Vacant Graves

by Christopher Beats

  Roy grinned. “If someone distracted the marksmen, you could jump across before anyone noticed.”

  “Where’re the marksmen?”

  “They got watchtowers on the corners. You can’t see ’em from here. You’ll see ’em from the roof, though, and they’ll see you.”

  He didn’t have to add the rest, because I knew it well—if a marksman sees you, he can shoot you.

  “What’ll I find on the other side?”

  “A factory yard. Lots of snow. Since the trouble started, ain’t nobody been sweeping it up.”

  I rubbed my jaw. “Snow.”

  He nodded.

  The snow would create a white blanket. A man in a dark coat would be a bull’s-eye under those conditions.

  Roy seemed to read my thoughts. “The marksmen will be looking elsewhere.” He patted his gun. “I’ll make sure of that.”

  “It’s a helluva plan.”

  We stared at the wall together as I caught my breath.

  “We’ll have to coordinate.” I drew my timepiece. “What time do you have?”

  He laughed. “Do I look like I carry a watch?”

  I snapped it shut and tried not to swear.

  “You know what a whippoorwill sounds like?”

  I shook my head incredulously.

  He cupped his hands over his mouth and gave me a demonstration. “Don’t they teach you birdcalls where you come from?”

  “There are two kinds of birds where I come from, crows and pigeons.”

  He shook his head sadly, as if he were talking to a blind man. “More’s the pity.”

  “So you’ll make that noise...”

  He started to jog up the street. “When the whippoorwill sings, you’re over the wall.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I found the entrance to the lurching tenement and groped for the stairs. It was a long, nasty ascent. Roy would be in position long before I was. I stopped there in the darkness and drew out an ampoule. I fumbled and dropped it.

  I grimaced as the glass broke on the stair below me.

  With a deep breath, I sagged against the wall until my ass was on a step. Then I drew another, carefully inserted it, and then pushed the syringe into my arm.

  The stairwell’s cracked banister suddenly appeared out of the gloom. My eyes were cat-sharp now, operating with almost no light at all. With my newfound night vision, I hopped up the steps two at a time.

  Luckily for me, Roy’s sense of timing was as keen as his honor. I had just cleared the stairs when I heard his eerie bird imitation. At least, I thought it was his imitation—for all I knew, those whipper-things were common to this part of Pennsylvania. It would be my luck that the authentic article chose that moment to start screeching and I wound up with a ventilated skull.

  Of course, if whipper-birds were like canaries, they’d be dead by now anyway.

  I took a deep breath and paused at the edge. The street loomed like a chasm between me and the wall.

  A shotgun blast echoed nearby, followed by the sharp crack of rifles. Roy had climbed another building and was taking shots at the marksmen.

  There was no more time for hesitation. I jogged back, turned and charged the edge, vaulting to the factory wall. The top of the wall wasn’t very wide, so I spent a heart-stopping moment waving my hands like an idiot to keep my balance.

  From up here, the factory square didn’t look so bad. It was not lily-white as I expected, but a dingy gray. If I could get down there, I’d blend pretty easy. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been much wind lately, so none of the snowdrifts were thick enough to catch me.

  Broken glass and nails ground loudly beneath me. The masons had topped the wall in an assortment of cheap barbs. A man climbing hand-over-hand would’ve gotten lockjaw when he reached the top.

  My soles were plenty thick, though, so my feet were safe.

  The rest of me sure as hell wasn’t though.

  I stood twenty feet above the ground, backlit by the raging river-fire, about as safe as a tin duck at a carnival shooting gallery. I couldn’t see a way down. The inside of the wall was as steep as the outside.

  More gunshots cut the night.

  That left only one way—the guard towers. They were built level with the wall and had stairs going down into the courtyard. I could shimmy over the side and use them to descend.

  Unfortunately, they were filled with angry gunmen.

  Another rifle split the air.

  I turned and hunched, thinking they had spotted me. They hadn’t. Roy was on a building across the street. Gunmen from two separate towers had pinned the gaunt bastard behind a narrow chimney. He sat with his back against the bricks. Whenever he poked out his scattergun for a shot, one of the riflemen would fire, driving him back to cover.

  Flakes of masonry danced in the air around him.

  I’d picked up a fierce loyalty to comrades during the war. Whatever our previous disagreements, Roy had become one of those. Without another thought for my own safety, I stood and ran as quickly as I dared along the narrow wall-top toward the marksmen.

  I drew my truncheon, since it could do its work silently.

  The sharpshooter’s nest loomed closer. I could see two silhouettes in it, a marksman and a spotter. Both of them were intent on their prey. Neither even bothered to look behind them.

  I leaped with all my strength into the tower. I collided with the sharpshooter and sent him sprawling. The spotter turned to look in shock at me. Before he could reach for the pistol at his belt, I delivered a vicious hit to his wrist, breaking it for sure.

  He howled in pain and I followed up with a rap to his skull.

  I ducked low as the man collapsed, in case the other watchtower saw me.

  The marksman tried to turn his rifle on me but the weapon was too bulky. He couldn’t bring it to bear in the small compartment.

  I grabbed it by the barrel and jabbed my baton into his face. He fell back on the ground and I pounced onto his back. I slipped my truncheon under his chin and pulled until I felt the life go out of him.

  Rifles cracked in the distance.

  I peeked over the rim of the sharpshooter’s nest. The other spotter and marksman were too interested in Roy to notice that the other tower was silent.

  I hadn’t handled a rifle in years, and never one as nice as this. It had an easy grip and a long brass scope. Of all the ways to murder a man, this was perhaps the most comfortable.

  The spotter was standing behind the sharpshooter, so I took aim at him first. As it happened, he turned his binocs in my direction right as I lined up the crosshairs. He opened his mouth just as I squeezed the trigger.

  He crumpled like a rag doll.

  I cocked the rifle.

  Roy fired a spray of pellets at the tower, keeping the hardhead’s attention. The stupid bastard still hadn’t noticed his partner was dead.

  I took my time, lined up the hairs, and dropped him. When I turned to Roy, he gave a holler and waved his hat at me.

  For once in my life, that southern victory whoop didn’t bother me at all. I exchanged a crisp salute with him then crouched over the bodies. He was gone by the time I looked up again, off to die for his cause.

  For a moment, I considered them. With Roy acting as a distraction, I’d killed four men in the merest blink of an eye. My intestines wriggled snakelike with grotesque pleasure.

  My mind, though, was repulsed. Would I have killed them without the blue anthracite? Did they d
eserve to die for doing their job? Was Lichfield’s serum turning me into a monster?

  No, I reminded myself. The world had done that a long time ago.

  I hadn’t bloodied the dead men’s greatcoats, so I could try for infiltration as long as I could hide my mustache. It would give me away for sure amongst the baby-faced detectives. I chose the one closer to my size, donned it and shouldered the rifle. I took the spotter’s pistol for good measure, though I couldn’t find where he kept his spare cartridges. It resembled a Colt, but even in the darkness I knew better. There were more than a few manufacturers in Europe—particularly France—that made forgeries. They sold ’em to suckers in the CSA and Mexico who didn’t know any better. A few, like this one, slipped north of the Mason-Dixon, though the Magnocracy took a dim view of counterfeits. The irony, of course, was that private detectives were often on good terms with the criminal element, so this hardhead had probably bought it off a smuggler.

  An authentic Colt could pierce the armor of the hardheads and, more importantly, wouldn’t jam in a pinch. This bogus Colt, on the other hand, might not be so reliable. It was a heavy caliber, though, so I took it as backup in case something happened to the rifle. I kept the bogus Colt in one of the large pockets of the armored greatcoat, then I tucked the .22 between my money belt and my unmentionables, after making sure the first cylinder was empty. I still had my derringer thrust in my breeches pocket, though it would be next to useless against hardheads. I would’ve been better off throwing bullets at them than using that thing.

  My bowler wasn’t in the Harriman uniform, so I reluctantly took it off. I grabbed a filterhelm, tried to put it on and discovered that I didn’t know how. After a few feverish seconds, I punted it into the yard and picked up my bowler again.

  Infiltration was out. Better to be shot wearing my trusty old hat than suffocate in that piece of shit.

  Though I felt exposed, I stood up and surveyed the factory grounds with the spotter’s binocs. I had no idea where they’d keep Phoebe, but I wagered it would be near the front gate. More than likely, Harriman’s goons had some kind of breakroom, a place they could relax and get warm when they weren’t cracking skulls or shooting unionists.

  I tried not to think of what they might do to Phoebe while they waited for Stanny. Hopefully, their lack of professional discipline didn’t extend to matters of decency. Among Pinkertons, the girl’s modesty would’ve been safe, even if she were marked for death. Mr. Pinkerton was of a mind that rapine was bad for morale. Violence was never wanton with the Pinkertons; it was only used when sanctioned by a Magnate.

  No one seemed to notice that the sharpshooters had gone silent. They must’ve assumed that they had eliminated the threat. I surveyed the scene without trouble. I could see wisps of steam and smoke rising just outside the front gate. The Duke was probably lying in wait there, guns aimed at the quadrangle.

  Behind the encircling walls, auxiliary wings sprawled from the plant’s center like the limbs of a dead man. Those wings were eerily dark, despite the fact their stacks were smoking. I wondered if Liutt/Lichfield was making the scabs work in the dark. It made sense, in a twisted sort of way. There would be more injuries, which would’ve produced more cadavers for dissection.

  I spotted a small brick building that stood apart from the factory wings. Its windows were a merry orange. I immediately suspected that it was for the Harrimen. Breakrooms for detectives were usually kept separate from the workers to prevent fraternization. If you shared a cigar with a man you might hesitate to break his kneecaps later.

  A brick factory wing and a dingy courtyard lay between us. I was about to descend when I heard the clatter of carriage wheels.

  A coach steamed up to the front gate. For a moment, I thought I wouldn’t reach Phoebe in time, but I realized that no matter how much Stanny paid, they wouldn’t let his coach into the grounds. It was too much of a security risk. He’d have to park outside while they brought the girl to him.

  I had time—probably just minutes—to find and rescue her.

  I took the stairs two at a time and hit the yard running. A knife-point of fatigue stabbed my side, but I didn’t dare stop. I crossed the foul snow and kept to the shadows under the factory wing.

  Tall windows ran the length of it. They were adorned with more of Carnegie Steel’s handiwork—black bars as thick as a child’s arm. Nobody was getting in—or out—through them.

  Blurry shapes trudged behind the ash-smeared glass, lit by the occasional flash of an open furnace door or mad shower of sparks.

  I paused long enough to watch the dreary workers. He was making them work in the dark. I wondered where he’d found so many scabs. I didn’t see it as a failure on my part, mind you. It wasn’t like I had the time or resources to outwit a Magnate. With the funds at Liutt’s disposal—not to mention his mercilessly efficient mind—there were dozens of ways he could’ve snuck them in without me knowing. MacCallard had shipped guns in, so clearly the two towns were impossible to lock down. Perhaps Liutt had marched Chinamen in through the dead winter forests by night.

  The windows were too murky for me to see if they were coolies or darkies or some other group desperate enough to take such a job. Whatever their nation, these men were clearly overworked—they slouched like beaten-down animals. Their movements were stiff and uncoordinated, as if they hadn’t slept in days. They didn’t say a word, either, which made me wonder if the place had more in common with Sing Sing than the décor. Talkative prisoners in Sing Sing risked a beating or worse, a loss of rations. That was part of the Auburn Rule, which kept the prison as orderly as it was profitable. Liutt must’ve thought the Auburn Rule should be applied to factory workers as well as felons.

  The front gates screamed loudly. They were opening.

  Three men in toppers and bright scarves came through and made their way toward the small brick building. From their swaggering gait and flash weeds, they could only be Stanny’s men. I didn’t see any obvious weaponry. That gave me a clear advantage, since I packed not just a pistol but a rifle as well.

  I leaned against the corner of the factory building and took aim with the rifle. The lanky fuckers were blithely joking amongst themselves as I painted a bull’s-eye on their ugly faces. I figured that a few more rifle shots wouldn’t be noticed, what with the war going on and all. If I dropped them quickly, no one would miss them for five minutes at least.

  I was about to squeeze the trigger—they were getting close now—when the door to the little building opened. A hardhead in a filterhelm stepped out. He called something to the thugs and the thugs waved in response. I could see through the open door that there was at least one other hardhead inside the building.

  Lowering the rifle, I considered my options. Shooting the scrags was out. The hardhead was watching. Killing them would stir that nest of hornets for sure. For all I knew, there could be ten men in there, polishing their shotguns and wondering when they’d see action.

  The scrags entered and the door closed. I waited, wondered how long they’d be, and chanced a run to it. The windows were as sooty as the rest of the place, so I doubted they saw me. I went around the side and waited, listening for the door to open. It didn’t, so I crept to the nearest window and wiped the ash away for a peek.

  Phoebe sat at the table, arms by her side, petite in her gray factory girl’s clothing. She kept her eyes down and her mouth shut as the men laughed and talked around her.

  The scrags didn’t seem to be in a hurry. One of them was te
lling a joke to the hardheads. A Hardhead poured cups of hot black java for the thugs. It was a convivial scene—private detectives sharing coffee with gutter rats while a captive girl sat nearby. From what I could tell, Stanislaus wasn’t there. He was probably in his warm coach, putting his razor to whetstone.

  There were six men total, three of Stanny’s and three Harrimen. Only one of the detectives wore his armor, including his helmet. He must’ve been about to go on shift. The rest were in jackets or waistcoats.

  If ever I needed evidence, I had it now—Harriman was no Pinkerton. This behavior would never have been allowed with my old boss.

  One of the scrags approached Phoebe and leaned over her.

  Phoebe didn’t move.

  He bent close and whispered something in her ear while the other men drank their coffee and chatted. She glanced up at him, eyes wide with horror. The man said nothing more. He simply nodded at her and went back to his coffee.

  I considered my options. The best course of action seemed to be to wait. Stanny’s guys would take Phoebe and head for the gate. They didn’t have guns, so I could wait until they were in the courtyard and drop them at my leisure. If the hardheads heard anything, we’d have to run, but we could probably get to cover before they saw us.

  A few minutes later, everything changed.

  The Hounds were all getting up while Stanny’s guys quickly finished their coffee. Evidently, the friendly Harrimen had offered to escort the scrags to the gate. Or they had been ordered to return to their posts once the girl was collected.

  I dropped to my knees below the window and scratched my head under my hat. The Harrimen’s protection negated my advantage. I was a good shot but I rarely used a rifle. Even with surprise, there was no way I could drop six men before they returned fire.

  A desperate idea entered my head. I had only a brief window before all of them were armored. One guy had already donned his filterhelm and secured it over his jaw.