“No.” He straightened up. “But I can get him if you want.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Miriam drew her pistol. “Lie down. Hands behind your back.” She stepped forward. “Come on, tie him!” she snapped at Roland.
“If you say so.” The doorbell jangled and he glanced up at her as Olga and the two other guards entered the shop, followed rapidly by Brill and Ivor, and then the rest of the group. With fourteen youngish Clan members inside, it was uncomfortably packed. “What are you going to do with him?” asked Olga.
“Take him with us, stash him in Fort Lofstrom. Got a better idea?”
“You’re making a big mistake,” the man on the floor said quietly.
“You’re a constable,” said Miriam. “Aren’t you? Where’s Burgeson?” He didn’t say anything. “Right,” she said grimly, lifting the counter and walking behind it. I hope he’s alright, she thought distantly. Another spell in His Majesty’s concentration camps will kill him, for sure. “You two, carry this guy along. The rest of you, follow me.”
They trooped down the steep wooden steps in the back of the shop, along an alley hemmed in with pigeonholes filled with sad relics, individually tagged and dated with their owners’ hopes and fears. Miriam looked round. “This will do,” she said. “I’m going to try the crossing. If I succeed and there’s trouble, I’ll come right back. If I’m not back in five minutes, the rest of you come over. Roland, carry Brill. You, carry Olga. Brill, Olga, you carry us over to the far side, to world two: I don’t want anybody making two successive crossings without a rest between. Be ready for trouble.”
She took her coat off. Beneath it she wore her hiking gear and a bulky bulletproof vest from the Clan’s Niejwein armory. It looked out of place here, but might be a lifesaver on the other side. She barely noticed the captive policeman’s eyes go wide as he watched the cellar full of strangers strip down to combat fatigues and body armor.
“Are you sure about this?” asked Roland as she picked up her shoulder bag again.
“I’m sure.” Miriam grimaced. “Time to go.”
“You’ll never get away with this,” the secret policeman mumbled as she pulled out her locket and, taking a deep breath, focused on it.
Everything went black and a spike of pain seemed to split her skull. Buried alive! she thought, appalled—then reached out a hand in front of her. No, just in the dark. She took another breath, smelling mildew, and swallowed back bile that threatened to climb her throat. Her heart pounded. The flashlight—
She fumbled for a moment over the compact LED flashlight, then managed to get enough light to see by. She was in a cellar alright, a dusty and ancient wine store with bottle racks to either side. “Phew,” she said aloud. She took a second or two to let her racing heart slow down toward normal, then marched toward the door at the end of the tunnel.
The light switches worked, and the cellar flooded with illumination—bright after a minute of flashlight. “Do I wait?” she asked herself. “Like hell. We’ve got people to rescue.” She turned the handle and cautiously entered the passage that led to the servants’ stairs.
Her head ached furiously. It had been aching for days now, it seemed, and she felt worse than sick. If she stood up fast, or moved suddenly, her vision went dark. I can’t do this again, she thought to herself, leaning against the corridor wall. It’ll kill me.
Two hops in a day—one from Niejwein to New London, then another into Fort Lofstrom’s dingy cellars. If she made a return trip to Boston now, she was sure she’d pop an artery. Cerebral hemorrhage, what a way to go. Half of the others were piggybacking, staying fresh as long as possible.
For her sins she’d carried Brill through on the first trip. Now she was paying the price in aching muscles and a borderline migraine.
“Matthias,” she said aloud, with a flash of rage. Bastard thought he could use me, did he? Well, she’d see about that. Once the crisis was under control, and once she’d repossessed Paulie’s stolen CD-ROM. She was certain Matthias had it, and there were only two things to do with it that made sense. Send it to the FBI, or leave it on Angbard’s desk, along with the photos of her and Roland—a potentially lethal embarrassment if Angbard interpreted it as a plot by the lovers to elope and blackmail the Clan into silence. Miriam’s money was on the latter. Once the immediate business was sorted, she fully intended to give Paulie a discreet request and a bunch of cash: enough to hire some private detectives. There were ways and means of finding people who didn’t want to be found, when your resources and patience were unlimited, and she was willing to bet that a spider like Matthias wouldn’t be able to camouflage himself as well as he thought once he left the center of his web. She’d spend whatever it took to find him, and then he’d be sorry.
After a couple of minutes she sighed, then pushed herself upright. She dry-swallowed a painkiller, which stuck uncomfortably in her throat. She was light-headed, but not too light-headed to find her way up to the basement level. Passing the scullery, she ducked inside to grab a glass of water to help the pill go down. Something caught her eye: The door to the cold store lay ajar. She looked inside.
“Oh shit. Oh shit.” She breathed fast as she leaned over the top of the pile—three, maybe four corpses sprawling and stiff, not yet livid—and saw the cruel edges of bullet wounds. “Shit.” She pushed herself upright and looked to the entrance. “Cameras—”
Matthias has a little helper, she realized. How many people did he kill? A great house like this, you couldn’t send all of the servants away—but murdering the skeleton staff bespoke a degree of extreme ruthlessness. Angbard hadn’t been suspicious enough of his own deputy: He’d let Matthias pick and choose staff assignments. Now it looked like she was going to be stuck paying the price.
“Matthias always has a backup plan,” she muttered to herself. “If I was a sick spider sitting at the center of a web, waiting to sting my employer, what would I do?”
She opened the door cautiously. “Roland was afraid of bombs—” She stopped. Where? “The armory is where you store explosives. It’s built to contain a blast. But if Matthias had an accomplice the explosive might be human—”
She panted, taking in shallow breaths. Stop that. Matthias blackmailed people. How many? And what could he make them do—wait for the Clan rescue expedition to show up, then bring the house down on them?
The pantry was empty, a door standing ajar on the kitchen and servants’ stairwell at the end of the hallway. Miriam hit the stairs. It corkscrewed upstairs dizzyingly, halls branching off it toward each wing of the family accommodation. She climbed it carefully, revolver in hand, cautiously scanning the steps ahead for signs of a tripwire. Hoping that the dead servants meant that there’d be no eyes left to watch the video screens. Second floor, east wing, through the security doors on the left, she repeated to herself, hoping that the surveillance, if it existed at all, would prove to be habit-blind.
The east wing corridor was as silent as a crypt, as empty as the passages of a high-class hotel in the small hours of the morning while the guests sleep. Any guests here were liable to be dead in their beds. Miriam came out of the servant’s stairwell and darted down the side of the corridor, crouching instinctively. She paused at the solid wooden doors at one side of the passage and swiped the card-key she’d borrowed from Roland through the scanner at one side. When she heard the latch click, she pushed one door open with a toe and stepped through. This is the security zone? It looked like more rooms, opening off a short corridor—offices, maybe, and Angbard’s outer office door right ahead.
She paused before the door. Her heart was pounding. You. She looked at it. Someone was inside. Whoever killed the servants. A ticking human bomb. Growing anger made her feel dizzy. She carefully moved to one side and raised her gun.
“I really wouldn’t do that,” said a sad voice right behind her left ear. “Put the gun down and turn around slowly.”
She froze, then dropped the pistol and turned around. “Why?” she asked.
A nondescript man leaned against the wall behind her. He was unshaven, and although he was wearing a suit—standard for a courier—his tie was loose. He looked tired, but also content. “It’s about time,” he said.
His gun, Miriam realized. It was pointed at her stomach. She couldn’t identify it. Bizarrely complex, it sprouted handles and magazines and telescopic sights seemingly at random. It looked like a movie prop, but something, in his manner said he had complete confidence in it. The sights glowed red, a dot tracking across her chest.
“It’s about time,” she echoed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The gunman grinned humorlessly. “The boss told me a lot about you. You’re the new countess, aren’t you? He’s got tapes, you know. And a disk.”
She moved toward him, froze as the gun came up to point at her head. “You were responsible for what’s in the cellar—”
“No, actually.” He shook his head. “Not me. He’s ... Matthias likes to hunt. He stalks wild animals. Stalks his enemies, too, looking for a weak point to bring them down.” He looked worried for a moment, then he grinned. “He showed me the tapes he took of you. Looking for a weak spot.”
Her vision hazed over for a moment, turning black with a mixture of rage and the worst headache she’d ever experienced. “What do you fucking want?” she demanded.
“Simple. I’m the rear guard. Your arrival means the Clan rescue party is on its way, doesn’t it?” She didn’t say anything, but his grin widened just the same. “Knew it. You’re my ride out of here, y’know? Little pony. We’ll just be leaving by the back steps, then blow the house down. And I’ll ride out on you. There’s a meeting spot, ready and surveyed and waiting for me. Nice pony.”
“Listen,” she said, trying to focus through her blinding headache, “have you actually done anything for Matthias? Killed anyone? Planted any bombs?”
The gunman stopped smiling. “Shut the fuck up. Now” he snarled. “Kneel! Move!”
Miriam knelt slowly. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Her head pounded and her stomach, even though it was empty, seemed about to make a bid for freedom through her mouth. “Whatever he paid you—” she began.
“’S’not money. Fucking Clan bitch. It’s who we are. Got it, yet?”
“You and Matthias?”
“That’s right.” He kicked the gun away. “Keep your hands on the floor. Lean forward. Slowly put your wrists together in front. I’ll kill you if you fuck up.” He carefully kept the gun on her as he pulled a looped cable tie out of a back pocket. “Nice pony, we’re going to go riding together. Over to Boston, and then maybe out west to the ranch to see some of my friends. You won’t like it there, though.”
“Shoot me and you won’t get away alive,” she heard someone say in the distance, through a throbbing cloud bank of darkness.
“What the fuck.” He yanked the cable tie tight around her wrists. “You think I give a shit about that, you bitch? Live fast, die young.” He grabbed her hair and pulled, and she screamed. “Leave a pretty corpse.”
Miriam tried to stand: Her legs had turned to jelly somewhere along the line. This is crazy, she thought vaguely. Can’t let him blow up the fort with everyone under it, or on the other side—She leaned drunkenly, almost falling over.
“Stand, bitch!” Someone was slapping someone else’s face. Suddenly there was a hand under her armpit. “Fuck, what’s wrong with you?”
“Three jumps, two hours,” she slurred drunkenly.
“Crap.” A door opened and he shoved her forwards. “Fucking get over it or I’ll start on your fingernails. You think your head hurts, you don’t know shit.”
“What do you want?” she mumbled.
“Freedom.” He pushed her toward the low leather-topped sofa opposite Matthias’s desk. “Freedom to travel. Freedom to live away from this fucking pesthole. A million bucks and the wind in my hair. The boss looks after his own. Drop the fort and deliver you and I’ve got it made. Loads of money.”
He pushed her down onto the sofa. “Now you and me are going to sit tight until your friends are over on the other side.” He waved at the CCTV monitor on Matthias’s workstation. “Then I set a timer and we leave by the back door.” He cleared his throat. “Meantime, there’s something I’ve been wondering. Do you give good head?” he inquired, leaning over her.
Something flickered at the edge of Miriam’s vision. She focused past his shoulder, saw the door open and Roland standing there with a leveled pistol. The gunman turned, and something made a noise like a sewing machine, awfully loudly. Hot metal rain, cartridge cases falling. A scream. Miriam kicked out, catching him on one leg. Then the back of his head vanished in a red mist, and he collapsed on top of her.
“Oh Miriam, you really are no good at this!” trilled Olga, “but thank you for drawing his attention! That creep, he makes me so angry...” Then her voice changed: “Dear Lightning Child! What’s happened to Roland?”
“I—” Miriam tried to sit up, but something was pinning her down. Everything was gray. “Where is he?”
“Oh dear.” Olga knelt in the doorway, beside something. Someone. “Are you wounded?” she asked urgently, standing up and coming toward Miriam. “It was his idea to follow you-—”
Miriam finally sat up, shoving the deadweight aside. Strangely, her stomach wasn’t rebelling. “Get. Others. Go across and finish off. I’ll look after him.” Somehow she found herself on the other side of the room, cradling Roland. “He’ll be alright.”
“But he’s—”
She blinked, and forced herself to focus as Olga leaned over her, face white. “He’ll be alright in a minute,” Miriam heard herself explain. “Scalp wounds are always bloody, aren’t they?” Somewhere a door opened and she heard Olga explaining something to someone in urgent tones, something about shock. “Aren’t they?” she asked, still confused but frightened by Olga’s tone. She tried to rub her sore eyes, rendered clumsy by her tied hands, but they were covered in blood. Then Brill rolled up her sleeve and slid a needle into her arm.
“What a mess,” Brill told someone else, before the blessed darkness stifled her screams.
Epilogue
“Fourteen of them, you say?” said Inspector Smith, raising an eyebrow.
“Yessir. Nine coves and five queans all went into the shop mob-handed, like.”
“Fourteen.” The other eyebrow rose to join it. “Jobson never reported back.”
“There’s no sign of blood, sir, or even a struggle,” the inspector’s visitor said apologetically. “And they wasn’t in the premises when me and my squad went in, ten minutes later. Weren’t in the basement, neither. Nor any of the tunnels we’ve explored.”
“Fourteen,” Smith said with a tone of increasing disbelief.
“Sir, we took fingerprints.” The visitor sounded annoyed. “None of them except the Fletcher woman are in our files, and her prints were old. But we had a spook watching as they went in. The count is reliable: fourteen in and none of them came out again! It’s a very rum do, I’ll agree, but unless you have reason to suspect that a crime has been committed—”
“I have, dammit! Where’s Jobson?” Smith stood up, visibly annoyed. “Are you telling me that one of my agents has disappeared and the people responsible aren’t to be found? Because if so, that sounds like a pretty bad sign to me, too.”
“I’ll stand by it, sir.” The regular thief-taker stood firm. “We took the entire block apart, brick by brick. You had the pawnbroker in custody at the time, need I remind you? And his lawyer muttering about habeas corpus all the while. There is, I repeat, no evidence of anything—except fourteen disappearing persons unknown, and a constable of the Defense Bureau who’s nowhere to be seen. Which is not entirely unprecedented, I hope you’ll concede.”
“Bah!” The inspector snorted. “Did you take the cellar walls apart?” His eye gleamed, as if he expected to hear word of an anarchist cell crouched beneath every block.
“We used
Mister Moore’s new sound-echo apparatus.” The thief-taker stood up. “There are no hollow chambers, sir. You can have my hat and my badge if you uncover any, as I stand by my word.”
“Bah. Get out.” Smith glared at the superintendent of thief-takers. “I have a call to make.” He waited for the door to bang shut behind the other man before he added, “Sir Roderick is going to be very annoyed. But I’ll make sure that damned woman gets her comeuppance soon enough ...”
Weeks passed: days of pain, days of loss, days of mourning. Finally, an evening clear of snow beneath the winter skies over New London found Miriam standing in the foyer of the Brighton Hotel, dressed to the nines in black, smiling at the guests with a sweet solicitude she hardly felt. “Hello, Lord Macy! And hello to you too, Mrs. Macy! How have you been? Well, I trust?” The line seemed to stretch around the block, although the red carpet stopped at the curb—many of the visitors were making a point of showing up in new Otto cars, the ones the Durant Motor Company was fitting with the new safety brakes.
“Hello, my dear lady! You’re looking fine.”
Her smile relaxed a bit, losing its grim determination. “I think I am, indeed,” she admitted. “And yourself? Is this to your satisfaction?”
“I think—” Sir Durant raised one eyebrow—”it will do, yes.” He grinned, faintly amused. “It’s your party: Best enjoy it as much as you can. Or are you going to stand by your widowhood forever and a day?”
He tipped his hat to her and ambled inside, to the dining room that Miriam’s money had taken over for a night of glittering celebration, and she managed to keep on smiling, holding the line against desolation and guilt. The party was indeed glittering, packed with the high and the mighty of the New London motor trade, and their wives and sons and daughters, and half the board of trade to boot.
Miriam sighed quietly as the carpet emptied and the doors stopped revolving for a moment. “Busy, isn’t it?” Brill remarked cheerfully behind her.
The Hidden Family Page 31