Pastor Gruber chuckled again. “Like as not, lad, like as not. But you or your friends should always be thinking about what could happen from the choices you make. Sometimes people make choices that could make other people die later on.”
The pastor gave a beatific smile in the middle of his white beard.
“But enough of that, lad.” He looked out the window. “That gaggle of noisy townsmen is gone, and there’s still daylight left. You’d best get about your business. But come by and see this old pastor some time, eh?”
“I will,” Simon promised.
He headed out the door and down the street, off to his next stop on his rounds. But in the back of his mind, now, the word consequences was rolling around.
* * *
Ciclope entered his room, to find Pietro waiting for him. “Now what?” he asked.
“I’ve got the last of the tools I need,” the thief said, holding up a drill and large bit. “But I need you to hold the wood while the bit turns.”
Ciclope reached over to the shelf on the wall, tore a piece of bread off the end of the loaf that sat there, and crammed it in his mouth. “What you want me to do?” he mumbled around the stale crust.
“Sit here,” Pietro pointed to a scrap of blanket on the floor. Once he did that, Ciclope was handed a piece of tree limb about as wide as the palm of his hand and as long as his forearm. “Hold that up, and keep it from moving.”
Ciclope rested the butt end of the log on the floor. “What is the blanket for?” He wrapped his hands around the log.
“To catch the shavings, so we don’t have to try to sweep them up.”
Pietro set the bit point in the center of the other end of the log, leaned on the top of the drill, and began turning the handle. The bit turned twice, then the cutting edge sliced into the wood, and the log tried to turn with it.
“Wait!” Ciclope snapped as the bark tore into his hands. Pietro stopped, and Ciclope pointed at the table. “Hand me my gloves.”
Once he had the leather cushioning his hands, Ciclope wrapped them around the log again. “Okay, now try it.”
He had to squeeze hard at first to hold the log still, but after a few turns the bit was well seated and cutting smoothly, and he was able to relax his grip a bit.
Ciclope waited a few more turns. The bit was not making great progress into the wood. “Going to take a while at this rate.”
“Si.”
“How many do you think we need?”
“At least three,” Pietro grunted out.
“Three!”
“Si. Maybe four.”
“Will the drill last that long?”
Pietro sniffed. “Stole a file, too, so I can keep it sharp.”
Ciclope looked at the little pile of curled shavings that was beginning to form on the blanket at the bottom of the log. The bit was making progress into the log, now that it was through the driest part of the exterior. “It’s still going to take a long time. You’ll only be able to do so much before you give out.”
“Si.” Pietro stopped “Fifty passes. Your turn.”
“My turn? Who says it’s my turn?”
“The money we’ll get when it’s done,” Pietro said.
Ciclope couldn’t deny that. He let go of the log, clambered to his feet, and took the drill from Pietro. The thief pulled on his own gloves, squatted on the blanket and grabbed the log.
“Go.”
Ciclope started turning the drill. It was harder than it looked. He leaned into it.
“One,” Pietro counted.
Chapter 45
Byron Chieske looked up from the report he was reading.
“Hey, Karl. What’s up?”
Detective Sergeant Honister ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ve reached the end of my rope, Lieutenant, or my ladder, or whatever that up-time figure of speech is. I’ve been trying to find some trace of the money that was stolen in that robbery where Schiffer’s accountant was killed.”
“Had any luck?” Byron pushed back in his chair and steepled his fingers.
“No.”
Byron looked over to see his partner Gotthilf watching and listening from his desk.
“Who have you been talking to?”
Honister looked frustrated. “I have spoken to every merchant, every money changer, every burgher in the city who handles money. Everyone denies seeing any trace of large amounts of USE bills.”
“Hmm.” Byron glanced at Gotthilf out of the corner of his eye, and saw his partner making writing motions in the air. He nodded.
“You’re talking to the wrong folks, Karl.”
“What?” Honister looked surprised. “Wouldn’t these be the very people who would most likely know about this?”