Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  Which, he reflected, might be pretty soon.

  He sat in a foreman’s office, overlooking a quarry in Quincy. The night was wild and gusty, a regular New England gale.

  “Yes. Thank you. That’s what I needed to know.”

  He hung up the phone. The quiet jing of it hitting the cradle comforted him. He liked things in their place, like watch-cogs, especially in an investigation. This one was proceeding in a very orderly fashion… with the minor complication that he was dying.

  He’d dismissed Sylvester earlier in the evening, gave him details on the anarchists and what they were up to. The danger would be worse, now they knew he was coming for them. The game was afoot, in the words of another famous detective. He just hoped Sylvester would live to see its conclusion.

  A front-page spread, in tomorrow’s early edition. Complete with every detail of their plot. He smiled to himself, wincing as his wound throbbed. You got me good, Soldiers… But I got you back.

  The filthy glass windows of the foreman’s office began to shake. The wind was pounding his tiny shack, shaking it on the edge of the limestone pit. They’d really cut corners out here, he thought. The place could go over the cliff any time.

  Mick lit a cigarette.

  He’d never smoked before, since his nose worked better without smoke in it. But tonight, it didn’t matter anymore. After tonight, he wouldn’t have any more mysteries to solve. He’d reached the end of the trail.

  The door swung open.

  The figure standing there was slick with rain, its long coat dripping. Mick watched it cross the room in quick flashes of movement.

  Seeing Mick at the desk with nothing but a phone and his wheelchair, cigarette smoldering, the Angel of Death paused. The creature was cautious, peering through the gas mask’s lenses like an insect.

  Mick had expected this moment—he’d ignored signs of someone tailing him, knowing he couldn’t outrun this pursuer. Far better to let the end come to him, where he could face it properly. Back to the wall, no quarter. Just like in the Army.

  You’d know a thing or two about the Army, he thought, examining the trench-coat and the man’s rigid stance. Wouldn’t you?

  “Vance,” said his tormentor, voice hissing across the gap between then. “How’s the war wound?”

  “Not so great, pal.” The gas mask separated them, but he knew who was hiding in there. He’d finally placed that sing-song voice, that floral scent, and pinned a name on it. A name he’d known in hell. “Why don’t you come closer? Let’s chat.”

  “I’m just fine, over here.” The hiss of Noxious entering the man’s lungs made Vance shudder. He’d learned things, during his “education” in the past few days, about Humours and Draughts. More than he’d ever cared to know. He’d learned he could seal up his wound with the right mix of the stuff: it would patch up his injury, mutate his body until he was twisted but whole. He could even defy death itself, as Big Joe had done.

  But he wasn’t taking a bite of that poisoned apple. As bad as morphine was, at least it didn’t take your humanity.

  “What’s your name, friend?” he said, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette.

  “I am the Angel of Death,” said the figure. “I am the Horseman of Anarchy.”

  “Really? I heard your name was Baxter Pound.” Mick sucked down smoke, exhaled a hazy cloud. “I recognized your smell, down at the docks. We were on the same side once. British Intelligence is very curious where you’ve been, all this time.”

  The gas-mask hissed.

  Undeterred, Mick leaned forward. “Why’d you go AWOL, Baxter? We had good times, back then. You were pretty slick at cards, for a Brit… Always ready with a joke, even when we—”

  “There was too much blood.” The man’s gloved hands reached behind his lapels. There, Mick knew, were the trench-knives he was so proud of. The ones he’d collected from dead men. “Rivers of it. I had to go.”

  “I… I get it, pal.” America had entered the war late, near the end of things. He and Gus had been fresh-faced and green, but the British ranks were thinned by disease and razor wire. They joked about all the wrong things. The Brits joked about starving whores they’d fucked, about eating dead horses, about drinking their own piss. The Americans had seemed like naȉve children, next to those walking ghosts.

  Men had broken, in the War—and Baxter was one of those men. One dawn he’d simply left, walking out of a veteran’s hospital and into no-man’s-land. He’d never been seen again.

  But Mick had a long memory, and the smell of the man had lingered in his mind. The smell of warm tea… and misery.

  “It’s okay, Mick. I’m much better now.” The mask gurgled with laughter. “I breathe in old memories—flowers, fields, women I’ve loved. And I exhale death. Blood doesn’t bother me anymore.” He advanced across the dirt-stained space. “Shall I show you?”

  “I know what you’re doing, Baxter.” Mick held up a crumpled piece of paper he’d ripped from a book, down at the Copley archives. The ancient sequence of runes, which allowed Draughts to be made… but with modifications. Certain changes to the formula, tweaks to the recipe. “It’s impressive. No one else has ever tried what you’re doing—it’s insane.”

  “You mean visionary. Father Buda is a genius… I’m just his humble drummer-boy.” Baxter moved closer. “And I will play such a tune on you.”

  “Yeah?” Mick’s finger curled around the armrest of his wheelchair. Beneath it, there was a tiny switch cobbled together using foreman’s tools. “Come over here and try it, bud.”

  “If we had time, I could show you the truth… like we’re going to show Rose Sweetwater.”

  He swallowed. “You leave that girl alone, Bax. She’s good people.”

  “Good people die, Mick. It’s what they do. Just ask Sylvester!” Baxter reached inside the ammo-bag he carried, and pulled out Sylvester’s severed head. The little reporter had died screaming, his face a bloody rictus of horror. Mick’s heart clenched. Sylvester had been his confidante, the only one aware of the danger. Any sympathy he might have had for Baxter, any sense of kinship, vanished in that instant.

  “You… animal. You think because the War made you sad, you have a right to slice people into pieces?” He spat on Baxter’s boots. “Fuck you.”

  “I have every right!” The Angel tore off his gas-mask. Beneath it was the shattered remains of a human face, torn to pieces by artillery fire. Jumbled skin and sutured scar tissue formed a lumpy imitation of human flesh. Mad, staring eyes, with rotten flower-petals growing out of them from overuse of Nostalgia, rolled and stared. Baxter’s lower jaw was held up by wires, tubes of Noxious jammed down his throat. His tongue flopped over shredded lips, forming the rasping, honeyed tones of his voice. “You think you can judge me?”

  “Yeah,” said Mick. “Yeah, I think I can.”

  He went for his gun.

  Baxter leapt forward with a trench-knife. Mick raised his Walther, knowing guns would be useless here: like Big Jim, this monster could swallow bullets by the handful. But he didn’t need to kill the guy. Just slow him down, long enough to flip the switch—

  They grappled. Baxter’s blade struck a rib, twisted, and slid through Mick’s left lung with a juicy pop. It wasn’t a killing-blow, but the pain was exquisite, just awful. Mick head-butted Baxter and the man staggered as Mick fumbled for the switch, under the arm of his wheelchair. His throat bubbled with blood as he spoke, desperate to buy a few more seconds.

  “Mithras was… just a hillbilly god, Baxter. A story for drunk cultists. He wasn’t… real.”

  “He is real! He is our salvation!” The veteran was foaming at the mouth, gibbering. One of the hoses fell from of his mouth, spewing pale Nostalgia. Nick smelled the memories in it, sweet and gleeful, even while his vision spun and the cold steel blade in his chest left him rigid with pain.

  “The runes… they worked. Lucky… play.” He slumped forward, blood streaming down his chin. Baxter’s skin felt like wet sandpaper against h
is forehead. “But it didn’t mean anything. The Draughts… the Humours… They don’t come from God.”

  “Liar!” Baxter raised another knife. “Liar!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Mick. “I wish I was wrong.”

  He flipped the switch on his wheelchair.

  A wire, running down into the floorboards, shot a charge into stacks of quarry dynamite he’d hidden there. He’d spent hours wiring them, after the workers left. And hours more, waiting for Baxter. Waiting for this moment.

  And as it turned out, he was bad with explosives. The dynamite didn’t go off—except for one bundle near the door, which blew the entrance apart in a blinding hail of fire. It shook the fragile building loose from the cliff, and objects were hurled in the air, then hung suspended as the whole building plunged downward.

  Well… That works.

  He’d done his job. Without Baxter as their assassin, the Soldiers would be crippled. He’d wanted Sylvester to warn people, but that wasn’t happening, so this sacrifice was all he had left to offer. One final blow for democracy.

  Maybe it wouldn’t work. Maybe his life was being thrown away for nothing. But sometimes, he thought as fire and thunder roared, a death could mean nothing, and that wasn’t so bad.

  Sometimes, dying for nothing was the best you could do.

  CHAPTER 6

  WHEN ROSE entered the Atlantic Ballroom, she felt transported to another planet. Elegance surrounded her. The dance floor was a whirlwind of decorative feathers, black ties, and wafting perfume. Ice sculptures stood glittering, under teardrop chandeliers. A swing band, dripping with sweat but determined to make the most of their gig, kept the crowd moving. Above the chaos, on a balcony flanked by sweeping marble stairs, she saw the Mayor in a crowd of admirers. The normally cheerful Nichols looked miserable, which made sense—the failure of Prohibition in Boston was on his watch. She didn’t envy him his job.

  So there’s the mayor. Where the hell is Fischer? She moved through the packed bodies on the lower level, doing her best to stay invisible—and watching for anything strange. Whatever to the Soldiers were up to, she wanted no part in it. And the longer it took her to find Fischer, the more likely it was they’d make their move. Knowing they were present, but not who they were, made her skin crawl. Every face here was a mask.

  Getting to the balcony was key—that was where all the big players were. Mayor Nichols, the city council and the head cops. Fischer would definitely be up there, schmoozing with the rest of the elite.

  Rose noticed with a sinking heart there was security at each end of the ballroom. And not just cops—heavyset men wearing ill-fitting clothes lurked behind columns, a cursive sign confirming they were Private Security Provided By the Pinkerton Agency.

  The message here was clear. If she stepped out of line, it wouldn’t just be cops coming down on her. Men with no allegiance to the law or the Constitution wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a suspected trespasser.

  But there was a flip-side to their presence, too. Pinkerton men were known to be ruthless, but they were also out of place, and likely added as a last-minute precaution. They wouldn’t know her on sight, and neither would most of the cops. As long as no one here recognized her, she could still get through this…

  “Hey there, Rose. How’s the tooth doing?”

  Shit.

  Lucas Harvey was leaning on a cigarette dispenser nearby. She froze as he began to move towards her. Turning to make her escape, she was blocked by a drunk sailor, bars gleaming on his Navy jacket. He tipped his hat, and she saw tentacles mixed with his hair. Myths, in the anti-Draught party. Go figure…

  Well, there was no getting away now. He’d seen her: the game was up. “You’re a long way from church, Mr. Harvey.”

  “And you’re a long way from a bootleg crew. Yet, here we are.”

  “Keep your voice down! There are cops everywhere.”

  “Don’t worry yourself. Most of them are drunk.” He was wearing a handsome tan suit, which hung loose on his skinny frame. There was a bundle of church leaflets folded in his front pocket. She found herself frustratingly attracted to him, even under the circumstances. The man knew how to dress himself, for sure.

  “How’d you get in here? A preacher can’t afford tickets to a shindig like this.”

  “The Mayor invited me. He says my services are a ‘boon’ to the community.” He chuckled. “What that means is, I keep folks out of the speakeasies. How about you? A woman like you is taking a big risk, walking through that door.”

  “It’s… complicated. And none of your business.” She took up position beside the cigarette dispenser, as wait-staff streamed from the kitchen carrying hors d’eouvres

  He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? A good Samaritan can’t do good, if he don’t know how to help.” Damn, he was handsome. Annoying, but handsome.

  “I don’t need no Samaritan meddling in my business.” But she felt unsure about that. Working with a religious whacko wasn’t ideal—but Lucas was smart, and had a certain social smoothness she lacked. She didn’t have the cunning and patience to get to the higher-ups without someone noticing her, and smooth-talking people had always been Gus’ job. But Gus wasn’t here, and with great reluctance, Rose decided maybe a Samaritan wasn’t the worst thing for her cause at the moment.

  “I came here to talk to someone. But there’s an ocean of idiots in my way.”

  He nodded. “Seas have a way of parting, for God’s men.”

  She frowned at him. “Cute. The last time you helped me, you almost got shot. What’s your angle here?”

  He put a nickel in the box, plucking a pack of cigarettes out of its tray. “Mithras looks out for his own. Don’t worry about it.”

  She sighed. “Fine. I just need to get to the balcony. Once I find Edwin Fischer, he can figure out how to solve my… problem.”

  “And what problem’s that?”

  She shook her head. “Like I said. That’s my business.”

  He took her arm, and she flinched. A soft electricity passed between them, and she didn’t like it. “Easy. You’re going to have to play it cool for a minute—King Solomon’s coming over.” He read her confused expression. “Charles Solomon. Biggest racketeer in town. Runs drugs, gambling rings—but stays away from Draughts.”

  “Smart guy.” Rose had heard of Solomon: he was a whispered name, a boogeyman. Supposedly, places under his protection were neutral ground; anyone violating his rules was usually found with a volley of lead in their guts. “What’s he want with you?”

  “I pay him protection money. From the church collection box.” Lucas’s brown face lit up with a fake smile as the heavyset Solomon arrived. He was flanked by two enforcers, and had a flapper on his arm so drunk she could hardly walk. Behind them trailed a pudgy man Rose recognized as Doc Sagansky, a Scollay Square smuggler and bookie. The gang’s all here tonight, seems like.

  “Lucas, my boy.” Solomon brandished his cigar like a scepter. “How’s the sermons going?”

  The preacher’s smile didn’t waver. “Mithras provides…as usual.” Rose felt his hand tighten on her arm.

  “Sounds like a nice fella. Maybe I oughta ask Moses for his number, eh?” Solomon was clearly in a good mood, smirking and puffing on a cigar.

  “Did you get my donation, sir?”

  “Yes, yes. We’re good for this month.”

  The blonde at Solomon’s hiccuped, and bright pink bubbles emerged from her mouth—the effects of knockoff Joy. Doc Sagansky popped the bubbles with a pencil. He was clearly uncomfortable: she could sense the fear in him, swirling and bubbling. Solomon was different, his emotions lurking on the edge of her senses like a stain. He was a hardened shell, filled with strange and unpleasant thoughts Rose didn’t want to look at too closely. Man’s got a brain like a lizard… no wonder he runs so many rackets at once. If he didn’t, he’d get bored.

  “Excellent,” Lucas said. “So we’ll have no ‘problems’ in September, I trust…”

  Solomon’s ey
es had landed on Rose. “Who’s this little piece? Haven’t seen her around before.”

  “This? Oh, this is… my fiancé,” said Lucas, and Rose jumped as a surge of warm heat coursed through Lucas’s body. It was anger, she realized. Lucas hated Solomon about as much as anyone could hate a person. His thoughts boiled with frustration and malice.

  “Fiancé, huh? I thought you Mithras boys didn’t marry.”

  Rose cleared her throat. “I converted. They make an exception, if you convert.”

  Do they?” Solomon grunted. “Well, ain’t you a peach. Where’s the ring?”

  Lucas and Rose shared a glance. Rose had to think fast—if Solomon sensed that one of his subjects was lying to him, Lucas wasn’t long for the world.

  “We can’t afford one,” she said, pulling a sad face even as she dug into his thoughts, seeking a way out of this hangup. Solomon’s features were as unmoving as granite, but she did sense pity, down in the cesspool of his feelings. She grasped it with her newfound powers. It was buried so deeply she could hardly get a grip on it—crushed under malice, and cold calculation. “It’s just hard, on a preacher’s salary. Lucas doesn’t get paid like the Vatican does, know what I’m saying?”

  Doc Sagansky snorted. Solomon squinted … and pulled out his wallet, attached to a solid-gold chain. He pressed a hundred-dollar bill into Lucas’s hand.

  “Here you go, boy. Get your girl a ring. It ain’t proper for her to be walking around in sin, like this.” The gangster clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t forget your next payment either. I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  They watched Solomon and his cronies depart, and once he’d vanished into the crowds, Rose felt safe enough to start breathing.

  “Fiance? What was that about?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a priest, not a con-artist. That’s your game.”

  “You’re a fool, Harvey.” She tugged him towards the dance floor. “Come on—they’re setting up the podium. We’ve gotta get there.”

  “Lotta dancers in our way.”

  “I don’t dance.”