David Sheffield would never say it, but he hated visiting this place. The school was one thing; Briargate rarely gave even an illusion of the work that was done there. But this place...this was a gateway to a whole different world, and he didn't need it spelled out for him to know that he didn't belong.
In truth, he should've come sooner. He'd been putting it off. He'd been putting off much of what needed to be done. It couldn't wait any longer; the beginning of the year banquet was being held at Briargate that night. At least Kenfield could see what could be done about Shannon, as long as nothing went wrong before then.
Many times Sheffield had reasoned that that was why he hadn't made it here yet; he was too busy keeping an eye on Shannon. That was too kind, he would be forced to concede. He hadn't wanted to comeâespecially not when he was rather certain he knew how this conversation would unfold.
There was never anyone around when he came, but that was the point. Every once in a while a story would get out and circle around about people appearing out of nowhere or someone vanishing into thin air. They usually died out pretty quickly, and those that believed them wouldn't have gone within a thousand feet of the place. The old Binder & Moritz law office building was haunted, they said. Had been ever since the fire in 1898 killed twelve people. The building was left abandoned after that.
In a way it was, at least.
He didn't park his car in the lot; no one ever did. It attracted too much attention. Not from civilians, perhaps, but a patrol car always came by once or twice a day. The city had had problems with the trade of heroin out of the pair of tenantless brick houses across the street a few years back, and the police had kept a closer eye on the place since then. They didn't pay much attention to the old law building, though, and Sheffield wouldn't be there for them to see anyway. They'd see his car if it was there, and that would raise suspicion.
As he entered the badly damaged building he wondered, as he usually did when he came here, what would happen if the building fell. It was declared structurally sound but sometimes he wondered. He didn't know what would happen to all the people here, if they'd be protected or not. He'd never had the courage to ask.
He paced anxiously, sweeping his eyes across the floor. He never could do this right, always got the wrong spot. He was getting better; the first time he'd come here alone it'd taken him over a half an hour to get it right. Of course, he wasn't any better at getting the door to actually appear, either.
He decided on a spot that seemed center from the doorway. That's what they always told him, but it barely made it any easier. It was too exact; he needed to be in the exact spot. It gave him a headache most of the time.
Gently, he knelt down and placed his hand on the ground. Stone. It was cold. He looked at the space in front of him and pictured the door as he'd seen it many times before: steel gray with a heavy handle and no other trappingsâno window or bolts, just the hinges on which it stood. He envisioned it in the air before him, there then gone again; saw it springing up out of the ground like it had been there since the building was built. He concentrated, tried to see it as clear as he could, and, without fanfare, the door appearedâslightly to his left.
He hadn't done that.
Somewhat frantically, he whipped around, checking to be sure he was alone. The building was as empty as it always was. Past the walls into the parking lot, he could see no one. There was no one else around.
With the caution of a man touching a hot stovetop, he grasped the handle and pulled the door open. There in front of him, almost like a mirage, was the Hopps Prison.
A tall, bespectacled brunette peered at him from behind her desk as he walked in. She smiled kindly.
"Thought you could use a hand."
So she made the door appear.
"How did you know I was out there?" Sheffield asked, stepping inside and closing the door firmly behind him, as instructed. He knew that in the fire damaged law offices of Binder & Moritz, the door was no more.
"You can just tell sometimes," the woman replied. "How can I help you?"
"I'm in to see Emerson Vickers. I sent a note, but it is awfully hard to reach you here. I expect you know that, though."
"Oh yes. David Sheffield? Yes, we received your message; Mr. Vickers is in his office. If you walk straight down the hallway it's the second door on the left."
"Thank you."
He followed the point of her forefinger, arm outstretched towards the corridor at his right. He knew his way to Vickers's office already; he'd been here a good many times since Vickers had taken over, but he'd never made it any further than the man's office. He was quite all right with that; he was not equipped to deal with the kind of prisoners they kept here, few as they were.
It seemed everything in the building was gray. The stone floor and the walls and every door, even the chairs at the entrance. The lighting was poor, which seemed fitting. He knew it was expenses; there was very little money to be had these days. The first door to the right led to the cells. Always kept locked, Sheffield couldn't have gone in even if he wanted to. The second was open. Emerson Vickers was inside, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he furiously wrote notes. Sheffield leaned into the room slightly and tapped his knuckles on the door.
"Oh, Dave," Vickers said, looking up, an easy smile painting his face. "I nearly forgot. Come on in, sit down."
Sheffield strode into the room and took a seat on one of the uncomfortable wood-backed chairs. There weren't many visitors to this place; he supposed comfortable chairs weren't really a necessity, with so few people to sit in them. They were a bit short, however, and they always made Sheffield feel somehow inadequate; Vickers seemed to be perched on the throne of a king by comparison.
Vickers himself was a hardened sort of man, both in body and mind. He was nice enough, certainlyâquite likable, with a needlepoint sharp sense of humor that hid like a shy animal and didn't come out until it was calledâbut a person could see the shadows of all the ghosts he'd crossed in his face. This was a man who had an endless catch of history hidden in every line around his eyes, every crease in his clothes, and every drop of blood under his dark skin. Sheffield had a lot of respect to give to him, advancing as far as he had in spite of the prejudices that caught him at every turn.
But then, this community was, in some ways, more accepting than the rest of society. In some ways.
"I suppose I don't have to ask to know what this is about, huh, Dave?" Vickers said, removing his glasses and setting them on the desk. Sheffield gave a placating sort of smile and shook his head. Vickers sighed. "I'd been wondering when I'd hear something from you. Always more on top of things then the people at that damn school, it seems sometimes."
"I just do what I can to help out," Sheffield said modestly. "They've got a lot to worry about."
"Now more than ever," Vickers said, the flat hum of resignation in his voice.
"It's a nasty business, Emerson," Sheffield said. Vickers nodded, and Sheffield knew he himself didn't comprehend the half of it.
"Been coming since Kitty Sinclair," Vickers said quietly. "If there was ever any doubt, it should've been wiped out when Alfie O'Brien died. We've been lying to ourselves for too long."
David Sheffield remembered well the sordid affair of Kitty Sinclair. The locals still liked to dust that one off on a particularly boring afternoon or eveningâalways in hushed voices with nervous eyes and the contentedness of one who knows something bad has happened but also knows it doesn't affect them whatsoever. Naturally, it'd been all but forgotten in the death of Sarah Benadine. 'That one awful day in December thirteen years ago,' they'd recall. 'That one awful day when it snowed nearly enough to bury the whole town.' And they'd choke out a 'poor Hal' and a 'poor little girl' and then return to their knitting and their soaps and forget the whole thing until the next occasion presented itself to drag it out once more. 'Of course, that was a long time ago,' they'd say. 'That's all ended now.' Sheffield often wondered if it ever really had.
"Well, I guess there's no use beating around the bush," Sheffield said. "She was marked, Emerson. Sarah was."
Vickers was unsurprised. "I thought as much when I heard how she was found. It's been a long time since we've seen this."
"That's not all," Sheffield said. Vickers cocked a brow. "There's another."
A shadow passed across Vickers face, and that was the only indication the other man had even heard him. He didn't say anything for so long a time that Sheffield thought he might never, might spend the rest of the time listening to Sheffield speak, nodding or shaking his head when appropriate but never uttering a word. Finally, just as Sheffield was ready to go on, he said gravely, "Another?"
It wasn't really a question.
"A girlâa student of mine from this past year, actually," Sheffield said. "Her name is Shannon. She was, um, Sarah's neighbor."
There was another great pause before Vickers spoke. "Have you talked to Kenfield?"
Sheffield nodded. "Patience did, actually. I told Patience. She's...she's invited Shannon to Briargate. Shannon's perfectly normal, of course, but with all of this..."
"Someone has to keep an eye on her," Vickers finished for him. He turned the thoughts over in his head for a moment before asking, "How long?"
"At least since Sarah Benadine's memorial."
Vickers whistled lowly. "That girl must have all the luck suckers with poor luck missed out on if she's lasted this long."
It was a ghoulish, terrible thing to say out loud, but it was also the plain truth, and both of them knew it.
"Kenfield will be there tonight," Sheffield said. "At the banquet. He'll take care of it then."
"Do you have any idea who it could be, Dave?" Vickers asked.
How Sheffield wished he had an answer. He didn't, and he had to say as much. Vickers nodded.
"Then I'm sure I know what your next question will be," Vickers said, and Sheffield had no doubt that he did. He'd come all this way, though; he had to ask.
"Well?" he said gently. "Could it have been someoneâor somethingâhere?"
Vickers smiled; there was no joy or mirth in it whatsoever. Sheffield supposed most men would have been offended just to be asked, but Vickers never seemed to be offended by anything. Like he didn't have the time for it.
"Even without the measures we take to limit the prisoners' power here," Vickers said, "they'd still have to have something of their targets. Hair, usually, but I've heard of fingernails occasionally. You could always use a hunk of skin, too, but that tends to call an awful lot of attention to yourself. I don't see how any of the prisoners could have gotten their hands on anything like that from either of those girls."
"But could it have been someone here?" Sheffield asked a touch desperately. "Theoretically?"
"Theoretically?" Vickers considered it. "Theoretically, I suppose. If every one of our protective measures failed, and they'd managed to obtain something from both of the targets. But I'd say it's pretty unlikely. If you want my full opinion, you're looking at someone from Clearwater."
Sheffield sighed. Truthfully, he'd already known that, but he'd been praying for anything else.
"I can't tell you how many complaints we'd have had by now if we let the prisoners cast spells in their cells," Vickers said, a touch of humor entering his smile.
"I know, Emerson. I know."
There was no comfort to be found in the thought that someone from Clearwater had marked Sarah Benadine and Shannon Malone for death or in the knowledge that they may not be done.
***What's that? I have no self-control and keep posting things way too fast? I'm shocked. Anyway, thanks to everyone who voted and commented :)***