"Will—"

"Just say goodbye," Harper told him as coldly as he could.

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Harper turned before Edward could say anything more and walked away. He didn't want to drag this out, and he didn't want to discuss it. The less time Edward spent in his company, the better chance he had. Harper knew Edward was watching his retreating back.

Only after he knew he was well out of Edward's sight did he turn back. He dashed back to the wooden fire escape that was nailed to the back of a rotting tenement. Two of the steps snapped under Harper's weight, but the rest of the ladder held. He climbed up onto the roof and looked across to Wax Street. Through the haze of falling condensation, Harper watched as Edward slowly approached the brick chapel and then disappeared inside.

Though there was no day or night in Hells Below, it felt suddenly much darker to Harper.

Harper wanted to think calmly. He wanted to feel that familiar, detached coldness enfold the burning rage inside him, but it wouldn't come. He didn't know why. Perhaps it had been seeing Edward hunched in that cell, too frightened to even look up. Or Joan, dressed like beggar and covered in filth, staring at him as if he might harm her. Perhaps it had been holding Belimai's shaking body in his arms and knowing that nothing could ever give Belimai his innocence back. Or perhaps it was simply remembering all those things and looking out over the desolation of Hells Below. The injustice seemed infinite. Fury welled up through Harper.

He had spent years gathering evidence and following the correct procedures of prosecution. All the while, Abbot Greeley and his friends committed brutal crimes whenever they pleased and had witnesses murdered at their leisure. Time after time, Harper had crushed his own anger and poured his strength into the belief that justice had to prevail.

But justice did not prevail. It struggled, floundered, then sank into oblivion.

Harper had been told as a child that God brought Justice to every man. Harper had believed that. Even as his innocence fell from his body, even as he uncovered mutilated women and gutted Prodigals, Harper had clung to that promise. Now he couldn't make himself believe it any longer. No wide-eyed saint or righteous angel was going to give Harper Justice. He didn't even want it any longer.

What he wanted now was vengeance. For that, he did not have to wait on heaven's judgment. Vengeance he could take with his own hands. It wasn't smart. Harper knew that, but he didn't care. His life was already in ruins.

When Harper had left Hells Below, the drops of condensation clung to his hair and skin like baptismal waters. His anger cooled as he walked, but it didn't fade. By the time he reached the open air of Champion Street, he'd already decided on a course of action. He made his way through the dark streets to Cherry Row and up into one of the squalid little flats.

Now, he watched from the grimy window as a single figure strode across the street below. Only a few of the streetlamps had been re-paired since the deluge the week before. This particular little road had only one working lamp. Harper smiled as he caught the shine of red hair under the light.

Harper pulled the curtains closed and walked carefully across the small, dark room to the door.

"Not much longer, now," Harper whispered to the woman on the bed.

She stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. She didn't even attempt a reply through the wadded-up cloth and silk stocking that Harper had used to gag her. The deadness to her responses told Harper that he was not the first man to treat her this way. She hadn't tried to cry for help. She had already known that no one would respond to the screams of a whore. She hadn't even struggled against Harper's strength when he slammed her down onto the bed and tied her. She lay still, giving Harper no reason to hurt her, no resistance to beat down. She just watched him, with an expression of hopeless knowing.

"This will all be over soon," Harper said quietly. "Just stay where you are, and you'll be fine."

She nodded slightly. Through the darkness, Harper smiled at her.

The sounds of footsteps on the stairs grew louder. Keys jingled like bells as Brandson tried to find the right one. At last the door swung open. Brandson stepped inside and groped for the wall lamp. The door fell shut behind him. Harper silently twisted the lock back into place.

"I'm not paying you to be asleep, Lucy." Brandson kept fiddling with the lamp. "I've had a hell of a day, and it's going to take more than a drowsy hand job to make it better."

A weak flame flickered up into the dirty, glass housing of the lamp. Brandson lost his grip on his coat as he suddenly saw Lucy.

"What the hell is this?" Brandson demanded.

Stepping up from behind, Harper pushed the barrel of his pistol hard against the back of Brandson's neck.

"This is where your day gets even worse," Harper said. "You know the procedure, Captain. Arms up. Do anything else, and I'll spatter Lucy, over there, with the majority of your head." Harper reached under Brandson's raised arm and removed Brandson's pistol. He pocketed it.

"Very good." Harper ran his hand down to Brandson's waist and unbuckled his belt. Years of desperate encounters in back alleys had made the motion second nature to him. He unclipped the handcuffs from the belt and then let Brandson's belt and pants fall to the floor. A shudder of fear and protest moved through Brandson's body.

"Keep your hands up," Harper snapped when he felt the slight shift in Brandson's shoulders. Brandson jerked his arms back up.

"I never appreciated how well you followed orders until now," Harper commented. "Left arm behind your back."

Brandson did as Harper told him.

"Now the right." Harper cuffed Brandson's hands behind his back tightly.

"Now, slowly down onto your knees." Harper pressed the pistol down against Brandson's skin as Brandson sank to his knees. Harper kept his pistol snug against Brandson as he reached down and jerked the belt out from the folds of cloth around Brandson's ankles. Harper's right palm ached as he moved his hand. The cut split open again. The sharp pain only made him angrier at Brandson.

Harper wrapped the belt around Brandson's ankles, pulling it tight with vicious jerks, and then buckled it. The black leather cut into the muscle of Brandson's legs. Brandson winced. Harper stepped back and then kicked him forward onto his stomach. He hit the floor with a hard thud.

Harper crouched down near Brandson's face.

"So, Captain, why do you think I'm here?" Harper asked.

"Your brother-in-law, Dr. Talbott," Brandson muttered against the floor. "I can get him a full exoneration if that's what—"

"Don't pretend to bargain with me." Harper grabbed a fistful of Brandson's red hair and jerked his face up close to his own. "Right now I want to kill you so badly it hurts, so don't give me a reason. Just answer my questions. Understand?"

"Yes," Brandson whispered. Harper released his hair and Brandson's head dropped back down to the floor.

"Who killed the woman Dr. Talbott was treating?"

"The abbot gave direct orders—"

"I said, who killed her?" Harper demanded.

"There were three of us."

"You were the one who put the bullet through her, weren't you?" Harper rested the muzzle of his pistol against the base of Brandson's skull. Brandson squeezed his eyes shut and nodded his head against the floor in silent admission.