by Devon Monk
“He was mayor of this town. Before Mr. Vosbrough stepped in. A good man, interested in connecting Des Moines to the rail, interested in the city growing and thriving. But he was unwilling to do the sorts of…immoral things Vosbrough has done.”
“Do you have any proof of those immoral things?” Miss Dupuis asked.
“No. No one does. A Vosbrough buys favor as easily as most people buy wax.”
“I wasn’t expecting murder charges,” Miss Dupuis muttered, more to herself than anyone else in the room. “Perhaps I will go into town with you and Mae, Father. The city hall should have records, business records, land records, things that might help me understand what Roy Atkinson was involved in and why someone may have wanted to kill him.”
“You don’t think the Madders actually…” Mae said. “Actually may have killed him?”
Miss Dupuis picked up all the documents, tapped them endwise on the tabletop, then placed them back in the satchel. “The Madders don’t shy from force, when necessary. They have a moral code that isn’t always discernable. But they don’t kill in cold blood. It is against the vows of the office they hold.”
“What office?” Cedar asked.
She closed her mouth and shook her head slightly. “That is for another time, Mr. Hunt. For now, I need information if I am to make a coherent argument toward their innocence.”
“We’ll all go to town then,” Mae said. “Let me get my coat.”
“I’ll follow behind a bit,” Cedar said.
Mae stopped and waited for his explanation.
He closed his hand around the cold copper in his pocket. “There are a few things I want to check on. I’ll meet you either at the herb shop or city hall.”
“We will try the shop on Ferry Street first,” Father Kyne said. “If they don’t have what we need, we’ll try the shop a few streets over.”
It didn’t take any of them long to dress for the weather and saddle the horses. Cedar saddled up too, but waited until they were well down the lane toward the city before leading his horse out of the barn.
Wil, who had been sleeping off the day, waited for him in the shadows of the trees outside the barn.
Cedar drew the copper from his pocket and held it out so his brother could catch the scent of it. “Found this under the mayor’s carriage. Kyne says it’s cursed. Cold copper. He says it’s the devil’s metal.”
Wil sniffed at it and his ears flattened. He showed fang.
“It smells of the Strange,” Cedar said. “And glim. But it looks like a child’s toy.”
Wil took a step back and then lifted his head, scenting for both on the wind.
He trotted down the lane, and Cedar mounted and followed. At the end of the lane, another, wider road wandered along the bare-branched forest. Wil slunk into the trees, keeping to the shadows, the gray, black, and white of his fur rendering him nearly invisible.
Cedar followed the road, and Wil, north. He could smell the copper in the wind, could smell the strange mossy sweetness of the Strange. But even though his senses were heightened, Wil’s were a hundred times stronger than his.
There were no signs of missing children. No fabric caught on stone or branch. No scuff of shoe or drop of blood. There were plenty of animal tracks, and the evidence of horses and wagons traveling the road. Some clues of what those wagons had carried—coal, wheat, corn, potatoes—were scattered alongside the trail.
If the children had strayed off this way, the trail was long destroyed by the bustle of the city’s trade.
The road forked, the right branch crooking back to the north part of town. Cedar heard water to the left, and caught a scent of the Strange. He turned his horse that way.
Wil was already waiting for him in the brush by the bank of the river. There was no bridge, no sign of a ferry, but this is where the well-traveled road stopped. There must be a reason for that.
The river bent tight, the width of it upstream squeezing through a slot in stone that forced the river to nearly half its size. Even though it was narrow, it would be a difficult water to cross in good weather, much less bad, stretching as it was at least a hundred feet across.
Cedar dismounted, exhaling a grunt when his boots touched the ground. Pain shot across his chest, and it took him a few minutes of breathing before it eased. He pulled his coat closer around his body and pushed his hands in his pockets for warmth. He didn’t know why he hadn’t recovered from the trail yet. Usually the curse helped him heal quickly.
He tossed the reins over a low branch and the horse nibbled at the few leaves still clinging to the brush.
The wind shifted, drawing like a slow finger across the water. The scent of copper and the Strange filled his lungs.
Cedar made his way carefully down to the frozen bank. There were footprints here, several dozen frozen in the mud and snow. All small enough to belong to the children. But they disappeared just before the edge of the water. None of the footprints were pointed back toward the road.
It was as if they had walked into the water and disappeared. Or perhaps fallen in.
He glanced at the river, frozen at each bank nearly out to the center, where water ran a thin ebony ribbon around stones and ice down its middle. Ice that could be easily broken, though he saw no signs of that now.
On the other side of the river, the bank was much the same as this one: ice, snow, dried brush, and beyond that, trees. No footprints that he could see, and the ice was far too dangerous to cross.
The smell of the Strange was strong.
Strange had been known to lure children away for the wicked sport of seeing them lost and suffering. But he’d never heard of them taking more than a child or two. Father Kyne had said it was dozens missing. Nearly all the children of the town.
Were there that many Strange who delighted in the suffering of children, or was it something else? Revenge against their parents? Could the Strange have a use for the young, like Mr. Shunt, who used little Elbert Gregor’s blood to power the spells of his devices?
Or were the Strange innocent of the children’s disappearance? Men could have stolen the children.
It didn’t make sense. He’d spent years hunting Strange, killing them whether they wore a physical body or none. But he’d never run across even a single Strange who had gathered up children like a shepherd herds sheep.
Wil tracked up and down the bank and returned without indicating he had found any evidence of the children there.
It was a dead end, then. Cedar turned toward the road and heard the soft sorrow of Strange grieving on the wind.
Wil heard it too, and growled, a low rumble rising in his chest.
Nothing about the children’s disappearance, or the weeping Strange, made sense.
And there was no trace of the cursed cold copper here. Maybe if he found the mines where the demons were rumored to dwell, he would find answers. Cedar swung back up into the saddle, and started toward town.
“Afternoon,” a man called out from down the road a bit.
The man himself wasn’t all that remarkable. Square face under a low derby hat, and clothing warm enough for the chill. It was the rifle he carried that caught Cedar’s eye. Made of equal parts walnut and steel, copper tubes wrapped around it from the overwide muzzle to the stock. Those tubes fed into a square box about the size of a large tobacco tin, hooked to the saddlebag behind the man’s leg.
Possibilities of the gun’s use rolled through his mind, but Cedar could not suss what might be contained in that box, or what ammunition the gun fired. Not for the first time, he wished Rose Small was with them on these travels. Her quick eye and devising mind would have easily worked out what that gun could do. She probably would have come up with several improvements and modifications for it too.
“Afternoon,” Cedar said.
“Name’s George Hensling,” the man said. “Lost, are you?”
“Not much.”
George brought his horse alongside Cedar’s and paced him toward town.
; “Most people new to town don’t realize the bridge washed out years ago. Some maps still show it, but there’s no way to cross that river except for south a ways.”
“Looks traveled for a trail no one uses.”
Mr. Hensling pushed his hat back just a bit. “Like I said, people get lost.”
“I heard there’s been a lot of children gone missing this winter.”
“Maybe. We have our share of runaways. Parents don’t like to admit to such a thing.”
“Dozens of runaways?” Cedar asked. “Sure there isn’t something, or someone, stealing them in the night?”
The man laughed, but it was humorless. “Someone’s been telling you ghost stories, I’m afraid. Where exactly are you staying in town?”
“The Kyne church.”
If Cedar had been expecting the man to be angry at that, which he did since that seemed to be the reaction of anyone who heard the mention of Kyne’s name, he was fully disappointed.
“Well, that explains it. Father Kyne hasn’t been the same since Kyne Senior passed away. Started up with such nonsense tales about ghosts and blood drinkers and strange things wandering this land out for revenge. Any person of a reasonable mind soon realized he’s gone quite mad.
“Sad state, but then, he is a savage; what can you expect? They’re not made for a civilized world, don’t have the constitution for it. And don’t you believe that act of him being a preacher. There isn’t a single person who attends his church. Not a single soul in this city who thinks he stands on the side of God Almighty.”
“You think he’s insane?” Cedar said.
“I’d say there ain’t no wheels turning in that head of his. He’s made up the story of missing children. For months now. Ever since some kind of star fell out of the sky.” They had reached a crossroads. Off to Cedar’s left he could see a flat field where two large structures and metal towers stood. Beyond that were barns and silos, airship sheds, probably storage sheds too, and half a dozen tether towers.
The road that led to the structures was cut down the middle with a single, wide metal rail that had a slit down the length of it. The single rail continued to Cedar’s right, into town.
“Is that an air-rail cable line?” he asked.
Mr. Hensling nodded. “The only one this side of the Mississippi. Better than the ones in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, or Chicago. Ever seen one?”
The man started into town and Cedar followed.
“Not while it was in use,” Cedar said. “Saw one being built once, lines laying down. Is this air rail for passengers or freight?”
“Bit of both,” he said. “Ever since the coal mines went into full production and the Transcontinental hammered the spike in Ogden, Des Moines has gone from a farming town to a genuine high-class city.” He nodded toward the rise of brick buildings ahead of them. “Had to be replatted a dozen times already to take on the growth. Hear even Smith & Wesson are thinking of putting in a production warehouse. Building a new theater too, since the three we have are busting at the seams.”
“You must think highly of Mayor Vosbrough then,” Cedar said.
“I get paid on time every week. Got a paper every evening, telegraph’s cheap, and there’s enough jail space for those who like to cause trouble. That’s enough for me,” he said.
“What about the mayor before him? Atkinson, was it? Did he treat the town well?”
The man went quiet for a bit, and the brush and trees were replaced by buildings, sheds, a farrier shop, a blacksmith for matic work, and shops turning wood, casting clay, melting glass.
“Don’t remember much about how Atkinson ran the town. Had just come out of the battles down south when I started paying attention to such things.”
“Was his death suspicious?”
“His murder?” He shrugged. “I suppose any man in power is setting himself up to stand in another man’s sights.”
“You know who did it? Who killed the mayor?”
“They say it was a gang of brothers, riding rough. Broke into his manor demanding gold, glim, and anything else of value. Atkinson didn’t have servants other than the cooking and cleaning staff. He started off as a farmer and didn’t take much to people waiting on him. There were no guns that night to defend him.
“Found him dead the next day flat on the floor by his safe, all his riches gone.”
“Who found him dead?”
He thought a minute. The road had brought them solidly into town now, and every cross street grew busier and busier. There were still a lot of horses in the street, carrying riders or pulling wagons and coaches, but the closer they came to the center of the city, the more devices and steam matics crowded the roads.
People on foot rushed between the steamers and animals, narrowly avoiding getting run over.
Cedar couldn’t help but smile. He’d missed this: the hurried pace of city life. While the wilds spoke to his blood, this was the life of his memories. Of his happiest days as a husband and father, back when he was a teacher in the universities, with a wife and daughter. Back before they had died and he and Wil had struck out west, escaping Cedar’s grief.
There was a small break in cross traffic and both Cedar and the man urged their mounts out into it.
“I think it was the mayor,” the man said.
“What?” Cedar had lost track of the conversation to the memories unfolding in his mind.
“The mayor, Vosbrough, found Roy Atkinson dead. Declared a manhunt for the killers and put a price on their heads. They were never found as far as I recall. Vosbrough took up where Atkinson left off.”
“What about the copper mine?” Cedar asked.
The man shrugged. “Not much of a vein, but enough not to waste. That’s just north of town back along the crossroad where you saw the air-rail line. But since there’s more money in coal, and more coal to be found here, that’s what we mine. They pull lead up around Dubuque and gypsum out Fort Dodge way, ship it all by rail east and west, river north and south, and anywhere else by sky. Hold up, now.”
He heeled his horse to sidle over to Cedar’s mount. Cedar noted everyone else was making a clear path down the left side of the street too, leaving the center of the street empty.
For good reason. That single rail cut a straight line down the bricks of the street.
The distinct plucked-bow hiss of a heavy wire moving through the air was immediately drowned out by the rumble of overhead fans.
He glanced up and over his shoulder.
A dirigible floated toward town, the stacks puffing slow, low smoke as it navigated the sky above the buildings.
A long cable hung from the airship, latched down inside the rail, rolling on metal wheels and guiding the dirigible through the town as easily as a needle pulling thread. Too many ships had crashed into buildings buffeted by winds between tall structures. But ever since some wild deviser had invented an air trolley system, people and goods could be delivered by airship more quickly and safely than by carts on the ground.
No wear and tear on the roads; no adding to the already traffic-heavy street. It opened up an entire sky full of shipping lanes.
Good for precious goods or particularly heavy freight too.
The fat shadow of the ship bobbed down the street, then was ladled up the sides of hotels, restaurants, and shops. The cable sped down the road, fast as a horse at full gallop, smooth and mindless as the wind.
As soon as the cable passed by, the townspeople went back to business, barely pausing for it to be out of the way before moving on.
There had been some arguments over the safety of installing air trolleys. Fears that the racing cable would cut horses and carts in half. But the accidents and deaths caused by collision with the cable had been fewer than expected. People quickly learned to stay out of the way of the device, and animals already had the good sense in their heads to do the same.
“This is the end of my ride,” the man said. “It was nice meeting you, Mr.… ? I don’t believe I got your name.�
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“Cedar Hunt.”
“Well then, Mr. Hunt. Enjoy your stay in Des Moines.” He kicked his horse into a quick walk, taking one of the side streets along which signs advertised lodging, laundry, and cheap hot lunches.
Cedar had kept an eye on Wil and knew he hadn’t entered the crowded city. Too easy to be seen. Too easy to end up a trophy on the wall.
But he didn’t need Wil to lead him to the place that would give him the most answers. The copper mine was just north of town. Cedar clicked his tongue against his teeth and set off at a trot.
There’d be answers at the mine. Answers to the copper in his pocket. Answers to the demons beneath the city. Because even though that man thought Kyne was insane, Cedar knew the priest was right about one thing: the children were missing, and the people of this town were wrong to think that nothing Strange was involved.
Rose clung to the side of the railcar, her head tucked down to keep the worst of the smoke, ice, and snow out of her face.
She wanted to climb to the top to see if Hink was still up there or if he had fallen to the ground, now a long distance below, but she couldn’t seem to force her arms to unlock from their death grip around the ladder rungs.
She usually loved flying. Wasn’t a bit frightened of heights. But she preferred to be safely inside the ship rather than hanging below it like a bobber on a fishing line.
“Hand!” a voice yelled, barely breaking through the noise of the overhead fans.
She looked up.
Captain Hink lay flat at the top of the train car, one hand held out for her. The first thought through her mind was relief that he was alive. The second was disbelief that he thought she would unlatch her hold on this crate even if she could.
She shook her head.
“Damn it!” he yelled.
Then he backed away from the edge and in a moment a rope lowered down, the end of it knotted in a loop big enough to fit down over her shoulders and latch up tight around her ribs.
She’d have to let go to get the rope in place. A terrifying thought.
“Rose!” he yelled.
She didn’t want to let go of this slight safety, but had no idea how far the frigate was transporting the train car. And once they landed, they might not take into account the fact that there was a person on the side of the car, especially if they were taking it somewhere like a forest or a dock with other freight stacked upon it.
