Midnight

by Brenden Carlson

  “Allen …” I almost slapped myself. “You can’t ask something like that. But we’ll see her again, I’m sure, and then you can ask all the questions you want … all the appropriate questions you want.”

  “Understood.” It nodded and returned to the documents.

  It seemed to drop the subject faster than usual. Was it avoiding talking about Simone? Could have been my imagination.

  “Actually, she kind of owes me a favour.” I reached for the phone and began dialing. “We might as well make use of the resources we’ve got. If she can get me into the Met tonight, I can check out that Vierling. She says she has access to a lot of places.”

  “I’d be happy to lead that part of the investigation.”

  “Slow down there, partner,” I chuckled. “I need you to do something else.”

  It looked at me with hesitation and a tinge of disappointment. “Yes?”

  “Go see Elise Schafer. Check out her Vierling.”

  “Uh … Can do. Shall I take your car?”

  “Please do, Allen. Borrow Robins’s Plate Card and ask around for her up there. If she lives off the island, you’ll have to go for a little drive.”

  Simone picked up. I stood and picked up the phone base.

  “Simone,” I began.

  “Elias. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I need to call in that favour.”

  “Of course.” She was unperturbed by my brusqueness.

  “The Metropolitan — can you get me in?”

  “When?”

  I turned to see Allen peering hard at a document, but obviously listening in on my conversation. What the hell was going on with that metal man?

  “Now,” I said.

  There was silence for a brief moment, then she spoke again. “I’ll need some time to prep. Meet there, or are you picking me up?”

  “I’ll meet you there, outside the doors, ten o’clock.”

  I put the phone down and put my hand on Allen’s shoulder. It peered up at me. I knew its mannerisms by this point. It always had that awkward expression when it wanted to pester me with questions.

  “You good, Al?”

  “Yes, Detec— Roche.”

  “Do you want to switch jobs? I can go rough up Schafer instead.”

  Allen smiled and stood, looking more comfortable in its own skin. “After the ruckus you caused on the Plate a month ago, I think it would be best if I go.”

  “Good man. And be thorough: even if she never pulled the trigger, make note of anyone who seems capable of doing it. A used firearm will at least give us headway into the right line of questioning.”

  Allen chuckled. “You’re starting to sound like me.”

  I grinned and walked out of the apartment with Allen, locking my door and throwing my coat over my shoulder.

  “I’ll put in a good word about you with Simone,” I said. Allen stared at me, panicked, and I laughed. “You make it too easy to push your buttons, Al. Meet you back here at midnight.”

  I was no stranger to breaking into places, but standing outside one of the most famous museums in the world while a dainty woman jiggled a lock scraper into one of the front doors was not my idea of subtlety. She’d been waiting for me when I arrived. She’d done her best to dress unremarkably, but even in grey slacks and a loose brown coat, her blond hair was like a flare in the darkness. How many people might have spotted her here?

  “When you said you had keys to anywhere in the city …” I muttered.

  “I never said what kind of keys they were,” she said with a smirk, raking the tumblers in the lock a third time. “I swear, they make these trickier every time.”

  “Not your first time popping these doors open?”

  “I’ve covered stories about artifacts from Germany that came here after the War, so no.”

  “And when did you learn how to pick locks?”

  “I thought it might be a useful skill to have. Damn it, these locks are just” — a loud click, and the door creaked open — “a pain in the ass sometimes.”

  We entered, closing the door after us and keeping away from the windows.

  Simone had brought along a flashlight, something I hadn’t thought far enough ahead to consider bringing. The light moved over art pieces from Greece, Germany, China, Japan, almost every corner of the globe. Passing through the medieval section, I glimpsed suits of armour, ancient weaponry, and paintings from the period depicting great warriors and noble deeds done for the king.

  “So what exactly are we here for?” she asked.

  “I need to examine a weapon. The Mercier Vierling.”

  She nodded, showing no reaction.

  We headed on to the new section called the New York Wing. The Museum of New York on 106th had been abandoned during Red August, and everything meant to go there had been relocated here. It was small, with few artifacts, but it was a stepping stone to our objective. There was a hodgepodge of newspaper clippings about the founding of the city and pictures of the construction of the Empire Building and the Plate, and even of the first legislature to bring in Automatics.

  That last exhibit led into the newest and most ignored section of the American Wing that was devoted to the “Art of the Machine.” Old Automatic designs were on display; intricate mechanical arms and legs lined the wall, examples of metalwork and painting to give the standard chrome exterior some flare. Of course, no machine would have worn something that stupid; it would have cost an arm and a leg to maintain. They called such things the burgeoning “Technossance.” A fat lot of good that had done for any of us besides drive us deeper into debt.

  The southmost part of the American Wing had been converted into a housing for the finest artifacts of the Great War. Here lay designs for the original Manuals, weapons used by the Allied forces, and photos from some of the battlefields. Much of it was displayed with artistic flair, so as to keep it distinct from the natural history museum on the Plate. Regardless, you could only polish a turd so much.

  I stopped to look at some retouched and enhanced photographs of the carnage. There was the victory of Gallipoli, with the Manuals guarding the canal and putting down the Ottomans from reinforcing the Centrals. There were also photos of some of America’s biggest battles, namely Luxemburg and Strasbourg. I had been at the latter, and the photos brought me back. I could smell diesel fumes and iron from all the spilled blood.

  “Roche.” Simone shook my arm. “Let’s go. I’ll bring you here after the holidays.”

  I regained my composure and went deeper into the wing. Next to the Lugers and Mausers, the Lebels and the Springfields, was the centrepiece of the Great War weaponry: the Vierling. It was immaculate, the metalwork on top of the barrel assembly sturdy and carved to a degree of detail most sculptors would have envied. Horses and knights rode along the base of the weapon, their spears slamming through competitors in a great tournament. Along the barrel, a knight battled an unseen foe, his sword drawn and pointing in the direction the bullet would fly through the barrel. A horse was carved into the varnished stock, and Allard was inscribed beneath it in a beautiful cursive. I hadn’t noticed any such details when I’d been fighting for my life. Remembering the encounter made my stitches itch.

  Simone used the key rake to enter the backroom behind the display and retrieve the weapon. It was funny … all this felt far too easy. Someone — anyone — should have tried to stop us by now.

  “I’m scared to ask, but there won’t be any security guards knocking me out and dragging me up to the Plate, will there?” I asked as she returned.

  “Don’t worry, it’s Christmas,” she said, unconcerned.

  “Why isn’t there anyone here? We could take half this stuff and pawn it in a matter of days, walk away with a fortune.”

  “Everything in here can be tracked without much effort. It would be hard to actually sell anything. The moment something goes missing, it gets called in. People from the Plate would be swarming in to find out who took it.”

  It seemed
like a poor explanation for the apparent lack of security. I looked around but didn’t spot any obvious cameras. I was on edge the entire time, expecting that any moment there would be sirens blaring outside.

  She deposited the weapon in my hands. The top was covered in a thin layer of dust. I cracked open the barrel and looked inside. Gleaming steel looked back, the light from the flashlight reflecting against the interior of the weapon.

  “It’s clean. Too clean.” I closed the breech and examined the stock, looking for any marks that might show it had been used as a club.

  “They clean regularly to make sure artifacts don’t rust or tarnish. They’re very diligent about it.”

  The stock was free of chips or scratches or stresses. It wasn’t the weapon the Vierling Killer had used to fight us. The rifling, upon closer inspection, was tarnished. The largest barrel was tarnished, as well, but it was free of rifling, seeing as it was designed to fire pellets, not bullets. Underneath, there was one trigger, which I pulled to dry fire and reset the mechanism. I handed the weapon back to Simone, who put it back in the case and locked everything back up.

  “Goddamn it.” I pulled out a cigarette and placed it between my lips, but refrained from lighting the tip. “I was sure we had it. That asshole definitely used a Vierling. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Well, there are four of them,” she noted, as we walked toward the front of the museum.

  “Three. They’re named after the Sons of Aymon.” I wasn’t well versed in the legends, but I regurgitated the tidbit, nonetheless.

  “Where’s the third rifle? I know one is in France.”

  “Owned by prolific gun collector Elise Schafer.”

  “You don’t say. Looks like the case is closed, then, huh?”

  “Not necessarily. Schafer may be ruthless, but I don’t know if she’s capable of murder. Maybe someone took it from her collection. Maybe she gave it to someone to use. I don’t know, I just don’t. Hopefully Allen has more luck.”

  “Do you have any other suspects?”

  I squinted at her. “You going to keep your mouth shut?”

  “I won’t tell anyone. I haven’t told anyone about your past. I swore, and I swear again.”

  I sighed, lit my dart and sucked in, feeling my stress come down a level. “Besides Schafer, we’re looking at the Iron Hands … and you.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re always keeping close to me and Allen. Also, your father is a general, and the perp has military training. And the fact you can get in here so easily doesn’t help your case. Allen’s convinced, but …”

  “I appreciate the compliment, but I wasn’t trained by my father, nor by anyone in America. Women can’t serve as GIs, as you well know. War is a man’s game, and my father is very old school. He thinks the military is far too dangerous a place for women.”

  “Overprotective, huh?”

  “In a way.” She didn’t look angry, but I wondered whether I’d offended her with the implication. “Anyway, I thought you just confirmed that this Vierling wasn’t the one the killer used,” she said.

  “Nonetheless …” I puffed on my cigarette, not caring about any smoke detectors there might be. If the cops were going to show up at all, they’d have been here by now. “There is one other thing. The killer would have a wound.”

  “Where?”

  “On the arm somewhere. They sustained some injuries at the last crime scene. I’m sorry, but just to put my mind at ease, please — your arms?”

  Simone sighed, undoing her coat. Underneath, she wore a black blouse with cap sleeves. Her bare skin was as pristine as the rifle. Under the light of the flashlight, her arms looked normal, untouched, uncut. I didn’t want to test my luck by touching them. She put the coat back on, and I handed her the flashlight.

  “I’m sorry about that. I’ll cross you off the list.”

  “I’m not offended. I mean, I am a little, but it is your job to be paranoid. I suppose you would have done this to anyone else if they had access to the weapon and a general for a father?” She smirked.

  “That’s right. Schafer will probably be getting it worse from Allen. It’s so good at picking up the little details, it makes me feel inadequate some days.”

  Simone chuckled and resumed walking. “Aren’t most machines good at that sort of thing?”

  “No, just this one. Allen is weird, but it does come in handy.”

  We went out into the dark city. The lamps above us weren’t enough to illuminate the street under the shroud of night. It had started to snow, and with no Plate above us on 82nd Street, we had no buffer from the storm. It was difficult to see even five feet in front of me. That was going to make getting home difficult.

  Descending the steps, we didn’t even hear the platoon of Brunos approaching until they jumped us. Someone put a gun to my back and kicked my knee, pushing me to the ground. My side was on fire from the quick jerk. Simone was down on all fours, two Foldguns pointed at her head.

  My only thought was how fast I could draw my Diamondback from its holster. Who would be shot first? The guy sticking me up, one of the two guys near Simone, or Simone herself? I knew I’d get off the first shot, but would I be able to save both of us if I caused that chaos?

  From out of the haze of snow came Maranzano, his bulky frame wrapped up in black wool, with more men behind. He looked down at me, putting the end of his cane against my head to show that he was in control. Santoni held a Thompson in his hands. The barrel tip was frosted and felt extra cold when he placed it on my temple.

  “Care to let us know what you were up to in there?” Maranzano asked.

  “Following a lead on a case you have nothing to do with.”

  “Oh, I have everything to do with it.” He pushed my head back with the cane so our eyes met. Then he withdrew it and hobbled over to Simone. “And so does she. Is it you, or her?”

  “What are you on about?”

  “Someone is killing my men, my friends, my people. Disregarding my control and influence over this city. You work for that bitch, so maybe killing you would solve my problem nice and quick.”

  “The Eye wants me to look the other way. She wants me to ignore the killer, because they’re doing such a good job fucking with you,” I said with a smile.

  That comment earned me a strike across the face. Maranzano had a limp, but it didn’t impede his arms any. My head snapped around, and my jaw felt like it might be dislocated. The rings on his fingers had probably left marks on my cheek, too. Blood dripped from my lips onto the concrete.

  “Do not mock me! My men are dying, along with my business! The one person with motive is that bitch, working through you! You may take my land and my influence scot-free, but I’ll repay you for it, don’t you worry, Roche.”

  He pulled out his own pistol and put it to my crown. Blood continued to run from my mouth. Unable to look up with my sore neck, I stared at the concrete, feeling the barrel.

  “I should make the both of you suffer for all you’ve put me through, but this will be much cleaner,” he said.

  “WILL IT?”

  Maranzano flinched, pulling the gun away from me and pointing it elsewhere. Mustering all my strength, I craned up to see a lanky eight-foot figure standing mere inches from the Mob boss.

  The Rabbit, in all its glory.

  It seemed the Eye was keeping tabs on me. Eight more Red-eyes appeared, training their weapons on Maranzano and his men to keep them from doing anything stupid.

  “HOW ARE YOU DOING DOWN THERE, ROACH?” the Rabbit asked me mockingly.

  “I was fine.” I spit out a glob of blood, feeling my mouth fill again.

  “YES, I’M SURE.” IT TURNED BACK TO MARANZANO. “I BELIEVE IT WOULD BE BEST FOR YOU TO LEAVE.”

  “You don’t rule me, capek,” Maranzano said. “You’re a machine. Not even a man can scare me off.”

  The Rabbit moved back, allowing another figure to approach in the darkness.

  Holy shit. She actually came.
>
  The Eye wore only black, her hair whipping around in the wind. She always had her face covered. A black veil obscured her appearance.

  She must be really pissed to have actually come.

  “Only a human, Sal. Hu-man,” she said, enunciating carefully. “Remember, we live in a different world than the one you grew up in.”

  “You are both abominations, you and the capek! Your lapdog is at fault, and I deserve payback for this betrayal of our agreement! You swore no direct aggression between us, I have it in writing. And yet you own Chelsea and are pushing into my territory! My men will steamroll you if you continue to violate these terms.”

  “And mine you, Sal. You are not the only victim here. I doubt Gould would appreciate learning about your trafficking rings throughout his stores. I hope you can still afford their silence.” She looked down at me. “Elias is not the killer. I did instruct him to forget this investigation, but he seems … persistent.” She sounded aggravated. “Something I want to remedy.”

  Though not happy, Maranzano put his gun back into its holster and moved away from me. The Bruno behind me pulled his gun out of my back, and the two surrounding Simone retreated, as well. The uneasy truce gave me chills. The tension was palpable. Anything could have set one of them off, even the drop of a pin.

  “Remember whose turf you’re on,” Maranzano said.

  “Remember whose man you’re threatening,” she replied.

  Maranzano took his leave, his men regrouping and glaring at us before disappearing into the snow, no doubt headed back to the Kompound. I got off my knees, wiping blood from my mouth and flicking it into the fresh snow. Simone stood up and crept over beside me to put someone else between her and one of the most dangerous women in America.

  “The reporter?” the Eye asked me.

  “A guide, nothing more. She knows nothing,” I said, not looking up.

  “Good. Do not disobey me again, Elias. There will be no more warnings.”

  I nodded, but before I could ask about her involvement in the killings, she was gone, the Red-eyes had vanished, and the Rabbit’s red bulbs were visible in the haze for only a fleeting moment before it disappeared, as well.