Butcher's Road (39 page)

“I guess not,” Butch said.

“Oh, what that must feel like,” she said. “The power of the Galenus Rose in your fingers, your hands.”

“But what does it do?”

“It is said to be a protective icon,” Dauphine said. “The Galenus Rose was named for a prominent physician of Ancient Greece. He was revered in his time for the advances he made in anatomy and physiology. Like myself, he tenaciously pursued knowledge of his given field but his concern was for the physical and emotional state of man, not the preternatural forces surrounding him, as mine is. In the simplest terms, the Rose is supposed to cure and to heal.”

Butch considered all that he’d been through since having received the thing—the nick in his ear, the sickness, the fresh burns on his chest and arm—and it became clear that whatever power the Galenus Rose possessed, it was being more than stingy with it. Maybe there had been a mistake—a similar icon with different properties.

“Well, it’s not working,” Butch said. He stood up and began to pace the room. His legs ached from his time on the low seat, and he needed to stretch out the muscles.

“The only real experts in such matters are the Alchemi,” Dauphine said. “The man who explained all of this to me was one of their scholars, and he knows far more about the metals than I do.”

Butch thought of Delbert Keane and his anxiety returned. Dauphine wasn’t likely to take kindly to the fact he’d all but murdered the man—if indeed she was talking about Keane—so he kept his eyes on the floor and asked, “What is the Alchemi?”

“The Alchemi are the collectors and the keepers of the metals,” Dauphine said. “I would imagine they are very eager to have the Galenus Rose returned.”

“A lot of people want this thing.”

“But it
belongs
to them. They will pursue you to the ends of the earth to retrieve it. They are obsessed. The friend I mentioned certainly was. Night after night he’d speak about this object or that object—a knife, a ring, a child’s toy, a woman’s hatpin—and he described them with a loving detail that bordered on mania. He spoke freely because he knew he could trust me, though I felt certain I could not trust him.”

“Why is that?”

“I have a piece or two he would very much like to get his hands on. Even though he abandoned the order, due to personal failings, he remains devout, and given the chance, he would loot my treasures and send them off to one of the Alchemi’s vaults.”

“You said personal failings,” Butch noted. “What do you mean?”

“The men of power in that organization don’t just collect and protect the metals, they are also united with them, attuned to their energies. Keane believed that with study and practice, he would one day attune himself, but it never happened. It couldn’t. Like a talentless singer who practices for hours a day only to hear her voice degrade rather than improve, Keane had no innate facility, so his efforts proved futile. It wasn’t his fault. From what I’ve gathered, communion with the metals is rare and extremely random. It may pass down a family line, but it does so sporadically. A father may be wholly connected to the ore and his children may be completely deaf to its calling. Still, within the Alchemi there is a universal belief that one either carries the talent within them, or they don’t.”

“And your friend didn’t.”

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Marcoux. “But he has spent his life serving the order, so that’s where his loyalties lie. I knew I couldn’t trust him with the few items I’d gathered over the years. Without question he would have called his brethren and my treasures would have been confiscated.”

Mrs. Marcoux’s assessment of Keane seemed right on the money, but Butch couldn’t figure the emotional connection, if there was one, between this stunning woman and the man who had tried to kill him. As such Butch remained quiet about Keane’s death. The information wasn’t necessary.

“What about the Rose?” Butch asked.

“What do you feel when you hold it?”

“Nothing.”

“And yet I clearly saw you react to my special needles.”

“Maybe certain pieces only work for certain people,” Butch offered. “It may just not work for me.”

“That’s like saying a violin can only make sound for a talented musician. Certainly anyone can make the strings screech. Mr. Keane had a knife that could set items ablaze, and yet he didn’t possess an iota of talent for the metals. I can make my pins work, but I can’t feel them working.”

“What difference does it make, then?” Butch asked. “If these things work the same for everyone…”

“You misunderstand,” she said, “they work for everyone, but they don’t work the same way. Those that are attuned can create wonders beyond the basic capabilities of the metals. They are the prodigies and the maestros. They possess true talent.”

“So you’re saying I’m like one of these Alchemi guys?” Butch asked.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Marcoux said. “You have a talent for the metals. The Alchemi would be very interested in a man like you.”

“Terrific,” Butch said. “All of the people who take an interest in me lately are people who want me dead.”

“They aren’t likely to kill you if they know of your talent. There are far too few men and women so attuned.”

“Maybe so,” Butch said though he figured the Alchemi were the least of his problems right now. He was far more concerned with the men who carried guns. “I still don’t understand about the Galenus Rose.”

“Really?” Mrs. Marcoux asked. She seemed genuinely surprised. “I would have thought you’d have figured that out by now.”

“Figured
what
out?”

Mrs. Marcoux looked squarely in Butch’s eyes. “Mr. Cardinal, what you have is not the Galenus Rose. It’s a fake with no more value than a button or a marble or a half-penny nail.”

Butch followed a winding route back to Hollis’s. Rain pummeled the umbrella and soaked his trousers below the knees, but he was oblivious to the noise and discomfort. Even before Dauphine Marcoux had exposed the Rose as a fake, Butch had suspected it. And with this knowledge came Butch’s sense of total defeat. He couldn’t sell the Rose, couldn’t bargain with it. It was as disposable as he was.

Hollis had been right: trying to play life straight was a sucker’s game. The world was being run by liars and cheats who sold other men’s lives as easily as a baker sold his loaves of bread. Laws were bent, broken, and ignored because these men had power, because they had money. Humanity meant nothing. Logic and honor and compassion were cheap commodities, easily traded for petty comforts and distractions. The only things that mattered were guns and knives, silver and gold. A human being didn’t stand a chance in a world that worshipped metals.

Worse still, Butch knew he’d been no better than Powell or Impelliteri and this understanding only added to his desolation. He’d tried to play fair but it had failed him. So he’d allowed himself to bend in order to fit into the crooked world, but he’d botched that, too. Maybe there was no place for him, or his experiences had not properly prepared him to find it. What he knew was that he was done hiding. He knew he would not passively walk into a bullet the way Lonnie Musante had. Butch had been a fighter his entire life. If he was going to hit the mats he was going to break some heads on his way down.

Distracted by his thoughts, he walked past the street that would have taken him to Hollis’s house. He paused in the middle of the next block and searched the neighborhood, which was familiar, but still felt strange to him. The roads were empty. He was the only pedestrian on the walks. Homes and shops blurred and dulled by the downpour appeared sinister and vacant.

He crossed the road and headed back to the intersection. At the corner he turned right. Two men in black trousers and white shirts stood beneath an umbrella on the distant corner, and the sight of other men sharing this storm brought a momentary whisper of relief. Approaching the gate of Hollis’s home, Butch reached into his pocket for the key. As he did so, he threw another glance at the men and saw they were heading for him.

The guy in the lead, a tall, distinguished looking man, held an iron bar two feet long. The second man, a short and burly fireplug with his sleeves rolled up to reveal one muscular forearm and another that looked as if it belonged to a child, clutched a knife. Both men began to run when they saw him.

Butch spun on his heels and broke into a sprint. He released the handle of the umbrella and let it drift off behind him. Rain beat on his face, fouled his vision as drop after drop splashed against his eyes, but Butch didn’t slow. He made the corner and raced to the left. Behind him, he heard the slapping of shoes on the wet pavement, but he didn’t turn to check on his pursuers until he reached the next corner. There he was grateful to see he’d put distance between himself and the men. He continued running for two more blocks and then, after checking on the position of the men again, he made another left turn.

But then he stopped. He’d promised himself an end to the running. He’d promised himself a fight.

Butch pressed his shoulders to the side of a house and waited. When he heard the slap-slap, slap-slap, of approaching feet he inhaled deeply and spun away from the wall, swinging his arm like a bat.

The fireplug with the knife bolted around the corner. Butch hit him across the bridge of his nose with a forearm. The nose popped at impact. The shorter man’s feet went out from under him, kicking comically high into the air before the guy came down hard on his back. Butch drove his foot into the man’s side with two vicious kicks before stepping over him and meeting his taller pursuer at the corner.

Butch threw a punch to the distinguished man’s sternum. It stopped the guy cold. Butch followed this initial attack with three sharp jabs to the man’s cheek and jaw, which sent him crumpling to the ground. The length of steel in his hand clanked against the wet sidewalk before rolling into the gutter. Butch returned his attention to the shorter man, who had climbed onto his knees. Butch kicked him in the face, sending him back against the building. The shorter man grunted, but used the wall to support himself and rose to standing.

Under other circumstances, Butch might have admired the man’s constitution, but right now all he wanted was for the fucker to lie down and stay down. The guy still held his knife and he lifted it high. Butch saw the blades undulating, and realized it was Keane’s knife—the blade that had produced fire. The edges rippled and waved. It danced for the stocky man. These guys weren’t thugs, working for Impelliteri’s crew. These were members of the Alchemi.

The stocky man lunged forward with the knife, and Butch grabbed his wrist. At first his palm slipped and a flare of dread fired in Butch’s chest as the tip of the blade came within half an inch of his cheek, but he secured the grip and shoved the man back. The man threw his left fist, which was attached to the withered, child-sized arm, and Butch grasped that wrist as well, and for a moment the two men looked as if they were awkwardly working out dance steps. Butch secured the man’s left wrist, and his palm encountered a cold metallic surface, which quickly sent familiar energy up Butch’s arm. He turned his head and observed a copper-colored strip that wrapped around the scrawny arm like a pet snake. Butch clamped down as hard as he could on the metal and the wrist beneath it.

Then the copper ribbon began to unwind. It whipped away from the skin and bone, coming alive in Butch’s hand. The stocky man gasped, and his struggle weakened. Butch pushed him into the side of the house and stepped back. In his hand Butch held a narrow rod, longer than his arm. He waved it in the air and found that instead of bending with the motion, the copper had become rigid like a spear shaft.

Butch cocked his arm back and swung. The stocky man’s eyes grew wide, and he threw himself away from the building, hitting the ground in a roll that took him across the sidewalk. The copper staff tore through wood and stone, cutting a deep trench in the materials as easily as a sword would cut through a paper screen.

The power of the weapon amazed Butch; it thrilled him. He spun to finish his attack on the squat man and encountered the distinguished companion standing several feet away.

“Wait. Wait. Wait,” the man insisted, holding up his hands in surrender. His hair lay pasted across his brow and his jaw was already beginning to swell from the punches he’d received. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Stay away from me,” Butch said.

“Mr. Cardinal—”

“I haven’t got what you’re looking for,” Butch said. “So stay the fuck back.”

“I don’t think you understand,” the distinguished man said. “My name is Hayes. This is my colleague, Mr. Brand. We just want to speak with you.”

Dauphine Marcoux had said that the Alchemi would find value in a man like him. Maybe it was true, but he was too worn to believe in the beneficence of strangers. He backed away, holding the copper staff above his shoulder, ready to swing.

“There’s been a misunderstanding,” Hayes said. “If you’ll just give me a second to explain.”

Adding to Butch’s confusion, a third man appeared from around the corner. He was a handsome guy with a black mustache, who bounded gracefully into the scene. Rain coursed over his fedora and raincoat in great sluicing sheets. He held a gun, and it was aimed at Hayes’s head.