by Lee Thomas
“You want the necklace,” Butch said.
“Indeed, yes,” Rabin said. “Yes and yes and yes.”
“You take it and leave,” Butch said, taking a step forward. He reached a hand into his pocket to grasp the pendant. “No one has to get hurt.”
“Of course not,” Rabin said. “No one has to get hurt, although it would liven up the evening.”
“We’ve had a very lively evening,” Butch said, forcing his voice to remain steady. Though he continued to walk forward, he had no intention of attempting to trick the well-armed lunatic. The necklace wasn’t worth a nickel, let alone anyone’s life. He withdrew the imitation of the Galenus Rose from his pocket and dangled the piece in the air. “We’d be happy enough to keep things uneventful. Just take this and go.”
Rabin’s head eased back to the side, eyeing Butch like a lizard waiting for a butterfly to come within range of its tongue. His knuckles gripped the handle of the knife so tightly white horseshoes of bone were visible through the skin, but his hands were steady, absolutely motionless as if he’d been designed to hold weapons. Over the years, Butch had seen a number of fighters who had adopted façades of lunacy to get inside his head, to intimidate; not one of them had come anywhere near conveying the genuine ice-cold madness of the man before him.
“That’s far enough,” Rabin said. He waved his gun in the air. “I want you standing right there, and I want the old man facing the wall. We’ll move things along once I’m not having to keep an eye on everyone.”
“Fine,” Hayes said, stepping backward, keeping his hands even with his ears.
Brand glared at Butch. Butch didn’t like what he saw there. He didn’t like it one bit. The guy was brave, but Brand’s impulsive nature was going to result in bloodshed if he didn’t keep a handle on it.
“Just do as he says,” Butch told Brand, through a tight jaw. To his left, Hayes had reached the courtyard wall. “Two minutes and everyone gets what they want.”
“Indeed,” Rabin said. “You seem very accommodating, Mr. Cardinal. I can’t help but wonder why, when you must know the value of what you’re holding in your hand.”
“I know what it’s worth.” Nothing. “And I know I’ve spent all I intend to on it.”
Once Hayes had taken his place at the wall, Rabin waved Butch forward with the gun before leveling it at his brow. “You hand the Rose to your friend here, and then you back your ass up. If you get too close, I start carving.”
Butch intended to do exactly as Rabin suggested. He was more than happy to be free of the useless bit of metal, and by the time the lunatic discovered it held no more magic than a crust of bread, Butch and the Alchemi would be long gone. It wasn’t complicated.
But as with so many recent events, Luck had found Butch unworthy and turned her head away.
“What is all of this?” Hollis asked.
The man emerged from the corridor beside the bungalow, holding an umbrella. His expression slowly melted into one of understanding and fear.
Why didn’t you stay at the club? Butch wondered. Why the hell didn’t you listen to me?
Rabin’s face erupted: his grin broadened; his eyes widened. Butch could see he’d been waiting for an excuse to kill, and the sudden appearance of Hollis had provided it. Brand must have realized this himself. He threw his elbow back, driving it into Rabin’s side, but instead of sending the killer off balance and giving himself a chance to escape, he only drew the madman’s attention, and with a whisper that crackled like the voice of a consumptive, the ornate blade slid through Brand’s throat, cutting and scorching a black trail. Brand looked at Butch, offering a perplexed glance before dropping to the wet courtyard floor.
“Hollis, run!” Butch called.
Hollis opened his mouth to respond, but a crimson dot appeared on the chest of his suit. Without so much as a gasp, Rossington collapsed. Butch didn’t hear, couldn’t even acknowledge the gunshot until Hollis lay crumpled on the ground. He stared at his body and felt a slash of despair.
“Now we’re cooking with gas,” Rabin shouted, merrily.
Butch whipped around to the source of the voice.
The lunatic stood with his legs bent. He swept the gun around the courtyard, hoping to find another moving target. With his left hand, he drew the knife through the air in sinuous waves. It all looked like a bizarre dance, the hypnotic shimmy of a cobra before it sank its fangs into meat. On the ground at his side, Brand, who was not yet dead, clutched the wound on his neck and moved his mouth, pointlessly and silently, a fish in the bough of a boat.
Then Rabin fired again. Butch followed the angle of the gun and saw Hayes slam into the wall. Though the hole in Hayes’ shirt was right over his heart, a precise and deadly shot, the madman decided to shoot the man a second time and a third. Hayes dropped.
“And then there was us,” Rabin said.
Every nerve in Butch’s body resonated, thrumming madly and creating a confusing static that filled his brain and broke apart his thoughts. He brought his hands to the sides of his head and grasped tightly as if a strong enough grip could quell the noise, and after a time, though he did not believe the silence had anything to do with his fingers or palms, the static did clear. In its wake was a thought that might save his life.
“You’re falling apart, Mr. Cardinal,” Rabin said. He appeared curious, narrowed eyes observing Butch intently. “I think I expected more from you.”
Butch held up the necklace and let the charm dangle from his hand. “You know how this works,” he said. “If you try to kill me it goes to work, and you won’t be able to get your hands on it.”
“You’re trying to bluff me?” Rabin said, shaking his head. “Are you really so pathetic?”
“I thought you knew how this worked?” Butch challenged. He allowed his eyes to dart to the side, where he saw Brand weakly rolling on the stones. Already the brass band unraveled from his arm, snaking into the air at Rabin’s back. “You don’t though, do you?”
Rabin aimed his gun at Butch’s brow. “I’ve got time to figure it out.”
In his weakened state, Brand nearly dropped the staff. He managed to keep it grasped in his palm, though its hilt hit the flagstone with a startling crack. Rabin leapt to the side and pivoted on his foot, swinging the gun wide as Brand’s staff came down. The copper pole sliced through Rabin’s fingers and sheered away the muzzle of the gun. The pole fell to the floor and curled in on itself, rolling up like a Christmas ribbon.
Rabin stared at his wounded hand in awe. He gasped in air and squeezed his eyes closed for a moment before sighing out a ragged breath. Rabin pulled back his foot and kicked Brand’s head, burying the toe of his shoe into the man’s temple with ugly force. Something in Brand’s neck popped, and he lay motionless as Rabin, still armed with the knife, returned his attention to Butch.
But Butch was already in motion, covering the distance between himself and the madman in a few long strides. He collided with Rabin’s chest, feeling the satisfying puff of air on his throat as he tackled the man and drove his head back on the hard stones. The older man’s eyes rolled up and closed, but they didn’t stay that way. When they sprang open, they were sharp and focused and they burned with rage. Butch had hoped the brutal concussion of bodies would knock the knife out of Rabin’s hand, but the older man had kept his grip, and before Butch could secure his arm, the blade drove in from the side. Butch deflected the knife, and then he scurried off the madman and rolled before the metal returned for him. Twisting his legs in the air, he spun himself over and landed in a crouch, ready for the next attack.
Rabin didn’t keep him waiting. The man rolled the other direction and climbed to his feet, holding the blade out in front of him with one hand as what remained of the other clutched his side. Rabin winced. Wobbling badly, like a drunk about to tumble, Rabin swept his arm as he’d done before, only this time, it was clearly to help him balance. He growled deep in his throat and charged forward in a shuffling gait.
Butch da
rted to the center of the courtyard, and Rabin followed, all but dragging his right leg as he shambled after him.
“I wa-want to see what this knife can really do,” Rabin said.
“You won’t,” Butch said. He stopped and squared off on Rabin, who was still three steps away. “You’re done now.”
The growl returned and Rabin brought the knife up, its point aimed at Butch’s gut, but the man was so weak Butch had more than enough time to step away, and before Rabin could recalculate his position, Butch was there, gripping the madman’s forearm tightly and twisting it until the cartilage in his elbow ground and snapped. The knife fell. Rabin regarded Butch with an expression of reverence, as if he’d been wholly unable to imagine a force strong enough to bring him down. Butch drove a fist into Rabin’s mouth, and the man stumbled two steps and then dropped on his ass. Butch walked behind him and crouched down and wrapped his hand around the killer’s face. Then he snapped Rabin’s neck.
He stood and let the body slap against the wet flagstones. Without pausing, he retrieved Keane’s knife from the floor and drove the ornate blades into the center of Rabin’s chest. And he stood there, momentarily empty, thoroughly numb, until the madman was reduced to a mound of char, slowly dispersing with the rain.
“Thank you,” Mr. Hayes said at his back.
Butch turned. The older Alchemi had untucked his shirt and was brushing the bullets from his chain mail vest. One of the slugs bounced on the ground and landed on the back of Hollis’s outstretched hand, and the sight of it hit Butch in the stomach like brass knuckles. He crossed to Hollis and bent down, lifting the body from the wet ground. The bullet dropped from his hand and clacked away. He carried his friend to the bungalow and carefully made his way to the room they had shared. As gently as he could, he laid Hollis on the bed and positioned his arms at his side. He closed his eyes with a sweep of his palm, and he stepped away.
Then he left Hollis in the room and he stepped to the door. Outside he removed the knife from the mound of ash that had been Paul Rabin. Amid the oily char he noticed a bit of metal that had survived the blaze. When he touched it, he heard the fleeting echoes of conversations and knew the metallic device had value. He put the thing in his pocket and secured the knife in his belt, and several steps away he reached down and grasped Mr. Brand’s brass ribbon. It came alive and tested the air. Then its end slipped beneath the cuff of Butch’s shirt. It slid up his arm, wrapping itself around his skin and muscle and massaging his arm with pulsing energy, feeling more like the warm touch of a lover than a length of metal.
“Mr. Brand deserves better than this,” Hayes said at his back.
“We can’t take him.”
“I know. But I can’t leave the metals with him. I’ll need your help.”
Together they managed to get Brand’s shirt off and Hayes removed the bulletproof bib, sliding it gently over his friend’s head. He retrieved a small dagger from a sheath at Mr. Brand’s ankle. He muttered a few words, and Butch looked away, unable to deal with the misery on the older man’s face. He had his own sorrow to carry.
“Rest now, friend,” Hayes said. He arranged Brand’s arms neatly at his sides and then stood. “Nothing more to do.”
Butch nodded. Then he led Hayes to the gate and then to the street, leaving the house behind forever.
Chapter 43
Back from the Dead
Butch lay on the bed of a comfortable hotel room in Madison, Wisconsin, reading the paper. Through the window, he could see, when he looked up from the pages, fat flakes of snow drifting lazily and decorating the limbs of an ancient oak. The shouts and cries of happy children, playing in the snow, floated up to his room and made him smile as he licked a thumb and turned a page. Mr. Hayes had taken an early walk to observe the city before it truly woke. After finishing the sports reports, Butch set the paper on the edge of the bed, and he stood to loosen his muscles. He did a series of pushups, and those felt so good, he set into a lively round of squat thrusts. Butch paused in mid crouch upon hearing Hayes’s key in the lock. The Alchemi opened the door, eyed Butch and his odd pose with humor, and closed the door behind him.
“Get dressed,” Hayes said. He turned from the door with a half-smile on his lips. “You were right. We found him.”
“Are you sure?” Butch asked.
“The message was waiting for me when I returned from my walk,” Hayes said. “My associate, Mr. Ross, discovered the location and confirmed Mr. Musante’s identity. Once we knew where to look, Mr. Musante wasn’t particularly difficult to track down. Thank you for that.”
Lonnie had talked about a lot of things the night Butch had made his acquaintance, and among his various comments had been the description of a small vacation house on the shores of Lake Wisconsin, a place he’d bought because he’d met a lady up that way. Musante’s mention of his dream house had resonated with Butch, tickled him with envy. He’d imagined a similar future for himself, away from the squabbles of his species, living quietly and honestly in a small house on a good piece of land.
“He’s outside a town called Merrimac about forty miles north of here. We’ll meet Mr. Ross at ten and proceed directly to Mr. Musante’s home.”
“You think he’ll give us a fight?” Butch asked.
“No. Nothing in his past suggests even remote competence in the art of violence. He’s a manipulator and a thief. I could be wrong, but I think he’ll surrender quietly.”
“That’s a shame,” Butch said.
He completed his set of squat thrusts and then made his way to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water before dressing for the drive.
• • •
As they drove north through the wintry landscape, the chassis of the Ford bucking and swaying over the uneven road, Butch found it difficult not to fidget, not to flex his fingers and tap his feet. Against a line of white pine and scotch pine, on the far side of a stretch of unbroken snowy field, he saw an old barn, boards made gray with age as time had sapped all remnants of life from the wood. The roof had caved in and several boards had released their grasps on the side of the building. He observed the countryside but saw no fencing in the area, saw no old farmhouse that might have once been the barn’s companion. It was such an ugly, lonely thing to find amid the beautiful terrain.
He’d spent days trying to manage his feelings about Hollis, not only his loss, but the influence he’d had on Butch’s life while alive. Labels he’d once so easily affixed to this kind of man or that kind of man had smeared and become illegible. Was Butch a sissy now? A punk? Or had it been a situational passion? Would he ever feel the depth of connection he’d felt for Hollis with another man? Another person? He couldn’t imagine it, and considering the pain that had burned cruelly and persistently in his belly since Hollis’s murder, Butch wasn’t sure he wanted to imagine it. It might have been love. It might have been panic. He wasn’t sure which explanation he preferred.
“Lost in thought, Mr. Cardinal?” Hayes asked.
“Sightseeing,” Butch said. “I like the snow.”
“Too cold for my old bones.”
The wheel fell into a pit in the road, casting a spray of slush over the window beside Butch, smearing the landscape with a dirty brown film. Ahead, two narrow, parallel trenches in the snow, the trails of cars that had travelled before them, were the only indication of the road.
“What’ll you do with him?” Butch asked.
“Mr. Musante? We’ll take him with us back to New York and he’ll face a tribunal.”
“Yes, you told me that. But what will you do with him?”
“He will be detained.”
“Will you execute him?”
“It rarely comes to that.”
Butch accepted the answer and returned his gaze to the window beside him. Dirty snow slid down the glass.
“You never answered my question.”
“What question?” Butch asked.
“Last night, I asked if you’d consider joining us. Even without
the recent losses of Mr. Bell and Mr. Brand, we could use you and your skills.”
“I don’t know. Let’s get through this first.”
“Once we have the Rose, and whatever other items Mr. Musante might have acquired, this will be finished. If all goes well, we’ll be on our way back to New York this evening.”
“When has all ever gone well?” Butch asked. “Besides, there’s still Impelliteri to consider.”
“He’s not our concern. He doesn’t have any of the metals, nor does he have access to them any longer. Fortunately, Mr. Musante proved a less than reliable go-between, and the man has no other connection to our group.”
So, Impelliteri gets away with murder because he suddenly wasn’t the Alchemi’s problem? No. That wasn’t right. If anything, that was at the core of the world’s problem. How many men rose to power on a pile of corpses because those with the power to stop them turned away, closed their eyes, indulged in distractions, simply because they were not directly affected by the atrocities? How many people stood by to watch men and women die in gutters, indifferent because these were not their friends, not their families? Butch knew he could go to New York with Hayes, join the Alchemi, and likely live the rest of his life in comfort, never again having to think about Marco Impelliteri, or Angus Powell, or the City of Chicago, but who else would suffer for his sanctuary? He’d considered all of this since the night he’d carried Hollis’s body to the guest room bed, but now he was resolved.
“After Musante,” Butch said, “I’m going back for Impelliteri.”
Hayes didn’t reply. He navigated a bend in the road. He remained silent, and Butch joined him in that silence until they reached the outskirts of Merrimac, where a rotund man with a baby face lifted his pudgy hand in a wave.
Mr. Ross looked like the comedian Oliver Hardy, only with a smooth upper lip. He grinned when Butch and Mr. Hayes climbed out of the car, but as he rushed forward, eager and jovial, it was Butch who had clearly drawn his attention.
