Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (22 page)

“Tell me who I am!  I must know! Is my name truly Simon?” John Hum asked.

“Yes, you are Simon. Find Wage Pascal and kill him, and I will tell you everything.”

“Please!  I beg you.”

Victor took a notebook and pencil from his back pocket.  “First, you will sow a small rock to your chest as a symbol of our covenant.  Lose it or reveal it to anyone and I will kill you.”

“What about me?  Can he reveal it to me?” Amber Rose asked.

“Unfortunately, no.  I am going kill you, Amber Rose,” he replied calmly.

“No!  You can’t!” Simon shouted, stepping in front of her.

“I’m sorry, Simon, but we’ve had our eye on you for some time, and we still think you have great potential.  You possess a distinct set of abilities that can be of use to us, at least when they return fully.  She, on the other hand, does not.  I am going to turn this scene,” Victor gestured to Hamilton sitting against the hackberry tree, “into a murder–suicide.  I can see the headlines now: “Plantation Owner Embarrassed by Affair with Former Town Whore.  Kills Her, Then Himself.”  Victor seemed to relish the idea.

“I need her, Mr. Humphries, Dr. Mamba, whoever you are!  I need her, or I cannot . . . I will not fulfill your task!”

Victor Mamba contemplated for a moment, chewing on the pencil he still held.

“I mean it, Mamba.  You might as well kill me now, too!”  A tear glistened in the detective’s

eye.

Victor saw the conviction. Conviction that looked akin to carnal desire, or secret penchants.  He grinned.  “All right.  Have it your way.  You will both wear the stone.  Lose it or reveal it to anyone other than yourselves, and I will kill you both.  Simon and Amber Rose, your fates are now tied.  Oh, how this will be sporting.”

“How do you know my name?” Amber Rose asked.

“Ah, an excellent question!  Your former associate, Colleen, was killed by Mr. Hamilton after she discovered his stone during a late-night romp one evening.”

“Oh my God,” she said, placing her hands over her mouth.  “Oh my God, Colleen?”

  Victor began writing furiously in his notebook.  “You will need to see a man in New York City.  Just tell him I sent you, and repeat the phrase on this paper.  He will outfit you with all you need.  This Wage Pascal is a dangerous fellow, and you will need all the help you can get.”  Dr. Victor Mamba ripped off the piece of paper from his pad and handed it to Simon.  Amber Rose reached around and snatched it first.  “Our enemies are on the move, and you two are about to be on the front lines.  Come with me now,” Victor continued.  He gathered up his effects and walked back to the road, whistling an uplifting tune as he did.

Hesitantly, Simon and Amber Rose followed him to the Touring Car and climbed inside.  Victor sat in the driver’s seat and checked his watch again.  He nodded and placed the watch back in his pocket.  Jonathan Hamilton’s gun went off, scattering every bird within a quarter mile.  His body slumped to the side at an odd, grotesque angle.

Victor Mamba started the car and chauffeured the newest disciples back to town.

Wage W. Pascal

August 11, 1914

Battle Creek Sanitarium

Battle Creek, Michigan

“How do I look, William?” Wage asked as he adjusted the vest of his charcoal grey, three-piece suit.

“Like a thousand bucks,” Bill replied.

They stood just down the street from the sanitarium, a collection of four white buildings that jutted out like the points of a star surrounding one very large gymnasium.  The main building—the northern point of the star—was four stories high and resembled an American Parthenon; a mixture of Greek columns, Midwest masonry, and European paneled windows.  It was framed by the verdant leaves of the elms and cottonwoods that shaded the city of Battle Creek. 

“Well, I do believe it’s time to make a donation,” Wage said.  “Let us commence with this afternoon’s activities.”  He adjusted his matching grey derby hat and scratched his bare chin.  His full beard had been groomed into something distinctly more aristocratic, a horseshoe mustache that curved into perfectly symmetrical mutton chops.  Wage considered the barber to be quite the Michelangelo, painstakingly sculpting and meticulously plucking out rogue gray hairs one by one.  The haircut and grooming was costly, but not as costly as the new tailored suit Wage had purchased for the occasion. 

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’ Bill 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.