Skyjackers - Episode 3: The Winds of Justice (Skyjackers: Season One) Read online

  “Lydia. The woman you hit with your car.”

  “Oh, yes. Right. She’s doing rather well, I imagine.”

  “You… imagine. Alex. Have you been to see her a single time? To apologize? To offer your condolences?”

  “Even better, old bean. I’ve made a hefty donation toward her medical costs and continued therapy. Anonymous, of course.”

  “That’s not the same thing. That isn’t admitting to the wrong you’ve done.”

  “Yes it is. In a way. Besides, I didn’t do anything so wrong, did I? It isn’t my fault the woman was halfway out in the road, and walking in my blind spot.”

  Jonathan stood. “I can’t believe you. I mean I simply… cannot believe you could be so insensitive. So irresponsible.”

  “You’re sounding more like my father all the time. This religious reformation of yours has changed you, Jon. Sit down.”

  “I won’t. There has been no reformation. I’ve always been this way, remember? I’ve always been your moral compass. Your conscience where you had none.”

  Alex feigned indignation. “That’s a boorish thing to say.”

  “It’s the truth. And what about the constables? They’ve been looking for you, you know. The second they find your father’s blue motorcar, it’ll be the end of you.”

  “Oh, you needn’t fret. I’ve had that old thing disposed of.”

  “Disposed of? The whole car?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Buried. In the moorlands, where no one will ever find it.”

  “And you think that’s going to keep them from finding you?”

  Alex shrugged. “I would think so.”

  “Am I really more frightened for you than you are for yourself?”

  “Don’t fume and fuss on my account, Jon. Seeing you like this makes me uncomfortable.”

  “As well you should be. Have you ever thought that maybe you ought to face your situation instead of brushing it under the rug?”

  “Harsh words, coming from a man who once hid in a woman’s pantry to avoid seeing the doctor.”

  “She was my mother. And I was five years old. Listen, Alex. I can only encourage you to do what’s right. Whether or not you follow my advice is up to you.” Jonathan pushed in his chair and crossed the patio toward the house.

  Alex called out to him. “Where are you off to, old bean? You’ve only just arrived.”

  “That depends,” said Jonathan. “I don’t suppose I could borrow a car for a few days.”

  “Of course. Take the red one. Keep it as long as you like. Where did you have it in mind to go?”

  “If you won’t pay Lydia a visit to see how she’s getting on,” Jonathan said, “I will.”

  Chapter 21

  Poleax Longworth started his morning the same as any other: touching his feet to the floor on the left side of the bed before getting out on the right (so as to never wake up on the wrong side); aligning the books on his shelves where they had shifted in flight during the night; making his bed and fluffing each pillow exactly five times; dressing himself, which meant wearing each pair of socks for seven days before sending it to be laundered; and opening and closing his cabin door five times before exiting.

  “Today is the day,” he told himself as he ascended the stairs to the Hummingbird’s quarterdeck. “Today is the day.” Poleax repeated this mantra ad nauseum, whether aloud or in his head, day in and day out. Today wasn’t the day. It never was, but he never stopped trying to convince himself otherwise.

  The sailor behind the Hummingbird’s wheel was a hook-nosed woman they called Pegs. Her real name was Abigail Carlson, and before joining the Caine fleet no one had ever called her anything else. The Hummingbird’s quartermaster, Esther Reilly, had once told her she was so skinny it looked like she had two peg legs, and the nickname had stuck.

  Every morning when Poleax emerged from his cabin, Pegs asked him how he’d slept. Every morning, Poleax’s answer was the same: “On my back, in the middle of my bed. And none the better off, for all that.”

  Today, Pegs was feeling playful. She couldn’t say why; just that the mood struck her to try something new. Break the routine. Instead of replying with her usual, “As we dream, so we wake,” she took a different tack. “All the better to have woken at all.”

  Poleax blinked at her. “What did you say?”

  “Waking up in the first place makes you better off than not, I’ll reckon.”

  “Are you threatening me, Pegs?”

  “On the contrary, Captain. Today’s a new day, and we’ll all do our best to make the most of it.”

  “Yes,” said Poleax. “Today is… the day. Today is the day. It does feel different today, doesn’t it? Something in the air. In the very dust. Which reminds me—my cabin is in need of a good dusting. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours.”

  “I’ll have that seen to, sir.”

  “You do that. In the meantime, I intend to make the most of this day.”

  ***

  Jonathan checked for Lydia at the hospital first. The constables had posted hazard tape at the crater in the road, and traffic from the resulting detour had worn a mud track around its circumference. After a little questioning, Jonathan learned that Lydia had been sent home on bed rest a few days prior. Off the record, the doctor told him she was from the village of Leiford, not twenty miles from where Jonathan had grown up in Falstead.

  Since the doctor was unable to divulge Lydia’s surname due to confidentiality rules, Jonathan made the trek to Leiford and asked around until he found a bookseller who knew her. The shop was called Chapter’s End, and the curly-haired proprietor introduced herself as Claire Delmarva.

  “If it’s Lydia Lambert you’re after, I do happen to know her, yes,” said Claire. “I was so sorry to hear the dreadful news. She used to come in here quite often. As a matter of fact, she’s had a volume on back order for some time now, and it’s just come in. If you’re on your way to see her, why don’t you bring it along with you? I’m sure she’ll be aching for a good read about now, what with the bed rest and all.”

  “I would be glad to,” Jonathan said.

  Claire handed him a book wrapped in brown paper and twine, and gave him directions to Lydia’s house. Jonathan thanked her and sped off in the red motorcar.

  In a field of wildflowers, backed by an oak forest, Jonathan found the tiny stone cottage Claire had described. He parked the car at the end of a long dusty driveway and knocked on the door. A moment passed before a short man in his late fifties opened it.

  “Hello, sir. My name is Jonathan Thorpe. I’m here to see Lydia.”

  “Is it you? Are you—are you him?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I mean… I suppose so, yes.”

  “Come in, come in.”

  Jonathan stepped into a large room that was part den and part kitchen. To the right was a short hallway with doors on either side. Jonathan glanced out the kitchen window to see a rear yard lined with flower beds, roses and hydrangeas and carnations of every color imaginable.

  “Oh, how rude of me,” said the man, extending a hand. “Phillip Lambert.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “And you as well. I’ve heard a lot about you, though it’s mostly the same things over and over. I expect you’ll be wanting to see her now. Please, this way.”

  Mr. Lambert opened the first hall door and led Jonathan into a meager room decorated in flowered wallpaper. Lydia lay in a single bed frilled with yellow skirts, beside which sat a wheelchair and a pair of crutches. When she saw Jonathan, Lydia’s reaction was not what he expected.

  “Who is he? Father, who is this man?”

  “Don’t you know him, Lyddie?” asked Mr. Lambert, confused. “This is Captain Thorpe. Or at least, he claims to be…”

  Lydia’s expression eased. “Jonathan?”

  “Hello, Lydia.”

  “Jonathan, is that you? You don’t look the same.”

  “Perhaps it’s my cloth
ing,” he said. “I’m far less regal without my reds on.”

  She smiled. “Ah, the uniform. That must be it. I apologize… you startled me for a moment.”

  “The apology is all mine, madam. I did not mean to frighten you.”

  “Say nothing of it. I really am so happy to see you.”

  Jonathan cleared his throat. “I’ve brought you this. From the bookshop. Mrs. Delmarva said you’d been waiting on it.”

  “My novel,” she said, brightening. She undid the twine and tore away the paper to reveal a bound hardcover entitled The Amorous Adventures of Mary McGuire, by M.T. Pritchard.

  “Looks like a real eye-opener,” said Jonathan.

  Lydia blushed. “It’s a bit of a guilty pleasure, I’m afraid.” She set the book on her nightstand. “Father, will you let Jonathan take me for a walk in my rolling chair?”

  “Go easy, now, Lyddie. You don’t want to overtax yourself before you’re ready.”

  “Nonsense. I’m quite ready. And quite tired of this stale bedroom. I should like some fresh air. Besides, Jonathan will see me back safely. Won’t you, Jonathan?”

  “Uh, well—”

  “If you’re up for it, Captain Thorpe,” said Mr. Lambert. “I suppose a short stroll wouldn’t be out of the question.”

  The fields were vibrant with new growth, the flower beds fragrant with sweet perfume. Lydia’s wheelchair was heavy, but Jonathan found it manageable once he got it moving. A path led through the tall grasses behind the house and into the thick forest beyond. Though she wore plaster casts around her leg and midsection, Lydia didn’t appear to be in pain as the chair bumped and rolled over banks and divots in the path. They crossed a small footbridge and stopped on the opposite bank of the creek running beneath, watching dogwood flowers as they floated to rest on the water’s surface and rode the rapids downstream.

  “I’m pleased you were able to visit so soon,” Lydia said.

  “I got some unexpected time off,” said Jonathan.

  “It seems you were able to find me without very much trouble. I’m not sure whether to be scared or delighted.”

  Jonathan laughed. “I did have some trouble finding you. It was worth the effort, though. I’m glad to see you’re getting on well.”

  “Father takes good care of me,” she said. “I worry about him sometimes. He works very hard, but gardening isn’t enough to get by on these days. He’s taken to traveling round to the estate houses, looking for work under one of the high families. At least, he was in the process of doing so… before the accident.”

  Jonathan didn’t know what to say. He considered offering his condolences, but the gesture struck him as hollow.

  “My mother died when I was twelve,” Lydia said. “In case you were going to ask. It was typhoid fever.”

  “I’m… sorry.”

  “Will you tell me about your family? I recall you said it was just your mother and sister now.”

  “That’s right,” said Jonathan. “I’ll be off to visit them after this. I should be there now, but I’m sort of… procrastinating.”

  “Has it been long since you’ve seen them?”

  “Longer than my sister would’ve liked.”

  “Don’t you get on?”

  “Not always. But that’s not it.”

  “What, then?”

  “My mother is sick. Has been for years now.”

  Lydia touched his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  Jonathan took a step toward the creek, moving out of reach.

  “You don’t like seeing her in poor health,” Lydia said.

  “I don’t like seeing what her life has become. She forgets things. People. I don’t like knowing that someday soon, she’ll forget me altogether.”

  Lydia was silent. They stayed there by the creek for a while, watching the water go by. When she reached for Jonathan’s hand, he didn’t pull away.

  By the time they got back to the cottage later that afternoon, Lydia was exhausted. Jonathan helped her into bed for a nap, after which Mr. Lambert made tea from his home-grown stock. The two men sat at the kitchen table to talk as they watched the sun set behind the trees.

  “She hasn’t been the same since the accident, you understand,” said Mr. Lambert.

  “I imagine it’s been difficult,” Jonathan said.

  “She, eh… comes and goes.” Mr. Lambert waved a hand in front of his face as if to erase something.

  Jonathan nodded. “I remember the doctor telling me she’d been concussed. Have the symptoms been severe?”

  “There are moments when she doesn’t know who I am. She has these… spells. They never last long, but…” He pursed his lips. “It’s alarming to look into your own child’s eyes and not see a hint of recognition.”

  Jonathan knew the feeling. Between a mother who was losing her mind and a young woman who was fighting to get hers back, he’d begun to feel as though he were on the brink of madness himself.

  “Listen, Captain Thorpe.”

  “You don’t have to call me captain,” Jonathan said.

  “Mr. Thorpe, then. I know we don’t know each other very well yet, but my Lydia is very fond of you. We’ve an extra mattress made up in the loft. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Heavens know I owe you far more than that for saving my little girl.”

  “You don’t owe me a thing, Mr. Lambert.”

  “Oh, but I do. Please stay with us, if you can spare the time. We’d be glad to have you. And it would make my Lyddie so happy.”

  Jonathan thought for a moment. “If you really think it would help…”

  “Indeed I do.”

  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.