The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1)

THE BIG MITT
a novel
Erik Rivenes

Copyright © 2014 by Erik Rivenes. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews – without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-9773471-2-4

Published by
Trampoose Press
P.O. Box 587
Beaverton, OR 97075

Cover design by James T. Egan, Bookfly Design
Book design by
MC Writing
Services

The
BIG
MITT

a novel

ERIK RIVENES

“The people who were left to govern the city hated above all things strict laws. They were the loafers, saloon keepers, gamblers, criminals, and the thriftless poor of all nationalities. Resenting the sobriety of a staid, industrious community, and having no Irish to boss them, they delighted to follow the jovial pioneer doctor, Albert Alonzo Ames.”

LINCOLN
STEFFENS
THE
SHAME
OF
MINNEAPOLIS
M
C
CLURE
’
S
MAGAZINE
,
JANUARY
1903

CHAPTER 1

S
HE AWOKE WITH A WILD SCREAM
locked tight in her throat, and fought to choke it back with short, hard bursts of breath. Her body froze with fear, the terrible fear of not knowing.

Where was she?

She tried to shake out the fogginess, to clarify her surroundings. Her face was damp and she tasted the saltiness of sweat on her lips. She moved her arm to wipe it off, but realized with horror that her hands were tied to a bed, and she was half-sitting, half-lying against the headboard. Then she remembered where she was, and the realization of her situation forced a deep, reflexive sob to shudder through her body.

The room was bone-gnawingly cold, and already her dream of her warm, childhood feather bed was fading into a haze. But the taste of it still lingered, both delicious and bitter.

After a few minutes of desperate tears, her head was clearer. She kicked off her blanket and looked at the greasy, stained sheet she sat on. Her sunless legs stuck out from underneath her gown, nastily bruised with shades of blue and black.

Her surroundings were sparse. There was only the bed, a bureau, a mirror and a chair. It was dark, except for the bright-gray light of a winter sky, which shimmered tauntingly through a little window. Squinting through the frosted glass, she could barely make out a snow-dusted church spire jutting over the building next door. The church bells were ringing, and she wondered why. Then she heard the sound of gunfire outside, and it made her flinch. New Year’s Eve, she remembered. Perhaps this is why she was alone. Men were too busy celebrating at parties and saloons to come looking for her. But she knew they would still come, once the excitement of the midnight bells had passed, once they had drunkenly congratulated each other on making it to the first day of 1901.

The cords around her wrists weren’t completely tight, but not loose enough to slip her hands through, either. She remembered now that she had tried to free herself before she fell asleep, and the bindings had eaten her wrists raw. She tried again anyway, this time with a frantic urgency. The pain made her grit her teeth, tears again streaming down her cheeks, but she couldn’t get her hands loose. The cords were tied to two posts of a rough wooden headboard, cracked with old paint. She wrapped her hands around the cords, pulled, and felt the headboard move forward and the mattress shift under her body. Again, she pulled, and she felt the strain against the frame. A flash of hope leaped inside her, and she thanked God that the bed was cheap and poorly made.

She heaved her body forward, bringing the headboard almost to her back. It splintered with a loud crack and the top of the frame fell against the wall and onto the floor with a thud. She lurched backward and then forward, finally coming to a jolting halt with the headboard lying on top of her. She took a deep breath and slid her legs to the side of the mattress. Someone must have heard me fall, she thought, panicked. She had to free herself soon, because they would definitely come, and if she were found in this position, obviously attempting escape, she would be brutally punished. That, she was certain of.

Her body was small, and she was thin, but she wiped away the panic with a deep breath, feeling the strength return to her shivering muscles. She glanced around the room, her mind racing as she searched for something to help free her.

The mirror. She thought that if she could find the physical strength to pull the bed frame forward with her, she might be able to break the glass, pick up a shard, and somehow cut the cord with her tied hand. It might work, but it would take time, and she suspected that was in short supply. She tried to stand up and drag the headboard too, but she discovered with a groan that the far end was still connected to the frame. She was still trapped, lying between the bed’s boards with her feet splayed out on the floor, pinned under the heavy wood.

Then she heard a floorboard creak. It came from just outside, in the hall. She saw the flicker of the gaslight under the crack of the door, and then a shadow choked the light. She struggled feverishly with the frame, bending her thin arms back until her muscles seared with pain. With a great burst of furious force, she tried to twist the headboard’s stuck side loose, and she felt it give way a little. But she just couldn’t get enough leverage with her hands behind her.

Whoever was behind the door seemed to have heard the noise. The knob turned, and she stifled a cry. Perhaps she could kick him. That’s what she would do. Surprise him with a smash to the groin and leave him quivering on the floor. But what then? She would still be stuck to this bed. Too much noise, too little time, and after whatever beating and rape she would certainly endure, she would be bound much more tightly from now on.

The door pushed open, spilling light onto the floor. She squinted and braced her body, but heard a whispered voice instead of the shouts and curses she feared.

“What happened? What happened?” Ollie asked, disbelief on his face. “Did a customer do that to you?”

A warm wash of relief enveloped her when she saw his slender frame in front of her. His familiar mop of curly brown hair sat dirty and uncombed atop his head, and he smelled as usual of wood smoke and penny cologne. Ollie was the only male in the house with a sliver of kindness in him. She wrote this off to youth, for he was barely fifteen years old. It was probably just a matter of time before his gentle inclinations twisted into something more horrible.

“You have to help me, Ollie, please.” She shook her hands to show him her predicament.

He wiped his forehead with a soiled square of cloth from his pocket, and glanced back into the hall. “Jesus. I’d be slit from ear to ear if I helped you.”

“Emil is going to do worse to me when he finds out,” she said. “Is he downstairs now?”

Ollie shook his head, eyes large.

“What about Higgins and Pock? Are they downstairs? Are they anywhere in this house?”

Again, he shook his head. His ear was fat and swollen, no doubt from a recent beating. He looked positively frightened, she thought. She could understand that.

“Well, Ollie, that’s good. Do you have a knife? You’ve got to cut me loose, and quickly.”

“They’re out, but they’ll be back soon. Went to shoot at the moon and have a drink at Carroll’s, they said. Celebrate the New Year.”

“Do you have a knife?” she repeated.

He nodded, and pulled a small pen blade from his pocket. He moved forward and held it to the cord on her right wrist. She was trembling; afraid she might shake so much he would slip the blade into her hand. He stopped, however, and stared intently into her eyes. He swallowed hard with his next words. “I should just go get Emil. He’d probably give me a dollar for that. A whole damn dollar. I know he won’t hurt you. I heard him say you’re his favorite.”

Her heart dropped, but she sucked her breath in and spoke in her softest, most soothing voice. “You know what he will do to me, right? You think this is bad? He’ll be all liquored up when he comes back, Ollie. And when he’s drunk he’s a monster. Use your imagination and then multiply it a hundred times. You’ve got to free me.” She paused, trying to figure out how to articulate how grave her situation was. Then she remembered.

“You know about captivity yourself. The man you’ve told me about.”

The words hit him hard. Ollie swayed back as if being struck. He froze at some dark memory, and a moment later it snapped. His face melted with sympathy, and she could see he finally understood.

“Yeah, he’ll be drunk all right, and hopping mad too.”

With a look of resigned determination and the deft motion of an expert thief he cut the cord off her right wrist, and then jumped nimbly over her body to free the left. She touched her injured wrists instinctively, and Ollie’s eyes widened when he saw the gore. She reached out, touching his cheek, and he smiled. “Thank you, Ollie,” she said, and then pulled down her gown, suddenly aware of her bare, brutalized legs.

“Awww, it was nothin’,” he said, looking down quickly at his feet, momentarily shy. “What do we do now?”

“We’ve got to free the other girls. Get them out. Now’s our chance.”