Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  During this intermission, Roosevelt inspected Syracuse more closely, but was careful not to be in range of its clawed hand. “You have a flamethrower on top,” he said, pointing. “What’s the bottom nozzle do?”

  Edison smiled. “We’re still developing its use.”

  Roosevelt suddenly turned and faced the gruff inventor. “I want your word, dammit!” he yelled.

  “On what, exactly?” Edison replied, unruffled.

  “That these warmongers will never fall into the wrong hands!”

  “Define ‘wrong hands,’ Theodore. These inventions could revolutionize warfare. Save the lives of soliders. It could turn the tide of the war in Europe.”

  “No,” Roosevelt said, pointing again. “You could turn the tide of war in Europe with these things, Thomas.”

  “Calm down, Theodore.”

  Syracuse stepped forward. “Colonel Roosevelt, sir,” it said. “There is no reason for hostility. Please remain calm.”

  “Thomas! You’ve created a machine that hears, speaks, and perceives like a human, but kills like some kind of angry god. Do NOT tell me to remain calm.” Roosevelt turned toward the door that led the stairwell. Before he left, he warned Edison again. “Remember our deal. I want you outta my way. And I want that … thing … kept under lock and key, or so help me God, I will have the Attorney General so far up your ass it will make your head spin.” Roosevelt left, slamming the door behind him.

  Quincey Gartrell

  January 5, 1915

  Pennsylvania Railroad Passenger Car

  South of Richmond, Virginia

  Quincey pulled the file from the bag underneath his seat. Pani, wearing her usual olive trousers and rolled white shirtsleeves, sat crossed-legged, staring at the passing terrain. The wintery Virginia landscape consisted of a medley of leafless trees spotted with the occasional evergreen. Quincey had bought her a pair of moccasins for the trip, which she now donned, constantly wiggling her toes around the lambs wool lining. With her posture and tangled mess of black hair, Quincey thought she looked rather childish, but then it dawned upon him. He had no clue how old she actually was. From some angles she may have been in her early 20s. From others, she may have been near 40. Her lithe figure hinted at youth. Her cracked, wrinkled hands showed age. Her smooth cheeks revealed a certain adolescence, while her yellow-brown eyes shocked him with a wise gaze.

  Quincey turned his attention to the first few pieces of parchment in the file, each topped with the Peacemakers insignia—a red skull within a triangle of black revolvers. The pages contained an endless number of typewritten bullet points with Roosevelt’s handwritten notes littering the margins.

  “Let’s see here,” Quincey said, scanning the page, “One of Major Butler’s men, a Lieutenant Seymour Harper, suddenly collapsed in the mess hall and expired thereafter. The battalion doctor, one …” Quincey squinted to decipher Roosevelt’s writing, “… Lieutenant Colonel Trotter, performed the autopsy and determined the cause of death to be poison, based on samples taken from the dead man’s liver.”

  Quincey read on. “Seems the doc wasn’t able to identify the poison, as he does not have the necessary literature or equipment. What we do know is that our young lieutenant led a patrol of 16 men the day before into the mountain town of Furcy. According to his patrol log, the only thing his platoon encountered were mosquitos, missionaries, and a few rowdy drunkards when they got back to Port-Au-Prince.”

  Quincey flipped to another page. “Colonel Roosevelt thinks that the Witchdoctor—also known as Dr. Victor Mamba or Mr. Humphries, whoever that is—may be behind it. Apparently, this Witchdoctor is originally from the Congo. Brought to England by … no kidding … David Livingston. My father knew him!” he exclaimed to Pani, who remained disinterested. “Let’s see, he was educated at Oxford, which culminated in a doctorate of chemistry, apparently with an emphasis in toxicology. He was an Idimmu for The Hand, blah, blah, blah, assassin, poisoner, blah, blah, blah. His last known whereabouts were New York City and prior to that … um … North Carolina. Prior to that, it looks like there are a number of unconfirmed reports of him operating in Haiti. And, he has been unaccounted for since Simon and Amber Rose joined the team.”

  Quincey flipped to another page. This page did not have the Peacemaker insignia. Instead, it had the emblem of the Attorney General’s Office. “Here is the arrest warrant for one Dr. Victor Mamba and all known aliases. Charged with criminal impersonation, first-degree murder of one Jonathan Hamilton, extortion, the attempted murder of Agent Simon Hum, and attempted murder of Agent Amber Rose Macgillicuddy.” He pulled out the next page. “Looks like Simon was kind enough to provide a sketch.”

  Quincey held up the sketch to Pani. She momentarily took her eyes of the passing scenery and glanced at the sketch, then returned her gaze to the window. “You don’t understand a word I’m sayin’, do you?” he asked.

  Pani emitted a slight growl.

  Quincey sighed as he looked at the last piece of paper. It was a handwritten addendum, a note from the Colonel. It read, “We now have reason to believe that The Hand has dissolved. This means its operatives are now rogue. Investigate this matter thoroughly and contact me when you know something. Stay alert and exercise extreme caution.

  P.S. Don’t forget Pani’s whistles.”

  Quincey looked up from the page. Pani stared at him stoically. She leaned forward and whistled a birdsong rendition of the first few notes from Beethoven’s Für Elise.

  “That’s Beethoven, right?” Quincey asked as he snapped his fingers. He reached inside his tan hunting jacket and withdrew a slip of paper. Pani whistled the next few notes to the song. “All right, all right,” Quincey said. “Hold your horses.” Pani’s lip curled ever so slightly, revealing one of her canines. On the slip of paper was Quincey’s abbreviated reference guide to communicating with the feral woman. “Let’s see, Beethoven … Beethoven. Here we go. Symphony No. 5. It means … you’re in trouble?” Quincey looked up. Pani impatiently whistled more of the tune. “Wait,” Quincey snapped again. “That’s Für Elise. That means you’re …” he pointed to the paper, “hungry! You’re hungry!” Quincey licked his lips, concentrated, and finally whistled back the opening notes to acknowledge her. Pani lifted her chin and smiled.

  “Waiter,” Quincey called across the lounge car. A man in white livery and slicked-back hair came to stand over their booth, putting his hands behind his back. Pani looked at him and smelled the air, which seemed to alarm the young man. “What may I do for you? A drink perhaps?” the waiter, who also doubled as bartender, said hesitantly.

  “You got anything to eat in this joint?” Quincey asked.

  “Only a light fare, sir. Bread, butter, and an assortment of cheeses.”

  “How about whiskey?”

  “We have rye and bourbon,” the waiter answered.

  “Great. Two ryes and a loaf of bread with butter.” Quincey flipped the man a quarter.

  The waiter returned with a loaf of French bread, a small dish of butter, and two tumblers of warm rye whiskey on his tray. He set it on the small round table that separated Quincey and Pani. Pani parted her black tangles of hair and snatched the bread, the pouncing-like action startling the waiter again. She ripped the loaf unceremoniously before sinking her teeth into one half and tearing off a piece to eat. She chewed quickly with her mouth closed, looking at the waiter and shielding the remaining bread with her arms.

  “Ummm,” the waiter said, looking alarmed.

  “Don’t fret, boy. She’s perfectly … normal,” Quincey reassured him. Quincey looked at his reference sheet again. He nudged one of the tumblers of whiskey toward her and whistled the quick and airy beginning of Mozart’s Turkish March. The signal for drink. As a child, Quincey had learned a medley of birdcalls from his grandfather, Quillen Gartrell, the famed hunter. As a result, Quincey became a highly proficient whistler with a large range and beautiful vibrato.

  Pani tucked both halves of bread behind one arm. With her f
ree hand she picked up her tumbler. Her long, dirty fingernails clanged against the glass. She sniffed it as an aficionado might, but her seeming refinement ended there. She tipped the glass toward her and lapped up the whiskey like an animal drinking from a stream.

  “Ummm,” the waiter, who had not moved, said again.

  Pani stopped lapping and threw back the rest of the whiskey. Then she returned to cautiously and quickly eating her bread. Quincey sipped his own whiskey. “Perfectly normal,” he said and smiled. The waiter scurried back to his station at the small bar in the corner.

  Quincey watched her eat the rest of the bread while he quietly sipped his drink. She paid no attention to him. Her entire, animal world was now focused on devouring her food. As a fourth-generation game hunter and taxidermist, Quincey had studied animals nearly his entire life. He had seen every kind of creature eat, sleep, mate, and hunt. He learned to track them and even think like them. He understood every kind of animal, but before joining the Peacemakers, he had never seen a truly feral human before. He had thought they were only in stories told around cook fires, made-up tales of someone abandoned at a young age and raised by wolves in the wilderness.

  It both excited and terrified him to learn more about her. After all, he was a trained hunter and she, in essence, an animal. Admittedly though, a part of him was jealous. Jealous of her disregard for ridiculous social custom, acting instead from her natural, animal instincts. Instincts that he spent years honing, but came so easily to her. She could be, at times, refreshingly primitive.

  He watched as she swallowed the last piece of bread, briefly picked at her teeth, and finally, grinned ear to ear. A small belch rose from her throat.

  Quincey lifted his glass to her. “Refreshingly primitive,” he toasted.

  Mink Callahan

  January 3, 1915

  House of Morris Randolph

  Manhattan, New York

  “Now, let’s go over this one more time,” Wage said as he strolled down East 71st Street, just a few blocks from the snow-dusted Central Park. He wore a wool topcoat over his three-piece black suit, its ivory pinstripes nearly matching the handle of Ol’ Snapper half-concealed under his vest. He adjusted his black fedora and the knot of his red silk tie one more time. “Plan A—” he started.

  “I know,” Mink snapped. “Approach him with the undeniable business opportunity and request a moment of his time, alone.” Mink wore a midnight evening gown sequenced with tiny crystals underneath her open, fox-fur coat. Both dress and jacket were presents from Quincey. The imbedded crystals reflected the electric lamp lights casting a faint carpet of rainbows on the sidewalk ahead of them. The lightest of snow flurries continued to trickle down between the high-rise buildings around them before slowly melting on the asphalt.

  “Yes, but …” Wage prompted.

  “ … But ensure we adjourn to his parlor because of the street access out the window.”

  “At which point …”

  “ … At which point, I will offer him one of Nikki’s cigarettes, and after a few puffs, we will remove his incapacitated body out the window and signal for extraction.”

  “Unless …”

  “…Unless he refuses the cigarette, in which case, I will strike him with the butt of my pistol and bind him before extraction. Plan B.”

  “Now, if you …”

  “…Happen to miss him, which I won’t, I will provide further distraction, while you subdue him, bind him, and remove him for extraction. Plan C.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Wage.

  “Yes, yes, one of us will discretely lock the door to the parlor so as to avoid any unexpected company.”

  “And …”

  “… And following the successful extraction, we will casually make our way back through the party announcing Morris’ retirement for the evening, citing intestinal distress,” Mink finished.

  “Well, all right then,” Wage said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his topcoat. He refused to wear gloves in case he needed to pull Ol’ Snapper’s trigger. “Do you expect any trouble from Andi?”

  “Andromeda is and always has been trouble, Wage,” Mink replied. “So yes, I think she will become a little suspicious when she finds out her fiancé has disappeared. By the way, did the Colonel even say when Morris would be returned? He is going to return him, isn’t he, Wage?”

  “Couldn’t tell you, Mink. All I know is that the boss is planning to have a little chat with our friend Morris, and we are to ensure that he arrives intact.

  “You know, this whole thing would be a lot easier if Nikki would have finished those nonlethal, electric do-hickies,” Mink said.

  “Lethal, nonlethal—no weapon is a match for the charm, mon chéri,” Wage said. “Ain’t that about right, friend?” he said as he passed a stout beggar on the street. He flipped the homeless man a nickel from his pocket. The tattered man caught it deftly with fingerless gloves.

  Wage and Mink arrived at the four-storied Georgian home on the corner. It was encased by a fence of black wrought iron within intermittent red-brick pillars. The home itself was a newer construction and represented the never-ending competition between New York’s elite to build bigger and better residences. Mink and Wage stopped at the entrance, where two sculpted lions, fixed with snarls, stood atop pillars. “Mink,” Wage said.

  Mink turned to look at him. Her brilliant emerald eyes made Wage’s heart beat so hard he could feel it against the wall of his chest. She looked beautiful—the only woman whose radiance left Wage speechless. “What is it, Wage?” she asked

  “You look … I just wanted to tell you that … I … you …”

  “Spit it out, Wage,” Mink said, playfully.

  “I …” Wage shook his head to compose himself. “Let us commence with this evening’s activities.” He extended his arm to Mink. She hooked her arm around his, her touch giving Wage a sense of confidence, a sense of rightness. They proceeded to the front door.

  Given the luxurious residence, Wage expected a butler in freshly pressed attire to attend to the door. Instead, they were greeted by Andromeda Callahan, who leaned on the half-open door and stared at both of them with sinister, frozen blue eyes. “Well, well, well,” she said. “Look what the cat dragged in. A little late, aren’t you?” She wore an ivory dress with a red-sashed top revealing a bare shoulder and a generous amount of cleavage. Despite the lack of fabric, she seemed unaffected by the winter chill that blew through the doorway. Her blonde curls were done up in such a fashion that it seemed to defy the laws of Newtonian physics.

  “Good evening, Andromeda,” Wage said, removing his hat and covering his heart with it.

  “Can it, Wage. I don’t remember seeing your name on the invitation."

  “Andi," Mink said, "Wage was kind enough to accompany me this evening in Quincey’s absence."

  “Mink, do you recall what happened the last time Wage came to one of my parties? Because I seem to recall gunshots and a whole lot of people scared out of their wits. My fiancé claims it was all part of the show, but …”

  “Well, to be fair,” Wage interrupted, “that was really—”

  Mink cut him off with a hard elbow to his ribs. Wage winced and corrected himself. “My humblest apologies, Andi. I assure you, I have no intention of ruining this lovely evening.”

  Andromeda tapped her foot and stared at Wage. She took a puff on her silver cigarette holder and exhaled the smoke into the air. “We were just about to sit down to dinner.” She finally smiled. “Won’t you join us?” She gestured for them to enter.

  Wage and Mink were guided through the opulent mansion lined with Lebanese cedar and adorned with gilded fixtures. Oil paintings in ornate, artisan frames hung on the wall every few feet, with their own electric lights above them. One painting in particular caught Wage’s eye. It resembled a human being, only geometric and blockish. Andi said it was recently purchased from a New York showing by the Spanish artist Pablo Picasso.

  The dini
ng room traded rich brown cedar for white-washed walls and golden fixtures for cascading ivy plants. Twelve guests sat around the rectangular table underneath a crystal chandelier. Morris Randolph sat at the head of the table and welcomed the late arrivals. “Ah, welcome, welcome,” he said spreading his hands. “Darling, would you be so kind as to introduce our newest guests?”

  “Certainly,” Andromeda replied with a slight curtesy. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present my dearest sister Minerva Callahan and our childhood acquaintance, Wage Winchester Pascal.”

  “Pascal? Now, why do I know that name?” a seated gentleman asked.

  “Why, Wage’s brother is Louisiana’s newest junior congressman. William Henri Pascal Jr. Just elected in November. Isn’t that right, Wage?”

  Wage nodded. “That’s correct. He’s actually headin’ up to Washington this week, I believe.”

  Wage quickly surveyed the dinner guests. All the men were impeccably dressed and perfectly groomed. Most of them were in their mid-30s, with a few approaching their 50s. Wage had all of them pegged as trust-fund children. Men whose fathers and grandfathers were captains of industry in a fledgling country. Men whose family fortune could fund whatever endeavor they desired. These were men Wage easily understood, because he was also one.

  More impressive, however, were the women seated at the table. All of them were picturesque trophies. All of them cold, porcelain ladies with painted smiles clad in stiff, suffocating dresses. Some had calculating eyes, some had vacant stares thanks to concealed tinctures of laudanum.