She ran to the open window, avoiding as best she could the broken glass scattered about the floor. And after another flash of lightning, she disappeared into the night.
Wage W. Pascal
May 22, 1915
Near the Estate of Quinton Gartrell
Long Island, New York
Wage disembarked from the trolley, taking a moment to soak in the afternoon sun. Freshly waxed, handsome black cabs surrounded the stop, ready to ferry wedding guests to Quinton Gartrell’s estate nearly two miles away. Wage decided to walk.
He wore an old, but not yet frayed, pair of brown trousers with freshly pressed shirt sleeves and a new pair of chestnut leather suspenders that matched his scoffed boots. With his slouch hat donned, he threw his lightweight cotton coat over his shoulder as he walked down the side of a dirt road, surrounded by hills that crested lowly like a verdant morning tide. He didn’t mind walking. Colonel Roosevelt had always preached, solvitur ambulando. It is solved by walking. The notion that the spectrum of life’s problems were understood, unraveled, by being in constant motion. Dynamic as opposed to static. Worrisome thoughts quelled by chemicals in your brain that churned as fast as your motoring legs.
The handsome cabs rumbled passed him, carrying tuxedo-clad gentlemen in top hats and gowned ladies wearing floral bonnets. Each cab inadvertently kicked up a cloud of dirt that, when mixed with sweat, glued itself to Wage’s face and hands. He didn’t mind. He simply continued walking. He hoped the next step might calm the quiet storm raging within him. In two hours, Mink Callahan was getting married.
Wage came to the boundaries of Quincey’s father’s estate. A graded, gravel road winded slightly to a boxy red-brick manor with dormer windows and slate-gray mansard roof. Rather than share the road with the cabs, Wage cut through the wildflower-laden field. He waded slowly through spotted purple knotweeds, heavenly blue chicories, and blossoming yellow dandelions. Bees zipped from flower to flower and plumes of tiny swarming bugs engulfed him, but he didn’t mind.
In between arriving carriages, Wage entered the great home. The valet addressed him, “Your name, sir?”
“Captain Wage Winchester Pascal.”
The valet squinted at his unfurled list. “Very good, sir. Would the gentleman prefer to leave his sidearm?”
Wage held his hands out to his side. “I’m afraid I’m unarmed today, friend.”
“Very good, sir. Please,” the valet gestured.
The foyer mixed red brick with smoothed plaster and polished cedar, and it opened into a great room that looked like it was the second home of the Royal Geographical Society. Old World maps, some of them inked on papyrus, others on translucent animal skin, sat encased in glass. Oil portraits of distinguished ancestors—all of them carrying rifles or muskets. depending on the century—rested in gilded frames that filled the space between countless bookcases. Lathe-spun, curved furniture and a stuffed menagerie of exotic animals filled the rest of the space. There were boars from Haiti, tigers from Burma, and bears from Kodiak.
Also within the great room, a string quartet, three men and one woman, rehearsed the music for the occasion. Handel’s Air in G. Nikola Tesla, dressed to the nines in coattails nearly a meter long, stood over the musicians, basking in the melodic harmony. Wage reached up and put a hand on the scientist’s shoulder. In a rare sentimental act, Tesla engulfed Wage’s hand with his own and gave him deep nod.
“Do you happen to know the whereabouts of the bride?” Wage asked.
“Second door on the left,” Tesla said, signaling upstairs with his large gray eyes.
“Much obliged.” Wage removed his hand from Tesla’s shoulder and left the scientist to his music before ascending the nearby stairs. Wide planks of wood were fitted with a paisley rug that quieted his footsteps as he climbed.
At the top of the stairs, he saw Simon in an ashen tuxedo and jet-black tie. His metal hand sticking out beyond the cuff looked sleeker, narrower, and polished like someone had dipped his real hand in a vat of molten platinum and let it cool. Amber Rose stood next to him, wearing a chartreuse dress with deep green embroidered leaves that formed a vine running down from her shoulder, upon which grew stitched pink flowers. The gown was fashionably sleeveless, but she wore silken emerald gloves that ended to her elbow. Wage greeted her first. She flinched as he grabbed her hand to kiss it politely. As she withdrew her hand, he noticed small crimson stains about her knuckles.
“Those tattoos still bothering you, Amber Rose?” Wage asked.
“No! I mean, yes. They’ve been giving me problems,” Amber Rose said, shaking her head. A strand of sun-kissed auburn hair fell between her eyes.
“Captain,” Simon said, extending his natural hand.
Wage gripped it tightly, “Simon.”
The detective looked Wage top to bottom, noticing the dust and grime on his clothes. “Is everything all right, sir?”
“It’s a beautiful day. Thought I might walk the last little bit,” Wage replied and promptly changed the topic of conversation. “Fancy new hand you got there, Agent Hum.”
Simon held up the shiny hand and flexed it slightly. “Something better for formal occasions. Less bulky. Less lethal. Nikola has really outdone himself this time.”
“Bet you could still punch right through a three-inch door though, huh?”
“More like six,” Simon said and smiled.
“Come on, darlin’,” Amber Rose said, hooking Simon with her arm. “It’s near the hour.”
“We’ll catch up after the ceremony, sir,” Simon said as he was escorted down the stairs.
Wage walked down the hallway and squared off with the second door on the left. He knocked lightly before entering.
“What the hell do you want?” Andromeda Callahan spat as he walked into the large Victorian bedroom. Mink’s younger sister lounged on the nearby sofa, inhaling a cigarette perched at the end of an obnoxiously long silver holder. She wore the same bridesmaid’s dress as Amber Rose and flicked her wrist at the nearby flower vase. Wage could hear the sizzle of the hot ash from the cigarette hitting the water.
“Andi,” Wage said, tipping his hat.
“No seriously, Wage. What the hell are you doing here?”
“My name is on the guest list, same as yours,” Wage replied.
“Not at the wedding, you idiot. I mean in here. In this room.”
Mink stepped from behind the three-paneled changing screen by the window. She wore a formfitting, flattering gown of white silk and lace. On her head, she wore a colorful laurel of pastel colors with a gossamer drape that flowed past her shoulders. Her sleek, muscular arms carried a full bouquet of blue and purple flowers.
Wage immediately covered his heart with his slouch hat. “Andi,” he said, “Would you give us a minute?”
Andi rolled her eyes. “Please, you think I’m gonna—”
“Andromeda! Make yourself scarce. Now!” Mink commanded.
Reluctantly, Andi rose from her sofa, grabbed her clutch purse, and exited. “Bastard,” she whispered under her breath before closing the door.
When the door shut behind him, the teary-eyed Wage finally nodded and spoke, “Minerva.”
“Wage,” she replied with tears of her own.
“You … look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I never did get to see you on your first wedding day, but I bet you looked just as lovely.”
Mink sniffled, recalling the day her and Wage were to be married by Madame Sweetooth. She was only 15 and had planned on wearing her first communion dress then, even though it was a bit too small. “Thank you.”
“I had to see you, Mink. I just …”
“I know,” she replied. “I know, Wage.”
“It’s just that …” Wage’s damming eyelids finally broke, “I can’t … I can’t …”
“I know,” Mink repeated.
“You don’t goddamn know! You don’t!” Wage yelled. “You are my everything. Always have been.” Wage wiped hi
s eyes with his sleeves. “Always will be.”
“Those were different times, Wage. Things have changed.”
“I’m not sure they have.”
“This ain’t the swamp. And we ain’t teenagers no more.” Mink exchanged her refined accent for her Cajun roots.
“I ain’t thought different since I was 17 years old.” Wage extended his arms, gesturing to himself. “My body has grown older, but my mind hasn’t. I love you, Mink Callahan. I always have. I always will.”
“Goddamn you, Wage! Goddamn you!” Mink cried.
Wage bowed his head to conceal the tears that ran down his cheek.
“It’s my wedding day,” she muttered. “It’s my goddamn wedding day.”
Wage sobbed, his chest and shoulders heaving up and down. “I know. I know.”
Mink stepped closer to him. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she said. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“I know,” Wage repeated, “I know.”
She finally embraced him, hooking her arms underneath his shoulders. He held her as tight as he could.
“Wage,” she said, burying her head in his chest. “I do love Quincey.”
“I know.”
“I’m gonna marry him.”
“I know.”
“I never wanted to hurt you, Wage. Ever.”
“I know.”
She buried her head into his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt.
Wage relished the moment, until someone abruptly knocked at the door.
“Mink!” Andi called through the door. “Mink, it’s time.”
Mink released from Wage’s grip. “Wage. Colonel Roosevelt was supposed to walk me down the aisle.”
“OK,” Wage managed to say.
“He’s couldn’t make it. Got a telegram from him not an hour ago. He’s waylaid in D.C.” She grabbed him by his shoulders. “Wage. I need you to give me away.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“I can’t.”
“If you won’t, who will? I can’t walk down the aisle by myself. I need you. I need you, Wage. Please!”
“Give you away?” Wage laughed. “You honestly think I could give you away?”
“Wage.”
“As long as I draw breath, I will never give you away, Mink Callahan.”
Another knock, and the door swung opened. “Jesus, Mink, you’re getting married in 10 minutes! It’s time to get down there,” Andi snapped.
“Wage. Listen to me. I need you to give me away.”
“I will. Never. Give you away,” Wage replied.
“Christ. Spare me,” Andi interjected. “Don’t worry, Mink, I already found someone to give you away.”
Nikola Tesla dwarfed the door frame as he came into view. He ducked to see in the bridal suite. “Hello,” he said as he waved.
Mink locked onto Wage’s gaze. “It’s time. I have to go.”
Wage could hear the string quartet doing its last-minute tuning on the green beyond the windows of the suite.
“Wage?” Mink said.
Wage nodded his head. “Go,” he finally said.
Wage W. Pascal
May 22, 1915
Estate of Quinton Gartrell
Long Island, New York
He watched the whole thing through the window of the bridal suite. The tall and gangly Nikki walking Mink down the freshly sodded aisle spotted with red rose petals to the vine-covered gazeebo where the dashing, barrel-chested Quincey awaited. Even from his distance, Wage could see Quincey’s lip quiver and his eyes water. Wage couldn’t hear what was said by the old pastor who read from the small Bible he held, nor could he hear the vows of Mink and Quincey spoke as they held each other’s hands. He saw the final kiss, though. Every agonizing second of it. He did hear the thunderous applause and cheers of the near 200 people that sat on white-washed benches arranged in an amphitheater-like semicircle.
The crowd was now dispersing and moving toward one of the six colossal trestle tables nearby. Amidst the tables were a number of tall maypoles, each tied at the top with long, thick lengths of colored ribbon that fluttered in the breeze.
As everyone found their seats, waiters scurried up and down the tables, shuttling loaves of fresh bread, dishes of butter, and new bottles of wine to replace the ones that had been emptied only minutes after everyone sat down. Wage, however, stared at Mink and Quincey as they posed with joyous smiles in front of the gazeebo for the photographer who hid beneath a blanketed accordion camera. Wage tried everything he could to curse them, and their inevitably happy life together. But he couldn’t.
“Captain?” a voice from behind him said.
Startled, Wage turned to see Dominic, tuxedo-clad and wearing his goggles, standing in the doorway and holding a decanter of bronze liquid. “Dom. How’d you see me up here?”
“There’s not a whole helluva lot I don’t see anymore,” he replied, toggling the lenses, changing them to blue to combat the bright sunlight flooding the windows.
“Fair enough.”
“How you holding up, sir?” Dom asked.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Oh geez, I dunno, maybe because you nearly drowned sinking the world’s most dangerous weapons to the bottom of the Mississippi. Maybe because you’re in deep with the Templars, who mean to kill you if you don’t recover their artifact. Maybe because you signed away your trust fund.” Dom snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah, and the love of your life just got married to a fellow agent.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Wage lied.
“I saw her kiss you that night. Remember? In the basket, before both of you caught the ship.”
Wage bit his lip.
“Look. I don’t mean anything by it. I just thought you could use this.” Dom extended the full decanter. “It’s bourbon.”
Wage smiled. “Damn right it is,” he said, walking over and snatching the bottle. “You’re a good man, Dom.” Wage took a huge pull off the bottle and passed it back to Dom, who followed suit. “It’s like I always say. When life hands you lemons … Continue to drink bourbon.”
Dom handed the bottle back to Wage. “They’re preparing quite the feast down there. Think you’re ready to join us? There’s a woman down there over six feet tall. We want to introduce her to Nikki.”
Wage drank from the decanter again and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Nope.” Wage slapped Dominic hard on the shoulder. “It’s been a pretty shitty day. So I think I’m going to head home. Get piss drunk.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll wake up tomorrow, swallow a box of aspirin powder, and I’ll get back to work. Figure out this whole Templar thing, maybe.”
Dom smiled. “Good luck, Captain.”
Wage pointed at the young man. “I expect to see you at work on Monday, Agent DeFelice.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, sir.”
Wage made his way downstairs, dodging fast-moving servants bounding though the great room on his way back to the foyer. He stepped out onto the wide, shaded porch. He stared down the gravel road that divided the wildflower-rich fields blooming under a cobalt sky. He took another sip of bourbon.
“Excuse me?” a soft Southern voice said from one side of the porch.
Wage turned to his left to see you young woman in a daisy-yellow dress and a contoured white bonnet that spilled out curly blonde tendrils. She gently rocked a baby that gummed her knuckle. The baby made a cooing sound and grasped at his mother’s hand.
“Yes, ma’am?” Wage said, approaching the lovely woman. Wage looked closer at the baby. He had bright blue eyes and a mess of black hair. The infant stared at Wage, cracking a contagious smile.
“Do you remember me?” she asked
Wage wiggled his finger at the baby. “Possibly? Where’re you from? Oh, ain’t he precious. How you doin’, little man?”
“I’m from Winston-Salem. My name is Cynthia Hamilton.”
&nb
sp; “That rings a bell,” Wage admitted.
“This my son, Blaze,” she announced.
“And a mighty handsome boy he is.”
“He is. Will be as charming as his daddy, I’m sure,” Cynthia replied flatly.
Something stirred deep inside Wage. Something … “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was, again?”
“My name is Cynthia Hamilton,” she said and stepped forward impatiently. Instinctually, Wage took a step back. “You crashed my engagement party.” She took another step forward. “You snuck in my window that night.” Wage took another step back. “You shot my father, Jonathan Hamilton.” She took another step forward. “And this is your son. Blaze Jonathan Pascal.”
Wage took another step backward, and promptly fell off the porch.
Wage W. Pascal
May 22, 1915
Near the Estate of Quinton Gartrell
Long Island, New York
He swung the empty decanter as he stumbled down the dirt road. The trolley bells were getting louder, so he figured he was headed in the right direction. A speeding coup flew by him. He lifted the empty bottle. “I’M A FATHER!” he yelled as it passed.
He continued to stumble forward, unable to stifle his drunken laughter that, at any moment, would turn to drunken sobbing. His original plan was to get piss drunk. He’d accomplished that. His next plan was to wake up tomorrow and figure out his dilemma with the Templars. That would have to wait. Because now, he had to have breakfast with Cynthia Hamilton and his son, Blaze. His. Son. Blaze. Strong name, he thought. Family name, too, coincidently. Though he doubted it was spelled the traditional French way.
Cynthia offered him a ride, but he declined. Solvitur fucking ambulando.
When her driver taxied her away back to the city, they had both decided that there were too many decisions to enumerate, too many complications to articulate. Solvitur ambulando. Solvitur bourbonando was more like it.
Warmongers (Peacemaker Origins Book 2) Page 26