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

making it seem that some other person was responsible for the gentle jostle or shove.
    â€œGive ’em to us and we’ll be on our way!” one man called to the young regulars guarding the prison door. Several men laughed.
    Cries from others gathered there were less humorous.
    â€œThey’re murderers, and should be dealt with as such!”
    â€œDamn lobsters! Protectin’ child killers!”
    â€œRichardson and Wilmot deserve what’s comin’ to them! And so do them what keeps ’em safe!”
    With each new imprecation, the mob grew increasingly agitated, until Ethan wondered if he would be able to extricate himself before the gathering became a riot. He could find no path of escape; the throng had closed in on all sides. He could do nothing but continue forward, pushing his way closer and closer to the front of the crowd and the fa ç ade of the city gaol.
    When at last he slipped free of the mob, with a final shove that left a tall young man glancing about in confusion, Ethan found himself even closer to the gaol’s ancient oaken door than he had expected. From so near, the four regulars posted in front of the gaol appeared younger and more frightened than they had from the rear of the crowd.
    He saw no way past the men, nor could he think of any means by which he might enter the gaol through the door without drawing notice.
    With slow, deliberate steps, he circled around the building and made his way back to where he knew the prison cells were located. There were several small windows along the wall—each looking in on a cell. But they were too high for Ethan to reach, and even if he could have climbed the brick walls, he couldn’t accomplish much from outside.
    Reluctantly, he concluded that he had but one choice. Leaving the prison, he cut across a snowy lea, strode past the church grounds of King’s Chapel, and turned onto Marlborough Street. From there, he continued south to West Street, where lived Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf.
    Greenleaf’s spacious stone mansion stood a short distance from the edge of the Common. It was a stately home with extensive gardens that were, during the warmer months, among the most admired in all of Boston. It was, Ethan had decided long ago, a finer home than the good sheriff deserved.
    Greenleaf might well have had the most difficult job in the entire Province of Massachusetts Bay. As sheriff of Suffolk County, he was responsible for keeping the peace in Boston. Any and all crimes committed within the city and its environs fell under his jurisdiction. But other than the men of the night watch, most of whom were either incompetent or dishonorable, or both, the sheriff had no men under his command. He was expected to see to the safety of Boston’s citizens, and their personal property, almost entirely on his own. It was no wonder Ethan and Sephira had worked for so many clients over the years.
    The near-impossible duties with which the sheriff was tasked should have made Greenleaf a sympathetic figure. As it happened, though, the sheriff’s abrasive manner prevented that. He and Ethan had been at odds practically from the day they met. The sheriff had long been determined to see Ethan hanged as a witch; only Ethan’s discretion, and a few strokes of uncommon good fortune, had kept Greenleaf from following through on his frequent threats. Moreover, when the sheriff wasn’t trying to prove that Ethan consorted with the devil, he was often working with Sephira Pryce to hinder one of Ethan’s inquiries.
    Still, on those rare occasions when the sheriff required Ethan’s aid—more often than not to investigate crimes that involved conjurings—he did not hesitate to press Ethan into service. And every now and then, Ethan had no choice but to turn to the sheriff for help, as he did this night.
    He walked up the path to the sheriff’s front door and rapped twice with the brass knocker.
    Only then did he