Firefly - Coup de Grâce

From the journal of Anne Imelda Roberts

You may call it unlikely that a girl of my age and size might find herself out in wild country chasing her daddy’s killer with a cut-price ragtag band of rebels, and if you won’t take my word there’s always the sheriff’s report, should you care to read that kind of thing. My name is Anne Imelda

Roberts—Annie

to those who care to call me

‘friend’—and

I was eighteen years old when the events I describe here occurred. Eighteen years old, suddenly all on my own, unsure who I could count upon. Turns out friends can be found in unexpected places, and don’t always look the way you might expect. If there’s a lesson to this story, then perhaps that’s what I learned.

But that is starting at the end, and perhaps I should start at the beginning. Our family was an old one on Abel. Daddy’s granddaddy came here when the world was opening up, and made a tidy fortune, and none of us have squandered it, though my daddy’s pockets were deep when he saw folks in need. I have been left more than comfortable, and there are still many on Abel right now who cannot say that.

My daddy, Isaac Roberts, was Abel-born and Abel-bred, which counts. I don’t hold those few years away at the Core against him, and nor should you. On the contrary, the Core was where he met Mamma, Alicia, and if he hadn’t met Mamma, they wouldn’t have had me. I call that a blessing. Other folks have opinions of their own. There are some in Yell City right now who might say that my being born was a good thing, and others might say something to the contrary, but those are the kind of folks always looking to blame another for their bad fortune. I’ll say this now, and let me be plain: none of what happened over those few days was my fault, and if people expected me to behave any differently, they didn’t know my mamma and they certainly didn’t know my daddy.

Daddy was a good man, by which I mean he trusted people who were not worthy of his trust. I will never make that mistake, and I would say that the events of those few days have proven to me the wisdom of this. Mamma, when she was alive, used to say that Daddy was a fool to everyone and himself most of all. She was in no way a mean

woman—quite

the contrary, in fact, everyone always said she was like summer in the

mountains—but

I suspect that even she must surely have found Daddy a trial at times. Always taking on cases that wouldn’t bring in a penny, because of some sob story or other. A big heart, people said to me after he died, as if that’s enough to pay one’s way in the world, enough to protect you from those whose hearts have shriveled away to nothing.

Maybe I should start with the last few days of my daddy’s life, even if that comes painful to me. And to tell you about those days, I must make clear straight away that Daddy was, above all, a man of the law. He loved the law, by which I mean laws made by men and women, and seeing the right thing done was the centerpiece of his life. Well, the truth of this ’verse is that there ain’t no law but God’s law, and that truth isn’t always clear. In the end, what is clear is my daddy was not wise to put his trust in the law of mortals. In the end, we all stand before Our Heavenly Father, and it is by him that we are held account for all we have said and done in our days. What I will say, however, is that sometimes there’s no harm in giving His law a helping hand along the way, as I believe this tale of mine once told will show.

My daddy went to the Core to do his training, and when he came home to Abel (bringing Mamma), he set up in Yell City. At first folks were not sure what to make of

him—Abel-born,

yes, but sent off to the Core to do his studying, and coming back with a Core-born

wife—in

the early days, persuading people to let him represent them was a struggle. That changed when he defended a group of folks living in one of them tenements down near the space docks who were under threat of eviction. They didn’t have anything to their names, but Daddy took on the case anyway, not only did he stop their landlord from throwing them out on the street, he even got written into their lease that the building should be properly maintained, so the landlord couldn’t let the place fall to ruin and say they must leave on account of safety. Daddy

won—of

course he

won—and

his victory was a big deal in Yell City: changed how a few things were done round here (although Daddy would be the first to say ‘not enough’). The case changed everything for Daddy too. Word went round ordinary folk that this was a decent man who cared for those who found themselves in trouble through no fault of their own. Many’s the time that a fellow and his family, in trouble with the bank or the landlord, came to my daddy, and found themselves with a few weeks’ grace (and more often than not a good few credits). Daddy had a knack for finding loopholes and letting the light shine through.

So his practice was always

busy—if

not always

profitable— and

between his own fortune and the money Mamma brought with her from the Core, I daresay we did more than fine. By the time of Daddy’s death, Mamma was long gone. He and I rubbed along together very nicely: him busy with his legal practice, and me doing the books, running the house, and keeping an eye on his diary. So I knew, of course, about the case that was coming up. In the three weeks before my daddy died, it seemed as though every evening, right when Daddy and I settled down for some talk or a game or two of checkers, the bell would ring, and poor

Daddy—who

didn’t have a moment to himself all

day—would

haul himself up from his armchair and take himself off into his study for yet another late-night meeting. He was busier than ever in recent years, what with the drought happening and so many farms failing and folks in need of his help. And sometimes the folks that came weren’t so humble. That night, it was Monseigneur de Cecille (yes, we were honored by a visit by that great man). The Monseigneur came with two or three

others—rich

fellas, local

money—and

from what I heard (I would not stoop to listening at the door, although I did happen to pass along the corridor outside the study a coupla times), it was a jovial occasion. I heard Monseigneur’s deep booming laugh again and again. It was well after midnight when they left, stumbling out to their fancy hovercars, stinking of whisky, their drivers running out from our kitchen to cart them home. My daddy, looking at me hazily, said, Oh, Annie, I ain’t sure I been wise.

I can’t rightly tell you whether he simply meant the liquor or something else, but I knew the case was coming, and I guess knowing what I know now I should have seen that it was going to be big. A smallholder named Jacky

Colson—who

had lost his farm to the

bank—was

trying to win his land back. Exactly the kinda case my daddy took on: small chance of success and even smaller chance of remuneration. I won the lottery when it came to inheritance, Annie, he would say to me. A fellow’s gotta do some good with everything they’ve been given.

Still, even knowing what I knew, I didn’t connect the case at first with what happened, not least because it was more than a month before the hearings were due to start. The day of my daddy’s death, so far as I was concerned, was an ordinary

day— particularly

pleasant for autumn, but not so grueling as that summer had been. I decided I might as well go for a walk that afternoon. Daddy and I had a cheerful breakfast, and I sent him on his way to his office, me telling him not to give away all our money, him telling me not to get into trouble. He kissed the top of my head, and off he went, whistling.

That was my last sight of him.

After he left, I took myself to my desk, where I wrote to Mamma’s sister back on Londinium, giving her the news from Abel. After Mamma died, my aunt suggested I should go and live with her, and at first Daddy was of a mind to send me, saying how much he’d learned out there, and how much I might benefit from the experience, but I was having none of that. Leave Abel? Daddy? Never. Plenty to keep me busy. Daddy’s practice, for one, not to mention helping more and more around town. Many folks were in a bad way, farms failing, forcing them into the city, but there weren’t enough jobs or places to live, and plenty were struggling. Lending a hand there was taking up more and more of my time: writing and asking the great and good of the city for money; helping out some charitable people that were getting clothes and other necessaries out to these people. My days were busier than ever, which speaks to the need on Abel at that time.

Mid-morning, I went for a walk around the park on the corner, which was looking sorry these days. Another hot summer had left the flowerbeds parched dry, and there hadn’t been anywhere near enough rain as yet this autumn. Place still dry as a bone, and I saw a couple of tents at one end too. That worried me. Last couple of winters had been particularly hard, snow even here in our part of the county. Those folks didn’t want to be outdoors and freezin’ when the snows came. Things weren’t right on Abel at that time, that was for sure, although I didn’t know how wrong they were, nor how close to home everything would soon be. I got home to find the hall full of a dozen sacks of clothes and other essentials from the collection drive I’d organized the previous week. My afternoon would be busy with Maisie (that’s the maid), sortin’ through what we’d got to pass along to folks in need. I had just finished lunch when I heard the bell ring. Maisie came back from the door and said, Miss Annie, there’s two fellas from the sheriff’s office here to see you.

She brought ’em

in—them

holdin’ their hats in front of them, the younger one not quite meeting my eye. I guess I knew then what they was there to tell me. You get a feeling about that kind of thing. I thought at first there must have been an accident, but it was worse than that. Much, much worse. Daddy’d been

shot—in

broad daylight, on Main Street, on the very steps of his office, and these men weren’t here to take me to the hospital. They were there to take me to the morgue.

* * *

Over a dozen people saw my daddy’s murder, happening as it did in broad daylight on Main Street, and half-a-dozen of them witnesses could name his killer: Young Bill Fincher. Some

folks— my

daddy was

one—would

say you shouldn’t speak ill of others, but in the case of the young man who murdered Daddy, I believe I’ll say whatever I choose, and I say now, and this comes from first-hand experience of the fellow, that he was nothing more than a piece of junk, something you would find on the sole of your shoe and hold your nose while you wiped it away. There are words I could use to describe that boy, but I shall not lower myself to his level by saying them. Even now, I can hear Daddy resting his hand upon my good arm, and saying, Annie, love, that ain’t fair. You must think of where he came from, and you must think of his troubles. Life ain’t been easy for that young man. To that I say, I too have had my share of griefs and losses, but none of them have turned me into junk.

Do you see what I mean about Daddy? Bill Fincher was the kind of fellow would come to him with a sob story to which Daddy would listen; indeed he’d saved Bill Fincher from the lock-up three or four times already, spoken for him in court, and all without earning a peck of platinum for his efforts. And this is how that man repaid him. I wouldn’t say Young Bill Fincher was born bad, for that’s for the Lord to judge and the Lord alone, but I feel no compunction in saying that he was born weak. That in itself doesn’t mean a child cannot be saved, for with the right guidance anyone can make something good of themselves. But it’s plain to all to see that there was no strong nor firm hand to guide Bill Fincher onto the right path. Quite the contrary, before he’d reached his teens he was known throughout the area as a thief and a rustler, and now he was eighteen with a murder under his belt. That boy was lost before he started.

Young Bill Fincher arrived at my daddy’s office a little before noon, most likely already the worse for wear since he had, by several separate accounts, been in Malley’s across the street since it opened. From what I understand (since there was no appointment with Fincher booked in Daddy’s diary, and Daddy had not mentioned to me that he would be seeing him), he had come to speak to Daddy about a matter concerning his mamma’s farm, which, like many such homesteads on Abel those days, was in trouble on account of the drought and those hard frosts we’d been getting. That, at least, was what he told Sadie Ryan, my daddy’s secretary, although I quickly had my own suspicions about the truth of this. Poor Sadie, whom I hold in no way responsible for what happened next, saw the state of Fincher and the nasty gleam in his eye (I said he was junk), and knocked on my daddy’s door.

I tried to warn him, she told me later. "But you know your

daddy—Mister

Roberts, I mean. ‘Send him in,’ he said. ‘I’m here to help.’"

So in the assassin went, by invitation, and we do not know in detail what transpired between them in the room, since the door was closed, and Daddy had thickened the glass on the door to make sure that his clients had privacy. After about ten

minutes— certainly

not

more—the

door swung open, and Fincher came stumbling out, his voice all slurred, and shouting, It ain’t good enough! It ain’t nowhere near good enough! I have friends, you know! Friends in high places! Sadie said that Daddy was calm, unruffled, saying to Fincher, You keep a cool head, son. I know this ain’t the news you wanted to hear, but we’ll find a way. Fincher, stormed out of the office, Daddy following

behind—and

the next thing Sadie heard was a pistol being fired. Young Bill Fincher didn’t hold back. Daddy must have known for a split second that he was shot, and that he weren’t going to make it, but from what I understand (and folks ain’t got no reason to be kind to me) he went quick and weren’t in much pain. Fincher was off like a bullet. I do not know if anyone tried to apprehend him, and I suspect not. Sadie, running out onto the street, held my daddy while he died. I guess that counts as a blessing.

When those two young men from the sheriff’s office came to tell me what had happened, and who had done the deed, I absented myself to visit the bathroom, where I cried and cried and cried. I loved my daddy so much, and I knew that, prickly as I could be, he loved me exactly as I was, because I was his girl, his and Mamma’s. I thought how losing him was like losing her all over again, all those memories of her that he had as a young woman. It was like Bill Fincher had stolen them both.

Hate isn’t good for you, but I hated that boy, and it was only the fact that we knew who the killer was that brought me any relief. I thought, at least we’ll soon have that fellow behind bars, and after that I’ll see him hang. If only that had been the case. Those that got in the way of justice have only themselves to blame for everything that came next. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, but a little earthly help jogging things along doesn’t do any harm.

But Fincher weren’t behind bars, not that day, nor the next, nor the one after, nor the one after that, and nor was he by the time it came for my daddy to be buried.

That was a hard day, hardest of my life so far, even counting when Mamma died, because I was small at the time of the accident that killed her, and because Daddy was there.

Now I was on my own.

I have not been much of a one for travelling, but I dare say that there is no place better in the ’verse than this good world of Abel on a clear autumn morning. This morning was glorious, showing proper respect for Daddy. I wouldn’t believe that even Earth-That-Was could have put on as pretty a display of color. The trees decked out in their best, like soldiers in dress uniform or ladies in their finery. Old Man Sun himself out, tipping his hat like he does in the children’s rhyme, so warm one might even call it unseasonable. I did not see any wildflowers, but we cannot ask for everything. This, then, was the day we buried my

daddy—Isaac

Roberts, father, husband, and

lawman—a

bright morning at the start of the fall. A fine day for a fine

man—this

is what I always tell myself. I must admit it ain’t much in the way of consolation, but you have to take what you can in this ’verse. They say that Earth-That-Was turned dry as dust and bare as bone before the end. Each day and night I thank the Lord Almighty I was born on Abel.

Six white horses pulled the carriage carrying my daddy’s coffin, all wearing silver harnesses, each animal plumed with two black feathers. I was in the carriage behind, with Monseigneur and Madame de Cecille. Outside our house, the road was quiet, but when we came down onto Main Street, I saw that each side of the street was

lined—three

deep—with

people, ordinary people, from across the divides in Yell City. There had been bad blood between the city folks and the incomers, the farmer folk, in recent months, but all were united that day in wanting to pay their respects to my daddy, Isaac Roberts.

There were faces I recognized, folks whom Daddy had helped, who had next to nothing, and yet had put on their finest. Oh, but how threadbare were some of them suits of clothes, and how thin and pinched were some of their faces. Something was wrong on Abel, something was out of balance, and my daddy being murdered was the latest proof of that. Anyone with their eyes open and half a brain in their head could look down Main Street and see the signs: boarded-up buildings, paint cracking and peeling from the heat of the summer, graffiti everywhere. Folks weren’t happy, and they were finding a way to have their say.

I saw too how some people were trying to paper over the cracks. Every single one of them buildings on Main Street, even the ones that had been shuttered and their businesses gone to the wall, was decked out in white flowers. I will say here and now (and I am not simply saying this because of what came after), that I was not particularly happy at the sight of such expense. Seemed a mighty great extravagance to me, but Monseigneur and Madame, whom my father called his good old friends, insisted that a man such as Daddy deserved recognition, and before I knew it, the arrangements were out of my hands and the money spent. Well, it was their money to do with as they saw fit, although I myself might have put more in the way of those poor people lining the streets. It ain’t a thing to be proud of, on a world like ours, to see folks struggling. And yet still they came out, to pay respects to Daddy. I saw men take off and hold their hats before them as our cortege went by; I saw women curtsy. And I saw tears, yes, heavens above, I saw plenty of tears that day, and on the faces of hard men, who’d seen bad things done in the war and after, whom I don’t think are much in the habit of weeping. I would say there weren’t a man in the whole of Yell City as loved as well as my daddy, for all the good it did for him.

Madame de Cecille was right beside me that day, and her grief: good Lord! You mighta thought it was her own father she was burying! I don’t know how many lacy white handkerchiefs that woman used that day, but I have never owned so many in my life. I saw tears spot the satin of her dress, and got to thinking how much that would cost to clean. I