Vacant Graves

by Christopher Beats

  “You Amish?” I asked, trying to smile.

  “No,” the doctor said, looking a little puzzled.

  “Then why do you hate buttons?”

  He glanced down at the Howe-Closer and gave a sharp bark of laughter.

  “You’re a Technocrat,” I said.

  Technocrats despised ostentation. Function always came first. To a Technocrat, utility was beauty. Phoebe looked at him curiously, expecting perhaps to find a steam-winch poking out his back.

  He smiled. “I suppose I am.”

  “I’ve never met a Technocrat sawbones. Aren’t doctors usually conservative?”

  The physician shrugged. “The body is a machine, Mr. Schist.”

  “I suppose you’re just another mechanic then, eh?”

  “A mechanic who can fix the machine while it’s still running,” he added slyly before lifting a bag off the floor. He put it on the bedside stand. “I’m Dr. Lichfield. Glad to make your acquaintance.”

  That sounds promising, I thought wryly. “Interesting name.”

  The closely trimmed beard on his jaw marked him for a company man. The pair of silver goggles hanging under his chin should have been a dead giveaway that he was a Technocrat. My friend Verhalen had a pair just like it. He was about Verhalen’s age as well, which made him young for a doctor.

  I hoped that he had Verhalen’s genius in addition to his tastes.

  “That’s quite a bump in your side. Brass knuckles, right? Normally, a punch doesn’t cause such a hematoma unless thrown by a professional. Professionals never hit the kidneys.”

  I chuckled painfully. “I deal with a different kind of professional, Doc.” He was talking about boxers. The sort of professional I dealt with always hit the kidneys.

  He opened his black bag and a collapsible shelf sprang up and out like a jack-in-the-box. His graceful fingers danced across several tools before he came to a listening device. He inserted one end into his small ears and put this rather cold instrument against my tender flesh before systematically whacking my side with two fingers.

  I felt as if I should have been embarrassed. My shirt was up and Phoebe was staring. I’d been around middle-class folks too much, I suppose. Working people—the stock Phoebe hailed from—saw men with their shirts off all the time. She looked a little too interested in looking at me, though maybe it was the doctor and not me that transfixed her.

  He was fascinating. His arms were too long by half, like they belonged to some brachiating ape. Despite this feature—or perhaps because of them—he had a certain clinical grace. His movements were precise and ordered, as if he were a well-maintained bit of clockwork.

  “There are oxen with weaker hearts, Mr. Schist,” the doctor said amiably. “No apparent internal injuries. Now, we must do something about all this blood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He produced a drill-like device with a rubber hose trailing off behind it.

  I suppressed a cry of horror.

  “Have no fear, Mr. Schist, I am quite experienced with this procedure.”

  I stared at the snakelike apparatus. “Wait...”

  “The miners are running into things all the time, it being so dark and all. I’ve drained many a hematoma.”

  “You service the mines as well?”

  “Mr. Liutt likes his workers healthy. Only a slouch would let his tools rust.”

  “His tools.” I gave him a sour look.

  He didn’t seem to notice. “I have a hospital midway between the two towns, the better to serve them both. Now, roll over.”

  “How long a recovery can I expect?”

  He shrugged. “No more than a week. Possibly as little as two days, given your constitution and age.”

  I sat up triumphantly. The world spun, but my back was straight. “I can’t be laid up that long! Listen—first iron horse that comes, we’re outta here.”

  “The trains aren’t going anywhere.”

  Phoebe shook her head. Her brown locks bobbed on her temples. “Don’t hurt yourself on my account, Mr. Schist. Do the procedure.”

  The two of them looked at me like I was a fool, but I hardly cared. Medicine’s come a long way since leeches and humors. That didn’t mean I had to trust it. I was just glad Verhalen wasn’t here. He would have been excited to undergo the procedure. I could hear him whispering “Luddite” from the corner of my mind.

  “What happens if we leave the blood where it is?”

  Dr. Lichfield studied my face and put the sucker-drill away. “It may dissipate on its own. Or it may form a hardened mass which could produce discomfort. The bleeding appears to have stopped, so you should make a full recovery on your own.”

  I tried not to look relieved when the torture implement vanished. “So why am I so dizzy then?”

  “Lack of sleep.” He took a deep breath and coughed. “Or perhaps the deleterious vapors.” He frowned. “You fought in the war, didn’t you?”

  I was taken aback. “Yes—how did you know?”

  “Your bearing, mostly, but also the way you look at doctors.”

  “I—”

  “It’s nothing to apologize for. I know that battlefield surgeons have a reputation—dope ’em with ether and take whatever limb got grazed, right? I should tell you, Mr. Schist, that a surgeon never takes a limb unless he has to.” He shook his head. “If, God forbid, you caught a minie ball in the arm crossing the street tonight and ended up in my operating theater, I’d probably remove the arm. Dreadful projectile, the minie ball.”

  “Yeah, the newer cartridges are so much more humane.” I’d shot people with higher-tech rounds since the war. I doubt their parting thoughts were Thank God it wasn’t a minie ball.

  “Good,” he said, ignoring my remark. “Now, were you exposed to noxious gases?”

  The memories boiled up like a reeking miasma from swamp water—the faceless limey soldiers storming our trenches, the mechanical click of their breathing apparatuses, the tidal wave of poison gas rolling before them. Some of them—specialists—would pause to breech-load their shotguns with small grenades. These projectiles would, upon exploding, release a toxic brew of chemicals that choked and burned and killed—everyone but the hardheads, that is.

  It was a cruel way to fight a war. But this wasn’t about victory. The damn British knew they were going to win. Lee had already thrashed us twice at Bull Run. No, the British were there to teach the Huns and Cossacks a lesson. They had to kick us while we were down to show how nice their boots were.

  The Russians were good students. The much-contested Oregon territory was still in British hands, despite the czar’s interest in expanding Alaska.

  “Yeah, I got hit by gas.”

  Dr. Lichfield nodded. “As I suspected. I’m afraid the effects are long-lasting. The toxin scarred your lungs. This scar tissue, combined with the fumes from the river, is making it hard for you to breathe.”

  “But it doesn’t hurt when I breathe at all.”

  “No, you wouldn’t feel it. You’re just getting less oxygen.”

  I touched my chest as if it had betrayed me. Fucking limey bastards.

  “I have just the thing.” He reached into his bag and produced a glass vial with a massive stainless steel syringe. There was a blue fluid in the vial unlike anything I’d seen before. It was an impossible blue, like the turquoise of fanciful seas.

  “Wait...”

  Before I could
formulate a complaint, he jabbed the syringe into my throat.

  Phoebe put a gloved hand over her lips and gasped. I can only imagine that the look of shock on her face was a match to my own.

  My veins seemed to fill with ice water. The room swam out of focus then abruptly returned, sharper and more defined. I blinked and stood.

  Dr. Lichfield smiled. “Feel better?”

  I gave him an enthusiastic nod. “And how!”

  “I told you, Mr. Schist—the body is just another machine. Think of this liquid—” he tapped the half-empty vial, “—as high-grade anthracite. The boiler inside you is used to bitumen. Your parts are running high-efficiency now.”

  It was a pleasant sensation. Never mind that I had little more than a peashooter against crazed union mobs and armored thugs.

  I was invincible.

  “If the hematoma spreads, see me immediately.”

  “I will.”

  “You should see me tomorrow anyway. To keep an eye on your lungs.” He leaned over his bag and watched me sideways as I started to button my shirt. When his eyes lit on my right hand, he froze. “Hold your fingers out...like this.” He spread his digits like a fan.

  I hesitated then copied.

  He stared at my misshapen fingers with interest. “This looks recent.”

  Phoebe was watching as well.

  “Just an accident,” I said, pulling my hand away.

  “Who set your splint?”

  “A guy in New York.” I couldn’t even remember the quack’s name. I’d been on the lam when I saw him. It’s hard to make an appointment with a decent doctor when the Pinkertons are hot on your trail.

  “I could’ve done better.” He shook his head and resumed packing. “I could repair the damage, but it would take time. I suppose you wouldn’t agree to that procedure, either.”

  “I get by,” I said defensively. It was a lie—the fingers were fiercely painful in the cold.

  “Hmm.” He had that smug face doctors wore when they knew you were lying. “Please consider the procedure, Mr. Schist. As I said, come back tomorrow, on account of your lungs. I doubt we’ll have clear air for a while. The fire doesn’t seem to be letting up at all.”

  Chapter Five

  Phoebe was wrapped up in her linen nest again, snoring. She’d taken off her jacket and shoes but slept with her clothes on. I couldn’t imagine it was very comfortable—women’s clothing was devilishly thick—but it was a precaution we agreed on.

  I sat ramrod straight and knew without trying that sleep was impossible. My pulse was in my ears. Thought after wild thought flew through my head like passing train cars.

  I slipped off my shoes and paced stocking-foot by the window. The thought of the dry ironclad didn’t bother me anymore. It was here to quell the union or whoever. Liutt wouldn’t blast his own buildings unless the union gave him reason. As long as we kept away from angry mobs, we’d be fine.

  As for Stanny’s thugs, well...they had only been a threat because they surprised me. I laughed when I thought of how Phoebe had rattled them. If I found them first this time, I could probably fix them myself. Hell, I felt so awake, so sharp now, that I was fairly certain I’d get the better of them even if they found me first.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  I paused midstride. Phoebe’s eyes peeked out raccoonlike from her linen burrow.

  “You either, huh?”

  “Naw.”

  “It’s a lot of excitement. Are you missing the country yet, Phoebe?”

  “Oh, I tried to tell you earlier, don’t call me—”

  A knock on the door stopped her cold.

  “Who’s that?” she mouthed silently at me.

  I answered by opening my hand to collect the pistol. It sat on the bedside table near her head. She picked it up but this time hesitated before she gave it to me. I almost let her keep it—almost. The lost ear lobes proved she was a crack shot but not a killer. In intimate situations like a hotel room shootout, you had to look your enemy in the eye as you killed him. I couldn’t risk her flinching at the wrong moment. Better to trust my relaxed morality and soldier’s instincts.

  “We didn’t order anything,” I told the door, revolver ready.

  “I wanna speak with you.”

  I didn’t recognize the voice. It carried the sting of Appalachia.

  “Come back tomorrow. It’s late. We’re not decent.”

  Phoebe blushed at the suggestion, though it could’ve been the red glow of the river.

  “We saw you pacin’, friend. You even got your vest on. Now open up.”

  I jumped away from the window and hissed at Phoebe to stay clear. The filmy curtain had done nothing for our privacy.

  “I ain’t alone,” the voice went on. “I got a posse here—three angry bucks. I can get more.”

  My pulse started racing. I fumbled with the rest of the cartridges, dumping them on the bed where I could reach them. I knelt low and drew my derringer with my left hand.

  Phoebe hunched over to the corner, eyes wide.

  “First man who comes in,” I shouted at the door, “gets a new hole in his head.”

  “Maybe you should give me up,” the girl suggested.

  I shook my head, both to silence her and negate the halfhearted suggestion. She gave a little sigh of relief.

  Because of the need for silence, I didn’t tell her that this didn’t sound like Stanislaus. If they were, though, I wouldn’t give her up anyway. A man doesn’t send his goons two states over just to retrieve a girl. No, Stanny Slash wanted me dead. If his men didn’t deliver, he’d want them dead, too. In the slimy world of gutters and tarts, that’s how reputations are made and kept.

  There was a whispered exchange on the other side of the door. I strained my ears but didn’t dare shift closer. It might have been a trap so I would move and reveal my position.

  The posse came to some kind of conclusion.

  “All right.” It was the Appalachian fellah again. “We’ve got a shotgun. Ya’ll open up or we use it.”

  There was a chilling sound in the corridor, the satisfied whoot-whoot of a shotgun swallowing two cartridges. The breech clicked shut with the finality of a guillotine.

  “Better duck,” our assailant warned.

  The blast came in high, about head level, spraying the room with splinters from the cheap door. Two holes the size of eyeballs appeared in the wood.

  Now I had an idea where the shooter was. Before I knew it, I was squeezing off three rounds in quick succession along the wall. My little .22 wasn’t the best choice for shooting through cover, but like everything else in town, the wall was cheap. The petite lead missiles punched three holes just beneath the larger two.

  We heard men scrambling for cover, but nobody screamed or fell over.

  Motes of sawdust danced whimsically in the eerie red glow from the window. When it became apparent I was done retaliating, I heard the telltale sound of cartridges falling onto wood, followed by the ominous loading of the shotgun.

  Adrenaline was singing in my skull. I pointed the .22 at the noise but couldn’t be confident where the gunman was. I held my fire, though my finger twitched, begging to pull the trigger. I was enjoying myself.

  I glanced back at Phoebe and felt a sudden rush of shame. The girl was terrified. She was used to guns, sure, but not indoors and not pointed at her. After the first blast, she planted herself facedown into the floorboards. From her expression, she regretted t
his. The hotel’s cleaning service left a little to be desired.

  “The innkeeper will call the bulls for sure after that!” I said, almost reluctantly.

  “I don’t think so, Detective.” The voice was calm but a little muffled. The speaker was crouching on the floor. “I’m afraid the company’s thugs are a bit distracted right now. You mayn’t have noticed, but there’s a fire.”

  He called me detective. It was telling. These might not be Stanny’s men, but they knew my profession.

  “I’m not a goddamn spy,” I yelled. “I’m freelance. I was getting a girl back to her ma when we got stranded by that damn fire.”

  “We know you don’t work for Liutt, Detective. We just want to talk.”

  “What do we have to talk about?”

  “Why...we’d like to hire you.”

  They were magic words, words that could stop bullets midair.

  “Yeah?”

  “No lie, Detective. Our boss MacCallard’s keen to hire you, soon as we heard ya’ll were in town.”

  I glanced at Phoebe. She was still my responsibility, whether her ma was paying or not. I dragged her into this mess so I would have to drag her out. “I’m on a case right now. Sorry.” The regret was genuine. The trip so far was a loss.

  “C’mon, Detective. I’m askin’ all nice-like. Take the offer while I’m still agreeable.”

  “Peppering us with double-aught buck is agreeable?”

  The hallway exploded with hooting laughter, the kind common to hillfolk. “I think I like you, Detective.”

  “Take the offer,” Phoebe said.

  “Hell no!” I said in a fierce whisper. “I’ve got to get you back to Ohio. No time for detours.”

  “This already is a detour. Take the case. I could be your partner.”

  I snorted. “That’ll be the day.” It was my job to find Little Girls Lost, not partner with ‘em.