(Loud squealing noise)
SMARMSLUT QUEEN: Hello-hello? Oh, finally. We're
broadcasting to you from inside the Writing
Headquarters closet.
SMARMSLUT ADEPT: Boy good thing you had this old ham
radio!
SMARMSLUT MASTER: Well, my brother got in on the '70s
CB craze...
QUEEN: Will you two be quiet! OK, our Writer has
apparently gotten loose, but she's no match for our
intelligence, and we want to assure you that we will
be getting out of here soon.
MASTER: She better not be getting into my Ricky Martin
CDs!
ADEPT: Isn't he a little young for you?
QUEEN: Pipe down already! Anyway, to prove we're still
in control around here, we're sending out the next
part of our story.
ADEPT: Hey, I can hear her out there! She's-she's
turning on the stereo!
QUEEN: You mean we're stuck in here, forced to listen
to what she's listening to?
MASTER: What is it?
ADEPT: It's-it's-Wayne Newton!!
ALL THREE: AAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!
(Just kidding, Wayne fans! ;) )
*****************
Ashes of the Mind, pt 20
by the Smarm Sluts
Maude quietly prepared herself as she rode towards
the asylum, composing herself for the work ahead. She
had dressed sedately, as a criminal on the run would,
and was going through in her mind the scenario to be
played out with grim determination.
As she neared the building, her thoughts turned once
more to her son trapped within its walls. She had
every confidence that he was still alive, Ezra was
quite a bright boy after all. But if any harm had
befallen him, his tormentors would feel her wrath.
And the six men whose influence had driven her son to
this foolish action would not be spared either...
The asylum loomed ahead in the twilight darkness,
and she sat up straighter on the horse. The charade
was about to begin. behind her, she knew, was Judge
Travis, a squad of federal troops, Chris Larabee and
his men, and a small corps of doctors and nurses to
tend to the inmates. And possibly Ezra, though pray
God it would not be necessary.
She rode up to the large iron gate, her eyes
studying it closely. A formidable barrier, to be
sure, and one Chris's men would find great difficulty
in breaching. But they would not be coming in this
way.
A guard approached her as she rode up. "Stop!"
She reined in, and turned on her most charming
smile. "Evenin', darlin'. I'm lookin' for a relative
of mine who might be stayin' here-a Matthew Lee?"
She watched with satisfaction as the guard reacted
with recognition and unlocked the gate; it certainly
paid to be acquainted with the less reputable members
of society, no matter what other folks said.
"This way," the guard huffed after relocking the
gate. Maude fought back a slight sense of panic as
she heard the gate lock behind her; she was trapped
now if they discovered her ruse. But she would not be
discovered.
She remained silent as they secured her horse and
led her up the large stone steps. Maude could not
suppress a swallow as the huge, dark building seemed
to swallow them up as they neared the front door.
"Charmin' architecture," she muttered, taking in the
bleak, plain walls and barred windows. The guard
grunted.
"Most folks what come here don't see th'outside
much," he replied flatly, unlocking the front door.
They entered the front hallway, and Maude looked
sharply around as she was led down towards the end. A
few guards about, not a large force; most of them must
be sleeping, or in town. In the quiet she could hear
the despairing cries of those inmates who had not
found solace in sleep, but being quite skilled in
disregarding what she chose to, she ignored them.
Finally they came to a large wooden door, a light
streaming from beneath it. The guard knocked on it.
"What?" demanded a tired voice on the other side.
"Lady here needs to see you, sir," was the reply.
"She's lookin' for Lee."
There was a pause, the sound of a key twisting
smoothly in the lock, and the door opened to reveal a
stoutly built, very handsome dark-haired man who
regarded Maude with veiled delight.
"Well," he said smoothly, smiling, "we get very few
females through our doors."
Maude laughed. "I'm amazed that someone as
good-lookin' as you isn't drawin' 'em in like bees to
honey," she said.
The man gave a small smile and extended his hand.
"Silas Branford at your service, ma'am."
"Julia Jackson," Maude replied cordially, shaking
his hand with perfect ease. "I do hope you can help
me, Mr. Branford, the Yankees are after me even as we
speak."
"I'm willin' to open my doors to any sister of the
South in need," Branford replied firmly. He threw a
look at the guard. "Back to your post, Howe."
The guard nodded and left as Branford invited Maude
into his office with a sweep of his arm. She swept in
with a rustle.
"I'm most grateful, sir," she said as she settled
onto one of the fine upholstered chairs. "I was an
accomplice in a bank robbery, and if they found me
with the amount of money I'm carryin', well-I just
couldn't explain it!"
Branford's black eyes shone keenly as he uncorked
his crystal decanter of brandy. "A large sum, ma'am?"
She snorted. "Hardly-only a few thousand. Play
money compared to what I have salted away where the
Yankees can't get it."
"Indeed," Branford smiled, presenting her with a
small glass of brandy. "And what part of our fair
South are you from?"
"Oh, all over," was the laughing reply. "One in my
business must travel frequently, you know. I was a spy
for the Confederacy durin' the war."
"Really?" Branford seemed intrigued as he sat
behind the desk. "So you must hate the Yankees as
well."
"With every fiber of my being, Mr. Branford," Maude
said fervently, narrowing her eyes for emphasis. "But
I succeeded in crippling them as much as I could, so I
may rest easy with at least that satisfaction."
Branford nodded. "Well done, Mrs. Jackson."
She smiled. "Oh," she said smoothly, "it's Miss,
sir."
His smile widened.
"Now," she said in businesslike tones, setting down
her untouched glass, "what sort of arrangements may I
make here? I fear I must lay low for at least a week."
Branford rubbed his chin. "Well, I can't put you in
with our other guests-they are all foul men and quite
brutish. I must insist you stay at my quarters."
Maude smiled, trying to conceal the fact that her
skin was crawling. "You're too kind."
"Anything for a lady," he said politely, drawing out
his pocket-watch and checking it. "I can finish this
up in the morning, so I will be happy to escort you
there now."
Maude's breath caught in her throat as she noticed
the watch in his smooth hands. It was Ezra's watch;
she'd know it anywhere, she had given it to him on his
twentieth birthday. She swallowed, trying to compose
herself.
"My," she forced herself to say, "what a beautiful
watch."
Branford smiled, apparently pleased that his taste
had made an impression. "Yes, it's quite a fine
piece. Got it off a scalawag lawman last week who
came in here pretendin' to be an inspector."
"Indeed!" Maude exclaimed, trying to sound outraged,
although she was dying to learn more about what had
happened to Ezra. "The very nerve!"
"Yes," Branford chuckled, eying the watch with
satisfaction. "Don't worry, though, he won't be
bothering us. I won't upset your constitution by
sayin' what we're doin' to the scoundrel, but-well,
let's just say he's learned his lesson."
Maude maintained her veneer, but inside she was
seething. So they did have her son, and were no doubt
torturing him. if only she could just shoot the
bastard now...
"Now look here, isn't this curious?" Branford was
calmly saying, pointing to some inscriptions made on
the inside of the lid. Maude didn't have to look at
it to know what it was: a coded address and account
number of the bank where she and Ezra had stashed
emergency funds. It was a small amount, but enough to
help in times of real trouble; she had inscribed it
there so Ezra would always have the information if he
needed it, but noone else could access it. That
proved it-it was Ezra's watch.
"My, my," she choked out with a laugh.
"How...interestin'."
"Yes," Branford sighed, looking at the scratchings
once more before closing the watch and slipping it
back in his pocket. "I hoped I'd be able to decipher
the code once we cleaned the watch, but it still
puzzles me."
Maude stared at him. "Cleaned?"
Branford looked at her. "Yes, but fortunately the
traitor's blood washed right off. Didn't hurt the
casing at all."
She swallowed her fury. "How fortunate indeed."
Branford leaned over and opened his desk. "Now
about your payment..."
Maude pursed her lips; Larabee and his men be
damned, she could not stay in this room another
minute. They'd had plenty of time to get themselves
placed. She let out a loud groan and put one delicate
hand to her forehead.
Branford looked up, startled. "Are you ill, Miss
Jackson?"
"Yes," she gasped, fanning herself with her hand,
her breath coming in gulps, "it's...the result of my
ordeal, I'm afraid. I simply must get some fresh air."
The warden shut his desk, locked it and stood
quickly. "Come, I'll escort you outside. I would
trust none of my guards to properly escort a fine lady
such as yourself."
She tried to force a pained smile. "You are too
kind, really. Is there somewhere quiet we can go-out
back, perhaps?"
her host smiled. "Certainly, my dear. Certainly."
Branford showed her out, locking the office door
behind him, and they moved down the hallway. Maude
did not fail to notice the hand gently placed behind
her back, or the lascivious light in Branford's eyes.
She smiled inwardly; this was almost going to be fun.
They stepped out a small door, and Maude saw that
they were behind the asylum. Dusk had fallen, rapidly
darkening into night. A low wall ran along the
perimeter, guarded by a rusty iron gate. A guard was
patrolling the grounds; when he saw Branford, he
advanced.
"Go inside, O'Leary," Branford barked sternly. The
guard jumped a little but obeyed, leaving them alone.
"You have trained your men well, Mr. Branford,"
Maude said smoothly as they walked towards the gate.
Branford smiled. "Fear generates a great deal of
respect."
They paused by the gate, and Maude turned an adoring
expression to the warden. "How could anyone fear such
beautiful eyes?"
Her companion laughed, then said, "We were
discussing arrangements for your payment."
"Of course," Maude said, opening her bag. "I have
$600-$150 of it's in gold-"
But Branford put his hand over the bag, closing it.
"I was thinking perhaps-something different."
She looked up at him with a knowing expression,
despite the fact that she felt like vomiting at the
very thought.
"I was hoping you might be," she purred, pressing
him up against the low wall.
"I see we think alike in matters other than the
Yankees," he said in a soft, pleased voice. "My work
here affords me little release as you might imagine.
Oh, there are the female inmates, but they are hardly
what you would call proper companions for a man of my
standing."
Maude smiled. "You needn't bother with the
moonlight talk, Mr. Branford. I am a woman of normal
appetites, and my life lately has also been-shall we
say, rather boring."
They fell silent for a moment, and Branford studied
her.
"So do we have a deal, Miss Jackson?"
Maude's eyes flickered, and she relaxed.
"I believe everything here is just as I desired, Mr.
Branford," she announced.
"Splendid," Branford replied, but before he said
another word he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel
pressed against the back of his neck.
"Make one sound," said a voice as cold as the
steel,"and I'll blow your throat out."
Hands quickly grabbed the warden and dragged him
roughly over the wall; a gag was thrust into his mouth
and bound there, and his wrists and ankles bound. By
the time he was able to see clearly, he found himself
looking into the deadly green eyes of a black-clad
blonde man who crouched before him. Behind this man
stood five other men, one of whom Branford recognized
as Standish's assistant. And in the gathering
darkness beyond stood a small division of troops, all
armed.
Footsteps approached him, and he strained his head
up to see Maude glaring down at him. She eyed him
viciously for a moment, then kicked dust into his
face.
"No respectable daughter of the South would ever
touch a beast like you," she hissed. She raised one
hand, and Branford realized that she had somehow
lifted his pocket-watch. "And I'll have my son's
watch back, thank you." She looked at Chris. "He's
all yours, Mr. Larabee. Pray don't be merciful just
because I'm here. I'd like to disembowel him, myself."
With that she moved off to the rear, escorted by one
of the soldiers.
Branford watched her go in amazement, until Chris
grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head around
to face him. In the dim torchlight, Chris's
expression was murderous.
"I heard you ain't a nice man," he whispered through
gritted teeth, tightening his grip on the man's thick
black hair. "Also heard you got one of my men in
there. He better still be alive, or you're gonna find
out we ain't nice either."
The gate was pried open; the commander looked at his
troops and drew his pistol.
"As orderly as you can, men," he said. "Don't hurt
the inmates, keep them as calm as possible. Chris,
your men can go in now, we'll be behind you."
"Right," Chris snarled, and pushed Branford away.
The men trooped past him, one left to guard Branford
while the rest entered the asylum through the
unguarded back door.