by Matt Ruff
“Yeah, I’m still here,” Montrose said, looking around at the frozen tableau. “Guess we don’t have to worry about anyone eavesdropping on our parley.”
They heard the elevator rising out of the basement. It stopped on the first floor and the gate rattled open. Atticus circled the fountain and approached the empty elevator car. The interior was lit by an overhead lamp that he’d rewired himself, but as he got closer he noticed another light, tinged red and flickering like hellfire, shining up from below and visible in the gap between the car and the shaft—and that corresponded to no device he’d had anything to do with. “Uh, Pop . . .”
“It’s all right,” Montrose said, stepping past him. “I’ve been down this road before. Just don’t eat or drink anything, you’ll be fine.”
The next night was cold but clear. Braithwhite picked Atticus up outside the Winthrop House at the appointed time and they headed for the Northwest Side. They spoke very little during the journey. Braithwhite kept his eyes on the road ahead and grinned in self-satisfaction, as if his victory over Lancaster were already accomplished. Atticus, more somber, kept looking into the Daimler’s backseat as if checking for followers on the road behind them.
The moon was just beginning to set as they drove up to the front gate of the Glastonbury Country Club with its prominent MEMBERS ONLY sign. The guard in the stone gatehouse acknowledged their arrival by picking up a telephone, but then for a long while nothing else happened. Braithwhite took the delay in good humor, his only sign of impatience a light drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel. Atticus looked into the backseat again.
Finally the guard came out and opened the gate for them. Braithwhite drove forward, but almost immediately found the way blocked again, this time by Detectives Burke and Noble. Adopting an impish expression, Braithwhite goosed the accelerator pedal, forcing the detectives to duck aside as the car lurched towards them. Noble managed a graceful sidestep, but Burke slipped on a patch of ice and nearly went down.
Atticus, knowing who would suffer for the detectives’ displeasure, gave Braithwhite a side-eyed look that said, Was that really necessary? But then a thought struck him. “They’re not immune.”
“Lodges that know the secret of immunity tend to reserve it for the senior membership,” Braithwhite said. “Keeps the neophytes in line.” He added: “Don’t forget you’re not immune, either.”
“I’m not the one making trouble,” Atticus reminded him.
Noble was at the driver’s door now, rapping impatiently on the glass. Braithwhite rolled his window down. “Good evening, officer,” he said. “How can we help you?”
“Get out of the car,” Noble said. Bending down to look in at Atticus: “Both of you.”
They got out. Burke was waiting on the passenger side to slam Atticus up against the car and frisk him. Noble looked as though he would have liked to give Braithwhite the same rough treatment, but because of Braithwhite’s immunity, he couldn’t just lay hands on him. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, and Braithwhite raised his arms and consented to be searched.
Burke shoved Atticus aside and shined a flashlight around the Daimler’s backseat. Detective Noble opened the trunk. “What’s this?” Noble said, lifting up a dictionary-sized object wrapped in gift paper.
“A peace offering,” Braithwhite said. “I told Lancaster I’d bring him Hiram Winthrop’s lost notebooks.”
Noble tore open the wrapping paper. “Peace offering, huh?”
“What is it?” asked Burke. Noble showed him, and Burke laughed and said to Braithwhite: “Do you have a fucking death wish?”
“If I do,” said Caleb Braithwhite, “you won’t be the one to grant it.”
“No,” Noble agreed, “Lancaster will want to do the honors himself.” Then he shrugged. “It’s your funeral . . . Leave the keys in the car, I’ll walk you in.”
“Mind you don’t scratch it,” Braithwhite said to Burke.
“Death wish,” Burke replied. He slammed the trunk shut, then came back around the passenger side, meaning to give Atticus another shove. But Atticus, not wanting to be tempted to hit Burke now that he knew he could, had already started for the clubhouse.
As Noble and Braithwhite and Atticus went inside, Burke remained standing by the Daimler, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Sir?” said the gate guard. “Is everything all right?”
“No,” Detective Burke said. “I don’t think so.” He nodded at the Daimler. “Get this parked, then get on the phone to the house and get some more men out here. Back gate, too . . . I’m going to take a walk around the grounds. That asshole’s up to something.”
Hippolyta emerged from the trees as the moon slipped below the horizon. For the last twenty minutes she’d been making her way through the woods that bordered the country club’s golf course. She’d stumbled more than once in the dark but her sense of direction had held true, and now looking south across a snow-covered fairway she could see the clubhouse and, closer to hand, the small outbuilding that was her destination.
She heard footsteps at her back as the white woman who’d accompanied her emerged from the woods as well. The woman’s name was Hillary, and she worked for Braithwhite. Hippolyta would much rather have had Letitia or Ruby with her, but Letitia had been assigned a different task, and Ruby was back in town somewhere, performing some other errand which she wouldn’t describe, but which, she’d said, was absolutely essential if Braithwhite wasn’t to become suspicious.
Hippolyta felt for the pistol in her coat pocket and started across the fairway, Hillary at her side. Soon they were close enough to read the sign on the outbuilding: POWER & UTILITY—NO ADMITTANCE.
According to Braithwhite, there would be at least two men inside, stationed in a control room on the second floor. They’d have a phone to the main house and probably radios as well, and the danger was that in the event of a commotion they’d have time to raise an alarm. Hence the white girl.
“OK,” Hippolyta said, as they sheltered on the north side of the building, out of sight of the upstairs windows. “You know how you’re going to get them to open the door for you?”
“I could just knock and ask,” Hillary said. “But if they’re being careful they might make me wait outside while they call it in. We need to make it so they don’t stop and think. So . . .” She shrugged off her coat, revealing a sleeveless black dress more suited to a cocktail party than a trek through the woods. She bent down and tugged off her boots as well, and then standing in the snow in her stockinged feet gripped her dress with both hands and tore it.
“Yeah,” Hippolyta acknowledged, seeing where she was going. “That’ll work.”
The gate guard set the Daimler’s parking brake and got out. A ten count after the door slammed shut, there was a soft click of a latch and the rear seat’s back cushion swung down, exposing the narrow compartment between the seat and the trunk in which Letitia lay hidden.
She got out of the car and crouched beside it as she loosened the drawstring on a velvet bag. Inside was a tapered ebony wand about a foot long, carved with Adamite letters. Its narrow end was tipped with a small silver dragonfly that Letitia was careful not to touch.
Staying low, she went after the guard, who had nearly reached the gatehouse. She let him get inside, then ran up and banged on the door. When he stuck his head back out, saying, “Mr. Burke?” she swiped his cheek with the dragonfly. It was the barest of caresses, but the guard’s eyes rolled up instantly and he crashed to the ground, unconscious.
“Interesting,” Letitia said.
Detective Noble led Braithwhite and Atticus to a large parlor at the west end of the clubhouse. There they were made to wait again. Braithwhite helped himself to scotch from the bar and sat in one of two chairs arranged in front of a roaring fireplace. Atticus, not needing to be told the amenities weren’t for him, remained on his feet, scanning the shelves of a pair of ceiling-high bookcases. Unfortunately, this was one of those decorative pseudo-libraries whose co
ntents appeared to have been chosen purely for the look of the bindings.
The hallway door opened and Lancaster entered in a swirl of cigar smoke.
“Nice of you to join us,” Caleb Braithwhite said.
“Really?” said Lancaster. “That’s the attitude you want start with?” He waited for Noble to hand him a scotch, then took the other seat by the fire. “So,” he said. “Did you bring that thing you promised me?”
Detective Noble cleared his throat. He picked up Braithwhite’s present from the bar and brought it over to Lancaster. Lancaster set down his drink and put the cigar in his mouth and took the book—a single leather-bound volume—in both hands. As he read the gilt lettering on the cover—A COMPREHENSIVE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF HEBREW KABBALAH, by Mordecai Kirschbaum—his expression grew pained. He gave the book back to Noble and took the cigar out of his mouth and stared into the fire, working his jaw side to side as if trying to find a comfortable position for it. “Wow,” he said finally. “You are just bound and determined to piss me off, aren’t you?”
“I couldn’t bring you Winthrop’s notebooks,” Braithwhite told him. “I don’t have them.”
“I don’t fucking believe you,” Lancaster replied. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t excuse this sort of bullshit. Or this,” he added, reaching into his jacket. He brought out a coin-sized disk of bone, engraved with the image of an owl, and tossed it on the hearth.
“Turnabout,” Braithwhite said. “You’ve been spying on me too.”
“I’ve been watching your ass, because I know you can’t be trusted.”
“And you’re saying I could trust you?”
Lancaster reared his head back. “Unbelievable,” he said. “You try to fuck me over, and it’s my fault? . . . I dealt square with you, asshole. I welcomed you into my city. I was willing to work with you.”
“Of course you were,” Braithwhite said. “As long as I stayed in my place.”
“What were you expecting? You’re a kid, for Christ’s sake, not even half my age . . . You think I’m going to bend my knee to you just because you’ve got a little talent? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“A better natural philosopher then you’ll ever be,” said Caleb Braithwhite.
Lancaster laughed. “Is this the kind of lip you gave your old man? It’s a wonder he didn’t kill you first. I’ll tell you something else, too: I didn’t know your father, but Bill Warwick? He was one of Winthrop’s apprentices, back in the day, and he was there when Winthrop and your dad had their thing. He told me some stories about what a snotnose Sam Braithwhite was. So congratulations: You may have hated your father’s guts, but it sounds like you’re just like him.”
Atticus had been doing his best to act invisible. But now, seeing Braithwhite’s reaction to Lancaster’s comment, he allowed himself to smile. Lancaster stiffened and turned to glare at him as if he’d laughed aloud.
“Sorry,” Atticus said. “Why don’t I wait outside while you gentlemen—”
“No, you stay right where the fuck you are,” Lancaster told him. Turning back to Braithwhite: “Both of you.”
The guard at the back gate had stepped outside to urinate in the bushes beside the gatehouse. He was zipping up his trousers when a silver dragonfly landed on the back of his neck and he collapsed. Letitia stood over him with her arms raised in a prizefighter’s stance. Then she went to open the gate.
A van marked SHADOWBROOK BAKERIES that had been waiting down the road drove up and stopped inside the gate. Montrose and George jumped out. They picked up the unconscious guard and put him in the gatehouse. “How long is this guy supposed to be out for?” George asked.
“Mr. Braithwhite said he should be dead to the world for three or four hours at least,” Letitia told him. “And when he wakes up, he won’t remember anything he’s seen or done tonight.”
Abdullah had turned the van around and was backing it up to the loading dock behind the clubhouse kitchen. As he switched off the engine, a door at the side of the loading dock swung open and a dark-suited white man came out.
“Oh, shit,” Montrose said. But it wasn’t the van that had brought the white man outside—he had a cigarette between his lips, and his attention was focused on a lighter cupped in his hands.
“Don’t worry,” Letitia whispered, brandishing her wand. “I got this.”
“Oh God, sir, please help me!” Hillary said, and as the guard threw the door open she pretended to swoon and fell into his arms. He stumbled back a few paces, regained his balance—and froze, feeling the muzzle of the gun pressed up under his chin. “Shh,” Hillary said, while Hippolyta stepped through the open doorway and moved quickly to the foot of the stairs.
“Bobby?” a voice called down from above. “Who is it?”
Two minutes later Hillary was handcuffing both guards to a pipe in the ground-floor generator room. She tried to act surprised when she turned around and found Hippolyta’s pistol pointed at her. “Now you,” Hippolyta said, holding up another pair of cuffs.
Without waiting to be told, Hillary tossed her own gun into a far corner of the room. She took the cuffs and had begun to lock herself to a different pipe when one of the guards snickered and said, “That’s what you get for trusting a nigger, sweetheart.”
“You shut your mouth!” Hippolyta said, and then blinked, realizing that Hillary had said it too, in the exact same tone of voice.
Hillary answered Hippolyta’s look with a shrug. “Go on upstairs and don’t worry about me,” she said, clicking her handcuffs closed. “George and Montrose will be giving the signal any time now.”
Pirate Joe, Abdullah, and Mortimer made their way through the clubhouse kitchen, stepping over the unconscious bodies of security guards. They paused to rebalance their burden—a large, flat object wrapped in furniture pads—and headed for the ballroom. Another guard appeared out of a side corridor, but Letitia was right behind the man and she zapped him before he could do anything.
The ballroom was unoccupied. They maneuvered past the tables to the open space beneath the chandelier. While Pirate Joe and Abdullah undid the furniture pads and Mortimer reviewed a diagram on a creased piece of drafting paper, Letitia continued to the far end of the room. The display case had been removed, but the painting remained, and when Letitia pressed the hidden catch on the bottom of the frame, it swung out to reveal a large wall safe. She studied the combination dial and rubbed her fingers together, as if preparing to crack it.
Instead she returned to the Masons. “OK,” she told them, “I’m going back out to make sure I didn’t miss anybody. You boys be all right on your own for a few minutes?”
“Yeah,” Pirate Joe said, grinning. “We should be fine until the shouting starts. Be careful.”
Lancaster sipped his scotch reflectively. “So what do we do now, huh?” he said. “I suppose I could just send you packing, and keep him.” He waved his cigar in Atticus’s direction.
“You could try to do that,” Braithwhite said.
Lancaster smiled. “You think I couldn’t run you out of town if I wanted to? But it’d be a shame, to lose you now. You’ve got skill, I grant you that. And a way with words. You could be very useful, come Midsummer’s Day. If only I could turn my back without worrying you’d stick a knife in it.”
“That is a problem.”
“Yeah, but maybe I have a solution. Tell me, that mark I put on the boy, what did you think of that?”
“Technically impressive,” Braithwhite acknowledged. “Was it really your work?”
“I picked up the basic principles from Bill Warwick,” Lancaster said. “But the execution was all mine.”
“So what’s your plan? You want to send a toy to chase after me, now?”
“No, I’ve got a different mark in mind, for you. Something else Bill was working on. I found it in his files, after he disappeared. He called it ‘the mark of the beast.’”
“As in St. John’s Revelation,” Braithwhite asked, “or a livestock brand?”
“So no one can kill your servants but you,” Braithwhite said. He glanced over at Noble. “And you know how to do this?”
“Bill was still working on the mark when he disappeared,” Lancaster said. “I think I’ve got the last few kinks worked out. There are a couple of questions I was hoping Winthrop’s notebooks might help me with, but that’s just being conservative. I’m ready to make a live test right now.”
Braithwhite’s smile became dangerous. “And you think you can force me to sit still for that?”
“Not me,” Lancaster said. “Us.”
Noble opened the hallway door to admit a procession of white men wearing silver signet rings. Atticus recognized one of them as a former city alderman, and there were others, more vaguely familiar, whose faces he must have seen in newspaper photographs.
There were thirteen men in all. They formed up in two rows, like an odd-numbered jury.
“So,” Lancaster said, looking from Braithwhite to Atticus and back again. “Who wants to be first?”
Montrose and George had gotten onto the roof through a trapdoor in the kitchen. The chimney they wanted was at the far end of the building; their route to it was a two-foot-wide walkway running just below the line of the roof peak. It would have been an exciting hike even in summer, but now the walkway was slick with snow and ice.
“Santa’s little helpers,” George muttered nervously, to which Montrose replied, “Don’t go all Berry on me.” Montrose started off, George followed, and soon, thanks in no small part to the power of sibling rivalry, they were moving along the roofline with the sprightliness of boys. In moments they stood above their destination. Montrose tied a rope to the walkway and they eased themselves down the slope of the roof until they were braced against the chimney’s side. Then George took a flashlight from his pocket and looked towards the outbuilding where Hippolyta was waiting to cut the power. Montrose unslung a bag from around his neck and took out a glass bottle filled with a milky white potion.