Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  Reggie downed his champagne and handed his glass to his father before he scampered about the boat, squaring and unfurling. Dock workers helped unmoor them and push them back. Reggie fired up the small engine and piloted the ship into the Lake Michigan. All the while, Ronald Thomason sat back and watched from the aft, sipping champagne and smoking a cigar. Mink sat next to him and joined her husband in watching Reginald work the yacht after the motor shut off. Despite his moral, academic, and all-around personal shortcomings, Reginald was clearly an impeccable seaman. Mink hated to admit it, but it was impressive to watch. At one point, Reggie climbed halfway up the mast and tugged on some of the rigging. It reminded her of her childhood, when Wage would scale the tallest trees and hang upside-down from the tallest branch and boast. Mink would yell at him to stop, that she couldn’t bear to see him get hurt. “I am fueled by my love for you,” he would say, “so ain’t nothing can hurt me!” She wondered what fueled Reginald.

  Together, Mink and her husband drank the entire bottle of champagne. Ronald asked his son to bring up some more wine from the galley. He did, and they drank that bottle as well. This too was done in near silence. Intermittently, Ronald would discuss his industry, attempt to predict the weather or currents, or compliment his laboring son, who continued to steer and run about the yacht.

  “Excuse me, dear, but I would like to look out from the bow, if you don’t mind terribly,” Mink said.

  “Be careful, darling, Reginald really has us moving!” Ronald replied.

  Mink gingerly made her way to the bow of the yacht, occasionally stumbling, although she could not determine if it was the result of the alcohol or the swaying boat. She stood on the bow, the wind raced at such a speed that it blew her hat clear off into the deep blue of Lake Michigan. She did not care. Ronald would buy her two more in its place. Anyhow, she liked how the wind swept her long red hair back, setting it ablaze in the fading sun. The wind and the water cleared and calmed her senses. Her worries seemed to have been taken with the wind. The events of the past, today, and what would be tomorrow no longer mattered. She stayed there at the bow a good long time. So long she began to get a headache from the alcohol. “I need a drink,” she said to herself. The wind took those words as well. She made her way to where Reggie still piloted the ship, and Ronald had fallen asleep with a burning robusto cigar in his hand. Mink grabbed it and threw it overboard. “I am going down to the cabin for a bit,” she told Reggie. He did not reply. He had brought the yacht parallel to the coast, which was about a mile off their port side.

  By Thomason standards, the single cabin was small, but large enough to have a full size bed, galley, and even a small saloon cabinet. She opened the cabinet. There was a bottle of unopened bourbon with a note attached: Thought you might need this –Jimmy.

  Mink wasted no time in opening it and pouring herself a glass. She sipped it at first, but as the events of the day reappeared in her mind, she gulped it. She poured herself another glass and looked out the small portholes over the bed. She could see the coastline and the blurry horizon where two shades of blue met. She braced herself by the galley counter and continued to drink. Reginald came down the stairs.

  “Hello mother,” he said, breathing heavily, one hand behind his back.

  “Reggie, is everything all right?” Mink asked.

  “Fine, fine, just a little accident above deck. Nothing to worry about,” he replied, grabbing the bottle of bourbon with a blood-soaked hand. He drank from the bottle.

  “Reggie! Let me see your hand.” Mink walked toward him.

  “Sit down!” he yelled, violently stiff-arming her back onto the bed. Mink fell back onto the bed and dropped her glass. It shattered on the floor. Reginald took another long gulp from the bourbon bottle and set it on the galley counter. He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a knife. “Good. Now, take off your clothes. Go on.” Reggie waved the knife. Mink remained on the bed wide-eyed, confused, and speechless. “TAKE THEM OFF!” he yelled. She pushed herself toward the cabin door, her dress slowly riding up her legs. Reggie darted forward and put the large kitchen knife to her throat. “Don’t even think about it, Mother.”

  “Reginald, what are you doing? Your father is just outside,” Mink warned. Reggie only smiled. She knew that even if she called for him, it would simply endanger one more life. “Reggie, please,” she said, as she lifted a hand to the blade of the knife.

  Reginald leaned in. “I know he’s never touched you. I know you’ve slept in a different bed since your wedding night! It’s such a waste. You! AND HIM! I will love you. I WILL LOVE YOU! I will share your bed; I will give you everything.” Reginald undid the top button on his shorts with his free hand. “Now, take . . . off . . . your . . . clothes.”

  “OK, please Reggie, you’re scaring me,” Mink said, blinking back tears. She lay back on the bed, lifted her legs, and began to unbutton her blouse.

  “That’s it,” Reggie said.

  Mink suddenly launched both her legs into him. One hit his midsection, the other his crotch. The blow knocked him back into the saloon cabinet. Bottles fell on top of him and shattered on the floor. Mink darted up the stairs, her blouse still undone. On the aft deck, she saw him—Ronald Thomason IV, her husband of eight years, facedown in a pool of blood. Mink screamed. She screamed so loud that all of Chicago, now behind them, must have heard her. She ran to him, repeating his name in a whisper, and rolled him over. His throat was slit, his flesh disturbingly strewn apart. It was ghastly. His eyes were glossed and his mouth open in a silent scream. She heard footsteps coming up from the cabin. She reached into her dress and pulled out the pistol still wedged in her garter. She stayed kneeling by her husband, aimed the pistol loosely, and fired a shot. The bullet whizzed past Reginald, who ducked at the noise. He looked back at his mother manically still holding a knife in one hand. “Mother? Where did you find that?”

  Mink stood up. “You killed him! HOW COULD YOU?”

  “He stood in our way. Now we can be together,” Reginald exclaimed.

  “What did you do? Reginald, what did you do,” she kept repeating. He took another step toward her. She fired another shot, purposefully missing him this time. “Stay back! I will kill you Reginald, I will do it.”

  Reggie smiled. “No, you won’t.” He dropped the knife and walked toward her again. “You’re not going to shoot me. We’re family . . .”

  Mink fired again. This time Reggie fell to the ground, grasping his own throat, coughing and bleeding. Mink stood up, staring at her late husband, and her expiring adopted son. A thousand voices streamed through her head. Years of train robbing told her to flee. Her duty to family told her to stay. And another voice strangely told her to dump both bodies. She could explain they were lost at sea. She could pilot it back to shore, maybe, and claim to the authorities that a terrible tragedy occurred. Would the authorities believe that? Would they believe the truth?

  Another voice spoke to her; it was difficult to make out because it was Reginald’s. He crawled toward her, gurgling and trying to talk. He looked and sounded like a dying animal, streaking blood along the wooden deck. She aimed the gun at him in one hand. She cursed him. But putting him out of his misery would ease the suffering he deserved. She screamed and fired five shots into the night air. Reggie stopped moving at the sound.

  She grabbed her purse where she had left it, in the seat across from her husband’s where she had first sat. She stood on the railing, facing the shore. She picked a cluster of gaslights, and without turning around, jumped into the water. It was cool and sobering. Encumbered by her proper, lady-like attire, she shed it along with her pistol. She opened her purse so that it filled with water and let it sink to the bottom. In only her underclothes, she swam to the coastline.

  She swam slowly and methodically, feeling the current move her away from the gaslights she spotted from the yacht. The sun had fully set by the time she reached the rocky shore. Fishermen, waiting for an evening catch, stared at her as she awkwardly stepped
onto the rocks like a mermaid with very newly acquired legs. Whether it was from terror or captivation, none of the fishermen spoke. Mink breathed heavily and looked about. She knew where she was—she was at Montrose Point. She was only a few miles from home. Mink silently thanked God for Reginald’s decision to sail north rather than west, or perhaps she should thank the winds. Like a gazelle being chased by a lion, Mink sprinted away from the gawking fisherman and ran toward home. She ran as hard as she could. She hadn’t run that fast, that far, since Wage’s mother died. She ran fast enough that even the passersby seemed confused, also thinking they had seen a ghost. A very lovely, half-naked ghost.

  She finally made it home. She rang the front doorbell, praying Jimmy would answer. He did. The sight of her startled him. “What happened? Come in! Come in!” he said, putting his arm around her. “You’re chilled to the bone, ma’ am.” He ran and got her a towel, a blanket and her robe. “I’ll get a fire going. It’ll be quicker than heating the water.”

  Jimmy politely turned around in the living room as she dried herself off and changed into her robe. Her skin was cold from the water, but the two-mile run home still burned her insides. “They’re dead, Jimmy. They’re dead,” was all she could say. He draped her in the blanket and brought her a bottle of bourbon and a glass. She decided to forgo formality, and drank straight from the bottle. She wiped her mouth on her robe and told Jimmy the whole story. At the end of her story, James Penny wept, child-like sounds strangely escaping from the ox of a man. “What do we do now?” he finally asked.

  “We will say nothing, Jimmy. With the two of them left on the boat, it should be clear there was a struggle and that they killed each other. Right? We will say I was here with you the whole time. You will be my alibi.”

  “I can’t, ma’am,” he replied.

  “Jimmy, you must!”

  “No, you don’t understand. Mr. Thomason asked me to sign the harbor-master’s log myself. I listed all three of you onboard, to be returning this evening. When the Artemis doesn’t show up, they will send someone. They’ll find the boat, ma’ am, and they’ll find those bodies on there. Then, they will see you here. Not good. Not good at all. Did anyone see you come here?”

  Mink covered her face with her hands. Her words were muffled against her palms. “No, no, no. God, no.” Three people set sail and only one returned alive. Suspiciously, the one returning survivor was the sole inheritor of one of the largest fortunes in North America. Would the authorities believe her? Would they believe the real story? There would certainly be a thorough investigation. The authorities would delve into her life. And what would they discover? The façade of a marriage? Contempt for her stepson? They would find motive easily enough. Would they discover the source of her questionable donations? Would they discover her other identity? They would then have the motive and the means for murder. That would most certainly seal her fate.

  “You have to leave,” Jimmy said as if the exact same thoughts had run through his head as well. “You have to disappear until things smooth over. They will come looking for you. They may think you did it! They will think you killed both of them!”

  “No, no, no,” Mink repeated.

  “Mink, we have to get you out of here! Is there anywhere you can go?” Jimmy asked.

  Mink removed her hands from her face. “My sister’s in New York, but I can’t be seen leaving.”

  “I can sneak you to the train station.”

  Mink shed her blanket and robe underneath. Jimmy turned around once again. “Jimmy, get the car ready.” She said, darting upstairs. In a vanity drawer she took what cash she had left. Eighteen dollars. The only other money she could gather would be in her husband’s safe, which she didn’t have the combination to. In her closet, tucked away in a chest, she found her secret clothes. Men’s clothes, the bandit’s clothes, tailored to her frame. She changed into them after wrapping her breasts tightly with silk gauze to keep them flat. She donned a white cotton button-up with pinned sleeve pockets and a pair of green trousers. She packed the rest of the clothes in travel bag. She put on men’s boots, an old pair that used to belong to Reginald as a youth, and tucked her last remaining pistol into the right one. She had no hat that fit, that would hide her hair. That’s when she saw herself in the unlit vanity. She sat down in front of the mirror and grabbed the scissors from the drawer. Tears and red hair fell to the floor.

  Mr. Vault, Mr. Black, & Mr. Steel

  July 25, 1914

  Madison Avenue

  Manhattan, New York

  Two gas lamps cast a dim, flickering orange light on the towering bookcases that surrounded the room. A lone, middle-aged gentleman sat in one of the leather plush chairs that faced the unlit fireplace. Raindrops and swirling air echoed in the chimney flue. The man stared into the black void made even darker by years of soot. There was a certain calm he felt gazing into that abyss, tempered by the feeling of immense power whilst he was surrounded by his books, a collection that would put a university library to shame. There was everything a scholar needed, from medieval manuscripts on bloodletting and geocentrism to the most contemporary publications on evolution and eugenics. There was even a deteriorating 1st edition Gutenberg Bible. A brief flash of lighting cast an ethereal blue light through the second story windows of the brownstone manor. The man took another sip of his gin, sucked on his pipe, and continued to wait.

  The great door to his personal library finally opened, and two very old gentlemen entered. The taller, frailer one was clean shaven with parted gray hair; his stare was startling and potent. Regardless of his frailty, he walked slowly because he enjoyed people waiting on him.

  The other gentlemen, also much older, was short and portly with silver hair and a beard that seemed to generate a luminescence of its own, like the creatures described by Jules Verne at the bottom of the sea. He moved much faster because he did not want people waiting for him. He was the first to sit down and adjust his black bowtie. The frailer one sat down moments later and adjusted his ascot with skeletal, liver-spotted fingers. The two older men now surrounded the younger, original occupant who was nearly half their age. At 46, he had closely cropped, jet-black hair and a thick, winged moustache.

  “Good evening, Ja . . .” the frailer one began to say.

  The youngest man wagged a finger. “Ahhh. We agreed upon our names, Mister Black. Hmm?”

  “Christ, don’t tell me we’re going to have ridiculous rituals, too? I get enough of that horseshit with the Masons,” Mr. Black said.

  “No rituals. Just names and, in the future, some masks I had made up.”

  “Masks?” the portly Mr. Steel asked. “Why masks?”

  “Because, Mr. Steel, if our conspiratorial presence were ever to be discovered, I’d prefer they not discover three of the richest men on Earth. Besides, as time goes on and new members are initiated into our inner circle, it is better if there is some functioning degree of anonymity.”

  “Very well, Mister . . . Mister . . . oh, what the hell was it again?” Mr. Black asked, exasperated.

  “Vault.”

  “Clever,” Mr. Black said, stretching out the word. “So is this what our first official meeting is about, huh? Names and masks?”

  “No,” Mr. Vault answered. “It has come to my attention that an Architect for The Hand will soon be here in New York. He travels here from England.”

  “What is his business, here?” Mr. Steel asked.

  Mr. Vault smiled. “He is searching for another Architect, one gone missing here in the city, a man named Kasper Holstrom.”

  Mr. Black covered a cough with a clenched hand. “An Architect? Refresh my memory.” Had there been more light in the library, a look of contempt would have been revealed on Mr. Vault’s face. The industrious and shrewd Mr. Black had spent a veritable fortune to find a way to reverse the aging-process and discover the secrets to immortality. He employed biologists, botanists, chemists, naturalists, eugenicists, zoologists, and even more archaic, alchemists and witch
doctors to carry out a wide variety of experiments. Most of the research was carried out at the numerous mental hospitals he had built up and down the east coast; the influx of mental patients giving him an unending supply of volunteers. Despite all his investments however, his mental acuities were still in noticeable decline.

  “Architects are one of the highest orders within The Hand, sometimes referred to as Spiders or Weavers. They construct elaborate plans to fulfill the will of The Hand itself, plans with an inordinate amount of moving parts and variables. You can liken it to a rat race, where they both design the maze and set out the bait. Their skills are truly impressive, which is why they are second only to The Council.”

  “And this Architect, is he the one behind the coming war in Europe?” Mr. Steel asked.

  “He is . . . well . . . was. His name is William DeLacy, and he is lowly English royalty, a baron to be specific.” Mr. Vault puffed on his pipe, and the scent of toasted Cavendish mixed with old wood and leather wafted into the air.

  “Excellent! Why don’t we just buy him off then? Our fledgling organization could use a man with such talent,” Mr. Black said.

  “My dear Mr. Black, money will not dissuade him,” Mr. Vault said. “Besides, the three of our fortunes combined could not amount to The Hand’s treasury. Whatever we offered him, The Hand could counter, although they would more likely just kill him, and us.”

  “I’ve never even heard of these people until your mention! How is it they have such a vast fortune? ” Mr. Black asked.

  “Do you have any idea the interest that is accumulated over 10,000 years?” Mr. Vault said.

  “Christ, no, but I bet you do, Mister Vault.” Mr. Black stretched out the name again.

  “As I was saying—” Mr. Vault continued.

  “How is it you have come to know so much about this Hand?” Mr. Black rudely interrupted.