Last Orders

by Laura Strickland

  When he finished, he laid the paper down and regarded Brendan with serious, dark eyes.

  “Shocking, what is going on in this city. Just shocking. These last weeks I have followed the reports with some interest—murders, attacks, uprisings. And now this. I’ve heard of this Patrick Kelly, very highly thought of, as this missive proves.”

  “He is that,” Brendan agreed.

  Dunner sat back. “Is he not also the leader of this movement for automaton rights?”

  “He’s leader of the official movement, yes. There seem to be a lot of factions, not all of them as peaceful as that run by Officer Kelly. Obviously some of them have been acting on their own. The department has not yet been able to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Officer Kelly,” Dunner repeated with some emphasis. “He is, of course, a machine.”

  Brendan stiffened, and felt Ginny twitch in the chair at his side.

  “Pardon me, sir, but he’s much more than that.”

  “Ah, yes. A member of this famed Irish Squad, so I understand—set up to be admired and encouraged to have delusions about themselves.”

  Brendan leaned forward, ignoring the protest from his fractured ribs. “Pat Kelly’s a talented police officer, a valued member of the force, and a good person. He has a wife and a place in this community.”

  Dunner tapped the mayor’s letter. “Still, it seems, regarding what has befallen him, he may have got what he deserves.”

  Brendan felt like he’d been punched in the gut, busted ribs and all. “Now look here,” he began.

  “No, you look, Officer, and listen. This city has turned dangerous because people like you have given license to machines—I repeat, to machines—and prompted them to have ideas above themselves. Officer, I am a psychiatrist as well as the director of this facility—a doctor first. I deal every day with the rehabilitation of diseased minds. The last thing that’s needed is yet another group angling for dominance.”

  “Not dominance, sir,” Brendan said. “They just want a place…”

  “And you are a sympathizer.” Dunner’s gaze flicked to Ginny and back to Brendan. Obviously he didn’t recognize her. “How did you sustain those injuries, Officer?”

  “The riot in the Park, sir.”

  “I suspected as much. And did that teach you nothing about the danger in which this city now lies? The mayor argues for Patrick Kelly as a voice of reason needing to be heard in the current plague of unrest. I say he is an obstacle best removed.”

  “So…” Brendan’s nostrils flared. “You would like to see the movement crushed.”

  “I would like to see the automatons take their intended places. They are mechanical devices, even the best of them. Not above two months ago, the most sophisticated among them beat their creator—a respected doctor—to death in front of hundreds of witnesses. They have no conscience, no compassion, no inherent decency.”

  “I don’t accept that, sir. I will never believe it.”

  “Then, Officer, you are indeed a sympathizer in a dangerous cause.” Dunner tossed the letter back across the table. “You can take that to the mayor and tell him I refuse to risk the welfare of my patient for the sake of a pile of nuts and bolts.”

  “Nuts and bolts.” Brendan thought of Pat Kelly sitting with his glass of whiskey, coming over all Irish, thought of his sense of humor. He remembered the look in Rose Kelly’s eyes when she looked at her husband.

  He fought to discipline his anger. Losing his temper would get him nowhere.

  “But sir, I’ve been sent to ascertain the condition of your patient. Surely you can tell me that.”

  “He has good days and bad days.”

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “On the good days he is very nearly rational. On the bad days he rages and attacks the walls of his room. We have to strap him down. But he is improving, and the periods of heavy sedation are much less frequent than they were.”

  “I see.” Talk about someone getting what he deserved…

  “Please tell the mayor that, in my opinion, Mr. Mason is not sufficiently recovered to perform the task he requests—rebuilding a hybrid automaton.”

  “I will, sir, yes.”

  Brendan stumbled to his feet. He must be much more debilitated by his injuries than he’d thought, because he swayed for a moment. Ginny steadied him with her arm beneath his.

  Dunner tapped his desk. “You mark my words, Officer—this city will have no peace till those machines assume their rightful places.”

  Brendan tended to agree, without agreeing what those rightful places were.

  ****

  “You stand here while I flag down a cab.” Ginny placed Brendan’s good hand on the post of the iron railing in front of the asylum. She didn’t like the look of him, pale as milk beneath his tan and clearly shaken. What had it taken for him to go in there?

  “Ah, we should have asked that last fellow to wait. I’m not thinking clearly, lass. Not sure what’s wrong with me.”

  “Concussion, no doubt.” And she hadn’t helped a bit by taking advantage of him in her bed. She should have thought instead of felt. Trouble was Brendan Fagan tended to make her feel.

  She managed to snag a steamcab around the corner on Delaware Avenue and waved it to the place where Brendan waited, his very obedience a concern. Dismissing her aversion to the vehicle, she thrust him inside.

  “Where to, miss?”

  “Where, Brendan?”

  “Back to the station. I have to give Captain Addelforce the news. He can inform the mayor.”

  Ginny bit her lips. “We could send word. I think you’re better off at home.”

  “I’m on duty, lass.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Well?” The driver cocked a brow.

  “To the station,” Ginny decided. “Then we’ll go inquire about Pat.”

  Brendan remained quiet on his way downtown, far too quiet, in Ginny’s opinion. Snuggling closer to his good shoulder, she inquired, “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

  “Nothing. I’m just…Pat saved my life that night, Ginny.”

  “So you said.”

  “And I’ve failed to return the favor.”

  “Not yet, you haven’t. Nothing’s saying they can’t revive him.”

  But when they arrived at the station, they found the place in chaos, officers standing around in small groups and no one at his post.

  “What’s going on?” Brendan asked the man nearest the door.

  “Word just came, Brendan. The automatons managed to get Pat going, but his intelligence is wrecked. They’re trying to decide whether to shut him down again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Oh, heavens, what now?” Ginny groaned.

  Loud pounding on the door in the middle of the night seemed to have become a common occurrence, she reflected unhappily as she dragged herself out of bed in response to the thunderous volley from below. Brendan, clearly exhausted, slept on, proving himself rendered deaf by slumber.

  She found Gus at the door ahead of her, and it hit her all over again—no Floyd. In her absence that day, the other three steamies had gathered him up as instructed and presumably conveyed him up to the guest room. She and Brendan had dined on the selfsame table where he’d lain when they returned late. Afterward she’d dragged Brendan off to bed, but not in the pursuit of pleasure. The man needed to sleep.

  She needed to sleep beside him.

  But now the insistent knocking had her heart up and pounding in her ears. Night hung outside the windows, and given the past few days, anything could wait on the doorstep.

  She nodded at Gus who, wordless as always, nudged her aside carefully before opening the door a crack.

  A voice sounded. “I’m looking for Brendan Fagan.”

  “Who is it?” she called back.

  “Officer Dennis Petersen of the Buffalo Police Force.”

  Ginny nodded at Gus, who rolled aside. The police officer came in, fully uniforme
d and hair mussed by the night breeze.

  “Sorry, miss. I need to see Brendan.”

  “How did you know he’s here?”

  Petersen made a face expressing impatience. “Everybody in the city knows, and it’s not important. Where is he?”

  “Here.” Brendan descended the stairs behind them, dressed only in his trousers and with all his bruises on display. “What is it, lad?”

  “We need you to come to Pat Kelly’s house. His wife, Rose, just tried to kill herself.”

  ****

  “Why isn’t she in the hospital?” Ginny asked as they went at a jog through the dark, echoing streets. No possibility, it seemed, of snagging a steamcab now. She reminded herself she had her steam cannon and was in the presence of two policemen.

  Half way there she began to worry about Brendan. His breath came in gasps; she imagined the broken ribs must have him in agony. But he carried on determinedly till they reached Bryant Street, where Pat’s house stood, still surrounded by a ring of steamies, lit eerily by the torches many of them held.

  It made a striking scene, the automatons motionless and the light reflecting off the tall façade of the house.

  Petersen answered in a hush as the scene required. “She refused to go. And yes, before you ask, she’s conscious. Fortunately she was found before she could bleed out.”

  “Bleed out?” Ginny turned her eyes on the young officer.

  “Slit her wrists in the washroom. Luckily, she did a poor job of it. The automatons on the scene wrapped her up and called the quack Pat usually uses for the lightskirts he helps. I think his name’s Rasmussen.”

  Ginny looked at Brendan. His mouth hung open, and he sucked air like a horse ready to founder. “Who’s with her?”

  “That Mrs. Gideon and one of the hybrid whores…I think her name is Chastity.”

  “Mrs. Greely to you.” The rebuke came from Brendan without hesitation.

  “Who’s Mrs. Gideon?” Ginny asked in a whisper.

  “Wealthy woman in this city, and a good friend to Pat—she’s done a lot to help ladies of the night, human and automaton alike.” Brendan returned his gaze to Petersen. “What do they think I can do?”

  “They want you to talk to her on behalf of Pat—from the heart of a policeman.”

  “What?” Brendan croaked. Ginny saw dismay crash over him in a wave.

  Petersen lowered his voice still farther. “That’s what Pat was, above all else—a policeman and an Irishman. You’re both. They want you to try and talk her round the way he would have.”

  “Feck.”

  Petersen persisted, “Pat wouldn’t want Rose dead.”

  “God, no. He loved her, he did.”

  “Plus Mrs. Gideon says how you’re eloquent.”

  “Jaysus, lad. I don’t feel very eloquent right now.”

  “Will you go in? My job was just to get you here.”

  “I’ll go.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Ginny said, not for the first time that night. She clung to his good arm, but he freed himself from her grasp—in order to leave her there, she thought. But instead he curled his arm around her waist, and they entered the house linked.

  The Kellys’ flat occupied the first floor. The door from the foyer stood wide open, and more light spilled out. The parlor seemed overfull of people, but they parted to make way for Brendan and Ginny.

  “He’s here,” someone called, and a woman stepped out from an inner room.

  Exquisitely beautiful, she had skin the color of hot chocolate and a wealth of black hair. Something about the way she stepped forward and held out her hand made Ginny wonder if she really was a woman.

  “Sergeant Fagan. Thank you for coming.”

  “Mrs. Greely. This is a terrible situation. Pat…” For an instant Ginny felt sure Brendan would break down there in front of everyone. Sympathetic tears rose to her throat.

  Mrs. Greely shook her head. “We did all we could. We got him restarted. As you know, Pat himself and I are…were…the foremost authorities on our own construction. I missed his input sorely. But I had all the help for which I could ask, and as I say, we did get him up and running, repaired his boiler and all the vital connections. We had him sitting up.” She hesitated, and a new expression came into her eyes.

  An expression. Ginny tried to reconcile that simple fact.

  Mrs. Greely said, “His intelligence is gone. He is just—not there anymore.”

  “You must be able to repair it.”

  “The damage to his head was extreme.”

  “Yes, I saw that. But…”

  “We do not have the knowledge. I regret to say it, but I must. When Rose heard that Pat was, in essence, dead, she became very quiet. We should have been warned by that. Only when Mrs. Gideon noticed she’d been in the water closet too long did we think to check on her.”

  “But she’s alive? Can I see her?”

  “I wish you would. You must speak for Pat, persuade her he would not wish her to die. From what I know, from what Mrs. Gideon has told me, his main intent since meeting Rose has been to keep her alive and happy.”

  “But she’s recovered now, right?”

  “She will recover,” Mrs. Greely corrected softly. “Our fear is that she will try again.”

  “Oh, God,” Brendan whispered.

  “She says she does not wish to live without Pat. That she refuses to go on without him. Can you talk to her and persuade her how Pat would abhor that?”

  “Jaysus. I don’t know. I’ll try.”

  Ginny wiggled out from the curve of his arm. “You should probably see her alone.”

  “I…no, I’d be grateful if you’d come.”

  Without another word, Mrs. Greely turned and led them into the next room.

  This was obviously a place of little use. The Kellys mostly lived in their main room with the big bed in one corner, but a cot had been set up here, and a woman lay upon it. The room smelled strongly of blood and disinfectant, a combination not unfamiliar to Ginny from accompanying her father on his rounds.

  As they entered, Mrs. Gideon, a statuesque woman with black hair—the front of her orchid silk gown liberally splashed with red—turned from the cot, and a tall thin man wearing spectacles looked at them with sudden attention.

  Topaz Gideon, her fingers also stained red, rose and took Brendan’s hand. “Thank you for coming. This is Dr. Rasmussen. He saved Rose’s life.”

  “No, madam, you did that before I arrived.” Rasmussen had a quiet voice colored by a strong Swedish accent. “I merely did some needlework and bandaging.”

  “A fine job of stitching—miraculous. Sergeant Fagan, we can’t let Rose go. Pat…” Topaz Gideon’s incredible, tawny eyes flooded with tears. “He was one of my dearest friends.”

  “And mine.”

  “I understand how Rose feels. But he would not want…”

  “I grasp that, Mrs. Gideon. I’ll do my best.”

  “Please do.” Astoundingly, Mrs. Gideon lifted Brendan’s hand to her lips and kissed it. After a hard stare at Ginny, she went out.

  “Would you like me to stay?” Rasmussen asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  Ginny remained at the doctor’s side as Brendan moved forward and hunkered down beside the cot. The woman there looked too pale to be alive, but her brown eyes, burning as in a white mask, fastened their gaze to Brendan’s face. Her throat worked mightily.

  “He’s gone.”

  “I heard what happened, Rose. I heard. God, I’m sorry. What have you done to yourself?”

  He looked at her with visible dismay. If Mrs. Gideon’s dress had been splashed, Rose Kelly’s had been soaked through with blood.

  Rose’s lips worked; she made no reply.

  “What would Pat say, Rose? What would he say to this?”

  Rose’s eyes pooled with tears. “He would tell me to live. He would s-say life is a precious gift.” Her voice, though weak, held a frantic thread. “But I can’t do it without him. I never wa
nted to live—I didn’t, not when I met him. Not in this body. This isn’t my body, did you know that? I was forced into it.”

  “Pat told me. He also showed in a thousand ways how much he cared about you. Rose, he would hate this.”

  “He was my strength. My strength is gone.”

  Whoever said one person didn’t make a difference knew nothing, Ginny thought. Pat Kelly—arguably not quite a person—had made a staggering difference to so many, and especially to his wife.

  Had she, Ginny, ever felt that way toward anyone? Did she now?

  She eyed the man who without doubt had captured her emotions—barely upright in his place beside the cot, in obvious pain both of body and spirit yet still strong. The tears in her eyes spilled over. Would she be able to go on without him? Who could blame Rose Kelly?

  “Rose—Rose, can’t he be your strength still? Can you find it in you to go on for his sake?”

  “No. No.” The woman on the cot began to weep in deep ugly sobs. The muscles of Brendan’s back writhed.

  “Then we’ll have to bring him back for you.”

  That made Rose lift her head. “How? They said they can’t repair him. The damage…”

  “Maybe there’s someone else who can. Listen, Rose, will you promise not to harm yourself again, give me time to see if I can persuade this individual to help?”

  Rose gasped. “Who? There’s no one. They said…it’s impossible.”

  “Nothing’s impossible, Rose. Loving Pat should have taught you that. Will you hold on for his sake?”

  “I will.”

  Both Rasmussen and Ginny stared at Brendan with wonder as he rose and made for the door. Ginny hurried to follow him, while the doctor remained with his patient.

  “Brendan? Brendan!” Once they reached the parlor, Ginny tugged at his arm. “How could you do that? As good as make her an empty promise…”

  “It was what she needed to hear, and not an empty promise.”

  “What’s happened?” Topaz Gideon demanded as she and Mrs. Greely both stepped up. “What went on in there?”