Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (28 page)

“No, wait,” Tesla said and stepped between the parties, holding the firing end of Simon’s arm.  “He is not used to it,” he reassured his new guests.

The Baron took a moment to survey the situation.  Finally, he put his pistol away and instructed Khalid to do the same.  “Who are you?” he demanded.

Tesla interrupted.  “They were sent by Doctor Mamba.  New Disciples.  I have their orders, here.”  Tesla pinched a part of the detective’s arm, causing the barrel to fold back into his ripped sleeves.  Then, he reached into the detective’s breast pocket and pulled out the perfectly folded slip of paper.  He handed it to the Baron, who inspected it.

“Why is The Witchdoctor employing Disciples?  He’s been retired for years.”

“He has not told me,” Tesla said.

“He has employed us to find a man named Wage Pascal,” the detective announced.

“Wage Pascal?”

“I suffered a terrible accident as a result of him,” Simon went on.  “Lost my memories and the use of my arm.”  He raised his bionic arm slightly. “Until now, that is.”

“Why you?  And why
you
?” the Baron said, pointing to Amber Rose.

“In my former life, apparently I was a detective. Doctor Mamba believes those skills were not lost with my current condition, and he has agreed to grant me my memories should I find this Wage Pascal.”

“And you?” he asked Amber Rose.

“I know what Wage Pascal looks like.  I know a little something about his . . . habits.  He was a … client of mine.”  Khalid winked again.  “Pig,” she repeated.

“Miss Amber Rose and I are partners,” Simon said.

“A detective and a whore, I presume” the Baron said.  “Well, I just received a report that Wage Pascal was on a train headed east from Youngstown, where he killed two Disciples.  I suggest you start there.  Report everything to me and me alone.  Do not under any circumstances approach him.  He is proving to be quite dangerous.  And under no condition do I want you talking to Mamba.  He is not to be trusted.  Do you understand?  Never trust a poisoner.”  The Baron’s mouth curved slightly upward.

“Yes,” they both replied.

“You work for me now.  You can find me at the Waldorf Astoria.  Seventeenth-floor suite.  You fail me, and I will kill you myself.  Now run along.”

The detective thanked Tesla before grabbing Amber Rose’s hand with his new arm and leading her out the door.

When they left, the Baron turned back to Tesla.  “Any news from The Council?”

“They await your report,” Tesla replied.  “They should have received their new visual platform by now, similar to the one I sent to you.  We can access it at Wardenclyffe.  Come, I will take you; let me just gather a few things.”

“The transmitter that you wear on your head like a ridiculous hat,” Khalid snapped.  “Can you not make it smaller?”

“The head-mounted transmitter was never necessary.  The real transmitter is much smaller and located within the device.”

“What?” Khalid yelled.

“It was joke.”

The Baron

August 15, 1914

West 34
th
Street

Manhattan, New York

Polished limestone, artisan furniture with dark upholstery, and a medley of oil paintings ranging from Renaissance to Romanticism made Kasper Holstrom’s eighth-floor penthouse feel as though he could entertain Marie Antoinette at a moment’s notice. 

“Nice place,” Khalid announced, looking at the far wall of curved windows that provided a breathtaking view of Manhattan in the midmorning light.  Horses, cars, carts, and people scurried about like mindless ants among towering mounds of stone and steel.  Warwick looked around, his mouth agape as he observed the massive mahogany bookcases lining the wall opposite the windows.  The brilliant sunlight revealed the cracks in the countless leather-bound tomes that seemed to have resided there for decades.  On either side of the bookcases were identical spiral staircases, the Victorian wrought iron leading to an upstairs mezzanine that wrapped around the entire living room.  Hodges Abernathy studied the massive hearth and fireplace, made of large, rough limestone bricks, which protruded from the north wall.  Upon the fireplace was an enormous black iron plaque depicting a muscular man with curling locks and a braided beard strangling, or possibly coddling, a baby lion.  Etched in the background were two distinct rivers. 

“Warwick,” the Baron said.  “Please watch the door and ensure we are not bothered.”  Warwick soaked in more of the room before he left through the narrow entrance to the white marble foyer.  The foyer was just as impressive.  It was littered with Greek statues atop column pedestals, statues that depicted nude men and women running, hunting, dancing, and even copulating.

“Khalid, scour the bookshelves.  Look for
The Epic of Gilgamesh
,” the Baron instructed, looking at the figure on the iron plaque.

“Why?” Khalid asked.

“This is Kasper’s secret residence.  All Architects have one.  And do you know what resides here?”

“What?” Hodges asked.

“Secrets.”

“Where is your secret residence then?” Khalid asked, beginning to comb through the books.

“I have an apartment in Paris.  Above the brothel I found you in.  Now find the goddamn book.  Kasper’s private notes should be here.”  The Baron ascended one of the spiral staircases.

“Shouldn’t we just find his desk and look there?” Hodges asked.

The Baron spoke while climbing the stairs.  “In the event something happens to us, we are required to leave clues so others may discover our private affairs.  I assure you Mr. Abernathy, very few disciples have seen the inside of such a residence.  You should feel honored.”  The Baron made it to the mezzanine that traded polished limestone for wooden paneling.  Around the mezzanine was a collection of Norse artifacts.  Splintered bucklers, dulled axes, dusty pelts, smoothed but primitive skis, and even an assortment of elk-hunting muskets and shotguns that still looked useable.  Everything was either hung from the walls or displayed on tables.  Where the mezzanine met the east wall of windows, however, there sat a brass telescope atop a wooden tripod facing the city.  Next to it, a small table with a palm-sized brass compass and a roundly sculpted clay pot with a curling, dead hyacinth plant.

Khalid continued to peruse through the books, pulling every other one out and throwing it haphazardly across the room.

“What are you doing?” Hodges Abernathy snapped.

“Looking for the book,” Khalid said.  He threw another book over his shoulder, almost hitting Hodges.  “Which is more than you are doing right now,” he sang.

“Must you be so destructive?  Some of these books are priceless.  Look.  Look at this one!”  He bent over and picked one up.  “This one is copied by hand.  It must be more than a hundred years old.”

Khalid threw another book.  “Are you still upset that I slept with your wife?”

Hodges dropped the book and fumed with clenched fists.

“I told you, it was not my fault.  She approached me,” Khalid lied.  He found her that night on the bow of the ship.  Offered her one of his Parisian cigarettes.  The only one laced with opium.  When Hodges returned to his stateroom, he found Khalid atop his limp bride, thrusting his body like some kind of exotic fowl in an absurd courtship ritual.  And because it seemed his wife had run to the arms of another man, Hodges ran back to the Baron, who was still sitting in the main lounge sipping brandy.  Hodges agreed to hear his proposal. 

“Mind your tongue, Arab.”

“Again, I am Algerian.  A Berber, yes?  Why does everyone think I am an Arab?”

“I don’t care what you are.  I just . . . I . . . I cannot forgive her or your indiscretions, but . . . I just wished I had gotten a chance to say goodbye at least.  See her one more time.”

“What can I say?  You must have missed her.  She must have been the first one off the ship.” Khalid actually told him the truth this time.  In the early morning hours he threw the unconscious Mrs. Abernathy into the cold North Atlantic.  Hodges had scoured the ship for her the next few days in search of her, but to no avail. 

“You have something on your shirt, Hodges.”

Hodges looked down at the collared shirt that he wore with his gray suit, still wrinkled after being pulled from his luggage.  The crisp white over his left breast slowly oozed crimson.  “Damn thing hasn’t stopped bleeding.”

“Yes.  It does that.  That was once my stone, you know?”  Khalid threw another book at him.

“Stop that.  This instant!”

“Stop what?”  Khalid threw another book.

Hodges picked up a book from the floor and hurled it, hitting Khalid in the back of the head.  Khalid winced and his head with one hand and grabbed the next book from the shelf with the other.  Khalid turned around, determined to smash the book into the newest disciple’s temple.

“Khalid!” the Baron shouted, unseen from above.  “Leave Mr. Abernathy be and find my book.”

Khalid Francois glanced at the book he was about to use as a bludgeon and noticed the title in gilded font.  “I have it!” he announced.  Khalid perused the book.  Midway through, a folded parchment floated to the ground.

“How did you know that was the book, Baron?” Hodges asked.

“The man on the fireplace,” he replied.

“Yes?”

“That would be Gilgamesh.”

“What now?” Khalid asked, unfolding the parchment. 

“What does it say?” the Baron called.

Khalid read the letter to himself, translating every other word in his head.  He summarized his understanding of the document.  “He keeps mentioning ‘The Transcendence.’  He does not explain what it is, but says it is ‘very near.’  Apparently there is a doctor who—”

The Baron crashed his hands on the mezzanine railing, rattling the entire floor.  “Impossible!”

“No, this is what it says,” Khalid responded.

“That bastard.  That bloody bastard!”

“I really hate to be the one asking so many questions, but what exactly is the Transcendence?” Hodges asked.

The Baron replied.  “That’s why The Council wants Kasper found.  He is the key to their . . .”

“Key to their what?” Khalid asked, craning his neck to look up at the mezzanine.

“It is of no concern to you,” the Baron said.

Khalid turned toward Hodges.  “Get used to hearing that.”

“Khalid,” the Baron continued, “Is there anything else on the letter?”

“No, just some number at the end.”

“What is the number?”

“One forty-four.”

The Baron left the railing and peered at the cityscape through the windows.  His churning thoughts became whispers. “If the Transcendence is real.  If it takes place.  Then I have no future on The Council.  If I help them find Kasper, facilitate this undertaking, then I have reached my zenith as Architect.  I—all of us—will be enslaved to an immortal race.  Gods on Earth.  Those bastards.  Those sodding bastards!”  The Baron rubbed his forehead in frustration.  “If I refuse to help them, then my own disposal is imminent, most likely at the hands of an Idimmu.  Did Monomi know of The Council’s intentions?  Is that why he left?  Bloody bastards!  All of them.”  The Baron glanced again at the compass nearby and a sudden moment of clarity washed over him.  “One forty-four,” he whispered. 

He adjusted the compass on the table and found the heading at 144 degrees.  He lined the wooden telescope accordingly and peered through it.  At this height he saw only the brick veneer of a taller building.  He tilted the scope up and saw nothing but blue sky.  He tilted it down and saw a small flower cart attended by a young girl.  Through the lens he could see her mouth move, most likely calling out to passersby about her wares.  He looked closer at the cart.  Red spotted lilies, pink and white sweet peas, and deep purple hyacinths.  The Baron pulled away from the telescope and looked at the clay pot with dead hyacinths next to him.  “Clever, Kasper.  I’ll give you that.”  He swiped the pot from the table and let it fall to the ground.  Shards of clay, dead flowers, and soil scattered everywhere, no longer hiding the dirt-stained parchment.  The Baron picked up the paper and unfolded it.  He read it silently, his one eye opening wide.  “No,” he muttered.  “It couldn’t be.  That’s just a myth.”  The Baron looked up and ripped the paper in half.  “But there are those who said The Transcendence was also a myth.”  He ripped the paper into smaller shreds.  And then smaller again.  “Khalid!” he yelled.  “Our investigation has just taken a new course.”

“Are we going to track down this Doctor Fatum?” Khalid asked, looking down at the parchment in his hand.

“No.  We need to find a child,” the Baron replied.

“Any child?”

“No, a very specific one.”

“Where do we find this specific child?”

“A billiard hall.” 

“Really?” Khalid asked.

“Your lordship!” Warwick cried suddenly.  “Your lordship, these gentlemen claim to be with the police.  I tried to stop them, but they insisted.”  Warwick rushed to the center of the living room, followed by two bearded men.  One was thin with piercing, ice-blue eyes and hair parted between his ears, and the other was rotund with a flat gray cap. 

“Well, good morning, all.  My name is Detective Larron, and my associate and I are with the New York City Police Department.  We have recently recovered a great many items from a thieves’ den we raided.  Items that belong to one Kasper Holstrom.  We would very much like it if he could come down to the station and claim them.”

Khalid revealed his golden tooth with a snarling smile.  He spoke in a refined French, “
Un policier du nom de larron
?”

Wage took a deep breath and politely asked, in not-so-refined French, if Khalid wouldn’t mind fornicating with a goat. 

“What?  What is it?” Hodges asked.

“
Larron
is French for thief,” Khalid said in English.  “This man is not police.”

“Listen, I just need to know if any of ya’ll is Kasper Holstrom, and we’ll be on our way.”

The Baron looked down over the living room from the mezzanine.  “Why don’t you first tell us who you are, Mister . . .”

“Well, well, well.  If it isn’t ol’ One-Eye?  What a coincidence.  Oh, and it’s Captain.  Captain Wage Pascal.”

“Ah, yes.  Captain Pascal.  I’ve only been in town two days, and already I’ve heard so much about you.”  The Baron held up a finger.  “You’ve caused quite a bit of trouble as of late.”

“Well, that’s what happens when people keep tryin’ to kill you,” Wage responded.  “Now, which one of ya’ll is Kasper again?”

“I’m afraid you are out of luck,” the Baron said. 

Wage took another deep breath, slowing down time, ready for the dance he was all too familiar with.  “Yes, sir,” he said.  “That’s what I figured.  Let us commence with this morning’s—”

“Khalid,” the Baron said firmly, cutting off Wage.

Khalid pulled a revolver out of his coat and fired the first shot without aiming.  Wage did the same, retreating with Ol’ Bill to the foyer.  Bullets flew, all of them missing their targets.  Khalid darted behind the far spiral staircase.  Hodges Abernathy fumbled for his own pistol in his jacket pocket and moved behind one of the artisan chairs.  Warwick dove behind the sofa.  The Baron stoically watched the dance unfold. 

“What do you say, William?” Wage screamed as he reloaded with bullets from his pants pocket.  Another shot rang in, ripping the leg from a spear-throwing Greek.  The statue fell to the ground and shattered.

  “Catastrophic emergency plan,” Ol’ Bill yelled back, slowly pulling out the sawed-off shotgun from his pant leg.  Both their backs were against the wall of the foyer that led to the grand living room.  Between them was the entrance that was now a shooting gallery.  Wage peeked around quickly and saw Khalid stirring behind the staircase.  Wage’s shot ricocheted off the wrought iron with a twang.  Khalid fired two shots back, destroying another statue.  Ol’ Bill leaned in and fired a deafening blast into the living room, exploding a hole in the sofa nearby Warwick.  Clouds of stuffing now whirled about.