by Alex White
He strode to the gun cabinet and armed himself with his favorite pistol. It wasn’t much, but he certainly wasn’t going to talk to Duke without being strapped.
After throwing on the cleanest clothes he had, he faced the daylight to stalk across the lawn to Bellebrook proper. The temperature had plummeted over the past two days with the storm front. He shivered in his wrinkled suit, thinking briefly on his attire for tonight. Too many layers meant less mobility. Then again, the last time he’d seen that bitch she’d ripped someone up with a knife. Maybe layers weren’t such a bad thing.
He found Duke in the study, a technical manual spread across his lap. Hiram couldn’t see the title, but he saw several circuit diagrams.
“I heard Marie didn’t come home last night. Her son came here looking for her,” Duke said, shutting his book.
Applied Concepts for Radio Relays the cover read. It was a Consortium technical manual. Duke stood and shelved it next to his other manuals, including the one Nora had been carrying about farming. What kind of woman went to the farms, anyway?
“What did you tell him?” asked Hiram. “Obviously not the truth, or there’d be at least one bloodstain over here.”
“I told him that the police had come around asking the same question, then I had some orderlies put him up for the night in Gardendale.”
“The sanitarium? That’s cold-blooded.”
Duke smiled. “Not at all. They bedded him down in the warden’s estate. He’ll be on a boat within the week after he finds out about Marie... that’s done, right?”
“All sewn up, chief. Mind if I smoke?” He shook out a cig from a pack of Silver Coins.
“I do.”
“Fine.” He put his smoke away. “She’s still on the property, though. Ain’t got time for that today.”
“Had to be done. A pity, really. I’ll call some of the boys to clean it up in the morning. You’ll be supervising.”
Hiram jammed his hands in his pockets and rested against the arm of a leather chair. “Sounds like a plan, Stan. You getting into the radio business?”
“And television. We’re going to broadcast our ministry to anyone who can afford to listen – anyone with a set top. Pastor Barber is already on board.”
“Sounds like the signal will stop somewhere around the fourth ring.”
Duke cocked his head to one side and smirked. “Until we secede. Then we’ll be installing televisions on all levels and in the common areas, too.”
Never going to happen, fat man. “Don’t be sad when the folks down there rip them up for the copper wiring.”
“I think you’ll be surprised what the word of God can do. I take it you have a plan for dealing with Miss Fiddleback this evening?”
“She’s soft in the head, big guy. Don’t need a plan.”
Duke turned his back to peruse the bookshelf, but Hiram knew what face he was making. It was the same face he always made when Hiram did something he hated – a strong dose of boredom with a pinch of derision. “I still haven’t gotten all of the stains out of my limo. I think it’s about time I call it a loss.”
“It ain’t going to be a problem. She won’t have a chance to get close to me. But you know, maybe we could’ve shot her instead of trying to bring her in for an interview like we did.”
“Or maybe you could have done your job and searched her properly, Mister McClintock.” Smugness dripped from every chortling word.
Laugh it up, you self-righteous shitbag. Tomorrow is fucking payday for me. “Too right. I won’t make the same mistake again.”
Duke turned to him. “Do you think she’s likely to bring friends?”
“Doubt she has any, but maybe. Marie said the girl knew a few folks, but I don’t think anyone would follow her to meet me.”
The older man’s gray eyes locked onto Hiram’s. “If she has anyone with her, that person has to die, too. I don’t care who it is, just take care of them.”
There was an authority and confidence in Duke’s voice that hadn’t been there when he’d ordered the death of Alvin Kimball. Over time, the bastard had gotten used to his role of cueing up killings, and Hiram knew Duke would relish the bullshit state trials that would come after the fall of the Consortium. It was all too easy to imagine the man sitting on a panel, sentencing people to death for dancing or fucking or anything else fun.
“Sure, boss. Anything you want,” he said, and turned to go.
“Hiram,” Duke called.
“Yeah?”
“We’re doing what’s right. We’re going to feed these people. We’re going to give them shelter. And in those provisions, they’re going to find the light of Christ. I won’t abide a few sinners ruining all that for the rest. The Consortium has to go, so the rest of us can live.”
Hiram’s eyes flicked across paintings and statues, as well as a dozen mahogany bookshelves with etched panes of glass protecting the older tomes. He might could bargain with the Con-men for a few of those books, too.
Yeah. Just living. That’s what you’re doing, right, old timer?
Hiram tapped his ear and pointed back do Duke as he turned to leave. “I hear you loud and clear, big guy. Look, I’ve got shit to take care of. I’ll be home late, so don’t wait up.”
“You take care.”
That’s It
WHY THE FUCK had he just stood there like that? What could he have possibly been thinking, letting that black bastard get the drop on him? Hiram clutched his stomach and limped toward the furnace complex. The moment that motherfucker’s bullets had dug in, there hadn’t been much pain – just a sharp blow – but now... Each step was a new exercise in self-control not to cry out. It felt like his muscles were ripping away from his hips. Glancing down, he realized how much blood he was losing. If he didn’t get out of there soon, he’d pass out. At least the ground was covered with coal dust, so he’d be hard to track.
He looked closer. His blood trail stood out to the naked eye, congealing as it struck soot into dusty black spheres.
“Fuck,” he gasped with each single step, occasionally swapping it for, “that... crazy... cunt...”
His head spun as he reached the door to the furnace building. He wrenched it open to find a couple of workers in reflective suits playing cards. They jumped up when they saw him, and Hiram’s gun snapped up to level with the nearest man’s head.
“No alarms, prick,” Hiram wheezed. “Get the fuck out of here.”
The men left him gasping in the antechamber. He couldn’t get enough air. Why not? Breathe too shallow, and things start to darken; breathe too deeply, and the whole world pitches. He staggered to the stairs.
Hiram needed a buttonhook – a trick his uncle had taught him in Cambodia. He was too wounded to dare try it outside; The paths around individual buildings were too large, and he’d be visible all around. The furnace was claustrophobic, however, teeming with blind corners and poor vantage points.
His feet didn’t want to listen. They drunkenly clopped around, scarcely cleaving to a straight line. “Just follow the blood, you dumb bastards.”
Upon reaching the blast chamber, he was greeted with the sight he desired most – a jungle of pipes with a wide open catwalk to one side. His eyes sluggishly scanned the room. Goddamn, he was so tired. He hobbled as quickly as he could down the catwalk, and reaching the corner, bent over to take off his shoe. He neither screamed, nor did he faint, but his guts felt all twisted and shredded as he reached down. You’re not going to die here.
Once removed, he propped the shoe toe-up, so its sole was just barely visible around the corner. Blood had pooled at his feet, slurping toward the open grating of the catwalk. He felt morbidly pleased with the addition of his blood. The puddle gave his distraction all the authenticity it needed. The first part of the buttonhook in place, he slunk down the hallway looking for another path back to the pipe jungle.
He wound through the machinery until he could see the catwalk ahead of him and stopped. His right hand didn’t want to rise, as
though the weight of his gun had grown twentyfold. Was this what it would be like to die? Just take a few bullets and bleed out alone? He sunk down and rested his gun on his knee. He had a good vantage point, and the catwalk was less than ten feet away. He wouldn’t miss from this distance. He checked his clip. Five bullets left.
The black man entered his sights, and Hiram shook the bleariness out of his eyes. The man looked to be alone, and Hiram raised the tip of his barrel ever so slightly. If he didn’t shoot now, he didn’t think he’d get another chance before he passed out.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Click.
His target, flopped back against the railing, shaking and covered in blood. There you go, Duke. I killed anybody helping her. Now do your own job, you fat fuck.
The mousy little bitch poked her head around the corner. Hiram didn’t bother to pull the trigger again. He knew how many bullets he had left. It was over.
“Oh, fuck,” he chuckled. “I didn’t think you’d come with –”
She charged. The blade sunk into his palm, into his arm, into his chest. He went to scream, but nothing would come out of his throat. It sliced into his neck. It cut into his eye, pressing down through his head.
Colors. A bitter smell. Jolts.
Resolve
LOXLEY AWOKE TO rough, gloved hands grabbing her bruised arms and hoisting her to her feet. Hiram’s last moments still ricocheted inside her head. All of her muscles felt strained, and she groaned as the hands moved her. Men’s voices jabbered, and still she heard the roar of the furnace from the chambers behind. Somebody was repeating something, and he had to say it a few times before the syllables aligned in her brain.
“You’re okay, honey. You’re going to be all right.”
She struggled free, staggering a few steps, her legs refusing to work together. “Get away from me!”
Three men in reflective suits gathered around her. Millions of details pushed forward, jockeying to be noticed – rows of bolts along iron girders, valves and switches, lights, warnings, sprinklers, the way the exposed pipes ran parallel along the walls, the forests in Tailypo’s office. The animals were probably still screaming there. The eagle would be eating the mice. She shook her head. Focus on the men.
One of them had stepped toward her, his palms open. “We’re not here to hurt you. Are you all right? What happened?”
She shifted on her legs. She couldn’t run yet. Should she run? What if they wanted to help her? No, she didn’t need help – didn’t want it. No one else needed to die helping her. She didn’t ask for it. She didn’t have her knife. Must’ve left it in Hiram.
The men were talking, their suits rippling with the lights of their surroundings – gray and black, yellow sodium lamps and green fluorescents, orange cautions and red... What was red? A little box on the wall with a lever. Too many voices; a disagreement arose between the men. What was the little red box? She stumbled for it and saw that it controlled the sprinklers. She closed her fingers around the lever and one of the workers shouted at her. She yanked the valve open.
Icy water showered upon her, drowning the sounds of the room with its hiss. All of the disparate sensations across her skin became the single, random pattern of rain. White noise across her hearing and body washed away her confusion, and she focused on the startled workers, shielding their eyes. The jittering reflections disappeared from their heat suits, dissolved by the mist.
She spun and ran. She saw no reason why they ought to follow.
Her thighs burned with the exertion, but with each passing step, the stiffness faded. She stumbled down a stairwell, caught the railing and whirled down another flight. By the time she burst loose into the wintery air, her body once again belonged to her. Her wet skin chilled instantly and, though she shivered, she continued her breakneck sprint for the far edge of the Foundry, where the cooling towers lay.
Alarm bells sounded from the buildings behind her and several lights went on in various structures, but no one seemed to be chasing her. Maybe they’d seen what she did to Hiram and no one wanted to risk confronting her. After all, they might toil the day away in the steelworks, but they didn’t own it – so it wasn’t up to them to police it.
Icy fingers of wind dug into her as she tore across the open staging area before reaching the towers. She tried the door, but it was locked. A quick scan revealed a loose ventilation duct a little way up. She scaled some pipes that ran up the sides of the building, locking her fingers around the mounting brackets with each push upward. Fifteen feet off the ground, she drew level with the vent and kicked it open. She scrambled inside, slicing the heel of her palm on sharp metal. The heated ductwork was an instant balm on her skin.
Climbing in a little way, she found another vent and kicked it out, dropping into a hallway. She recognized it from before, when she’d been here with Floyd. There were clothes nearby. A quick search of all the doors along the hall located a washroom and a set of wooden lockers. The collection pool of the cooling tower had to be somewhere near here. She longed to feel its burbling depths and fizzing water against her tortured skin, but there was no time. If the workers decided to fan out into search parties, they might find her.
She opened one of the lockers and found a Consortium uniform, a musty towel, a can of shaving cream and a straight razor. The towel stunk of old sweat, but she dried off anyway. She slipped on the warm jumpsuit, which smelled very similar to the towel. A few months ago, Loxley wouldn’t have touched someone else’s clothes, much less worn them. Now, she grit her teeth and did what she could to live. When this was all over, she would peel them away and wash the scent from her skin, assuming she wasn’t dead. She took the straight razor and pocketed it.
The shivering slowed, then stopped. She took a deep breath, closed the locker and set out, this time for Bellebrook.
Chapter Sixteen
Graverobber
BUSHES DAMPENED THE wind that rattled the tree limbs overhead. The air in Edgewood came blowing off the farmlands beyond, untainted by the acrid industrial smell of the Hole. Unfamiliar freshness set things askew in Loxley’s mind, and unease gathered in the pit of her stomach. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and rubbed for warmth. It didn’t help much.
She parted the foliage and looked upon Hiram’s stone cottage. Bellebrook lay warm and inviting behind it. Even though it had to be three o’clock in the morning, many lights were still on inside the house. She thought of its myriad opulent rooms, pictured through the eyes of Nora and Hiram. Would they really be the same as all the other things she’d seen in her visions? Would she be able to find Duke?
She spied men smoking on the back porch of the distant manor, but in their thick jackets there was no way to tell whether or not they were armed. Loxley needed to get across to Hiram’s house, get inside and help herself to a loaded gun before anyone got wise to her plans. She took a cautious step from the bushes into the shadows of a sycamore tree.
Then she saw Marie in the window of Hiram’s stone cottage, looking straight at her with inky eyes. Loxley blinked, and the spirit stood directly in front of her, arms outstretched. She did what she could not to shout, but a quiet hum escaped her mouth as she scrambled backward. The ghost took a reluctant step forward and glanced back to the cottage. It reached for Loxley, uselessly clutching the air.
Then, it covered its face as though weeping. Ghosts didn’t cry; at least, Loxley had never seen that happen before.
She got her legs back under her and took a step closer. It didn’t react. A glance to Bellebrook’s back porch told Loxley to hurry. The men might come to the cottage, and she wasn’t here to hurt anyone but Duke if she could help it. She hadn’t intended to kill Pucker-Lips. Loxley held her breath and stole past the ghost, her heart thumping in her ears.
When she reached the rear door of the cottage, her eyes flicked back to the spirit, which remained in place. The familiar nausea roiled inside her, and the chill of the dead filled her bones. Was it letting her pass? She exhaled, and the ghost jer
ked its head like it had been yanked with a rope, but it didn’t turn to face her.
Loxley ducked through the kitchen. Filthy dishes littered the sink, and trash lined countertops. She shook her head and tilted it, trying to keep her gaze on the open pathway through the clutter and lock out all other details. A glint of silver caught her eye – the blade of a butcher’s knife as it dangled from a rack. She seized the handle and yanked it free. It looked nice, and she needed to replace Cap’s blade. The straight razor wasn’t good for stabbing.
Her foot grazed a beer bottle that had been left on the floor next to the table. It toppled with a clink and dumped its amber contents over the dirty tiles. Loxley jerked back and clenched her teeth, her limbs overcome with electricity. Clumsy! She could hear her mother’s voice saying. Why can’t you pay attention? Loxley pounded her forehead with the palm of her hand before shaking the crackles out.
The puddle spread, running up to the sole of her shoe and dampening her foot. This was Hiram’s beer. She needed to get it off of her. She glanced around for a towel and saw Marie’s ghost, just inside the door, its back turned to her. Its hands still covered its face, its arms taut with effort.
Then Loxley knew: the spirit couldn’t help wanting to touch her. All ghosts wanted to touch her. But this one also knew why she was here. This one wanted her to succeed.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll be out of here, soon.”
It jerked again, clearly fighting against itself; Loxley decided it was a bad idea to speak to it.