Lichfield swallowed and leaned to inspect the gunshots.
“Just some bruising. You’ll be fine. Wait in my office.” He said it rather loudly—as if he wanted us to hear.
The detective stomped away.
“Mr. Schist,” the doctor said. “This is an odd time to visit.” He started toward us but stopped a few feet away to examine something on the ground.
He had discovered our head.
I rubbed the bruises on my neck. “Yes, well, that was delivered to us tonight and we didn’t want to sleep with it in our room.”
“Ah.” The doc lifted the parcel one-handed while taking a bite of sandwich. He put the head down on a gurney and unwrapped it. His excitement reminded me unpleasantly of a child at Christmas. “This is a clean cut. Did a surgeon do this?”
“Sort of.” I considered Stanny Slash something of an expert in limb removal.
“Well, I will gladly take this specimen off your hands.” He glanced up from the body part and gave Phoebe a fixed stare. “Is that necessary, my dear?”
She lowered the still-smoking weapon with an abashed smile. Her eyes were wide with shock.
“Your man,” I asked. “Is he gonna be...”
“Bruises,” the doctor told us firmly. “He’ll be fine.”
“Was he some kinda idiot?” Phoebe asked in a shaky voice. “It was like he didn’t feel pain...”
The doctor gave her a reproving shake of his head. “Please, let’s not talk about someone while they’re not here.”
“That buck was a freak of nature!”
“I imagine many people would feel the same way about a girl with a gun, my dear.”
Phoebe looked at the doctor as if he were a scorpion in a lab coat.
“Is there anything else?” he asked. “I should get back to work.”
“No, just wanted to drop him off.” I indicated the scrag’s head. “Is there a fee or something?”
He shook his head. “No fee. There wouldn’t be a matching body, would there?”
“Uh, if we find it we’ll send it up.”
“Splendid. Next time, I’ll have to ask you to wait in the vestibule, though. The morgue is reserved for hospital employees only.”
“Our apologies.” I took the benumbed Phoebe by her arm and made for the door.
“Just a second, Mr. Schist.” Lichfield scrutinized my face as I passed him.
“Yeah?”
“I should examine your lungs while you’re here—see that the smoke hasn’t damaged them further.”
Phoebe stiffened beside me. She gave a slight shake of her head where the doctor couldn’t see.
“I should do that later. You look busy.”
He glanced at the morgue around us. “Perhaps you would prefer less morbid surroundings?”
“Shouldn’t you see to your man first?”
“I told you—he’ll be fine.”
I surrendered and he led us out of the morgue and up into an examination room. Phoebe stood in the corner, watching the door as if Victor might return at any moment to crack her spine.
“Your man was pretty dedicated,” I said. “Harriman must pay him well.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, he is. The finest guard available, I’m told. Harriman’s training is excellent.” He bent and listened at my chest then took up a clipboard. “How did you feel after I administered the serum earlier?”
“Not so lightheaded.” I paused as he scribbled something on his pad.
“Go on, Mr. Schist.”
“It felt good, actually.” I eyed him dubiously. “I felt...powerful.”
He jotted more down. “Anything else to report?”
I hesitated. “Yeah, I think. I’m not really sure if it’s the juice, but...”
“Go on.”
“My memory, it’s...sharper. It’s like when I think about a battle I’ve been in, the details are all there. It gets a little confusing, actually.”
“Really. Are you normally prone to UFCR?”
“Begyerpardon?”
“UCR. Unexpected Combat Reminisces. Vivid memories, bordering on hallucination, about the battles you’ve been in.”
I gave Phoebe an embarrassed look. “Sometimes, I, uh, dream about...you know, the war.”
He nodded and scribbled some more. “Interesting. Anything else?”
“That isn’t enough?”
The physician put the clipboard down and went to a nearby cabinet. While he showed me his back, I glanced at what he’d been writing.
It was encoded. Every last word of it. I knew doctors to have bad writing, but I hadn’t known any who wrote their notes cryptographically. I tore my eyes off the strange symbols and examined his back. “Is this elixir you used...experimental?”
“Don’t call it an elixir, Mr. Schist. That makes me sound like a mountebank, offering to regrow hair or something. No, this is science.”
I was about to ask something else when he spun around and jabbed a syringe into my throat. Again.
Phoebe gasped.
The room blurred. I teetered on my chair like a building without foundation.
When I regained control, the doctor was standing beside me, scanning my face with interest.
“Your beard,” I observed. “It’s immaculate.”
I could see that each hair was uniformly trimmed. I wondered if he’d invented a device for that as well.
“Thank you, Mr. Schist.” He ran a hand over his jaw. “It’s company policy. I’ve learned to appreciate Mr. Liutt’s grooming standards.”
“This serum, doctor—should I worry about side effects? I knew some guys in the war. They got addicted to laudanum pretty bad after their treatment.”
“No. It’s comparable to drinking a strong cup of coffee, actually.”
My heart pounded as if my ribs were going to explode. “Just one cup?”
He smiled. “Maybe two.”
“Thanks, doctor.”
We were almost out the door when he cleared his throat. I turned.
“I’d like to see you tomorrow, Mr. Schist. To check your lungs.”
“Of course.” I gave him a little bow and stepped into the hall.
Phoebe was already in the corridor, watching the stairs to the morgue like they were a passage to hell. “I don’t like that doctor,” she whispered. “And his friend in the helmet...”
“Dunno.” My hands were moving on their own, tossing my billycock back and forth. I felt like I was a clock with a spring two sizes too big, as though my gears were running faster than they should and any minute one of ’em was gonna fly loose. “It’s a good thing the doc showed up. I’m pretty sure that Victor fellow would’ve killed us.”
Phoebe shook her head. Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “Your .22 is a fine piece, don’t get me wrong. But it doesn’t work too well on the hardheads. How do you take out a guy in armor?”
“With a heavy-caliber weapon.”
“Are you sure that would even work? Those overcoats are tougher than steel.”
I thought about it a minute. “Even armor has its weaknesses.”
“The peepers?”
“Sharp girl,” I said. “The glass is tough, but not that tough.”
“You think that’ll work?” She didn’t notice my compliment, which was good, since I hated giving them.
I didn’t answer her because I had to think about it. Verhalen told me once that technology was making glass tougher every day.
Just like steel mills had developed the Vessemer process, the glassblowers were working up their own recipes. What if the filterhelm makers had found a way to make glass as tough as steel?
A nurse rounded the corner and Phoebe almost jumped out of her skin.
“Are you Mr. Donovan Schist?” she asked. I nodded. “There’s a man in the lobby asking for you.”
Phoebe’s hand slid to the weapon she’d hidden in her skirt.
“Oh?”
“You weren’t scheduled, but I saw you walk by with Dr. Lichfield so I told the gentleman you were busy. I think he’s waiting for you.”
“Did you catch a name?”
“No. He’s a detective, though. One of Harriman’s boys.”
“Is there a back door?” Phoebe asked.
Before she could answer, I had questions of my own. “Was he alone? How tall was he?”
She glanced between us and decided to answer my queries first. “Yes, he’s alone. He’s rather tall, I suppose. Light brown hair, almost blond.”
“Don’t worry,” I told the girl. “It’s Kober.”
We met him in the hospital’s small lobby.
“Schist!” He was wearing his hardhead getup, only he’d taken off his filterhelm so I could see his face. “I got here as soon as I could.”
I motioned him outside. The lobby was full of ears and I couldn’t stand the idea of sitting still. I needed to move. So we walked around the grounds of the hospital. The yellow-lit windows of Liutt’s mansion stared down at us from above while the river burned below. The factory churned on and on, heedless of the smoke or fire or dark of night.
“It’s Stanislaus,” Kober said when we were clear of the doors.
“Yeah, he’s in town. You think your toughs can ice him for me?” I reached into my pocket and fingered the wad of company script.
“That’s what I ran up here to tell you—he bought off the plant manager and the captain of the detectives.”
“What?”
“He’s a welcome guest, Schist. He’s throwing money around like a damn sailor. If any hardheads find you, they’ll turn you over in a heartbeat.”
“Christ alive,” I breathed.
The town below me sat in its witch-light and waited, an adder’s nest of brick and mud.
“I can’t help you anymore. It’ll be my job.”
It was Phoebe who spoke now. “Just get us out of town. Mr. Schist saved your life!”
Koberman turned and looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “I’ve risked enough already. Word just hit the street. The hotel clerk told me to find you up here. Other people are gonna ask him soon—and he’ll tell. That man’s no friend of yours, Donovan.”
I mentally tallied the horrible things that had happened at the hotel since I got there. “Can’t say I blame him.”
“How do we get out of town?” the girl asked.
“The bridge is out. No trains are coming this way for a long time now. The union’s closed the roads, too.”
I studied Kober’s face as he said it and realized he was afraid. The situation was beginning to spin so totally out of control that not even a dry ironclad and a Gatling could put it to rights. The Harrimen were losing their grip.
“How did Stanislaus get through then?” Phoebe demanded, heedless of the undercurrent.
“Same way he got management on his side—greenbacks. He came in on his private coach and bribed the union to let him through.” The detective looked down at Liuttsburg and started to put his filterhelm on.
“Any chance we could get some of those? It’d be a great way to go around town unnoticed.”
Koberman scowled. “You mean for both of you?” He nodded at Phoebe. “How many five-foot Hounds have you seen, Schist?”
I pulled the wad of company script out. “I could pay you.”
“If this shit goes on much longer, that won’t be worth the paper it’s printed on. Liutt’s whole kingdom is crashing down around his ears.”
The statement should have pleased me. Any time a Magnate got jammed up, I was happy. It’s not that I’m a radical—I’m not—it’s just that they think they’re so damned invincible. Any time a giant stumbles, you have to laugh.
This time was different, though. When this giant fell, Phoebe and I would get squished.
“Liutt doesn’t care,” I said, thinking about it.
Kober and Phoebe looked at me as if I were crazy.
“What if this wasn’t about the money?” I asked them.
“It’s always about the money,” the detective said. “It’s never not about the money.”
“Except when it isn’t.”
Kober shook his head and tightened his helmet straps. He looked down at the cash I was offering him. “Where the fuck did you get all that script?” His voice was muffled by the helmet. It sounded hostile.
I shrugged.
“We’re even, Schist. Don’t look for any more favors.”
I put my hand out for a shake but he ignored it. I tried to tell myself that he didn’t notice because of the helmet’s limited visibility.
He stalked off down the hill without another word. I thought of my conversation with Mack.
“Donne said no man’s an island,” I told Phoebe. “Yet every time a bridge gets built, someone burns it down.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kober was gone but I stared down after him. “Nobody’s really your friend, Phoebe. We’re all just out for ourselves.”
“You’re my friend, Mr. Schist.”
I grunted, thinking of when the Gatlings lit up. I wondered if she had any idea how quickly I had abandoned her.
“What do we do now?”
I turned my eyes up to the yellow lights of the mansion. “We solve the case.”
Chapter Thirteen
“What are we doing?” Phoebe asked.
I trailed one of my hands on the brick wall as we walked along its perimeter. “Looking for a way in.”
“Won’t this place have guards?”
“I’m not sure.” The thought had occurred to me, of course, but it also occurred to me that, so far, the unionists hadn’t made an issue of the mansion. If the unionists weren’t going to make an issue of it, why would Harriman’s goons?
There were no hardheads guarding the front gate as we approached. It was heavy steel, like the factory gates. Unlike the factory gates, however, it seemed to have rusted shut.
I tugged on the cheap chains and studied the hinges. Paint was chipping there. The iron underneath was ancient, which meant this wasn’t one of Carnegie’s gates. “Liutt purchased these from a scrap yard. They were probably forged when the Whigs were in office.”
“I don’t get it,” Phoebe said. “Why would a Magnate buy a rusty gate instead of a new one?”
“Dunno,” I answered. “Some robber barons get rich by being stingy.”
“But if the chains are rusted—how does he leave? Is he some kind of shut-in?”
It was an interesting thought—a Magnate living like a prisoner in his own mansion. I had an alternate theory, of course. But it wasn’t time to tell her yet. “Magnates can get pretty queer in the head. Money does that.” I scratched my mustache. “Not that I’d know.”
“There’s got to be another entrance.”
“Agreed—for his servants at least.”
We continued along the wall and paused. A telegraph-wire vaulted over the brick barrier and went soa
ring pole-by-pole down to Liuttsburg like an enormous wash line.
“He has his own telegraph?”
I laughed. “That’s cheap compared to some of the stuff I’ve seen Magnates buy.” I considered it for a moment. “Still—it’s kind of odd. He’s less than a mile from town.”
We found another entrance at the back of the mansion. A narrow strip of road ran up from Liuttsburg to a small iron gate which was certainly not rusted shut, since it was open. I smiled at our good fortune. Getting over a wall would’ve proved difficult with Phoebe’s crinoline.
The back entrance was, upon closer inspection, far newer than the front and better tended—the hinges were oiled and the lock was noncorrosive steel. We slipped past and immediately found shelter beneath several hemlocks near the back of the yard. They were old. Somehow, they’d survived Sherman’s fires, Confederate boots, and, more recently, the construction of Liutt’s mansion.
“How are we going to get in?” The chit’s voice was breathy with excitement.
Before I could answer her, one of the lights winked off in the mansion. A few minutes later, another light winked off.
Phoebe shifted nervously. I stilled her with a hand.
All the lights were extinguished. A back door opened and a man came out. He locked the door and started for the gate. When he stepped out of the shadows, we could see he was wearing a black overcoat and matching bowler. They were sturdy middle-class weeds, the kind a digit-ape or a personal secretary might have worn. He had a valise with him and a lantern, though he didn’t bother to light it because of the river-fire.
We held our breath as he marched out and shut the gate with a clang. He drew up the chains and locked them. He turned crisply and started down the road.
I stepped out of the shadow of the tree and looked around.
“You think there’s anyone else?”
“No, I don’t.”
The back door was stout and double-locked, so we ignored it. I preferred to wander the lawn a bit anyway and get a feel for the place. We circled to the front of the house and I found a reward on the front portico.
We stopped in front of the colonnades and I rapped one firmly with my fist.
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