Boom Time

by Michelle E Lowe

  Kayden’s statement caused Durothil to take a step toward the tree. She let loose the arrow and vanished.

  Pierce had been standing about, having a very odd chat with the elf named Foster who claimed that Durothil was his grandfather.

  Foster stood at least six-foot-two, with blond and brown locks that reached the center of his back. He had sharp facial features. His earthy style of clothing resembled what the other elves were wearing. He had a short-sleeved shirt that fell to his knees, with thin bands wrapped all the way up his bare, muscular arms. He had an arrow fixed in his crossbow. He slowly scanned the area. When he turned toward Pierce, he stared at him with the brightest green eyes Pierce had ever seen.

  “It’s in our best interests to let Kayden kill you,” the elf put in.

  “Who?”

  “The one who attacked you. She is a wild elf, and very elusive. So wild, in fact, that she tends to ignore our laws. I think she and you are a lot alike.”

  “What the bloody hell does that mean?"

  “She’s your distant cousin.”

  “Eh? Oh, yeah, she did mention that. What were you talking about . . . ignoring laws?”

  “It means she is able to bend rules. Old laws put in place thousands of years ago. She can take your life before your time and keep you dead.”

  He hadn’t the foggiest clue what any of that meant. “Sorry? Keep me dead? Last I checked, once you’re pushing up daisies, you continue with the gardening, chum.”

  Foster glanced up and down at him. “You’d be surprised.”

  “And best interests for everyone?”

  “If Kayden succeeds in killing you, then the witch’s plan fails.”

  “The witch. Aye, her again.”

  “Clever move on her and the Trickster’s part. Hiding you in a different time.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “You told Durothil.”

  “Eh? No, I didn’t. I just met the man.”

  “You will tell him, fool,” Foster explained. “After your return.”

  “Right. And you’ve been around all this time?”

  “Yes. I am sixty years old in your years, but I am only in my adolescence.”

  “How fortunate you are, mate,” Pierce grumbled.

  “Though I shall never live as long as Durothil, for he is a full-blooded elf and I am mostly elf. The human side of me makes me age faster.”

  “Yeah,” Pierce said apathetically. “What about this plan you spoke of?”

  “What about it?”

  “If it has all played out already and you’ve been alive this whole time, don’t you know the outcome?”

  “We have lived through a version of it, yes. It can still be changed, though. Every path can be altered, no matter what.”

  “Er, all right. If it’s so risky, keeping me alive, then why save me?”

  “Your grandfather does not wish you dead. You apparently have a long life ahead of you. More than one, in fact, and he doesn’t wish for you to be robbed of them.”

  More than one life? What am I, a bleeding cat with nine lives?

  “My grandfather, eh? On whose side?”

  “Your mother’s.”

  “Uh. So, I’m part elf?”

  “Among other things.”

  Pierce snorted. “Unbelievable. If I was to mention anything about this to anyone, they’d think I was mad in my own time—and in this one, I should add.”

  “You’ll have no memories of being here when you return. The mind cannot contain future events, only past and present ones, even if you have lived through it. Your mind will simply clear it out as if it never happened because, in hindsight, it hasn’t. Not in your time, anyway. There will perhaps be cracks in the wall, and pieces may surface, depending on how decent your memory is.”

  Pierce slipped his freezing hands into his pockets. If he knew he was going to be chased through the bloody woods by some wild elf woman, he’d have worn his coat—or, better yet, brought his gun.

  They chatted some more when a rustle in the woods caused Pierce’s heart to lurch into his throat. When Durothil emerged, Pierce let out the breath he’d had trapped in his lungs. Foster lowered his crossbow.

  “Kayden is no longer here,” Durothil announced.

  “Does this mean I’m safe?” Pierce asked hopefully.

  “She is a hunter as well as a warrior,” Durothil stated. “She will come for you again.”

  “Bugger.”

  “The best you can do at present is to return to the city. It will be safer and more difficult for her to find you there. We shall keep hunting for her in the meantime.”

  Pierce nodded. “Right. Erm, I don’t understand exactly what is going on. What plan does this witch have, eh?”

  “Chaplin!” Frank called from the cabin. “Where did ya go, ya British pug?”

  His loud voice drew Pierce’s attention away from the elves long enough for them to vanish when he turned back around. “Dammit.”

  He climbed the embankment and staggered to the car.

  “What de hell happened to youze?” Frank asked, noting Pierce’s dirty clothing.

  Pierce played it cool. “While you were sleeping, mate, I was loading the bottles in the car. I thought I saw someone stalking about in the woods, so I investigated. I ended up falling down a bloody bank.”

  “Did youze find anyone?” he asked, now on edge.

  “It was just a damn deer.”

  Frank slumped with relief. “Youze went lookin’ fer a snooper without your gun? Are youze stupid?”

  “C’mon.” Pierce said, heading for the house. “Let’s pack up our gear and clear out. I want to get back to the city.”

  “What’s de big hurry? I haven’t eaten breakfast yet. No cawfee or nothin’.”

  “I’m not cookin’ you breakfast, if that’s what you’re implying, chum. We can stop at a diner on the way.”

  Pierce and Frank packed up their overnight suitcases, cleaned themselves up, and left the cabin. While driving over the narrow, icy road, Pierce was quiet but kept a vigilant eye on the forest surrounding them. It wasn’t until they reached the highway that he finally took his hand off his pistol, holstered under his coat.

  “Frank.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get Chester to come with you to the cabin from now on. I ain’t coming back.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Fallout

  When Sergeant Hawk Geo saw the witness, it actually amazed him that the mob boss was still alive. Nearly his entire body had been burned with the exception of a few untouched patches of skin here and there. A bit of straggly hair stuck up from the crown of his head like a tiny plot of weeds that had survived a forest fire. The fact that he was conscious surprised Geo to no end. The nurses had given him plenty of morphine. Without it, the pain alone would have certainly killed him. He was wrapped in bandages and lying in a hospital bed. A cast where he’d been shot, encased his arm. Spots of blood dotted the gauze like chickenpox. Geo stood by the IV drip, ignoring the blackened flesh as he continued questioning the man.

  “How did you escape, Mr. Dijk?”

  The heap of burnt meat parted his lips to answer. Thick white sputum webbed them together as it had with every answer he’d given to the sergeant’s questions. “After the shooting stopped, I headed for the door. Until then, I pretended to be dead while the things cased the joint, opening fire on anything that moved. Then the café fell in on us. I barely made it to the stairs.”

  His voice was low and groggy as if his innards were also scorched. He had both eyes, but one was bloodshot. The other blue iris stared intently at Geo. Dijk had wanted to spill his guts. In fact, he had requested Geo by name.

  “The things?” Geo asked, noting the word. “What do you mean by that? Who did this?”

  “Violetta Romano.”

  Geo knew that name.

  “The leader of the Sugar Hill Gang?”

  “Yes,” he gurgled out.

  Geo clasped his hands behind
his back and moved to the foot of the bed, asking, “Would this attack have anything to do with her murdered husband?”

  Even in Dijk’s wretched state, he seemed unwilling to confess. Geo supposed it made sense. The man looked as though he belonged in hell. The soul inside that charred shell of a body wasn’t searching for redemption, only revenge.

  “I re . . . I referred to them as ‘things’ because what came into my joint were Living Automatons.”

  The moisture in Geo’s mouth immediately dried up. Geo vividly remembered those freak shows from the Great War. At the end of the war, Geo was assigned to a group whose mission was to round up every scientist who had made Machine Men and execute them.

  “You’re lying,” Geo said when he found his voice again.

  Dijk slowly shook his head, parting his lips with the sticky film attached to them. “No,” he rasped. He rolled his head away and closed his mismatched eyes. “I’m not.”

  Geo left the hospital with his chest tight with concern. It was one thing to go after bootleggers and mob bosses, but this was something else entirely. Were Machine Men actually in the city? How many were there? Was Romano the only one who had them? Jesus Christ, what if they developed a conscious mind as they had before? Could history repeat itself? His concern had risen drastically. Geo needed to find Romano and take out the automatons before another uprising began.

  The cold was beginning to irritate Zoe. She was hiding by some trees and straggly shrubbery beside the waterfront where Quinn’s goons had driven two milk trucks to an old dock where a paddle steamer that was somewhat off its keel was located. The trucks halted in front of a chain-link fence surrounding the way onto the dock, but that never stopped the men who simply unlocked the gate’s padlock. She assumed they must have replaced the original lock with their own. She then watched as they went up the ramp and vanished into the vessel. Zoe waited, freezing in the chilly winds gusting over the river. She was onto something, though—something big.

  Finding the picture in the Sunday paper of the cat who’d been inside their speakeasy on the night of the break-in was very lucky. She only needed to find out who he worked for. The spy she had sent to stake out Quinn’s boathouse had identified the runabout motorboat in the photo even though it was a common model. Zoe had decided to tail Quinn herself, which led her to the cemetery, where she had observed the funeral service. It only took seconds to recognize a certain familiar face through her binoculars. She refrained from telling Clark right away. Instead, she waited to see what else Quinn was up to. The man had lost both his entire shipment and his speakeasy in a single night, but he had somehow avoided being arrested by the bull.

  Zoe followed one of Quinn’s people to an abandoned building on Bleecker Street where she’d only suspected they might be ready to set up shop again. Tailing Quinn’s people was simple enough. Everyone was buzzing about so busily that nobody noticed her. Eventually, her surveillance brought her to the East River waterfront.

  Finally, the goons emerged from the ship. They were carrying something heavy looking inside burlap sacks and loading them into the milk trucks. Two other men came out, but they hadn’t gone in with the others. They went back and forth like ants until everyone eventually left altogether. Once they were gone, Zoe investigated. She climbed the fence, nearly tearing her clothing at the jagged top. She took caution stepping over the ramp set at an angle. It led up to the boat’s tilted deck. Once on the creaky deck, Zoe held onto the boat railing until she’d gained her footing on the slanted surface. The grey light coming in through all the windows was the only thing that lit the inside of the boat. The abandoned structure smelled of rotting wood and mold that permeated the carpet and fabrics.

  She thought about the men coming out of the ship with the burlap sacks. Given the time it had taken, she suspected they had more than booze hidden in there.

  Zoe ventured below. She kept going until she reached the engine room.

  “Oh, so this is where they’re keeping you,” she said to Mr. Clark’s stolen submarine peeking out of the water and surrounded by broken machine parts. The dull light from the torn out hole was enough to see by.

  Zoe put a cigarette into her mouth and lit it. “Mr. Clark will be very happy to see you again.”

  On the return trip from the cabin, Pierce did his best not to show Frank any of his concern. It wasn’t until Frank let him off at his flat that he allowed himself to think about what he had to do. With a bloody wild elf hunting for him, how long would it take before she caught up to him again? Should he flee to California? What if she tracked him down while he was leaving? With or without his pistol, how well could he defend himself against her on a train or a bus?

  Durothil promised it would be difficult for her to find him in the city. Fuckin’ hell, was that old elf really his grandfather? Things had gotten frightening and downright weird. In the end, he decided to stay put for now. After all, there was Lucy to consider. Now that he had the book George had shown him, perhaps he ought to come clean with her about everything. Yet, there was that other woman in the photographs with him. Although he had no idea who she was due to the book’s wretched condition, he had a feeling they were an item. Or, would be someday.

  The moment he stepped into his place, the phone rang. He almost didn’t answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Isaac? It’s Lucy.”

  Normally, he’d be over the moon to hear from her. After everything he’d gone through, and with everything he now needed to sort out, he just wanted the time to collect himself before he had to leave for the speakeasy. He kept his tone light.

  “’Ello, love. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. I called to see how your trip was.”

  “It, erm, went well enough.”

  “That’s good. Do you want to do anything on your next day off?”

  Pierce hadn’t had a chance to think past a single minute, much less the middle of the week.

  “I bought some Yorkshire pudding at the market. I thought I could make Sunday roast.”

  Bloody hell, it had been ages since he’d had that!

  To his dismay, he sighed. “I can’t, darling. Boss has me running his new shop from now until the weekend. I’ll see about Monday, though.”

  “Oh,” she said quietly. “Just let me know.”

  She was so damn patient. More than what he deserved.

  “Oi, Luce,” he said, raking his hands through his hair. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll buy us tickets to The Butterfly’s Evil Spell play that you’ve mentioned.”

  “I’d love that. Are you all right? You sound a bit uneasy.”

  He tilted his chin up and that’s when he noticed it. “What the . . . ?” He put the phone down and crossed the room.

  “What is it?” Lucy demanded from the other end. “What’s happening?”

  His pounding heart banged in his ears, drowning out her voice. With a shaky hand, he reached over and touched the crisscrossed lines carved into the wall. He had seen this before, etched into the wild elf’s bow.

  Kayden had been inside his flat. She knew where he lived!

  “Isaac!” Lucy’s voice yelled through the receiver, breaking through his terror. “What is it? Should I come over?”

  Pierce rushed over to the phone and grabbed it up. “No! Don’t come here, Lucy. Stay away from here, got it?”

  “Why? What’s . . . ?”

  He hung up the telephone and hurried about gathering his belongings. He needed to get out before that blasted elf returned. As he packed up, he wondered where else she might know to find him. Where should he go? He decided to hide in the only place he knew—the Train Way speakeasy.

  “C’mon, Marvin,” he said to the mantis in the soapbox.

  When he saw it, however, his heart sank. Through a space between the broken wood, a shiny front leg lay. Pierce removed the wood pieces and found Marvin’s scattered bits at the bottom. Marvin hadn’t been torn apart but instead, had been disassembled piece by piece. Only its t
iny noggin remained fastened to its bullet body. A meticulously evil act.

  “Poor bugger,” he whispered.

  Marvin’s tiny copper head cocked to the side to look at him. Its glass eyes almost appeared to plead with him.

  Pierce’s jaw dropped. “You’re alive?”

  Instead of pondering it over, Pierce gathered the mechanical creature and its parts into a sock and packed it into his case.

  He caught a trolley to Bleecker Street and arrived at the speakeasy. Workers were still busy remodeling the upstairs and turning it into Kelly’s next antique shop. Pierce locked himself inside the speakeasy and rushed over to the bar to pour himself a stiff drink. He then got the heaters running and sat for a while, thinking with his gun beside him. To help soothe his mind, he kept himself occupied by reassembling Marvin with a tiny screwdriver he’d borrowed from a worker upstairs. Once complete, the mantis was as good as new, walking about and fluttering its tin wings.

  Evening came and so did the workers as well as Holly Young and her band. Kelly made a surprise appearance. With him was, of course, Frank and Chester. They all sat with Pierce at a back booth.

  “You’ve done a fine job, my boy,” Kelly praised him while looking fondly at the bustling speakeasy. “We have ourselves a submarine, our own brewery, and a new establishment.” He wrapped his arm around Pierce. “And it’s all thanks to you.”

  Pierce took a moment to admire what he had helped build. He had to admit that it gave him a rush. Never had he been responsible for the growth of any sort of enterprise. What Kelly said rang true. Pierce would give himself that much. Everything Quinn had was because of what Pierce had done, and even as small as it was in the greater scheme of things, it was still quite an accomplishment for the likes of Pierce Landcross.

  Kelly put a stack of cash down on the table. “Here. This is for you.”

  “Fuckin’ hell,” he gasped, picking up the loot.