Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (36 page)

Detective Simon Hum

August 28, 1914

The Plaza Hotel

Manhattan, New York

The detective stared at the ceiling while Amber Rose slept next to him, her arm strewn over his chest, both of them naked.  The rising sun shone through the red burlap curtains, casting a sanguine glow about the hotel room as though they resided in the chamber of some giant’s heart.  Outside the window, birds chirped as horse hooves, clattering cart wheels, and clanking engines signaled the beginning of another bustling day in Manhattan.

Simon delicately slid away from his companion, whose strawberry-blonde hair, flecked with bits of dried blood, fanned out along the pillow.  Tesla’s contraption sat on the nightstand.  He guided his withered arm into it, pulled a few buckles and twisted a small knob near the elbow joint.  The contraption came to life and clamped to his muscle and bone, instantly returning his mobility. 

The detective walked around the room, flexing his hand a few times, and then swung his arm. This movement deployed the gun and nearly knocked over the heavy glass vase filled with freshly picked daisies that rested on the vanity.  He checked the ammunition in the eight chambers that fed into the spring-loaded barrel.  He looked at his reflection in the mirror, scars showing and stark naked save for the scaffolding around his arm. 
Deus ex machina
he thought cynically and shook his head.

“Good morning,” Amber Rose said, her voice carrying through the air like a fine perfume.  She stretched, kicking the sheets off and propping herself up on her pillow with an elbow, which displayed her Renaissance curves.  Her milky, smooth skin was as flawless as the marble Michelangelo used. 

“Whatcha doin’?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Simon replied.  “Just thinking.  That’s all.”

“Thinkin’ about what?” Amber Rose asked.

“About everything, really.”

“How long do you suppose we can stay before they kick us out of here?”

“A day?  Maybe two.”

“Then where do we go?” she asked.

“I suppose we should find work.”

“Doin’ what?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps you could go back to North Carolina,” he said.

“I ain’t leavin’ you.  We’re in this together now.  You’re stuck with me.”  She winked.     “Besides, there ain’t nothing for me there anymore.”

“What about your aunt?  The school children?” he asked

“Do you know the expression ‘like a whore in church?’”

“It sounds familiar,” he replied.

“Well, a whore in a schoolhouse ain’t much better.”

“Point taken.  Well, perhaps we should get dressed and find our calling then,” he suggested.

“Right this second?” she asked.  “How about you come back to bed for a little bit longer.  The world ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“All right,” he agreed.  He felt a stirring deep inside him and took a step toward the bed. 

There was a knock at the door, followed by a muffled voice.  Simon left the chain on and answered it hesitantly, his naked body shielded from the bellboy in maroon attire. 

“Terribly sorry to bother you, sir, but your presence is requested in the conservatory,” the bellboy announced.

“The conservatory?” Simon asked.

The bellboy craned his neck and peaked in the room against his better judgment.  His eyes flashed big when he saw Amber Rose’s body, a sensual Eve who cared nothing of modesty.  “Yes, yes, sir,” he said, snapping back to attention.  It’s attached to the tea garden downstairs.”

“At whose request?” the detective asked.

“I ah . . . I don’t know; the message was relayed to me by the desk clerk,” the bellboy said.  “I just know it’s imperative that you make your way to the conservatory.”

“Very well, I will be down momentarily.”  Simon closed the door, leaving the bellboy craning his neck sideways.

The detective threw on black slacks and suspenders over a dirty undershirt.  Carefully he fit his left arm into his breakaway black coat.  “Stay here.  I’ll be back,” he said before entering the attached washroom.

“Who do you suppose it is?” Amber Rose yelled.

“Baron DeLacy, more than likely.  I’m not for certain, but I intend to find out.  I suggest you make preparations to depart immediately upon my return,” he yelled back while urinating.

“Simon,” she said before he left their room, “be careful.”

The detective took the stairs down from the sixth floor to gather his thoughts and blink away the sleep that still remained in his eyes.  Once he made it to the tea garden, an attendant showed him through the dining room.  A cavernous space illuminated by the sunlight softly diffused from the enormous stained-glass ceiling.  Simon patted down his cowlick as he followed the attendant through a variety of cascading foliage, fountains, and round tables made up with white tablecloths surrounded by rounded wicker chairs. 
Not a single guest?  Where is everyone?

Connected to the tea garden through a set of French doors was a small conservatory made entirely of windows.  Hanging ferns and potted orchids of purple and pink surrounded a sole table where Dr. Victor Mamba sat, sipping tea and reading the paper.  He wore a vanilla suit with a bright blue ascot.  His straw fedora sat nearby on the table, and the wicker chair he sat in looked more like a rounded throne.  The attendant announced the detective’s presence and showed him to the seat directly across from Victor.  Dr. Mamba remained silent for a moment, finishing the column he was reading.  It mentioned an event last night at Carnegie Hall in which a Baron and an English actor portrayed the assassination scene in
Julius Caesar
so convincingly that people fled the hall in droves, calling for the police.  It also cited some firework malfunctions that people mistakenly believed to be gunshots.

“Good morning, Simon,” Victor said from behind the paper.

“Dr. Mamba,” the detective replied.

Victor Mamba finally folded his paper neatly and placed it next to his hat.  He signaled the attendant with a wave and a nod.  “I understand there was some trouble last night,” he said.

“Yes.  The Baron’s man, Khalid, was killed.  Amber Rose and I sustained only minor injuries.”

The doctor removed a crisp handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck.  “Who exactly was the attacker?” he asked.

“One of the acrobats from that Oriental troupe; it was your man, Monomi,” Simon answered.   

“Not my man,” Victor corrected.  “Not anymore.”

“I must confess, I expected to see the Baron sitting here, not you.”

“The Baron William DeLacy is dead, Simon.  He was killed last night.”

The detective’s mouth and eyes tightened.  “Was it Monomi?”

“No.  He was killed by his butler, Warwick.  We are still sorting out the details, of course, but it seems there is a new player—a new organization—in our game.  We are not sure who they are or if they are working with the Illuminati or not.”

“A new player?”

Victor sipped his tea.  “That’s right.”

“What do they want?”

“The same thing every other organization wants, secret or not—power.  The power to tell people what to do, what to say, how to act,” he said with a flourish of the hand, “what to buy, what to sell, what to read, what to write, what to cook, and what to eat.”

The attendant hurried into the room with a full tray.  He laid down covered plates in front of Dr. Mamba and Simon, then he poured steaming tea, already brewed, into a silver cup and gave it to Simon.  The attendant then removed the plate warmers, revealing perfectly poached eggs Benedict.  Victor picked up a fork and pointed to the dish.  “These are delicious, and the Plaza has the best in town.”  With one fluid movement he used the side of his fork to slice through the egg, ham, and toast.  He chewed slowly and savored the taste of hollandaise.  “So with the Baron gone, I have been reactivated and appointed temporary Architect status.”

“Congratulations, I suppose,” the detective said.

Victor took another bite.  “Mmm.  Thank you.  Do try your food, Simon.”

“I am afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Nonsense.  You must be famished. Eat, eat.”

Simon looked at his food and left it and his tea untouched.  “Thank you, but no.”

“Eat, please.”

“Do
you
like telling people what to eat?”

Victor Mamba leaned forward.  “Do you think I poisoned it?”

The detective said nothing.

“Well, I did,” Victor said unapologetically.  “What gave it away?”  He took another bite.

“The hollandaise sauce,” Simon answered.  “Mine has more pepper and is slightly more transparent than yours”

“Perhaps it was a different batch?”

“Perhaps, but considering your former profession, it’s more likely you added a poison to the sauce, which made its consistency more opaque.  And then you probably used the extra pepper to disguise the taste. 

“Terrific!  Simply terrific!” Victor said.  “You see, I knew you were still worth the investment.”

“Are you saying this was a test?”

“Of course it was a test.  Everything is a test, chap.  You see, I believe the Baron meant to have you killed.  For what, I couldn’t tell you; the man was mad, absolutely mad.  But regardless, I see real value in you, Simon.  I would like to promote you.  With my newly inherited duties, I will need a Medjai.  With your keen eyes and mind returning, you would be a tremendous asset.”  Dr. Mamba reached into his inner jacket, pulled out a sealed letter, and placed it on the middle of the table.  “Your life, Simon.  All the information you need to gain back your memory.  It’s all here.  Agree to work for me and it’s yours.  Right now.  As a matter of fact, your boyhood home is only a few hours from here.  We could be there by this afternoon.”

“I thought, per our agreement, that I was to apprehend Wage Pascal in exchange for this.”

“Did you apprehend him?” Victor asked.

“No.”

“Then it would behoove you to accept my new terms, wouldn’t it?  We
will deal with Captain Pascal when the time comes.  There is a new war brewing, Simon—one bigger than the one in Europe, and we are already behind. 
Christ
, man, one of our Architects is already dead.”

Something burned deep inside the detective, and the burning spreading like fiery tendrils to the scars on his back. 
The Lord’s name in vain.
  Memories slowly seeped in.  Kneeling, praying in the stone courtyard with his mother until his knees bleed and he could not walk.  Clutching a wooden crucifix until its rough edges made his palms bleed.  Whipped by the branch of a poplar tree.  Locked in a dark closet with nothing but a near-spent candle and a Bible. 
Read it!  Read God’s Word before the darkness consumes you, Simon,
he heard his mother say.

“What do you say, Simon?  Will you join me?” Mamba asked.  “Will you join us?”

The detective grabbed the sealed letter with his augmented arm.  He held it up to the sunlight and saw lines upon lines of inked sentences. 
Read it,
he heard his mother say again. 
Read it.
  Simon ripped the letter in half with his other hand and threw the two halves back onto the table.  “Keep my memories,” he said.  “I no longer want them.”

“Am I to understand you are refusing my offer?” Victor asked, wiping his mouth with his napkin. 

“You are to understand that while I have regained many of my faculties, I have also regained a small amount of my memories.  My life was wrought with guilt, restraint . . . punishment.  I do not accept your terms because I have already been given the greatest gift—a new lease on life, one free of the burdens that faintly call to me when the lights go out.  One that I do not intend to squander.”  The detective pushed back his chair and rose.  “Now, if you will excuse me.”

“You realize that you are now my enemy,” Dr. Mamba said.

“So be it,” the detective replied.

“Be warned, Simon.  I crush my enemies,” Mamba said.

Simon walked away.  Before re-entering the tea garden through the set of French doors, Dr. Mamba called again.  “She is already dead, Simon.  I’m afraid I saw no place for her in our organization.”  Anger immediately fueled his instinct and he sprinted through the tea room, knocking over chairs and tables as he wove through them.

He flew up six flights of stairs in what seemed like seconds.  As he approached his room, he saw that the door was halfway open.  His mechanical arm deployed his gun as though it now had a mind of his own.  “Amber Rose,” he called.  He kicked the door open, ready to kill anyone in his way.  White daisies lay across the wooden floor, and the glass vase laid nearby in a puddle of water next to a snub-nosed pistol.  A pool of red was at one end of a trail of blood that led to the washroom, where someone or something stirred.

Simon charged in, raising his weapon.  Slumped over the bathtub was Amber Rose in a simple cloth robe.  She was rifling through the pockets of a large man that lay unconscious and bleeding in the small tub.  Blood ran from the man’s temple.  Amber Rose looked up at Simon.  “Well, don’t just stand there.  Are you going to help me or not?”