The Daemoniac

by Kat Ross

  “In here!” I screamed. “We’re here!”

  The booming redoubled in intensity. Moments later the head of a sledgehammer broke through the wall of the tunnel and a beam of pure, sweet electric light pierced the darkness.

  I didn’t dare leave John, but Billy dashed down the tracks and started to help, pulling the loose bricks away as the hole slowly grew bigger. As soon as it was a few feet wide, uniformed patrolmen began pouring through.

  I pointed to Brady. “He’s been shot in the leg,” I said. “But he can wait. This one needs a doctor right away. His name’s John Weston.”

  “We need a stretcher down here!” one of the policemen shouted through the hole. He looked at Brady. “That’s Mr. Hyde, is it?”

  “Yes. His real name is Leland Brady.”

  The officer stared at him with contempt. “Ain’t much, is he?”

  And he wasn’t, not anymore. Brady seemed shrunken, like a piece of fruit left in the sun.

  The tunnel rapidly filled with people. Several medics arrived. I squeezed John’s hand while they loaded him onto the stretcher.

  “We’ll need your statement outside,” a sergeant said to me calmly. He looked very interested as to what that might be.

  “Of course.”

  One of the medics was crouching over Brady. He seemed oblivious to his surroundings now, staring into space with a vacant look, a strand of drool dangling from his chin.

  “You should tell that man to be careful,” I said. “He’s still—”

  Without moving his head an inch, Brady’s left hand whipped out and seized the medic by his neck. His right slithered into the open black doctor’s bag. It all happened almost too fast to follow. But then I saw the flash of a scalpel.

  In one hard motion, Brady slit his own throat.

  He fell back gurgling. The medic shouted in horror, struggling to free himself as Brady clung on with a death grip.

  “Get him off, get him off!”

  A wall of blue uniforms surged around the thrashing pair, shutting off my view of Brady’s last gruesome moments.

  And then the sergeant took me firmly by the arm and dragged me to the hole, which had been widened into a rough arch. “Get her out of here,” he said to the officers stationed in the basement storeroom beyond. They nodded and walked me up several flights of stairs to the street.

  Police wagons jammed the corner of Broadway and Warren. I stood there for a moment in a daze. The moon hung low in the sky, but it was only half full now. Not a Hunter’s moon anymore. Then someone called my name.

  I turned just as Connor came hurtling into me. We clung to each other, his face pressed tight against my shirt.

  “They wouldn’t let me go down there,” he mumbled. “Billy?”

  “Billy’s fine,” I said, trying hard not to cry. “I just hope John will be too. Have you seen him? They brought him up a minute ago.”

  We caught the ambulance as it was about to pull away. It looked like Brady’s body was being taken out of the tunnel, for the police milling around on the street all started gawking at a white-sheeted form on a stretcher.

  “Please, let me ride with him,” I begged the driver. “I’m his…sister.”

  “Get in then,” he said brusquely. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  I jumped into the back, where John lay pale and still.

  “Hey! Connor!” Billy waved at us from the curb.

  “You go,” I said. “It’s all right.”

  Connor ran off, a glad smile on his face, and we raced through the night to New York Hospital.

  “I’m sorry I shot you,” I whispered to John. “But you can’t go punishing me by dying. It’s not fair.” The tears did come then, hot and wracking. I was wiping them away when John’s eyes opened.

  “Did they get him?” he asked weakly.

  “Yes. They got him.”

  John closed his eyes again. I thought he’d passed out but then he spoke.

  “You shot me.”

  “I know. I didn’t mean to.”

  “That means you owe me.”

  “Actually, we both owe James Moran. He saved us from Brady.” It was a debt I didn’t care to contemplate.

  “Moran?” He gave a goofy smile and I wondered if they’d given him a shot of morphine. “I don’t think I want a kiss from James Moran. I’m not fond of beard stubble.”

  I stared down at him, shaking my head. Even at death’s door, John couldn’t manage to be serious.

  “Come on, Harry.” He puckered his lips, eyes still shut. “Let’s have it.”

  I leaned over and gave him a kiss on the forehead, right between the eyebrows.

  “How’s that?”

  “I suppose it’ll have to do,” he sighed.

  Then he did pass out.

  Dawn was breaking when we finally arrived at the hospital. The attendants whisked John inside and left me in the waiting room, where a pair of irate policemen found me a few minutes later. They took my statement right there. I told the truth, except for the bit about Moran. I said I was the one who’d shot Brady. One good turn deserved another.

  They questioned me for nearly an hour, but in the end, they seemed satisfied. A single gun—Myrtle’s—was found at the scene. Brady was dead, and I had a feeling no one particularly cared to make sure the bullets matched. The main thing is that Mr. Hyde would no longer terrorize New York City. And the Police Department had carried out a heroic rescue of three potential victims. The newspapers would love it.

  I slumped down in my seat as Judge Weston, Mrs. Weston and the rest of John’s tribe came rushing into the waiting room, grim-faced and peppering me with questions until John’s mother could see I was on the verge of tears. She swept me into her arms and sharply ordered them to be quiet.

  “Can’t you see the poor thing is dead on her feet?” she said.

  Mrs. Weston had John’s brown eyes, although her hair was strawberry blonde, like Rupert.

  “I’m the one who shot him,” I confessed in a hollow voice. “It’s all my fault.”

  Mrs. Weston held me tighter, although she was crying a little too. “Well, it wasn’t on purpose.” She paused. “Was it?”

  “No! I was aiming for Brady.”

  “That’s the man who committed all those terrible killings?”

  “Yes.”

  She shook her head and muttered something about foolish children, but she kept her arms around me and stroked my hair. The judge had gone off to harangue the nurses for an update on John’s condition. His four brothers—Paul, Andy, Rupert and Bill—silently paced up and down. It was the first time I had seen them together without laughter or arguing or general mayhem. The minutes ticked by.

  Then the surgeon came out and told us that the bullet had been extracted. It missed John’s heart by two inches, his left lung by one. They’d decided to opt for a risky procedure called a transfusion, but it appeared to have worked. John’s pulse and blood pressure were no longer falling. It had been a very close thing. But he was young and fit. They expected him to recover.

  I wanted to see him. They told me I had to come back tomorrow, that visiting hours began at ten a.m. and only immediate family would be permitted in his room. I said I’d wait. But then Edward arrived and ordered me to go home.

  “I’ll stay here, Harry,” he said stoutly. “If anything changes, I’ll get you straightaway. But you’re no good to anyone in this state. Go eat something.” He eyed me up and down. “You might want to put on clean clothes as well.”

  “Alright,” I said, not moving.

  He scooted over on the bench and put an arm around my shoulders. “You stopped him,” he said. “That’s what matters. Although I still can’t believe it was Mr. Brady! My money was definitely on George.” Edward seemed slightly disappointed. Then his face brightened. “Though I must thank you for introducing me to Virgil the Goat. The boy is extraordinary! He taught me how to palm a card so discreetly I don’t think even John Chamberlain’s dealers would detect it. I’m
considering taking him into my employment. Just for parties, of course.”

  Edward walked me to the front doors and shooed me out.

  “I’ll see you in a few hours,” he said. “And congratulations, Harry.”

  It was over.

  Sort of.

  The hospital was on Fifteenth Street and Fifth Avenue, so I declined Edward’s offer of a ride and walked the few blocks home. It was the peak of the morning rush hour. I looked such an absolute fright that even my fellow New Yorkers, who made a habit of being unfazed by anything the great metropolis threw at them, gave me a wide berth.

  I hardly noticed. My brain swam with conflicting emotions—horror, guilt, relief, triumph. As I turned the corner on Tenth Street, I thought about this city. How all the bustle and money and flash and bright new electric lights hid other secret places. Dark places that were just a rabbit hole away. The poor souls who’d tumbled down there, never to emerge again.

  We’d closed one of those holes, sealed it tight, but others would open in its place.

  Mrs. Rivers threw the front door open and hugged me hard. Then she stepped back.

  “You can tell me all about it later,” she said. “Good luck, Harry.”

  I looked at the table next to the door. A small black hat with a blue ribbon had been tossed carelessly on top of yesterday’s mail.

  I went slowly into the kitchen.

  A severe-looking young woman sat in one of the ladder-back chairs. She had long raven hair and grey eyes that seemed to look right through you.

  “Hello, Myrtle,” I said.

  My sister just examined me in her entomologist way. As though she were deciding whether to pin me to her board or release me into the wild.

  I got ready to run.

  And then…

  Then Myrtle began to laugh.

  Chapter 19

  Saturday, October 20th

  Cold rain pelted the windows of the parlor. Autumn had arrived with a vengeance, as it tended to do this time of year. October in New York often debuted with the feel of an Indian summer, but as Halloween approached, the temperature would suddenly drop and blustery winds would sweep in from the north, creating little tornadoes that sent newspapers flying and filled your mouth with grit if you got caught in one.

  The rain started two days ago and hadn’t let up since. I didn’t really mind. It was cozy in the upstairs parlor. Mrs. Rivers had baked a batch of oatmeal cookies, of which only a plate of crumbs remained. The steady downpour drummed against the panes as I wiggled my toes under an afghan.

  John sat in his usual place, perusing a nasty textbook on skin diseases. His left arm was still in a sling, but he’d learned to manage well enough with his right and the doctors promised it would be off within the month. Connor lay by the fire, chin propped in his hands. John seemed to be inspiring the boy to greater things, although his choice of reading material wasn’t exactly scientific: something called Risen from the Dead: Episode One, The Medical Student.

  I was busy putting the final touches on my report to the S.P.R. Uncle Arthur had promised to submit it for me, and I was almost done.

  We’d learned a few things since the events in the Beach Pneumatic Transit Tunnel. A watchman at Brady’s Maiden Lane office saw him leave on the nights of the murders (all save Anne Marlowe’s, when he crept out of his own home). Despite the heat, Brady wore a long overcoat which the man thought strange. He was also seen lighting a cigarette, although he had never smoked before. The coat no doubt covered the soldier’s uniform he had taken from Straker’s flat. Detective Mallory confirmed that Brady’s boots matched a set of prints found next to Anne’s body at the grain elevator.

  Brady had sent his wife to her parents’ house so he would have free rein to roam the city.

  We would never know what he told his victims, but I think he used the uniform to gain a degree of trust that allowed him to cull them from the herd. To get them alone.

  I also learned from Rose Mason that the manager of the Grand Hotel in Cassadaga Lake had been arrested about three weeks after our visit for adding a mild hallucinogen to the food of his patrons. It seems the man believed it would enhance the Spiritualist reputation of the place and bring in customers. I immediately thought of the picnic lunch we’d eaten on the shores of the lake just before the séance.

  Upon hearing this news, Mrs. Rivers confessed that she might have been a tad influenced by Connor’s confiscated magazines, one of which was about a journey into the fires of hell. She might have pushed the planchette just a bit. She couldn’t really be sure.

  I saw James Moran once. On the campus of Columbia, where I’d gone to have lunch with John. He tipped his hat to me from across the street. I knew he’d never forget that I owed him one, but I figured that between me and Myrtle, one of us would put him behind bars one day. I’d told my sister everything except for the part Moran played. Only John and I knew about that. I had a strong feeling it would push Myrtle—who’d thus far been remarkably tolerant of our escapades—right over the edge.

  As for the Black Pullet grimoire…Well, on September third, I’d received an invitation for tea with Mrs. Temple Kane. It was not a pleasant experience. She informed me that the book had been burned—which I had to take her word for, of course—and more or less threatened the entire Fearing Pell clan with financial and social ruin if I ever came near George again. I told her that I wanted nothing to do with her loathsome offspring, which was the truth, although I did privately wonder what gentleman at his club he’d obtained it from. And exactly when and how George had gotten the grimoire back from Becky. From his talk of “all that blood,” I could only assume he had seen the crime scene. He must have visited her later that night or the next day to find out how his “experiment” had gone, and discovered her body.

  George Kane didn’t even have the decency to notify the authorities. He just left his former lover there to rot, until a neighbor smelled her.

  I said those exact words to Mrs. Kane, at which point our interview ended abruptly.

  What else? Connor and the Butchers finally tracked down the stock broker who had lost Straker’s money. His name was Gerald Forrest and he’d been serving time at Auburn prison for fraud for the last five months.

  As for the elusive Robert Aaron Straker himself…

  I sat up at a knock on the parlor door.

  “Come in,” I called.

  He was leaning on a cane, Elizabeth Brady holding his good arm. Moran’s thugs had broken his leg and would have done worse if four members of a rival gang hadn’t come along and been outraged that their turf was being invaded. A melee had ensued, allowing Straker to hobble away unnoticed. He’d ended up in Bellevue, where detectives found him a day later, raving and incoherent.

  “Miss Pell,” he said softly. He turned to John. “You must be Doctor Weston. And…”

  “Connor,” Connor said. “I’m a free-lance consultant.”

  Straker smiled. He was still handsome, although his eyes were lined and white streaked the dark hair at his temples.

  “I’m glad you could come,” I said warmly. “Please sit down.”

  “They let me go this morning,” Straker said, taking a chair by the fire and resting his cane against the mantel. “We won’t stay long. We’re catching a train to Hastings in an hour.”

  Elizabeth hovered protectively behind him. She too had lost weight, although her fingernails were no longer chewed to the quick.

  I knew that Elizabeth had paid for the private sanatorium Straker had been recovering in for the last two months.

  “You look well,” I said.

  “Yes.” Straker laughed awkwardly. “They say it was a case of nervous prostration. After the things I saw…” He trailed off.

  “I was hoping you might be able to tell us a bit about that,” I said. “If you’re able.”

  “It’s all right. I’ve done it enough before, with the doctors and the police. It gets easier. In fact, they say it’s good for me. To talk about it.”
/>   “Did you actually witness…?” John ventured.

  “Brady killing her?” Straker finished. “Not the act itself, no. But I had a bad feeling when Leland left me. A premonition of danger. We were both shaken up after Becky sacrificed that rooster, but Leland more so. He looked strange, pale and ill. I couldn’t sleep so I walked the streets for a bit. Then I thought that I’d go to the Bottle Alley Saloon for a quick drink.” He grimaced. “I was drinking quite a lot then. It was the only thing that gave me solace from my miserable existence. I was about to go down the stairs when I saw that Becky’s light was still on. I had the sudden thought that she might join me. I didn’t care to be alone. So I entered her building. Fat Kitty owns the whole place and sometimes forgets to lock the front door. Pickles usually watches things for her.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “I knew something was wrong the moment I got to Becky’s flat on the second floor. Her door was ajar. And I heard noises coming from inside. A wet, slurping sound.”

  Connor’s eyes had grown wide as saucers. I regretted letting him stay, but I knew he wouldn’t leave now if the house was on fire.

  “My chest tightened with a kind of nameless dread. I peeked through the crack. Leland…well, he was on all fours. It took me a moment to realize that it was Becky lying there next to him. She was… suffice to say, she didn’t look human anymore. But neither did Leland. He’d removed his clothing and he was…well, he was lapping at her blood like a cat with a dish of milk. I think my mind fractured at that moment. I felt I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The doctors say I’d already been under a mental strain and the sight of it just…broke me. I must have made a small noise, because Leland turned. He looked me right in the eye. And he smiled. An awful scarlet grin. So I did the only thing I was capable of at that moment. I ran.”

  “Anyone would have,” Elizabeth said quietly.

  “No!” Straker said forcefully. “I was weak. A coward. If I’d just confronted him then, I could have prevented him from killing all those others.”