The Bishop: A Tanglewood Novella

by Skye Warren

  “Of course.”

  The Den is part social club, part underground hub for illicit activity. Countless paintings and priceless sports memorabilia have been sold between these walls. There was even a noteworthy auction involving the virginity of a woman. The bloodied history of this chess piece fits right in.

  Damon frowns. “It’s a family heirloom. If you need money—”

  Christ. Damon Scott is one of the few men I consider a friend. I can’t bear the thought of him offering me a loan. Or worse—a gift. I don’t need the goddamn money, but it’s easier if he thinks I do. “With the old man gone, there’s no family left. So there’s no reason to keep it.”

  A whistle. “That’s cold, even coming from you.”

  I have something of a reputation. In an emergency room, being calm and controlled is an asset. In the regular world people look at me like I’m a monster. Well, maybe I am. The old man thought so. He never understood that a blue flame burns the hottest. “Is it wrong to care about the money?”

  “Everyone cares about the money, Anders. That’s the one human constant. Anyone who says otherwise is either lying or drinking their own goddamn Kool-Aid.”

  He walks away, leaving me to study the dark swaths alone. Maybe the painting is about money, then. I’d rather be on call tonight, or at least buried in a stack of books, but I have to see this through. All the way to the bitter end.

  Family. It’s an interesting concept for someone known as the Ice Man through med school. Pops sent me a few hundred bucks every month. We weren’t close, but I respected his wishes about the chess piece. The second his heart stopped, the promise was over.

  With my hands in the pockets of my slacks, I stroll to the next painting. This one’s a mixture of red and pink. It looks like a giant Valentine’s card. Made by a three-year-old. Christ.

  The next painting catches my eye.

  It’s simpler, with thick black strokes at the bottom, a grey wash above it, and metallic gold sprinkled in to the top. It reminds me of the city at night, with its beauty and danger. A small signature in the bottom right corner reads N. Lhuirs.

  A slender woman studies the same painting. “Do you like it?” she asks, a musical lilt softening the consonants in her words.

  “Better than the other ones. Is it supposed to be a city?”

  “It’s whatever you’d like it to be.”

  I give her a sideways look, which lets me see her aristocratic profile and snug black dress. I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t admire the way it pushes up her tits. I think most of us trapped in tuxedos appreciate the women in slinky dresses more than what’s on the walls. “You’re one of those.”

  “One of what?” She sounds amused.

  “One of the people who think art means anything. Which really means nothing, doesn’t it?”

  “Very Orwellian. However, I don’t think the viewer can be discounted from the equation. If the artist wanted to keep control over the canvas, he should have kept it in his studio. Once it’s on display, it’s meant to be seen, meant to be interpreted—even in unexpected ways.”

  Her voice flows over me like cool water on a burning summer afternoon. I want her to keep talking, even if it’s about something as useless as art. “I like things that have clear answers. Mathematical equations. Scientific hypotheses. I like things to make sense.”

  “What about right and wrong? Do those have clear answers?”

  It seems like she’s actually interested in what I have to say. As if she’s actually been wondering about this. It’s a kind of seduction, this challenge. An intellectual lure that I’m swimming toward hard and fast. Flirtation I could have resisted easily. A logical proof is impossible to ignore.

  Which means she’s dangerous, of course.

  “There are moral absolutes,” I say. “Don’t you think so?”

  “Yes,” she says, a little sadly. “I think so.”

  “Do you work for Damon Scott?”

  Her eyebrows raise. Dark eyes shine with twinkling lights, as glorious as the gold flecks on the dark painting. “What makes you think that?”

  “You know about art.”

  “Not really. Not about this painting. It suits you, however. There’s something very contained about it, as if it holds mysteries that we can only see in shadow.” Deep ruby lips make me imagine what we could do in those shadows. My cock hardens. It’s a wholly inappropriate reaction to have in a crowded room. And completely out of my control. I’ve seen countless female bodies in my time as a physician. Some of them have belonged to models and athletes. Some of them have belonged to sorority girls. None of them have scraped my insides, waking up a hunger long asleep.

  “If you don’t work for the Den, you must be a buyer.”

  “My bank account couldn’t cover even the smallest thing in this auction.” She wears a private smile, as if she’s thinking of a joke only she knows. “I’m not even sure I can afford a drink.”

  “And you claim I’m the one holding mysteries.”

  A soft laugh. Her smile makes my blood warm, makes my heart speed up. I’ve seen human bodies in every state of health and illness. It’s been a long time since one affected me at all. “Perhaps I’m like you, selling something, waiting to see how much it will bring.”

  Surprise is a pleasant distraction. “How did you know I’m selling something?”

  “The chess piece. You’re watching it.”

  “Maybe I want to buy it.”

  “You haven’t spared a single glance at the small piece in the case. Nor have you gone close enough to admire it. Instead you’re more interested in the men who circle it like vultures.”

  Damn. The woman’s too perceptive. “Not a buyer. Not a seller. Not working for the auction house. If you won’t tell me what you are, at least tell me your name.”

  “Maybe I’m like the painting—open for interpretation.” Voices turn loud behind us, and she turns in surprise, her dark eyes wary. I look back too, in time to hear the proximity alarm go off.

  Someone’s standing too close to the rectangular display case that holds my chess piece. Everyone backs up, laughing, half-drunk—more than half-drunk, really. Fully drunk. A man trips over himself, hands up, looking both chagrined and proud, as if he’s just completed a dare from his friends.

  This is what happens when frat boys graduate. They turn into hedge fund managers and financial analysts with more money than sense.

  The chess piece sits placidly on its red velvet pillow. It’s survived nine hundred years. A handful of clumsy assholes at a preview party aren’t going to change that.

  I look back to my mystery woman. The place beside the painting is empty.

  She’s gone.

  Chapter Two

  Anders

  Afternoon heat leans into the curtains. I open my eyes to a blank white ceiling. I turn my face toward a blank white room. It’s a spare existence, but it suits me. I don’t need luxury. I don’t want it. A vibration of my phone. That must be what woke me.

  Breech, it says, with an address.

  A quick shower that also serves as an antiseptic. I cleaned up after tending the gunshot victim last night, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. I don’t look forward to attending births. The stakes of failure are too high. Modern medicine hasn’t eliminated the risk to mothers or infants. In fact, some of the interventions actually increase the risk. That’s exactly the kind of fucked-up progress I’ve learned to expect from the world. And proof that even science doesn’t always make sense.

  The Den is a private club in one of the worst parts of town. That’s why it’s the perfect place for me to rent a room. It takes only a few minutes to arrive at the house in question. People line the foyer and fill the living room. Wide eyes watch me with hope and suspicion. They trust their midwife, not me, but Rosa knows to contact me for something as serious as breech.

  I find her upstairs in a small room, the damp of sweat heavy in the air. The young mother pants in the bed, her eyes glazed with pain or
delirium, her belly swollen.

  Rose gestures to a basin of hot water, where I wash my hands again. “They called me this morning,” she says. “I was with another child. This is the first time I’ve seen her.”

  Hell. The chances of maternal death shoot through the roof when there’s no prenatal care. A growling sound escapes me. “She needs to be in a hospital.”

  “You know why she can’t,” Rosa snaps.

  That’s my agreement with her. I’m not supposed to mention the hospital, even if it’s best for the patients. Even if they die in my care. If I force the issue once, she’ll never call me again. Which means more people could die. It’s a hell of a catch 22.

  What about right and wrong? Do those have clear answers?

  No, they don’t.

  This woman can’t go to the hospital because the immigration officials would take her into custody. They would make her give birth handcuffed to a goddamn hospital bed. They’d take the baby away from her, and she might never see him again. It’s not a choice; it’s a matter of life or death.

  I kneel by her side, because it’s the least I can do before I shove my hand into her vagina. “I’m Dr. Anders Sorenson. I’m going to check on the baby, okay?”

  She doesn’t answer. I’m not sure she’s aware of anything except the inner turmoil of her body. I move between her legs and perform an examination. “Where’s the father?” I mutter to Rosa, thinking of those solemn faces below.

  “With the other children. This isn’t her first time.”

  Because she might get taken into custody. If it comes to that, they want the father to stay with the other children. It’s a sad fucking day when families have to separate to stay together.

  I pull my hand out. “He’s coming out.”

  “She asked to keep the baby alive,” Rosa whispers. “No matter what.”

  They always ask to keep the baby alive. Williams was wrong. Money isn’t the one human constant. It’s this. The love of a mother for her child. Sacrifice. That’s what I can count on. That’s what makes sense.

  I glance at my phone, which sits face up on a side table in the cramped room. Delivering a breech baby is more art than science. The skill isn’t passed on these days, but it used to be the only choice. We’ll pretend it’s the Roaring '20s. “He’s coming out. In the next five hours. If not, then I’m driving her to the hospital myself.”

  It doesn’t take five hours. It takes six.

  Another three hours to deliver the placenta and stitch up the mother while Rosa makes sure the baby latches. The father and children arrive to the small apartment as I’m leaving, covered in blood and amniotic fluid that only a shower in boiling water will fix. I pick up my phone on the way down the stairs, glancing at the screen. Twenty-six messages. Twelve voicemails.

  I press play on the first one. “The chess piece. It’s gone.”

  Chapter Three

  Anders

  Slanting rays of yellow light blind me. My pulse beats hard and fast. Heavy doors creak as I pull them open. The Den looks empty. Then my eyes adjust. There are people lined up in the shadows.

  Damon stands in front of them like a general examining his army. And finding them lacking. He greets me with a hard handshake. “Everyone who worked last night. The caterers, the cleaners. Even the poor bastard who had to fix the toilet after enough of the women taking cocaine took a shit.”

  Modern day servants. They remind me of the people lining the living room in the house, wary and watchful. Those people feared me because I’m an outsider, because one call to the authorities could tear apart their lives. These people fear me because they know me. At least, they know my reputation. I wouldn’t put it past Damon to use it to his advantage, to threaten that I’d kill them if they had anything to do with the theft. It wouldn’t necessarily be a lie.

  The pillar stands where it should. The red velvet pillow remains inside. The glass case covers it neatly. Except there’s no carved chess piece inside. There’s no redemption for my family inside. My chest constricts, until it’s hard to breathe. In public, no less. I cross my arms over my chest as if to contain the panic. It doesn’t help. “Walk me through it.”

  “The chess piece was there when the cleaning crew left last night. We can see it on the video. The lights turn off, everything’s dark. In the morning it’s gone.”

  “What else?”

  “Was taken? Nothing.”

  Rage rises in my chest, but I force it down. “There are countless works of art. Antique coins. Jewels. You’re telling me they’re all accounted for.”

  “Every piece.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “The security system wasn’t compromised.”

  “It hasn’t been compromised? This is the definition of compromised.”

  “I mean it didn’t alarm. Our cameras didn’t catch anything. My men at the exits and on the roof across the street didn’t see a damn thing. He’s like a ghost, whoever this was.” Damon runs a hand over his face. “I’m not making excuses. Of course I’m responsible.”

  I press my lips into a firm line. It’s the kind of honor you wouldn’t expect from anyone else in the criminal underworld. It’s standard operating procedure for Damon Scott. He’ll probably pay me the full million dollar valuation for the chess piece out of his own pocket. That doesn’t solve my problem. This was never about the money. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Believe me. I’m fucking worried about it.” He glances toward the back office where his wife Penny usually spends her days bent over a notebook full of numbers and mathematical symbols. He has more than enough money to throw an auction. For him she’s more valuable than his whole empire.

  “I’m glad you’re okay.” Because if she’d gotten hurt during a break-in, a break-in for my chess piece, for my revenge mission, the guilt would have been unbearable. It would have been something no amount of free baby deliveries would have made up for.

  “We’ll find the bishop. That’s a goddam promise.” He nods toward the row of soldiers. “In the meantime I kept them here so you could question them yourself.”

  It’s worth trying, because this burglary was clearly not about money. They could have taken art or coins or jewels for that. There are very few people in the world who would be interested in this piece. Any of them with the resources to stage a successful burglary could afford to bid in the auction.

  Who wants the piece but needs privacy more? Exactly the person I’m seeking.

  If I don’t follow the trail I might lose them forever.

  A row of men and women, each of them looking nervous, each of them with their own weak points. I could question them for hours. Learn their darkest secrets. Would it bring me closer to the chess piece? I’m less interested in who’s lined up; instead I want to know about the woman who’s missing.

  How to describe her? Like the city at night. Beauty and danger.

  Beautiful. “There was a woman,” I say. “Five four. Slender. Dark hair and brown eyes. Wearing a black dress with lace and long sleeves. I want a name and an address.”

  * * * *

  Penny

  Damon walks into the room, bringing with him the thundercloud he’s had since he was informed the chess piece disappeared. There are notes from a professor of mathematics waiting for my response, but I set them aside in a stack for later, where my cat quickly finds her next napping place. Damon has torn apart every man and woman running security, every bartender, servant. Even the woman who bakes the bourbon croissants at the bakery down the street got the third degree. That was before he even called Anders. I know Damon wanted to find the piece before it came to that.

  He flings himself onto the leather armchair by the fire. I approach him from behind, rubbing his shoulders. There are too many knots for my fingers to make much progress.

  “Must be hard,” I say softly.

  “What?” He’s irritable, my man who always has a blithe remark.

  “Not being perfect.”

  His s
houlders turn to stone for a brief, tense moment. Then he crosses one leg over the other, feigning nonchalance. “I want the Den to be safe. That’s a reasonable expectation.”

  I circle the armchair and place my knee on the cushion between his legs. “The world isn’t safe, Damon. At the end of the day, no one was hurt. Only one thing was taken. Things can be replaced.”

  “It’s 900 years old. Not exactly found at Walmart.”

  I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He’s already noticing my breasts rubbing against him. He may be grumpy and upset—and because I know him, I can tell, afraid—but he’s still a man. “It’s bad,” I agree, “especially if Anders needs the money. I assume you offered to replace it.”

  “He told me no, which is just bullshit. It’s my responsibility.”

  “Then again, I’m not sure he does need the money.”

  “Why else would he sell it?”

  I rest back on his lap, laughing a little. “The one human constant? I’m not sure it’s money. What about family? What about redemption? What about revenge?”

  His eyebrows knit. “Revenge? You mean his mother?”

  My smile slips. Martha Sorenson was basically a legend in the west side of Tanglewood. She came from one of the wealthy families. Got a medical degree, but instead of marrying a surgeon and settling down to raise babies, she went to work for the poor of the city. Her family disowned her, but that didn’t stop her. “Where else do you think they’d get a priceless antique like that? It’s not likely Mr. Sorenson picked it up on one of his night calls.”

  Martha Sorenson was attacked on one of her nightly calls to help someone. She was raped, beaten, and left for dead. Only, she didn’t die. Her husband found her and nursed her back to health, but she was never the same. She could never practice medicine again—or even read or write.

  “So it came to him through his mother’s side. How does putting it for sale help get revenge?”

  “Presumably he has a reason to believe the person who hurt her wants that piece. I don’t know the answer, but I don’t think he needs cash. I don’t think he wants it, either. He lives like a monk. What would he spend it on? A new car? No.”