Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (20 page)

“Alternating current killed it,” Edison yelled over the loud hum of electricity and the undead barking.  “But my direct current is the secret to bringing it back to life!”

The dog began smoking, and the smell became unbearable.  Wage nearly vomited.  Edison signaled, and Dickie powered down whatever unholy engine had reanimated the abomination before them. 

“Imagine when we decipher the code to eternal life!” Edison said, his eyes wild with excitement.

Wage coughed hard, and this time he did vomit onto the floor.  The demonstration and the smell were enough to sober him up.  “Will eternal life smell that bad?” he asked, wiping vomit from his mouth with his rolled sleeve.

“And to think, they call
you
Black Vomit Bill?” Edison said, pointing at Bill.  “Dickie!  Clean up Mr. Pascal’s mess!  You boys go get some fresh air and meet me outside the machine shop in a few minutes.  There is something we need to discuss.”

Wage and Ol’ Bill walked past the recently re-deceased dog, down the stairs, past the never-living automaton, and outside to absorb the sunshine and fresh air.  They stood in a small courtyard beside the machine shop, Wage instantly sobered by what he saw and smelled.  His head now throbbed. 

“William,” Wage said, leaning on his comrade. “I do believe we have met either the Lord himself or the Devil in flesh.  And I ain’t feelin’ any more holy.”

Edison walked out of the lab building and approached them with an uneven stride.  An employee in a lab coat followed behind him, burdened with two suitcases.  Edison handed Wage an envelope.  “A high-ranking operative of The Hand has disappeared recently.  We believe he was their Architect here in America.”

“Architect?” Wage asked.

“Not in the traditional sense.  Architects comprise one of the innermost circles of The Hand.  Very powerful people, Mr. Pascal; you may liken them to a general.  They are the grandest of puppet masters and take their orders directly from The Council itself.”

“Now, who the hell is The Council?” Wage asked.

“They are the legacy of our race’s first leaders.  They are the puppet masters of the puppet masters.”

“So—” Wage began.

“So!” Bill interrupted.  “What would you like from us?”

“I want you to find out who took him, where he went, and why he disappeared,” Edison said.

“How much does it pay?” Wage asked.

“More than enough,” Edison snapped.

“I’m afraid I am going to need a more quantifiable number,” Wage said, still wiping traces of vomit from his beard.

“Fifty thousand,” Edison answered.  “All the information I have is in the letter I gave you, along with some modest funds to get the operation started.”  The man in the lab coat finally dropped his suitcases and breathed a sigh of relief.  “These cases contain our means of communication.  Simply connect the battery in this case to the repligrapher in this one.  Then, write a message to me. Your pen strokes will be mimicked by a similar machine I have here in the shop, and vice versa.  When you determine the location of this Architect and I confirm it, I will authorize half the payment into an account in your name at Morgan, Grenfell & Company in Manhattan.  And before you ask why only half, there is something else you must do before full payment.”

“And,” Bill cleared his throat, “what would be that other something be, sir?”

“Find Kasper Holstrom, then we’ll talk,” Edison answered.

“Now, William, I am sure it ain’t nothing we can’t handle,” Wage said.  He knew with that kind of money and a slightly more modest living, he would have no use for his father’s trust fund.  “You have yourself a deal!” Wage said as he offered a hearty handshake.  Edison shook his hand, and then Ol’ Bill’s. 

“There is train that leaves this evening for Fort Wayne, Indiana; from there you should be able to find your way to Battle Creek.  Keep me abreast of your whereabouts with the repligrapher.  You can expect an expeditious reply every time you write.”

“Why Battle Creek?” Wage asked.

“The sanitarium there was the last place we had eyes on Kasper Holstrom.”

“The sanitarium?” Wage asked.  “You want us to go to a health resort?”

“This is not your ordinary resort, Mr. Pascal,” Edison warned. 

“Just one question then, Mr. Edison—why send us?  Me and Ol’ Bill?  If you are such a powerful organization, why not send one of your own men?”

“How many scientists have you met, Mr. Pascal?  How many of my scientists do you think have the skill sets to do what it is you do?  We wield wrenches, not rifles.  We create the gunpowder and engineer the rifles, but never pull the trigger.  We leave that filthy business to brutes like you and your friend. ” 

“Fair enough, sir. You will not regret our employment.  We will find your Architect!”

Edison’s gaze pierced them.  “This is no trivial matter.  These people, The Hand, they
are
dangerous.  More dangerous than you can imagine, and they know who you are and, eventually, they will find you.  Do exercise caution.”

“Well if they aim to kill me, they will have to get in line.  This ain’t nothing’ Ol’ Bill and I can’t handle, I assure you,” Wage said confidently.  He casually saluted the gruff scientist and adjusted his six-shooter.  “It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”

Wage and Bill returned to Main Street carrying their new luggage. When Edison was out of earshot, Ol’ Bill asked, “What do you suppose he means to do with this Kasper fella when we find him?”

“Whatever it is, it’ll be worth $25,000.”

“Still . . .” Bill continued.

Wage stopped.  “You heard the man, William; they won’t pull a trigger.  My guess is . . . we will.” 

John Hum

August 9, 1914

5
th
Street Station House

Winston-Salem, North Carolina

John Hum stepped from the train to the wooden platform.  Every other plank creaked as he strode across it, giving him the eerie feeling that he might fall right through at any moment.  He wore his old black jacket and pants, both now tattered, and despite Sister Silvia’s best effort, a close inspection would still reveal numerous dirt and blood stains.  The Sisters of Charity did, however, provide him with a few white shirts and collars, courtesy of some of the less fortunate patients at the hospital who had no more use for them.  On this balmy day, however, he forwent the collar.  On the train ride up, a passenger had left a black Homburg hat behind in his seat.  When it became clear that the passenger would not be back to retrieve it, John took it as his own.  It was a different shade of black than his clothes, but it sufficed, and the dyed red goose feather attached to the hatband even added a little more character.  But he still felt somewhat out of place as the colorfully dressed ladies of Winston-Salem popped open their silk umbrellas in the morning sun.

Sister Silvia herself took up a collection to send John to North Carolina, convinced that the nude woman in the picture could provide him with his lost memories.  Secretly, she hoped the beautiful woman was a pining fiancée praying every moment of every day for her husband-to-be’s safe return.  After all the donations by hospital staff, patients, and passersby in the street, Sister Silvia sent John away with a clean-shaven face and as many prayers as she could muster in their final week together.  John Hum left New Orleans with the clothes on his back and a small canvas bag filled with freshly washed shirts.  He had enough money to get Winston-Salem while eating one modest meal a day.

Blonde stubble now covered his face, and he was starving.  The only thing he coveted more than finding the woman in the drawing was devouring a very large lunch.  His gluttonous appetite momentarily subsided, however, when he heard shouts and screams coming from just outside the station.  Standing atop a wooden crate in the street, an older man with stringy coal hair leaking out of a worn grey top hat pointed and yelled at the passing people.  His grey suit made John’s seem brand new. When John approached him, the soapbox preacher’s eyes lit up as though his hollow skull had two lit candles within. 

“You there, brother!” he screamed, showing jagged yellow teeth.

Something stirred within John, and he felt an almost magnetic attraction to the curbside evangelist.  John stopped just short of the towering man and looked up.

The overzealous preacher had the habit of intermittently and unexpectedly raising his voice.  The Tourette-like tactic was most likely meant as an attention-getter, or as way to wake up dozing members of his former congregation.  “If you plan on doing the DEVIL’s work here in Winston-Salem, you’d best be going back from whence you came!  REPENT, sinner!  For temperance and humility have FINALLY come to our fair city!  No longer will we ACCEPT the malevolent deeds done by forsaken sinners.  We are the City on the Hill, we are the seat of GOD’S righteousness!  So tell me, SON, what has brought ye here?”

John immediately thought about the drawing in his inner pocket.  Carefully he took it out and folded it deftly with his one good hand so as only to reveal just the face of beauty, not her full form.  “I am looking for this woman.  Have you seen her?” he asked, holding up the picture.

The preacher’s eyes widened at the site of her.  “Harlot!” he cried.  “YOU will not find Satan’s brides amongst our modest women!  If you ARE looking for women of such ILL repute, take thee back to Sodom!  Take the afternoon train to Gomorra!”

“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed,” John replied coolly, putting the picture back in his

pocket and walking toward the heart of town.

“TAKE heed!” the preacher yelled.  “Judgment is near, sinner!  Follow ME and God’s Chosen TO the Almighty.  THE Kingdom of Heaven.  You will not find salvation in a BROTHEL, for I know that with temperance and humility comes chastity!” The preacher pointed to the East.  “Be gone from our fair city!” 

John Hum spent the last of his money at a nearby drugstore, where the pharmacist’s assistant let him purchase a sandwich and a warm cola even though he was two cents short.  He showed the censored drawing to the young clerk afterwards, and added that he was looking for his fiancée.  The man’s eyes went wide like the preacher’s did, only he shook his head in silent denial.

After eating, he waited on the sidewalk outside the drugstore until the lunch rush.  It was then he was able to ask pedestrians and would-be patrons if they had seen his fiancée
.
  Most of them gave the same wide-eyed look, and a few even patted him on the shoulder, but none of them could point him in the right direction.  John was beginning to think the people of Winston-Salem, all of them, were lying to him. 
Has she passed?  Why would they be so clandestine about her whereabouts? Does she even exist, or is she a fabrication of the artist? 

As lunch time ended, horse carts and the occasional car retreated from the cobblestone roads, and the sidewalks became mostly empty.  He saw a few stragglers; three laboring men who seemed muscular and, somehow, dangerous.  John approached them and showed them the picture.  One of them grabbed the paper out of his good hand and unfolded it.  “Well I’ll be!  I’d know those tits anywhere.  Take a look fellas, this here is Amber Rose!”  John tried to grab the paper back, but the brawny man passed it off to his friend, who replied, “Woooo!  Don’t know the face, but I sure do know that ass!”  The men laughed together, one of them so hard he doubled over and slapped his knee.  John’s atrophied left arm instinctively shot to the front of his belt; it was the first fluid movement his arm made since leaving New Orleans.  His one-armed attempts at recovering the picture were fruitless, so he stopped and stood still, his lungs ballooning in and out as he breathed heavily.  Finally, one of the men slapped the paper back into John’s chest nearly knocking him over.  “Go check the school house on Peters Creek!”

John Hum stood by a grove of willow trees and watched as school children frolicked on the field outside the schoolhouse.  Occasionally, a roaming school teacher with a long stride would herd them away from the creek.  The school house itself, freshly painted, was as white as the bulbous clouds that hung above the plush green field, which bled into the murky creek.  One teacher’s smooth complexion caught the bright Carolina sun as she bent over to break up a fight between two young boys.  John heard the one student shout in her face and promptly stomp on her foot.  She hopped up and down, yelling at the boys who ran off laughing. 

Another teacher rang the school bell, and the students began to scurry like ants whose hill had just been kicked over.  After the last student ran inside, the sore-footed teacher with tied-up strawberry blonde hair remained outside.  John finally walked over and startled her as she rubbed her temples with her eyes closed.  Even though her hair was up, tassels of red fell down to her fair-skinned face and wire rim spectacles.  She wore a frilled shirtwaist with a flared, blue flannel skirt.  “Excuse me, ma’am” he said. “I am wondering if you can help me?” 

“Jumpin’ Jesus, mister, you scared me half to death,” she said.  “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I’m very sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” John said, taking off his hat and parting his dirty blonde hair between his ears.  “But I was hoping you could help me out with that very question.”  He could only look her in the eye briefly. Something,
perhaps her enchantment, made him look down at his feet. He had an irrational fear that somehow he could be under her spell for the remainder of his days if he kept her gaze any longer. 

She looked at him closer.  “Do I know you?”

“I certainly hope so,” he replied.

“I swear to God, if you are looking for—”

He grabbed her arm, his eyes still fixed on the ground.  “Miss, I’m afraid I was involved in some sort of accident, the extent of which I am still not sure. But what I do know is that I have lost the better part of my memories.”  He took out the picture in his pocket and handed it to her, no longer concerned about folding it.

She swiped the picture and glanced at it.  John prepared himself to be slapped.

“Damn—is that me?” she asked.  “Wait a just a minute! That
is
me! You’re that detective fella.  I recognize you now.  Even that funny accent of yours!”

“Detective?”

“Yeah, that’s right.  You drew this!” she said.  She looked at the picture again.  “Damn!”

It was strange to admire his own work; it would seem most artists would kill for the opportunity to truly gaze objectively at their creation without the bias that comes from creating it.  John looked at what was once his dominant arm.  He was quite certain he would never hold a pencil again.

“What that hell happened to your arm?” she asked, noticing his gaze.

“Honestly, I’m not sure.  Was it like this when you met me?”

“Not that I remember,” she replied.

“What
do
you remember about me?”

“Oh, let’s see,” she said, looking up to the bright sky.  “You liked to draw.  You didn’t have a lick of whiskey.  You were askin’ about a man named . . .” she snapped her fingers a few times.  “Wage Pascal!”

“Wage Pascal?”  John finally looked up.

“Yeah.  A Cajun fella that had come through ‘bout a month or so before you came around.  It sounded as though you were tryin’ to track him down, but he had already left town by the time you got there.  Oh,” she said, pointing a finger.  “You also asked me about Jonathan Hamilton but didn’t really say why.”

“Jonathan Hamilton?”

“Yeah, he used to be a regular.  He runs one of the big plantations just outside of town.”

“Is there any chance you could take me to see him?”

“Hmm, that depends,” she replied.

“On what?”

“On how much you got, detective!”

“I am afraid I haven’t anything at the moment,” John said.

“Now, you left me one of the biggest tips I’d ever had, and I didn’t even sleep with you!”

“Sleep with me?” John quickly looked down again, embarrassed.

“You really don’t remember, do you?” she asked.

“What exactly were the circumstances of our last meeting?”

“Oh, honey,” she said.  “Oh honey.”  She put a hand on one side of his neck and stroked it soothingly.  The feeling struck a chord deep within his fractured mind.

“Everyone I showed your picture to, they seemed to know you but pretended otherwise.  Why would they do that?”

She smiled at him, but he did not see it.  “Honey, temperance came to town about a week after you left, which put me and Old Horas out of business.  They said if I were to continue what I was doing, they’d make sure that I spend the rest of my days in a jail cell, or worse.  So I went looking for honest work, only to find that everyone in town wanted nothing to do with me.  It was like I’d pissed on every hot stove in town.”

John cleared his throat.  “So you were a . . .”

“Yes, detective, I was,” she said with her chin jutted out a little.

“How did you come by all this?” he asked, pointing to the schoolhouse.  The footsteps of children echoed inside.

“My auntie, she runs the school.  She forces me to wear this getup and these glasses.”  She removed the wire-rimmed spectacles from her nose.  “They ain’t even mine.  Damn things give me a headache, but auntie thinks this will make the people around here accept me, eventually.  She says one day I might even get to help teach the little ones their arithmetic.  I got pretty damn good at it in my former life.”  She winked.  John blushed.  “But for now, I am to have only
minimal contact with the children
,” she said, mimicking her aunt’s voice.  “Parents ‘round here are still not thrilled about my presence.  I spend most of my time cleaning up, in, and around those little bastards.”

John wondered for a moment if he could find Hamilton without her help. 
Surely a detective would have no problem with such a task?
  Her company would, however, be welcomed after such a long journey from New Orleans.

“Is there a chance you could procure me transportation to Hamilton’s place?”

She looked at him and he finally returned her gaze.  “Ah hell,” she said, throwing her glasses into the grass.  “I’ll take you down there.”