Author's Note (posted 3.3.22): 

Hey there, Chapelites! How are we all? How long has it been, huh??? It probably seems like I had deserted Harper's prequel story, and truth be told, I probably had, but I've been trying to find the motivation to write recently and writing Harper again seems to be the kick I needed to get back into it. At least, I hope so. 

Please do feel free to re-read the prequel story so far, but if you want a quick catch-up, here goes: 

 The story to date is that (human) Harper is working for the Irish-American Gustin gang in Prohibition-time Boston, having worked his way up from a street-rat kid to a trusted member of Frank Wallace's gang. After getting into deep trouble with their rivals, the Italians from the North End of town, headed up by Joseph Lombardi, discovering his hot and heavy fling with Italian, Lucille Cerone has resulted in her becoming pregnant with his child, and his much-despised mother, Martha Cain, blackmailing him for money, Harper thinks his day couldn't get any worse - that is until the mysterious and clearly deadly, Dr. Benjamin Garrick turns up at the speakeasy bar, The Sportlight. 

Happy Reading, my Chapelites! I've missed you all! 

'You're a long way from home, Doc.'

My voice sounds off, like I'm hearing it from a distance, small and weak and muffled. I haven't moved an inch since he approached, but my muscles scream as if I've just run the length of the Southie shore. How can standing stone-still hurt so much?

Doctor Benjamin Garrick doesn't move either but looks strangely at ease. How can that be? How can a British doctor, with his crisp accent and expensive threads, look so fucking relaxed standing in a Boston gang-run speakeasy of all places? How can he look more at ease here than I'm feeling right now?

'I often think home is such a nebulous concept,' he replies, his gaze casually sweeping around the Sportlight. 'Home does not have to be confined to your place of origin. Home cannot always be defined by accent or appearance. Home is transient. A constantly shifting state of mind. Home can be a person. The sound of the oncoming tide at night. The touch of another.' His gaze comes to rest on me again. 'A beating heart.'

My already-wavering grip on my resolve judders. My heart thumps, a turbulent rush of drums that resounds right up into my skull. I clear my throat. It burns and I hate doing it, but I know if I don't my voice will dissolve into nothing, and I can't be nothing in front of this man. Hell, I can't just be nothing in front of any man, but something tells me I need to be more in front of Doctor Benjamin Garrick.

'That's quite a way of putting it. You sure you're a doctor and not a poet?'

The Doctor smiles. Again, it's full of warmth and no hint of menace lurks there, but I feel threatened anyway. Strangers don't get to come in here and just fucking smile at me for no reason. The ones that smile are the snakes. They're the ones you gotta watch, because there's always something behind a smile like that. Always.

'I wish I could say that I was, but sadly I write nothing but a journal. I am something of a reader though. I am never calmer than when residing within the pages of a book. Dickens is a particular favorite of mine. Do you read, Mr. Cain?'

'Read? I ain't got no time to read...' I stop. He said my name. I never told him my name. 'I asked you before if you knew me and you introduced yourself like we never met until just now. So, you wanna tell me how you know my name before I throw you the fuck out of here?'

There's that look again. That spark. It's like a fire igniting behind his eyes, and I don't know whether he's getting off on my threat to kick his ass out onto the street or the fact he knows he's gotten under my skin, but I see it for what it is. I see it because I've felt it myself a hundred times over. How many times have I looked into someone's eyes and felt that rush of exhilaration right before the sting of a fist? How many times have I looked into someone's eyes and just fucking goaded them? Provocation is like a high for me. The promise of a reaction. That's what I love. A reaction. It makes me feel alive to light the fuse.

It seems to me that a doctor of all people shouldn't be getting off on lighting the fuse. He shouldn't be relishing the danger. You only relish it if you don't give a shit about what happens to you or if you live without fear. And he should be afraid. He should, but he isn't. Not one little bit.

'My apologies,' he says. 'I have arrived here uninvited and unannounced. A strange man with a strange accent. One who knows of you, yet you do not know of him. Your suspicions are understandable, but I can assure you that my intentions are entirely without malice or threat. I talked just now of home, and frankly speaking, home for me is wherever my business takes me. In this moment, my business brings me here, to Boston and to you, Mr. Cain.'

I laugh then. I can't help it. It's like this day just wants to fucking torment me. It's like dawn broke and the day said, we're gonna get this fucker today. Take him right to the edge. Lucille. Kitty. Martha. And now this prick who thinks he can come in here and talk in fucking riddles, with his stupid asshole accent.

I walk round the bar, even though everything screams at me not to turn my back on him, and I fake a casual amble round to the other side and grab another bottle, pouring myself a large measure. I relish the burn on my tongue as I swallow.

I pour another as I talk, barely looking at him. 'You know, I remember my father telling me about some British guy he met once. A priest. Came over here with his snooty-as-fuck accent, looking down his nose at my old man and his Church. Reckoned he wanted to give him some pointers about his sermons. Like anyone in Boston is going to give two fucks about some lame-assed Brit who thinks he's better than us when he can't even say the word tomato right.' I do look at him then. If he recognizes the challenge, he seems unfazed by it.

'Ah, yes, the preacher's son,' he says, nodding. 'I had heard of your religious beginnings. An interesting turn of events that you end up here.' He gestures to our surroundings. 'Many young men would follow their father into the learnings of the Church and instead you became...'

'Everything he's not.' I take another shot of whiskey and dead-eye him. 'And I'm glad for it too. Now, you gonna tell me how you know my name, or do I need to slam this glass into your skull until you do?'

'Does not everyone in the southside know the name of Harper Cain?'

'You ain't from the southside,' I snarl. Fuck this prick. Fuck him and his accent and his fancy clothes. Fuck him and how he makes me feel. Fuck my beating heart that just won't shut up.

'No, I am not,' he says.

Anyone else would decide at this point. Fight or flight. Pull a knife or run. That's how things work round here. You rile a man – you rile me – and you make that decision. There ain't no other options. Yet this guy doesn't look like he's gonna run, and he sure as Hell doesn't look like he's going to slam my head into the counter, even though I'd bet everything I had that he could do it with ease.

'Forgive me, Mr. Cain, I realize that coming here has put you at a disadvantage, which was not my intention. I know of you, but you do not know of me, although I have resided in Boston for some months now.'

I raise a brow. 'A British Doctor hanging around the southside and I haven't heard of it until now? Now I know you're full of shit. Pardon me, Doc, but the likes of you would stick out like a sore fucking thumb in these parts and I would have heard of you a long time ago. So, why don't you just tell me what's really happening here, huh? Did that greasy skunk Lombardi send you? Is that it? Because if it is, then I'll send you back to him with your balls in your hand after I cut them right off.'

'Lombardi,' he muses, stepping away from the bar and ignoring my threat completely. He walks towards the nearest table, looking around again and I get the sense his eyes don't miss a damn thing. Every darkened corner. Every cobweb that haunts the rafters. 'The Italian. Of course. No, Mr. Cain, I am not a Lombardi stooge. I am here entirely of my own accord. And the likes of me, as you say, are only noticed when I wish to be noticed. This is why I have been able to reside here for months without so much as a ripple of my presence. This is why I have been able to watch and wait and learn.'

'Learn what exactly? My name? Who I am?'

Who the fuck is this guy?

The Doctor turns to face me. 'Everything, Mr. Cain. Everything I needed to know that you are the one.'

I want to swallow. Rid my mouth of this dryness that's making me want to choke.

No. I want to run. But I don't. I can't.

'The one? No offence, Doc, but I ain't about to don a nurse's uniform and help you with your stethoscope.'

He grins, a wide smile that lights up his face and until then I hadn't realized how full of shadow this man is. His face is like a darkness. The way he moves. The air around him. But his smile is broad and bright and strangely pleasant and as soon as he does it, I can see how it both banishes the shadow and highlights just how dangerous he is. He says he's only noticed when he wishes it, and I believe him. This is a man who blends effortlessly with the dark. This is a man who can stand right beside you and you'd never know he was there.

How long has he been there beside me, watching and waiting and learning?

'Rest assured, Mr. Cain, no assistance is required on that front. I have not practiced medicine for...' He tilts his head to one side, but the smile he gives this time is for himself and no one else. 'Well, let's just say it has been a very long time indeed. These days my business is quite different to the profession I once knew. In fact, you could say it is quite unique and a unique business requires very specific individuals with particular skills. My time here in Boston has taught me that you are one such individual.'

I say nothing. I can't. This whole thing is madness. Any minute, I'll wake up and realize I need to lay off the booze.

'You have quite the legendary reputation, Mr. Cain. Of course, it does no good to listen to rumor and hearsay. Legends are, in my experience, often just that. Myths. Stories. A whisper from one to another, each time with additional embellishment until it bears no resemblance to the original tale. One must discover these things for oneself and that I have done and am now quite satisfied that there has been no embellishment in your case. The streets outside are full of your name. They even speak of you in the North End of town.'

My skin prickles. Perhaps I haven't drank enough after all. Perhaps I need to keep on drinking. Keep on until it pulls me down into the dirty waters of the harbor.

'If I know your name, it is because you have ensured this town knows your name. If I know your name, it's because your legend is not a simple case of rumor or reputation. It is the truth, and I am a man who seeks truth. In fact, I am very much in need of it.'

Not taking his eyes from me, he moves his hand inside his coat, and I take a step back – a move which would be fatal in most instances because you don't step back. You don't flinch. You stand your ground. Fight. Not flight. Never flight.

Slipping his hand inside his suit jacket, he withdraws a small black card from an inner pocket. Approaching the bar again, he reaches out, and places the card on the countertop, pushing it forwards with two slender fingers. His nails are neatly trimmed and free of dirt. I can imagine those hands tending to the sick and needy. I can imagine them saving lives, yet why does he hold such an air of darkness about him? Why can I imagine him snuffing out a life as easily as a snap of those fingers?

As if sensing my unease, he steps back, nodding at the black card which sits and waits for me to touch it. I don't want to. I don't want to pick it up, because somehow it feels as if I'd be entering into some crazy deal with the Devil if I do. Yet, my curiosity burns.

I reach out and pull it towards me with my thumb, sliding it towards the edge of the counter. It's black. Plain matt black. No writing. No nothing.

With my curiosity now aflame, I can't help but pick it up. Flipping it over, I see a strange dark red symbol embossed on the reverse side. The symbol is circular in shape, the outline of the circle like two snakes intertwined and through the center, sits a dagger with the snakes' tails twisted around the hilt.

'What is this?' I say, brandishing it at him.

'My business card.'

I laugh, or at least, try to, but it sounds more like a wheeze, than laughter. I don't know what the Hell this is, but I'm both drawn to and repulsed by the symbol. I want to touch it, brush my fingertips over it, but I'm scared to. Fuck. Harper Cain scared of a damn symbol. What the fuck is going on with me?

'Your business card? Since when does a business card have no name or contact details?'

'I have told you my name,' he says, his gaze burning into me. 'And as for contact details, I have no need for them. My brief to you is this, Mr. Cain: I advise you what it is I seek; you decide whether you wish to accept my offer and then you go to the Boston Public Library and leave that very card within the back cover of the copy of Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities. Ensure it is the 1900 Sammel and Taylor's version in which you leave the card and no other. It has a red binding with gold script. Then... then I will come for you.'

'Okay, this is a wind-up,' I say, throwing the card down onto the counter, even though I can barely take my eyes from it. 'Did Buddy put you up to this? He's fucking with me, right?'

The Doctor tilts his head to one side, eyeing me with curiosity. 'I can assure you no one has put me up to it, as you say. Mr. Cain, my proposition here is quite simple. I have found myself in charge of a particular organization, if you will. An organization tasked with only one mission – to find that which is lost. To accomplish this, I need individuals that meet a very specialized skillset. I require tenacity. Daring. Temerity. Courage in the face of extreme danger. Leadership.'

'Wait, are you offering me a job?'

'A job?' The Doctor seems to ponder this. 'In a fashion, but I would prefer to call it an opportunity.'

I laugh. 'I gotta be honest, Doc, an opportunity doesn't sound like it pays too well.'

'You do not strike me as the type of man who lives for the almighty dollar,' he replies. 'You strike me as the type of man who lives for whatever makes you feel alive the most. You spit in the face of those who would end your life as easy as they take a breath. You align yourself with those who do live for the almighty dollar, but that is not what drives you, Mr. Cain. You are driven by what this life makes you feel. By the thrill of it.'

I stare at him, but at the edge of my vision the black card calls to me, like the reverberating thump of a heartbeat. It slithers under my skin, into my veins. Thump. Thump-thump.

I lick my lips. Fuck, my mouth is dryer than the desert. I take another sip, and the whiskey burn helps a little.

'In other words, you ain't offering me shit.' I raise the glass in salute. 'Well, thanks but no thanks, Dr. Garrick, but I think I'm good right where I am.'

If he's offended, he doesn't look it. In fact, if anything, he looks vaguely amused.

'If I thought financial wealth was all that you seek, I would not be standing here right now.' He steps closer and I fight the urge to take a step back. 'Money is not an issue, I can assure you of that, but the wealth I can offer you, Mr. Cain, cannot be measured in simple monetary terms. The wealth I offer is eternity. A lifetime and beyond. Power that transcends these streets and these people and their meaningless lives. And as for the thrill...' He smiles and flicks his tongue over his teeth. 'Well, I will guarantee you that the thrill will be like nothing you have experienced during your entire life.'

It's like someone flips the switch then. Electricity courses through me, this sensation that I can't stop, rushing over my skin, raising every hair on my body. I even feel myself hardening, not because I want to fuck this guy, but because of the way he said it. The look in his eyes. Like a thirst he couldn't wait to satiate. A desire above all others. I can hear my breath, sharp and shallow, whispering through my parted lips.

I take another sip and put the glass down on the bar because I know my hand is trembling and I don't want him to see, even though it's too late for that. He sees everything. He feels everything. I'm sure of it.

'Well, like I said, Doc,' I say, gripping the counter edge as if I'll fall into an abyss if I don't. 'I'm good where I am. I gotta a deal that's about to go down and let's just say, things are looking pretty damn sweet for that almighty dollar I apparently don't care about. So, while I appreciate the offer and all, I'll respectfully decline.' I push the card back across the bar.

He says nothing, and the silence stretches out between us, dark and unfathomable in its density.

Finally, he nods and smiles again. 'Very well. Then I will bid you farewell.'

Without another word, he turns and heads for the door, and I'm left reeling by his abrupt acceptance and departure. Is that it? I say no, and he just walks away? What the fuck just happened here?

I'm about to say something – anything – when he stops by the doorway, looking at the whiskey stains on the wall and the shattered glass near his feet.

'Mr. Cain,' he says, barely turning to glance my way. 'If I may be so bold. This deal you mentioned... it may not go quite as you would hope. Please do be careful.'

'What does that me-?' I begin to say, but before I can utter another word, he leaves and I'm left staring at the closing door, with my heart hammering a dervish in my chest and my mouth open. What the Hell does he know about the job? 'Wait!' I shout, grabbing the business card from the counter and racing after him. 'Come back!' I take the steps two at a time up to the street. 'Doc, you forgot...'

Old Colony Avenue is quieter than usual. The wind is blowing up, grabbing the trash from the gutter, and tossing it in wild circles into the air. It catches a woman's skirt, and she laughs and shrieks with her friend, as they walk arm in arm down the sidewalk, their laughter grating.

I look both ways, searching for him, all the way down to the intersection on Dorchester.

Doctor Benjamin Garrick is nowhere to be seen.

I study the card in my hand, turning it over and brushing my thumb over the snake and dagger symbol, feeling that same strange rush as before, as if he is standing right beside me now, murmuring those words into my ear. I can't help but glance sharply behind me to make sure he isn't really there.

'Who the fuck are you?' I whisper to nothing and no one, but I don't mean who. I know it as soon as the words leave my mouth.

I mean what.

What are you, Doctor Benjamin Garrick?