Canon in Crimson

by Rachel Kastin

  Am I scared, you monster? I looked at the mangled photograph in my hand. I had nothing to be afraid of anymore. No, I’m not scared now. I’m angry.

  I drained the glass of water and slammed it down on the table, shattering it to pieces.

  “When do we start?”

  Chapter 36—Come Together

  December 1, 1922

  About a week after I visited the Red Death’s—that is, Patch Philadelphia’s—theater, I finally returned one of Spence’s many favors and bought her a meal. It would’ve taken at least three meals to make up for the one she’d bought me, but I figured it was a start. I’d offered to take her anywhere in the city that she wanted, but now, the cozy, raucous, greasy comfort of the tin can diner seemed like the perfect choice to fend off the frosty winter evening. As I dug into my third full stack of pancakes, Spence finished her omelette and leaned back in her chair, sighing in satisfaction.

  “You know,” she said after a moment of silent contentment, “if you eat like that all the time, you’ll be broke in a week.”

  “Nah,” I said with a wink. “Give me a day or two and it’ll be on the house.”

  Spence raised an eyebrow, but then she shrugged acknowledgment. I could practically see the thoughts written on her friendly, open face: a week ago, no way, but now, sure. I smiled and attacked my pancakes again.

  “So what made you finally decide to take a night off?” Spence asked.

  “Everyone and their uncle telling me to isn’t enough?”

  “It wasn’t before,” she pointed out. “Something happened, didn’t it?”

  My good humor faded a little as I chewed and swallowed much too big a bite.

  “It’s…complicated,” I evaded.

  She gave me a shrewd look that told me plainly how unsatisfied she was with that answer, and I shrugged.

  “I took today off to move into my new place,” I told her. “I had nine months of salary stored up, by the way. Turns out the Agency pays even ex-thieves working to stay out of jail.”

  Spence’s eyebrows shot up, and she practically jumped out of her chair. Good— she didn’t know. That should keep her mind off what I was up to a week ago.

  “Well then,” said the analyst, resettling in the chair and pushing up her glasses while I polished off my pancakes. “How’s the, um…the new place?”

  I thought about the bare little one-bedroom apartment I’d rented, which was a few blocks away from the Agency. Not a bad place to stay, though it didn’t feel like home yet. In fact, in its current state, it reminded me of the sparse, spotless Brooklyn apartment where Alger had lived when I’d first met him—and every time I thought of that, the dizzying, suffocating pain I’d held off for so long would rush back in and threaten to drown me. But each time it happened, it hurt a little less; each time, when it finally passed, I was able to remember a little more without breaking down. It was only one of a thousand little reminders I was learning to live with every day—but at least I was learning.

  I suppressed a sigh and forced a smile in its place.

  “It’s fine,” I told Spence. “I just need to figure out how to make coffee.”

  The analyst smiled, though she clearly knew I was keeping something to myself.

  “Well, until then, I’ll make sure someone keeps a pot on for you at work.”

  “Thanks, Spence,” I said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. “But hey, I actually have to get going.”

  She cocked her head to one side as I pulled out some cash and slapped it down on the table. It was too much, I realized, reminding myself to learn how to estimate how much things cost better. Put it on the list of things to practice doing for yourself.

  “Paying off a few of those free dinners in advance,” I told Spence with a shrug, turning to leave. “See you tomorrow.”

  “See you, R7,” she said faintly.

  I turned back to smile at her, genuinely this time.

  “Hey, Flo,” I said. “When we’re off the clock, you can call me Victoria.”

  §

  I took a deep breath as I made my way up the walkway to the brownstone. I shivered as an arctic breeze blew right through my dress, and I tugged at it awkwardly, surprised to find myself wishing for the ill-fitting tan uniform. How had I ever survived without a coat as a kid out here? I wondered, thinking back to that day, exactly three years ago, on the corner. Somehow, even then, I must have already started to become what I was now. But he was the one who made me who I am, I thought, the heartbreak threatening to undercut my nerve. Could I really do this without him?

  Keep it together, Vic, I told myself sternly, listening to the sounds of faint music and people laughing, talking, and clinking glasses under the warm glow inside. I could do this—I’d done it a hundred times before. It was showtime.

  So I put on my best smile and marched up the steps, heels clicking on the bricks, to knock on the door. It swung open, letting strains of music escape into the night, and the doorman gave me a quick once-over before stepping aside to let me in without a word. I bit down on the excuse I’d prepared for why I didn’t have an invitation as I passed him. I’d forgotten how easy this was, I thought, diving into the fray.

  Inside was exactly the party I’d learned I should be expecting on a Saturday night: live jazz, well-dressed guests littered around a trendy, well-appointed set of rooms, and champagne flowing freely enough to make me forget I was in the States. I plucked a glass of the stuff off a nearby tower and downed it for courage as I glanced around the room, looking for the host, but I didn’t spot anyone with the height and shoulder breadth I had in mind.

  Patience wasn’t one of the things my job as a government agent had given me more of, but I resigned myself to a little more legwork. Fortunately, I’d also forgotten how easy it was to get socialites to talk to me—especially in this getup, and especially a few champagnes into the evening. I didn’t even have to slam anyone against a wall to learn that the man I was looking for tended to be scarce at his own parties, appearing only for rare, brief toasts every few weeks.

  Well then, I would just have to do this the old-fashioned way. Excusing myself from a conversation with a friendly drunk, I waited until the band struck up a rousing version of “Kansas City Stomp,” to cheers all around, and I slipped upstairs unseen. I wasn’t the only guest who’d had that bright idea, but fortunately, most of the others had been looking for a little more privacy than they could find downstairs, and they were just as eager to avoid me as I was them. So I prowled silently through the halls undisturbed until I found a locked door around a cornerand picked the lock.

  I was lucky; when I slipped inside, I found myself alone in the little study. Of course, that also meant I hadn’t found the host holed up inside, either. I sighed, throwing myself into a high-backed chair and putting my feet up on the desk. I should’ve known better, I thought, looking idly around the room—books, papers, a few knickknacks on shelves. Nothing was ever that easy. I’d have to plan better. Maybe I’d come back next week, hope he showed up, and—

  —and then I saw it. Sitting on a shelf, like it was just one of the knickknacks, it was made of silver-grey metal, not quite a foot long and only half as wide, covered in etched geometric designs, with a notched circular indentation on top. I’d seen Tony’s basement full of boxes of every size and shape, but somehow, from the moment I saw it, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was really it.

  The box.

  In an instant, I was standing next to it. I hesitated, then traced the indentation on top—exactly the size and shape of the key I knew so well. I held my breath as I looked at the infamous puzzle box, my heart sounding off like gunfire in my ears.

  “See, sweetheart, this is why I wasn’t sure if I could trust you,” said a resonant baritone voice.

  Reflex won; I turned in a blur, pulling the curved ebony clip from my hair and flicking out the blade. My hair fell around my shoulders as I slid across the room to hold the little knife to the throat of a tall,
dark-haired man with broad shoulders. But by the time I’d reached him, he’d pulled out a straight razor, of all things, and he was holding it against my ribs. We both stood absolutely still for a moment, eyes locked, and I felt the cold steel through the thin fabric of my dress. He might not be able to hurt me with that, but did I really want to find out?

  “Okay,” he finally said, “this is strike three for fighting. Maybe we should have that drink now.”

  I nodded agreement. He pocketed the razor and held up his hands, and I sheathed the knife in its hairclip and slid it back into place. We both took a step back, and he reached out the door behind him with one hand, coming back with a bottle of Remy Martin as he shut the door. He held out the bottle, eyebrows raised.

  I didn’t take my eyes off him, but I accepted the peace offering and took a swig straight from the bottle. Sweet, liquid fire poured down my throat, and my breath came a little easier. I handed the bottle back. He took a swallow himself and smiled as he sat down in the chair I’d just been occupying, still watching me as carefully as I was watching him. Francisco the Fantastic had been right, I noted. He was handsome.

  “Well,” he began, leaning back in the chair to cross his long legs at the ankles, “I’ll say this—you have good taste in color, Miss Crimson.”

  I folded my arms and leaned back against a bookshelf.

  “And you have good taste in cognac, Mr. Philadelphia,” I said. “Or do you go by Mr. McManus?” Satisfaction joined the warmth of the liquor in my stomach as his eyebrows shot up in surprise, and I smiled. “Well, how did you think I found you?” I asked. “Patch Philadelphia doesn’t exist—he’s just a stage name for you, like the Red Death. But I looked up who owns that theater, and now I know who Patrick McManus is.”

  The magician shook his head and took a longer swallow of cognac.

  “Why does that name mean anything to you?” he asked, handing the bottle back to me.

  Felix Madden, Julius Rowles, Patrick McManus, Yvonne Devereaux, Tony Signorille, John Cyrus Kingston, my memory recited.

  “I saw it on a list, a long time ago, after the private auction where the box was sold in New York,” I told him, taking another delicious taste of the cognac myself and fueling my courage to tell him the whole story. “The best I can figure, you were there because you knew Tony would be there, and you wanted to see what she wanted. She must’ve bid on the box, even though that’s not what she ended up with. I’m not sure exactly why you thought busting into her place with guns blazing the next day was a good idea, but I guess that’s when you figured out Alger and I were involved.”

  Patch smirked and held his hand out for the bottle, and I obliged.

  “Not everything I did turned out to be a good idea,” he said, drinking more cognac. “If you want to know the truth, there was a fella at the auction calling himself ‘Tony,’ and I was too surprised to pull the trigger when I found out the real one was a woman.” He laughed and shook his head. “But hey, don’t stop now. You’re on a roll.”

  “Okay, well, I guess that explains why you stopped going after Tony directly,” I said. “Instead, you decided to track Kingston to find out what the box was all about. I remember, I saw you on the ship on the way to Europe —I just didn’t know who you were.” He’s only pretending to be drunk? I remembered guessing, as we’d watched him practice card tricks at the table. “But then, when I was poisoned, Kingston got spooked, and everyone lost him. We had our way of looking for him, and I guess you had yours—and you must’ve kept tabs on us in the meantime, because you know I was the Queen of Spades. Anyway, you beat us to the punch in Marrakesh, and that was basically that. I’m sure you found out that Tony was still looking for the box, and that’s why you ended up getting mixed up in this robot situation.”

  “Full marks,” said the magician, raising the bottle to me in a sort of toast. I snatched it out of his hand and drank again, and he smiled. It was a good smile; between that and the cognac, my nerves were completely gone now.

  “The one thing I can’t figure out is why you care so much about Tony and what she’s after,” I told him. “Obsession like that happens for a reason, in my experience.”

  He looked like he wanted to ask about that, but instead, he shrugged, his smile disappearing.

  “Tony did a lot of brutal things to get back at the people who killed her husband,” he said quietly. “And while I was in the trenches in Europe, my wife was collateral damage here in New York. Doing tricks on stage—well, I guess you could say it lost its magic. I started using my talents for something more…tangible.”

  He smiled drily, and I nodded understanding. Revenge, and more revenge. That, I could certainly understand.

  “Well,” he said, when I didn’t add anything out loud, “the past is the past, and here we are. I have what you want. So what’s it going to be?”

  I sighed and turned back to look at the box: the thing everyone in the world wanted, the one that my friends had been killed over. The thing Draegan Levak seemed to want enough to build metal monsters for. The one thing that had mattered most to Alger—the object he had given up everything to find. It was only inches away from me now; I could take it in a heartbeat, and it was likely that no one, not even the Red Death, would be able to stop me.

  But…then what? Would I sell it? Give it to the Agency? Use it as bait to draw out Levak? If everyone was right, it held a weapon that would tip the balance of power in the world forever. Alger had died trying to keep it out of the wrong hands, and I didn’t even know whose hands those were. Did I really know anyone in the world that I’d trust with the box? After the way things had gone in Times Square, the way I’d lost control—would I even trust myself?

  No, I decided. I didn’t need a weapon like that, and neither did anyone else. No one could open it, and it would stay that way. The key was gone forever—it had disappeared over that cliff along with Alger.

  I did it, my love, I told him silently, finally letting myself picture that half-smile and those sharp eyes, letting myself hear that dark, silken voice that I had adored, for the first time since I’d lost him. I finished what you started. All your work didn’t go to waste: no one can open the box, and no one else knows where it is. It’s safe here—the Red Death will see to that. I know you’d rather be here to make the call yourself, but you’ll just have to trust me to decide what’s right now. It’s time for this to end. We won’t get to have that happily ever after together, but I have to move on.

  I blinked back tears as I smiled at Patch and handed the cognac back to him.

  “Keep the box,” I told him. “I think you and I both need to start looking for something else.”

  The magician-turned-vigilante returned my smile.

  “And what’s that, Miss Crimson?”

  I shrugged, making my way to the door.

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “But I’m looking forward to finding out.”

  Chapter 37—Fugue In G Minor

  March 23, 1923

  Draegan Levak, High Councillor of the Centuriae Igneus Leo, was annoyed. Looking at the schematics of the robots didn’t tell him much—he had a head for many things, but engineering simply wasn’t one of them. But never mind; that was what he had engineers for. And when he spoke to them about the schematics, he reminded himself, he would have to instruct them to arm the next models with proper firearms. Really, it was absurd that Von Krauss hadn’t thought to do so in the first place, but then, perhaps it was his lack of forethought that had caused him to be captured in the end.

  Draegan sipped his espresso and reached over to put Bach on the phonograph, closing his eyes to focus. Von Krauss’ capture was also not of any particular concern, he supposed—now that he had the plans, he had no more immediate need for the desperate little man, who had no knowledge of his operation to divulge in any event. And if he ever required Von Krauss’ services again, he could simply arrange for him to be extracted from wherever he was being kept. Of course, that would require inserting an
operative into whatever government agency had captured him—a particular bit of intelligence Johann hadn’t been able to specify in his message, despite the rambling length of his report after Von Krauss’ capture. Well, the lower Council would surely be able to shed some light on that when he chose to inform them of the situation. And they would also be able to begin to arrange for facilities in which to manufacture the robots, as well as the other projects he had on his slate. So, he concluded, none of these matters warranted any unease at the moment.

  No, as usual, the problem that truly gnawed at him was the Carmine box. As great a success as the robots had been in some regards, they had failed to obtain the one thing he didn’t have an immediate plan to locate—and the one thing he couldn’t let lie. After all the blood spilled to find it, all the years spent searching, all the resources lost, that was the one loss he couldn’t accept. He needed it, he had earned it, and he would have it.

  As the organ’s arpeggios danced up and down on the record, Draegan concentrated on what he knew, what he didn’t know, and what he had the means to learn. Von Krauss’ creations may not have found the box, but if the New York City Cosa Nostra was set on its trail—and he had it on good authority that they were—then it was only a matter of time until it was located. Either they would lead him to it, whether directly or indirectly, or he would take it from them, and that was simply that. And in the meantime, perhaps he would be able to coopt their infrastructure. After all, he thought, a thing could have more than one purpose.

  Speaking of which, Draegan considered as the fugue crescendoed, in all the unfocused blather in Johann’s report, one detail had stayed in his mind: the female agent he’d described as having brought down Von Krauss’ machines. It was likely that his descriptions of her were hyperbolic—and yet, if there was any chance that they bore any truth…well, that alone was reason enough. He’d made his decision.