‘What a service I perform.’ Misu smiled, utterly undeterred by this news.
Clearly this wasn’t the response Alex Juniper expected. He soured his tone in response. ‘Quite. I heard more, you know.’
‘Pray tell the secrets that make your ear.’
‘Trouble would be with you. You collaborate with the bad kinds like you always have, and my big question is what I’m going to do about it.’
‘No, actually,’ Misu interrupted. This charade had gone on for too long and time was wasting. ‘Let me correct you. You’re going to do two things. The first is that you’re going to listen to my proposal. That you’re going to accept. The second, you’re going to uncuff me and let me walk out of here free.’
In a moment of unfathomable grace, Juniper accommodated this madness as a legitimate outcome. ‘Why oh why would I do something as stupid as that?’
Misu leant forward, resting her unattractive restraints on the desk. It was impossible not to grin, and relishing this moment, she revealed something that put things back in her favour.
‘Because I’m the one who tipped you off that I would be coming.’
Chapter 24
Old business
Alex Juniper had contemplated enough of this bombshell. He had stepped outside for a spell, pacing the corridor outside his office in frustration. There was no point for his captive to witness this, something that Misu had relished administering. He needn’t have taken it so personally. This was all business – a business Misu was keen to get back to discussing.
A total of four times Juniper stared at the frosted glass of his office, his name and title established in proud black lettering, stopped by the potential outburst that rose within him. On the fifth time he momentarily suppressed the rage and re-entered. This time Misu’s smile was lacking and she watched him with great interest. She took the lead with the conversation after Juniper seated himself.
‘Tell me, Marshal, what exactly did happen to Wilheim Fort? Pretend for a moment that I missed the newspapers and am deaf to the wire. Enlighten me in your own words.’
Juniper drummed his thick fingers upon his desk, the rhythm softened somewhat by this morning’s bounty list requiring a signature.
‘Mister Fort was well past due to be removed in a permanent sense by the time I had gotten hold of him. Sadly we don’t do that any more. Not on any account of mine you understand. The mayor was averse to hangings, insisting that the practice was outlawed. Oddly enough this change of heart was had around the same time Mister Fort was going to gain a rope necktie of his own. See, the mayor’s new idea of justice was to clap men in iron and let them rot. Not as barbaric apparently.’
‘You don’t agree?’
‘Sinful men never change their ways.’
‘And innocent men can’t object after having their necks stretched.’ Misu raised her feet, placing them, crossed, over the corner of the desk. ‘But please do continue.’
Juniper swallowed his anger away and continued. ‘Given time, Mister Fort got tired of his accommodation and decided he wanted out. Under considerable protection he was sprung from the cells and rode off into the Sand Sea. Accomplices, you see, many of them. I lost thirteen men that night, thirteen good men who took a long time to replace.’
‘And his whereabouts now?’ The woman picked beneath her nails in turn, inspecting them with scrutiny.
‘Nobody knows. We heard talk that he was still operating but I don’t see how that’s possible. We stripped him of his assets when he was convicted; businesses were folded up. Unless he had some stashed reserve of money somewhere he certainly hasn’t the funds to do anything. That is, again, if he is alive.’
‘He is. I can assure you of that,’ Misu murmured, glancing under her brow. Juniper folded his arms and leant back in his chair, its squeak a sudden interruption.
‘And you know this how?’
‘You were not entirely incorrect when you accused me of being in cahoots with him.’
‘I knew it.’ Juniper straightened up. Was this woman dumb enough to confess her wrongdoings in front of him? Apparently so.
‘Now, now, Marshal, hear me out. Take note that I told you things willingly. Some time ago our friend decided that he would punish all those who rode the Gambler’s Den. Its owner, specifically, was the target of cruelty, drawing all of us into quite the horrid situation. I told you of my arrival because I couldn’t just pull on in and have people see us having this little chat. I needed people to believe exactly what they saw.’
‘And what did they see?’
Misu chuckled, clapping her bound palms together in celebration.
‘Why, you doing the right thing of course! Arresting a villain, marching me away, the whole shebang. Here, in private, we can talk candidly.’
‘About what?’
Her face fell once more and she sat straight, her legs brushed from the desk by a sweep of Juniper’s hand. They landed with a thump.
‘Wilheim gave me an order – and cargo. He instructed us to run from the outer reaches of the Sand Sea, up to the north, each time making drops of contraband to his men. Ignore whatever whispers may have reached you. I assure you, Marshal; he’s very much in operation from what I’ve seen.’
‘What’s the cargo?’
With a slow inhalation, Misu appeared to brace herself for an outburst. ‘Sixty-one bales of Red Root.’
Juniper slammed his fist down upon the desk in rage. His face suddenly twisted in red fury, tolerating these games was a courtesy, but now to be so flippant about the scale of her misdeeds? It would not stand with him. Now he lorded it over her, raising himself from his chair, snorting through both nostrils akin to a bull.
‘You brought that here? To my city?!’
‘Fourteen now. I’ve got them stacked to the roof in Car Six.’ Misu eased her chair back slightly, subduing him with her tone. ‘Calm yourself, man. You’re too excitable. This isn’t some sort of act of defiance or whatever you’ve gone all purple for. Listen to what I have to say and everything will become apparent.’
Juniper bit into his lip, stemming his breathing, though keeping his frustration in check was a monumental task that he had rarely been required to do before.
‘You must be aware by now that on the southernmost route, there’s been arrests, significant arrests of gang leaders since we passed through. Correct?’
‘I suppose.’
‘I’ve heard that you even attended a few of the scenes. Had your photo taken and whatnot. Even made the front page of the papers. What good work they say you’re doing. You’re a clever man, Marshal. What would you put that down to?’
‘Happy coincidence I’m sure,’ he grouched.
‘Coincidence nothing. Every stop we made, I tipped off the Bluecoats at the first opportunity we had. I don’t like them any more than you do, so I have been sending Wilheim’s dealers to you one after another. Are you not going to ask me why I am doing this?’
‘A character flaw I’m sure, but indulge me. Not that your reasoning matters.’
‘Wilheim Fort took Franco hostage. We were pulled in somewhere one night. He was there one hour and gone the next. No clues. Not even a whisper of a struggle. The man simply vanished.’
‘Maybe he was just tired of your company.’ His words trailed off, finding them to be surprisingly tasteless, even for him.
‘Cute, but back to the seriousness in hand. I had visitors of the gruff and stabby kind, messengers on his behalf who offered the terms of his release. I pick up the Root from the south, deliver the goods on a set path, I get him back in one piece.’ Misu shrugged. ‘It’s that simple.’
‘And what of the Gambler’s Den?’
Misu scowled. ‘What about it?’
‘Is it your intent to reclaim?’
‘I’m not following. Are you implying that you have it? We passed the … the spot where it crashed. Didn’t the city have it hauled away?’
‘Nothing of the sort. Think anybody would tolerate putting a
hand on that thing? Your devotees would be up in arms. It vanished in the dead of night: there one minute, gone the next.’ Juniper leant back, his chair groaning in annoyance. ‘Caused quite the commotion I must say. At first I thought you to be responsible but couldn’t work out where you would have got such manpower to move it in a matter of hours, let alone where you could stash it without being noticed. Now me, I couldn’t care what happened to that horror. It needed to be dragged to the nearest yard and broken down but I figured that some might have a degree of sentimentality and so I thought it was best left well alone. I dare say others would seek it for a trophy of sorts. A mutual acquaintance possibly. Someone with a grudge.’
‘Like you said, it’s just scrap now. Nothing more,’ she muttered. A fine lie.
‘Quite. Admittedly these revelations are nothing of a surprise to me.’
‘What may surprise you, is that during a rather joyful excursion, we managed to have words with one of Wilheim’s men. A grotty little rat called Falkner. Sure his mouth was shut for a while but we coaxed some pretty words from those lips of his. Valuable words on all accounts. Words you would like to be privy to.’
Misu watched as Juniper hung on her last syllable.
‘You know, Marshal, my throat is awful dry. Confessing is a considerably hot business.’
Juniper’s brow fell. He begrudgingly rose from his seat and made his way to the drinks cabinet, populated with decanters and different-coloured liquids. His fingers reached a tin cup.
‘A nice glass, if you please,’ Misu requested, batting her eyelids.
Juniper half-filled a crystal tumbler with the clear liquid, walked back, and slid it towards Misu. She took an achingly long, slow slip, punctuating it with a pleased gasp.
‘You were saying?’ Juniper prompted.
‘Ah yes. That one foolish little man let slip details of Wilheim’s location.’ Misu sipped once again and gestured. ‘I know where he is.’
‘Where?’
‘A little mining place in the Badlands. Abandoned now, of course.’
The Badlands. It made perfect sense. There were rocky crags and haunting valleys, which would take months to search. These were dotted with handfuls of old mining communities, a few swallowed by the desert and any one of these could be used as a base of operations.
‘You know exactly whereabouts he’s set up shop?’
‘Exactly,’ Misu affirmed.
Juniper snorted in disillusion. For a moment he believed her to be clever. ‘And you’re giving up your only bargaining chip for free? I could say this conversation never happened, arrest you for trafficking, and be done with this whole affair. What would stop me doing anything but?’
‘Because, my dear, you want Wilheim as much as I want Franco Del Monaire. By all means, turn up there and begin a little firefight. Start a noisy little ruckus; see how far you get. How many escape routes do you think he has in place for that very eventuality?’
Juniper grunted in grievance, though knew that she was ultimately correct.
‘Things seem pretty simple,’ she concluded. ‘I need your help and you need mine. It’s mutually beneficial wouldn’t you say?’
‘You would assume as much.’
With a jangle, Misu reached her arms forward and shook her cuffs. Juniper looked at them, quite unimpressed. As a response, she shook them once more, the chains clattering all the louder.
‘Be a dear, would you?’ she purred.
Juniper took the key from his belt loop and thrust it into the lock. With a turn, they fell open. Misu rubbed her wrists once more, sore, but now unburdened.
‘As I was saying: to do this, we’ll need men. Some of these good men that you preach on about, I suppose. Can you trust yours?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘No, Juniper, can you trust them?’ Misu repeated, sterner.
‘That won’t be an issue.’
‘Are you in?’
The marshal took a look at the people out in the streets, going about their business. They went about their routines, without fear, without terrorization because of the law imposed. For Alex Juniper, this had to be maintained no matter the cost. No matter the bargain.
‘And if I was?’ he asked.
Misu got to her feet, rubbing away the cuff burn. She took in the same view out of thin, lead-lined windows, standing beside the lawman and looking over Windberg as it continued its daily repetition. She retrieved her duster and hat from the clothes stand, and prepared herself for what would come next.
‘Then here’s what I would propose.’
Chapter 25
All knuckles and words
Dull thumps rumbled over and over, a rhythm to a bad song coupled with cruel lyrics. Something snapped within Franco for the umpteenth time, a crack of bone from impact, flaring a shock of pain throughout the adjoining muscle though he paid it no mind. The assault upon his person had become routine now. It had become impossible to mentally keep stock of what was bruised or broken – everything had amalgamated into a melody of pain. Days had blended into nights though his captors were generous enough to hold the beatings to allow some respite in the form of sleep.
A splintered echo formed from its fragments and with a sharp inhalation, Franco came back to the now. A mess of colour took the form of Wilheim, who drew every breath like a broken compressor. He had undressed to the waist, his portly body still shaking with grotesque momentum. His flesh was flushed and wet with exertion and when noticing Franco’s lolling head, Wilheim sneered to himself in delight.
‘Never let it be said that I shy from getting my hands dirty, right, lads?’
Other voices agreed, spectators probably, though mostly incomprehensible to the prisoner.
‘Now I thought this would be therapeutic,’ Wilheim whined, pulling bloodied gloves from his hands. The suede apparel was streaked in blood, Franco’s blood, and plenty of it. ‘Working out the anger as it were. Instead it’s having the opposite effect!’
A sudden lunge rattled Franco’s brain in its housing and the quiet returned once more. Before he could fully succumb to it, thick fingers pressed into his face, shaking it side to side.
‘Come on now, stay with me, stay with me, boy. I don’t want you unconscious yet! That would just be rude! I still have such delights to show you.’
Wilheim took hold of the chair back, dragging it backwards, grinding over concrete. When he had finished, Franco cracked his eyes open. Primarily because he wasn’t able to take in most of his surroundings, Franco had believed himself to be in some sort of disused loading bay, presumed by the size of the building, the dilapidated run of frosted windows and ambiguous machinery. He was correct. Ore and other materials would be taken here to be loaded upon trains, their tracks still present. Trains like the Gambler’s Den would have been used for this purpose, before it had been rebranded.
As Franco raised his head, he stared at the curiously familiar bulk of metal concealed in shadow. Its leviathan frame was distorted, twisted almost but in the gloom, light still painted each contour, every rod and piston, every colossal spoke of the wheels. The realization hit him harder than any of the punches Wilheim had thrown out of spite. There was no mistaking the lines of the train. His train.
The Gambler’s Den lay slumped in the disused railyard, split and broken beyond repair. It was a grim testament to Wilheim’s misdeeds, still peppered with folded notes of admiration stuck to its frame.
‘I never understood your reverence. How the little people adored that spectacle you put on, to this degree even! Look at them all.’ Wilheim skimmed each note in passing with flicks of his fingers. ‘Sentimentality from a society that barely finds the decency to bathe. It wouldn’t be as touching if they knew what kind of person you were. They sadly don’t. But we know don’t we, Franco? Oh, we know. We know the truth of things.’
A venom entered his voice, each sentence snapping at their conclusions. His thunder unnerved the crows perched on iron rafters who squawked in concern, a couple findin
g this the right moment to take leave into the sky via the derelict roof. ‘You’re not an icon of the people no matter how much you pretend otherwise. You’re no balm to the downtrodden. There is a name for your likeness. You are what the educated call a parasite. You cling upon the weak and drain them for all of their monetary worth, under the guise that you are somehow bettering their lives. They welcome it, which baffles me, blind to the gentleman who hides his true intent with coat-tails and pretty smiles.’
One of the notes was snatched away from the caucus, a mottled fold of yellowed paper, its ink bleached by the sun to a fade.
‘Look at this one. To those who brought the light in darkness, may you find your own. How terribly quaint. How utterly ridiculous.’
Wilheim venomously ripped the note apart, tossing the scraps into the air. Tatters of paper fluttered to the floor; some parts met underfoot. He took another and read it aloud with malice.
‘Ha! The Gambler’s Den was well loved, as were all those within it. Our fondest wish is that you are embraced in the afterlife like you embraced others. We hope you find peace.’
This too was shredded before Franco’s eyes and tossed before him.
‘That’s doubtful seeing as you’re here. It’s all so trite! Foolhardiness. Words from blind chumps who part with their money willingly, to a charlatan who doesn’t even appreciate the hooks he has in these people.’
Powerful hands clenched into fists with overflowing agitation, the occasional vein protruding from his bulbous, bald head. With his face a noticeably brighter shade of crimson Wilheim froze in his tirade, engrossed by one of the notes that flickered open and closed on an infiltrating breeze. When surveying it, his face folded up in anger, repeating its well-written sentiment with none of the affection that its creator, Wyld, intended.
‘Death will not stop the show.’
This was torn up slower, firmer, with thick pinching fingers. With every rip his eyes remained on the prisoner, who told himself that they were only words, only simple, kind words, which don’t cease to exist because another wills it. The stare remained on Franco’s split and battered face. Finally Wilheim leant forward and bared his teeth like a wolf bearing down on its prey.
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