Chapter Thirty: What Dreams May Come August 1921

She was floating. Underneath her she could feel the machinery of a car propelling her forward, but why was she in a car? Who was driving? She tried to move her mouth, to ask who was driving her and why, but her mouth wouldn't cooperate. It felt like it was full of cottonwool. Her eyelids were so heavy she couldn't even open them. There was a hand on a knee. It felt familiar, she thought, but it was not Richard. Jimmy? Whomever it was wanted to comfort her, she thought. She tried to move her hand, thinking she could grab the man's hand, but she couldn't. It felt like she was hugging herself and she couldn't stop. Why couldn't she move her arms? Panic rose in her throat and she felt like she might choke on it. What was happening to her? Was this a dream?

What happened today? Why did she feel drunk? Her head felt like she'd down a couple of bottles of whiskey. She forced herself to recall the day. She'd gotten up. She'd dressed in a green linen skirt, a peach and green striped blouse, and her leather sandals. She could feel them on her feet. Richard had been distracted, had barely kissed her goodbye, but he had made breakfast and fed Tommy. Then she and Tommy went to the post office and the library. When they came back it was time to feed Tommy again, so she started making sandwiches and...

Tommy.

Oh my god, Tommy was alone. She couldn't think of where Richard and Jimmy were, but they weren't home. She tried desperately to get the man's attention, to try and signal that Tommy was alone and was too little to be left without anyone to watch him. The tiredness pulled her down even as she tried to swim up.

His eternal watchfulness meant he saw everything, and he was especially watchful over the house that contained Clara and Tommy. Their Model-T was parked by the service porch. Clara always cheated it over so it was easier to get Tommy out of the passenger side door. He'd have to look to make sure she hadn't let Tommy eat in the car again. Who knew jam could get into so many places? He wondered the day that he cleaned the jam out of the upholstery of their car if Tommy had managed to get any of it into his mouth. A box sat on the service porch. Grocery delivery, but why hadn't Clara brought it in? Well, it was late enough that Tommy should be up from his nap. They were probably on the beach and Clara didn't realize her order had arrived.

It was when his eye trailed up to the front of the house that it felt like his heart stopped beating in his chest. The front door was ajar. Just slightly open. Clara wouldn't leave the door open. She just wouldn't. There were also tire tracks in the grass.

"Jimmy," he growled out while pulling the Glock from his waistband.

Jimmy had indulged in several glasses of bourbon at lunch, and mixed with the disappearing adrenaline from earlier he was left feeling pleasantly numb. Numb was a state he now chased at all times. Richard was already out of the Ford when Jimmy realized the door was open. Tommy, Clara, God please no, he thought, his heart dropping.

Richard feared what he was going to see before he even walked on the porch. Angela laying dead and pale on top of her lover, in the room next to the one where he now slept with Clara. Richard saw it even as his eye swept the house, looking for anything else out of place. He pushed the vision away.

Even in their terror they worked methodically. Each had their gun out, and they kept each other in view as they entered the house and started sweeping the rooms. They both saw the metal plant stand by the front door was turned over, the one that only had survived Jimmy's rage because it couldn't be burned. Nothing was amiss in the sunroom, living room, or dining room but the kitchen made both of their anxiety increase. Clara's purse sat in a kitchen chair. Two glasses of lemonade with melted ice sat on the table, next to a library copy of The Black Moth. A box from the grocer was on the counter, half unpacked. Also on the counter were two plates with Saratoga chips and half made ham sandwiches. A platter of ham lay abandoned on the counter. Richard touched it. Warm. Clara had been making lunch when something stopped her, and it had occurred a while ago. Where were they, he thought, and had to start breathing through his mouth because the press of his growing panic made breathing through his nose impossible.

Upstairs, Jimmy went to Tommy's room. Tommy's shoes looked like he had kicked them off in a hurry. A pile of library books sat on his little table, but one was in front of his toy chest and some toys were on the floor. Jimmy didn't see the goofy cow Tommy slept with. Thank god, Jimmy thought, wherever Tommy was he had his cow.

Nothing looked amiss in their bedroom, Richard thought. He forced himself to focus. Was there a simple reason Clara had left the beach house with Tommy in the middle of making lunch, leaving her purse and the car? The sound of the surf banging on the sand outside the windows made his stomach turn. Could Tommy have gotten away from her and gotten into the ocean, and Clara followed? No, he thought, even here on this quiet part of the beach swimmers and beach goers were all over, trying to escape the heat. Someone would have seen. There would still be chaos if that had happened.

"Richard?" a little voice called from underneath the bed. "Can I come out now?"

"Tommy!" Richard fell to his knees at the same time as a chubby little hand reached out from under the bed. Pulling Tommy out he checked the boy instinctively. Tommy looked physically fine, but Richard didn't miss the bright red eyes and dried mess on his face. Without thinking he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and tried to wipe Tommy's face, but the boy clung to him so fiercely that it was difficult to get to his face.

"Jimmy!" Richard growled out.

"She didn't come back," Tommy said, crying. "She yelled Game but she never came back." Tommy sobbed out the rest of the story.

Jimmy walked into the room. Tommy was clinging to Richard and crying.

"Clara was downstairs. Mmm. Tommy was supposed to wash his hands. He heard her open the door. Mmm. Then she screamed for him. To play the game. And was screaming. When someone took her away."

Jimmy wanted to look away from the horror on Richard's face.

Someone snatched Clara right from this house. Someone did something to make her scream while they took her. Jimmy wanted to run to his room and take every paper packet of heroin he had hidden. He wanted to crawl down a bottle of bourbon and never emerge.

Angela was dead. Manny fucking Horvitz had just come into this house, his house, and killed Angela. Angela who never hurt anyone on purpose in her life. And now someone had just snatched Clara while she made Tommy's lunch. Clara, who was only here because he hadn't been capable of keeping Angela alive.

Tommy's chubby little arms were wrapped tightly around Richard's neck, his face buried in his shoulder, his little sobs filling the room. Jesus, thank god Clara had taught Tommy to hide.

He looked at Richard's face again, and for the first time in a long time the self-loathing and longing for death was replaced with rage. Why the fuck did these goddamn people think they had the right to come into his house and kill his wife, snatch his sister, terrorize his child?

A knock sounded on the door below, and then they heard a female voice with a British accent call, "Hello, Clara? Are you home? The door is open?"

Jimmy and Richard looked at each other. Unbeknownst to each other, they were having the same thought. They each recognized that voice.

Pulling out his Glock, Jimmy crept to the landing, leaving Richard barricaded with Tommy. A young woman wearing a lavender dress covered in white embroidery with a white merry widow hat stood in the foyer, looking uncertain. The edges of her dark brown bob peeped out from underneath the brim of the hat.

The woman looked up at the stairs when Jimmy moved. When he saw her face it removed all doubt from his mind.

"Rose Grenville?"

Someone was picking her up. She couldn't use her arms to steady herself-why? Why were her arms trapped against her body? The sun was warm on her face, but she still couldn't force her eyes to open. Her head lolled on the man's shoulder and for a moment she thought she was back at her mother's funeral, that she was a little girl who started crying when her mother's coffin went down the aisle toward the hearse. Jimmy's sweaty hand was in hers, but someone else picked her up. Daddy? Why couldn't she remember?

Now she was inside a building. Even with her eyes closed she knew it was large and very clean. The Ritz? Was someone taking her home? Home would be nice. She longed for the thick, clean sheets on her bed by the windows that always let in a sea breeze. Maybe Jimmy and Richard would be in the suite and she wouldn't have to be alone...

No, she didn't live at the Ritz. She lived in Angela and Jimmy's guest room with Richard. Now she fell asleep entwined with Richard while the sea beat outside their window. So where was she? Wherever it was they were the cleaning staff was a little over enthusiastic in their use of bleach. It smelled like Margaret's house when she cleaned it after Emily's polio diagnosis.

Suddenly she was deposited on a hard surface with some sort of scratchy linen covering it.

The click of heels on a hard floor. A woman, Clara thought. Good.

"This is Clara Thompson?"

Clara didn't understand why this woman knew her name, but then she realized it wasn't right. Why? Once more she tried to move her hands, and when she did her little finger caught against the diamond on the side of her engagement ring.

I'm married, she thought. For a horrible moment Darcy's face swam up in her memory and terror clutched at her. Had she married Darcy?

No, no of course not. Darcy was long gone. She could see Richard as they stood in front of the minister at that ridiculous little chapel. Relief flooded her. It was Richard. She'd married Richard.

She tried to force her mouth open. She tried to speak. Pushing her tongue on the roof of her mouth she finally felt her cheeks.

"Clara Harrow," she said as best she could.

"Is she trying to say something?"

"Clara. Harrow," she repeated.

"Well, Rose Malley now but Clara still calls me Rose Grenville. It's quite alright, though, since I'm fairly certain I'll think of her as Clara Thompson when we are little old ladies who've been married for decades! How are you, Jimmy? I was so dreadfully sorry to hear about your wife. I never had the chance to meet her, but we wrote a few times and I know how Clara adored her. Is Clara here?"

Fuck, Jimmy thought. For one wild moment he thought Rose was going to tell him Clara was with her, that this was all just a misunderstanding.

"Richard! You can bring Tommy down," Jimmy said, and moved around Rose to close and bolt the front door.

Richard moved slowly and heavily down the stairs since Tommy was still attached to him.

As Richard came into view Rose Malley, probably for the first time in her life, rudely stared.

Jesus Christ, she was a fucking battlefield nurse, Jimmy thought when he noticed. And there was no chance that Clara had not talked about Richard's injury when she saw Rose in May. Why the hell was she staring at Richard like that?

"Richard, this is Clara's friend Lady Rose Malley."

"Is Clara. Mmm. With you?" Richard asked, hope rising in his chest that somehow, somehow Clara was safe.

"No," Rose breathed out. "Why? Where's Clara?"

Jimmy and Richard looked at each other.

"The man took her!" Tommy said from Richard's shoulder.

"Jimmy?" Rose asked.

"We don't know. We just know someone has her."

Rose fought to maintain her composure. She started to speak, but then glanced over at Tommy. "She's in danger? But you are going to find her?"

Jimmy and Richard looked at each other.

"Who will care for your son?" Rose asked. "Because from Clara's letters I know she's upended her life because she doesn't think you have any reliable alternatives."

Fuck, Jimmy thought. He and Richard could hardly put Tommy in the back of the Ford while they searched for Clara. If, when he corrected himself, they found Clara she'd kill him if he left Tommy with Gillian.

"Let me take him. My sister Dorothy and I are visiting a Great-Aunt who lives on Cape May. I'm here because we hoped to convince Clara to bring Tommy and join us for a few days. My grandmother is there, and she's very much looking forward to meeting Tommy. Clara was going to bring him and your wife to Newport, when..."

When Angela was murdered, Jimmy thought. He should have insisted Clara take Tommy then and get out of town until everything was over. But this would keep Tommy safe. No one would look for Tommy ensconced in some rich old lady's estate.

Rose approached Richard and Tommy. "Tommy, would you like to spend a few days with me? I promise we will have ever so much fun. There's a lovely boat so we can go out to sea."

Richard felt her staring at the scar on his throat as she spoke to Tommy, and even in his current state of terror it made him uncomfortable.

"Do you know about mermaids?" Tommy asked.

Rose thought for a moment, and then realized. "Clara's stories about the mermaids? Of course. She's been telling them to me since we were girls in school together. I always liked the sister who built a house out of oyster shells."

Jimmy went upstairs to pack for Tommy.

"Your throat and voice, that wasn't caused by the initial injury, was it?" Rose asked gently. She knew it wasn't the time, but she had to know. Clara had said something about Richard's voice, but Rose hadn't thought, not really, but now what she was thinking...

Richard looked down at his hands. "No. Mmm. Trying to save me on the field. They performed..."

"An emergency tracheotomy," Rose finished. "And they damaged your vocal cords accidentally?"

Richard nodded. "Yes, Lady Malley."

"Please, here in America I'm simply Mrs. Malley. No one has time for the other nonsense. But you are the husband of my dearest friend, you must call me Rose." Rose hesitated, and then reached out and put her hand over his. "My father calls Clara the Fierce Little American. She'll be fine."

Something about Rose Malley's hand on his felt...familiar, he thought, but in his haze of terror he thought it was just her similarity to Clara in dress and manner.

Clara had to be fine, Rose thought. It would be altogether too cruel if after everything she only had a fortnight with her husband. The poor man had been through enough; he couldn't be a widower in his mid-twenties.

Jimmy took Rose and Tommy to the train station while Richard prepared for what was next. He pulled his gun bag from the back of the armoire in their room and started checking and loading his weapons. Done before Jimmy returned, his mind flooded with the nightmare he'd had since the fall day when the d'Alessios had tried to snatch Clara off the street in front of the Ritz.

That one day Clara would scream for him and he wouldn't be there to hear it.

He had to do something. He pulled the small notebook from his pocket and thought about where to start. Finally he made a decision.

"BARclay 5786" answered a voice that wordlessly declared I'm busy, important, and have little time for your foolishness .

"Meyer Lansky?" Richard managed to say.

Meyer ashed his cigarette, and looked over in the gambling room where Charlie stood. "Richard Harrow?"

"Someone. Took Clara. From Jimmy's house. It was. Violent," Richard barely managed to whisper the words. Saying them made it horrifyingly real.

Meyer waved towards Benny, who tapped Charlie on the shoulder.

"Who has her?" Meyer asked.

"I. Don't know. Maybe the butcher. Mmm. But it could be..."

Anyone who is either angry at Darmody or angry at Thompson, Meyer thought. There was a long list of people who might consider Clara's life as forfeit due to their actions.

"Why are you calling instead of Darmody or Thompson?"

"She's my. Wife," Richard answered.

Meyer blinked but didn't say anything. "Charlie and I will see what we can find out."

"What the fuck, Meyer? I was right in the middle of fleecing a real numbskull."

Meyer drummed his fingers against the desk thoughtfully. "I just learned two very interesting pieces of information. Someone kidnapped Clara Thompson from Darmody's house. And Clara Thompson is now Clara Harrow."

"She married him, huh?" Charlie lit a cigarette. "Who the fuck do you think Darmody or Thompson pissed off enough to go after her?"

"It's quite the list. We should see what we can find out."

Good, Charlie thought. Clara was a bitch, but he had to like any classy broad who could curse him in Italian. "Sure."

"Could be valuable information to a lot of people. Besides, if I were Harrow, I'd be going out of my mind right now," Meyer said, flicking his cigarette and sneaking a look at Charlie. If it were Charlie missing, the body count would rise across the Eastern Seaboard. He felt like Harrow was about to leave quite the bloody trail in his wake.

"Perhaps we should think about how to approach AR with this news." He thought for a moment. "Both pieces of news."

Back in Atlantic City Richard prepared for another call.

Capone answered the phone, and for once Richard was glad.

"It's Richard. Harrow. Mmm. Someone took. Clara from Jimmy's."

Fuck, Capone thought. "What about Jimmy's kid?"

"She yelled. For Tommy. To hide," Richard answered. "Have you. Heard anything?"

"I'll ask around. Me and Torrio, we'll see what we can find out," Al promised. He didn't fucking like Clara Frankenstein, but he really didn't fucking like this new idea that families were available for the taking. Jimmy Irish's wife was already dead, and now Clara had been taken from his house while she watched his kid? Fuck that. Al didn't even let himself imagine if it were Mae, or Malfalda, or God forbid Sonny taken from their home.

He'd burn all of Chicago down. Torrio wasn't there for Al to tell him, but Capone started thinking about who was going to get some questions asked of them.

Richard was standing in the hall. As soon as he heard Jimmy's car he went outside with his bag.

"You know. Where we have to. Go first," Richard said.

Jimmy swallowed, and nodded. He wasn't looking forward to it.

Red wine. Angela loved it, Clara drank it happily and paid for it later. Ah, though, to have had so much Angela was having to take her shoes off for her. How embarrassing. Now hands were unbuttoning the back of her blouse. Had she gotten sick? The blouse was pulled over her head.

Madame Jenet mocked her white bra and tap pants. She already knew she wanted Richard to touch her, to desire her, so she went to Blatt's for more sophisticated things and couldn't decide what to buy. Gillian was there, and whipped things on and off her body, like this. Clara hated it.

Does he like tawdry Gillian asked.

No, Clara thought. Richard doesn't like tawdry. It's why he doesn't understand our love of the Boardwalk. She was wearing the green step-in she bought that day, but the straps were being pushed from her shoulders. Was the lace torn again? Richard had accidentally ripped the lace one night, back at his place, when they could be loud (well, she could be loud) and not have to worry about putting pajamas on in case Tommy had a nightmare.

Wait, why was Tommy having nightmares? It felt like she was on a carousel, bits of her life flashing by like they were people standing in a crowd around the machine. Angela was dead, Clara thought, and a wave of pain slammed into her. Angela, dead.

"You gotta help me tell him," Jimmy had said and so they sat on the sofa and explained gently because Gillian was going to tell him Angela was in Paris and Gillian was his mother and Jimmy was his father and no, Clara thought, no they would not play games with Tommy's sanity. And so they told him and he cried and ran out the beach door but it was okay because Richard was there and instead of picking him up he had knelt down and showed Tommy a shell and that's what they did that afternoon while Jimmy had grabbed a bottle and cried in the living room and Clara felt like she was going to shatter.

"At least this one doesn't have lice," a woman's voice said. Who is that Clara thought, and tried to open her eyes but her mind still didn't seem capable of making her body cooperate with its wishes.

"Came around a little earlier, said her name was Harrow," another voice answered.

Yes, that's right. Clara Thompson Harrow, she thought. I ordered stationery.

"Delusional, is she?"

No, Clara thought. I'm not delusional, but I don't know why I'm so tired...

It was contrary to his nature, but Jimmy hung back. Clara was Richard's wife, he thought, he had to let Richard take the lead. Richard knocked loudly on the door, and they both saw the maid skittle away when she saw their face and Sleater come down the stairs.

"You can't be here," Sleater began.

"Clara's been. Kidnapped," Richard answered.

"Fuck," Sleater replied. "Come in, I'll get Mr. Thompson."

Nucky was closeted with his attorney Bill Fallon, preparing for the first day of trial.

"Mr. Thompson, Harrow and Darmody need to see you."

"Absolutely not," Nucky snapped.

"Someone's taken Clara," Owen answered, and to him it looked like Mr. Thompson aged ten years in that moment. He motioned for the other men to come into the study.

"How?" Nucky asked them.

"She went to the library with Tommy, came home, sent him upstairs to wash up, and started making lunch. Tommy heard a knock on the door and Clara talking to who the fuck ever it was, and then she screamed for Tommy to hide and then she just...screamed. Tommy hid under the bed. We don't know how long she'd been gone when we got home," Jimmy answered.

"And where were you two?"

"Nuck," Jimmy said simply, and cast his eyes at the attorney.

"Please. Help us anyway. You can. I'll do anything you ask," Richard pleaded. Clara, screaming. The Butcher shot Angela point blank, hung his own man from a meat hook and forced Jimmy to slit the man's throat. What could he do to Clara?

Really? Nucky thought. You'd leave Atlantic City, let Clara be? When she gets back, you'd let her return to being Clara Thompson, and you would return to whatever lonely hovel you crawled from?

"She's still my daughter," Nucky snapped. "Of course I'm going to do everything I can."

"We're gonna find her," Jimmy said, with a confidence he wished he felt.

Where was her kimono or pajamas? She didn't dare sleep naked because Tommy could come in at any minute, but she could feel her bare back pressing against the sheets. Gooseflesh was forming on her arms from the cold, and what was Richard doing? That...hurt.

No, not Richard. She felt the bite of metal. It felt like getting measured for her dutch cap. Were Margaret and she back in New York? Did she need a new one? Why couldn't she remember? She tried to lift her arms, but although they were now stretched at her side she still couldn't move them.

"Virgo ruptura, not virgo intacta," a man's voice said from between her knees. Clara tried closing her legs, but they too felt stuck, like she had stepped in cement. "Signs of recent intercourse. Cervix is low and firm, so probably not pregnant. Appears healthy."

What is happening to me, Clara thought. Am I at the doctor's? Am I sick?

With great effort she managed to move her fingers. Her rings were gone. Why would she take off her rings for a doctor's appointment?

Clara managed to make a sound, trying to get anyone's attention, trying to wake up.

"She's waking up," the man's voice said. "Prepare the hypodermic."

No, Clara thought, why am I here, why are you giving me a shot, I do not want this!

Then she felt the pinch as the needle sank into her arm and once more she plunged into darkness.

As usual, Mickey Doyle didn't have enough men guarding the warehouse and the ones who were on duty were used to taking their orders from Richard. The look on Richard's and Jimmy's faces didn't invite questions, and Jimmy and Richard slipped in without Doyle noticing.

The sound of Doyle's horrid giggle echoed throughout the mostly empty warehouse. At least, Jimmy thought, they were finally almost done with George Remus's liquor. Richard's focus was almost terrifying. Jimmy doubted that Richard noticed anything that wasn't directly related to his mission.

Doyle never saw them coming. Jimmy covered from the back, while Richard came in from the side like an avenging demon. He slammed Doyle into the wall and pinned him into the place with his forearm.

"Where. Is. My. Wife?" Richard growled out.

Doyle giggled. "Is this a joke?"

Richard moved his arm so it was pressing against Doyle's throat.

"Hey! Hey! Hey! I didn't even know you had a wife. Not my problem if you couldn't keep her."

"I don't. Have. Time for this," Richard said, pushing his arm further into Doyle's throat.

"And I don't even know who you are talking about?" Doyle whined.

Jimmy took his time lighting a cigarette. "Clara," he finally said.

Doyle looked over at Jimmy. "Clara?" he asked, and then realization dawned across his face. "Nucky's Clara? Princess Clara married Tin Face?"

Richard readjusted his grip and Doyle moaned in pain. "Hey, it ain't my fault if she came to her senses!"

"Someone. Took. Her from. Jimmy's house," Richard had to stop talking for a moment. "She was. Screaming."

"Thing is, Doyle, I figure the same person who killed my wife in my house probably snatched Clara from my house. And we all know who killed Angela. Your ole pal Munya."

"Jimmy I didn't have nothin' to do with that. Whatever Munya did I didn't know," Doyle pleaded.

"Sure," Jimmy said. "But I know for a fact that you know where he's holed up."

Nucky must've told him, Doyle reasoned. "If Nucky says it's okay," he answered.

Jimmy saw Richard's shoulders tense. He heard it, too. Nuck had acted yesterday like he had no idea who Manny Horvitz was, but now he was in charge of giving Doyle the okay to divulge the fucking Butcher's location.

It had just been a ploy, Jimmy thought. Nucky had just been playing him. There was no forgiveness. Yesterday, Jimmy had been willing to accept the idea that Nuck just wanted him to clean up his mess and march off to his death, but right now he felt differently.

"Clara is Nuck's daughter. You don't think he's doing everything he can to find out who has her, and doesn't expect all of us to do the same?" Jimmy said coldly.

"We are. Leaving. To find the Butcher. Now," Richard said and grabbed Doyle by the back of the shirt. Doyle was silent as Richard threw him into the backseat of the Ford.

It was cold, but Mommy had agreed to take them looking for shells. The wind whipped across her face, but Clara didn't care. She and Jimmy put their pail in their sand and dug through the shells.

Gillian was there. Clara ran up to hug her, but Gillian carefully stepped away from Clara's hug and Jimmy's, although she leaned down and kissed Jimmy's mouth. No sand on my coat, she'd cried, avoiding Jimmy's and Clara's hands.

Jimmy had fallen and cut his hands on the shells. Mommy was pulling the shell pieces out of his hand, but Clara kept looking for shells.

She saw the shell she wanted and got a little closer to the water's edge than Mommy said was okay. Leaning forward the shell was almost in her grasp when the wave knocked her off her feet. The water was so cold her muscles froze, and her coat was so heavy she couldn't turn herself back upright.

Mommy and Jimmy were so close but didn't see her struggling to keep her head up. Jimmy finally looked up and saw her and whispered to Mommy, who ran and scooped her up. Even then the cold was bad Clara couldn't feel her body and her teeth chattered so hard she bit her tongue.

It was that taste that brought her back. The iron taste of blood filled her mouth. Her body was still in the water, though, and was so cold all her muscles were cramping. Why was it dark? What was biting her neck? She could move her arms and legs, but only so far and then they banged into some sort of hard fabric.

It was so terribly cold, Clara thought. Where was Mommy?

No, hold it together, she told herself and felt the edges of panic setting in. Mother has been dead almost fifteen years. You aren't a little girl on the beach.

Think.

She could move her arms and legs. It felt like she was in a bathtub, almost. The fear hit her like a rogue wave. What was happening? Everything, since she stepped out of the kitchen to answer the door, was a mess in her mind, like tangled ribbons, but fear threaded through all of it.

The water was so cold it hurt. Clara heard footsteps and saw a slice of light as a door opened behind her.

"Hello?" She croaked out. "Please, please someone tell me what's happening!"

The person, Clara thought it was a woman, didn't speak. She bent down and suddenly the cold water was circling the drain.

"Why am I in a bathtub? Where's Richard? Does anyone know that Tommy is alone?" Warm water, almost a little too warm, began to fill the tub. "He's just a little boy, and his mother just died. He must be so scared." Her hands banged against the canvas cover.

It was a nightmare she couldn't wake up from. The woman never spoke. "Does my husband know I'm here? His name is Richard Harrow. We are living with my foster-brother, James Darmody, at his house on Ventor. My father is Nucky Thompson, he's the former treasurer of Atlantic County. You could contact any of them. Please, tell me where I am? Why are you doing this to me?"

The water turned off and the woman walked away.

"No, please!" Clara pleaded. "Please don't leave me!"

"I'll tell them you are agitated," the woman said and closed the door behind her.

Although she fought to stay awake, the warm water soon pulled her back down into unconsciousness. As the fog descended Clara tried to determine why she was so tired, why her head felt so heavy.

Soon she realized she was locked into a nightmare cycle. The warm water was left for a while, and then the woman would silently return and fill the tub with ice-cold water, which would shock Clara back awake.

During those times she tried to determine what was going on, she pleaded with the woman to help her. Her neck was raw from the canvas collar, her knees and hands were bruised from pushing on the canvas cover, and her tailbone ached from sitting on the enamel tub. And that was nothing compared to the pain and misery of the cold water. Even when the water was warm Clara was tense waiting on the inevitable cold. Her teeth would chatter so hard her tongue and cheeks were quickly covered in bite marks, her nipples hardened to the point of pain, and her muscles contracted terribly.

When the woman came in to fill the tub with cold water Clara had formed a plan. "Please, if you don't want to contact my family, contact my attorney, Leander Whitlock. He lives at 101 South Montgomery Avenue in Atlantic City. He'll help you get out of this, he will negotiate my release. Jimmy will pay. My father will pay. Please."

The woman didn't say anything, and when the cold water hit her Clara couldn't hold back a cry of pain.

It wasn't Jimmy making Doyle nervous. Tin face stared at him with zero expression, the gun pressed against his side. Had Nucky's spoiled princess really married this thing? Damn, rich girls did weird things but this took the cake.

"So what did Nucky say when you asked for his fair daughter's hand, hmm?" Doyle asked, wondering what the hell that must have been like.

"He was thrilled," Jimmy said before Richard could respond, "because Nuck knows what Richard will do to anyone who even thinks about harming one hair on Clara's head."

Doyle got the message.

"You sure this is the place?" Jimmy asked. "We don't have time for mistakes."

For once in his life, Doyle decided not to speak and simply nodded his head.

"You got one job, Doyle. Get him to open the door," Jimmy directed.

Richard and Jimmy carefully observed the entrances to the synagogue before they took their positions and allowed Doyle to approach the basement door.

"Munya! Mmmhaaa!" they heard Doyle say at the door, and slowly it opened.

Richard moved silently behind Doyle, pushing him out of the way so quickly that the drunk, stumbling Horvitz was against a support beam before he knew what was happening.

Jimmy tried to notice details, to control his rage, and keep his focus. The basement was sordid, smelling of body odor and dirty linen, the floor covered with empty whiskey bottles. A far cry, Jimmy thought, from the butcher shop which might've smelled of iron from spilled blood but was spotlessly clean.

"The funny man," Horvitz said with a bleary smile. "Boychik. What brings you to my humble abode?"

"Where. Is. My wife?" Richard growled into his ear.

"Well, the boychik's wife is by now six feet underground, no?"

"We'll get to that," Jimmy said darkly. "Where is Clara? Blonde bob, freckles. Someone snatched her from my house this afternoon."

"And this blonde shiksa is the funny man's wife?"

"Your daughter. Is an angel. Your wife. You love her. Even with. Her thick ankles. If we don't find. Clara. Safe and sound. My face. Will be the last thing. They see," Richard said, his voice lower and steadier than normal, his gaze never wavering from Horvitz's.

Horvitz took a deep breath. He had noted the difference between the two young men from Atlantic City the day they first walked into his butcher shop. In his dealings with Harrow and Darmody nothing had changed his opinion. Harrow was a man who lived up to his word. Manny knew his life was at an end; the best he could hope for now was to convince Harrow to spare his wife and daughter. "I had nothing to do with taking your wife, Mr. Harrow. I killed the boychik's wife, but he failed to heed my warnings. We have no bad blood between us."

"Mrs. Harrow is Nucky Thompson's only living kid," Mickey said from across the room.

"You married Nucky Thompson's daughter? Mr. Harrow, not only have I no wish to start a fight with you, but I have no desire to make an enemy of Nucky Thompson."

"You started. A fight. With me when you. Killed Angela Darmody. In her bedroom," Richard snarled back at him. "Am I. Supposed to believe you. That you had nothing to. Mmm. Do with Clara?"

"Look at how I live. I'm in hiding from you, from boychik, from Waxey Gordon. You think I could make it to Atlantic City, take your wife, and get back here alive? When it's clear I'm not going to live through the night?"

Richard and Jimmy looked at each other. Jimmy stepped forward. Richard stepped backward and took a gasping breath. He believed now that the butcher had nothing to do with taking Clara.

But that meant he had no idea who would have or why. Now the list grew to everyone they ever came in contact with. Or what if it was someone not connected to them? Richard remembered reading about the Villisca axe murders back in high school. No one knew why someone killed two parents and six children with an axe, or why one of the daughters appeared to have been violated. His heart clutched. What if someone had just seen Clara and wanted her? How could he find her if he didn't even know where to start looking?

He forced himself back into the moment. Jimmy was ordering Doyle to wrap the chains around the butcher, securing him to the pole while Jimmy slipped his trench knife from his boot.

Jimmy turned and looked back at Richard. Silently they agreed. The butcher had nothing to do with Clara.

Manny Horvitz still had to pay for Angela. For her fear. For her death. For every painting that would never be dreamed into existence. For every night Tommy cried for his mother.

The Butcher was a man who tried to live his life in such a way that his word was his bond. What he said, he did. As a passing headlight sliced through the basement window and gleamed off the metal in the boychik's hand he promised himself he wouldn't give Darmody the satisfaction of hearing his screams.

The true measure of a man, however, is taken in his worst moments. And in those moments, the Butcher's last, James Darmody proved Manny Horvitz was just another man whose greatest lies were to himself.

It was quite late at night before Legs, whom Charlie couldn't fucking stand, called and told Meyer that AR would meet with them at 11:30. Meyer insisted they both put on clean shirts before they went to AR's brownstone.

"Gentleman! What news was so vital that you must come to my house at this late hour?" Rothstein smiled his thanks as his butler set a cold glass of milk and a slice of Devil's Food Cake before him.

"Thompson's daughter, Clara, somebody grabbed her from Jimmy Darmody's house. She's been watching after his kid," Charlie said.

"The boy reports that Clara was screaming when taken. She apparently trained the boy to hide, and he did so," Meyer chimed in.

"Someone snatched Miss Thompson from James Darmody's house? The house where his wife was killed only a few weeks prior?" Rothstein asked.

"She ain't exactly Miss Thompson no more. She married Harrow," Charlie said.

Rothstein tapped his finger on his desktop. "Nucky's daughter married the point man of his enemy, moved into the enemy's home to take care of his motherless child, and has now been taken from that very house?"

He thought for a moment, then lifted the telephone receiver, and checked his list of numbers. "Operator, please get me ATLantic 4939 in Atlantic City. Yes, it is an emergency."

"Thompson residence," a lilting Irish voice said.

"Mrs. Schroeder, forgive me for the late hour…"

"Mr. Rothstein? I'm sure you wouldn't call at this time without good reason. Although it's Mrs. Thompson now."

Rothstein felt his eyebrows move up his face. "What wonderful news. Best wishes for a happy future. I was calling about the other bride in the family."

"Yes, Clara married her Mr. Harrow," Margaret said noncommittally.

"Are there any updates on the new Mrs. Harrow?"

"Well, it isn't the marriage Nucky would have wished for her, but Clara seems quite content."

Rothstein looked back at Charlie and Meyer with surprise. The new Mrs. Thompson had no idea her step-daughter was missing. How...unexpected.

"Well, certainly Carolyn and I send our best wishes to the Harrows as well. Is there any chance I could speak with Nucky briefly?"

Margaret paused for a moment. "Of course."

She walked to Nucky's study slowly, giving herself time to think. Mr. Rothstein was calling about Clara, but not about her marriage. But something pressing.

"Mr. Rothstein is on the telephone. I believe he wants to talk about Clara," she told her new husband, carefully watching his face.

"Well, there's no telling what trouble Clara has caused now," Nucky said evenly and motioned for Sleater to walk Margaret out of the room.

As soon as Owen closed the door and they walked a step away, Margaret pounced. "Why is Mr. Rothstein calling about Clara?"

Owen looked away. Mr. Thompson's reaction to the news that his daughter had been taken, taken screaming had been...unexpected. After Harrow and Darmody left Mr. Thompson had directed him to go to the Atlantic City Armory and pick something up. A small envelope from an officer Owen knew was on Mr. Thompson's payroll.

The envelope was closed but not sealed. Usually Owen would just let it be but it was not a usual day. He had watched Thompson marry the woman he, Owen, well he wasn't sure he loved Margaret, exactly, but he cared about her. And now Clara kidnapped and Thompson unbothered, all on the eve of Thompson's trial.

So Owen opened the envelope. He saw what it was, and was confused as to why Thompson had sent him that afternoon to pick them up. Lifting them up he became even more confused.

He was holding a replica of Richard Harrow's dog tags.

Back in New York Rothstein replaced the receiver on the hook and stared out the window. Nucky Thompson was rather a cold fish and a troublesome business partner, and yet Rothstein would lay a bet any day of the week that Thompson loved his daughter. However, he was completely unconcerned that his daughter was kidnapped. Not just quietly taken, but, according to her new husband, taken screaming from the home of the man she considered her brother.

The same man who had led a rebellion against Thompson's crown, who had ordered his death. Who had committed treason, and now had married off Thompson's princess to his own most loyal knight.

Rothstein swiveled back in the chair and regarded his errant pups. The shape of a plan began to form his mind.

"Gentleman, let's try something we haven't yet in 1921. Let's try you being honest with me. About Atlantic City. About James Darmody."

Charlie shot Meyer a nervous glance.

At some point, Clara forgot about everything except for the horridness of the cold. Even when the cold water was drained and warm water washed over her, her teeth chattered and her mind could only focus on the dread of what would happen when the cold water inevitably came back. There were no windows in the room, no light, no noise. No way for her to mark the time, no way know how long she'd endured it, no way to distract herself. Her skin was cracking which made the assault of the cold water even worse. Everything hurt. And then the door would open again, Clara would be blinded by the quick flash of the light, the woman's footsteps would echo around the chamber, the water would drain, the warm water would rush in. She would lay in it until her muscles partially unseized, although the cold seemed to have worked down to her bones and now never went away, and then the door would open, she would be blinded by the quick flash of light, the woman's footsteps would echo around the chamber, the now tepid water would drain, the cold water would rush in.

Finally, the door opened fully, and the light was turned on. Clara had to close her eyes against the onslaught of brightness. Before she did, she saw tiled walls and other bathtubs with bizarre covers on them. Some part of her brain recognized them the way she might have recognized a dragon or a mermaid. Something from a story which now appeared inexplicably in front of her. The water drained. There were two pairs of footsteps this time, she realized, and then she heard snaps being pulled undone and her neck was free. Hands reached down and got her to her feet, but she was shaking so badly she couldn't stand. Some sort of scratchy nightgown was pulled over her head and she was lifted into a rolling chair.

Ideas began to bloom in the recesses of her mind, but she couldn't string her observations together. In her current state, Clara was no longer even capable of curiosity about what was happening to her.

Back in Atlantic City Richard and Jimmy split up. Richard took a deep breath and knocked firmly on Chalky White's door.

"Harrow, what the fuck you doing knocking on my door and scaring my family at this hour?" Chalky said when he opened the door, his gun still in his hand.

"Mmm. My apologies, Mr. White. To your family. But my wife. Was taken."

Chalky blinked. When the hell did Harrow get married?

"Who you marry? When?"

Richard looked down at his feet and then back up. "Clara Thompson. A little over. Two weeks ago. Jimmy and I. Would be in your debt. Forever." Two weeks, Richard thought that he didn't deserve and now he'd allowed her to be hurt, to be taken.

"Nucky's Clara?" Chalky asked, shocked. Then he thought back to last year when Harrow had been sitting in Nucky's hallway staring straight into the drawing-room of the Ritz, his face as carefully blank as ever, but the corner of his mouth turned up. When Chalky stole a look into the drawing-room, he saw Clara Thompson sitting on the sofa, where Harrow could see her. She'd been talking to him, Chalky realized.

It made him think how clever he was to keep the men he did business with far away from his Maybelle. Of course, Maybelle had Lenore to look after her while Clara Thompson was motherless.

"I'll see about getting some information. We'll get your wife back," Chalky promised. The man looked heartbroken, and Chalky's own heart seized at the idea of Lenore or Maybelle being snatched from the porch of their home. "I married a princess. Lenore is a sight too fancy for a man like me, but we been happy for almost two decades now. Well, except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"Princesses don't make for cheap wives."

After Harrow drove off, Chalky considered. Why hadn't Nucky told him his daughter had gone missing? Didn't the man know he'd help find her? Ain't no man want their enemies to think their women and children were acceptable victims in their business dealings.

Something about this smelled fishier than the underside of the Steel Pier, Chalky decided.

The copper mansard roof gleamed in the early morning sunlight as Jimmy pulled up to the white brick house. Clara liked this house, he remembered, saying it felt like a home and not like a mausoleum. It reminded him of Clara's grandfather's house, which was probably why she liked it.

Whitlock's maid had obviously still been in bed when he started banging on the door, and it took a few minutes for Leander to come down the stairs, dressed in a robe and slippers.

"I wouldn't be here at this time if it wasn't important. Leander, yesterday, day before, you said something about Clara being happy with the money. What did you mean?"

Leander rubbed his eyes. "Clara's married."

"Whatever he has I know he'll share, but Richard doesn't have…"

Leander laughed a little. "I doubt your Mr. Harrow will be able to maintain Clara in the lifestyle her grandfather wanted for her. Jeffries left the bulk of his estate to Clara. The terms of the will gave Clara access to the money on her twenty-fifth birthday, or on the occasion of her marriage. Whichever came first."

Fuck, Jimmy thought. "Clara doesn't know. She has no idea. And someone snatched her off my porch yesterday afternoon, screaming. Someone has her. Richard is-he's going out of his mind with fear. He'd burn the city down to get her back. But Nuck, I don't think he's doing anything."

"Someone took Clara?" Leander repeated, and a picture started to form in his mind. "God damn Nucky Thompson.

"Nuck, he's been acting like a Victorian father in a melodrama over Richard and Clara. He doesn't even think that they, uh, engage in marital relations. Nuck is usually so even-keeled about these sorts of things, but he's been irrational about this."

"Because Clara chose the worst time from Thompson's perspective to get married. This is why Jeffries left two trustees to oversee Clara's inheritance. They both died," Leander did the math in his head, "back when you two were still in high school. Nucky used his power to get himself put on as trustee. Who would argue with him about it? But then no one had oversight over her money, no one apparently even made sure she knew of it."

Jimmy ran his hand through his hair and reached for his cigarettes. "Nuck's got money problems. He had a lot of cash coming in, but he used it all to buy land 'cause he just knew his road deal was going to go through and it was going to make him really rich. But then we took away the money from liquor and graft and…"

"And so the son of a bitch helped himself to the money Jeffries left Clara. Thompson never dreamed she'd up and marry Harrow in the middle of all of this." Leander shook his head. "Damn that Piney trash. Undoubtedly he's used her money and replaced it over the years, but this time she unknowingly caught him out."

Jimmy put his hand over his eyes. "I don't think it's just the money, but…"

"Nucky Thompson is the one who kidnapped Clara."

"Well, where the fuck does he have her?" Jimmy asked, his anger rising once more.

She was so cold it was almost unbearable, and by habit, tried to move her leg over to Richard's for warmth. Her leg was stuck, though. Why couldn't she move it? Her arms, as well, were immobilized and she was on her back. She hated sleeping on her back. It was all wrong, she thought. She should smell salty ocean air and Richard's musky rain scent, but instead she just smelled bleach. Instead of her Sea Island cotton pajamas, some sort of heavy gown covered her. And instead of the comfortable guest bed made up with Angela's percale sheets, she was on some thin cot with scratchy sheets.

The panic rose in her chest when she felt someone watching her. It was a struggle, but she managed to open her eyes. She was in a hospital, she realized. Why? Was she hurt?

"Daddy," she said, when her eyes resumed working well enough to make out her father's beige suit and red carnation boutonniere. "What's happening?" she croaked out, her mouth unbearably dry. "Where's Richard?" She tried to sit up, but realized her ankles and wrists were restrained. Leather cuffs were holding her down.

"First of all, Clara, you need to understand that everything that's happening is because of choices you made. And that playtime is over."

Her father stood and walked over to her, dropping something into her hand. The beige muslin cord was a familiar feeling under her hand. Her heart began pounding, and her fingers clumsily turned the object until the metal circle was turned upright in her hand. She could barely make out the engraving, but her heart knew what she was going to see before her eyes adjusted.

Richard Harrow, P.F.C.

She struggled again to sit up, to breathe, to break away but she was trapped on the bed.

"Daddy," she managed to wheeze out as the fear slammed into her. "Why?"

"Why do you think? He was killed days ago, Clara. You made a fool of yourself when you were told. That's why you are here. I had no choice but to commit you."

Author's Note: Let's be clear-Jimmy, Clara, and Richard all need therapy and psychiatric treatment. All three deal with varying degrees of PTSD and anxiety. Clara and Jimmy also have deep generational trauma to work through. But being placed in a mental institution in 1921 wasn't going to help Clara. And sadly, parents really did use mental insitutions as a way to punish and control what they considered wayward daughters. Or, simply, to retain control of a daughter's assets, which is part of why Nucky did this to Clara. He's also very much punishing her for choosing Jimmy and marrying Richard.

I'd love to know what you think!