The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1)

by Michael Panush

  Just like Rose Corcoran had said, the church was at the end of Van Wessel Street, as far as possible from Algonquin Hall. About a block before he reached the church, the streets emptied. There were no drunks or vagrants in the alleys, no vendors on the sidewalk and not even stray dogs curling around the gutters. The horse-drawn carts and wagons going past seemed to speed up, like the animals didn’t want to linger. Cane didn’t feel like lingering either, but he did anyway.

  He stood outside the church, looking up at the crumbling stone columns and collapsing gambrel roof. The door hung open, and Cane could see only shadows inside. He reached down and clasped his revolvers. There was no point in waiting. Cane strode up and walked inside.

  It took his eyes a few second for to adjust to the dark. A set of busted pews stood before a chipped stone pulpit, with something behind it. There was some kind of carpet under the pews and on top of them, like living, moving shadows. It took Cane only seconds to realize they were rats. The rodents were everywhere, pressed together in a terrible, living mass. They were on top of the pews and in the corners and around the pulpit.

  That was where Cane walked. He stepped carefully around the rats. They scurried out of the reach of his boots, squeaking slightly. Cane kept his hands on his revolvers. He didn’t draw iron. There was no point. The rats would rise up against him if he gave them an excuse.

  Moving carefully, avoiding the rats on the ground, it took him a few moments to reach the pulpit. There was a great mass of the rats there, piled around the bars and railing of the stone pulpit. Cane realized that it was like the outline of a person, wearing a costume of rats. Cane reached out with one finger. The rats parted to avoid his hand.

  There was bone under them. As soon as he touched it, Cane watched as all the rats fled the pulpit. They scurried away like spilled water. They revealed a skeletal body, slumped back over the pulpit’s railing. The skeleton wore a ragged preacher’s cassock, stained with dried blood. Cane looked at the hollow sockets, where a few scraps of flesh still remained. The rats hadn’t eaten their fill. A few bites would have been enough to fill them with Father Furio Badalamenti’s vengeful spirit.

  “Afternoon, Padre,” Cane said. Before any of the rats could stop him, he drew his revolver and slammed it against the forehead of the skull. He knew the bones were a tether of Father Badalamenti’s ghost to the world of the living. Destroying it could weaken the spirit to send it on its way. The other way to do that was giving the ghost what it wanted – to fulfill what the spirit had never done in life. In Badalamenti’s case, that would be Varrick, Talbot and McCall. Whatever was left of Father Badalamenti wanted nothing more than revenge.

  All around Cane, the rats scurried in to attack. They raced for him, but then Cane raised a hand. “I feel any of them little claws one me and I’ll pull the goddamn trigger!” he roared. “Go on and see if I’m lying! You’re fast – but you know I’m faster!”

  The rats froze. Cane kept his finger wrapped around the trigger. He looked at the hollow sockets of the skull. He thought about what Rose had told him – of the awful way that Father Badalamenti had met his end. Cane had seen men die for hundreds of reasons. Men died because they insulted another man’s woman, or had a funny look to their eye, or seemed to pose a threat to a whiskey-addled mind. In one case, a fellow had been shot by his supposed friend for snoring too loud. But men dying like animals because they tried to better their community? That was new for Cane.

  “Yeah,” Cane said to himself. “Reckon it weren’t fair, what they done to you. But this world ain’t fair. I look in the mirror and I know that for certain. I never asked to be put together. Never asked to get fused up with dark magic and to spend my life living by the gun. But that’s what happened, that’s what I am – and I gotta live with it.”

  He looked down at the rats. They didn’t seem frightening any more. They huddled close together, squeaking pathetically and looking up at him with their dark eyes. The rats were scared. Father Badalamenti’s spirit must feel the same way.

  Cane removed the revolver from the skull. He returned it to his holster with a spin. “I don’t work cheap,” he said. “And I aim to see some profit out of this trip. But why don’t we talk things over, padre. And don’t you worry. You’ll get to rest – one way or the other.”

  His plan was simple. It didn’t take long to think it up, once he was resolved. The rats listened expectantly and Cane knew that they were noting every word.

  Night came to Van Wessel Street. The vendors cleared off and their calls finally went silent. Traffic dried up and soon the street between the tenement buildings was empty. But the guards never left their post outside Algonquin Hall. They stood their ground, clutching their billy clubs as they looked out at the shadows that crept across the street. Accented voices came from the tall tenement buildings, but even those went silent after a while.

  Clayton Cane stood in the alley across the street from Algonquin Hall. He grabbed his rifle and brought it to his shoulder, taking careful aim. When everything was quiet, and the gaslight lamps above the street had been lit to provide just enough light to see, he decided to strike. He fired twice, his gunshots blasting out through the silence.

  The peaked caps of both the policemen fell from their heads, a bullet in each brim. The cops tried to reclaim their hats, terrified by the sudden gunfire. Cane walked out of the shadows of the alley, working the lever on his rifle and raising it again. He knew the kind of trouble that came from putting a bullet through a badge, so he didn’t fire. Besides, he didn’t have to. He let the cops look at his scarred face and his duster, still stained with sewage, and kept the rifle trained at them.

  “Run,” Cane ordered. “And don’t you look back.”

  The cops ran without a word. Cane walked up the stairs to the gilded door of Algonquin Hall. He could hear footsteps pounding inside. There were more policemen inside, as well as McCall’s gunmen. Cane would have to work fast. He slammed his foot into the door, kicking it open.

  Then he looked back onto the street. “All right, Padre!” he roared. “Follow me on in!”

  All the manhole covers on the street slammed open, one after the other. Rats spilled out, like boiling water overflowing a container. They washed over the street in a dark wave. The rats didn’t squeak or squeal. The only noise was the endless pattering of their feet, so it seemed like a storm of pounding rain was striking Van Wessel Street. Cane saw them coming up the stairs and he walked in ahead of them.

  Three of McCall’s goons were in the lobby, going for their guns as Cane stepped inside. They were the worst sort of rowdy, with fashionable checkered coats in bright colors and stout top hats, knives and pistols slid into their belts. Cane swung his rifle around and opened fire, blasting one of the thugs through the upper chest. The recoil made his cuts and bruises ache, but he ignored it. He worked the lever and fired again, his second shot splattering open the skull of the second gunman. The third managed to draw a heavy pistol and get off a single shot, before Cane reached him.

  Cane rammed the butt of his rifle into his gut, knocking the wind from him. He grabbed his arm, spun him around and gave him a push – right into the swarm of incoming rats. Cane turned away and kept walking as the poor fellow was swept up by the black tide. He didn’t even have time to scream before the rats tore out his throat and were running over his writhing body. Cane kept going. He felt his heart pounding inside of him. He didn’t usually betray his employers. But somehow, it didn’t feel wrong.

  He reached the office door. Gunshots echoed through Algonquin Hall, but Cane knew that most of the other cops or gangsters had fled – and with good reason. The ones who stayed behind were prey to the rats. The three men he and the rats wanted were alone. Cane slid his rifle over his shoulder. He kicked open the door to Claudius Varrick’s office.

  Claudius Varrick, Barnabas Talbot, and Lionel McCall were inside. Talbot had a shotgun and fired at Cane as he stepped inside. Cane felt the shot wing past him, burning his arm. He still ma
naged to draw one of his revolvers and fired, planting his bullet straight through Talbot’s gut and knocking him back on the velvet carpet. Talbot looked up in disbelief. Cane kicked his shotgun away.

  “But…we hired you…” Talbot grunted.

  “And he’s betrayed us to the rotten rats!” McCall roared. He charged for Cane, pulling the carving knife from his belt. McCall was heavy and fast. He tackled Cane, striking like an enraged bull. Both men went down onto the carpet. Cane felt McCall’s knife slide into his shoulder. Cane was still recovering from his attack by the rats. He found himself wondering just how strong he was, even as McCall brought the knife to his throat.

  Cane grabbed McCall’s arm and held back the blade. It was drawing closer and closer to Cane’s chin. Behind him, he could hear the rats running down the hall. It would take them time to get there. Cane looked into McCall’s blazing eyes and gritted teeth. He swung his head forward, bashing it into McCall’s face. McCall cried as his nose broke.

  It bought Cane time. Cane grabbed McCall’s wrist and slammed it on the ground. He came to his feet and kicked the knife aside, then delivered a frenzied punch to McCall’s face. His knuckles burned. He left McCall on the carpet and then he saw the safe in the corner. He ran for it.

  Varrick slid in front of the safe. He blocked Cane’s path, a derringer in his hands. Varrick’s face was red. “Why?” Varrick asked. “Tell me why, you murdering freak! Did we not offer you enough? Did that Dago priest’s disembodied phantom offer you more?” He pointed behind Cane, as the rats hurried into the office. “Why do you help these vermin?”

  “They ain’t vermin!” Cane called. “They’re trying to survive in a cruel world.” He drew his revolver and fired. Varrick did the same, but Cane was faster. His bullet blasted in Varrick’s arm, spraying blood on the richly upholstered furniture. Varrick dropped the derringer and Cane grabbed his arm. “You can go and call folks whatever you like. But when they’re wronged, they deserve vengeance. And today, that’s what they’re gonna get.” He grabbed Varrick’s throat and hurled him into the swarm of the rats.

  As the rats devoured Talbot, McCall and Varrick, Cane reached the safe. He blasted open the lock and pulled open the metal door. It was packed with cash. Cane grabbed two handfuls of dollars and slid them into his pockets. That would be enough for the job.

  He grabbed the rest and held it in his hands, like a bundle of laundry. Then he turned and walked out. He stepped through the swarm of rats, still digging into the bodies of the men who ran Van Wessel Street. They were writhing, their screams muffled as the rats dug into them. Soon they’d be covered up and picked clean. Cane heard their screams echo behind him. The rats scattered out of his way, avoiding his boots. He walked down the hall and through the door, stepping onto the porch and looking out on the street.

  The residents of Van Wessel Street had come down from their buildings and were curiously watching what was going on. Cane looked them over. “I know your lives are hard,” he said. He looked down at the bundle of money in his hand. “But this might make them easier.” He hurled all the money into the air. The dollars fluttered like a storm of green rain, falling into the waiting hands of the poor.

  Cheers rang through Van Wessel Street. Men, women and children struggled to gather all the money, as the wind blew it further down the block. Cane walked down the street, moving easily through the crowd. He received pats on the shoulders and blessings in a dozen languages he didn’t understand.

  “Mr. Cane!” Cane recognized Rose’s voice. He looked up and saw her, a roll of bills clutched in her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Cane. I knew you were a good man. I knew that just by looking at your face, for beyond the scars, I saw a hero. And I must thank you for this act of heroism.”

  “Weren’t heroism,” Cane replied. He looked back at Algonquin Hall. The rats were scurrying out, moving in the disorganized clumps of normal creatures. Father Badalamenti’s ghost was gone. “And it weren’t nothing, really. After all, everyone has to do their part to stamp out pests.”

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  El Mosaico: The Road to Hellfire by Michael Panush!

  I have considerable experience with all manners of dinosaurs and prehistoric beasts, but I still have difficulty telling when a hungry deinonychus is sneaking up on me. It’s no fault of mine, you understand. Of all the primeval animals which inhabit the plains, jungles and hills of the lost world of Acheron Island, the deinonychus is one of the most cunning – and the most lethal. They stand nearly as tall as a man on two graceful legs, which are tipped with curved sickle claws that hack through flesh like a butcher’s blade through cabbage. To make matters worse, they are equipped with two arms tipped with long claws, a mouthful of jagged, sharp teeth and intelligence enough to plan and execute ambushes. And they hunt in packs.

  All in all, the deinonychus is unparalleled amongst Acheron Island’s predators. The allosaur may be more vicious, the saber-toothed tiger quieter on its padded feet, and the tyrannosaur more imperious and terrifying, but none can match the hunting skill of the deinonychus – or its insatiable love of human flesh. Its sheer skill and danger has earned it the nickname of raptor, from the Latin term for ‘one who seizes.’ The best way of avoiding these raptors is simple – don’t visit the areas of Acheron Island where they call home.

  That was simple enough. Acheron Island is a decently sized chunk of land, resting in the eastern half of the Pacific Ocean, and there are plenty of places occupied by less dangerous dinosaurs that one can visit if one wishes for a simple picnic. The Whipple family, three American tourists who greatly enjoyed their visits to Acheron Island, had hired me to help them find a place for a picnic, which I gladly did. I normally worked as a guide on hunting trips and this was a welcome change.

  I had brought them to a picturesque section of the Hadean Hills. Jungle swathed those hills, wild and green and fairly pulsing with life. I led the Whipples along narrow trails that wound through the jungle like unruly snakes, under the boughs of great trees and curtains of vines. I brought them to a small clearing, which overlooked a peaceful little lagoon below a slight waterfall. The water churned down into the indigo pool, the noise light enough to remain as mellifluous as birdsong. The air was clear and the sun crept in through a gap in the trees, gleaming on green grass as soft as a carpet. A few colorful pterodactyls darted past, their calls echoing over the hills.

  I turned back to the Whipples to see how they liked it. “Would this place be suitable?” I asked.

  “Oh, Sir Edwin.” Rose Whipple was the mother of that little family. Between her husband, Meyer, and her eleven-year-old son, Nathan, she was certainly the most talkative. “It is heaven on earth. I knew we were right to hire you. Nathan, darling? Help me with the blankets, if you please.” Rose Whipple was a portly woman, with darkly curly hair straightened with a hint of pomade. She wore a white traveling gown, complete with a little pith helmet on her head.

  She and her son hurried to set out a checkered cloth, while her husband set down their wicker picnic basket. Meyer Whipple turned to me and held out his hand. “She is right, Sir Edwin,” he said. “This is an excellent spot. But you’re quite certain it’s safe?” Meyer shared his wife’s stature, though his dark hair was non-existent on his head and only remained around his ears. A pair of pince-nez perched on his nose.

  “I am,” I agreed.

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that I’m bringing Rose and Nathan out here and—”

  “Come now, Meyer!” Rose let out a laugh as she smoothed out the blanket. “Who would be a better guide than a great hunter like Sir Edwin Crowe?” She looked over my shoulder, at my companion. “And his Ape Man assistant, of course.”

  I glanced over at James. As usual, he did not smile at our jokes or comments. James was a native of Acheron Island, one whom I had known my entire life. He had the broad shoulders and thick limbs of his race, along with the slightly ridged forehead topped with dark hair. His
collared shirt, dark vest and matching trousers clashed with the heavy shotgun on his shoulder and the traditional Ape Man bone-handled knife at his belt.

  But I suppose I present a similarly strange picture. I am a tall fellow, with a neat brown moustache and carefully combed hair. A similarly neat white vest, suit and striped tie are the other relics of my station in the minor British aristocracy. The Panama hat, heavy rifle, revolver at my belt and adjoining machete belong to something else entirely.

  Nathan looked up at James and quickly lowered his eyes. “His name is James, isn’t it?” He was a scrawny boy, with dark curly hair under a newsboy cap. Round spectacles on his freckled face made Nathan look somewhat like a studious little owl in a red vest, slightly askew green tie and Buster Browns. “And he’s your friend, Mr. Crowe?”

  “Yes.” James’s answer was short. He gave Nathan a hint of a smile, which made the boy beam. Nathan’s pet triceratops, a little hatchling about the size of a small terrier with mottled green scales and a red frill, trotted over and sat down next to the boy. The baby dino was named Max and Nathan cared greatly for him. He scratched behind Max’s frill and fed him carrot slices from the picnic basket.

  I sat down next to them and motioned for James to join us. James was always a little uncomfortable in the society of humans. He thought that we were boorish, stinking, humorless creatures who talked too far much. I was often inclined to agree with him. But he still came over and took his place by the picnic basket. Mrs. Whipple had packed him a pastrami sandwich, which he hesitantly took.

  We ate in pleasant silence for a while. Nathan finished his sandwich and regarded me with wide, nervous eyes. I saw a cheap pulp magazine poking out from his pocket. Those popular publications were full of lurid tales of Lost Worlds, ferocious prehistoric beasts – and two-gun heroes who conquered them all. They were utter rot, but their popularity had exploded following the existence of Acheron Island permeating popular culture.