Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  Their plan was simple: Wage would pretend to be a successful businessman with a predilection for New Age therapy, eager to charitably invest inordinate sums of money to such a cause. Growing up a Pascal, it would not be hard to feign aristocracy, but Wage and Ol’ Bill agreed for this assignment, they would use false names. Originally, Wage did not want a pseudonym—he never did—but Edison’s words echoed in his head: “They know who you are . . . these people, The Hand, they are dangerous.” After entering the sanitarium, Wage would become Guy Larron, and Bill his trusted family accountant, Henri Bonhomme.

  Ol’ Bill wanted no part of the ruse at first, but Wage convinced his oldest friend and former sergeant that the con wouldn’t be fully sold without his help. Ol’ Bill finally relented, as he always did. He purchased a fine, dust-colored suit with cream pinstripes, tailored to emphasize his boxy, Herculean frame. His new pants, however, did not allow room to conceal the sawed-off shotgun he sometimes liked to carry in case of catastrophic emergencies. Although he didn’t need one, a monocle hung from a golden chain clipped to his lapel. Every article of his clothing was neatly pressed and ordered. He even had the barber trim his hair and beard, and for the first time in years, he parted his hair with thick coating of pomade.

  The path to the main entrance led them through a shaded courtyard where lines of men, women, and children were slowly flapping their arms and rhythmically breathing in and out on command. The sight of it all reminded both men of their Rough Rider days, their morning calisthenics led by Theodore Roosevelt himself. Today’s exercise was led by a middle-aged woman with brown hair pulled into an impossibly tight bun. She stood atop the stairs in front of the main doors. She seemed to take no joy in leading the participants in a series of active breathing exercises, arm circles, and squats. An impressive feat, as her black wool dress and high-heeled boots, one would think, hindered such movements. Wage ducked, bobbed, and skirted the exercisers, at one point even mimicking the same movements as he made his way up the stairs.

  “Excuse me,” he said, losing his Cajun accent and tipping his derby hat. “But where might I find someone of importance at your fine institution?”

  The older woman’s glare went right through him. She continued her vigorous arm circles and simply nodded toward the front door.

  “Much obliged. You have been most helpful. Carry on,” Wage said.

  The atrium to the Battle Creek Sanitarium was vacant save for a slim young nurse at the front desk whose crisp white uniform matched the bare walls and tile floors. Borax and lavender scents gave the whole place a clean and mildly soothing feel. The resort employed close to 600 staff, which included 100 of the country’s best doctors, around 200 nurses, about 100 wait staff, 20 cooks, a handful of grounds crew, and a great number of therapists whose specialties included hydrotherapy, phototherapy, mechanotherapy, thermotherapy, cold-air therapy, calisthenics, meditation, and dieting. Everyone’s job revolved around improving the health and well-being of the nearly 1,700 paying guests and residents.

  “Good afternoon,” said Wage, removing his hat. “My name is Guy Larron, and this my accountant, Henri Bonhomme. I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the gentlemen that runs this establishment.” Wage spoke slowly, with only the slightest hint of a southern accent.

  The young nurse’s outfit hugged her Spartan body as she fiddled with something in a nearby drawer. She acknowledged them and smiled, revealing obnoxiously large teeth. “And what may I ask is your business?”

  Wage reached in his inner coat pocket and pulled out a thick roll of banknotes. There was enough money there to make even the toughest of men feel uncomfortable keeping it on his person. Wage, however, remained calm because he knew only the top three bills were of high denominations. He also knew that Ol’ Snapper rested snuggly against his back under his jacket.

  He started to count the bills and then stopped after the third bill. He transferred the roll to his pants pocket and simultaneously pulled out a single dollar bill. It was the simplest of cons, but it provided an initial layer of credibility. “I am interested in funding his work.” He winked and slid the dollar across the counter. “A good friend of mine passed through here recently; Kasper Holstrom. Well, I’ll be darned if he didn’t rave about all the wonderful things you fine people have been doing. So I called my accountant, here, and said ‘pack your bags; we’re headed to Battle Creek!’”

  It could have been the money, the wink, or the story, but either way, the nurse blushed.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Kellogg is out of town on business,” she replied, sliding the dollar bill into the front pocket of her dress.

  “Well, is there anyone else we might talk to? I’m afraid my associate and I won’t be able to linger here much longer,” Wage said, eyeing the nurse from head to toe. “Although, it would be a shame to leave such a beautiful institution so soon.” Ol’ Bill nudged Wage with his elbow. Although charm was always the preferred avenue for Wage Pascal, subtlety was not.

  “Well, Dr. Fredric Fatum, the chief physician, is here.” The nurse checked the clock behind her. “He’s probably just finished his rounds. If you would like, I could ring him?”

  “That would be delightful, darling, why don’t you do that,” Wage replied.

  The nurse walked over and plugged the lobby’s candlestick phone into one jack amongst a wall of a hundred. She picked up the receiver, tapped the hook, and put it to her ear. “Dr. Fatum? It’s Nurse Weathers. I have some gentlemen in the lobby interested in,” she turned toward Wage and Bill, “funding our research. Yes. No. No, they said they were friends with Mr. Holstrom. Yes. No. No. All right, I’ll show them right up.” Nurse Weathers hung up, led them to the elevator with a gesture, and threw open the metal cage. “Follow me, please.” The three of them settled into the carpeted elevator. The nurse closed the door and jerked the lever upward to the number four.

  The fourth floor was as white and bland as the lobby, and the lack of color began to make Wage feel uncomfortable.

  “We offer a variety of progressive therapies,” Nurse Weathers said as she led them down the hallway. “Most of our clients return regularly, at least once a season.”

  They walked past an open door and Wage stopped, his mouth agape. Encased in wooden boxes up to their necks were three men and a woman, their faces stoic and sweating. Steam belched from tiny holes atop the box, and a doctor meticulously recorded temperatures from a gage embedded where the heart would be. “Thermotherapy,” Nurse Weathers interjected. “It expels some of the toxins that lead to depression, anxiety, mania, and even hysteria.” Wage’s blood ran cold for an instant; he heard his father’s voice. “Doctors blamed it on postpartum hysteria.”

  “Only some of the toxins?” Bill asked.

  “Yes, we have found that some of the toxins that reside in the large and small intestine are incapable of leaving the body through conventional perspiration. For those we typically do a yogurt enema.”

  “An enema?” Wage asked.

  “Yes, we insert a tube rectally and introduce a live culture into your—”

  “All right, now,” Wage interrupted, raising a hand. “No need for details at this particular juncture, darling.”

  “Very well,” the nurse replied.

  She led them to the far end of the hallway and gestured to the only door not painted white. Wage knocked hard enough that the pane of fogged glass with the title “Chief Physician” rattled. A voice from within coughed the word “Enter.”

  Large brown glasses rested on the end of Dr. Fatum’s olive nose. He was mostly bald, but a few sliver wisps of hair still traversed his spotted scalp. A medley of diplomas hung behind him, written in ornate script and embossed in various colors. He placed his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands. “You must be the gentlemen interested in funding some of our research,” he said with a deep, foreign voice.

  “That we are, Doc, that we are,” Wage said. “Do you mind if we sit?” Before Dr. Fatum could reply, Wage and Ol’ Bil
l sat in the plush Queen Anne chairs in front of his desk.

  Dr. Fatum leaned back in his own chair, revealing two cursive Fs embroidered on his lab coat. “Tell me, Mr. . . .?”

  “Larron. Guy Larron. My associate, Henri Bonhomme,” Wage said with a slight flourish of the hand. “My dear friend Kasper Holstrom came through here not too long ago. Well, as I was telling the lovely Nurse Weathers, the ol’ dog can’t stop talking about it. So having read the Gospel of Wealth as much as the Gospel of Matthew, I truly believe Carnegie is correct when he says wealth . . . well, it’s best administered by the wealthy.” Wage leaned back. “As a result, sir, I would like to administer my wealth to improve the human condition. And what better way to do that than by funding the research and practices that extend longevity? I believe, in that regard, the Battle Creek Sanitarium is the right investment. Am I right, Henri?”

  Ol’ Bill nodded.

  Dr. Fatum stared at them silently, discerningly.

  Wage returned his gaze. The doctor seemed to diagnose the situation as he might a patient. Wage knew the longer the good doctor diagnosed, the more likely he would see the situation for what it was—a farce. Wage snapped his fingers at Ol’ Bill. As rehearsed, Bill removed a blank check from his coat pocket. Wage snatched it and slapped it down on the doctor’s desk. He grabbed the doctor’s own fountain pen resting in the inkwell and began writing. “How much, Doc?” Wage’s Cajun accent had started to leak out. “You name it. Tell me how much you need.”

  “So eager to invest, when you haven’t even seen the extent of our operation,” Dr. Fatum said, somewhat skeptically.

  “I know a good thing when I see it,” Wage said, turning his head and winking at Nurse Weathers, who still stood in the doorway.

  “Just which part of our research are you interested in, Mr. Larron?” the doctor asked.

  “Well, that would be . . . the . . . uh—”

  “That would be the electrotherapy,” Ol’ Bill answered. “Mr. Larron and I can personally attest to its effectiveness in extending one’s lifespan.”

  Something seemed to strike a chord with the doctor. “Very well, gentlemen. Allow me to show you our latest innovation.” Dr. Fatum signaled to Nurse Weathers.

  “Well now, that’s more like it, Doc,” Wage said.

  The old doctor rose from his chair and made his way to the door. After passing Wage, he sniffed deeply. “Mr. Larron, have you been drinking?”

  “Me? Absolutely not! Don’t touch the stuff. Just a bit of Listerine. Cleanses the toxins in my mouth,” Wage said and gestured toward his lips.

  The doctor grunted and led them quietly back to the elevator.

  When Nurse Weathers entered the elevator once again, the four occupants became uncomfortably close. She pulled the only lever to the bottom. When the car stopped on the first floor, Nurse Weathers exited and gestured for Ol’ Bill to follow. “Mr. Bonhomme, if you would please accompany me, we can discuss numbers.”

  As the two of them exited, both turned back and nodded to their counterparts. “Plan B,” Wage thought. Dr. Fatum grabbed the lever, yanked it to one side, and pulled it down hard below any of the marked numbers. Both occupants remained in an uncomfortable silence as the elevator hummed and descended past the first floor.

  Dr. Fatum threw back the metal door and the clanking noise echoed throughout a dimly lit corridor in front of them. Initially, Wage thought the walls were painted black, but once his eyes adjusted he realized they were carved from the dark bedrock underneath the sanitarium.

  The doctor strode out of the elevator with a confident rhythm. The occasional flicker of the electric lights lining the walls gave Wage an unnatural and ominous feeling. After a few feet, the doctor turned, his eyes glowing like a cat’s in a dark alley. “Do not let our surroundings alarm you, Mr. Larron. This is where we do our best work.” They proceeded further down the hallway, the lights sometimes going completely out; when they did, the sound of footsteps, heavy breathing, and leaking pipes seemed to be magnified. Although their path was relatively straight, Wage was certain they were steadily descending.

  “So, Doc,” Wage said. “When was the last time you saw Ol’ Kasper? That sonovabitch couldn’t stop raving about your work here.”

  “Yes,” he hissed. “I am sure he was very impressed.”

  “Hey, where do reckon he ran off to, anyway? I haven’t heard from him in quite some time. We were supposed to finalize a business deal, that devil. I don’t suppose you could tell me—”

  “No, I can’t,” Dr. Fatum interrupted.

  After what seemed like a quarter mile of walking, the narrow tunnel opened up like the maw of some dark, mythological creature. Humming machines affixed with colorful dials surrounded the cavernous room, and buzzing wires were draped along the rough, uneven walls. Large metal tables, swirling vats of a bubbling cream-like substance, and cells—three of them—filled the rest of the room. All three cells contained crouched and impossibly pale figures subtly convulsing in tattered hospital gowns. Two massive male orderlies clad in white uniforms stood near one of the cages, both out of breath and one wrenching the cell door shut. One had light hair parted to the left, the other with dark hair parted to the right. When the door finally locked with an echoing screech, the figure in that cell howled like something wholly unnatural. Very few things scarred Wage anymore, but this monstrosity, this horror, rattled him to his soul.

  “Uh, Doc? Just what in the hell are you doing down here?” Wage asked, staring at one of the figures in the cells. She was unmistakably human, but so pale she almost glowed. Her colorless eyes darted about frantically, and her limbs moved sporadically like a diseased animal.

  “My work, Mr. Larron,” Dr. Fatum answered, retreating to a desk cluttered with papers and precisely drawn diagrams. “My finest work.” He reached for black rubber gloves and goggles. As he donned both, he continued, “You are so eager to donate to my work, so please, allow me to provide a demonstration.”

  The two muscular orderlies grabbed him from behind. Wage flailed. “Hey! Just what in the hell is your game here, Fatum? Let me go, dammit!” The two hulking men wrestled him to a nearby table and strapped him down, his arms perpendicular to his body, his legs spread apart. The restraints pulled him tight against the table, tight enough that he could feel Ol’ Snapper pushing uncomfortably into his lower back. Wage spit on one of the orderlies after the last restraint locked into place. “I swear to God, Fatum! You’d better let me go. This ain’t funny, now! I’m serious!” The dark-haired orderly cranked a wrench under the table, which angled the whole contraption up to a 90-degree angle. The table now felt like it was some kind of medieval torture device.

  Wage watched as Dr. Fatum approached with a wooden cart that sounded like it might fall apart as it rolled across the rough cave floor. Fatum placed his goggles on and picked up two metal rods that were connected by thick wires to a machine atop the cart. He touched the metal tips together, creating a menacing blue spark that lit up the lenses of his goggles. Edison’s words rang in Wage’s head again. “This is not your ordinary resort.”

  “I am warning you, Doc. You are making a huge mistake. I—”

  Dr. Fatum suddenly plunged both metal prongs into Wage’s side, creating an intense, pulsating pain. Wage cringed as his muscles involuntarily contracted. His teeth chattered uncontrollably and the smell of burning wool and flesh pierced the air. “Are you finished yet? Or should I continue?” the doctor asked.

  Wage hung his head for a moment before looking up. “Dr. Fatum . . . you are in a heap of trouble now.”

  “Oh, really? And why is that?” he replied.

  Wage snickered. “Because my partner will be here any minute, and he is going to—”

  Dr. Fatum plunged the prongs in again. “No, Mr. Larron, I assure you that your accountant is already dead. Now, I will ask you again. Are you finished?”

  Wage took a deep breath and replied, “I could go one more round.”

  This time Wage convulsed
so hard his nose bled.

  “How about now?” Dr. Fatum asked.

  Wage nodded and muttered incomprehensibly.

  “You see, Kasper Holstrom is one of our biggest donors, and all he requires is strict anonymity. Under no circumstances was I ever to give out his name. As a matter of fact, he gave me strict instructions to dispose of anyone inquiring about his affiliation here. Well, as a man of science, Mr. Larron, I cannot simply dispose of a perfectly suitable test subject.”

  “Test subject?” Wage whispered.

  “Yes. You see, I have found the secret to extending human life. Behold, my latest experiments!” He pointed to the cells. “I am very nearly there!” The doctor’s tone triggered the pale, imprisoned girl to approach her cell door. Beast-like, she sniffed the air and snarled. “You see,” Dr. Fatum said, “I have replaced their blood with a serum of my own concoction; one I have been testing here, at this very site, for years.” As if on cue, one of the orderlies rolled over a vat of the mysterious substance. A medley of tubes hung from it like the tentacles of an octopus. “I call it Demeter-20. We are harvesting a new breed of humans. We are leaving the winter of human mortality and ushering in the spring of everlasting life!” The doctor adjusted a few dials on the vat, which caused a low-pitched drone. “The oxygenated fluid can sustain all the critical functions of the human body if circulated properly.”

  “Circulated properly?” Wage asked.

  “Of course,” he replied, touching the side of Wage’s skull. “The fluid contains a great deal of iron, and once I implant electromagnets around your body, the fluid will circulate forever. You will have to exchange your fluids regularly, of course, much like an automobile; but it is a fair price to pay, seeing how your body can be indefinitely preserved and animated.”