The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (38 page)

“I never would have expected it, either,” Queen replied, taking a quick swallow. It burned sweetly in his stomach, and he felt his nerves relax a little with the sensation. Ames emptied his glass, his tension seeming to release as he leaned back in his chair.

“Tom Cahill protected me, during the war. Did he tell you that?”

“A little, but no details.”

“There was a situation, a serious one. I had sent out a squad of scouts, but ordered them well past enemy lines. Mistakenly, I might add. Only Tom Cahill survived. His sharpshooting skills saved his life, and when he returned, he saved my career from ruin.”

“How so?”

“My commanding officers accused me of poor judgment, and blamed me for needlessly putting my men in harm’s way. Tom Cahill testified that my decision was justified. He lied for me.” Ames’s eyes widened at the memory, and he reached for the bottle again, filling his glass to the very top this time. “And later, when I came down with a grave illness and attempted to pull myself from duty, he vouched for me again, even when others accused me of cowardice. I owe him my career.”

“And you feel honor-bound to protect him now.”

“Of course I do, Queen. But I worry about him for other reasons too.”

“And what are they?”

“Take another drink, Queen. You’ll need it for this.” He poured another round, but poorly this time. Ames’s hand shook as he handled the bottle. Is it the alcohol that’s turning the colonel into a bowl of oatmeal, Queen wondered, or the burden of this secret?

“That’s better,” Ames said, draining another glass whole. “Here is the plain deal, Queen. Cahill doesn’t have aspirations for marriage. He isn’t attracted to women like a normal man. When we were in the Philippines, I found him, late one night, in his tent, cavorting with a native boy. They were in an embrace, without clothing. I left in a hurry, I will tell you right now. It was very upsetting.”

So Cahill is a snipper-snapper, Queen thought. A little Miss Nancy. Another little gem of information to make his life that more difficult.

“When I confronted him about it the next day, he broke down in tears. He swore he would not do it again. Actions such as these simply cannot take place in the Army, and it horrified me to even contemplate such sin, but he was remorseful. I gave him another chance, as he had given me. We developed a bond of secrets. Now, you’ve been let in on them.”

Queen was at sea. “What does all of this have to do with your concern for him now?”

“Weeks ago, before he officially joined the force, I was given a message from a fellow officer who had served with the both of us. This man frequents resorts in this city with regularity. He claimed he saw Tom fawning over a boy and was sure it was more than a simple friendship between young men.”

“Well, Colonel, if what you say is correct—and don’t get me wrong, I don’t condone such goings-on—but if in fact it’s true, I don’t see a reason to come down hard on the kid. I don’t personally give a damn what he does, as long as he keeps it to himself.”

The police superintendent’s face drooped into a sloppy mix of sadness and anxiety. “Queen, he was spotted at Emil Dander’s brothel. I fear, now, that he may be mixed up with that girl’s murder. I tried to keep him from that case, and to dissuade you from involving him, but I don’t know now. Everything is spiraling out of my control. He’s like a son to me.”

Son of a bitch. This was not a turn Queen had expected.

“What kind of rifles did your men use during the war? What did Tom carry?” Queen asked him, the words tumbling from his tongue.

The colonel blinked. “Trapdoor M1889s. Rotten pieces of equipment.”

“Why is that?”

“They still used black powder, not like a good smokeless Krag. When you fire one, it kicks up a thick white smoke that an enemy can spot. Those damn rifles are no good for firing from cover.”

“What kind of cartridge does it use?”

“.45-70. Why do you ask?”

Queen felt in his suit pocket for the bullet Norbeck had given to him, the one he hadn’t returned to the morgue. He touched its tip, blunted from impact, and then held it out at the Colonel.

“This was the bullet found in her chest. Could this have been fired from Cahill’s rifle?”

Ames stared at it, transfixed, and then slowly nodded.

Could it really have been Cahill? The little boy he had encountered near the dead girl’s body had mentioned a cloud, but Queen had thought he was gibbering about seeing white smoke in the middle of the night sky. Maybe it had been the puff from a military rifle? Cahill was an expert marksman, after all. More pieces came flowing from his head, fitting together like a diabolical puzzle.

The only boy Dander employed had been Ollie. Who else could Ames’s officer friend have seen with Cahill, except for Ollie? The dead girl had been found wearing Ollie’s jacket. Could Tom Cahill have been trying to kill Ollie in a fit of jealousy? Had the dead girl been the victim of mistaken identity? Of all people, Cahill seemed to have a firm head on his shoulder; not prone to anger like Ames. Or like himself. It seemed so damn far-fetched, but the evidence was saying something different.

And here he thought Cahill had been searching for Gottschalk, but perhaps it was Ollie he really wanted.

Christ Almighty.

He stumbled from his chair, and the liquor shot up to his brain to stoke the coals of his already raging headache. He slid the badge off the desk and dropped it into his pocket.

“I know where Tom Cahill is going,” he told the dumbfounded colonel, slamming the door as he left.

CHAPTER 13

T
IME WAS SHORT, BUT
Q
UEEN
didn’t care. He stalked through the police assembly room like a caged tiger, backing officers against the walls, until he fixed on a sullen-looking figure at a desk in the corner, applying carbolic acid salve to his nose. The man screamed as Queen kicked the chair out from under him, then held his hair, backhanding him again and again until a couple of brave patrolmen stepped in and yanked Queen away.

Norbeck stared up, aghast at the surprise attack, and limply put up his fists. Queen was already a safe distance away from him, his arms gripped tightly by the officers.

“What in God’s name were you thinking, Chris?” Queen barked, bits of drool flying from the corner of his mouth. “You beat up an old man in the street!”

“Hell, Harm.” Norbeck grinned. “You hit like a girl.”

“I hit you like that because you can’t take a full lick.” Queen wriggled his arms free from the officers and wiped his hands on his shirt. “You and that disgusting shit on your face. I got it all over my hands.”

“I can take care of that,” Norbeck said. He relaxed from his crouch and took out his handkerchief, extending it towards Queen. Queen, with a resigned sigh, grabbed it and wiped it on his shirt.

“It’s eating through my goddamn clothing.”

“Sorry, Harm.”

“All right, Chris. Get up.”

Norbeck stood, turned his chair upright, and promptly plopped back down in it. “I shouldn’t a’ done that, I know. I just got carried away with myself. He’s old for certain, but tough as nails. Look what he did to me!” He turned his head to reveal a swollen cauliflower ear.

Queen raised an eyebrow. “That’s impressive,” he said.

“I know,” Norbeck replied with a nod. “And I went too far on him. Something just snapped in my head when he wouldn’t come with me. Is there anything, you think, I can do to make it up to the old bag o’ bones?”

“Yeah,” said Queen. “Return his pistols and apologize. Offer your help. Whatever he needs. Wipe his ass if he wants you to.”

A ripple of laughter came from the onlooking officers. Norbeck winked to the room and grinned widely.

“I’ll bring him back his guns, Harm. Maybe a bottle of something strong too, to ease the pain.”

“Good,” Queen said. His head was clearer now, and this was one more thing off his chest. He slugged Norbeck hard on the shoulder as he passed him, wiped the dribble of spit from his chin, and made his way out into the Minneapolis afternoon, first to get the hobo Milwaukee Jim, and second to go to Nininger, wherever the hell that was.

It had been so easy, snatching it as it slept, and now Gottschalk carried his new love and joy under his arm, along the river’s edge. He indulged himself in the sensations of the slashing winter wind, blowing off the water against his skin. Everything was going according to divine plan, slipping deliciously into place. He brushed its hair with his hand as he moved, feeling the soft curls with the tips of his fingers. He hadn’t tired, because he knew Christ and Odin held him in their highest favor, and graced him with abilities normal men didn’t possess.

He’d reflected with great seriousness on whether to dispatch the two other things that lay there by the fire, next to his prushun, by slicing their throats or hammering their skulls until their brains seeped out and crackled in the fire. Their restful little naps had not been disturbed, though, because the men who ground the flour were still moving atop the bluffs, and he didn’t want any screaming to draw suspicion. So he simply whisked away the thing called Petey, covering its soft pink lips with his hand so their world might stay quiet. They could peacefully undertake their pilgrimage to a place of rest, soon to be theirs only, as it once was his before, a long time ago.

Their journey was not without complication, as men wandered along the banks at inauspicious places, impeding their progress, but he moved as if celestially shielded, even in the daylight’s cold glare. The path to his rebirth was clear, as it had been during times past. This time it required the purity of youth. This rebirth was especially significant because it was connected by brothers. One to die and the other to live anew. Both were in his possession, and now only the home of his childhood and the words of the Sage were required for his transformation.

One step after the next he went, over rocks and logs and icy creeks emptying into the river, through jagged branches that reached out to claw at their bodies, but never quite touched. He had chosen to walk the entire way, perhaps twenty-five miles or more, and had not required a moment’s rest, except to give water to his prushun, cradling the liquid in his hand and saying a prayer before carefully pouring it in its mouth. It had cried softly for the first few miles of their journey, but he had never worried. They always cried at first, once they realized the lives they knew were about to be swept away in favor of a holier existence. It was so, too, with this one named Petey. Now, as he glanced down at its face, it slept, lulled to its slumber by the soft movement of their travel.

The sun was in the west as he approached the woodlands surrounding their home, and made his way through the leafless trees and across the soft, white ground. All was blessedly silent, save the wind, still harsh but steadily lessening its power. The cold wind energized him and he reveled in its wicked beauty, but he remained intensely aware of the boy. He wanted it to continue its sleep until his arrangements were laid.

They went up the road through what had once been the village’s main street. A few houses still stood, remnants of long ago, back to the time when he had played with his sister in the wide roads. The houses had been neglected, entangled with trees and brush and weeds. Allowed to challenge his memories of what once was.

The one house still intact and cared for, untouched by time, was home to the Sage. It stood like an oasis in the desert, a beacon in the wilderness. Glorious, God be praised.

It stood alone, separated from the other houses, surrounded by a majestic grove of trees. He climbed the steps to its broad veranda, caressing the door handle before turning it and entering the hallowed space.

It was a house out of time and place, a refuge for those who desired to learn and advance in their spiritual cultivation. His refuge now. Artifacts gathered from the far reaches of the earth were displayed in cabinets, in jars, on tables. Oval portraits of historical figures dotted the hallway walls. Passing those, he climbed the staircase to a small bedroom. It had been layered with dust when he’d arrived on the First of January, but he had meticulously scrubbed it clean for his little one’s arrival. With great care, he laid his precious possession onto the bed, careful not to disturb its sleep. There. It could slumber in oblivion until the night came, and with it the time for its holy transformation.