a cloud of dust, a rope spread from Daisy to the bars that once stood in the window of his cell, now amongst a pile of rubble on the ground behind the jailhouse.

“I thought you might come to visit,” Rory greeted. “Broad daylight, huh? Kind of bold, isn’t it?”

“Strike when they least expect it,” Bozius smiled, untying the rope from the bars and resetting the gear on Daisy’s back. Something’s missing, Rory thought.

“New pack?” Rory took notice of the thick leather bag on Bozius’s back.

“Cost a pretty bobby, too,” Bozius nodded. “Don’t think I ain’t claiming the cost first before we split the price for this damned stupid Baby.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it any other way,” Rory smiled, stepping over the debris.

“Rory!” Vincent called out, his voice cracking with heartbreak. In his hand was a purple shirt garnished with a paisley print. He was standing in the doorway to the jailhouse.

“One moment, gentleman,” Rory asked, to the grunting groans of protest from both men. He approached the deputy, hands raised. “Vince, look, I didn’t escape. I was broken out!”

“You just stepped through the door to your cell!” Vincent noticed.

Rory stopped a beat to inspect his work. “Must’ve rattled free when the wall came down. Point is, Vincent,” Rory snatched the shirt from the man’s hand. “This is a very nice shirt! It might even fit!”

“I told you I used to be in better shape,” Vincent dropped his head in sorrow.

Rory felt his own heart break a little. Looking at the shirt, the Pirate of Vimiland made a decision he rarely ever made, save for those seldom occasions such as this where particular measures were called for.

“You dropped this earlier,” Rory tossed his own coin purse into Vincent’s hands, keeping the deputies lighter purse for himself. “I’d hate to see you broke, Vince. Until next time, shall we?”

With that, Rory bowed and ran out to his friends.

“If you’re done playing kissy face with you new boyfriend, I would like to get out of here before the Grey Callus makes an appearance!” Bozius insisted.

“Yes, Bozy, of course,” Rory agreed. “I wonder whatever could be taking Bartholomew and Thelma so long. Where could they be?”

“Right here!” Batholomew called from the street, several shirts in hand. Thelma stood beside him, also with many samples to choose from. Behind them, several townsfolk were dropping the clothes in their hands to pick up whatever nearby improvised weapons they could.

“Best. Escape. Ever.” Bozius lamented.

“We thought a little fashion show would be nice for our celebrity guest,” Bartholomew said, dropping an armful of garments to draw his sword. “Apparently, we’ve just been had by the Pirate of Vimiland!”

“And I made you breakfast!” Thelma hissed.

“Thelma, Bart, so sweet,” Rory fumbled as his party slowly backed away from the amassed mob. “But really, isn’t this better? Think of the story you get out of this! Bozy, how fast can Daisy run?”

“You saw her before,” Bozius replied. “Faster now that she’s no longer carrying a hundred-pound box on her spine, but I might be a bit slower!”

“Run!” Rory commanded, turning to flee.

The trio spun on their heels and booked it for the road out of town.

“Raffy,” Rory gasped, “What do you have for me, kid?”

“Are you mad?” Rafule demanded. “I’m not setting innocent people on fire! They were going to put on a fashion show for you, Rory!”

“Who said anything about killing anybody? Why is it always killing?” Rory asked. “I just want some mayhem and chaos. Slow them down a bit. They’re not just coming after me, y’know!”

“Good point,” Rafule noted. “Does this grass look dry to you?”

“Here? I doubt it,” Bozius answered. “It rains pretty good around these parts this time of year.”

“Well, it’s worth a shot,” Rafule regarded, and stopped to turn and face the onrushing crowd. They were closing in, but far enough for him to avoid directly burning any of them. Pushing forth both his hands, Rafule worked an arc of fire across the ground between the townsfolk and the party. It took a bit of time to take, but eventually the ground lit up, and Rafule worked a ten foot wall of flame through the grass from one street to the next.

“Hopefully the roads keep the fire from spreading,” Rafule wished, turning to rejoin his friends.

“Yeah,” Bozius blurted in mock agreement. “I’d hate for the horde of homicidal runway models to get hurt. That would be a shame! Rory, can you take this bag? My shoulders are hurting something fierce.”

“And break our good pace we have going?” Rory questioned. “I’ll take it when we get there.”

“Get where?” Bozius asked, adjusting the straps on his shoulders.

“I’m not sure yet,” Rory admitted. “But we’ll get there!”

“Should have left you in jail,” Bozius regretted.

“And miss all this excitement?” Rory smiled. “You wouldn’t dream of it!”