Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  “Enough, enough. I think he gets it.” Wallace was grinning, the easy grin of a mean kid who’d grown up into a nastier adult. “Good defense, bucko. I was a featherweight myself, y’know that? Almost made Olympics. What’s the longest you lasted in the ring, before the war?”

  “Couple’a hours.” He was breathing heavily, sweat staining his rumpled vest and shirt, and he dropped his hands to his sides.

  “Hours? That’s a long match.”

  “Bastard wouldn’t drop.” His right hand slipped into his pocket, resting on the strange canister dropped by Mick’s attacker. He’d forgotten all about it—hell, he hadn’t even changed his trousers, since yesterday. He’d just washed out the blood and put them back on. “That was… a long time ago.”

  “I bet.” Steve paused, taking the measure of his former employee. Then he sighed, as if he’d lost a bet. “Well, time to get it over with. Let’s see how many rounds you can go with a bullet. Seamus?”

  Panic raced through Gus’s body. He’d expected a long ride out to the Mystic River or Charlestown, followed by a struggle–but the plan had changed. Wallace wasn’t here to gloat over him, just dispose of him as quickly as possible. They were going to kill him right now.

  Adrenaline poured into his brain and everything took on the stuttering quality of a film-reel. Seamus reached in his coat—he’d put the gun away while getting into the car. Gus only had a few seconds before he was blasted full of lead. He had to make each second count.

  One. He flung his leg up, connecting with Seamus’ elbow. The man’s pistol bashed the ceiling, and his gun went off in a deafening flash. Gus groped in his pocket as the other men reached for guns of their own.

  Two. He found the nozzle on the cylinder’s top, and popped it off with a claw. Three. Gus sucked in a breath and held it; the gas whooshed out of the Noxious can, spraying the space inside the car. Everything was coated in pink mist. The chassis bounced and swayed beneath them; the driver had heard the shot, and was swerving off the main roads, trying to get them out of sight. Clearly no one had told him about the impromptu execution—an oversight that, if he in charge, Gus wouldn’t allow. Sloppy planning.

  Four—He hurled himself to the floor between the seats, as visibility inside the car went from bad to worse. He pulled Seamus on top of him for a shield, and the pistol went off again, punching a hole in the upholstery. He could see Seamus through the gloom: red-faced, cursing and spitting while they struggled. He had the man’s gun-hand by the wrist, and his other hand was fighting to keep Seamus’ fingers out of his eyes. More guns went off, overhead: Wallace was shooting blind and panicked, gasping as he inhaled pure Joy.

  Gus had to get out of the car. But first he had to deal with Seamus. He believed in a fair fight when possible, but it wasn’t possible here. He had to survive—by any means necessary.

  Sorry, pal.

  Gus opened his fanged, Greed-distorted mouth, and bit off Seamus’ face.

  Well, most of it anyway. He caught a cheek, a scrap of jaw, and a soft chunk of eyelid. Blood poured over Gus’ teeth and filled his nostrils. Seamus screeched in terror, thrashing—not trying to kill him now, but simply trying to get away. The Joy in the car was suffocating them all, though Gus was taking shallow breaths. Seamus began laughing despite the horror, cackling with a half-skeletized face. In that moment, Gus lost his grip on the man’s gun.

  Seamus rose to his knees, jammed his barrel to Gus’ throat… and Wallace, still panic-firing, shot him through the head.

  Seamus slumped over. Blood rained down; through the gloom Gus reached up to grab the back of Wallace’s Luger. The trigger clicked, but the gun wouldn’t fire, because the rear joint couldn’t bring the barrel into default position. The things they teach you in the Army, he thought.

  One of the doors opening. Wallace’s wedge-faced employee was trying to disperse the gas, coughing and giggling. Gus saw an opportunity, and booted him in the chest, knocking him clean out of the car. Clouds of Noxious went with him, as he tumbled into the street and was instantly killed by a car moving in the other direction.

  “You… fucker!” Wallace was reaching for a fresh clip, but Gus was on him—clutching the empty gun, hammering him with haymakers. Wallace might have been an Olympic hopeful, but he’d been in featherweight division. Gus was a heavyweight class, and he had no illusions about what would happen if he pulled his punches. So he didn't.

  He kept hitting Wallace, over and over, until there was nothing left of his face to hit. By the time he was done, he was exhausted, the adrenaline wearing off. Steve’s face was a pit of crumpled flesh now, but Gus picked up the Luger and put two in the man’s chest. Just to make sure.

  The floor lurched underneath him. The car was stopping—maybe the driver’d had enough violence, for one night.

  Or maybe he was coming back here, to finish the job.

  Gus heard a click as the driver-side door opened. He waited, crouched like an animal in the gore around him. But he heard only the slap of heels. Sirens sounded, and Gus felt the ache come back into his shoulder where the Family had shot him yesterday.

  “Christ…” He looked around at the gruesome mess; Seamus had crapped his pants after dying, and Wallace was in the process of doing the same.

  Drink. I need a goddamn drink. He fumbled under the seats, searching for hidden compartments. At any moment now, he felt, police would arrive and start shooting. If they did, he wanted to be ready. He needed something for his nerves. Just one or two hits.

  He found a converted glove-box with two labelled flasks: HAPPY and KILLING TIME. He took a sip from KILLING TIME—it wasn’t top-notch Rage, but it got his dander up, and it helped him keep moving. Blood trickled out the open side-door, splashing down the car’s runner board.

  He staggered out, gasping for air. The car was sitting on a curb, most of its wheels on the sidewalk. Darkness shrouded him, streetlights illuminating old brick buildings covered in ivy.

  Harvard. Fuck the Pope, we ended up at Harvard. What kind of driving is that?

  Above, curious students peered from shuttered windows—and then vanished at the sight of blood.

  “Hold it!”

  A pale-faced cop was standing on the corner, his gun drawn. He looked fresh out of the academy. His pistol trembled in his hands. Buzzed on Rage and Joy, Gus walked right up to him.

  “Put your hands where I can see them—”

  “How about here?” Gus socked him, a quick rabbit-punch to the chin. His trainer had taught him that move fifteen years ago. Hit a man in the right spot, and the jaw smacks the skull—presto, instant concussion.

  Some boxers could power through a shot like that; this guy couldn’t. He dropped to the sidewalk, stunned. Gus stepped over him, and then paused, taking his long blue coat. He plucked off the badge, dropping it on the man’s chest.

  “Goddamn mess…” He used the coat to obscure the worst of blood, wiping at his pants. He heard the rush of the Charles nearby, and made for it, his pace sedate. Sprinting away from a blood-covered car would look bad, and stains be noticeable even in the gathering dusk. He needed to mop up—maybe get a wash under the Harvard Bridge.

  He also needed to wash his mouth out. Seamus’ face tasted awful. Waiter, waiter! My human meat tastes bad. Take it back.

  Heh.

  He smiled an exhausted grin as the Joy and Rage mixed in him, turning to fierce Delight. It didn’t make what he’d done less awful, but now he could rationalize it. The moment had come down to his survival, or theirs. This was what you had to do, to get ahead.

  And he was okay with that.

  Just as he’d done a hundred times, Gus vanished into the sunset of Boston, seeking a place to hide from the sirens.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “OPEN up! Open up, goddamn it!”

  Rose hammered on the door with her fists, with blows strong enough to rattle the sheeting on the flop-house roof. Quincy was not her favorite neighborhood; the dying whaling industry had left the place a skeleton of it
s former self, unemployed sailors lurking in doorways and fishmongers watching her out of windows with reptilian interest. Sea-salt flew on the cold breeze, stinging her eyes. But this was the spot. This was the place Mick the Nose had last been seen.

  “Come on, let me in…” She saw a cop on the corner, chatting up an elderly woman. A finger was pointed. With cotton balls stuffed in her mouth, exhausted and out of place, Rose attracted attention easily. This was an old town, a Yankee town, and she was not welcome.

  The door creaked open. “Yes?” said a whip-thin woman peering from the dark inside. Her dress was crisp and modest, eyes vacant and gray.

  “I’m looking for Mick Vance.” Rose fumbled an old clipping out of her pocket; a library archivist had tracked it down for her, at the king’s ransom of one seltzer. “This guy. Caught the Saco Impersonator last year. He’s tall, has a wooden leg…”

  The woman nodded. “Upstairs. Fifth room.” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “No fooling around.”

  “I’m not…” She didn’t have time to defend her personal honor. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The woman let her in, and a burst of misery and depression washing out of the door hit her in waves. On the subway car down, she’d been so overwhelmed by the emotions of others—pressing on her senses, clouding her vision and nostrils—she’d had to climb off just to breathe. Whatever had changed in her was getting stronger, and now it clamored against her thoughts like a thundercloud boiling in her skull.

  She needed help, and outside of Ponzi—who had disappeared, after the gunfight—Mick was the only other person she knew who’d been at the docks last night. He was also to the only one who might have the skills to figure out what was happening to her.

  The flophouse smelled like vomit and dried-up Draughts, the glowing essence of them stained into the very floorboards. Homeless Myths and vagrants clustered around a small fireplace, lounging on moth-eaten rugs. Rose took the stairs two at a time; the upper floor was pitch-dark. There were no gaslights in this forgotten, wind-swept place.

  The door to number five was locked. She pounded on it.

  “Who’s there?” The voice was small and reedy.

  “I…” There was no point using an alias, not here. “My name’s Rose Sweetwater. I was at the docks, last night—when the Humours went off. I need help.”

  Silence. Then the scrape of heavy objects. Rose entered to find an incredibly small man, inches shy of dwarfism, wearing suspenders and ragged trousers. The room was cramped, drafty, and opened into a slanted side-room, where she could hear frenzied muttering and the whispering snick of scissors.

  “Hmm.” The man looked her up and down. “A witness, eh? I’d love an interview, if you have a minute.”

  She shook her head. “Not now. Is Mick here? I need to talk to him.”

  The man sighed. “He’s here, alright. But he’s not doing so great.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “See for yourself.”

  He stepped aside. She moved into the tiny bedroom, where crude furniture crowded the corners and the eaves of the flophouse pressed down close to her head. A tall man in a wheelchair sat over a small table. He was pinning sheets of paper to the wall with brass tacks, drawing strands of twine between them. There was a bandage wrapped around his torso, and he was mumbling, drawing lines between the papers with a fountain pen.

  “New York bombing… six years…”

  “Excuse me? Mr. Vance?”

  He tapped a photograph of soldiers in France, posing after victory. “He could have joined them here. But he didn’t. Why? Why would he wait?” He turned towards her, eyes wide and glazed. “What do you think?”

  She blinked. “I… don’t know. Are you Mick Vance?”

  He looked her up and down. His face was hollowed out pain; though he couldn’t have been a day over thirty, he looked much older. “You didn’t use my nickname. Thank God. I really hate that nickname—it’s anti-Semitic.”

  “Mr. Vance… I’m Rose.” He didn’t take her offered hand, instead turning back to his wall of notes. “I could really use your help.”

  “I’m not taking jobs. This is more important.” He turned back to the papers. “Lives hang in the balance.”

  Frustrated, she reached out with her mind, touching his emotions. They were subtle and slow, not like the one’s she’d seen on the way down. Mick Vance was a smart man, a patient man… and nearly a broken man.

  The hum of fear and exhaustion was there, as well as a steady, throbbing pulse of obsession—frayed but powerful. Then there was kindness in him… and regret. Against her better judgment, she used her new awareness to grip that regret, inflaming it. Just as she’d done with the bruiser in the alley, she felt his emotion swell and flicker—though she wasn’t seeing it with her eyes. Not exactly. It was a new sideways slant of perception, cutting around her other senses, giving her a new way of feeling the world. It was nauseating… but intoxicating.

  Mick doubled like he’d been struck. From behind her, the short man said, “Mick, is that dame bothering you?”

  “I’m fine, Sylvester. Just… Fetch me some morphine.”

  The little man grunted. “You used up the hospital stock.”

  “Then check the stores. And hurry. We’ll never catch these bastards, if I can’t focus.”

  “I’ll see what I can find,” said Sylvester, shrugging on his coat. “No promises.” He retreated out the door.

  The detective turned his wheelchair to face Rose, his attention alerted. His emotions were fading, subdued by logic. She felt guilty for intruding on his feelings, for manipulating them—but what choice did she have? She’d been changed, somehow, her life turned upside down. She needed to know why, and how, before the Wallaces caught up with her again… and left a more permanent message on her body, possibly with bullets. “You say you were at the docks?”

  Rose nodded.

  “What happened?”

  She told him—about the job, about Gus. When she mentioned Ponzi, Mick shook his head.

  “That crazy woman. I never should have brought her along.” Regret seethed in him, and she took a step back. “Hey, easy. I don’t bite—at least, not when I’m sedated.” He laughed weakly. “And I’m pretty sedated right now.”

  “Carla tried to kill me,” said Rose. “She put my hand in some kind of machine. It injected me, with Humours.”

  His face sobered. “Pure Humours?”

  “Yeah. They were still on ice.”

  Mick went quiet, stroking his chin. Light from a kerosene lamp flickered over the notes and drawings. “And you’re still alive.”

  “Somehow, yeah. But I can feel things now. Change people.” She looked away. “I used it on somebody this morning. Messed with his soul. It felt wrong.”

  Now Mick was guarded, cautious. “Well, you don’t have to do that to me. I’m listening. What do you need?”

  “I want to know what this means. What it’s going to do to me.” She held out her hand, and in the half-darkness, there was light beneath her skin—traces of brilliance, pulsing through her veins. Mick stared, entranced. “I’m some kind of Myth now. I didn’t grow horns or wings. But there’s something wrong with me, Mr. Vance. can’t stay like this.”

  “Why not?”

  She paused. “Because it ain’t right. I didn’t ask for it.”

  He grunted. “Sounds to me like you got lucky. You’ve got a Myth’s ability, but none of their mutations… or their tunnel-vision. I’d say embrace it.” He turned back to his work. “Some people would kill, for that kind of luck.”

  She struggled against fury and desperation. “Vance, I’m a freak. I can’t go back to Orange County like this.”

  “All humans are freaks—some of us just hide it better.” He paused. “Orange County? I know that name.”

  She paused. She hadn’t told anyone about this—not Gus, not even her few friends at church. But she was alone, friendless in a city full of pissed-offcops and jumpy gangs. Staying silent now wouldn’t h
elp. “I’m from Ocoee, down Florida way. There was… We’ve had bad times, down there.”

  “I remember. The race riots.” He paused, reflective, and for a moment there was only the howling of the wind. “I heard they lost a whole town.”

  She nodded. “Burned. With most of the people still in it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m going to fix things.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Fix them?”

  “I’ve got two thousand dollars, buried under an elm in West Roxbury. When I have more, I’m going to take to Florida, and re-build. Start over again.”

  He blinked. “I hope you remember which elm. Are you… sure that’ll work?”

  “I know the people down there, Mr. Vance. They listen to money. They even listened to Marcus Garvey, and they hate him—they’ll listen to me.” She took a shaky breath. Spoken out loud, her plans sounded absurd and childish. It frustrated her. “I just need a few thousand more. Then I’m going to hire people, send letters to families. We’re going to make things better.”

  “Why can’t you use this Myth voodoo instead? Make the government fix the town for.”

  “Because I worked for this, dammit.” She hadn’t meant to raise her voice, and Vance flinched, the delayed reaction of a heavily drugged man. “And because if I do that, it’s not a clean win.”

  He nodded. “That’s very noble.”

  “I don’t care about noble.” She rubbed her arms in the chill of the room. “I miss my family, Mr. Vance. I want to go home. But I can’t go home a freak. Not like this. I need you to help fix me.”

  Vance watched her. His eyes were sharp, dulled by morphine but still clever. He sniffed the air, and said “Miss Sweetwater, I grew up next to a distillery, back before the Volstead Act. The Noxious came across the river on the air, every evening… I tasted Joy, smelled the crackle and fizz of Mischief. I got used to it.”

  He sighed. “But distilling is a risky business. One summer, someone forgot to ice the Humours, and they thawed out. Chain reaction—the whole distillery went off. Flattened my house like a pancake.”