Shocking Confessions

Come into your parlor, said the fly to the spider!

Amanda Madeleine Gordon West was one extremely well-armed fly on the prowl. She was also, in spite of her iron resolve, beginning to feel the pangs of desperation. None of the other leads she'd sought out that morning had panned out, and now both her husband and her brother were still missing on another day. What was happening to them? And what could she do to help them? What she could not do, she realized, was waste any more time. Having no other clues to go on, she had opted not to wait until dusk before returning to the one neighborhood in Murfreesboro where she'd seen the man known as Joseph Ratch. No longer caring whether she looked out of place or not – indeed hoping to attract Ratch's attention, she walked faux-cheerfully through the streets of this very run-down section of the Athens of Tennessee, twirling her best white parasol over her head as if to keep the sun off her not-so-fashionably-pale complexion.

One thing she didn't have to worry about was going ill-equipped to meet the enemy. Aunt Kate had already made sure of that a generation earlier. The Secret Service might not have known quite what to do about arming its first full-time female field agent, but the Denver Training Center's Professor Montague had leapt into the challenge with both feet, joyfully designing exploding reticules, lock-picking powder compacts, and corsets that just didn't bear thinking about. Amanda's own father had been the specialist in designing walking sticks like Uncle Jim's eagle head cane and was the innovative designer of Aunt Kate's array of parasols, and her own. When Amanda was just his sweet little girl, Artemus Gordon might have been shocked at the idea of her putting his inventions to good use someday, but not as shocked as anyone attacking her right now would be.

Come out, come out, wherever you are, Mr. Ratch! I'm very eager to meet you!

At the back of her mind lurked the chilling sensation that she might already be too late. She couldn't let herself think that, not directly, but the shadow of the fear was there. Amanda West might be a talented actress, capable of fooling any number of people, but she was never able to fool herself.

"Morning, sister," a laconic voice said to her as she walked around the block containing Lucy Mapp's bordello. "Didn't expect to see you again so soon."

I could say the same thing about you, Amanda thought, though of course she would never say so out loud. Why should she be surprised if the Madam kept regular daytime hours as well as nighttime ones? Besides, Lucy Mapp had been nothing but friendly to her the night before. She wouldn't have minded spending a little more time and conversation in this interesting woman's company if not for the urgency of her expedition right now. Still, she didn't attempt to alter her path when the Madam walked over to join her.

"So what brings you to our fine neighborhood this morning?" Lucy asked, with only the slightest touch of sarcasm.

"I'm on a bit of an expedition," Amanda replied as vaguely as possible.

"Ah. Searching for lost souls, no doubt."

"You could put it that way." Amanda still didn't know if she could trust this woman or not, but that barely-suppressed sense of anxiety came nagging back at her. Time was running out. Did she dare ask the question she longed to ask? She decided she had no choice. Trying to look and sound as dispassionate as possible, she took the chance. "You, ah, haven't by any chance seen Mr. Ratch again today, have you?"

Lucy Mapp made a face and spat on the ground to indicate what she still thought about the individual in question.

"That bastard? What do you want with him?"

Which wasn't really an answer to Amanda's question, but Amanda knew she had to forge ahead. She took a deep breath. If she didn't enlist what help she could, she might never see her missing family again.

"I need some information from him."

The Madam's eyes narrowed, and for a silent moment the two women stood staring at one another, two powerful, equally strong-willed souls each daring the other to blink. If Amanda had no reason to trust Lucy Mapp, then Lucy Mapp had even less reason to trust her. A woman living her kind of life, if you could call it a life, on the outskirts of the law and normal society had no reason to trust anyone. Amanda did not bend an inch, but she could make it easier for Lucy if she let the Madam know that she wasn't trying to do anything harmful to Lucy or her bordello's interests.

"I may need your help," she said.

A simple statement of fact. Not a concession or an order.

The professional whore looked Amanda up and down again, assessing her and trying to see what, if anything, was out of place. She wouldn't like knowing Amanda was connected with law enforcement, undoubtedly. But what person would expect a woman to be in Amanda's profession?

"All right," Lucy said at last. At least something about Amanda must have passed her smell test. "Should have figured you weren't just an ordinary church woman when you were so nice last night. They mostly aren't." The Madam frowned. "I suppose your name ain't Prudence Peters either."

"It isn't," Amanda admitted. "Have you seen Mr. Ratch around here today?" she asked again.

Lucy shook her head.

"He'll come 'round, though," the Madam said. "He always does when he's in town. If he can't be getting it at my place, he'll be getting it someplace else nearby. Afternoon at the earliest, though. Not right now."

Amanda might have figured as much, but it was still a disappointment. Lucy continued to scrutinize her, but with curiosity rather than suspicion.

"What sort of information are you looking for?"

Okay. Deep breath time. Now or never.

"My brother and my husband have been kidnapped. I believe Mr. Ratch and his friends are responsible. I intend to make him tell me where they are being held."

This time the Madam blinked. Whatever answer she had been expecting, it wasn't that one.

"Ratch is a dangerous one," Lucy exhaled. "And any friends he has – if he has any - are going to be dangerous too."

"I'm aware of that," Amanda replied. "I'm more dangerous than Mr. Ratch knows." And more than you know, too. The lone female field agent of the Secret Service still working kept herself solid as a rock while the Madam looked her over yet again, assessing one more time what, or rather who, she was seeing.

"I believe you." The Madam drew back a step and quirked an appraising eyebrow at her. "I don't suppose you intend to ask him nicely, do you?"

"No. I do not."

Lucy Mapp smiled.

"I'll help."

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

From the look of him as he entered Murfreesboro's low-rent district, Joseph Ratch didn't realize this was not his lucky day. The greasy, nasty little man with the dragging foot didn't know or care if the buildings in this quarter of the city had eyes. In other parts of town he might be on his guard, but he felt himself more than the equal of anyone on these streets. Such a man showed no sense of fellowship, and didn't particularly, care what anyone else thought of him. He was in a good mood, at least as could be determined by the satisfied look on face. Like a man who was getting his way. He didn't head toward the bordello run by Lucy Mapp this afternoon. Instead, he strode-limped toward a boarded-up building that looked as though it had been abandoned some time previously, blissfully unaware that he had a hidden entourage.

If this was a low rent district, then the building was a lower rent district unto itself – a heap not so much owned as squatted or conveniently used by the neighborhood's independent operators. In the alleys nearby, a few of society's less fortunate lurked, begging, drinking or looking for the chance to attract customers. Ratch whistled and gestured into those shadows and a young hooker appeared in response, possibly pushed from behind by the way she stumbled forward. Here too Ratch must not be popular. But he had money and yes, he liked them young. The unfortunate whose wrist he grabbed didn't appear to be much past puberty. She accompanied him into the old building, very reluctantly.

Amanda had to stifle her disappointment. After seeing the boarded-up wreck and Ratch conspicuously heading toward it, she had wondered if this might be an entrance to one of the smuggling gang's hideouts. Her heart had beaten a little bit faster at the prospect. But no, his dragging in of the alley girl indicated otherwise. The hovel was just what it appeared to be – a shared neighborhood slum wreck of hourly convenience. Well, that could suit her purposes too.

Looking as out of place herself as a saguaro cactus in a vegetable garden, the avenging woman in mostly white stepped forward and prepared to meet the enemy. Ratch, with his dragging foot, hadn't been hard to keep up with. She'd even been tempted to confront him out in the open street. But if Ratch's 'friends' were anywhere near, that would not have been wise. Not safe for her own new allies either. Any of the alley denizens watching might have wondered at her appearance, at a 'churchy' woman foolish enough to be poking in and conducting a moral crusade by herself in these parts. No one challenged her or tried to block her entry into the building, though. To do that, they would have to have cared.

Ratch would've picked a room on the lowest floor or not much higher, given his lameness and the girl's desire not to go with him. Amanda regretted the necessity of letting him slip out of sight long enough to get in the entryway. But it no longer mattered to her who she inconvenienced by her search. She had very little sense of shame, and even that little was inactive at the moment. Her focus was solely on the task at hand.

The first room she checked on the ground floor contained a couple of drunken hobos who paid her no attention at all. The second room she tried held a decidedly mature hooker with a client being serviced standing up, there being no furniture in that room. The woman gave Amanda a contemptuous, annoyed look, but said nothing and continued on with her business. Amanda was about to try at a third door when it opened to reveal the young prostitute Ratch had dragged in, evidently trying to escape. The girl did not get all the way out the door before something, or rather someone, pulled her back in. This, then, was the room Amanda wanted.

It wasn't locked. Amanda walked in, rather than barging in, the very picture of calm. Inside, she found her target, along with his current target, who took advantage of the distraction Amanda provided to pull loose from Ratch once more. Giving the barren room a cursory but sufficient inspection with her eyes, Amanda strode forward, parasol in hand. Ratch, still fully dressed, spat on the floor and glared at her.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, not really caring about the answer. "Get the hell out!"

"I suggest you do as he says," Amanda said to the girl.

Ratch attempted to reach out to keep his youthful prey from fleeing, but Amanda, with a speed that belied her poise, brought the parasol with its reinforced steel bar down on his arm to connect with an audible impact. He howled and drew his arm back, cursing. The girl hooker didn't need to be told twice – she got, before anyone could pull her back this time.

Unseen by Ratch, Amanda thumbed a small catch on the handle of the white parasol and it began to make a clicking sound. Amanda had Ratch's attention all on herself now.

"I don't know who you are, girlie," the greasy man spat again, reaching for a knife that he carried in a sheath at his belt. "But you just made a serious mistake."

"I don't think so." Calmly, she altered her stance in a manner so slight that most would not have noticed. If Ratch knew how to back up that knife with action, he should have noticed, but he didn't appear to. "And we've met."

"Have we?" Ratch drew the knife and hunched sideways, as if to circle his newer prey. The one eye staring out from his angry face looked her up and down. "I sure don't know you." The eye narrowed as recognition sank in. "Waittaminute – are you that other dame I saw last night?"

Amanda nodded slightly, checking up and down for any sign of gun barrels protruding from anything in the room again as she did so. Nothing. Good.

"We met before that, in a manner of speaking," she said in that same level tone. Ratch might still think he was able to handle anyone in this part of town, but she could tell her manner was unnerving him a little. She'd keep it up. She enjoyed unnerving people she didn't like. "In Chicago."

That mention rattled Ratch further. He tightened his grip on the knife, which wasn't one of the throwing variety, and attempted to circle her in his clumsy way. His infirmity must have been recent. He didn't seem to know how to compensate for it yet. Amanda moved to match his movements, but silently. Without appearing to change position much at all within the confines of her ankle-length clothing, she kept him facing her directly.

"I don't remember you in Chicago," he snarled.

"You tried to burn me to death, or bury me," she said, almost with a lilt of cheeriness. "And my companions. I'm not happy about that." Though she made sure she seemed at least a little happy. A good actress knows how to manage creepy when it counts. She did it beautifully now, and she could almost see the tiny cogs turning behind the glare of that one eye as he tried to place her. Time to get down to business. "I want to know where Agent James Gordon and Agent Artemus West are. Now."

That stirred the pot of recognition for Ratch.

"You're West's dame, ain't you?" he grinned nastily, finally able to place her.

Amanda didn't like that grin, but she wasn't going to be made nervous by it, the way she unnerved him.

"Mm-hmm," she agreed. "And you are going to tell me where he is, and where my brother is."

"Oh, I'll do better than that, sweetheart," he leered, advancing several steps toward her. "I'll send you to join 'em!"

Ratch lunged at her with the knife, but missed as she dodged it with ease. As she suspected, his depth perception was off – a problem for most people with only one eye. She dodged a second and third attempt without breaking a sweat, and stood just out of his arm's reach. That made Ratch stop smiling, unable to get to her. Amanda decided it was time to make a point with a point – of her white parasol. She poked it hard at the part of his anatomy men least like to take a hard hit in. She was momentarily astonished when, instead of meeting with soft flesh and a pained yelp as expected, it contacted something hard enough to block it with a slight clanging sound. Did the man have some sort of prosthetic where no prosthetic should be?

Ratch must have felt the impact somewhat, but he wasn't grimacing – he was grinning that same not nice, leering grin.

"Surprised?" He waved the knife menacingly. "You think I don't know to wear a cup down there? You think I don't have to teach dozens of lessons to bitches like you? I got a nice metal one, doll, and you ain't getting' through that way!"

Amanda was relieved. For a momentary split second she had been concerned that this might be a problem. Now she knew it would not be one.

"Metal, did you say?"

She smiled angelically and pressed the trigger button on her parasol.

The scream was impressive enough to attract an audience, even in this 'no questions asked' zone. Amanda had to hand it to Lucy Mapp – the woman was fast – almost fast enough to make it into the room ahead of others who'd been in this building beforehand. Lucy saw what others rushing in saw – a calm and proper, well-dressed woman in mostly white standing over an unconscious man with an eyepatch and who had evidently dropped a knife he'd been holding. The small audience, more curious than caring, moved forward to gawk, not to give aid.

"Who is he?" the standing hooker's client asked.

"Someone who's lucky I wasn't carrying my black parasol," Amanda murmured politely without other explanation. But Mr. Ratch wasn't going to be feeling lucky. Not at all.

Lucy Mapp and her crew of backups moving to the front of the crowd had their first question answered by the sight of Ratch's chest still rising and falling, and by not seeing any blood. No murder had been committed here yet. The women might not be certain what Amanda had just done, but they approved. They also came prepared. They had brought the sack; Amanda provided the body.

"Let's take our discussion elsewhere and play twenty questions, shall we?" Amanda suggested.

Lucy nodded, and as the small spectator gallery watched, half a dozen hookers and the polite woman in mostly white loaded their 'discussion' into the sack, lifted it and carried it away. No one asked anything more or tried to interfere. Spectacle over, they began to disperse and go back to whatever they'd been doing before the scream. It was none of their business after all.

Joseph Ratch awoke to the bucket of cold water poured over his head, disorientation and pain. Amanda waited to allow him to reorient himself to the most pertinent facts: that he didn't know where he was, that he was no longer armed, that there were a whole bunch of angry women staring down at him, and that she was one of them. She hoped he was conscious and intelligent enough to appreciate the most pertinent fact of all: I am not nice.

She decided to drive that last point home with the tip of her parasol again, pressing the man's metal codpiece onto his newly acquired burns with enough force to make him writhe and nearly faint again.

"And now, Mr. Ratch," she said with another sweet smile, "I believe you were just about to tell me where Agents Gordon and West are being held . . . ."