by Sophie Davis
Crap. Was that word going to be “probation”?
Yelling at an alchemist doctor was likely frowned upon. There were worse crimes, like Lachlan’s, but the price for defiance was much higher in the syndicates than other workplaces. Without strict obedience and absolute fealty, the syndicate system would break down.
Hopefully, my boss would consider stress a mitigating factor in this situation. This run, with all of its twists and turns and serial killers, was stressful. Cyrus understood that, right?
Of course, if he’d overheard me on the phone with Charles…that was direct insubordination. I tried to recall my side of the conversation, so I’d know just what circle of hell I’d damned myself to if Cyrus had been listening.
Forewarned is forearmed and all of that.
With my mind racing at a million miles a moment, I was sitting on the couch and making mincemeat of my thumbnail when Cyrus reentered the townhouse. He took a deep breath, met my anxious gaze, and then said the last words I was expecting.
“How do you feel about sanitariums?”
“YOU’RE GOING TO have me committed?” I asked uncertainly.
Cyrus stared at me with flat green eyes. “That depends.”
“On what?” I shot back, apprehension creeping up my spine.
My first question had been a joke. Sort of. The jury was still out on whether Cyrus’s answer had been in the same vein.
“On how much information the employees are willing to share with a man claiming to be searching for his missing son.”
“I see,” I said, drawing out the second word as his meaning sunk in. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Cyrus, you aren’t seriously sending me undercover in a sanitarium? In the 1920s? They still use electroshock to try to zap the lesbian out of women. And zipper you shut in bathtubs. No fracking way.”
“Did you become a lesbian in the last twenty-four hours?” he asked.
“That’s not the point.”
Much to my relief, Cyrus cracked a wide smile and chuckled.
“No, Stassi, you will not be going undercover,” he said, his emerald eyes twinkling. “Gaige may not have time sickness, but I think that Lachlan does. As I told you before, his syndicate’s Founder was concerned over Lachlan’s mental health prior to his disappearance. Far as we can tell, Lachlan isn’t using customs stations to enter and exit territories. We have no idea how many jumps he’s made over the last several weeks. The chocolate wrappers suggest he knows he’s sick and is trying to counteract the effects. And the police reports from the Night Gentleman crime scenes point to a deranged, very unstable man.”
“Aren’t all serial killers deranged?” I asked.
“One could make that argument,” Cyrus agreed. Rounding the coffee table, he joined me on the couch. “The Night Gentleman has not taken a victim in four days, which is longer than his last cooling-off period. Serial killers typically speed up their timetable, not slow it down.”
“Which must mean Lachlan is out of commission,” I reasoned, picking up where Cyrus had left off. “You didn’t find him in the morgue, so he probably isn’t dead. If he’s not wandering freely but is likely still alive, that leaves incarceration or institutionalization.”
“Very good,” Cyrus told me, nodding his approval. “I made an inquiry at La Sante Prison here in Montparnasse, and no one matching his description is currently in holding.”
“And then there was one,” I proclaimed. “One likely possibility remaining—a sanitarium.”
I leaned back against the couch cushions, exhausted beyond belief.
“And then there was one,” Cyrus echoed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Salpêtrière.”
“The place that rounded up all the prostitutes and treated them for hysteria?” I asked incredulously.
Horrific images began to invade my mind’s eye: Glassy-eyed men and women with electrodes at their temples and bits in their mouths strapped to metal gurneys with leather restraints; doctors and nurses taking perverse pleasure in “curing” their charges through sadistic methods; patients muttering nonsensically to their shadows after one too many electroshock sessions.
“That’s the one,” Cyrus replied. “I’m impressed by your knowledge of its history, but Salpêtrière is now a state-of-the-art psychiatric facility. If Lachlan has been committed, I’d guess that’s where they took him.”
“Next stop, Salpêtrière,” I said, doing my best impression of a train conductor. “Toot, toot! When do we leave?”
Cyrus studied me. If I looked at all the way I felt, I was not a pretty sight. I felt like a girl who’d spent the night cramped in an uncomfortable chair.
“Go lay down for a bit, Stassi. You need to catch up on sleep,” Cyrus said, not unkindly. His tone turned stern when he added, “That’s an order.”
I stood and stretched, the vertebrae in my spine crackling like pop rocks. Stifling a yawn, I mumbled, “Right after I check on Gaige.”
“Gaige is fine. He’s doing crossword puzzles and eagerly waiting for the all-clear from Dr. Merriweather, so that the two of you can complete the run. You, on the other hand, look about one breath away from an all-gray-matter diet. Bed. Now.” He pointed towards the stairs.
“Did you just say I look like the undead? Not cool.”
Despite his tactful choice of words, my boss was right. Now that I wasn’t fearful for my partner’s welfare, all of the adrenaline that’d kept me going was rapidly dissipating. Exhaustion swept over me as I trudged towards the stairs, my feet feeling like they were encased in cement blocks. The sensation intensified as I navigated the steps, using the bannister like a crutch.
No mattress had ever felt so soft, no pillow so perfect, as the ones on my bed in the Paris townhouse.
WHEN I WOKE, I went straight across the hall to check on Gaige. Blue’s Canyon was being projected as a hologram from the Qube in his lap, a mug of mint tea steaming between his large hands as he read Rosenthal’s novel.
“Have it memorized yet?” I asked from the doorway.
“Just about. The story will make a lot more sense once we have that middle piece, though. I’ve been trying to figure out what happened to Serena’s cat for the last hour.” Gaige tapped the screen of his Qube and the hologram disappeared. “You look way better, not like a rabid raccoon anymore.”
“Nice gratitude, ass. I stay up all night, holding your hand, and that’s the thanks I get?” I rolled my eyes. “Next time, I’ll let you die alone.”
Hand over his heart, Gaige batted his long lashes.
“Aww, Stass, you were worried I’d die? I didn’t know you cared.”
“Dead runners generate a lot of paperwork,” I deadpanned.
“Come sit.”
My partner beckoned me forward and gestured to the floral torture chair. My gaze darted between the chair and Gaige’s bed.
“Move,” I said, indicating that he should make room.
Stretching out beside him, I rested my head on his shoulder. Gaige leaned his cheek on my hair and wound an arm around my shoulders to pull me close. The embrace was affectionate without being romantic, as though we truly were brother and sister.
“Thanks, Stass,” Gaige murmured.
He didn’t elaborate, but there wasn’t any need to.
“We’re a team,” I replied, patting his arm.
“Teamwork makes the dream work,” he intoned, bringing a smile to my face.
In companionable silence, we sat like that, pseudo-cuddling, for several minutes. He didn’t need to tell me how scared he was. Between the rigid set to his muscles and the uncharacteristic grinding of his teeth, it was readily apparent to me. His large fingers nimbly picked at the stitching on the brocade blanket.
“You wanna talk about it?” I asked finally.
“Doc says I’m healthy as an ocelot. He came in while you were sleeping to give me the good news.” Gaige’s voice lacked its normal flippant tone.
“I think you mean ‘horse’. The saying is ‘healthy as a—’
”
“I know how the saying goes, Stass.”
“So, if Merriweather gave you good news, what’s the problem?” I asked, slanting my gaze to see his expression from the corner of my eye.
“Healthy people don’t black out.”
Right, there was that.
“Did Dr. Merriweather have an explanation for it?” I asked hesitantly.
“Yeah, he did.” Gaige snorted derisively and let his head fall back against the pillow. He groaned and gingerly touched the lump on the back of his skull. “Doc Merriweather and I had a heart-to-heart. Five times, in five different ways, the alchemist had the nerve to ask me about my ‘drug habit’.” The air quotes made me smile. “Five times, in five different languages, I told him to turn his ivory tower into gold and go frack himself.”
“You didn’t!” I exclaimed, half in awe of my partner and half concerned about repercussions. Though if yelling at alchemists was exile-worthy, at least we’d be together.
“Pig Latin was my next choice, but Merriweather quit asking before I could tell him to ackfray himself. He did say that my blood sample came back negative for common drugs, so they’re going to test for the more obscure ones now. He made it sound like it was possible that someone dosed me with something, but I could tell that he didn’t really believe that.” Gaige paused, looking grim. When he continued, his voice was quiet and grave. “Cyrus is going to have my balls if I test positive for anything.”
“Castration is a little bloody for the big boss man. He strikes me as more of a double-tap-to-the-back-of-the-head kind of guy. Neat and tidy,” I said pragmatically. “But you have nothing to worry about, because they won’t find any drugs in your system. Besides, Cyrus is on your side. He knows you. He knows you wouldn’t jeopardize a run for any reason, let alone something as pointless and reckless as drugs.”
Gaige shrugged, feigning indifference. “Whatever.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked again.
“No, not at all,” Gaige replied. “But thanks.”
“Is Cyrus around?”
He shook his head. “He’s meeting with that tailor Charles told you about.”
Thank heavens. I hadn’t yet conjured a believable excuse for leaving the townhouse to see Worchansky, so this was extremely good news. Almost like fate wanted to help me with my search.
Checking the grandfather clock in the corner of Gaige’s room, I saw that I needed to get moving if I was to be ready when Charles arrived.
I rolled onto my side, so I was facing my partner with a fixed expression of innocence. “Want to help me out?”
“I know that look.” Gaige grinned. “What harebrained scheme have you concocted?”
“Well, since you asked….”
As always, my partner’s excitement mirrored my own when I told him about my plans for the afternoon. Hoping to avoid a tirade of teasing and inappropriate comments, I left out the part about Charles accompanying me. Gaige spent several minutes trying to convince me that he could sneak out and go with me, though his efforts proved fruitless.
“But we’re partners, Stass,” he pleaded, sticking out his bottom lip and giving me puppy dog eyes. “We’re in this together. I go where you go, that’s the deal. How will you make the dream work?”
“I know, sweetie. But the doctor hasn’t cleared you to get out of bed yet, and I’m running out of time here. We’re going to be gone in a couple of days, this might be my only chance to go see Worchansky.”
Gaige let out a long string of expletives in Pig Latin, directed at Dr. Merriweather. When my only response was a withering look, he dropped the whole wounded-animal-meets-belligerent-sailor act.
“I don’t feel right about you going by yourself,” he said in a serious tone. “We don’t know anything about this Worchansky guy’s connection to your locket, nor what kind of person he really is. For all we know, he’s the Night Gentleman. I know we’re short on time, but what about just waiting until tomorrow, so I can do with you?”
“Tomorrow is full. I have the sanitarium in the morning, and then I’m going to see the Flying Codonas in the evening.”
With Hadley nursing a hangover, the Italian aerialists were still up in the air…no pun intended. Tickets were a whole other issue, but I was confident that Ines could arrange that side of things. Hopefully, Hadley would be feeling up to the outing. It was the last chance I’d have to see her before the Hemingways left for the land of sauerkraut and schnitzel.
“I’m sorry…did you just say you’re going to see flying testicles?”
The expression of utter bewilderment on Gaige’s face was priceless. I rolled my eyes.
“Codonas, not cahones. They’re Italian aerialists. Maybe you can even come with us, if you’re feeling up to it.”
From the corner of the room, the grandfather clock chimed a quarter to four.
Climbing out of bed, I said, “That’s my cue. You’ll cover for me with Cyrus?”
“We’re a team,” Gaige answered, echoing my earlier comment.
I paused in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame, and looked back at Gaige over my shoulder. My partner’s big brown eyes were hopeful, as if I might urge him to say “screw it” and come with me after all. My face split into a devilish grin straight out of his arsenal.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going alone.”
Gaige’s expression was approving as he gave me wink.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Which would be what, exactly?”
“Bondage, animals, and anything involving whipped cream.”
I raised my eyebrows in question.
“I hate sticky stuff. So not sexy.”
WHEN I EMERGED from our front door twenty minutes later, my clothes changed and hair pinned back, Charles wasn’t waiting on the sidewalk as expected. Taking a few hesitant steps down the street, I looked to see if he was waiting in a car nearby. No dice.
I was just about to go back inside and call Charles, when I spotted him through the front window of the hat shop. He was inside, pretending to browse the insanely overpriced collection of headpieces while a flustered Naomi hovered nearby. The customs agent appeared to hang on his every word, though she said few in return. I watched their exchange from the sidewalk, gazing through the storefront like a voyeur.
As though he sensed my presence, Charles shot me amused glances as he selected a gauzy lavender nightmare. Fashion-forward Naomi was trying to convince him that the peacock blue fascinator she held in her hands was a much better option.
Only half-listening to her sale’s pitch, Charles discreetly gestured for me to join him inside. I shook my head, tapping my wrist to hurry him along. Taking my cue, he pointedly glanced between the two hats, silently asking my opinion.
I pointed to Naomi’s choice, giggling in spite of myself.
Charles squinted his eyes and shook his head in question.
I curled my arm behind my head and waved it around, miming a feather blowing in the wind. A formidable-looking man in a business suit stopped, one hand poised to push open the door to the hat shop, and glanced curiously between the store window and me. Embarrassed beyond belief, my cheeks flushed scarlet as my hand fell to my side.
Laughing at my poor charades skills, Charles selected the blue hat and went to the counter to pay, though his hands were empty when he emerged.
“Sorry, I had to do something while I waited for you. Loitering on the sidewalk in front of your townhouse was drawing funny looks,” Charles told me when he joined me outside.
“Where’s your pretty new bobble?” I asked cheekily.
“Being wrapped and sent to my mother.” Taking my hands in his, Charles leaned in, as if to kiss my cheek. Instead, he whispered in my ear, “You are ravishing.” His lips brushed my skin as he spoke, sending a jolt of electricity down to my toes.
Flushing from both his touch and the unexpected compliment, all I could muster was a breathy, “Thank you.”
“This w
ay.” Charles offered me his arm. “I parked two blocks over, so your uncle would not see my vehicle.”
“How very clandestine of you,” I declared as we set off, earning me a quiet chuckle.
When we arrived at Charles’s vehicle, my eyes grew wide in appreciation.
Generally speaking, I was not a car girl. The private transportation vehicles of my time didn’t interest me in the least. Few people even owned a transpo anymore, since the public systems were lightning fast and more convenient. With a single body style that came in only three color options—silver, black, and white—the interior amenities and upholstery materials were all that separated the inexpensive models from the luxury ones.
Of course, this had not always the case. At one time—particularly this time—cars were rare things of beauty that could act as a status symbol to declare wealth and social standing, like plumage on a peacock. And the one Charles led me to was definitely not your standard Tauosaki Electrorail Transpo.
Judging by his mode of transportation, Charles DuPree was a man of means and a member of the upper class. Not a surprise, really. His clothes, manners, and overall persona suggested as much, though it was hard to be sure since the other planets in Rosenthal’s galaxy did not all calculate their worth in a conventional fashion. Many had more caćhe than cash, and more intellectual value than inherited wealth.
Charles DuPree evidently had it all, including a 1925 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost Riviera Town Car.
“Do you like it?” he asked as I stared, holding the front passenger door open for me to climb inside. My eyes were still as wide as the Rolls’ white-walled wheels. Charles laughed uncomfortably, as though embarrassed by the opulence.
Reeling in my jaw, I smiled neutrally. My own adoptive father was supposedly a businessman with his fingers in many lucrative pies.
“It is a beautiful machine,” I replied easily. “I haven’t seen this model yet in Baltimore.”
Charles eased the door closed and jogged around to the driver’s side. As the engine purred to life, I marveled at the smooth, quiet hum. Even compared to the electric, solar, and hydrogen cars of my own time, it was impressive.