by Jack Conner
Having little choice, Lynch reached the fire escape and clattered down it. Metal rang beneath his feet. At the bottom he extended the ladder and alit on the sidewalk. Passing cars slowed to eye him, their occupants doubtlessly wondering where the fire was.
A dark van screamed around the corner. It caromed toward him.
Lynch plunged into the street, directly before a green sedan, whose driver slammed on the breaks. Before he could even stop completely, Lynch ripped open the door and evicted the poor man onto the asphalt.
The van screeched to a halt, its panel door groaning open.
Troopers rushed out.
Lynch stomped the gas, and the car lurched forward. Its miniature proportions forced him to bend over the steering wheel, and his knees hit the underside of the dash. Its windows were greasy and dark with smoke, and cigarettes crammed the ashtray. Ripped seats unleashed juts of yellow stuffing.
Lynch aimed for the nearest trooper, but the man dodged aside as Lynch shot past. Lynch laughed at him as he went by.
A gun cracked, and the rear window exploded. The gun cracked again, and flying glass blow past his cheek. One piece skimmed his ear. Warm blood trickle down his neck.
He jerked the wheel to the right, cut across traffic and down a wide street. The cars moved too slowly around him. He swerved in and out. Honking horns filled the air. He could only use his one hand to drive, and he was not an adept driver in any case, having relied on limousines and carriages when he was young and lived at the country manor and relying on taxis now he was in the city, so his driving was jerky and erratic. His arm soon wearied from the constant hauling on the wheel.
The dark van appeared in his rearview mirror, moving like a shark through the sea of traffic.
Lynch hit the gas, drove faster. He rushed through an intersection. A large shape that might have been a truck flashed past, there came a shriek of rubber and a loud peeling honk, a bang, and then he was through. He swerved around another corner, then another.
The dark van plowed on, unrelenting.
It began to gain.
Lynch drove on, hoping, praying that -- yes! --
A set of lights flashed in his rearview mirror. The sound of a siren blared in his ears. The police cruiser shot toward him, and cars shrank out of its way.
At first the dark van maintained its chase, and Lynch tensed. But then it slowly swung aside when a second cruiser joined in, and then a third. Lynch smiled tightly. Sweat stung his eye. His arm ached. The stench of stale cigarettes filled his nose.
What now? Tempting to let the police take him. With Detective Brown on his side, possibly any trouble could be minimized. But no. If he approached the police about Gunnerson and his mysterious Society it would be as a concerned citizen, not as a car-thief and God-knew-what-else. The former they might listen to, the latter they would throw in jail.
He pulled the car onto Jocelyn Bridge. As usual a line of slowly moving cars filled both sides, and the equally slow, thick waters of the Joce rolled below, eventually to join the delta and filter sluggishly into the sea. It was a great span of a bridge, all metal and high suspension towers and singing cables, but the water itself moved not far below.
Lynch pulled the car to a halt and climbed out, feeling relief at the cool air and lack of stale cigarette smoke.
Sirens screamed. The cars they belonged to jerked to a halt not twenty meters back. Only a few civilian cars separated Lynch from the cops. He threaded his way through the vehicles, drivers staring at him as he passed. Police shouted behind him.
He reached the guardrail, climbed over.
“No!” someone shouted, possibly a policeman. “Don’t do it!”
He stared down at the slow-churning river that stretched half a mile in both directions, lights from nearby factories glittering on the surface, and wondered how deep it was here and whether any rocks lurked just beneath the surface. Well, there was nothing for it.
He leapt. Air whistled in his ears and dragged his jacket up, cops screamed --
Water smacked him. Jarred him. The weight of all his clothes, not to mention the valuables he’d brought with him, dragged him down like an anchor. He struggled toward the surface, but gravity fought him.
The current carried him along. Fire began to fill his lungs. Sparks danced in his vision. He only had one hand to haul himself upwards with, and his shoed feet were of little help as they could not kick fast enough and were filled with water. At last, with much effort, he wrestled off his overcoat, and it spiraled ghost-like into the depths, carrying with it his gun and several priceless heirlooms: his father’s watch, his mother’s locket necklace.
Lightened, he won his way to the surface just before the stars and flares that had been wheeling in his vision overtook him. He broke the river’s surface and gasped in a great lung-full, then another. The stars and flares retreated.
His clothes began to drag him back down. Frantically he paddled and kicked. He didn’t have strength to go for long, so he made directly for shore. He hoped it would take the cops some time to navigate the shore-side streets with all their industrial complexes, most fenced off from the main roads. The troopers of the dark van, by contrast, probably would have jumped into the river after him.
At last, gasping and sodden, he dragged himself onto shore near the wharf of what looked like a scrap heap. A factory belched smoke to his right. He collapsed and used the last of his strength to flip himself over.
For a long moment he just lay there gasping, trying to collect his thoughts. Flares zipped and spun around him, but they began to diminish. When he could, he blinked, spat, and forced himself to his feet. Water dripped from him. The world spun around him. A pain stung him and he reached up to feel his right ear, saw blood on his fingers.
He took stock. He was soaked and bloody and reeling, homeless and almost without means. Worse, he lacked even a good starting place to counter his enemies. Opposed to him was some shadowy organization whose size and limits he could not define, nor even their purpose, nor what resources they might possess. Just what were those odd pieces of technology at Lars Gunnerson’s lair, and what had Gunnerson been doing to the corpses found in the Blight?
Suddenly, Lynch threw back his head and laughed -- long and loud. The laughter shook him, and droplets of water sprayed in every direction. The laughter came and came, and a sort of madness rose inside him.
“You’ve declared war on Lynchmort James, have you? Well, what you don’t know is Lynchmort James has declared war on you!”
Fire filled him, and he set off into the night.
The first thing to do, obviously, was get good and drunk. Still dripping, he found the nearest pub -- a rough place for factory workers -- and slaughtered a few drinks. As newcomers trickled in, rumors circulated of police combing the area’s docks. Lynch retained enough sense to hail a cab.
“Where to, guv’nor?” asked the cabbie, a proper English fellow. Lynch had always liked the English. His country had once been a vassal state of England before earning its independence, and he still considered himself half English.
In any case, the man raised an interesting point. Lynch had nowhere to go to.
“Sycamore Hill,” he said.
The cabbie raised his eyebrows but obeyed.
Twenty minutes later Lynch tottered through the high stone archway that marked the entrance to Sycamore Hill. A guard started to move toward him, but Lynch waved the flowers he’d had the foresight to buy and the guard shrugged and moved off through the dark. Lynch kept his back as straight as possible as he pressed up one hill, then another -- Sycamore Hill was more of a collection of hills, each seeming higher than the one before, especially in his state. He belched and swore freely as he advanced through the rearing oaks and tombstones, the great mausoleums encrusted with angels and twined with flowers.
He stopped before one resplendent mausoleum of white marble perched on a hill. Its steps showed proud dark veins in the stone, its Roman pillars held aloft the peaked canopy, and it
s great sealed doors depicted angels singing the setting sun to sleep. This was the family resting place of the de Courtneys, and Lynch came here often, usually in the same state as now.
He stared up at the tomb, backlit by the stars, and mouthed a word:
“Eliza.”
The wind whipped it away. His eye stung. He sank to his knees, set the flowers on the marble steps, then curled up around them and let the darkness take him.
***
Something poked his ribs. Again. He swatted at it, but it continued, getting more aggressive with every poke.
“Get up, you louse. Get the hell out of here! What do you think you’re doing?”
Groaning, Lynch grabbed a nearby column and used it to haul himself to his feet. His head throbbed.
“I said get!” repeated the guard, for it was he who’d been prodding Lynch with a steel-jacked toe. He jerked out his baton for emphasis.
Lynch grinned, tipped an imaginary hat and ambled down the stairs. “Much obliged. I’ll have to recommend this establishment to my friends.”
The guard cursed him and turned away.
Lynch found a streetside vendor selling sausage in a bun and piled on the mustard and relish. Done, he helped himself to some Earl Grey from a shop and wandered the morning streets. It all seemed strange, alien, as if he had stumbled into another world. News vendors hawked the days’ battles, detailing the Nazis’ advance through the mountains. The Count was temporarily checked, they said, but that would not last long, especially with the frequent air bombardments.
Was this really the country Lynch had grown up in, cowering and fearful, expecting doom at any moment? Fortunately the mountains had protected Casveigh from the worst of the Count’s land assault. Much fighting took place on their slopes, to be sure, but the greater threat came from the skies, from the Count’s own terrible arm of the Luftwaffe.
Lynch tried not to think about it. He had his own villains to bring down.
The starting point, now that he considered it, was investigating the other murders throughout town, the ones Detective Brown had mentioned. It was possible, even likely, that other people than Lars Gunnerson had committed those murders, and in any event someone may have seen something. After all, witnesses in the Blight had led Lynch to Gunnerson. Might a witness in one of these other areas lead him to more culprits?
Needing access to police records, he set out toward the 32nd Precinct, which sat west of the Square next to one of the old spring-fed Roman baths, still plying its trade after all these years, its waters said to cure all manner of aches and illnesses.
The precinct was originally a fort built during the wars with the Spanish, tall and baroque and stained by age. Deformed, lichen-encrusted gargoyles leered down from the corners of narrow windows and from over the proud main door. Because of its high towers and central dome, the fort always looked much larger than it really was, and when Lynch stepped inside he was surprised as always by how small it was -- narrow, cramped but surprisingly deep and winding. Offices choked its ground level, and it teemed with secretaries typing reports, policemen going through files or talking on the phone, shirtsleeves rolled up, cigarettes in mouths. A layer of cheap cigarette smoke wreathed the ceiling, stirring amongst the lights that flickered and buzzed, moths batting against them. The jail cells were located on the floor above as well as in the old dungeons below, and Lynch did not like to think on what had gone on there in medieval times -- even a hundred years ago.
A desk sergeant made him wait while he found Det. Brown and verified that he was willing to receive Lynch, and Lynch was ushered through the smoky halls with their frustratingly low ceilings and into the detective’s office. Small and stuffed with cabinets and bulky desk, it occupied a corner that boasted two narrow windows, one on each wall. Iron grills covered them. Outside, a pigeon rustled and shat on a gargoyle’s head.
“Sit, sit,” Brown said, gesturing Lynch to a cheap wooden chair. The detective seemed distracted, tired. But there was something else, something wary, about his expression. When Lynch had sat and the pleasantries were observed, the detective leaned forward, braced his elbows on the desk, and stared at Lynch intently.
“Does my appearance suddenly fascinate you?” Lynch inquired.
Brown’s stare only increased in intensity. “The fire last night. It was you, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. A fire? Heavens!”
Brown’s eyes narrowed. Lynch had forgotten how hairy his forearms were, and how meaty. His cheeks were red, and he looked hot. “The reports say it was a man with one eye. Wearing an eye patch. And one of the corpses found in the conflagration was . . . gutted.” He said the word as if it should be particularly fear-inducing.
Lynch could only smile. “Sounds like quite a party.”
Brown’s fists bulged, and his hairy forearms flexed. “Lynchmort, I don’t know why you did it, but I know it was you. It was the exact address I gave you.” He said this in a heated whisper, as if afraid someone might overhear.
That reassured Lynch. He leaned back, dispensed with the theatrics. “You wanted me to help you solve the murders. You said you couldn’t do it yourself. Well, don’t complain about my methods.”
A vein throbbed in Brown’s forehead. Air hissed from between clenched teeth. He forced himself to take a deep breath and un-ball his fists. Lynch lit a cigarette and offered him one. After some hesitation, the detective accepted. Lynch knew it was good tobacco.
“What are you doing here?” Brown’s voice was pained.
“You didn’t ask me what I learned.”
“You mean, in burning down the mansion of a prominent family and killing multiple people?”
“About that -- did you identify the bodies in the basement?”
“B-- There were no bodies in the basement. I’m talking about the servant, I believe his name was François M. Siegel, and the lady of the house, Mrs. Lydia Everly. I can’t believe you killed a woman, Lynch.”
“I did no such thing. She died, really? Well, she did harbor him, and she was likely neck-deep in the murders, and she did try to have Siegel kill me. Siegel -- I would like you to examine his body. Rather, put your best examiner on it. You should notice some . . . abnormalities.”
“Meaning?”
“Just look into it. You will find Lady Everly died of poison gas. Now. I need your assistance. I assume that if the bodies were removed, or your fellow policemen are complicit in hiding them, that the machines in the basement were likewise not found.”
“You’re not making any sense.” Brown took a drag on his cigarette, blew out smoke through his nostrils. “Remember, we’ve established I don’t owe you a thing. You may have saved my son, but that debt was paid long ago -- in your freedom. Something that may prove very temporary.”
“I need your help.”
“You certainly need somebody’s.”
“Lars Gunnerson belongs to some secret society -- the Society, so he called it, though I suspect that may be short for something. It is responsible for the murders throughout town. There is more. Strange experiments. Technology.” He took a drag. “There are things you won’t want to hear. Your fellow cops, some of them, are involved, and that’s just the first level. It goes further up. Much.”
Brown looked away. Cleared his throat. “My brothers aren’t angels, Lynchmort. And the criminal class can be very . . . persuasive. Sometimes it’s better for everybody if a few coins are exchanged and life goes on.”
“I’m talking about something bigger than looking the other way for a few pimps, Harland. There are cops aiding the killers.”
Brown sighed and smoked in silence. “I was afraid of this. It’s why I wanted you to poke into things. I had inquired about the murders at precincts around town, but I just get stonewalled. I try to spur my colleagues to investigate. Some are game, but others block us. I can’t prove they’re doing it, but nothing gets done. We need someone from the outside to straighten this out. It’s the only reas
on I’m not slapping you in irons right now.”
“Good. No, bad. I need the files on the other murders. If the other precincts aren’t cooperating with you, how can I get them?”
Brown stubbed out his cigarette. He stared at Lynch, smoke wreathing up from the ashtray like incense in a Buddhist temple. He crossed his thick fingers on his belly and leveled his eyes at Lynch. The silence stretched. At last Brown said, “Many of the murders went unreported -- we’ve only heard rumors of them -- but a few slipped through the net. The only one that would have the files on them, besides the individual precincts that took them, is . . . But no. What am I thinking?”
“Don’t make me guess. Picasso!”
“Surely I can’t send you to the District Head . . .”
“Surely.”
“You would only embarrass me.”
Lynch straightened the lapels of his jacket. “I was raised a country gentleman. I can act the part when the mood strikes.”
“You are a bastard with manners, I’ll give you that. When it suits you. A drunken, vice-riddled, whoring bastard.”
“It suits me now. Does the District Head have access to these files?”
“He has copies. He has full reports of every murder in the city for the last six months, and the rest stored away. I trust him, and I think he will do me this favor.” He gritted his teeth. “But, Lynchmort . . . if you humiliate me . . . “
“I know. I’ll find out the temperature of the old dungeon cells below.”
“You’ll find out more than their temperature. You’ll find out how many rats live there, how many die, what the scum on the walls tastes like, what it feels like in the cold and dark when the lights stop working . . . the wiring is notoriously bad down there, and we don’t have the budget to fix it . . . “
Lynch suppressed a yawn with his hook. His breath misted the metal. “I have things to do, Detective.”
Brown shook his head. “I’ll call a car for you and inform the Head when you’re en route. Don’t make me regret this.”