He looked around the room. The mortar might be soft enough to dig out but he needed something to dig with. Remembering the spoon that had come with the soup, Mike started to get up. A bit of color under the bed attracted his attention. In a moment he retrieved it.
Schuler was an idiot. Or maybe it was Klaus the goon who was the idiot. Someone had chucked Mike’s backpack under the bed. He dumped it out. The pack had been searched. Mike’s gun and ammo were missing as was his folding knife, but his trowel was there. The trowel’s edges were nearly knife sharp. It would be awkward to use but he had a weapon. Peeling back the Velcro from an outside pocket he found the soft, rolled up leather pouch that held his dental picks. Mike took several deep breaths, struggling not to shout with glee, and then went to work on the padlock.
“Getting the chain out of the wall would be nice,” he crooned to the padlock. “But that leaves me with six feet of chain attached. Hard to sneak away from the bad guys with all that iron clanking. Get rid of you, my lovely, and I’m free as a bird.”
Mike had picked padlocks before. His brother had showed him how years before using paperclips and other bits of stiff wire. The dental picks, as fragile as they looked, were all top quality steel. Normally he used them for delicate excavation work, but they also made excellent picklocks. This padlock was huge compared to the ones Mike had practiced on, but he figured that the principles were the same. After some fumbling there was a click and the lock fell open.
Gently, Mike removed the padlock and opened the cuff. Pain flared and he saw that the cuff had chewed through his sock and into the soft flesh above his boot. He opened another pocket on his backpack, found his first aid kit and cleaned the wound thoroughly. Luckily there was a clean pair of socks in the backpack, so he put them on. His shirt and pants were awfully fragrant, enough that dogs wouldn’t be necessary to track him, not the way he smelled.
There wasn’t any water to wash with but clean clothes from his pack should lessen his stink. When he got out he’d need to find the city guard. With any luck, the clean clothes would make them at least listen to his story instead of tossing him in jail as one more drunk.
Finally feeling halfway decent, Mike stuffed his gear back in the pack. He picked up the trowel, walked to the door and listened. Silence. A look out the window confirmed that he was high up, on a third or fourth story, and there wasn’t a hint of a ledge. He went back to the door and eased it open. The hallway ended to his left in a staircase. Three other doors along the hall stood open, showing rooms like his. Only the room directly across from his showed any signs of recent inhabitation. Below him he could hear muffled sounds of someone yelling.
As quietly as he could, Mike descended the stairs, praying that none of the treads creaked. The next floor presented two doors, both closed and another stairway at the far end. Mike passed on investigating. He wanted out of this house. The next flight down brought him into an empty kitchen. Probably not empty for long, since something bubbled in a pot hung over the fire. Candles hung above a table provided a surprising amount of light.
He froze in place; only his eyes moved, searching for a way out. There should be a door into a yard or alley; he hoped for an alley. His eyes found a door in the right place. More odd noises came from the front of the house. Now was not the time to stick around.
Mike muttered a quick prayer that this wasn’t the cellar door, opened it, and slid through. For a moment he thought he had found the cellar. The alleyway was narrow and the houses on the other side blocked any sunlight. Waiting for his eyes to adjust he tried to determine if anybody else was in the alley. He heard someone enter the kitchen behind him, talking loudly. Spurred into action by thoughts of recapture, he dashed down the alley, and slammed head first into Klaus the goon. The impact knocked Mike down.
Klaus didn’t have his pistol but he did have a knife on his belt. Growling, the goon reached for that knife. Mike smashed his boot into the logical target. The man’s hands flew his crotch and he moaned. Mike rolled away, grabbed the trowel, and staggered to his feet. Klaus the goon was bent over, clutching himself and groaning.
“Nicely done, Michael. Nicely done!” The high tenor voice came from the darkest part of the alley. Reichard Blucher stepped out, grabbed Klaus the goon by the hair, and slammed the man’s head into the wall of the house.
“That will take his mind off his other pain.”
Mike straightened up and gave a sigh of relief. The cavalry had arrived. “Where are Rob and Lannie? Are they okay?”
Reichard smiled. “They’re fine. When you didn’t show up Thursday morning Wilf insisted that they go back to Grantville. We came looking for you.” The big man clapped Mike on the shoulder. He kicked the groaning Klaus. “You’re turning into a regular Indiana Jones, young Michael.”
Wilf Jones walked out the kitchen door and into the alley. He looked from Mike to Klaus the goon and back.
“Glad to see you’re in one piece, Michael. Schuler will be, too. When we didn’t find you in the house Christian started to lovingly describe the ‘death of a thousand cuts’ to him. The head of the Bamberg city guard is in there, suggesting additional, cruder measures.”
Jo Ann was snuggled tightly against Mike on the sofa, firmly holding his left hand. They were sitting in the Clarks’ comfortable and familiar living room, listening while Wilf and Christian finished up the story of finding Mike.
“Michael saved himself. We just came along and cleaned up the mess he left.” Christian smiled and winked at Mike. “Reichard saw him in action and was impressed with how he handled himself.”
“Aye,” Wilf agreed, “impressed enough to suggest that we take him along the next time we go horse trading.”
Mike blushed, pleased at the compliment and half-appalled at the thought of the kinds of trouble Wilf and his friends attracted.
Jo Ann squeezed the hand she was holding. “Mike’s heard from Jena. They want him to teach archaeology.”
“Well, not really teach.” Mike’s blush deepened as he explained. “I won’t be a professor, more like a guest lecturer. It’s kind of weird. I’ll be a student but they want me to present some lectures on up-time archaeology, too.” The doubts he’d felt earlier were dying down. The letter proved that his efforts to reinvent up-time archaeology weren’t wasted and that there were smart people who didn’t think he was just a dumb kid. Even his dad had been impressed.
Lannie nudged her husband. Rob stood, excused himself, and left the room. He returned shortly, holding something behind his back.
“In light of your recent adventures,” Rob said, “and especially your new status as a college lecturer, we thought these additions to your wardrobe were appropriate.” Rob held his hands out. The right held a brown leather jacket; the left a brown fedora. “You’ll have to provide the bullwhip yourself.”
An Eye Opener
Spring 1635, Magdeburg
“I hear business is slow.”
Ursula Sprug finished securing the door of her optometry practice before turning around to face Cathy McNally. “What makes you say that?”
“Your receptionist told me. He’s worried you’ll have to close your practice.” Cathy grinned. “I think he likes you.”
“Thomas is just happy with his new glasses.”
“But business is slow?”
Ursula sighed. Slow didn’t describe the near total lack of customers. “Yes.”
“Well then, why don’t you take advantage of your friends?”
“I don’t know many people in Magdeburg, and those I know don’t need glasses.”
