Empire State
Page 17
If Rex sat there, and let his eyes fall, just a little, he could pretend he was back in New York City. Because the thought occurred to him that somehow, bizarrely and impossibly, he wasn't in Manhattan. Maybe he hadn't fallen and hit his head. Maybe he hadn't been the only one down that dark alley that night. If he thought it was a good spot, perhaps other people did too. Perhaps McCabe had found him? No, if it had been that sonovabitch he'd be as dead as the girl now. Maybe, entirely without realising it, he'd walked straight into someone else's operation, and they watched him kill the girl and then removed him from the scene and dumped him in New Jersey or something.
No. It didn't make sense. They'd've just knocked him down too and he sure as hell wouldn't have got up again.
But somehow, he didn't feel like he was home.
He curled his legs up onto the bench. The whole park was tiny and mostly kept dry by the huge spreading tree. The night was warm and fuzzy, and if he lay down his head seemed to settle.
Rex fell asleep on the park bench in the warm night.
It wasn't until the fifth shake that Rex awoke. Both eyes snapped open quickly, his subconscious giving his conscious mind a kick, letting it know that something was going on and really he needed to start paying attention. Rex looked up and saw the leaves of the tree, glossy bottle green in the half-light, and the face of a man leaning over him and shaking him by the shoulders and speaking in a quiet, polite voice. Not a whisper, more a murmur, the low monotone employed when you need to tell something important to someone but don't want the people in the next room to hear. Rex blinked, and found his eyelids were dry. He could hear water hitting tarmac, so it was still raining, but the small park was dry thanks to the tree.
Rex blinked again and squinted. The man standing over him didn't have a face. Eyes, sure, and the bump of a nose, but all covered in white cloth that hung long as the man leaned over. If only he could think straight and see straight, he'd ask the man why he was wearing a napkin over his head.
"Friend, friend..." said the man with the napkin on his head, as he gently rocked Rex on the park bench. When he saw Rex's eyes flick open, he straightened up, and the white cloth moved like he might have smiled underneath it. Rex raised himself up onto an elbow, but when he raised his voice his head pounded.
"Hey, back off, buddy. I ain't your friend," he said, and realised he couldn't get off the park bench. He'd lain on one leg, which was now numb and useless. Rex swore, and then heard the man in the white hood laugh.
"Welcome, friend, welcome." At regular volume his voice was rich and deep, the accent a strong and familiar Yankee twang. "You have led us a merry dance, but you're in safe hands now."
Rex closed his eyes again, thinking perhaps that would ease the buzzing in his head which had now returned, louder and heavier than ever, and that perhaps the weirdo in the mask would vanish in a puff of smoke. Sleeping on a park bench in New York City was exactly the right way to attract weirdos and worse.
"Buddy, I'm not interested." Rex made it to the sitting position and hammered on his left thigh, urging the blood to flow and the feeling to return. "If you don't quit it, you'll know what's coming." Rex looked up at the man, knowing his threat didn't quite make sense. But for all the confident voice and pose, the man in the hood was smaller than Rex. Rex was tall and broad, an ex-boxer run a little to fat. On purely a weightby-weight ratio, he'd be able to floor the man without much effort if he didn't goddamn leave Rex alone.
The man reached to help Rex stand, but Rex shrugged the hand off his arm instantly. He made another threat, a more cogent one this time, although this just made the masked man laugh more. As he watched, Rex could see the hanging front of the cloth mask puff out with each expelled breath.
The man stood to his full height, and placed his hands in the pockets of his smart double-breasted suit.
"Rex, I'm here to help you. You'll understand that shortly, but I think we need to get you inside and cleaned up first. Come, let me help you up."
Rex pushed the man away for the second time, although now he managed to push himself up off the park bench to stand. He stood nearly a foot taller than the man in the mask, even as Rex swayed on his feet. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"How do you know my name? Who are you? What's with the get-up?"
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name will not mean anything to you, but people call me the Pastor of Lost Souls. And welcome to the Empire State. We have been expecting you for a long, long time."
TWENTY-THREE
THE MEAL WAS GOOD, but the Pastor hadn't joined Rex. He'd sat at the table – but hadn't touched his own food as Rex ate, and then stood and left as soon as Rex's plate was clean, saying only that he would be back shortly and that Rex should wait there. After a few minutes, Rex shuffled his chair over to the Pastor's spot and ate his meal too. It was cold, and under any other circumstances dreary fare, but for Rex, food had never tasted so good. He mashed the cold egg, cold half of a sausage, cold potatoes and hard bread together, the pain in his head and the buzzing behind his eyes lessening with each mouthful. When he was done he felt full and much happier. He sat back, and looked around the room.
They were at the top of a three-level house, in an office. It was virtually empty, with bare board floor and white painted walls. The only items that offered any colour were the dark mahogany desk, and the big red title on the front of the book sitting on it, although its dust jacket was a stark black and white that seemed to match Rex's surroundings.
Rex pushed his – the Pastor's – plate aside on the desktop, and reached for the book. The Seduction of the Innocent. Rex smirked, checked over his shoulder then, feeling faintly ridiculous, flipped it open at a random point.
Huh. Some history book or something. Nothing salacious at all, despite what the title promised. Although the man in the white hood had called himself a pastor, Rex knew very well the kind of books that men like him liked to keep hidden away in the vestry. But this book was hidden in plain sight, and looked like a disappointing read.
Rex heard voices downstairs. Hospitality of the Pastor aside, the house was a nutcase in itself. All the walls were white, and all the doors were open, and all the lights were on full. Each room was lit by round white bulbs, individually far too bright for the old building, and grouped together in wall settings of two, or chandeliers of a dozen, the effect was dazzling. White light reflected off white walls, with the open windows showing nothing but the black of the night outside. Rex could hear the world outside – the rain ebbing and pulsing, the wind picking up and funnelling between the tall buildings – but it was all invisible from inside the house.
The House of Lost Souls. That's what the Pastor had called it. Rex had been impressed from the outside, with the house lit like a goddamn beacon in the dark city, and he quickly realised where he was. A commune, some sort of weird religious sect. The Pastor was a nut. Wearing that freak show hood was bad enough, but the house was full of his followers. Young, all smiling, eyes refracting the light which reduced their pupils to tiny pinpricks.
Rex knew these kind of places existed, or rather, he had imagined they had, in New York City. But the fantasy in his head had been one of shadows and decadence and insubstantial, diaphanous clothing. Not a bunch of lefties sat crossed-legged on the floor listening to their beloved leader lecture them about moral turpitude.
Rex stood up, the cold meal sitting heavily in his stomach as he thought of another option. He whistled low, and scuffed the floorboards with a brown shoe. Communists? Anarchists? Maybe Fascists, perhaps funded by one of those groups spreading out in Europe? Well, holy smoke, if he hadn't just found himself a gold mine. Not only had he single-handedly removed one of the primary obstacles to the growth of his business empire, which would put the mayor squarely in his pocket, he could lead the authorities to a nice little collection of crazy anarchist loons on the side. Maybe these last few days were starting to turn around.
"Rex, I hope you are feeling better."
Rex smiled and nodded, muttering a thanks for the meal. He had to play it cool, but his head was starting to hurt again. His eyes seemed to pop when they were looking in the Pastor's direction; glancing back at the two empty plates on the desk, his eyeballs didn't burn quite so much. It must have been the weird white light, and the knock on the head. He rubbed the back of his skull absently, wondering how many days' growth of stubble he had on his scalp.
The Pastor jerked into life, walking from doorway to desk and sitting in the chair behind it. He placed the second copy of Seduction on top of the first, straightened the pair, then folded his hands into a steeple in front of his covered mouth, before gesturing to the empty chair in front of the desk. Rex waved a thank-you and sat.
"Nice little prayer meeting, Mr Pastor?"
"I can get you home, Rex."
Rex's train of thought was instantly derailed. He leaned in and rested an elbow on the desk.
"I should be OK, although if you could just give me some directions that would be mighty fine, thanks very much."
The Pastor clasped his hands together and raised an index finger, tapping his lips under the hood. After a few seconds of this, he clapped his hands together – then laid them palmdown on the desk. If Rex didn't know better he'd've said the Pastor had a short fuse.
"You misunderstand me, Rex," he said. "We are not in New York. We are in the Empire State."
When Rex leaned back, the chair creaked. He rolled his back into it, and it creaked some more.
"The Empire State? You mean New York State?"
"Not quite. Oh, it's close to New York. Manhattan, I mean. But it equally might be a thousand million miles from home. It makes no difference."
"Huh," said Rex. The word felt unnecessary, but it filled the gap that formed when he wasn't really sure what to say. The Pastor was a nut job, and no mistake.
"Don't worry yourself, Rex. I live in New York myself. Greenwich Village, actually."
"Very nice."
The Pastor paused, inclined his head, and continued. "But, like you, I find myself marooned, somewhat. The Empire State is home but not home, familiar yet alien, the city but not the city."
Rex scratched his cheek. Maybe it was the belly full of food and the warm dampness of the air, or the brightness of the room and the buzzing in his head that followed the outlines of the Pastor sitting behind his desk, but not a whole lot of what he was saying made sense. Then again he was a loon, this Rex had confirmed, and although he was used to dealing with unusual or difficult people, he hadn't really dealt with the genuinely insane before. He didn't really expect anything they said would make much sense. But what was the old advice? A madman must be humoured?
On the other hand, Rex wanted to go home.
"I don't follow. The Village can't be far. Ever taken a cab?" Rex said.
The hooded head shook slowly. "You misunderstand again, and I knew you would. Suffice to say, no matter where you walk, in whichever direction, for however long you choose, you will not find your home. The Empire State exists in isolation. There is nowhere else but the Empire State. The Empire State is all."
Rex had a thought which fought its way past the fug in his brain and made him sit up straight suddenly, then lean forward towards the desk. As the Pastor came closer in his vision, Rex ignored the increasing volume of his headache.
"Wait. This doesn't have anything to do with the Skyguard, does it...?" His mouth was suddenly dry, as were his lips. He stuck his tongue out and then sucked it back in and moved it around his teeth, but his mouth was dry, dry, dry.
"Or," said the Pastor, "the Science Pirate?"
Rex gulped, but the reflex just made his throat stick. He rubbed his fingertips against his sweaty palms. Keep it together. This preacher ain't got nothing on me.
"Well, it occurs to me, Pastor, that the Skyguard and the Science Pirate had an almighty fight, not too long ago, not too far from here. I'm no expert on whatever the hell foolery those two usually get up to, but they've done some mighty odd things in the past. Floated Manhattan up into the sky one time until the air was too thin to breathe. Electrified the Hudson. Hell, one time everyone with the surname 'Johnston' disappeared, then came back the next day. They say it was the Science Pirate and the Skyguard fighting."
The Pastor nodded. "You have a fine memory, Rex, although I imagine such events would be hard to forget. For myself, I only witnessed the first wonder of your list. From my office window I could see the stars, bigger and brighter and more colourful than ever in my whole life. Though that might have been oxygen starvation, I'm not sure."
The pair laughed, Rex nervously, but for a while afterwards the smile stayed on his face. He had another stab at figuring out what the Pastor was talking about.
"OK, so this Empire State, it's like some part of New York, some part that we're trapped in. Some plan of the Science Pirate's, am I right? So what, we wait for the Skyguard to break us out?" He thought of the broken body of the small, frail girl that had been the Science Pirate crushed behind the dumpster. For genuinely the first time, Rex wondered if he'd done the right thing. If she was dead, what if the Skyguard couldn't get them out of their... bubble, whatever it was.
The Pastor reached down and pulled a drawer of his desk open. Rex craned to see, but from his position across the substantial desktop it looked empty. The Pastor fished out a white rectangle of glossy paper, and placed it on the desk in front of Rex. He took his hand away, and closed the drawer, then steepled his fingers. Rex eyed the rectangle.
"You're right, Rex, we are trapped, and it is to do with the Skyguard and the Science Pirate. You're not far off the money, but now is not the time to explain the hows and whys of it. The fact is, we can get out. You and me, Rex, we need to get out. The solution is easy. You are the man to do it."
A beat. "Uh-huh," said Rex.
"Look at the photograph, Rex."
Rex coughed, covering his mouth politely with a clenched fist, although the action was merely a reflex brought on by uncertainty. He watched the blank white rectangle for a moment, almost as if he expected it would rise up of its own accord, then slid it to the edge of the desk on his side and flipped it over.
It was a portrait photograph, black and white, head and shoulders. The man in the picture was heavily built, skin almost as dark as his suit, with wide shoulders pulling at the jacket and waistcoat, spreading the pinstripe apart near the seams. A shirt and plain tie. A trim goatee beard surrounded a serious expression. A white fedora finished it off, pushed at a fashionable angle on the man's impressive, bald head.
Rex blinked, then his forehead creased in bewilderment and he rubbed his own goatee. He didn't remember the photo being taken, and he'd never seen it before in his life, but he recognised the subject. He was looking at a nicely posed photograph of himself.
"That man," said the Pastor, stabbing a finger in the air towards the picture in time with each syllable, "is a criminal and a threat to New York City. He's behind it all, and the only way to get out of the Empire State is to get him out of the way of us."
The Pastor stopped, and waited. Rex said nothing, and stared at the photograph.
"Kill him, and we can go home."
Rex's jaw worked and his head buzzed. "Ah... that's me... who is this?"
The Pastor's hooded head tilted to the side, just a little.
"Rex, meet Rad Bradley, private detective."
TWENTY-FOUR
KANE FORTUNA.
For the last five minutes, standing in the drizzle outside the salubrious, ostentatious, impressive frontage of the house in the Upper East Side, not feeling any more comfortable now than he did a few nights ago on the first visit, Rad repeated his friend's name over and over in his head.
No, that was wrong. He did feel more comfortable, if not with the setting or who he was
visiting, but with himself. This time he was here on his own terms, without Kane to... to what? Lead the conversation with Captain Carson? Steer it in the right direction, keeping Rad at arm's length while he discussed whatever secrets he had with the inhabitants of the grand house?
Kane Fortuna. Huh, the night work was getting to him. Kane was his best friend, his only friend, in the whole damn city. He was trustworthy, he was on the side of the angels. And while he was sleeping off the effects of Jerry's finest, there was work to be done, and enrolling Carson into their merry band full-time seemed the best – the only – option.
But there was something about Kane that itched at the back of his mind. Rad huffed. The night work was getting to him. No problem.
He felt better, and puffed up his chest. He raised a hand to operate the black iron door knocker, only to stop as there was a huge clunk from behind it. The door swung open, held by Byron. The Captain appeared on tip-toe around his servant's shoulder, the grin on his face wide and, Rad thought, genuine. The older man clapped his hands, twice, and rubbed the palms together as though the night air was cold. It wasn't.