Page 65 of By Any Means

“I told you,” Laurie said. “I encountered Brasher on the way.”

“Way from what? Snooping,” Chary answered himself.

Laurie tapped the pastry. “Blueberries. The barrens. Found out both you brothers like to play at work, don’t you? Dead or not. And this.” He pulled something out from a pocket, something handkerchief-wrapped. He unwrapped it and set it on the kitchen table: a jar of blueberry jam. Roundly square, strong-shouldered, with a glass lid and wire bail and sparkling letters: Chary’s design, with no metal interior to make the jam taste like eating a tin can. Had it sealed at last?

“What’s it mean?” Laurie asked. “What’s the truth, Chary? Raberding told me the jam-jar design August stole from him turned out useless. A failure. But this is perfectly good.”

“It held the whole walk back from the barrens, in your pocket—the seal?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know what it means. But you wouldn’t have found this in the barrens. What were you really looking for? What else could you possibly want from me?” he said weakly. “You have already ruined us.”

Laurie stood. Chary held him off with both hands.

“The truth is important,” Laurie said softly. He scooped up the jar, handed it to Chary rewrapped in its handkerchief like something precious. “Who stole from whom? Why was August hiding these from you?”

Chary looked down at the jar, flipped it to and fro. It was his design, down to his hand-lettering in the mold. It did seal. But it hadn’t been hand-blown. No dot of a pontil mark on the end.

“It’s… machine-made?” Chary said curiously. “But no suction scar. What on earth?”

“A semiauto? I’ve heard of those.”

“We don’t use them yet, for lack of license, though I’ve seen schematics. But this is my mold: the Heracles Strongneck.”

“There were dozens more of the same where I found it. Identical.”

“A machine…” Chary trailed off. “I don’t know where he would’ve gotten access to one.”

“Trade secrets,” Laurie said, sudden and revelatory. “August stole from you. Stole from you and handed the mold to his lover. Didn’t he?”

He had. “With my blessing,” Chary said. “At the time, it was a failed design.”

He clutched the jar. This was not. Chary would normally have felt proud, but now it was all for naught. What worth could it have for him or August after Laurie delivered it straight to Raberding?

“With your blessing?” Laurie asked.

Well, mostly, Chary thought.

Laurie, as usual, seemed to read the truth from air. “Ah. A blessing after the fact, maybe?” he said gently. “For a signal-flare kind of theft?”

Yes. A signal flare of the desperate but still prideful. A man who had learned by force to take care of himself, who rejected rescue, but yet had needed help. August had never been interested seriously in the business of glassworks, had insisted Tjofabier Raberding wanted nothing from him but his own self. The theft had been like a scream. August making the best of it once more.

This, not seduction or charm, was why Lawrence Tulley was so good at his job. Why did he have to be a traitor?

“Raberding must want everything,” Chary whispered. “The whole tapestry, until there is nothing left. Of either of us.” He looked up. “How much did he pay you? I’ll pay you more. Whatever it takes.”

Laurie cursed. “No, you won’t, ’cause nobody’s paying me, goddammit, much less him. Something like this, I’m not gonna settle for anything less than the Bayeux. But nobody’s paying me to pull threads on it, for darn sure. That’s exactly contrary to what I want. You understand?”

“I am… not sure I do.”

“The truth is the most important thing. I’m Lawrence Tulley. I don’t write hit pieces, and I don’t write bias. Certainly not for the benefit of one capitalist over another; c’mon. Why would I suddenly take Raberding’s money to do both?”

“Money motivates everyone.”

Laurie shook his head. “No. No. That’s a fallacy. Rich men like Raberding believe it because it’s what they know. They know capital leads to an easier life. Power, status.” He shrugged. “That’s not wrong. It motivates most, not all. I’m not perfect, but I have what I need; I have enough. I have enough that I can have other motivations beyond the daily grind, and that’s all I could’ve ever asked for. That’s the whole goal, for everybody: enough. Enough so everyone can help further an idealized society. You know what I mean, Chary Wright. You don’t work fifty hours a week for the six dollars you probably don’t even receive.”

“No,” Chary said quietly, flushing. “It’s parted out to the boys.”