Author's Note

.｡｡*ﾟi hope you're staying safe and being kind to yourself! .｡｡*ﾟ

Love youuu 💗

𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚

HOUSE OF REFUGE - JANUARY 1898

How did he get out? Snyder had asked that question about fifty times.

Each boy who sat before him gave a similar answer of 'I don't know.' He'd tried everything. Persuasion, intimidation, pain. Nothing had gotten through.

First up was Alexei.

Snyder was ready to slap the phony arrogant façade from Alexei's face. For the past five minutes, Alexei had chosen to only answer the warden's questions in Russian.

"If I find that you were involved, I will make you suffer. Believe me, boy." Snyder sounded exhausted, out of options.

Silence.

"You think that opium withdrawal was bad," Snyder seethed, "it'll be nothing compared to the hell I'll put you through."

"Пошел ты," Alexei snarled, leaning back in his chair, dragging his fingernails along the arm rests.

When Alexei finally got back to the dormitory, he drew the attention of the others, having expected him to come back battered and bloody. They stared up at him as he strolled by.

"What did you tell him?" Muggs mumbled.

"Jack shit," Alexei replied flatly without turning around as he walked to his bunk.

Lion watched the exchange from the washroom doorway before ducking back in to find Atlas drinking water from the dirty faucet.

"Snyder just asked Alexei about Jack," Lion said.

"So?" He asked with a mouthful of water.

"Well, if he's asking Alexei, he's probably going to ask all of us. Someone's gotta be next."

Atlas switched off the water and brought his head back up, wiping his mouth. "What are you so worried about?"

"Nothing we say will matter," Lion muttered, slumping against the wall. "We'll take a beating either way. And I don't know if I'll survive this one."

Atlas shrugged, crossing himself. "Offrilo alla Madonna."

Lion rolled his eyes with a scoff. "What's she ever done for me?"

An orderly marched into the dormitory, silencing everyone. "Mahoney!" He shouted, looking for Cards. "The warden wants to see you in his office. Now."

And from there it was a string of unhelpful testimonies.

Through a cloud of cigarette smoke, Cards sat across from Snyder, who appeared to be at his wits end.

"Honest, Warden Snyder," Cards replied, shrugging with a befuddled expression. "I don't know. I mean, he kept to himself. Didn't like to make friends. But Valentino used to talk to him a lot."

Next.

"Mahoney said that? I hated that whiny son of a bitch. Kept shooting off his face about laudanum," Lion said after downing the shot of whiskey Snyder placed in front of him. He looked Snyder in the eyes. "I didn't help him escape. Hell, I wouldn't even tell him if his hair was on fire. Ask Mooney."

Next.

"Francis Sullivan?" Fleet asked, scrunching up his eyebrows in confusion. "We had someone in our dorm named Francis Sullivan?"

Snyder ran a hand through his hair tiredly. "He has a pseudonym."

"Is it contagious?"

"Jack Kelly," Snyder continued, pushing past the boy's ignorance. "Do you know who I'm talking about now?"

"Jack Kelly? Is he related to Paul Kelly?"

Snyder's expression never faltered. "The five points gangster? I wouldn't think so, no. It's an alias, boy. That means it's not his real name."

Fleet was quiet for a moment, appearing to think. He shook his head. "I'm confused. Then who is Francis Sullivan?"

Snyder sighed, slumping back in his chair, and closing his eyes. "Who had the upper bunk? The one above him."

"Petronelli."

Next.

"I'm going to ask you one more time, boy. Did you hear or see anything the night he disappeared?" Snyder waited for the boy to reply impatiently. "Tell it to me straight and speak up!"

Z glared at him over crossed arms, slouched with his legs sprawled out in front of him in the chair. "I ain't saying anything until I see a lawyer."

"You're already imprisoned, you brainless gutter rat," Snyder spat. "Now talk!"

After a minute of catatonic silence, Snyder knocked a few papers of his desk in frustration. "I will cut out that tongue of yours, and then you won't be speaking to anyone," he said, moving to take a pair of scissors from his drawer in warning.

"Cohen's been actin' strange lately," Z blurted out as Snyder stood up from his desk with the scissors.

Next.

Crazy was in a state of hysteria. He ranted and raved about everything but Jack's escape. The food portions, the rats in the dormitory, the treatment of younger inmates, the lack of supplies, the treatment of the sick and injured.

Snyder stopped his tirade after a few minutes, realizing this was going nowhere. "Just shut up, boy! Shut up at once!" Snyder shouted, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief. "Who was the last person you saw talking to Sullivan? Just tell me that, and you can leave."

"Fuck you!"

Snyder pulled out a bottle of vodka and a glass, inching it toward the alcoholic. "I want one name for one shot."

Crazy settled down, giving Snyder a small grin. "Giannotti's the guy you're looking for."

Next.

Atlas faked a panic attack, hyperventilating and collapsing before he even took a seat. He feigned unconsciousness, and Snyder rolled his eyes, demanding Atlas be taken away by Dr. Sayers.

He bent down, grabbed the boy by his shirt, and delivered a slap. The act dropped as Atlas cursed, holding the side of his face painfully.

"Who helped Sullivan get out?" Snyder grabbed a fistful of Atlas' dark hair, dragging him up. "I will show you what unconscious is."

"Markowitz," Atlas managed through grit teeth.

Next.

River stuck to the truth as much as possible. He also refused the bribes of alcohol and cigarettes Snyder offered.

When asked who helped Jack, River said he'd gone to bed early that night because he wasn't feeling well. He woke up the next morning with a headache, and only noticed Jack was missing during breakfast. He said as far as he knew, everyone was just as shocked and confused. Nothing suspicious.

There were no cracks in River's story, as he revealed little. No lies. No volunteered details. Nothing to use against him.

Except: "Then again, Westwood's a good liar."

Next.

Rails immediately offered to cooperate, saying he'd find out as much as he could from the others. "I'll report whatever I hear back to you," he said, giving Snyder a wicked smirk as he crossed his fingers behind his back. "I ain't loyal to none of these bastards. Surprised you ain't talked to the lunatic yet. He'll tell you anything."

Next.

Snyder had to repeat his questions to No Name three times over until the boy was able to conjure up a vague, nonsensical answer.

"He said something about Santa Fe," No Name said, looking around the room. "I reckon that's where he is now. He jumped out the window and swam all the way there. The water was green. I didn't like it. He said you would never catch him as long as he kept his head below the water."

With a puzzled expression, Snyder stared at No Name. "When did you hear him say that?" Snyder asked, realizing No Name might've been one of the witnesses.

"In a dream. Last night," No Name replied simply, his delirious eyes still shifting around. He set his jaw tightly and met Snyder's gaze.

The warden exchanged a look with the guard across the room. "Demetrio, are you sober?" Snyder asked, already knowing the answer, but asking, nonetheless.

No Name nodded. "My teeth hurt, though," he said dejectedly. "Maybe Doc can pull them out like he did for Muggs."

Snyder gaped. "He did what?"

Next.

"I pulled out one of the lower molars," Doc clarified after Snyder's line of questioning on the subject. "It was broken. Would've gotten infected if I hadn't done it."

"How did you remove it?"

"Pliers."

"And where did you get pliers?"

Doc hesitated. "I borrowed them from the factory. After I pulled the tooth, I cleaned the pliers and returned them."

"Borrowed? You mean you stole them," Snyder interrupted, shaking his head. "For that, you'll receive a sound thrashing before you leave this office. Is that understood?"

Doc stared at the floor. "Yes, sir."

"Do you have anything to say about Francis Sullivan's escape?"

"No, sir."

"Did you hear anything during the night?"

"No, sir."

"Nothing at all?"

"No, sir."

"You saw nothing as well?"

"No, sir."

Snyder sat back in his chair. "Do you know of anyone who might've helped him?"

"No, sir."

"Would you tell me if you find out anything?"

Doc chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Yes, sir."

"Are you lying to me?"

"No, sir."

"Would you have stopped him from trying to escape?"

Doc looked Snyder in the eyes this time, knowing he was already going to get a beating. "No, sir."

Next.

Snyder observed Marquette's fidgeting hands, knowing the boy was uncomfortable in his office. It was the first time Marquette had stepped foot inside, as he'd never had any prior addictions that would prompt him to make a vice deal.

"I like that picture," Marquette said quietly, nodding to a framed art piece of the Hudson River behind Snyder. "Did you draw that yourself?"

Snyder followed his gaze toward the sketch, and then back at Marquette in suspicion. "No, I did not."

"Oh. It's very well done. Is that charcoal?" the boy asked, his eyes still on the picture.

Snyder stood and removed the picture from the wall, placing it face down on the desk so it was out of sight. "I'll bet you're looking forward to getting out of here, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You have a young lady waiting for you," Snyder continued. "I've seen her here on visiting days. She's a pretty little thing, isn't she?"

Marquette said nothing. He just nodded slowly.

"What's her name?"

After a moment, Marquette answered, "Camille."

"Camille what?"

"Camille Moreau."

"Ah," Snyder smirked, drumming his pen against the desk. "Elle suis de le France."

Marquette pressed his lips together, not bothering to correct Snyder's atrocious errors in grammar and pronunciation. Nor did he tell Snyder she wasn't French at all, rather she was from Quebec.

"Do you know her well?" Snyder asked.

Marquette tilted his head.

Snyder folded his arms, deciding to put himself on the same level as the boys outside his office. "How long have you two been fucking?"

Startled by Snyder's abrupt crassness, Marquette averted his eyes and shrugged away his embarrassment. "I don't know."

"Does she have a family?"

Marquette shook his head.

"And what would happen to if she were to be arrested for whoring?"

With a shaky breath, Marquette searched the man's face. "She's not a prostitute, sir," he managed in his broken English. "She's a good girl."

Snyder chuckled, setting the pen down on top of his bureau. "Don't lie to yourself. You've seen her. Those lascivious eyes, her rosy lips… How else does she support herself while you're locked up in here? Just like your mother. And if she's brought to my Refuge, I can't promise she'll be out as quickly. You know what happens to girls like her in here. Some of the guards get lonely, and they'll love to have a comely French waif like that to play with. But I'll forget I know who she is if you just tell me how Francis Sullivan got out."

Snyder seemed to be almost rambling. He was employing this strategy to keep Marquette's mind racing.

Marquette struggled to follow what Snyder was saying, though he was unable to quickly translate his own thoughts. It was difficult for him to think up an excuse or dissociate from the situation altogether.

Snyder's methodical process of breaking his victims down to mental exhaustion and slowly chipping away at their psychological stamina piece by piece seemed to work on Marquette – whose first language wasn't English.

But instead of offering up any answers, Marquette stopped talking. In fact, Snyder thought he might start crying.

"Oh, what's the matter?" Snyder asked, his voice low. "Are you going to cry now? I thought you were a tough boy."

Marquette's eyes filled with frustrated tears, sniffling as his face turned red.

"Use your words!"

"I don't know how he escaped. If I knew, I would tell you, I swear. Even if I helped him myself," Marquette said in a haltering whisper, beginning to plead in his panicked accent. "I will do anything. Anything you like. I won't fight like last time. But please leave Camille alone, sir."

"Tell me who helped Sullivan, and she'll stay free."

"I don't know, I've already told you," Marquette begged, sitting up in the chair. "But I'll take the blame for it. You can punish me all you want, just don't hurt Camille. My…my heart…it will die."

Snyder exhaled through his nose, rubbing his eyes. "Pathetic," he grumbled, motioning for the guard to grab Marquette and shove him out. "Send in another. He's of no use to me."

The boys outside were alarmed to see Marquette's tears, wondering what in the hell Snyder had done to bring the generally cheerful boy to such a frantic state.

Next.

He sat in the chair opposite the warden's desk. He watched Snyder push the thin, white powder into a straight line with the side of a pencil. Then the warden offered Muggs a straw, giving the boy a pointed look.

Muggs took the straw and leaned forward, dropping his head as he snorted the cocaine off the desk. How he had convinced Snyder to give him the drug before he'd talk is anyone's guess. It didn't matter though, because as soon as the cocaine took effect, Muggs smirked and started spinning a story.

"Guess the poor sucker couldn't hold his breath for long," Muggs finished, wiping the remaining powder from his nose, and snorting that as well.

"Why did he choose to swim for it?" Snyder asked, clearly fed up with the bullshit answers he'd gotten so far.

"The kid's a fuckin' moron, what do you want from me?'

"I want you to be honest for once in your miserable life, you little shit," Snyder growled, slamming his fist down. "You tell me who helped him escape, and I'll let you huff burny until your nose bleeds."

Muggs maintained his blank expression, turning over the proposition in his mind. "Okay. I helped him escape."

Snyder barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "You're a lot of things, Tracey. But you aren't a convincing actor."

Shrugging, Muggs kept his eyes locked on Snyder's. "Not sorry I tried."

"You know something," Snyder frowned, checking his pocket watch. It was almost lunch time. "And I will stop asking so nice if you don't tell me right now who—"

"Morozov did it," Muggs said without a second thought. "Or are you too stupid to figure that out?"