Record of Blood

by Sabrina Flynn

  The man had an unhurried, easy strut. His hat was cocked, his spectacles gleamed, and his coat was thrown back, displaying two revolvers. Not worn low on the hip, but in holsters at his waist, a casual reach as if a gun were a pocket watch.

  The man was dressed for death, and he dragged an odd sort of train. Two effigies and a line of dynamite sticks bumped over the cobblestones in his wake. He could feel eyes on him, watching him pass with the kind of fear reserved for the truly insane.

  Atticus Riot turned down Sullivan’s Alley. It was empty save for a few hatchet men. They watched him with something close to amusement. The boo how doy respected boldness. A trio of men stood guard in front of a restaurant. Thin cigarettes hung from their lips, and their hands were tucked in the wide, loose sleeves of their blouses.

  Riot glanced at the window. The tea handle was turned out, the placement just so on a table in the window. He ignored the hired fighters, and took his parade through the front doors. The hatchet men followed, and the owner hurried towards him, bowing repeatedly. “Please, no violence.”

  “I’ll be as civil as they are,” he walked up the stairs to find a knot of bodyguards and six men seated around a table. Rice, soup, and seafood steamed from their dishes. A meeting of tongs. He could not place them all, but he recognized the leaders of Gee Sin Seer and Hip Yee. The latter controlled the slave market, and the former was known for its total disregard of human life.

  Riot didn’t waste time with pleasantries. He yanked on the rope, and let his load whip forward. Effigies and dynamite thudded on the table, scattering porcelain. “I thought it only polite to return your things,” he said in Cantonese.

  The bodyguards reached for their weapons, but the leader of Hip Yee held up a hand. It was the only flutter of movement. Aside from that single gesture, the six men at the table remained stoic and expressionless. Not even a lash fluttered.

  “And this.” He took out their letter of warning and held it to a candle. Ink and rice paper curled, and he dropped the flaming paper on the table. Right on top of the string of dynamite.

  The leaders did not move. And as the flame grew closer to the dynamite, the tension in the restaurant crackled as Riot stared at the current leader of Hip Yee.

  One of the bodyguards cracked. He rushed forward, patting out the flames.

  “If you come to my home again, I’ll come to each and every one of yours.” Riot’s words hung in the air as he surveyed the room, willing one of them to draw a weapon. When no one moved, he turned and strolled out the door.

  “You’re chasing the grave,” Abigail Parks said, as she reached for a cigarette.

  “Same as I’ve always done.” Riot pulled on his union suit. He felt eyes on his back, and glanced over his shoulder at the supine woman. A bit of ash fluttered to her breast. Her fingers shook, and she was staring at him as if he were contagious.

  “One day you’ll trip right into that grave, and take everyone around you down, too.”

  “I’m usually the one Death favors.”

  “What kind of talk is that?” she asked. Her eyes shifted to the jumble of leather holsters and cold steel on the nearby table. He never went far without his guns; even to bed.

  “Nothing,” he said, with a sigh. Danger hit him that way. Fear turned to excitement, and excitement left him restless. He had walked out of Chinatown and found himself at Park’s Place. But after spending an hour in Abigail’s bed, he wasn’t relaxed. And he’d not share the particulars of his wild youth with her. Only a handful of people knew of that.

  “Do you think the tongs will keep clear of you?”

  “It was intimidation; nothing more.” He was sure of it.

  “When do the trials start?”

  Riot tugged on his trousers, and her eyes lingered over the undone buttons. “A week. We have our witnesses holed up safe. The customs ring will be all but smashed.”

  “You know these things sprout back like weeds.”

  “I know,” he said. “But if you were one of those slave girls, wouldn’t you want that done?”

  “I’d likely take a knife to the bastard,” Abigail said. More ash fell between her breasts, touching the top of a long scar. She’d taken a knife to her husband. Only after years of abuse, and taking one in her own gut. He’d killed their unborn child, assuring that Abigail Parks would never have another.

  “When are you planning to leave?” Riot asked.

  “A month from now.” She crushed her cigarette in the ashtray. “I think I’ll head north, or east, maybe south.” She gave him a rueful smile.

  “If you need anything—”

  “I can take care of myself.” Abigail looked at the photograph of her husband. “Jesus, I still love that God-awful man. What kind of woman am I?”

  Riot didn’t have an answer. He dressed and left, and never saw her again.

  33

  Chasing a Curiosity

  Tuesday, December 15, 1896

  Atticus Riot walked into the study and lowered himself into his customary chair. He was grateful for its support. It was close to two in the morning, but he was too tired to move. He sighed, and laid his head back. It had been a long night—they were all long of late, running together in a blur.

  The fire lulled his lids closed.

  “Your bed is upstairs,” a voice reminded from across the room. Riot didn’t even bother to crack an eye. From the way the words carried, he guessed Ravenwood was at his desk.

  “There’s no fire up there.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Shaw will light one.”

  “I’m not about to wake a seventy year-old woman to light my fire at this hour.”

  Ravenwood grunted.

  A few minutes later, a glass was pressed into his hand. Riot cracked an eye open as Ravenwood laid a thin ledger on the table by his chair, and sat. There was a drink in his hand. The man rarely imbibed, and the sight of a brandy in his partner’s hand woke him up like an electric charge.

  “Is something amiss?”

  Ravenwood was quiet. His brooding gaze turned to the flames. “I think these waters are deeper than they appear.”

  Riot studied the man over his glass. “Is greed ever shallow?”

  “It should be, shouldn’t it?” Ravenwood asked. There was a puzzled tilt to his head like an inquiring owl. “How was your raid tonight?”

  Riot grimaced. “We arrested ten. Half will likely walk free. Three highbinders were killed, and one Chinese Vigilance member. He was a good man.” Riot took a long draught of brandy. “Many were wounded; more escaped, but there were six newly-arrived girls who’ll live free. For now.”

  Ravenwood nodded with approval. “Were any records recovered?”

  “Not officially.” Riot stood, feeling far older than his thirty-some years. He retrieved the recovered ledgers. “Tim cracked a safe during the chaos. We’re still not sure about some of the men on the police squad. I figured I’d learn what I could first.” He plopped the ledgers on the table beside Ravenwood.

  Ravenwood flipped through the books, but they were written in Chinese characters. “What do they contain?” Ravenwood asked.

  “Receipts for girls, bribe collection, and payouts—the same as usual,” Riot answered. He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “I’ll look over them tomorrow, or I should say today, and take them to the Consul later. What have you occupied yourself with?”

  “Chasing a curiosity.” Ravenwood stood, and placed a hand on Riot’s shoulder. “Get some rest, my boy. It can wait.”

  Riot was already half there. He may have mumbled something, but he’d never know. It was the last time he’d sit across from the man.

  34

  Downward Spiral

  Wednesday, December 16, 1896

  A curious crowd gathered around the steps of the courthouse. Every mob had a mood that could change at the drop of a hat or a single thrown punch. Currently, this crowd felt boisterous rather than angry.

  Riot stood on the courthouse steps, searching the gath
ered crowd. His coat was tucked back, displaying his revolvers. Tim had a dozen men in the mob, and a dozen more police officers made a nice showing. Still, things were known to happen at courthouses. It wouldn’t be the first time a lone gunman shot a judge, attorney, or witness in the face in broad daylight.

  Well into the Quarantine Station trials, William Cook had testified. He’d done his part, and now it was Riot’s job to see the man safely home.

  Ravenwood walked out of the building with Cook and Monty Johnson. Reporters rushed forward, hurling questions at the trio. But Monty pushed them back, and the ones who came too close found that the aging white-haired detective favored a weighted stick. Ravenwood made liberal use of that stick as he propelled Cook into a waiting hack. He climbed in after.

  Just as Riot started to climb in, a messenger broke through the mass. He handed Riot a Western Union envelope. He tore it open, read it, and handed it to Ravenwood through the carriage window.

  “I’ll see him home,” Ravenwood said.

  The esteemed Consul General paced his study. It was uncharacteristic for the scholarly gentleman, but as Riot read the letter that had been sent from the governor of California, he began to see why.

  “We have destroyed the tong headquarters. We risk our lives daily. Every single man in this building has a chun hung on his head. Yet, your government says I am to blame, along with the Six Companies.”

  Riot frowned at the last. The Chief of Police had recently threatened to deport every Chinese if Consul General Chang did not stop the tongs. As if the man had not been trying to eradicate the criminal tongs for years.

  “My informants say the Wah Ting San Fongs and Sen Suey Yings have joined with the Hop Sings against the Suey Sings,” Chang said. This latest war had been started over a woman, and a perceived slight. “I wonder how the Police Chief would feel if he were held responsible for eradicating all crime in the Barbary Coast.”

  Riot chuckled. “Only an act of God would dislodge that infestation. It’s always easier to point fingers at someone else.”

  “Yes,” the Consul nodded. “I will never forget. Politicians think we heathens are the cause of all trouble in San Francisco. And yet when I try to deport the highbinders, your benevolent societies resist, claiming that we are the barbarians. The tongs are a disgrace to China. They deserve to be deported and beheaded.”

  Riot spread his hands in surrender. “You’re preaching to the converted, Consul Chang.”

  Chang composed himself, and sat. “I have posted a warning to the highbinders. A chun hung full of threats. But with my hands tied, there is little backing the threat.”

  “Maybe they’ll kill each other,” Riot said.

  Chang shook his head. “I have hoped the same, but as long as money is involved, there will always be drifting young men to join their ranks.”

  “How can I help?” Riot asked.

  A glint entered Chang’s eye. “I have heard a whisper about the Queen’s Room.”

  A sky of clotheslines sagged with blouses and unmentionables. Riot moved under the lines with purpose. There were no ‘look-see’ men positioned outside the building. No Chinese for that matter. The alleyway was empty.

  Danger pricked the back of Riot’s neck. He walked past the doorway, and turned down a narrow alleyway, while a dozen other men trickled towards the main doors from side streets.

  Mason and Johnson came from the other end of the lane, brushing the dingy brick with their wide shoulders. Riot nodded to the big Chileno—Mason had been invaluable in the recent months. When the agency hired him, he’d offered to work for the same wages, since he wanted to help the girls anyway, but Ravenwood and Riot wouldn’t have it. He was a rare kind of man.

  Mason dragged over a crate filled with trash. Riot climbed on top, and caught the first rung of the fire escape of a building next to the one that was their target—a leaning hotel. The metal groaned, but the bolts held.

  The hotel’s own fire escape was on its front, impossible to climb without drawing attention. Chinatown was a warren of passages that the tongs made use of. When a raiding party went in through the front of a building, they’d stream out a dozen different exits. In order to catch the highbinders, Riot needed to plug holes.

  As he climbed the fire escape of the building beside the hotel, the entire mangle of rust shuddered. He paused, holding his breath as it creaked and groaned. The anchor moved in its hole, scraping against the bolt, but the maze of metal held as Mason and Johnson began to climb.

  The families and bachelors holed in their rooms averted their eyes from the windows as he passed. The less they saw, the better. Hatchet men were quick to silence witnesses.

  He climbed to the top, and onto the flat roof. Riot consulted his watch. Ten minutes. Moving quickly, he walked across the roof to the edge on the other side. The hotel was only a few steps away. Without looking down at thirty feet of open air, he steeled himself, and hopped the two feet from his building to the hotel roof. As wood creaked under his shoes, he turned on the edge, and carefully lowered himself to a window ledge.

  He tried the shutters. The rickety slats gave, and he slipped into a small room, startling two old men and four younger ones stuffed inside.

  They had the look of laborers who were holing up in Chinatown for the winter. Exhaustion ringed their eyes, and their hands were hard with calluses. Riot put a finger to his lips.

  “What room number is this?” he whispered in Cantonese.

  They shook their heads in unison. Then an older man whispered something in a dialect that he could not place. The young men’s eyes went wide with fear.

  “What did he say?” Riot asked. But the younger men shook their heads.

  Riot picked his way over to the door, and pressed an ear to the wood.

  “Four minutes,” whispered Monty at his shoulder. He had a good solid billy club in hand and a pistol on his hip.

  Distant voices drifted through the hotel, traveling through flimsy wooden doors. Riot cracked the door and peeked into the hallway. It was dark and filthy. And empty. That emptiness pricked a nerve of danger. The room across bore a charcoal mark of seven. That was their room—the supposed Queen’s Room.

  Four minutes later, a rush of boots poured through the ground-level door, shaking the building with noise. Riot rushed out of the room, stick ready, and braced himself for a tide of highbinders and slave dealers. But no one appeared.

  He stepped aside for Mason, and the bigger man applied his shoulder to room seven. The rickety wood gave. A burst of thunder filled the hallway. Mason crumpled with a spray of blood, and fire burned into Riot’s shoulder. Scatter shot.

  Before the gunman could cock his shotgun again, Riot dragged Mason away from the doorway. There was too much blood. He wasn’t moving.

  Keeping low, Riot thrust his revolver around the door jam, and peeked into the room. His throat clutched. Fighting down a slash of pain, he lowered his gun, and stepped into the room. The blood in his body went cold, and the pain in his shoulder moved into his throat.

  A shotgun had been rigged with a tension cord that was triggered by the opening of the door. But that was secondary. An effigy hung from the ceiling of the empty room. The body had been blown clean off when the shotgun fired, and now only the head and shoulders hung from a noose. The straw man bore an unmistakable resemblance to Ravenwood.

  “He’s dead,” Monty said as a stampede of boots joined them. Words were spoken, but they might as well have been in a different language. There were voices, and angry faces moving in and out of his vision, but he couldn’t hear words; he could barely breathe. His line of sight narrowed to a dim tunnel as he read the chun hung nailed to the effigy.

  Atticus Riot turned from the room and ran, leaving a trail of blood to mark his path.

  He did not remember acquiring a horse, but he rode it hard, and his breath came as heavy as the horse’s.

  A single light shone on the porch of the Ravenwood estate. The house was as dark and brooding as ever, and
the sight of it chilled his bones. He dismounted before the horse stopped, let the reins drop, and ran to the front porch. He slipped his key into the lock.

  Riot stepped into the entranceway. “Ravenwood!” he yelled. His revolver was in hand, and he stepped into the first parlor. A single light drew his eye through the second parlor and into the dining room like a moth to flame.

  Zephaniah Ravenwood stared from the tabletop.

  Riot’s throat clutched. He put a fist to his mouth. He could not remember walking closer. But he was there, standing in front of his partner’s head. Streaks of blood marred the walls, as if some child had painted on the wallpaper. There was so much blood. It pooled in the silver tray, and dripped onto the floor.

  Riot’s spectacles clouded. He tore his eyes away from horror. The world spun so badly he wanted to drop to his hands and knees, and hold on tight. But he didn’t. As he followed the trail of blood and footprints into the hallway, he was aware of the weight in his hand. His revolver was poised, his hand as steady as they came.

  Mrs. Shaw lay on the floor. Bruises covered her frail body, and her skull was crushed. She had been murdered in her nightgown. The house was overturned, the study in shambles—ravaged like Riot’s life.

  Ravenwood’s eyes kept flashing in his mind’s eye. Dull and pale, the light had gone out, the glaze had set in, there was nothing left of his brilliant mind.

  Riot followed the blood like cookie crumbs. It led into the conservatory. Glass crunched under his boots. The shards were coated with blood. Beakers and chemicals stained the floor. The bunsen burner was still on, bright and flickering in the dim. It looked like a bear had gone on a rampage.

  And then he saw the rest of his dear friend. His mentor, his partner, the only person he had ever thought of as a father. Ravenwood’s death had not been clean. There was signs of a struggle. His body lay in one place, and his hand in another, still clutching his weighted stick.