The White City

by John Claude Bemis

  Ray pushed open the door slowly. Sandusky stood there, looking dimly down at De Courcy’s unconscious body with his bleary-eyed gaze.

  Ray turned back to pick up B’hoy’s body. He left the cell. “Put De Courcy in there,” Ray said as he came out of the cell. Sandusky dropped the broken back of a chair and picked up De Courcy’s feet, dragging him into the cell. Ray locked the door behind Sandusky and placed the whiskey bottle of dirt on the table. Grabbing his toby, Ray opened it. His charms were all stowed inside. He quickly tied a knot around his neck and tucked it beneath his shirt.

  He pushed open the door and peered outside. A thin crescent moon was rising over the palisade. Dawn was not far off. Cautious to every sound, Ray made his way past the steamcoach and over to the stables. Crouching in the shadows, he heard the faint voices of guards standing watch at the entrance to the fort.

  Ray went into the stables. In the first stall, a black mare turned her head. Ray whispered soothing words like he had often done with Élodie and saddled the horse. He led her out and tied her on the back side of the cabin. Then he went back in the stables and opened the gates for each of the horses, whispering all the while to the animals, explaining as best he could in their speech what he was planning.

  Then, with the saltpeter, he lit a fire in the back of the stable and ran out to the black mare. Climbing onto her back, he whispered, “Be calm, girl. We’re going for a ride.”

  Smoke rose from the stables, and soon one of the guards at the fort’s entrance cried, “There’s a fire!”

  As the guards ran toward the stables, the horses stampeded out, whinnying and shrieking. The fort exploded with the thunder of horse hooves and men rousing from their barracks to help with the fire.

  Kicking the black mare’s haunches and weaving among the terrified horses, Ray rode to the fort’s entrance. He leaped from the saddle and clutched the mare’s reins, pulling the lever to open the gate.

  “You there?” a soldier called. “Are you with those Pinkertons?” He was only half dressed, without even boots or a sidearm on his belt.

  Ray jumped into the saddle.

  “What are you doing?” the soldier shouted.

  Ray whistled loudly and shook the mare’s reins. The horses turned at his call and scattered the soldiers as they clattered through the gate.

  Ray heard the soldier crying behind him, “The prisoner! That horse thief, he’s … stealing the horses.…”

  He raced the black mare out into sagebrush prairie and toward the west, where the first rays of dawn were catching on the distant Rocky Mountains.

  BUCK SAT ON THE STOOL WITH HIS BACK AGAINST THE wall, his hands folded in his lap, as he had done nearly every waking hour of every day for the past week. He sat, and he listened, and he learned.

  The room where he was kept under the watchful eyes of Stacker Lee and the Gog’s agents was high above the floor of Mister Grevol’s Hall of Progress, as the agents called it. The Hall of Progress had an enormous open floor over a thousand feet long, containing hundreds of displays for what Mister Grevol and his staff considered “the future of America.”

  The hall was tall as well as vast, rising to a height of a hundred feet. Mounted to the girders and framework of the ceiling were a series of offices and rooms, accessible only by elevator, each with windows overlooking the exhibits below.

  When he was first brought up to the room, Buck made sure to remember which way they had come from the elevators. He knew the number of steps from the elevators to the doors leading out from the hall. He knew how many tumblers clicked in the lock when the key turned the bolt. He knew the make of each gun carried by his guards, and that one of the agents had an old bullet wound in his hip by the sound his footsteps made.

  Although Buck could not see the view from the windows in his room, Stacker Lee and the Bowlers could, and one of them was constantly on watch for John Henry’s son or his three companions.

  They expected Conker to come. The Nine Pound Hammer was mounted in a central display directly below their room. The legendary hammer apparently was drawing huge crowds.

  “I’m going out,” Stacker said.

  Below, the voices of the last visitors to the hall had faded an hour earlier, and it was around this time, when Mister Grevol’s agents left Stacker and Buck for the night, that Stacker would venture out. Buck rose from the stool and lay on his bed, the stiff mattress springs squeaking.

  “I’m not partial to these cramped quarters, Buckthorn,” Stacker said, as he did nearly every night. Stacker clamped the shackle that was bolted to the bed frame to Buck’s ankle. “Need a little air to clear my head.”

  Buck said nothing. The swish of fabric and whisper of felt told him that Stacker was putting on his coat and donning his fine Stetson hat.

  “Want me to leave the lantern on for you? Oh, of course not.” Stacker chuckled at his well-worn joke. The door closed with a thump, and the click of a key locked the bolt.

  Buck woke later in the night. He lay thinking about the clockwork killer, unable to go back to sleep. After a while, he heard the lock click, Stacker’s bootsteps as he came in, and the mattress groan and quiet once more. Eventually Buck slept.

  In the morning, Stacker coughed and began getting dressed.

  Buck sat up and asked in his low, gravelly voice, “Where do you go?”

  “He speaks,” Stacker said, his own voice raspy from sleep.

  “What are you looking for?” Buck asked.

  Stacker buckled his gun belt around his waist and poured a glass of water from a carafe. “The sirens.”

  Voices sounded in the hallway. The agents were arriving for their morning shift. Stacker unlocked the iron fetter from Buck’s ankle. “Say nothing of my nighttime ventures if you still place a value on breathing.”

  The door opened and the agents came in, setting down a tray of sausages, toast, and overcooked eggs. Buck rose from his bed and went over to the stool. As he settled back against the wall, one of the agents shoved a warm plate of food onto his lap. Buck ate, all the while listening.

  The days passed in tedious monotony. The roar of voices filling the Hall of Progress. The change of guards at noon and then at six. Dinner and supper ushered in with each arriving pair of agents. The voices below diminishing as evening turned to night. Then silence. The guards would leave and Buck was alone with Stacker.

  Stacker rose, putting on his coat and hat.

  “Going to look for the sirens?” Buck said.

  “Get on the bed,” Stacker ordered.

  Buck stood and moved to his mattress, cocking his hands behind his head. Stacker knelt at his feet to lock the shackle.

  “I know why you’re looking for them,” Buck said.

  Stacker stood slowly and put the key in his pocket. “I liked you better when you knew when to be quiet.”

  “What I don’t understand is why you want the clockwork removed,” Buck said. “Why do you want your heart back?”

  Stacker’s razor clicked open. He took Buck’s hair in a tight grip and jerked his head back against the hard mattress. Buck felt the cold edge of the razor pressed against his throat. “Your appearance is beginning to offend me, Buckthorn. When I shave a man, it’s more than just his beard that might be lost.”

  “We share a goal, Stacker,” Buck continued.

  “We share nothing but this wretched room.”

  “You want to redeem yourself,” Buck said. “The Gog is never going to remove the clockwork. You know this. But I can help you.”

  The blade crackled like a match across his bristly throat. Stacker pushed Buck’s head to the side and stood. The door opened and then slammed, the sound reverberating. The lock clicked and Stacker’s feet disappeared down the hallway.

  Buck brought his hand to his throat. His fingers met a smooth patch of skin below his jawline and the warmth of blood. But the cut was not deep. Stacker had not meant it to be. It was only a warning after all.

  As the evening shift of agents came in the follow
ing day, the one who handed Buck his supper said to the other, “Heard they spied the boy.”

  “Which boy?” another guard asked.

  Buck froze.

  “John Henry’s son,” the first said. “At least it was some big one. They think there was a couple of Reds with him. I don’t know if they saw the China girl too.”

  Buck heard the shift in volume as the speaker turned his head toward Buck as he spoke. Buck scraped his fork across the plate, gathering up a mouthful of potatoes.

  “What happened?” the other agent asked.

  “They spotted them down at the waterfront, but you know how busy it gets down there. By the time McDevitt got there with his men, they were gone.”

  “They’ll catch them.”

  “Soon enough.”

  After the afternoon guards left, the agent who had brought the news said, “You catch all that, scruffy?”

  Buck continued eating, his expression placid.

  “Think they’ll come for him, Mister Lee?” the other agent asked.

  “They’ll come for the Nine Pound Hammer,” Stacker Lee said, moving his fork across his plate. “If they’re smart, they’ll not waste a backward glance at this old gimp.”

  The agents laughed, and Buck took a bite of bread.

  The guards went off duty, and Stacker left. Buck was still awake when Stacker returned. Rather than going to his bed, Stacker came over to Buck and unlocked the shackle from his ankle.

  “It’s nearly morning,” Buck said.

  “Will be soon enough,” Stacker replied. He removed his hat and dropped it to his bed, then took off his coat and gun belt. “You spent time with the sirens,” he said.

  Buck sat up, the mattress squeaking beneath him.

  “I heard,” Stacker continued, “you took up with a band of Ramblers that were guarding a siren down in Louisiana.”

  “That’s right,” Buck said. “Have you found the sirens the Gog has here?”

  “They’re locked below the hall. There are floors and floors in its depths. And deeper things still.”

  Buck sat without speaking.

  “Have you ever seen one of their wells?” Stacker asked.

  Buck nodded.

  “Do the sirens conjure up the healing waters or do they simply stand guard over them?”

  “They form when a siren dies,” Buck answered.

  “Is that right?”

  Buck listened closely to Stacker’s breathing, to his movements. Normally he could sense how a man felt in such a situation. Whether it was morbid curiosity or cold knowledge or compassion. But he could sense nothing in the clockwork man.

  “We’ve killed plenty of men between us, Buckthorn. I know you’ve given up the gun, but killing for mercy … would you have the stomach for that?”

  Buck frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Those sirens down there. If we killed them, it would be a piece of mercy, wouldn’t it? No one should live with … this clockwork in them.” Stacker poured a glass of water from the carafe and drank it in a long gulp. “And if they died and a spring rose, it would heal me. I believe it could.”

  “The water from a siren well might heal you. But a well only forms when a siren dies out of love. No spring would rise if you slaughtered those sirens down there.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Stacker poured another glass of water but didn’t drink. He put the glass down and gave a grim laugh.

  “What?”

  “I found a siren not long ago,” Stacker said, “when I was searching for John Henry’s son. I asked this siren if she knew where I could find a well of healing water.”

  Buck felt his pulse quicken. He tried to keep his face a mask.

  “She said she didn’t,” Stacker continued. “But I knew she was lying. I have this power, you see. Not from the clockwork, but something I was born with. A way of knowing things about people. Just like I know secrets of yours, Buckthorn. Well, I knew this siren was protecting someone, and this was why she wouldn’t reveal the well to me.”

  Buck could not help but tense. His neck muscles constricted and his hands clutched the sheets. “What happened to her?”

  Stacker laughed. “That’s the funny part. She was most likely protecting someone she loved. Why else would she not tell me of the well?”

  Buck’s voice came low through his gritted teeth. “What happened to her?”

  “I killed her, of course. And all the while, if only I’d known that her death would have brought forth the very spring that could have—”

  Buck lunged forward, bowling into Stacker and toppling him from his chair. The table overturned. The glass and carafe shattered on the floor. Buck twisted Stacker’s collar so that it squeezed across his throat. Stacker gasped and spat, kicking his boot heels against the polished wood floor with awful squeaks.

  “Who was she?” Buck roared. “Who was the siren?”

  But Stacker could not speak, and his breath drew like a hissing valve from his open mouth. Buck heard Stacker’s hand fumbling for something in his pocket. With one hand still squeezing the fabric of his collar, Buck reached down to clasp Stacker’s wrist. The clockwork man was nearly unconscious. Buck beat Stacker’s hand against the floor until the razor tumbled from his grasp. Stacker’s body went limp as he passed out.

  Buck pushed Stacker away and reached for the razor. As he felt for it on the floor, his fingers met a ring of keys that had fallen from Stacker’s pocket.

  Stacker began gulping deep breaths and coughing.

  Buck had only a moment to decide. He had the keys. And Stacker’s razor lay somewhere there on the floor. Had Stacker killed Jolie? Was she the siren he had murdered? Or was this all a bluff?

  Buck picked up the razor and opened the blade. He knelt over Stacker and punched the razor into the floor, pinning Stacker’s collar.

  Then he rushed to the door and tried the keys hastily until he found the right one. How early was it? The morning guards had not arrived, but could they be on the way? He hurried down the hallway to the elevator, listening for any movement.

  He opened the elevator door and stepped in. He felt around until he found the switch. The elevator groaned to life, jerking as it began its descent. As he came out on the main floor of the Hall of Progress, Buck heard the distant murmur of conversation and footsteps. No matter—they were not in the direction he needed to go.

  Buck moved down the aisles of displays, his hip occasionally catching on a hard corner or brushing against the velvet ropes that kept visitors from the exhibits. He was nearly to the door when he remembered the Nine Pound Hammer.

  When Conker had carried the Nine Pound Hammer, it had given off a powerful aura. Buck could always feel its presence, like something charged with electricity. He hesitated a moment before turning around. He had to get the hammer. Hurrying back through the displays, he tried to find that pulsating expression of the hammer’s power.

  Where was it? He couldn’t feel it.

  A faint clicking of gears and pulleys brought the elevator back to life. Buck turned and rushed toward the exit. He stumbled against exhibits.

  The elevator door rattled open. “He’s escaped!” Stacker’s voice echoed through the great hall. “Buckthorn’s escaped!”

  A thundering of feet reverberated over the marble floors. Buck ran. His shoulder slammed into the door frame. Working key after key into the lock, he finally brought one around with a click. He pushed open the door and fell down several stone steps.

  Morning birds twittered around the empty grounds. A cool wind blew up from the lake, and Buck turned to face it. He focused his senses. There was a fountain. And there a line of trees. And a building. On and on he went, keeping to the walkway, going as fast as he could.

  He could hear the lapping of the water on the lake’s shore. His feet reached the wooden boards of a pier. Buck ran, knocking into the railings as he went. The clatter of feet rose behind him. As he turned, Stacker pum
meled into him. Buck fell backward, his skull cracking sharply on the wood. Stacker scrambled atop him, bringing his meaty fist against Buck’s face again and again. At last Stacker hauled Buck up and dragged him toward the end of the pier.

  Buck’s legs gave out, but Stacker continued pulling him, the toes of Buck’s boots thumping, thumping, thumping over the planks as they went. “The siren,” Stacker hissed. “Her name was Cleoma. Does she mean something to you?”

  Buck could not speak. His mouth was filled with blood.

  Agents were shouting behind them.

  Stacker snapped open the razor. “You were right, by the way,” he said. “The Gog will never give me back my heart. But I will have my freedom. Fear not, Buckthorn.” The agents’ footsteps clattered on the boards of the pier. “Remember. Hope still lies at Liberty’s feet.”

  Stacker brought the razor back and forth across Buck’s chest in several sweeping slashes. Then with a shove, he knocked Buck into the lake.

  RAY WATCHED THE TINY RIBBON OF BLACK SMOKE IN THE distance. Clutching the toby, he extended a hand. He closed his eyes and focused his attention over the vast distance. The toby trembled.

  A tickle formed at his fingertips, like touching a wool coat charged with static. The sensation grew, tingling across his knuckles and into his palms. It pulled. Ray closed his hand and snapped open his eyes.

  He kicked the mare’s sides and rode her hard. To his left, the mountain range bore down like an enormous fortification, running north-south and stretching ahead and behind as far as Ray could see. The escape from the fort, and the days with nothing to fill his stomach but rank water, had left Ray weak in body and spirit. He was tempted to ride up into the high country, to catch game or forage for a meal, but travel in the mountains would be slow-going, and he couldn’t risk the steamcoach catching up. So he rode northbound over the sagebrush hills, with only the faintest hope of happening upon something worth eating.

  When twilight came, he camped by a stream. He drank thirstily and went up a rise to peer south. No billow of black smoke broke the flatlands. He had followed the steamcoach long enough now to know the agents had made camp for the night. So Ray also slept a few hours, until anxiety woke him.