Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  “What is it?”

  He pointed. “Stand near the Distillery. There.”

  “I thought you didn’t want us to—”

  “Go ahead.” He gestured at a patch of straw, nearby the humming machine. “I want to check something.”

  She obeyed. When she grew close to the stones, they pulsed and shook; she felt a vibration emerging not from the device, but from her own body, pressing out of her chest and making her teeth quiver. The liquids condensing in their glass cylinders turned a bright red, frothing and sputtering.

  “Good! Good. Step back, please.”

  Aleksandra did, scowling as the machine returned to normal. “What game is this?”

  “No game, my dear. I just wanted to temper the Misery and Lust, with Rage. Anarchy isn’t built on fear and self-pity—and we must inject him with the pure substance, once he is Drained. No more imbalances.” Fischer laid down a length of twine around the machine. “But more Rage could disturb the balance of the Humours—your anger is quite potent.” His spectacles glittered. “You’d make a good Host.”

  “No. That honor is not for me.” She looked up at the writhing thing on the cross. “The death of capitalism must be written in the blood of its own—”

  “Yes, yes, dear. I know.” He patted her on the shoulder; her hand went to the revolver in her back pocket. She did not like being patronized.

  If Fischer noticed her aggression, he didn’t say anything; instead, he moved to his worktable, which was strewn with notes. Aleksandra had glanced at these and found them baffling. The equations were full of numbers and scribbled symbols, producing results like “equals Schadenfreude” and “more phlogiston.” She secretly suspected their “expert” was nothing but a mad idiot, his distilling ability owing more to intuition than skill. She refused to trust their operation to such a man—and a former capitalist, at that. He’d once been a Wall Street banker. And he might have turned on his country, but that was no guarantee of loyalty. Besides, someone needs to make him pay for those sins… when he’s outlived his role here.

  “Ed! Ed Fomeroy!.”

  The malformed hill-man emerged from the back of the barn, where he’d been assembling the rifles they’d purchased with the last of Buda’s money. “Whaddya need, sir?”

  Aleksandra leaned on a support post; she smelled one of Fischer’s famous rants coming, and had no interest in getting involved. She belched softly, tasting bitter Rage, and poured the rest of her flask on the floor. She needed to have her wits today. Besides, there was more waiting for her tonight—courtesy of Palmer.

  Fischer clapped the young Fomeroy on the shoulder as he approached. “Ed, my young friend. You’re a smart fellow—answer me this. Why does Humour bond with alcohol?

  The younger Fomeroy scratched his chin, where porcupine quills grew like a beard. “Uh… Is this important, Doc? They got Sherlock on the radio. I wanna see how he gets the dog.”

  “The Hound is fake, my boy. Holmes shoots it. There, I just saved you forty minutes.” Ed’s face fell. “Now, pay attention. The Army’s tried mixing Humours with everything—mustard gas, chlorine, sodium hydrate… Most chemicals. The only things it bonds with are things that can be safely ingested, like drinks, opiates and some foods. Substances we can experience.”

  “Uh huh…”

  “Humours won’t obey the laws of physics. They slither away from microscopes, explode or evaporate if you don’t mix them. They seem to have a limited time on this earth before disappearing—sometimes just a few seconds. What does this mean?”

  Ed Fomeroy pulled one of the scales from his chin, chewing on it. “Sounds like my Johnson after a few shots a’ moonshine.” Behind her, Dick sniggered and dropped a film reel. She stared daggers at him, and he bent to retrieve it.

  “It means Humours are alive, my lad. They bond with drinks and drugs, because human beings enjoy these things. They want to be absorbed, experienced. They want us to use them, and that makes me curious. Because if this life-form has travelled oceans of space and time, just to get in your martini, the question is… why?”

  “Are you done?” Aleksandra said.

  Fischer blinked. During his rant, he’d picked up a syringe of fresh Grief from an ice-covered try, and was inspecting its frosty glass surface. “Pardon? Yes, yes. I was merely educating—”

  “We don’t have time for this.” She snatched the syringe from him, and laid it back in its bed of ice. “The police will notice our ice shipments, soon. We need to finish the new Host, now.” Her teeth clenched so hard she felt her jaw creak; the Rage pulsed in her muscles, threatening to shatter her fragile restraint. “The tide of blood must come.”

  “Patience, my dear!” He gestured at Palmer, writhing and gibbering, his beard matted. “We must cultivate the exact blend of Anarchy needed, and inject it at the exact right time. If we fail—”

  “Don’t you see what I’ve sacrificed, to be here?” She locked eyes with him, and their respective insanities seemed to touch—his starry-eyed delusion, and her all-consuming fury. “I’ve lost two fathers. I have killed dozens. I will not be denied, because you waited too long to do your job.” She stepped forward as she spoke, backing him into a corner. Beneath his thick glasses she saw the flicker of fear, and relished it.

  “Aleksandra, please. Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to learn anything?” His eyes were bright and wandering. “We are tugging the essence of humanity from the far corners of creation itself! We are pioneers!”

  She grabbed him by his shirt-collar and rammed him against the wall. Hay fluttered down from the loft. His optimism vanished, replaced by wary sobriety.

  “You,” she said, “were allowed to join, because Humours like you. Because they don’t blow you up or mutate you, when you mix them. That is the only reason you are here, and not in the ground. Understood?” He nodded. “Good.” She dropped him, and he straightened his shirt. “Father Buda didn’t die, so you could play games. Finish the job, by morning. I don’t care what you need to do—get it done.”

  “Buda isn’t dead,” said Fischer, quietly.

  She reeled on him. “What?”

  He nodded at the back room. “He’s on the radio. I can hear him, when Palmer sleeps. He’s very pleased with us.”

  She stared at him, her heart in her mouth. “You’re a madman. And an idiot. Get back to work.”

  He bowed to her. “Yes, madam.”

  Liar. He had questioned her authority in front of the Fomeroys, and the other Soldiers at the farmhouse would probably hear about it. When one man stepped out of line, others might join—she needed to make an example of him.

  But she couldn’t shake off her streak of curiosity. She went into the back room, ducking under racks of old tools, and turned up the radio. She listened to the machine babble horse races, baseball statistics, crime reports. Aleksandra knew there was nothing behind Fischer’s ramblings. Buda was dead—his suicide at the Atlantic had been part of the grand plan.

  And yet…

  That night, she made the Fomeroys carry the radio into her bedroom, next to the gun rack. She sat up late, sharpening her knives, cleaning her rifles and twisting the dial, listening to static. Waiting and hoping. But Buda didn’t speak to her.

  Not yet.

  CHAPTER 4

  ROSE FOUND Lucas sitting in the pews. He was chatting with what he called the ‘old guard,’ wizened folks who’d attended the church for years and would probably be buried in the graveyard out back. The old women clustered around him, interrupting him or asking questions. Normally he seemed happy to talk to them, but today he looked pensive. He waved them off as they hammered him with words.

  “Does Mithras say why my canned peaches went bad?”

  “What does he say about Johnny? Tried a séance, but he’s tight-lipped.”

  “What’s he say about the lottery?”

  “Ladies, ladies—please!”

  Rose came up to take Lucas’s arm. “Leave him be. He’s done preaching today.” She nod
ded at the door behind the pulpit—she needed to talk to him, away from prying eyes.

  “Ah, it’s your beautiful friend!” Edith Wilcox, with a face like a brown apple left in the sun, reached up to pinch Rose’s arm. She allowed it, unhappily. “When are you gonna make a husband of our preacher, girl?”

  Rose blushed. “I don’t intend to. Not that it’s any of your business… ma’am.”

  Scandalized hoots and hollers arose. Edith shook her finger at Rose, and Lucas carefully extracted himself from their ranks, pulling Rose away.

  “Easy, ladies. These things come in their own time. I’ll be with you next Sunday—God willing.” He disentangled himself from the spinsters, and they made an escape from the heat into the quiet, sunlit peace of Lucas’s office. A stubby desk fan spun slowly on the table, and the place was blindingly bright with the noonday sun. Lucas’s tools of the trade were scattered around: a spiritual hymnal lay beside a telephone and a cigarette tray. Under a framed portrait of W.E.B. Du Bois, there was a rusty safe with Rose’s money lurking inside.

  Lucas hung up his robes, wiping sweat from his brow. “Thanks for getting me out of there,” he said. “They smelled blood in the water. I was done for.”

  Rose smiled, but it died on her lips. “Lucas, did you see that fella in the back? The one with jake?”

  He sat down at the desk. “Yeah, I saw you follow him. Should I be jealous?” He winked, and she struggled with what she needed to tell him.

  “That guy… His name’s Easy Eddie. He works for Gus Henderson.”

  Lucas frowned. “The big lizard Myth? I thought you two were done.”

  “I thought so, too. But now he’s sending his boys after me. Which means something’s going on.”

  “Like what?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know. Could be I missed a cop, got fingered. The Twist only lasts so long…” She didn’t want to think about other possibilities. The Soldiers of Mithras were still out there, their darker interpretation of Lucas’s faith casting her as some messiah. She’d hoped they would forget about her, but there was no way to be sure. She still woke up sweating, the face of the Myth she’d created looming out of her dreams.

  “If there’s a problem, he should be a man, and talk to you about it.” Lucas was not a fan of Gus.

  If he knew Gus like I did… But he didn’t. “I don’t think he’s going to come around here. He’s… been busy.”

  “So I hear.”

  Awkward silence descended. It was broken by the shrill rattle of the phone. Lucas picked it up, cradling it against his shoulder.

  “First Mithran Congregational.” He frowned, glanced up at Rose. “Yeah, she’s here. What do you need? She’s busy.” The way he spoke—jealous, almost possessive—got under her skin. He had no right to control who she talked to.

  “Give me that.” She swiped the phone away. “Who is this?”

  “Been a long time, Rose.”

  Speak of the devil. Her ex-partner’s voice sounded deeper, husky, as if he’d been smoking too much. She’d warned him about those cigars… but she supposed there were bigger dangers to his health, these days.

  “Gus. You’ve been… quiet.”

  “I got my reasons.” In the background she heard heavy wooden objects being moved, thuds and clangs. The subtle growl of Gus’ voice was almost lost in the hubbub. Muffled shouts and the noise of machinery came to her, then the slamming of a door silenced the din. “How you been, partner? How’s that nice church doing?”

  She bristled. “It’d be better, if you didn’t send your boys to spy on me.”

  “Hey, now. I’m just looking out for you.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. You’re up to something—you always are.” She found herself struggling to keep her temper, irritated that she wanted to be involved. “What’s the score? Why’d you put a tail on me? I’m out of the game.”

  “Nah, you’re still running one. You and lover-boy just work the donation tins, instead of the back alleys.” There was the hiss of a match being lit. Rose glanced back at Lucas, but he’d vanished, slipping out in his quiet way.

  “Is there a reason you called me? Or was it just to jerk me around?”

  He chuckled. “Love that spirit. I’ve got a job for you, Rose.”

  She sighed. Now Lucas was that out of the room, she could speak more openly… and it angered her that she’d had to wait. “Not happening. That last run nearly killed us both. I’m not getting mixed up in your shit again.”

  “It’s not a grab job, Rose. We just need information.” His voice was a lot deeper than she remembered. “You hear about the new laws?”

  She had. It was front-page news. The twenty-first amendment, created to end Draught use, had now expanded to punish distilling, or even possessing Mithraic rune-stones. Bill after bill was rushed out to demonize Draughts and Myths, piling onto other in a mass of red tape. You could hardly find a speak in Boston now; most had shut down, sensing the shift in opinion. “Yeah. I heard.”

  “Then you know Draughts are done, ‘round here. Except for mine.”

  So that’s the game. She respected the cunning of it: after months of quiet bloodshed, Gus was now the only seller in town. “Good for you, you’re king of the Myths. You finally got all the Greed you want. Why bother me about it?”

  “Don’t be that way.” She scowled, even though he couldn’t see her. “Look. My supplies are brewed in Maine, brought down in hollowed-out artillery shells. We’ve been selling them off as ‘military surplus.’ Last week, somebody hit my supplier, hard. Cut my profits in half.”

  “So? Find a new supplier.”

  “I’m working on it. But this wasn’t a regular hit—they left everything we’d already mixed. They just were after the Humours.”

  She paused. “What kind?”

  “Rage, Lust, some Fear. Hundreds of gallons.”

  Rose shivered. If a supply like that thawed out, the resulting explosion could turn a whole town into Myths… or simply flatten everyone into paste. “That makes no sense. The transport risk… They must have a damn good payoff. Something worth the risk.”

  Gus chuckled. Too late, she realized she was doing his work for him. Puzzling out the reason behind the attack, so he could go on the offensive. “You’re good at this biz, Rose. Wish we could’ve stayed partners.”

  “We could have. You cut me off.”

  “Things were different, back then. We were small fish, with all the big fish gunning for us. Now… I’m the big fish. And I don’t take kindly to little fish stealing my business.” The receiver crackled with the hiss of his cigar’s embers. “I need you to find these assholes, before their supply blows up and brings enough heat to piss off the whole city.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re smart. Quiet. And my crew is neither of those things.”

  She stayed quiet, thinking.

  “I tracked them to a little farm in Framingham. But if I can track them, the Feds can, too—and my intel says they’re getting close. If they nab this haul, that’s hundreds of gallons off the market. My market.”

  “You don’t need me here. You’ve got plenty of muscle—just send in your boys, or some Keystone Cop brigade you’ve paid off.”

  Gus sighed. “Rose, the guys working for me ain’t subtle. If I send an army, I’ll get an empty net, and lots of burnt ammo. I need you.”

  She thought of Lucas. She thought of the cold nights and the quiet of the mornings, the quiet she loved … the quiet which was suffocating her. “I can’t.”

  “Come on, Rose. I know you miss this stuff. It’s rough work, sure—but you’re good at it. You always were.” He paused. “I don’t trust anyone else with this.”

  Was he playing her? She wasn’t sure—and if he was, she didn’t want to call him out on it. She’d rather leave things as they stood, leave her memories crisp and clear and fond. She’d escaped her wild and youthful career of crime by being with Lucas.

  But she hadn’t gotten out clean. Cops kept
tailing her, and Easy Eddie had showed upon her doorstep with a potato peeler. She had Humours in her blood now, for God’s sake. And Lucas… she knew Lucas didn’t see mood-legging as a part of her past. She wasn’t out of those woods yet, and if she wanted to be—really wanted to—she couldn’t go running back in again.

  “No,” she said again. “I’m sorry, Gus.”

  “Rose.” The kindness, the comradery, was fading. “I hate to do this. But these chuckle-fucks screwed me out of hard-earned cash, and I don’t appreciate getting screwed.” His voice went hard. “I’m not asking.”

  “You asshole.” All her nostalgia was brushed aside, now. “You call our church, asking me to do your dirty work, and you think you can play hardball? Fuck off.”

  “You don’t give two shits about that church! Or that Harvey guy. I know you, Rose, you don’t make attachments. You’re not that dumb.”

  “Bullshit!” She heard Lucas’s footsteps pause overhead, in the rectory, and lowered her voice. “This is the first time since Florida that I’ve... Dammit, Gus, I like it here. Don’t take this away from me.”

  “Ain’t got a choice, doll.” He was flat and abrasive, and she seethed. “And don’t kid yourself. The woman I knew wouldn’t be happy playing housewife to some preacher. The Rose I knew was only happy with her foot on the gas, and a pocket full of money.” The other end of the line fell silent. “Next time I call, I’m going to hear yes. Or we’re going to have a problem.”

  “Don’t you dare order me—” But the line had gone dead. She slammed the phone down.

  “Did y’all have a nice chat?”

  Rose looked up. Lucas was leaning on the doorframe, face impassive. There was a quiet sadness in him, and her Humours were feeling something else there too: jealousy. It burned and crackled through his body like electricity.

  “No,” she said. “Lucas… that was Gus. He wants me to do a run.”

  “Of course he does.” His voice was flat, impassive, but she felt the anger surge. “A few months of going straight, and you’re already running back to that… that monster.”

  “I’m not running anywhere.” She detested his choice of words; she didn’t want to go back to that life, but what choice did she have? Her former partner had turned on her. And now her lover was doing the same. “Where do you get off, calling me a criminal? After what you did, back at the Atlantic?”