Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (29 page)

Wage peeked around the entryway again.  A bullet screamed above him.  Hodges stood up behind his chair and shakily aimed his revolver.  He pulled the trigger.  Wage couldn’t tell if the bullet was a dud or the young man had forgot to pull the hammer back.  Either way, Wage put two quick shots through his chest.  Hodges dropped to his knees, and like a wounded animal, found a quiet place to die.  He chose the inside of the fireplace behind him. 

“One down, three to go, William,” Wage said.  Ol’ Bill finished reloading his double-barreled shotgun and fired another blast, this time at the staircase.  Although unharmed, the shot forced Khalid to the ground, where he fumbled his own revolver. 

“Let’s make for the exit, Cap’n,” Ol’ Bill yelled.  “I’ll cover you.”

Wage stuck his gun around and blindly fired three more shots.  He emptied his shell casings from the cylinder and started to reload.  “Sure thing, William.  Let me just take one more shot at old One-Eye.”  Wage leaned around the entryway again, standing on his tiptoes.  He couldn’t see the Baron.  Khalid had recovered his gun and slid behind another chair.  Wage fired a shot through the chair, narrowly missing the Algerian before resuming his stance in the foyer.

“Time to move, Cap’n,” Ol’ Bill yelled.

“One more shot, William,” Wage yelled back, gripping Ol’ Snapper
with two hands.  He took another deep breath and nodded to his old friend and trusty sergeant. 

And that’s when he heard another blast.  Another shotgun.  Not Ol’ Bill’s.

Wage arched his eyebrows.  He looked toward the living room, then looked back at Bill. 

Bill smiled.  His teeth were red, holding back blood that bubbled up from his throat. “Sorry, Wage,” he uttered before another blast ripped through the wall and into his back.  Ol’ Bill slumped over and fell to the ground, streaking the white wall with a wide crescent of blood.

“NOOOOOOOOO!”  Wage screamed.

A shotgun blast roared through the wall right next to him. The debris from the wall and the exploding statue on the other side forced him to move.  He ran for the front door, still open from when they forced their way in, and slid along on his back on the smooth marble floor.  He heard the shots from Khalid’s revolver ring out.  When he slid past the threshold, he turned to his stomach and fired every round he had at Khalid and the mezzanine, where the Baron stood reloading his shotgun.  None of his shots reaching their intended targets—his position by the front door was too far away and was at an unfavorable angle. 

Wage looked at his old friend once more.  Ol’ Bill’s chest quivered as he lay on his side staring back at Wage, seeing only the piss-ant 17-year-old boy who he trained to be a soldier.  Trained to be an officer.  He saw his oldest friend.  He saw his only friend.  He saw Wage as another son, who he also trained to be a man.

His last thoughts were of his wife Delilah and the ranch back home in Oklahoma.  The unpredictability of life and the cruelty of chance.  His brother, Jimmy.  His sister, Ruth.  Ol’ Bill Jr., his son who was taken from this earth far too soon.  All he ever knew was order.  In the saddle, he remembered the air warming, becoming hot, before cooling, and becoming cold again.  Ol’ Bill’s body started to go cold.

Wage saw his friend’s eyes begin to gloss over, a milky glaze that he had seen on so many dying men’s eyes before.  It wasn’t glorious.  It wasn’t romantic.  It wasn’t what little boys dreamed of when they imagined gallantly dying in battle. 

It was cruel.  And it was visceral.  And it hurt like goddamn hell.       

And then, Sergeant 1
st
Class William Macdonough—the soldier, the husband, the father, the poet, the gentleman, the friend—died.

Mink Callahan

August 16, 1914

Gartrell Taxidermy

New York, New York

Mink lay naked, her body drenched in sweat that ran down to the crisp white fur beneath her.  The bearskin rug was massive, easily 10 feet long with a roaring head at her feet.  It was the first time she had ever seen an actual polar bear, or at least the shell of one. 

Quincey lay next to her on his back, eyes closed, arms crossed against his bare chest holding up the thin sheet that shielded them both from the chilly draft that flowed through his massive workshop, even in August. 

Gartrell Taxidermy had a modest entrance off 86
th
Street in Manhattan.  A prospective customer walking in would see only a small, maple-paneled sitting room with high, south-facing windows allowing ample sunlight.  A couch and two chairs with a dark wood stain and forest-green upholstery surrounded a large oak desk.  Above the desk and on the far wall, mounted on clay shelves painted to look like rock and tree bark, was a three-dimensional mural with perfectly recreated animals, a scene captured from the Rocky Mountains of Colorado and suspended in time.  A snarling mountain lion with gleaming yellow eyes threating a scavenging fox.  Above them, a medley of birds and squirrels cautiously watched from faux tree branches.  To the right of the nature scene were large wooden double doors that looked more at home in a medieval castle.  The doors led to the cavernous workshop where Quincey lived and worked.  The doors were also wide enough to wheel out the largest of animals into the sitting room on the movable stage Quincey had built himself.  He always added a touch of intrigue by draping the animals in a velvet cover and unveiling them in dramatic fashion.

Mink took inventory of everything around her.  The workshop, bare and gray with trestle tables and exotic tools everywhere, was a menagerie of mounted animals in various stages of development.  Eagles, elephant heads, crocodiles, catfish, roaring bears, grazing deer, a toothless bobcat, and an eyeless water buffalo filled the area.  Everything, including a small mattress in the corner, was stuffed, or about to be.  Everything save for Raja, the Bengal tiger, very much alive, who slept peacefully in his cage.  He was the great beast that Quincey brought back from India for the Bronx Zoo.  The nearly year-long expedition paid for by someone he would not reveal.  The beasts he killed on that expedition, he would soon prepare for the Smithsonian.

“What are you looking at, honeybee?” Quincey asked, staring at the ceiling.

“That one there, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Without looking, he knew which one she was referring to.  It was a giant eagle with black feathers, predatory eyes, flaring talons, and angled wings. But peculiarly, it had the body, legs, and unmistakable tale of a golden lion.  “It’s a gryphon.”  The great beast was suspended in the air by four cables halfway between the floor and the two-story-high ceiling. 

“There is no other like it,” Mink said.

“They don’t sell anymore, the mythical animals.  They haven’t been in favor for half a century now.  Not that it matters, though, I never intended to sell it.”

“Why is that?”

“Because.”

“Because why, Quincey?”

“Because,” he said as he stretched and placed his arms under his head.  “I like it.”

“So you made it because you like it.”

“Yep.”

“I don’t believe you.  I think it means something to you,” she said. She turned and pressed her body against his.  They kissed.

After releasing her, he admitted, “It’s a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“That I can’t hunt them all.  When I see it every day, it reminds me there is more to this life than hunting and stuffing God’s magnificent creatures.”

“Why, Quincey Gartrell, I had no idea you were so sentimental.”

“Yeah, well . . .”

“So tell me, what have you discovered that’s more important than hunting and stuffing?” she asked.

“You,” he said without hesitating.

She said nothing. 

They made love again.

She had told him nearly everything that night on the train.  They sat in his cabin and she talked to him as Mink, not Michael, until the early morning hours.  She took off her hat, messed her hair, and told him how she ended up a young man on a train bound for New York City.  She started with her marriage to Ronald Thomason IV.  The uplifting of her station.  Her boredom with a loveless marriage.  Between her father and husband, how she knew the ins and outs of the railroad industry.  Her idea.  Her first train robbery.  A disaster that ended with her jumping from the train and breaking her arm.  Her new idea. A quick change. Hiding in plain sight.  No one suspected a lady.  No one would suspect the wife of a railroad mogul.  Giving all the score to charity, to St. Catherine’s.  Watching the increase in ridership on her husband’s trains.  She told him about Reginald.  She told him about the night on
Artemis.
  The gunshots.  Her husband, if you could truly call him that, dead.  Her plunge into Lake Michigan.  Her flight.  Her transformation to Michael.  The steel mill.  Her sister and her upcoming wedding. 

At the end of her story, she cried.  He consoled her.  They kissed.  They made love.  The first time she made love to a man since Wage.

“I am going to see my sister,” she announced, still lying on the bearskin rug.

“Would you like me to come with you, honeybee?” he replied.

“No, it’s not necessary.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure, thank you.”  She kissed him before retrieving her clothes, which lay over a stuffed spotted leopard in a prowling pose.  She wore the navy blue dress with patterned lace, the one Quincey bought for her when they first departed the train.  Then she went to the washroom to do her hair, pin on a small purple hat, and put on her makeup with the small kit that Quincey also bought her.  It felt good to paint her face with something other than grease and soot.  Finally, she squeezed the pump of the glass perfume bottle all around her.  He had surprised her last night with the lily-scented fragrance.

“How do I look?” Mink asked.

“Radiant,” he replied, still relaxing on the bearskin rug.  “You’re sure I can’t accompany you?”

“It is 1914, Quincey; a lady may walk down the street without the company of man if she wishes.”  Mink placed her Steyr-Hahn pistol in her new purse and winked at Quincey.

“Where have you been all my life, honeybee?”

Mink blew him a kiss and with a newfound energy, bounded out the door for the streets of New York, headed for the return address written on the last letter her sister had sent her.

She rode the Manhattan subway to the east end before transferring to the trolley line that took her over Queensboro Bridge.  She got off at the 21
st
Street stop and walked the few blocks north to a sandstone apartment complex with distinctly Baroque angles on the corner.  The vigilant doorman eyed her suspiciously as she walked into the tiled lobby.  He inquired as to her business in the building.  She inquired as to the whereabouts of her sister.  “The tennis tournament,” the doorman replied.

After catching another trolley and then a handsome cab over to 70
th
Avenue, she made her way up the groomed dirt path to the Tudor-style clubhouse where men and women, all in straw hats, toiled about the grounds picking weeds, watering plants, and mowing grass.  A sign by the entry stairs read “West Side Tennis Club.”  She could hear the crowds around back gathering for the start of the tournament.  She paid the 10-cent spectator fee and made her way to back porch that opened wide to a sea of grass tennis courts.  Hordes of well-dressed people sipped iced teas with lemon wedges and cheered intermittently as two men, dressed in sparkling white tennis outfits, volleyed in preparation for their match.  A grandstand was erected to either side of the patio so as not to obstruct the viewers who preferred to watch the event from the shade of the massive awning.

Mink scanned the rapidly filling grandstands from a shaded spot on the patio.  It had been four years since she had seen her sister last, and she feared she would not recognize her.  It was hard enough because every country-club lady wore some kind of sunhat that ranged from simple to gaudy.  But leaning against the corner post that held up the great awning, she spotted her sister.  She wore a mid-length ivory dress of net and lace with a set of pearls that hung to just below her waist.  Sheen white stockings ran down to faded beige boots.  Her rounded hat, hiding wavy blonde locks, had a brim that drooped everywhere but above her eyes—eyes that Mink couldn’t see clearly at the moment but knew to be pale blue dotted with hazel.  Eyes that, at the moment, probably conveyed the same frustrating apathy she displayed as a child.  Mink guessed this because her sister was staring into the sky, her legs and arms crossed, smoking a cigarette from a sleek, black holder, ignoring the shouts and screams from other spectators as the match had just begun.

“Andi?” Mink said softly.

Her sister did not respond.

“Andi,” she repeated.

“No one calls me that anymore,” she said, not moving her eyes, blowing smoke into the awning.

“Andromeda Callahan!  You look at your only sister this instant!”

“Minerva?” Andromeda finally acknowledged, emotion now filling her eyes, while tears filled in Mink’s.  “Oh Mink, it
is
you!”  Andromeda stood upright and embraced her sister.  “The papers said you were dead!  Drowned is what they said.”

“I know.”

“Devil be damned, Mink, did you kill your husband?” Andromeda asked with more fascination than concern.  Her Cajun accent was almost entirely gone.

“Keep your voice down, Andi, honestly.  And for God’s sake, no!  I did not kill my husband.  It’s a long story, all right, and this really isn’t the venue.”  Mink’s Cajun accent always came back when she was angry.

“Okay, okay, don’t get your bloomers in a bind.  Come on, let’s find a seat.”  The two of them made their way to a small table nearby and Andromeda ordered two mint juleps.  It was a little early for alcohol, Mink thought, but the taste of the sweet bourbon that cooled her lips overruled the silly notion. 

“It is good to see you, sister,” Andromeda said.  “I was downright saddened by the news of your passing.”

“I am sorry I didn’t contact you sooner, but it was complicated.  I—”

“I didn’t host a funeral for you,” Andromeda interrupted.  “I hope you’re not mad at me.”

“Andi, of course I’m not mad at you.  Besides,” Mink said and smiled. “You, Uncle Danny, and Aunt Margery would have been the only ones in attendance.”

“Actually, Uncle Danny and Aunt Margery moved.”

“Where to?”

“Australia”

“What?”

“Another harebrained scheme of his to get rich.  Wants to build a gravity coaster there, like the ones at Coney Island.”     

“Oh, well.  I guess it would have been just you then, and . . .  wait a minute . . . your fiancé—I almost entirely forgot for a moment.”

Andromeda nodded toward the tennis match.  “Behold, Prince Charming, Lord of the Racquet.”

Mink looked over.  Through the crowd, she caught glimpses of the well-built young man returning the ball with a devastating forehand.  After scoring, he paraded the court like a victorious barbarian with a racquet and perfect hair.  “He seems . . . nice.” 

“Nice,” Andromeda laughed.  “Believe me, that word is not seen above their family crest.”

“Andi, honestly!”

“I told you, no one calls me that anymore.”  Andromeda lit another cigarette and looked the most grown up Mink had ever seen her.

“What do you mean, no one calls you that?”

“Oh, Prince Charming thinks it sounds too juvenile.  Doesn’t want a child’s name associated with the Randolph family.  So everyone calls me Andromeda, or Miss Callahan, but usually just ‘the future Mrs. Morris Randolph
.’
”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Rich people don’t have names, Mink, they have titles.  They have roles.  I thought you of all people would have known that,
Mrs. Ronald Thomason the Fourth
.”

“Andi!”

“I told you, no one calls me that anymore.”

“Fine,
Andromeda.
There is no reason for such insincerity, please.”

More cheers erupted.

“Oh, I can’t wait for you to meet the Randolph family.  You let me know if ‘sincerity’ comes to your mind.”

“Andromeda.”

After a brief sigh she said, “First you will meet Morris, my fiancé, and general counsel for Randolph Industries, where his father, Marshall, is President and CEO.

“Randolph Industries, that sounds familiar.”

“Salt mining mostly, but they have their hands in everything now because they will never face criminal prosecution from the state of New York.”

“Why?”

“Because you haven’t met Uncle Henry, the District Attorney for New York.  His son James was recently elected to the state senate.  His other son, Aaron, is a lieutenant and rising star in the NYPD, on the fast track to becoming Commissioner one day, like their other uncle, John ‘Black Jack’ Randolph.”