The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (44 page)

“I’m going to get him.”

The boy kept sipping the warm water.

“What did he do to you, son?”

Ollie sat silent for a few seconds and then slowly scanned the direction he’d come from, as though he expected the German to materialize on the horizon.

“He had his way with me, sir. For five years he had his way with me. I thought I’d finally finished with him, and then he came back. Burned me first. Then tied me up in the bottom of a well.” He pulled back his sleeve, and showed the detective the blistered, crumbling skin on his forearm.

Queen shook his head, sickened by the sight.

Ollie finished a last swallow of water. The heat seemed to be giving him life, and he stood and began circling the fire, stretching his legs. “He’s been planning, for years, over what to do when the end of the world comes. He’s got a book that tells all about it. Once the comet hits, he always said, we’d be the only ones left. A king and his prince, is how he put it, but that was a long time ago. This second round, all he’s done is look at me with dead eyes. He was trying to break me, I think. Leave me in that well until I couldn’t do nothing. But he couldn’t.” Ollie looked proudly into the detective’s eyes. “I got out before he came back. I escaped. On my own.”

“That’s mighty impressive, kid.”

“He needed me for something, though. He kept saying it.” Ollie looked back the way he’d come, and shook his head. “I think he’s got my brother, too.”

“Your brother? Are you sure?”

“It’s just a feelin’ I got. He says he doesn’t want a tainted boy no more.” Ollie hung his head in shame. “He’s the one that did it to me in the first place.” He looked at Queen. “I don’t want what happened to me to happen to Petey. You can’t even imagine it.”

“Is Gottschalk there now?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. He wasn’t when I left. I haven’t seen him on the road, but he doesn’t use roads when he travels if he can help it.”

“Where is this well you escaped from?”

“In a town, just up ahead, sir. ‘Cept it’s not really a town, ‘cause there’s nothin’ in it besides ghosts and run-down old houses. There’s one house though, it’s bigger than the rest and in good shape. It sits away from the others, in a bunch of trees, close to the river’s edge. The well’s in the yard. Just follow this road. You’ll see a signpost that points to the right. Follow it to where the houses sit.”

Queen figured from his map that Nininger was still a good three miles away. At Ollie’s slow, stumbling pace, it might have been two or three hours since he’d left. Gottschalk could well be there now. Perhaps Tom Cahill, too, but the thought of mentioning his name to Ollie made him pause. The poor kid had already been through hell, and he didn’t want to add to his misery by mentioning Cahill’s infatuation with him. Still, Cahill was a murder suspect in Queen’s mind, and he needed to know where he was.

“Ollie, was there anyone else at this house?”

The boy frowned and wagged his head. “Someone like who? It was just him and me.”

“Listen, Ollie. There was a man who visited you at Dander’s place in Minneapolis. His name is Tom Cahill. I know he… well… was affected by you.”

Ollie cracked a big grin, the first Queen had seen that night. “Sure, I know Tom. He was real swell to me, and sometimes brought me sandwiches and bottles of pop.”

“Do you know he’s a detective now?”

He shrugged. “Nope, but it’s hard to believe. He seems too nice a fella to be a policeman.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Maybe three weeks ago? It was a busy night, and he wanted to talk, but I didn’t have time. He just left, and that was it.”

“Did he ever try to make any unseemly advances?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ollie said with a sad little laugh. “Said he’d give me money and buy me things if I laid down with him. That happened every night for two weeks. Then it just stopped and I didn’t see him no more.”

“Does that bother you? Getting attention from men?”

“Lots of men that liked boys came to the house, and they’d try to give me money and touch me, and have me touch them. But the hell if I’ll do that for anything but love.”

“So you never—”

“I don’t feel like talkin’ about this no more. I like girls when I’ve got a choice in the matter.”

Queen winced inside at Ollie’s words, but kept his expression neutral. He didn’t want Ollie to think he would judge the kid, but his stomach turned sour at the idea that a fifteen-year-old boy could take this conversation so lightly.

“Was he jealous?”

“Of what? Of me? I guess I never gave it a thought. Maybe, but I don’t know why. Maisy was the girl for me.” His smile turned wistful, and he whistled a bar of something sweet. “She liked it when I whistled that song.”

“Ollie, her name wasn’t really Maisy. Did you know that?”

He showed genuine surprise. “No, what was it?”

“I was hoping you might know, but evidently you don’t. It doesn’t matter right now. What’s important is that you scoot out of here and go home. You need to check on your brother and your mother.” He took out his notebook and a pencil and wrote in it, tore out the page and handed it to him. “This is an address of a friend of mine, named Peder. If you get into any kind of trouble, or need a place to sleep, I want you to go here. He’s ace-high, and sound as a goose. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes sir, I do.”

“Good.” Queen took the horse’s reins and handed them to Ollie, along with five one-dollar bills from the roll in his pocket. “Ride this horse back to the Hastings depot and tie it on the north side. Buy a ticket with this money and a good dinner when you can, and don’t let anyone stop you. Can you do it?”

“I can.” Ollie stepped in the stirrup and swung himself over.

“Ride safely, Ollie, and don’t stop for anyone. If someone tries to get in your way, ignore them and just go past.” Queen slapped the horse’s rump to send it on its way. Ollie nodded, turned, and galloped off towards Hastings.

The stars were out, and with them blackness. Queen followed the road, alternating walking and running for the next three miles. He paused only to catch his breath and battle the bite of cold that lashed at his lungs and made him wheeze and cough. Finally, with both relief and a little dread, he saw the faded wooden sign pointing to the old village of Nininger, just as Ollie had promised, and turned down the narrow road.

And as Ollie had described, a few dilapidated buildings lined an overgrown street. A grove of tall trees stood at the end, and under them the shadow of a large house. He could make out the river farther on, and even the bluffs on the opposite side were still visible in the darkness. Queen stepped cautiously, shotgun in hand, and crept along a sloping hill for protection, even though he felt confident the night would hide him. He made for the trees and the house. As he got closer, he noticed lights on both floors, smothered by curtains. Someone is home, he thought. And it certainly wasn’t Ignatius Donnelly.

He circled the home, watching the yard for signs of life, but saw nothing moving. He crossed a line of footprints and followed them to an old stone well. This must be the same one Ollie mentioned, he thought. He strained his eyes into the black hole, looking for movement.

Empty.

And then he noticed blood smeared on the well’s edge. The bucket, still on its rope, lay on its side in the trampled snow. He picked it up. A streak of blood on it, too. Curious.

Queen was cold without his overcoat, and the gun’s metal stuck to his palm. He wished to God he had a nip of whiskey to take away this chill. His head was already pounding from forced abstinence. He moved as quietly as he could towards the house, trying to keep crouched, watching intently for the slightest movement in the windows. Listening for the smallest sound, he heard only the whistle of wind and a crow’s far-off cackle.

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he caught the tiniest flicker of light. It wasn’t coming from any house or building, but seemed to originate near a hulking black mass. As he approached, the shape became clear. It was a huge pile of wood, arranged in pyramid fashion. The light came from a greasy lantern sitting nearby. He pointed the shotgun and moved toward the pile, watching for the jump of a shadow that might spell danger.

The oddly-shaped mound of wood had been stacked dry, and a maze of footprints was mashed into the snow around it. Somebody has been working hard on this recently, Queen figured. He crept around its perimeter, searching for anything resembling a clue.

Circling back around to the lantern, he heard a muffled sound. First, faint pounding, then a low-pitched wail. Someone was crying from inside the pile, he was sure of it. He listened for where the sound was clearest, and began pulling off chunks of wood, tossing them behind him. Christ, he thought, as the crying got louder. Somebody is buried underneath here.

The next few pieces he threw off revealed a box’s wooden edge. A few more chunks gone and he was looking at the face of Tom Cahill. Small boards were nailed across the box to prevent his escape but let in air, and Tom blinked back at Queen, his eyes wet and his glasses gone.

“Who is it? I can’t see! Who’s there?” Cahill cried out.

“Harm Queen, kid. What the hell is this?”

“He plans to set it on fire. It’s a funeral pyre, I think. Can you smell the kerosene? He poured it all over me, along with the rest of the woodpile. He talks in riddles and gibberish. He’s much stronger than he looks.” Cahill’s eyes darted from Queen to the blackness behind him. “He’ll be back soon. He carries a claw hammer, sir.” Queen noted Tom’s bloody fingers sticking through the cracks and grimaced.

“Aw, hell, Cahill,” Queen muttered, shaking his head. He kept removing the firewood, hand over shoulder, until a good third of the box was uncovered. It wasn’t actually a box, he began to realize, but a pig trough. With the shotgun’s barrel, he tried to pry off a board, but it wasn’t budging. He set the gun down and grabbed the end of the trough, pulling as hard as he could. It was just too heavy, no give at all.

“I’ll get you out of here, kid, as quick as I can.” The shotgun back in his hand, he tried again to force a board loose.

“How did you know I was here?” Cahill asked. His teeth chattered as he spoke, and his eyes were moist and earnest.

“Your hobo friend told me.” Queen leaned hard against the shotgun’s stock and heard nails squeak as they loosened. “Once I get this one off, let’s try and slip you out.”

A footstep fell behind him, soft like a cat, barely audible, and Queen yanked out the shotgun from the box. Cahill screamed, staring at whatever was behind him. Whatever it was had the upper hand.

The hammer ripped down just as he twisted around, missing his head by inches, but smashed into his knee instead. The pain seared his flesh and made him fall backwards. The man bearing the weapon had fleshy lips, and ears that looked too big for his head. His brow creased with predatory concentration, which forced his eyes into savage slits. Queen knew this was Gottschalk. This was what Queen imagined a demon might look like, from the pictures in his children’s Bible from Sunday school. The hammer rose again and came down ferociously, but Queen willed himself to roll out of the way. He felt the air and heard the buzz as it missed his ear. As the weapon fell, Queen lifted the shotgun, reaching for the trigger while aiming, a difficult move he thought he could manage, but his adversary was much too fast. Gottschalk kicked the shotgun hard, and it flew from Queen’s hands and into the darkness. Queen grabbed the lantern by its handle and swung it wildly at Gottschalk, who bent back with ease to dodge the blow. The lantern hit the woodpile, its glass chimney shattering. The flame leapt onto the kerosene-soaked wood, instantly igniting it. As the fire caught the breeze it swelled with a roar, skipping across the pyre. Black smoke rose through the licking flames and smeared the air.

“The fire was mine to start, minion of despots!” Gottschalk cried. “It must be done by me for the effect to be complete!”

Queen saw the kick coming and tried to cover his face, but the boot’s hard toe slammed through his arms and into his head. He sprawled backward next to the burning woodpile, his face next to the pig trough where Cahill lay.

The man pulled off his shirt, exposing a grizzled, muscled body of what Queen guessed might be a man of fifty. Gottschalk whipped the shirt over the flames, putting them out while snarling under his breath.

Queen saw his chance and dived towards the discarded shotgun, ignoring the pain in his knee and ear, but the man saw him move and kicked again, this time in his shoulder, knocking him hard to the ground. The snow and ice stung at his hands and face. Gottschalk snatched up the shotgun and tossed it atop the woodpile, then pulled from his pocket a small brass box. He lifted open the cap and turned the screw on the side. After three clicks, the flame from the lighter erupted, and he held it under his chin so the orange light lit his face like a monster from the pits of hell.

“From the prophetic writings of the great Sage,” he recited, eyes dimmed but still intensely alert. “When the Age of Ragnarok arrives, a great battle shall play out before the world. The halls of Valhalla will empty and the gods of Asgard will fly down from their thrones and stand at the right hand of Jesus Christ. As the battle to end all battles ensues, the world shall be engulfed in a fiery inferno, for a Great Comet from the heavens will bear down on the world to snuff its pernicious, damnable sins.”