“I’d appreciate it if no Purples ever show up on your list, Mr. Sullivan, ’cause that could be unpleasant for everybody.”
If one of the Hoover telegrams had a member of the Purple Gang on it for him to help catch, Sullivan would make damn sure he had plans to get the hell out of Detroit real quick afterwards. “I’d like that very much too, sir.”
“Respect . . . Let me tell you, I wish you woulda taken Isadore’s job offer after the UBF strike. A Heavy like you could make a lot of money working for the Purples. My Heavies down there said you’re downright frightening how much Power you got.”
Of course he was good; he’d done nothing but practice the entire time he’d been in Rockville. “You honor me, Mr. Horowitz, but I’m just a simple man,” Sullivan said.
“Isadore said you were a whole lot smarter than you talked, too. My people appreciate an educated man, especially a self-educated man such as yourself. Izzy, may he rest in peace, said you read books like some sort of professor.”
“Reading’s my hobby. Keeps me out of trouble.”
“Seems like a man who’s avoiding trouble wouldn’t end up in the middle of it so often.”
“Just curious I guess . . . Like I’m curious about Arthur Fordyce. His wife hired me to find him.”
Horowitz chuckled. “I liked old Arthur. You’re probably wondering how we knew each other. Well, let’s just say that Arthur didn’t care much who he Mended as long as their dollars were green. Last time I used him was ’cause I’d started losing my vision and couldn’t feel my toes. He fixed me up good as new and told me to quit eating so much sugar. Ha! Not with this sweet tooth.” Horowitz pounded one meaty hand on the desk, then he paused and frowned. “Well, shit . . . Now that he’s gone I might have to cut back . . . Arthur did other things for the Purples too. If one of my boys got shot and I needed him back in action quick, I’d go to Arthur. He was good at pulling bullets out but not asking about who put them in, if you get what I’m saying. Son of a bitch charged an arm and a leg, though.”
“You know who might have taken him?”
The gangster shrugged. “Lots of folks. Maybe somebody who needed something fixed couldn’t afford to pay an arm or a leg. Sick folk can get mighty desperate.”
“These are desperate times,” Sullivan agreed. Detroit was better off than most of the country, but even here there were tent cities growing on the fringe. Lots of people were out of work, hungry, and hurting.
Horowitz made a big show of studying Sullivan for a long time. “Maybe not just sick folks get that desperate . . . Come to think on it, maybe I know somebody else who couldn’t afford a Healing, but might need a Healer real bad . . . Maybe I could tell you something that would help us both out of a jam.”
He was looking for an angle, but men like Horowitz always were. “I’m listening,” Sullivan said.
“You ever hear that old saying, kill two birds with one stone? You got to find somebody and I don’t get to eat sweets because the only Healer in Detroit is gone . . . and maybe, just maybe, I know somebody who might have taken poor old Arthur. Maybe there is this crew mucking around in my area, robbing banks where they shouldn’t be, but maybe this crew have been muscle for another group that the Purples don’t want to mess with. Maybe this crew works with the Mustache Petes . . .” Sullivan knew that the Mustache Petes were the Sicilian-born gangsters that ran New York. The word was that Purple Gang had an uneasy truce with them. “Maybe this crew was caught robbing a bank and got themselves shot to bits by policemen over Albion way. Maybe they’d be desperate enough to steal a Healer . . . Maybe this is something I’d like to take care of myself, but my hands are tied on account of business reasons. What do you say to that?”
That’s a lot of maybes. The last BI telegram had said the Maplethorpe Gang had gotten hit in Albion. They certainly wouldn’t be above kidnapping. “That’s very . . . forthcoming of you, Mr. Horowitz. If this crew was to get rolled up by the law, they’d be out of your hair.”
“You find your man, this other crew goes away. Two birds, one rock. Bam. As long as you never said where you heard it from . . .”
“Of course. How about you let me know where this crew is and I’ll go get your favorite Healer back?”
“Doubt it. Johnny Bones enjoys killin’ too much, likes to cut on people so they die slow, and his brother Snowball’s damn near as mean. The second he got his crew Mended, Arthur probably died. Let me put the word out. As soon as I know where that crew is, I’ll be in touch.”
Sullivan knew when he’d been dismissed. Horowitz didn’t offer to shake on their deal. As far as the gangster was concerned, selling out Johnny Bones was like taking the garbage out to the curb for pickup. Sullivan stood to leave.
“One last thing, Mr. Sullivan. When you come up against Johnny, you’re gonna have to kill him fast. Shoot him, squish him with your Power, whatever you got to do. Don’t try to talk to that crazy Shard. He’s sly. He’ll cut you to pieces or his crazy brother will freeze you just to watch you shatter like glass. Mark my words. Take them fast or you’ll regret it.”
Sullivan debated his next move. Mae was still coming up with nothing. If Horowitz was right, Arthur Fordyce was probably already dead. Until he got a lead on where the Maplethorpes were holed up, he was at a dead end. If Horowitz was wrong, he was wasting his time.
Well, not exactly wasting . . . Which was why Sullivan’s last stop for the evening was at the Detroit office of the Bureau of Investigation. Horowitz wasn’t the only man that liked to kill two birds with one stone.
The BI office was near the Fisher Building. The giant art deco skyscraper was impressive, even if they were turning the lights down at night to save money now. It was late, the snow was still falling, and most everyone had gone home for the night, so Sullivan left a note for the agent in charge of the manhunt to contact him.
He got home around eleven. Sullivan’s mind was too spun up to go to sleep, so instead he found himself pulling out a book he’d purchased last year on the history of the First Volunteers. He’d found it a fairly accurate, yet rather dull account of the events in question. To be fair, it would be rather difficult for some academic historian to chronicle the unrelentingly bleak meat grinder of the trenches, the sheer mind-numbing spectacle of Second Somme, or the final march into the blackened-ash wasteland that had been Berlin.
Even though Sullivan had been the most decorated soldier in the unit, there was only one picture of him, and it was a group shot of some Spikers taken somewhere in France. All of them were tired, dirty, starving, cold, suffering from dysentery, wearing their rusting Heavy suits, carrying their Lewis guns, and lucky to be alive. The book only had two pages about the Gravity Spikers. That was it. All that fighting, all those sacrifices, condensed into two lousy pages, and sadly one of those pages was mostly about his own exploits. He didn’t deserve his own page. He’d just been lucky. Of the men in the photo, only ten percent had come home alive.
But it wasn’t bitter reminiscence that had caused Sullivan to open the history book. There were photos for most of the officer corps and Sullivan was looking for one in particular. When he found Captain Arthur Fordyce’s entry, at first Sullivan thought that he’d found the wrong picture . . . He checked again, just to be sure, and it was correct. Fordyce certainly didn’t look like what he’d expected.
Fordyce had to be in his sixties in the picture, and it had been taken back in 1916 . . . Fifteen years ago . . . Has it really been that long? Sullivan had been so young that he’d had to lie about his age to enlist, and he was quite a bit older than Emily now. For that reason Sullivan had been expecting a younger man. That was not such an odd thing, especially for a man of Arthur’s success, to have such a young beautiful wife.
Too damn young to be a widow.
He fell asleep after midnight, which made it Christmas Eve.
Sullivan checked on Bernie and his cats in the morning, but still nothing from Mae. Bernie said that was a very bad sign, meaning that the target was no
t in an easy-to-find state, as in aboveground or in one piece. Since he was actually a little worried about Bernie’s health, Sullivan made sure to drop off another sandwich.
The BI agent in charge of the manhunt had Sullivan come into the office to talk. Most of the G-men tolerated him, a couple respected him because he was very good at his job, and a few openly despised him for being an ex-con. But like it or not, when it came time to arrest somebody who could bend the laws of physics, Sullivan was damn handy to have around.
The head of the Detroit office was a weasel named Price. He was a ticket-puncher, a man who existed primarily to get promoted. Price loved getting in the papers. Hoover didn’t like sharing the spotlight with his underlings, but Sullivan had no doubt that Price would end up in politics as soon as he got an arrest big enough to make headlines.
The agent in charge of the manhunt was a homely fellow by the name of Cowley, fresh off the morning dirigible from D.C. Apparently he was one of Hoover’s personal favorites. Which inclined Sullivan to dislike him automatically. Sullivan briefed the agents about what he’d heard, though he was careful never to mention the Purple Gang.
Despite looking like he’d be much more comfortable behind a desk, Cowley had listened intently enough that Sullivan had come away suspecting that the agent might actually have a clue about being a decent cop. He also didn’t seem dismayed to find out that Sullivan was an Active. Cowley’s primary concern was that if Arthur Fordyce was alive, he be returned safely. Price was mostly worried about how the arrest of the Maplethorpes would play in the news, but rescuing a Healer . . . Sullivan could see the wheels turning there.
Cowley showed him sketches of the members of the crew. He memorized the names and faces, but since none of them were Actives, he wasn’t as worried about them. Kidnapping was a local matter, not a federal crime, but both Maplethorpes were on the most wanted list, so it was agreed that if Sullivan helped capture them it would count as two against his quota. He made sure he got that in writing.
The rest of the day was spent chasing leads to nowhere. Nobody had heard anything, and if they had they weren’t talking. He placed a telephone call to Mrs. Fordyce to inform her that he was still looking, but had no real progress to report. He’d tried to sound encouraging but failed.
When darkness fell, Jake Sullivan returned to his office to prepare. His magic was ready, Power built up in his chest, just waiting to be used to twist gravity to his will. But Power burned quickly, and once it was gone, it took time to replenish. So that meant guns.
One of the Lewis Mk3 machineguns he’d brought back from France was kept hidden under the floorboards of his office. He dragged the huge weapon out, cleaned and oiled it, and loaded the huge drum magazines from boxes of military .30-06 ammunition. Twenty-six pounds of lethal steel, the Lewis was big, ugly, and effective, sort of like Sullivan. It was a lot of gun, but the BI hadn’t specified that the Maplethorpes needed to be taken alive.
He’d fought his whole life. He was good at it. As a soldier for his country, as an inmate for survival, and now as a . . . what am I? Somebody who didn’t know anything else? A slave to the G-men? No. It was better if he told himself that he was doing this one for a young widow and to avenge another First Volunteer. It seemed more pure that way.
The Lewis went into a canvas bag. He went downstairs, ordered a late dinner, and waited. Burning Power was like hard physical exercise, so he treated himself to a real good meal in preparation. Mrs. Brooks was glad for the business and didn’t even enquire about why the usually frugal Sullivan suddenly seemed to be Mr. Big Spender. A ten-year-old serving as a Purple Gang runner showed up while he was polishing off his coffee, gave him a note, and took off.
Sullivan read the address, finished his drink, put out his smoke, and left a generous tip. It was time again to go to war.
The address was for an auto parts factory on Piquette. Like many other businesses in the area, it had recently been shut down and the workers laid off. He parked a block away and went in on foot. Between the lousy weather, the fact that most of the surrounding businesses were closed, and it was late Christmas Eve meant that there wasn’t anyone around. Regular folks were eating hams, singing carols clustered around the fire, or some such thing, not spying on an abandoned factory through a hole in a fence.
After an hour of miserable cold, a blue Dodge rolled up to the back door and a man got out carrying grocer’s bags. The lights of the city reflected off the snow clouds enough to give him plenty of pink light to see by. He recognized the lean, broad-shouldered fellow making his way to the back door from one of the sketches Agent Cowley had shown him as one Bruno Hauptmann, a German immigrant and member of the gang. This was the hideout, all right. Hauptmann was walking with a bad limp. He knocked on the back door and a few seconds later it opened and he disappeared inside.
Location confirmed, he debated calling the BI. There was strength in numbers, but the only person Jake Sullivan trusted was Jake Sullivan. The G-men would probably just get in his way, but at the same time, if he got killed, he didn’t want the kidnapping trash to escape. Finally, caution won out and he hurried back to the phone booth he’d parked by. The switchboard put him through to Cowley. He gave them the scoop, then reminded the G-man to make sure the rest of his boys knew not to shoot at him. The cavalry was on the way.
But he’d never been the type to wait around for cavalry. Sullivan removed the Lewis gun from his car and headed back to the factory.
They might be watching through the long row of windows, so best to move quick. He reached the fence, and using just enough Power to lighten himself, leapt cleanly over the barrier. The door was solid by any measure, but not built to withstand someone like him. Not even pausing, Sullivan lifted one big boot and kicked the door wide open. The interior was dim, lit only be a single shielded lantern. Hauptmann and another man with one arm in a sling were caught flatfooted just inside, stuffing candy bars in their faces.
Sullivan leveled the machinegun at them. “Hands up.”
“Cops!” The stranger went for the revolver stuck in his waistband. Sullivan moved the gaping round muzzle over and simply shot him dead. The body hit the cold concrete without so much as a twitch.
The .30-06 had been deafening against the metal machinery surrounding them. Ears ringing, he turned the gun back on Hauptmann. “Your friend was an idiot. Let’s try that again.” Terrified, the kidnapper reached for the ceiling. “Better.” Sullivan looked down the rows of darkened machines, but there was no sign of anyone else inside. He picked up the lantern and lifted the cover, filling the space with light. Sullivan walked around a big hydraulic press. There were several mattresses and blankets on the floor, but the rest of the gang was out.
Damn. “Where’s Fordyce?”
“Who?” Hauptmann asked.
“Don’t play stupid.” Sullivan concentrated. Using Power in big bursts was easy; fine control took more concentration. He gave Hauptmann another two gravities. The German grimaced and stumbled against the wall. “Talk. Where is he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“You wanna end up a pancake?” Sullivan dropped one more gravity on him. Hauptmann screamed as bones creaked. “Don’t be a baby. I do pushups in that.” The kidnapper was surely feeling it. “Where’s the Healer?”
“I don’t—” Hauptmann’s head sprayed red as the window behind him shattered.
Sullivan instinctively flung himself to the floor. A muzzle flashed outside as someone worked a Tommy gun across the glass. He needed cover, fast. There was a thick steel plate leaning against the hydraulic press. With no time for finesse, he grabbed the plate, surged his Power so hard that it felt light as a feather and jerked it around to use as a shield.
Sullivan cursed himself for turning up the lights. Dummy. The others must have returned and seen them inside. Bruno Hauptmann was a few feet away, missing a chunk of skull, just staring at him while his brains leaked out. At least that guy’s kidnapping days were surely over
.
The bullets kept on hitting the plate in a seemingly never-ending stream of hot lead. They’d get tired soon. Sullivan checked his pocket watch. Cowley’s men should be here any minute. Then he noticed the time.
Well, Merry Christmas to me.
The BI rolled up, ready for a fight. They just hadn’t expected the fight to be ready for them. The first car to arrive was hit immediately. Bullets pierced the radiator, the windows, but luckily not the two agents inside, who bailed out, took cover behind their vehicle and returned fire. A Detroit police car arrived from the opposite direction thirty seconds later. It, too, took fire from a member of the Maplethorpe Gang armed with a stolen BAR. Within a minute two other cars had arrived, and the street collapsed into a chaotic gun battle that the morning papers would describe as the Detroit Christmas Massacre.
However, Special Agent Sam Cowley was not thinking about how this would play out in the media. That was his bosses’ job. Cowley was too busy being pinned down behind the rapidly disintegrating engine block of his car as an automatic weapon poked holes in it. The Maplethorpe Gang had a reputation for using overwhelming force during their robberies, which is what made them such high-profile targets. Most of them were vets of the Great War—from both sides—and they knew how to work together. The responding officers were outmatched as the gang moved out of the factory’s parking area, using the low brick walls for cover, taking turns shooting while the others moved or reloaded.
A nearby officer cried out and dropped his pistol. The gun metal gleamed with ice crystals. Cowley gasped in pain as he was hit with a surge of unbelievable cold. Snowball was attacking. Cowley rolled out from under the car but couldn’t spot the Active. He got a bead on one of the gang and emptied his .38 at him. He couldn’t tell if he’d struck the man or not since he ducked behind the factory wall and disappeared.
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