Canon in Crimson

by Rachel Kastin

  “Mention it again, and you’ll swim the rest of this trip. Is that clear?”

  §

  It’s freezing out here, and I’m not as tough as I used to be; cold is curling around my bones, and I think I’m going to crack in half like an icicle. Tears form and freeze on my eyes. The violent shivering exhausts me—and the hunger. Icy fingers ripping into my stomach and wringing it out. I look around for somewhere to take shelter, but it’s endless tenements and unfriendly glances. And nothing, nothing, nothing for so long. All I need is a warm room, and a change of clothes, and something to eat…

  I remember what happens. No one’s giving, so I’m going to start taking. I wait till I find the right person, and I take his wallet. He catches up with me. But something’s wrong. When I turn around, it’s not him, it’s a tall Italian woman in a beautiful suit. I know her, I— it’s Tony!

  She growls, and then she lunges, wrapping her hands around my throat and squeezing. I try to twist out of her grasp, but I can’t breathe, and I’m getting weaker. So I grab her arms right above the elbows and I pull with all my might. And I rip both of her arms from their sockets. Tendon and vein and sinew stretch and snap, suspended spaghetti on the severed shoulders. I back away, but she falls into me, and the blood is all over my hands, and my arms, and my mouth, and I’m sobbing, but the tears are blood too, and it’s everywhere…

  §

  “She looks awful, doesn’t she? He said she wasn’t doing well, but damn.”

  “Don’t be such a pill! We’re supposed to talk to her, aren’t we? Not make her feel worse. Vic, it’s okay. You look great. Just a little under the weather.”

  “Are you crazy, greasemonkey? Look at her skin!”

  “Oh, dry up. The Doc said that would happen. And anyway, she looks great in red.”

  “Christ, how can you even say that? The poor girl’s dying.”

  “Hey! We’re supposed to be cheering her up. Giving her a reason to live. Right?”

  “I guess. Alright, kid. You’d better not die. I spent plenty of good gambling time helping the Boss make you into some kind of princess these last few weeks. You don’t want that to be a big waste, do you?”

  “You’re awful. Honey, don’t listen to him. You’re going to be just fine. When you’re feeling better, I’ll teach you how to crochet.”

  “You know how to crochet?”

  “What? I didn’t say anything about crocheting.”

  “Ever get your needle mixed up with your wrench?”

  “I hate you. And this isn’t helping. Vic, honey, we’ll send in someone with a conscience. Hang in there.”

  §

  I’m sitting in the kitchen in Alger’s old apartment, and thank God, Alger’s there. He’s with me now and everything is normal. He’s smiling and there’s a cup of coffee waiting for me. I sit down and take a sip, but it tastes funny—like almonds. And that reminds me of something. I’m supposed to tell him something…What was it? Right! Kingston!

  “Hey,” I tell him. “It’s him! Handkerchief Man!”

  Somehow, I can’t explain it any more clearly than that. I try a few more times, and it’s not working. He doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say, but he stands up and walks over to me.

  “Shh,” he says. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be alright.”

  Well, that doesn’t even make sense. I want to tell him that it’s not going to be alright, that he needs to listen to me. Then I stop caring because he pulls me towards him and kisses me.

  I’m astonished, but overjoyed, and I forget all about Kingston and the box, and the fire and the ice and the blood. But then he reaches down and hits me full force in the ribs, striking with the tips of all five fingers. I try to pull away, but I can’t. As I look down in shock, I realize he’s reaching into my chest, digging in my ribcage. Crunching and scraping suction, like ripping out sopping strands from a pumpkin…He’s tearing out my heart. I stare at him in agony and betrayed incomprehension, but he just holds the dripping, pulsing heart out in front of me and smiles…

  §

  “Who’s ‘Handkerchief Man?’”

  “I imagine that’s the man I sent you to look for, the one who was with her when she was poisoned.”

  “Who is he? Why does she keep saying ‘it’s him’?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out when she wakes up.”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t catch him in time, Boss. I swear, we would’ve shown him what happens when you hurt one of ours. But he—”

  “—was on a boat already. And I would have just shot him, but you said not to.”

  “No need for apologies, my friends. You did all you could under the circumstances. I couldn’t allow you to kill him; I’m not even certain that he poisoned her in the first place. And anyway, it was my mistake sending her to talk to him.”

  “No way. You could never have known. Who’d want to hurt a sweet little thing like her?”

  “You’d be surprised. And be careful; in her current condition, you’re going to hurt her if you keep crushing her like that.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t the Doc say her fever was better though?”

  “He did. But that doesn’t mean she’s out of danger yet.”

  “Well, we’ll stay right nearby just in case anything happens.”

  “I’d appreciate that. And also if you’d update me whenever her condition changes.”

  “Sure thing, Boss. But don’t you worry. She’ll pull through. She’s a tough little bird.”

  “Believe me. I know.”

  §

  Things are getting clearer, but I can’t seem to sort out what’s going on. At least it’s fun. We’re at the cabaret, but I’m the singer. Big Six is the drummer, the Torpedo’s playing bass, Screwdriver’s got sax, Shifty has the guitar, and the Ghost is on the piano. Scarmardo’s drunk at the bar. Everything’s going along just fine—and then they burst in the door. Not the bulls, though; it’s the men in dark suits. And they’re driving through the cabaret, smashing tables and scattering the crowd. They’re coming straight for me, and my back’s against a wall.

  So I jump. I just close my eyes and jump, and I’m leaving everyone behind to be killed. But I’ll be safe. I’ll make it.

  Suddenly, I’m standing on the roof. I need to get back in to save them, but I’m not even sure how I got out here. And how will I fend off the dark suit men? I don’t know, but I have to. I’m pounding on the roof with all my might and finally it caves in. Pieces fall down into the room below. But now that I have a way in, I don’t know if I can do it. Should I save them, or run away and save myself?

  Then I feel a chill down my spine as I realize someone’s behind me. I stand up and wheel around, and it’s the dark-haired man from the auction. He looks at me with those violent eyes, and my bones turn to water.

  “Are you scared?” he says.

  And I run.

  §

  “Be calm, little Briar Rose. You have nothing to fear. Fear is what stands between us and our destinies. I will tell you a story of fear and its defeat.

  “When I first came to America from Japan, aboard a ship much like this one, I had nothing. I had to pay my way as a servant on the ship. Like you, I proved myself an able lookout, and I spent most of my time in that occupation. One day, I saw an unusual shape in the water. It might have been an island, had we been closer to shore, but it moved.

  “By the time I reached the captain, it was too late. The beast had already closed on us. Its many arms reached out to ensnare us; its rings of teeth snapped in hunger. But just as it seemed we were lost, one man leapt at the beast, weapons in hand. There was a mighty battle; he cleaved at its legs and dodged its vicious gnashing. And still, the monster bore down.

  “At last, the sailor knew what he had to do. He dived straight into the beast’s mouth, and it swallowed him whole. The ship watched, waiting with bated breath to be devoured. But their fate was not yet sealed. After a moment, the monster screamed in agony and sank back int
o the depths of the sea. The brave sailor had saved them all. No one ever heard from him again. His courage demanded great sacrifice. But he knew no fear and so he was able to slay the beast.

  “I know that you possess such courage in your heart, my enchanting enchanted one. So dream if you must, but do not fear. Soon you will be with us again.”

  §

  I don’t know where I am now, but the scent of coffee and metalworking threads through the familiar scent of home. And I can hear the faint strands of a woman singing. I can hear her perfectly, but I can’t understand the words.

  I start to explore the house, following the singing, but I don’t find anyone. I do find a door, though, and I go in, locking it behind me. Inside is a normal bedroom, but I notice something shiny in the middle of the bed. I go over to investigate, and it seems familiar. It’s circular, with notches, and…I can picture it in Alger’s hand. I know—it’s the coin from the hospital. The key. I pick it up, and realize it has writing around the edge. It’s hard to read, but I dust it off, and I can just barely make it out. It says,

  “You’re welcome now, but still must wait,

  The first is not the only gate.”

  And then it all starts to disappear.

  §

  I had a splitting headache, and I was starving. Those were the first things I noticed when I came to, lying in bed in an unfamiliar room. The next thing I noticed was the Ghost sitting beside me. One of his hands was clasping mine and the other was apparently drawing a picture.

  “Where am I?” I rasped through my parched throat.

  He put down the calligraphy pen and paper, looked at me for a second, and then embraced me gently as I sat up.

  “You are back among the living,” he said. “We have missed you here.”

  I nodded, letting the world come into focus. My head was still swimming. But then I remembered my last thought before going under—that great realization.

  “Is Alger around?” I asked the Ghost, bursting to share the information. He smiled and nodded, but I thought I caught a fleeting glimpse of something bittersweet in his expression.

  As he disappeared, I took a look at the picture he’d been drawing. It was an intricate rendering, detailed as a daguerrotype, of a tentacled beast with rings of teeth and a boat in its clutches. It was so perfect, it could only have been drawn from memory. A sailor was leaping towards the monster, two swords drawn. And there was no mistaking it—the Ghost himself was the sailor.

  Right about then, Alger and the rest of the Gang came pouring into the room. They all looked ecstatic—except Alger, of course, who wasn’t capable of such things, but managed to look at least somewhat happy—and they all wanted to hug me. But the Doc waved them off. He took my temperature and my pulse, looked in my throat and eyes, and generally poked and prodded at me for a couple of minutes. Then he took the stethoscope out of his ears and turned to the waiting audience. He shook his head.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said, his tone bordering on reverence. “She’s just fine.”

  The room erupted with cheers and boisterous murmuring, and Alger weaved his way over to me. He sat down beside me and leaned over to kiss my forehead.

  “It’s good to have you back,” he told me.

  “It’s good to be back,” I said, smiling at him and feeling relieved that he wasn’t the monster from my nightmare. “So it was poison, then?”

  He nodded.

  “An astonishing amount of cyanide, actually.”

  “Well,” I said, “it definitely wasn’t meant for me.”

  His brow furrowed; clearly, he didn’t want to argue with me so soon after my miraculous recovery, but just as clearly, he was unconvinced that I was right.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked delicately.

  “You remember how I said he was nervous? And that someone was after him?”

  “Yes,” he answered, trying to be patient. “But I also remember thinking, and I believe saying, that that was an unfounded guess.”

  “Maybe it was,” I said. “But it was right. He told me, right before I passed out.”

  “Told you what?” Alger was starting to get exasperated, and everyone else was listening to our conversation by now. So I decided to go ahead and reveal my knowledge.

  “He’s John Cyrus Kingston!”

  For once, Alger actually looked surprised, blonde eyebrows climbing up his forehead. He also looked very unhappy, though.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked anxiously. “I thought you’d want to know. You can go talk to him now. I know he’s the one who bought the box. Why else would someone be poisoning him, and—”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Alger said, cutting me off. “It makes perfect sense. But no, it won’t be possible to speak to him. He’s long gone now.”

  “Gone? What do you mean?”

  “Well, first of all, he ran the moment I showed up. I chose to get you help instead of staying to secure him, and by the time the boys found him, he’d jumped ship. That was back in the Caribbean.”

  I sighed.

  “Well, where are we now?”

  Alger nodded at the Ghost, who was sitting by the window now, and he opened the curtains.

  I have to say—I may have chased off our best lead, we might be at a total dead end in our quest, and I might have come within an inch of death. But at least I had an amazing view of the Eiffel Tower.

  Chapter 16—I Know The Pieces Fit

  “So let me get this straight,” said the Chief, glowering at R7 across his military-orderly desk, his anger making the walls vibrate around them. “The press got pictures of one of the mechanical men, the other got away after stealing something, G3 is in surgery, and you still can’t tell me the first thing about what’s going on?”

  R7 ground her teeth and glowered back. If no one else was there, she wondered, could she say what she was thinking without undermining his authority?

  “I can tell you the first thing,” she said instead, digging her fingernails into the edge of the desk. “Just not the last. Yet.”

  “I don’t think you realize the position you’re in,” growled the Chief. “You’re on my bad side, and your partner is out of commission. He wasn’t just your backup, he was the only friend you had around here. You’re on your own.”

  R7 waited as the inevitable wave of desolation bled the color out of the world around her, followed by the equally inevitable tide of rage. Did he know what that meant to her, after what she’d been through, or was it just a lucky shot in the dark? She focused on breathing and not leaping across the desk to give the Chief the same treatment as the robot she’d fought earlier. Her jaw worked, but she managed to meet his eyes steadily.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, sir,” she said, with a voice as hard as his gaze. “What are my orders?”

  He leaned across the desk.

  “Make this ‘robot’ problem go away. Fast,” he said. “And if you’re involved in one more public incident without results, I’ll see you back behind bars before your partner’s even back at the office. Are we clear?”

  “As a bell,” R7 grated.

  “Good,” said the Chief, leaning back in his chair. “Now get going.”

  He didn’t have to tell her twice; seconds later, she was out the door, using all her self-restraint not to slam it behind her. Then she wondered why she’d been so careful, since everyone immediately turned to stare at her anyway. If she’d taken the door off its hinges, she thought, ignoring them as she stared straight ahead on her way to the back hall, that might have counted as a “public incident.”

  “R7?”

  She stopped abruptly, inches from bowling over Spence outside the kitchen. Startled, the analyst nearly spilled a stack of papers onto the cement floor, and R7 reflexively snaked an arm out to catch them.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, helping Spence gather the papers back up.

  “No, no, it’s okay,” Spence assured her. “I was actually hoping to run into you. Just not...um, literally.
”

  The haze of anger thinned as R7 looked at the older woman with her wild grey-sprinkled curls, earnest, open face, and thick glasses sliding down her nose.

  “Yeah?” R7 managed to say without snapping.

  “I have some of the information you wanted,” Spence told her. “I can brief you whenever you have time.”

  “How much time?” R7 asked, eyeing the formidable stack of papers.

  Spence shrugged apologetically, but then something sprang up in her eyes, and she smiled.

  “Come on,” she said. “I have an idea.”

  R7 tilted her head to the side in a silent question, but Spence swept past her back into the main bullpen. Curious enough to run that gauntlet, R7 followed the analyst past the throng of suited stares and out the door, and then down the sixteen flights of stairs of the office building into the street. Papers in arms, Spence expertly threaded her way through the crushing crowd, R7 dodging to stay on her heels. R7’s anger gave way entirely to curiosity when Spence led the way into a tin can diner, and the host greeted her with a grin of recognition.

  “Hey, Flo, welcome back!” he said. Then, noticing R7, he raised his eyebrows. “And hey, who’s the doll in the army suit?”

  “Just let us in, Jimmy,” Spence said, hefting the papers in exasperation.

  “Okay, okay,” said Jimmy, still grinning at them. “I’d never give up your table.”

  He led them to a table in the back of the crowded diner, and R7 looked at Spence across the table as the analyst finally put down the papers, avoiding the grease on the surface as best she could.

  “Flo?” asked R7.

  “I don’t spend all my time at the office,” Spence answered, reddening. “Some of us leave work occasionally, you know. It helps clear the mind.”

  “If you say so, Flo,” R7 said, a smile tugging at her mouth.

  Spence shook her head, refusing to rise to the bait, and snagged them a couple of menus. They ordered omelettes—and hash browns, bacon, biscuits, coffee, and a milkshake, for R7—before getting down to business.