This story copyright © 2003, 2004 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
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Steed treads emotional waters
Emma learns to row
Chapter 8
Emma slowed the engine as the little boat passed under the bridge where she'd first jumped into it. She had not expected to see Steed waiting there for her, but for some reason she felt a pang of concern when she didn't. Silently scolding herself for being frivolous she scanned the canal ahead, wondering where in the maze of canals and private boat houses the dwarf had come from.
The Italian heard Lord Gregory coming and spun around, his narrow face twisting in surprise. He turned back to the worktable and picked up a sleek, black gun. The big man turned as well, but seemed willing to let his companion handle the situation. The Italian leveled the gun at Lord Gregory's chest. Steed, just a step behind Lord Gregory, expected the other man to stop. He did not expect it to be because of a bullet.
The Italian fired and Lord Gregory stumbled, his arms flailing as if for balance. But he kept going, to the surprise of the Italian and Steed. Not certain whether Lord Gregory was shot or just startled, Steed stuck with him. The Italian took a step toward them, re-aiming the gun. Behind him the big man stepped away from the table, focusing his attention on Steed. His movement distracted the Italian, and in the moment it took him to glance over his shoulder Lord Gregory was on him. He did not so much attack as collapse, but the effect was the same. They fell to the floor in a struggling heap.
As Steed reached the big man he swung with his right, catching him in the jaw. Near his feet the gun fired again, this time muffled between the Italian and Lord Gregory. Steed didn't have time to investigate. The big man grabbed for Steed. Steed ducked under the man's arm, grabbing it as he spun and pinning it at the man's back. The man drove back with his free arm, his elbow slamming into Steed's chest so hard he fell away, arms reeling.
He fetched up against a rough wooden column supporting the gallery and gasped to regain his breath as he watched the big man come at him. He glanced around for a weapon and spotted a wealth of sharp edged woodworking tools on a rack under the gallery. Before he could move toward them the big man reached for him. Once again he dodged low. But this time the man caught him around the waist and dropped with him, pinning him on the floor with his body wrestler fashion. The wind knocked out of him again, Steed lay flat on his belly gasping. And then he was being rolled over, his shoulder painfully wrenched. He brought his knees to his chest and planted his feet awkwardly in the big man's midriff. They sank into his soft flesh, then met with solid muscle underneath. Steed used his legs to push the man off and he fell, but bounced back up with alarming speed.
They faced off, crouched, arms wide and loose, eyes locked on one another. Steed listened for sounds of movement -- and with luck assistance -- from Lord Gregory. But that gentleman and the Italian were both disturbingly silent.
The big man rushed Steed, putting all of his bulk into a jaw breaking punch that, fortunately did not land on Steed's jaw. He ducked it, but the man's second punch to his gut found its target, and while Steed bowed over the impact a third strike to his temple sent him tumbling sideways in a daze.
Impatient, Emma accelerated, the sound of the small motor echoing off the buildings lining the canal. Then there was an opening on the right -- not a fondamenta, but an open paved area where several gondolas were mounted on sawhorses. Jacopo was dressed as a gondolier. It could be coincidence. But it's worth a look. As she passed the gondolas she turned her boat in at a stone ramp and hopped out, looping the bow line around a wooden cleat secured to the stone pavement.
She slipped in between two of the gondolas, crouching to stay concealed between them as she made her way toward the area under the gallery. There was a flickering light in the windows up there -- a fire, or an oil lamp. Someone was home.
This was confirmed before she reached the bows of the gondolas -- a big man in a three-piece suit came thumping down the wooden stairs at the end of the workshop. Emma froze, watching him stride toward her, then veer in under the gallery and through a heavy wooden door. He shut it behind him. Follow him, or see where he came from? Emma flipped a mental coin and it came up tails. She stepped out from between the gondolas and headed for the stairs. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lord Gregory and a man all in black tangled together in a heap on the floor near a worktable. She didn't bother to approach them. If they were dead there was nothing she could do, and if not, then they would have to wait. At least, she thought bitterly as she mounted the stairs, I know I'm in the right place.
She crouched as she opened the door at the top of the stairs and peeked around it. A smile lit her face when she found herself looking into Steed's eyes. He was bound in a chair, looking a bit rumpled.
"So good of you to come Mrs. Peel," he said in a conversational tone that told her they were alone. She stepped inside and closed the door, glancing around for something to cut his bonds with.
"Pocketknife," he said, "right trouser pocket."
"Naturally," she quipped, unhesitatingly reaching into his pocket, and wiggling her fingers around a bit for good measure. He assumed a pained expression and she pulled the knife out with a smirk.
"Lord Gregory is down there, along with a man dressed just like you," she said, indicating with her eyes his black turtleneck and trousers.
"And you as well, my dear. But you carry it off the best," he replied, openly admiring her cat suit.
"Thank you," she said, a quick grin lighting her face as she handed him his pocketknife. He stood up and went to a worktable. Several documents lay on it, illuminated by an oil lamp.
"The letters," Emma said, picking one up and holding it close to the lamp. She studied the paper closely, rubbing it between two fingers. "It's old paper, but that in itself doesn't prove anything. Forgers bleach and scrape off old ink and reuse the paper. We'll need an analysis of the ink."
She looked at Steed, who looked both surprised and delighted.
"Mrs. Peel, I had no idea you were an expert in forgery," he said wondrously.
"I made a few calls, during breaks between talks," she shrugged. He chuckled and looked closely at one of the letters.
"Uh oh," Emma whispered, cocking her head toward the door. There were heavy footsteps on the stairs. They exchanged a silent glance and Steed sat back down. Emma trotted lightly over to stand behind the door.
It opened and the big man came through. Emma let him move a few steps, then tapped him on the right shoulder. As he turned she grabbed his left arm and twisted it behind him much as Steed had done earlier. Steed cringed as the man tried the same move he'd used earlier, but Emma had placed herself more to the left, and all he managed to do was throw himself off balance. Emma used that to propel him forward, running him into the worktable, which he slammed into at gut-level. The table crumbled under his weight and the oil lamp shattered. The spilled oil ignited with a whoosh, immediately engulfing the man's head and shoulders.
Emma stepped between his feet and tried to drag him backwards out of the flames. She couldn't budge him. Steed grabbed the lower hem of the man's coat and pulled it up, using it to smoother his burning hair and upper jacket. This was somewhat effective, so he joined Emma and together they moved him a couple feet. But while they did it the flames spread quickly, greedily consuming whatever paints and resins were soaked into the worktable's shattered surface.
They both glanced around for something to extinguish the fire. Steed picked up a tall metal canister with a handle on top and a slim hose attached. He pumped the handle several times, then aimed the hose at the flames and opened a valve on the end. A stream of water soaked the big man's head and shoulders, then extinguished the flaming papers and wood.
The smell of singed hair and flesh was nauseating. Emma pushed open a window and she and Steed hung out it, inhaling the marginally better outside air.
"I'll see if there's a telephone," Steed said when they had regained their composures and their breath.
"I'll check on Lord Gregory."
Epilogue
"Herr Gilbert Schenck. His company owns a number of residential buildings in various English cities and all over Europe," Steed said, pouring coffee for Emma and himself. "He's dead."
"The burns?"
"Heart attack, a few hours ago. Brought on by the burns, they said."
Emma took her coffee and Steed sat down beside her on the settee. They both sipped in silence for a moment. Steed had been out most of the night coordinating the clean-up. He had sent Emma back to the hotel once the Venetian police arrived at the squero. There was no need for her to hang around watching the bodies removed, and at least one of them might as well get some sleep. She'd gone without protest after telling the police where to find Jacopo -- as best she could.
Steed had slipped into the suite and his own bed just before dawn. It was late morning now, and they had arranged to extend their stay another day rather than scramble to check out as originally planned.
"This was a dirty little affair," she said. "So many people killed. And over what? A man's reputation?"
"Money," Steed said simply. "The potential income from the slums that Lord Gregory's legislation would transform into decent housing."
"I've a mind to see what I can do to support what he was working on," Emma said. Steed had to smile, had to reach over and trace her jaw with one finger. She turned her face to him, her deep eyes filled with sorrow. She had not learned to shield herself from the carnage, not completely. He knew he could rely on her in the heat of the moment, but when all was said and done it still took its toll on her. He hated to see her hurt, but he would also hate to see her so hardened that she couldn't feel for the victims. It was her tenderness that had broken through his own hardened detachment. Cathy Gale's open disdain for his callousness had only spurred him to hide behind it even more. Emma had berated him for it once or twice, but then she'd stopped, simply countering it with her own behavior instead. And that had inspired in him a new need to feel as she did, to find at least a small amount of compassion within himself for even the most evil men and women they defeated.
"Let's go to the Basilica. I could use a bit of quiet meditation," she said.
He nodded, understanding if not fully sharing her need. "And then lunch?" he asked. The coffee and croissants they'd ordered from room service would only hold him for so long. She smiled -- a sad, sweet expression that made him caress her face again. She leaned into his hand.
"And then lunch," she said softly, her eyes searching his, and then apparently finding what they sought. She leaned forward to set her cup on the table in front of the divan, did the same with his, and then pressed herself into his arms. "Hold me for a few minutes, will you Steed?"
He pressed his lips against her hair, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands flat against her back so that he could feel the essence of her life: her beating heart.
"For as long as you want, darling," he whispered.
"No, no, signore, like this," the gondolier adjusted Steed's grip for the fifth or sixth time. Grinning up at them from her seat in the boat Emma snapped another picture.
Steed tried again to execute the sculling motion that would propel the gondola smoothly forward. The boat swerved to the left and the gondolier, who was standing on the stern deck with Steed, swayed dangerously.
"Signore," he groaned, silently begging Steed to give up.
"Here Steed, let me try," Emma suggested. The gondolier looked down at her in surprise. Steed handed the gondolier the oar and stepped past him and down into the boat.
"Do your best," he said affectionately. She rose and stepped up beside the gondolier, at the last minute hanging her camera by its strap around the man's neck with a playful smile. He smiled back, clearly admiring her figure and her outfit -- a striped shirt and black capri slacks. As she took the oar and assumed the proper position on the stern she looked exactly like a shapely gondolier.
While Steed watched intently, the real gondolier positioned her hands on the oar and showed her the motion and how to use the forcola for leverage. The gondola began to glide along the side canal that they'd chosen for their lesson. The gondolier let go and Emma kept sculling. She grinned proudly at the gondolier, then her smile turned a touch smug as she looked down at Steed.
"Keep going," the gondolier urged her in Italian, then he gracefully stepped into the boat, walked forward, and climbed out onto the bow deck. He faced the stern and raised Emma's camera to his face.
Steed assumed a relaxed pose on the seats below Emma, and she smiled proudly as the shutter clicked, capturing her victory.
fin