Empire State (22 page)

  "Nice little prayer meeting, Mr Pastor?"

  "I can get you home, Rex."

  Rex's train of thought was instantly derailed. He leaned in and rested an elbow on the desk.

  "I should be OK, although if you could just give me some directions that would be mighty fine, thanks very much."

  The Pastor clasped his hands together and raised an index finger, tapping his lips under the hood. After a few seconds of this, he clapped his hands together – then laid them palmdown on the desk. If Rex didn't know better he'd've said the Pastor had a short fuse.

  "You misunderstand me, Rex," he said. "We are not in New York. We are in the Empire State."

  When Rex leaned back, the chair creaked. He rolled his back into it, and it creaked some more.

  "The Empire State? You mean New York State?"

  "Not quite. Oh, it's close to New York. Manhattan, I mean. But it equally might be a thousand million miles from home. It makes no difference."

  "Huh," said Rex. The word felt unnecessary, but it filled the gap that formed when he wasn't really sure what to say. The Pastor was a nut job, and no mistake.

  "Don't worry yourself, Rex. I live in New York myself. Greenwich Village, actually."

  "Very nice."

  The Pastor paused, inclined his head, and continued. "But, like you, I find myself marooned, somewhat. The Empire State is home but not home, familiar yet alien, the city but not the city."

  Rex scratched his cheek. Maybe it was the belly full of food and the warm dampness of the air, or the brightness of the room and the buzzing in his head that followed the outlines of the Pastor sitting behind his desk, but not a whole lot of what he was saying made sense. Then again he was a loon, this Rex had confirmed, and although he was used to dealing with unusual or difficult people, he hadn't really dealt with the genuinely insane before. He didn't really expect anything they said would make much sense. But what was the old advice? A madman must be humoured?

  On the other hand, Rex wanted to go home.

  "I don't follow. The Village can't be far. Ever taken a cab?" Rex said.

  The hooded head shook slowly. "You misunderstand again, and I knew you would. Suffice to say, no matter where you walk, in whichever direction, for however long you choose, you will not find your home. The Empire State exists in isolation. There is nowhere else but the Empire State. The Empire State is all."

  Rex had a thought which fought its way past the fug in his brain and made him sit up straight suddenly, then lean forward towards the desk. As the Pastor came closer in his vision, Rex ignored the increasing volume of his headache.

  "Wait. This doesn't have anything to do with the Skyguard, does it...?" His mouth was suddenly dry, as were his lips. He stuck his tongue out and then sucked it back in and moved it around his teeth, but his mouth was dry, dry, dry.

  "Or," said the Pastor, "the Science Pirate?"

  Rex gulped, but the reflex just made his throat stick. He rubbed his fingertips against his sweaty palms. Keep it together. This preacher ain't got nothing on me.

  "Well, it occurs to me, Pastor, that the Skyguard and the Science Pirate had an almighty fight, not too long ago, not too far from here. I'm no expert on whatever the hell foolery those two usually get up to, but they've done some mighty odd things in the past. Floated Manhattan up into the sky one time until the air was too thin to breathe. Electrified the Hudson. Hell, one time everyone with the surname 'Johnston' disappeared, then came back the next day. They say it was the Science Pirate and the Skyguard fighting."

  The Pastor nodded. "You have a fine memory, Rex, although I imagine such events would be hard to forget. For myself, I only witnessed the first wonder of your list. From my office window I could see the stars, bigger and brighter and more colourful than ever in my whole life. Though that might have been oxygen starvation, I'm not sure."

  The pair laughed, Rex nervously, but for a while afterwards the smile stayed on his face. He had another stab at figuring out what the Pastor was talking about.

  "OK, so this Empire State, it's like some part of New York, some part that we're trapped in. Some plan of the Science Pirate's, am I right? So what, we wait for the Skyguard to break us out?" He thought of the broken body of the small, frail girl that had been the Science Pirate crushed behind the dumpster. For genuinely the first time, Rex wondered if he'd done the right thing. If she was dead, what if the Skyguard couldn't get them out of their... bubble, whatever it was.

  The Pastor reached down and pulled a drawer of his desk open. Rex craned to see, but from his position across the substantial desktop it looked empty. The Pastor fished out a white rectangle of glossy paper, and placed it on the desk in front of Rex. He took his hand away, and closed the drawer, then steepled his fingers. Rex eyed the rectangle.

  "You're right, Rex, we are trapped, and it is to do with the Skyguard and the Science Pirate. You're not far off the money, but now is not the time to explain the hows and whys of it. The fact is, we can get out. You and me, Rex, we
need
to get out. The solution is easy. You are the man to do it."

  A beat. "Uh-huh," said Rex.

  "Look at the photograph, Rex."

  Rex coughed, covering his mouth politely with a clenched fist, although the action was merely a reflex brought on by uncertainty. He watched the blank white rectangle for a moment, almost as if he expected it would rise up of its own accord, then slid it to the edge of the desk on his side and flipped it over.

  It was a portrait photograph, black and white, head and shoulders. The man in the picture was heavily built, skin almost as dark as his suit, with wide shoulders pulling at the jacket and waistcoat, spreading the pinstripe apart near the seams. A shirt and plain tie. A trim goatee beard surrounded a serious expression. A white fedora finished it off, pushed at a fashionable angle on the man's impressive, bald head.

  Rex blinked, then his forehead creased in bewilderment and he rubbed his own goatee. He didn't remember the photo being taken, and he'd never seen it before in his life, but he recognised the subject. He was looking at a nicely posed photograph of himself.

  "That man," said the Pastor, stabbing a finger in the air towards the picture in time with each syllable, "is a criminal and a threat to New York City. He's behind it all, and the only way to get out of the Empire State is to get
him
out of the way of
us
."

  The Pastor stopped, and waited. Rex said nothing, and stared at the photograph.

  "Kill him, and we can go home."

  Rex's jaw worked and his head buzzed. "Ah... that's me... who is this?"

  The Pastor's hooded head tilted to the side, just a little.

  "Rex, meet Rad Bradley, private detective."

 

 
 

 
 

KANE FORTUNA.

  For the last five minutes, standing in the drizzle outside the salubrious, ostentatious, impressive frontage of the house in the Upper East Side, not feeling any more comfortable now than he did a few nights ago on the first visit, Rad repeated his friend's name over and over in his head.

  No, that was wrong. He did feel more comfortable, if not with the setting or who he was visiting, but with himself. This time he was here on his own terms, without Kane to... to what? Lead the conversation with Captain Carson? Steer it in the right direction, keeping Rad at arm's length while he discussed whatever secrets he had with the inhabitants of the grand house?

  Kane Fortuna. Huh, the night work was getting to him. Kane was his best friend, his only friend, in the whole damn city. He was trustworthy, he was on the side of the angels. And while he was sleeping off the effects of Jerry's finest, there was work to be done, and enrolling Carson into their merry band full-time seemed the best – the
only
– option.

  But there was something about Kane that itched at the back of his mind. Rad huffed. The night work was getting to him. No problem.

  He felt better, and puffed up his chest. He raised a hand to operate the black iron door knocker, only to stop as there was a huge
clunk
from behind it. The door swung open, held by Byron. The Captain appeared on tip-toe around his servant's shoulder, the grin on his face wide and, Rad thought, genuine. The older man clapped his hands, twice, and rubbed the palms together as though the night air was cold. It wasn't.

  "My dear detective! For no fewer than five minutes Byron and myself have been waiting for you to knock." Carson winked at his servant, then gestured for Rad to enter. "Byron had suggested as many as ten minutes. I plumped for five, and I think that means Byron owes me something."

  Rad looked from Carson to Byron, realising that he'd just decided, on his own, to visit the house of two madmen.

  "Don't look so worried, Mr Bradley," said the old man. "I presume you are here for..."

  This kick-started Rad's brain. "A second opinion, yes."

  The Captain shook his head. "An explanation, dear boy. An explanation! Now come in, and wipe your feet."

 

Rad followed Captain Carson down the hallway at some distance from his host, who skipped along at a fine pace. Rad noticed white straps tied around Carson's waist, and another white loop at his neck. He hadn't seen it when the door had been opened, as Carson had been peering around the bulk of his servant in the doorway, but the Captain was wearing an apron, long enough to be scuffed by the toes of his shoes as he walked. Although the Captain's arms were being held in front of him – and hence out of Rad's eyeshot – he saw the sleeves of his shirt were rolled at the elbow.

  "Not interrupting anything, am I?" Rad asked.

  "Not at all, dear boy!" Carson called cheerily over his shoulder. He waved one hand up in the air, and Rad saw the bare forearm ended in a tight-fitting glove made out of latex or rubber or something. Also, Carson's forearm was covered in blood to the elbow. Rad blanched, and stopped. He heard Byron's footfalls stop just behind him, and heard a weird ticking from his chest, which was just about at head-height to him.

  "Ah, you sure about that, Captain?" Rad said quickly, eyes wide. A few paces ahead, the old man stopped and turned. He walked back towards the detective, each passing hall lamp mounted on the old wood panelling strobing his face. Captain Carson was an old man, his hair and moustache – and
skin
– white as chalk. The vivid crimson on both arms, and splashed in some abundance across the front of his heavy apron, was in shocking contrast to the elegant surroundings.

  The Captain stopped by yet another sepia-toned landscape, another mystery fantasy shot showing an empty, flat background, some men, and Carson's own airship. The nearby wall lamp cast a cone of light over the picture and left Carson's face mostly in an angle of shadow. Rad could see the Captain's mouth glittering as he smiled in the semi-darkness.

  "I must apologise for my somewhat dishevelled state, but the truth is you
have
interrupted Byron and I in what you might call a rather delicate operation."

  Rad nodded blindly, and managed a quiet: "Uh-huh."

  "However, that is not to say your visit is unwelcome or the moment of it inopportune. Indeed, we both saw you approach up the street, and it was Byron that remarked upon the happy coincidence."

  "Yuh-huh."

  The Captain's smile flickered in the shadows, and then he raised his hands up into the light, examining the lurid mess.

  "Ah...
hmm
..." he muttered, then looked over Rad's shoulder at Byron. "Perhaps we have done enough for one night, Byron. Please show our friend into the study, and I'll go and clean myself up." He turned to Rad. "Please, help yourself to a drink, and if you'll excuse me I won't be a moment. I have something interesting to show you."

  With that the Captain turned and creaked down the hallway, elbowing a door open carefully and disappearing from sight. Rad heard Byron's heavy feet behind him, and he turned.

  "This way, sir."

 

"And there we are!" Captain Carson took the minuscule glass of liquor from the tray Byron held, and joined Rad at the wall, where the detective was looking at more pictures. Carson pursed his lips comically as he sipped the deep amber liquid. Rad watched with interest, sniffing his own glass. Carson saw the look and chuckled.

  "They call this 'sherry', my dear fellow. I have a small store of bottles." He paused, waiting. "Go on, try it. Much more flavour than the rotten potato juice you seem to prefer at Jerry's."

  Rad sipped, and winced. It was sweet, like drinking hot sugar.

  "So you know Jerry?"

  "Not in the slightest. But I know where you drink."

  "That so?"

  "That is so, detective. We've been following you for some time."

  Rad's eyebrows went up, and holding his breath he drained the sherry glass. "Uh-huh," he whispered, throat constricting at the unusual, heavy liquid.

  The Captain ignored Rad, and instead walked past him, looking along the wall. More portraits, some paintings, some more of the weird fantasy scenes. Rad found them fascinating, but at the same time they somehow made him feel sick. He felt an emptiness, an ache in his chest, and a buzzing behind the eyes when he looked at them.

  Carson was wearing a linen suit, smart but a dull dun colour. The apron was gone, and there was no blood. When he turned back to Rad, the detective saw his fine white hair was freshly combed and parted and slightly wet.

  "Interesting, aren't they?"

  Rad glanced sideways at the picture Carson was indicating. The Captain's finger was pointing at the weird white landscape, but his gaze remained fixed on Rad.