The Rifter: Part II

On the run from the mob and hiding from the police, Olga the matchmaker can't figure out if her secret abilities are a help or a danger.

←For The Rifter: Part I, click here.

---

Photo by Philippe Mignot on Unsplash

Thank the good Lord for my mattress money. Never trust a bank – I learned that years ago as a young woman. My money’s safer tucked into the lining of my threadbare mattress than it is in some crooked banker’s deposit box any day of the week.

As I shove the last wad of cash into my purse, I freeze in my tracks. A door just opened, the front door Wilbur hammered back into place this morning. I may be hard of hearing, but I’ve been listening to that door open and shut at all hours of the day and night for years now.

I rush to my back door, stubbing my toe on a kitchen chair. The chair’s leg splinters and collapses on the floor. Oh well. I won’t have much use for it now. I grab my cane, smooth from years of handling, and peek through the screen door. No one in the alley.

A heavy footstep.

They’re in the hall. Outside my door. I duck into the alley and hobble quickly as I can into the shadows of the surrounding buildings, so tall they darken the streets even in the brightness of day.

Dull crashes sound behind me. Doesn’t matter if they don’t find me right away. They will sooner or later. I’d prefer later. I waddle faster, my cane clacking against the cobblestones, my money-stuffed purse swinging against my leg.

A voice shouts behind me. I give myself a crick in the neck as I toss a glance over my shoulder. A man, silhouetted in the shadows by my back door, rushes toward me, whipping something from his pocket. Another man barrels through the door after him, heading right for me.

I turn away, pretend I didn’t see them. I’m just a little old lady, after all.

“Hey, old biddy –” A hand yanks on my arm. I turn toward them.

Two men, barely more than boys, stand before me, their eyes hard and dark in the shadows of the alley.

The shorter one grins with uneven, yellowed teeth. “We got a message for you from Mr. Mayburn.” A window slams shut overhead. Nobody wants to watch this kind of thing.

“Well, tell Mr. Mayburn to come visit me in my office.”

“Ain’t that kind of message.” The taller one, gripping my arm, flips a blade in his free hand, shrugging as if he hasn’t spent hours and hours learning to swing that knife around without losing his fingers.

“If Mr. Mayburn has a message, he can tell me himself.” Reaching my bony old hand up, I grab his wrist and pull his arm away from mine.

He falls to the ground with a shriek, screaming, clutching his wrist.

The shorter one backs away, blinking. Then it’s his turn to try.

But he has a gun. Points it right at my face.

I throw my wizened hand up in front of me like a saggy, futile shield – just to push him away. My hand connects with the center of his chest.

He flies backward, his limbs flopping. The pistol skitters off and falls with a splash into the gutter.

I know that he’s dead before he hits the ground ten yards away at the end of the alley, but I run toward him on my shaky legs anyway.

The taller boy crawls backward, cradling his arm. His wrist hangs at an unnatural angle.

I can see it in his eyes, wild like a spooked horse, that he knows. He scampers away down the alley and disappears around the corner without a word, but I can read it in his face. Rifter.

The dead man lies sprawled on the puddled cobblestones, his chest caved in the shape of my fist. His eyes are wide open, unseeing, drained, the dark blue of a stormy sky. Like Leo’s eyes – like our little Henry’s eyes all those years ago. He’s barely more than a boy.

I bring my hand up close to my face. Still withered, still old, still dotted with age spots and lined with lumpy veins. But this boy is dead, with my handprint caving in his ribcage.

A siren wails less than a block away.

That siren can’t be for me. It’s too soon. But it doesn’t matter; I can’t stay in this city.

---

The docks are packed full with boats. The reek of salt and fish floats up from the exposed boardwalks, and people bustle along with crates of provisions, weapons, any wares they can sell. I hobble my way along the dock, keeping one eye on the ships and one eye in the crowd, praying that no police or street thugs come swooping down upon me.

An enormous transatlantic passenger boat sits off to my left, towering higher than some of the buildings along the shore. Too big, too regulated. Too expensive. They’ll want identification papers. Down the pier, a fishing boat unloads a netful of flopping ocean fish. Too smelly, and they’ll revisit land too often. I need a boat that’ll fly under the radar.

The dock, itself a small city, holds more ships than I can count, and certainly more than I can inspect in a day. And I haven’t got a day. I have hours – minutes, even – before Mayburn finds out about me. He doesn’t strike me as a forgiving man. And now I’ve killed one of his boys.

My best hope is these docks. A boat that’s a touch shady, but not too disreputable. A crew that doesn’t care to ask questions. At least a few other passengers, so I can blend in.

But what am I doing, fleeing both the mob and the law at ninety-one years of age? Twelve hours ago I was a matchmaker, trying to make ends meet until I could die of old age. Now I’m a fugitive fixing to flee the District by sea.

“What are you looking for in a boat, ma’am?”

I turn my head toward the voice. A girl with flinty eyes too old for her face, leans against the boardwalk railing, her arms crossed. Behind her a small, weather-beaten boat bobs in the harbor.

I slump my shoulders a little more. Harmless old lady, that’s me. “You talking to me?”

The girl uncrosses her arms and takes a step toward me. “You seem more interested in the boats than in their destinations.”

“Your boat doesn’t seem to have much to recommend it.”

“Polaris. She may not look like much, but she’s sturdy. And fast. She can outrun a freighter any day of the week.” She steps close to me, her dark eyes sharp in the gloom of the February morning. “And my crew doesn’t ask many questions.”

I squeeze my cane, force my fear to channel into my fist instead of my face. I used to be an ace at poker, and now this teenager’s reading me like a book.

“Your crew, what’s their line of business?”

“We’re a transport ship.”

“Transporting what?”

She pauses, flicking a strand of dark hair thoughtfully over her shoulder. “We’re what you might call freelance. Takes us lots of places, all up and down the coast from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the southern Zone, sometimes farther. And we take on passengers as well, of course.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Gives you a good front, huh?”

She blinks at me several times, her face unmoved. “We find that our passengers are generally satisfied with their experience.”

A commotion erupts behind me. My heart leaps up in my chest, misbehaving badly. An overturned crate, someone yelling. It’s nothing to do with me. No mobsters, no police. No scientists here to capture the Rifter.

I turn back to the girl. Smugglers for hire, this crew of hers. No doubt about it. I take another glance at their boat. A bit shabby, but in good repair. Most likely it won’t sink five minutes out of the harbor.

And they’re sure not to ask many questions, as they don’t want me asking questions back.

Perfect.

“What about the fare?”

The girl shrugs. “Depends on the trip. One-way, round trip, or indefinitely?”

I look back away from the docks, back toward the city. Ninety-one years I’ve lived here, a mostly law-abiding citizen of the People’s District of Manhattan. I take in the skyline, the grey shafts of buildings concealed by low-hanging clouds, the smells, the sounds. Everything bustling, everything moving at its own dizzying pace.

I turn to the ocean, greasy and foamy in the crowded harbor. But out beyond, where the sea disappears into the grey sky, waves rise and fall gently for miles on miles. I look down at my hands, knotted and spotted with age, where they clutch my old cane. Withered old hands that can suddenly lift cars, crush brass, kill men with a single misguided touch. The city’s no place for a Rifter. Maybe the ocean will be more hospitable.

My eyes snap back to the girl. She looks me up and down, waiting, though she already knows my answer.

I narrow my eyes and pull my shawl a little tighter. “Indefinitely.”

← For The Rifter: Part I, click here.