Benjamin Thacker

From the CaliStar Gazette - Sunday Edition, May 26, 1760
HUSBAND ARRESTED IN GRUESOME DOUBLE HOMICIDE
THE WARDS -- Police have arrested the husband of Laura Lafrenius, one of the victims of last week's brutal slaying, in connection with her murder.

Martin Lafrenius, 34, was arrested early yesterday morning at his home. Residents near the scene said the altercation led to shouting and a struggle, with Mr. Lafrenius being subdued by two constables.

Martin's common law wife, age 29, was found murdered last week after an apparent 'execution-style' killing that left her and one male victim dead. Police have thus far declined to release the male victim's identity, citing both his family's desire for privacy and the "sensitive nature" of their impending case, but a Wards Precinct spokesman said they are confident Mr. Lafrenius is responsible based off evidence recovered from the scene. He also dismissed earlier, unconfirmed reports of a third body being removed from the site, calling them "completely unsubstantiated" and "without merit".

Neighbors say that the couple had recently fallen on hard times after Mr. Lafrenius was unable to find work, which had led to friction within their marriage. "I heard them fighting a lot," said one, who asked to remain anonymous. "Lots of yelling, mostly from him. I never thought he'd do anything like this, though."

The CCPD say this is not the first time Mr. Lafrenius has found himself on the wrong side of the law. He was arrested six months ago for his participation in a small riot which left three officers injured, sparked from a protest over the shooting of an unarmed elven man. He was able to make bail, and charges against him were later dropped.

Mr. Lafrenius has released a statement maintaining his innocence in the murder of his wife, claiming that he has been "singled out" for his outspoken criticism of CCPD policy in the Wards.

Calidor, 1751

The revolver was unimpressive as guns went. It was small. The cylinder and trigger guard looked too large for the rest of it, and its skinny wooden handle was at least three times longer than its stubby barrel. It looked comically ineffectual. In spite of all that, Ben felt a little thrill run through him when he picked it up. He turned it one way, then the other, examining both sides. Then he laid it back down atop the ratty patch of quilt. "I don't think this is a good idea," he said. He didn't look at the person he was talking to, the one sitting on the other side of the quilt. He already knew she'd be wearing a scowl.

"It's a great idea," Susanne shot back, and the annoyance in her tone all but confirmed the scowl. "Here, look." She snatched up the gun, pointing at a small button on its frame. "You press this to load it." She demonstrated, making the cylinder swing out. Ben could see it was empty, but there was a collection of .32 caliber bullets strewn across the quilt.

"S'not what I meant. Knowing how to load it won't make this a good idea." He finally dared a look at her. She was still scowling, but it was directed at the weapon now; she was trying to snap the cylinder back into place with a flick of the wrist and it wasn't cooperating. She'd dolled herself up as part of the plan she concocted. Years on the street had left her skinnier than she should be, but she was growing out of an awkward phase and into undeniable good looks: a heart-shaped face framed by russet hair, full lips made to look fuller still by the lipstick, chartreuse eyes that were a shockingly vivid counterpoint to her eyeshadow. It occured to Ben, not for the first time, that he was really starting to like looking at her. Especially when she didn't notice. "Where'd you learn all this shit about guns?"

"Margaret showed me." Margaret was older, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and had given Susanne the gun. She was also the closest thing Susanne had to family. Ben didn't know their full history, but he knew they'd known each other for at least a few years before he'd entered the picture; maybe even since before Margaret became a working girl. He didn't think Marg liked him very much, but she tolerated him. He was big for his age, and that helped dissuade some of the other street kids from getting ideas about Susanne. He suspected that Susanne was aware of this as well, and that it was the main reason she had befriended him in the first place. He still liked to think that their friendship had become genuine over the past ten months.

He'd had an easier time of it than Suse, at least. He'd only been homeless for a little over a year, ever since his Uncle David up in the Trades had died. David had been fond of hearty food and drink, and it had caught up with him. Ben had found him facedown in the foyer one morning, dressed to the nines and wearing his raincoat. If his heart had lasted another five minutes, he would have collapsed in the bustling street instead; he might have gotten help fast enough to survive. Ben felt guilty, sometimes, like maybe he should have heard his uncle's dying gasps and come to help. The two of them weren't particularly close, but Ben owed him at least that much. He'd taken the boy in after the... accident. Their relationship had been one borne of duty rather than affection, and it had never blossomed into genuine warmth. Ben understood why, even if somewhat subconciously: he was a living, breathing reminder of what had happened, and he looked a lot like the man who had killed David's niece. It wasn't fair to hold that against Ben since that niece was his mother, but the world wasn't fair. He'd been given ample evidence of that.

Still, his uncle had kept him clothed and fed. David had ran his own business, hand-copying legal documents and writing correspondence for people who couldn't read or write themselves; he'd made sure Ben didn't become one of those. He hadn't felt that the boy's sunday school lessons were entirely adequate, and his own were exhausting by comparison. It had taken a lot of his uncle's time and effort. It had caused problems. David was close friends with a man named Ethan, one who was much younger than he was. Ben knew Ethan had resented his presence; he'd overheard enough hushed arguments to gather that much. Ethan had wanted the two older men to spend more time together, as they had before Ben arrived. He wanted to stay in the house. David hadn't thought it appropriate. David, on the other hand, had wanted Ethan to become Ben's godfather; there was literally no one else left in the boy's life, and David was pushing sixty. This hadn't sat well with Ethan, obviously, but he'd eventually let himself be browbeaten into compliance. Ben wasn't exactly thrilled by the prospect either, but he had hoped it was only a formality.

Then David had died, and they'd found out just how shockingly poor he'd been doing. The man had often lamented the advent of modern technology and the effect it was having upon his bottom line, typewriters in particular. He had otherwise been extremely secretive about his finances, even from Ethan; another source of friction in their - in Ben's opinion - strangely intimate friendship. It turned out David had good reason for secrecy; his estate had been teetering on the edge of insolvency. When he died without an heir, it was the bank that stepped in to take his property. And Ethan, upon discovering the only thing left to him in the will was a fifteen year old whom he didn't particularly like, decided to wash his hands of the whole affair. He'd given Ben a twenty dollar bill along with his well-wishes, and that was that. Ben officially became a vagrant. Susanne had since assured him it was better than the alternative, which was being sent away to a Home. She'd run away from one of those. She said there were bad people there and left it at that. Ben got the feeling she didn't want to explain more, so he hadn't pressed.

"How'd you get her to give you that, anyway?" Ben asked, gesturing to the firearm.

"I told her I needed a way to protect myself when you're not around."

He felt a swell of pride at that. "Where'd she get it?"

"I don't know. Didn't ask. Here, you try it." She'd finally snapped the cylinder back into place, and she thrust the gun toward Ben. He eyed it uncertainly, so she thrust it out even further. He sighed and took the revolver from her. Then he thumbed the release button, making the cylinder swing out with a click. "See? It's easy," Susanne said, then slid around to his side of the quilt, sitting so close to him that their hips touched. "Then you cock it by going like this..." She guided his thumb to the hammer.

"I know that. I'm not stupid, Suse." He didn't really feel the disdain he was trying so hard to inflect; he was too distracted by how soft and warm her thigh felt through the dress, and how smooth her hands were.

"What's the problem, then?" She smirked at him. "You scared?"

Ben snorted in response. "Yeah, you aren't?"

That gave her pause. She nodded after a couple of seconds, a rare admission of fallibility. "A little bit. But what else are we gonna do? Do you want to sleep in the rain again? Keep hoping for fat cops in the market, or eat out of trash cans?" They were familiar with all three by then. Getting by wasn't always pretty; it involved a lot of begging, a lot of stealing, and a lot of running... both from the law and from people who were bigger or stronger or just plain meaner than you; people who had some reason to want a teen with no family and no one to come looking for him. That reason was never good. "Look, it'll be safe," she said. "Safe enough," she corrected herself a moment later. "Marg goes hookin' in that part of town a lot. It's just right around the corner from the Sea Gate... there's not many coppers."

Ben frowned. "It's the Trade Quarter. 'Not many coppers' in the Trades is still more than we ever see down here."

"Maybe. But we'll only be there for a little bit, right? We just need to get one guy. You don't think I can lure one in quick?" She leaned into him, staring at him with those queerly bright green eyes, puckering her lips and blowing fish-kisses. "You don't think I'm pretty enough?" Ben felt his cheeks getting hot and looked away, flustered. She looked pretty, yes; though that wasn't the only word he'd use for it. She'd 'borrowed' some clothing from Marg's tiny one-room flat, clothes that were meant to make men think about more than just how pretty she was.

As for her plan, she had good reason to be desperate. Marg had let them rest at her place from time to time, whenever she wasn't 'seeing clients', but that had recently come to an abrupt halt; she'd told them she wasn't allowed to anymore, and that they needed to find someplace else to stay. Someplace else had become alleys like the one they currently inhabited, and whatever doorways they could sleep in without being chased off. There were halfway houses and shelters for people like them, but they were almost always full. That and Susanne had a deep and abiding distrust of sleeping around strangers, especially older ones. It seemed related to her time in the Home.

"Not just coppers I'm worried about," Ben said. He'd seen Marg turn up with extra foundation caked over a bruise or a black eye more than once. The man Susanne caught in her trap might have a temper. A bad one.

"That's why I've got you. And why you'll have this." Her hands wrapped around his, making him cradle the revolver. "We just gotta do it this once, just until we get somethin' else figured out. Marg pulled the rug out from under us, that's the only reason we're doin' this."

He stared at her, his brow furrowed, and she stared back. He was the one to relent. "Alright," he said, the word coming out as part of a resigned sigh. Susanne grinned, then leaned in to plant a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. In that moment she might have convinced him to die for her.

***

The walk to the Trade Quarter had been largely uneventful. They hadn't drawn attention in the docks; neither bedraggled young men nor brazenly painted hussies were a particularly rare sight there. The worst had been passing through the Sea Gate and its trusty garrison of police, but even they hadn't shown much interest. One of the younger deputies had whistled an appreciative cat-call that earned him a glare from both Ben and the officer in charge, but they were otherwise ignored. After that they turned right onto Duan Road, then stayed course for several blocks. It wasn't long until the truth of Susanne's words was made manifest. The buildings lining the street were becoming steadily more ramshackle, the sight of blue jackets more and more rare; being replaced by fast women with loose morals and more than a few gigolos to boot. The sex workers strutted like peacocks, displaying garish clothing or lack thereof, dyed hair, piercings... whatever minor advantage might set them apart from their fellows, might make them unique enough to tantalize a blue-collar man's imagination, or maybe even a vaunted clerk. By now the sun had set and the clientele were starting to filter into the scene as well; punters come from work to crane their necks, filling their eyes (and sometimes their hands) with the flesh being peddled there. Susanne had led them to a less trafficked area at the end of the street, one where they wouldn't be as closely observed. Then she'd crossed over to the opposite side of the lane. "Time to go fishing," she'd said, with a playful grin that hadn't reached her eyes. Now Ben was sitting at the base of a sickly, dying tree, keeping an eye on her and hoping he was doing a passable job at looking inconspicuous. The gun was tucked into the back of his waistband. The metal felt cool against his skin, but it didn't do anything to calm his nerves.

Susanne hadn't attracted any gentleman callers yet, and he was quite alright with that. Now that they were actually here, he found himself hoping more than ever that they'd go back to the docks emptyhanded. Rooting in the trash for food was unpleasant, but it wasn't that dangerous, either; not unless you ate something that had gone to rot. That was still a preferable kind of danger to this. His eyes swept up and down the street, settling on a slightly overweight man standing on his side of the road. The fellow was looking at Susanne, his face indecisive. He was decently dressed and looked clean; he definitely wasn't used to going hungry. Middle-class type. A promising target, no doubt, but Ben was trying to will him away. Don't do it, he thought. Plenty of fish in the sea. Jog on.

The man looked on the cusp of doing just that, but then he changed his mind. He stepped down into the gutter, crossing the road at a brisk pace, beelining toward Susanne on the other side.

God damn it. Fuck.

Ben's eyes bored a hole in his back as he stepped up to Susanne and began to speak. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, laughed at something he said. He went on, and she bit her bottom lip. It made Ben's stomach roil, but it relaxed somewhat when her eyes flitted over to seek his; to make sure he was still there and watching over her. The man was saying something else now, gesturing at the mouth of the alleyway behind her. Ben narrowed his eyes and reached toward the small of his back, waiting for her response...

... and then his field of vision was suddenly obscured by a pair of breasts so enormous that they threateaned to pop the seams of their bustierre.

"Hullo, luv," their owner said in a dulcet tone. Her breath smelled like brandy and halitosis. "D'ya like what ya see?"

Ben blinked and looked up at her face. The woman was past her prime, but her cherry-red lips were still split wide in her best come-hither smile, her glassy eyes only slightly unfocused. He could see a bit of her lipstick had rubbed off on a yellow tooth. "Ten bucks and I'll bring m'girls out for a propa look. Throw in anotha fiver, and I'll let ya play wiv 'em."

"Uh." It was the only response Ben could muster. He leaned to the side, trying to get a look around her, but the woman swayed with him; those mammoth teats blocking his view of Susanne and her mark.

"Beatrice!" another voice called out, and a second prostitute wobbled up to join the first. She was taller and thinner, with greasy hair and a nest of blackheads passing for a nose. She looked Ben up and down. "What're ye boverin' thiss'un for?" she asked her companion. "Barely old enough to shave, 'e is!" He might have bristled at that under ordinary circumstances, but he was far more concerned with whatever was happening across the street.

"I have to go," he said, and started to rise. The two women had him penned in against the tree trunk.

"Well he's gotta learn somewhere, don't he?" The first whore continued on as though Ben hadn't spoke. "Whaddya say, young fella? Ye want a leg up on becomin' a man? Ye wanna get my legs up?" She reached out to touch his shoulder. "Don't waste your first on some bar wench; you want a lady who knows a thing or two."

Tall & Skinny barked a laugh. "If you're a lady then I'm the empress of Saderia, you old tart!"

Ben was tall enough that he could see over the woman's shoulder once he stood. He looked across the way and saw, with no small measure of alarm, that Suse and the man were now nowhere in sight. "Sorry, but I'm n-"

"Shut yer head," Beatrice snapped at the other woman. "Go getcha own john, you're scarin' moine away!"

"John?!" Skinny guffawed even harder. "You're high as a kite, B. Lookit 'ow dirty 'e is. I bet he in't got five dimes to 'is name. Thiss'un's a street rat for sure."

Beatrice leaned in to squint at Ben and then her her smile turned to a sneer, pretense evaporating as fast as mid morning dew. "Is that true, boy? Are you some kinda guttersnipe?" She sounded indignant; as though he had accosted her and not the other way around.

"Get out of the way, you ugly bitch!" Ben had lost patience. He pushed around the woman's side, then broke into a jog as he crossed the street, his hand dipping back to touch the revolver as he moved. He heard the whore voice one final, aggrieved squawk as he ducked into the alleyway, but he didn't bother looking back.

The alley was much darker than the street, and it reeked of moldering garbage and emptied chamberpots. He stopped long enough to pull the gun out, checking that it was loaded. Then he edged forward. He'd only moved maybe twenty paces when he heard voices ahead of him; one feminine and noticeably distressed, the other low and threatening. He cursed under his breath and picked up his pace, simultaneously praying that Suse was alright, cursing her stupid plan, then praying again that he wouldn't trip and shoot himself in the gloom.

Susanne was sitting in the dirt when Ben rounded the corner, leaning back on her palms as though she'd tripped and fallen backward. The man was standing over her, his trousers pulled down below his flabby ass. "Are you fuckin' daft, girl?" he asked. "Put it in your mouth!"

Suse looked past him and saw Benjamin standing there. The frightened purse of her lips turned to a wide grin. "Nah, guy. I don't think I will."

"Wh-" The stranger was turning, having heard Ben's approach, but he froze when a barrel jammed into the back of his head and a hammer clicked.

"Yeah," Susanne said, "you know what that sound means dontcha, asshole?" She pushed herself to her feet, looking at Ben. "What the hell took you so long?" Ben just shook his head in response. The girl huffed, then looked back to the stranger. "Reach into your pocket and get your wallet out. Slow-like." She grimaced. "And pull your pants up, too. Do that first."

The man made himself decent, then passed over his wallet. Susanne accepted it with that same shit-eating grin, then pointed into a corner with her free hand. "Go stand there. And don't try nothin' stupid now, else my man here's gonna make a mess."

Ben's body was already awash with endorphins; when he heard her say that, he felt like he was going to pass out. She'd pried open the billfold and moved to Ben's side as she counted through it. He heard her gasp, and cast a distracted glance her way. "What?" he asked.

"There's almost three hundred bucks in here."

"What?"

Susanne opened the wallet even wider, turning it so Ben could see the twenties lining it. The former owner was glaring at them, his jaw set tight.

"Well," Susanne said, "thanks for ya business, guy. Maybe didn't turn out the way you wanted it to, but it was good for me." She laughed, and tugged on Ben's arm. "C'mon, let's go." Ben walked backward a few steps, keeping the gun trained on their victim. He'd whirled around and was about to follow her out when the man spoke up.

"Enjoy that money, kid. You messed up. You and your whore girlfriend."

Ben stopped to look over his shoulder. Suse did too, but she kept tugging on his wrist. The man was still glaring at them, eyes narrowed with the naked contempt that every urchin was familiar with. Ben had seen that look on a hundred different faces now; on men and women, cops and dockworkers, young and old, it made no difference. The look was universal. It was the face of someone who thought they were better than you. It reminded him of unpleasant memories, of the rage, despair, and fear he'd become so well acquainted with over the past year; that omnipresent trifecta of emotions that never ever went away - the calling card of the disenfranchised. He was sick to fucking death of seeing that face.

Something welled up inside him, something dark and angry and imperious. You have a gun, it said. He doesn't get to look at you like that; not today.

He was pulling away from Susanne and moving back toward the man before he knew he was going to do it; a passenger in his own body. His hand was pointing the revolver at the man's face. "What did you say?"

The fight had bled out of the stranger as quickly as it appeared. "Look, I didn't mean nothin'. Just.. take the money and go, yeah?"

"I wanna know what you just said to me." A steeliness had stolen into his voice that he hadn't know he possessed. That cold fury was still rising, threatening to rage out of control. He liked the feeling.

The stranger's eyes moved between Ben's face and the .32. "I di-"

"Tell me what you said."

He swallowed with an audible click. "I said you messed up."

"You said somethin else, too. You called her something." Ben thumbed to Susanne, who was watching the exchange in silence. "What did you call her?"

The man was starting to look scared again, now. Ben liked that, too, because he knew he was its artist. He'd created it. "I, uh, I... I shouldn't have called her that," the man stammered. "I'm sorry. You got my money."

"Yeah; now I want more than that. Get on your knees."

"What?"

"Get on your knees."

"Ben?" Susanne finally spoke, and there was a note of concern in her voice. The man's eyes looked past Ben, toward her, and Ben shook the gun in his face.

"Don't look at her," Ben spit out. "She can't help you. You don't fucking look at her, you look at me, you understand?" He could feel blood thrumming in his ears, hear his own heartbeat hammering away in them. His mouth was dry.

"Alright, alright; take it easy. I'll do it." The man lowered himself to the ground, and the gun tracked him. His knees popped along the way, making him wince, and Ben was struck by how pathetic he looked; gut sagging halfway down to his knees, hairline receded halfway up his head, his terrified, piggy little eyes. It might have evoked pity in some, but it only made Ben angrier. He waggled the barrel in front of the man's face again.

"Put it in your mouth," Ben said.

"Wh-what?"

"Ben?" Susanne again. Ben ignored her.

"Are you fuckin' daft, chum?" Ben asked the kneeler. "Put it in your mouth."

"Oh, God." The man looked like he was about to vomit. His eyes flicked between Ben's and the gun. He whimpered and opened his mouth. His lips recoiled as if burnt when they touched the metal barrel, but they closed around it.

"You can do better," Ben said. "Were you gonna settle for the tip with her? Get it all in there."

The man slid his head forward until his bottom lip was nearly touching the trigger guard; making the barrel disappear into his mouth. He was whimpering constantly now, his gaze fixed on the cylinder and the bullets clearly visible within it.

Ben was acutely aware of the power he held over this stranger's life; almost drunk with it. With one squeeze, those beady eyes would close forever. His finger felt heavy.

"You can't kill him," Susanne said.

Ben turned his head just enough to look at her, and saw that her eyes were practically on fire; wide and fervent. "You can't kill him," she repeated, "but you can hurt him."

She smiled.

Ben smiled back.

Then he yanked the revolver from the man's mouth, and brought the grip down hard on the bridge of his nose. There was a crack, blood burst from his nostrils. The man screamed and fell onto his side.

Ben kicked him in his fat, hanging belly. The impact wasn't impressive enough, so he kicked him again, then a third time. The fourth one connected with the man's solar plexus, and his screaming terminated with a loud whooshing sound. That pissed Ben off too, for some reason; so the next kick hit the man in the mouth.

A window slammed open somewhere above them. "Oi, I told you whores t- oi! What the feck! What are you doin down there?! Somebody help!"

"Come on!" Susanne hollered. She grabbed hold of his wrist again and tugged. Ben resisted long enough to kick the man in the head one last time. Then he turned to follow her. They ran hard through the twisting alley, hand in hand. At some point Ben did trip, skidding hard on his chest, but he barely noticed it through the adrenaline. Suse barked a laugh and helped him to his feet so they could run some more.

They were both laughing when they found an exit from the alley. By the time they reached the Sea Gate, they sounded like loons.

***

A fraction of the money got them both hot meals and hotter baths at the nearest shelter. It also got them their own private room. The owner had initially claimed there was no vacancy, but cash made for a great persuader. That night, Susanne told him there was no reason for him to sleep on the floor. They'd slept next to each other plenty of times outside of beds, she argued, and Ben couldn't refute her rationale. It felt like a logical next step. And when they couldn't sleep and she decided to show him some of the other things you could do in a bed, that felt like a natural progression, too. He had less than no idea what he was doing, but she didn't seem to mind. She was surprisingly patient, and, as it turned out, a good teacher.

He didn't think to ask how much of it she'd learned from Marg.


***