Free Dead Man's Reach by D. B. Jackson Page A

dealings with Samuel Adams himself. You don’t need my help talking to them, do you, Ethan?”
    â€œAt some point I might, and I’ll be sure to let you know when that time comes.” He sipped his ale.
    Diver did the same, clearly pleased.
    An instant later, though, the Dowser’s door opened again and a different man stepped inside.
    â€œHe’s dead,” this man said, his voice forlorn. “Chris Seider’s dead.”
    Ethan placed his tankard on the table and closed his eyes, a dull pain in his heart.
    â€œGod grant him rest,” came a voice from near the bar.
    â€œTo Chris Seider,” another man said. “May he rest in peace.”
    â€œChris Seider,” the other patrons answered, the lad’s name resonating like a spell through the tavern.
    Ethan opened his eyes again. Deborah was crying. Diver had walked around the table to where she sat and put his arm around her shoulders. Ethan searched the tavern and soon spotted Kannice near the bar; she was already looking his way. Her cheeks were dry, but he could see grief in her lovely eyes.
    He stood with a scrape of his chair legs on the tavern’s wooden floor, and picked up his hat off the table.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Diver asked.
    â€œThere’s something I need to look into. I told you, I was on the street today when Richardson shot him, and while I was there … well, it’s hard to explain.”
    Diver’s face fell. “You’re not going to try to prove that he didn’t do it, are you? I know that you protect people when they’re innocent and all, but this—”
    â€œHe did it, Diver. I saw him pull the trigger. I could no more prove Ebenezer Richardson innocent than I could teach him how to fly.”
    â€œGood,” Diver said. “I want to see him swing for this.”

 
    Chapter
    F IVE
    Kannice was not happy to see him leaving, but he assured her that he would be back before long, and that he would try to explain where he had gone and why.
    Leaving the warmth of the tavern, he found the icy street hushed save for the tolling of several church bells around the city—no doubt a tribute to the fallen lad. He had feared that a new mob might take to the lanes upon hearing the news of Christopher Seider’s death, but for now at least, all remained quiet. A pall had fallen over Boston.
    He headed south on Sudbury to Queen Street, which he followed toward the city gaol. On most occasions he took pains to keep his distance from Brattle Street and Murray’s Barracks, but on this night there could be no avoiding the soldiers occupying the city. Indeed, Ethan was headed to the very seat of the Crown’s military presence in Massachusetts.
    As he came within sight of the gaol, however, he saw a large crowd gathered in the street outside the austere building. Here, at last, was the gathering he had thought to find in the lanes. Many carried torches, and though from this distance he could not make out what the throng was shouting, he could imagine easily enough. He retreated a short distance and found a lonely byway in which he could remove his greatcoat, cut his forearm, and whisper, “ Velamentum ex cruore evocatum. ” Concealment, conjured from blood.
    His conjuring hummed in the street, and Reg appeared before him, vivid against the whites and grays of the city in winter. At the same time, the spell settled over Ethan, like a fine cool mist.
    â€œThis might be incredibly stupid of me,” he said.
    The ghost grinned and vanished.
    Once more, Ethan headed toward the gaol, placing his feet with care so as to make as little noise as possible on the lane. Even so, his shoes crunched the ice and snow. Fortunately, by the time he was near enough to other people to be heard, the clamor from the mob was enough to overwhelm the sound of his footsteps.
    He slipped through the crowd, avoiding any contact when he could, and when he couldn’t,