by Kay Kenyon
This was more evident now that he saw the boy again. “We are two against the one,” Dries soothed.
The lad drew nearer, walking along the path, careful not to spill the contents of his pails. He was thickset, with a shambling gait, his face a serene blank, his high forehead harboring no thought except to feed the pigs.
Dries wondered what the boy’s Talent was. He had, of course, a curiosity. For one of the slayings, he had been sure: the woman from Cracow. She had given him an elegant demonstration that day at the railway station, with those stygian shadows flowing from her. She must have been a 7 at least. Perhaps an 8.
The boy lifted one pail and tipped it into the trough. The pigs grunted and thrust their noses through the rails. Setting the first pail down, he emptied the second pail, held away from his body so the slop would not splash upon him.
“Now?” Coslett mouthed, grabbing Dries by the arm.
The hogs growled and squealed. The boy lingered a moment to see them jostle at the trough.
Dries nodded. It was time.
They came out into view, with Coslett having an arm around his companion, who limped. “I say, could you help?” Coslett said. “My friend’s been hurt.”
The boy looked at them in consternation a moment, no doubt trying to figure out why two men would suddenly come from behind the hut. But they were well dressed, and the boy took this in, pausing just long enough to allow them within range.
Dries separated himself from Coslett, bending down and groaning. As he did so, the memory came at the edges of consciousness, little flickers of heat and flame.
Coslett spoke up again. “If you could just help me get him to your house, perhaps your parents could get help? I think his foot is broken.”
Dutifully, the boy stepped forward to help, as Coslett fumbled in his pocket for the rag. Wrong pocket, the idiot! Then the other pocket, an odd action the farm boy noted. He stopped in his tracks.
Dries groaned louder, looking up with as pitiable an expression as he could muster.
The boy took another step forward, but toward Dries, not Coslett.
Coslett was now behind the boy. “Thank you, young gentleman,” Dries said.
Lurching forward, Coslett tried to push the stinking rag into the victim’s face.
Then they both set upon the boy. He struggled, pushing the cloth away and, using the pail as a weapon, smashed it against his assailants. Coslett slipped in the mud, dropping the cloth. Dries threw himself against the boy, toppling him. Cold mud on his knees, the stench of pig shit. Sensory perceptions surrounding him in a wooly miasma. He struggled with the boy, trying to pin down his flailing arms but clumsily missing his connections.
“The rag, you fool, the rag!” he shouted at Coslett, who now crawled forward, trying to get it into the boy’s face. The boy jammed his fists into his assailants as the three of them grappled in the mud. Dries flailed as Coslett wallowed like a drunk. Godverdomme, he thought. This one has the mesmerizing.
In a supreme effort, Dries raised his scalpel and stabbed, thrusting it into the boy’s back. A bellow. He rolled away with the scalpel still in his back, trying to rise but failing to get traction in the mud. Coslett finally got the rag over his face, holding it secure. As the boy jerked on the ground, Coslett practically stuffed the muddied rag down his throat.
Their victim fell quiet, and Dries extracted the knife from his flesh, trying to get in position to finish the job.
Coslett looked up the path. “Someone coming!”
Through a haze of flames that snapped at the edges of his eyes, Dries saw a man hurrying down the path from the farmhouse, shouting at them. He stopped and raised a shotgun. Fired.
A searing impact sent Dries staggering. The man on the path bellowed and let fly another blast, this one just clearing their heads. Coslett pulled Dries away, dragging him back from the pig sty toward the dark trees.
“I can walk!” His companion finally let go of him.
Dries craned his neck for a glimpse in back of them. The farmer knelt by the boy, jerking his head up to see where the attackers were. He and Coslett staggered into the cover of the forest. They wove through the trees, trying to recover their wits. Dries’s chest was cold and wet with blood.
He leaned on Coslett as they rushed through the bracken-choked ground. After a hundred meters or so, the fog of confusion lifted; mesmerizing could not reach so far. At last they reached the car, where Coslett helped him into the back seat.
Dries lay there, bleeding. Amid his pain, his thoughts came clearly. If I die, let it not be at the hands of the British. Kill me in France or Austria. But, you blasted God, not in England.
THE STONE GALLERY, ST. PAUL’S, LONDON
MONDAY, AUGUST 24. “Talon is wounded,” Julian said straight out.
E took a long, deep breath. He kept his gaze on the view, those intermittent slices of London seen from 175 feet up through the stone balustrades. Against the massive, darkened sky, the gold spires of St. Paul’s caught the afternoon sun like a flame in a storm.
“It happened during an attempted execution at a farm near Stourbridge in the West Midlands,” Julian said. “The victim was George Merkin, a fifteen-year-old. The boy’s father came upon the scene and hit one of the assailants at mid-range with a shotgun. It was a man in glasses. Sounds like our Dutchman.”
“One of the assailants?”
“Looks like Talon has an accomplice. The father heard the boy yell and rushed down with a shotgun. He saw them struggling, and risked a shot. The men fled.”
“Good man with a gun,” E said with satisfaction. “Any description of the second man?”
“No. The father was too far away, and once one of them was hit, they ran into the woods. The youngster hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“Any trail?”
“Not so far. Our assassin was bloodied but strong enough to get through a half mile of woods back to a car. We may not be done with him yet.”
“But by God, a strike back.” Gazing out at the view, E looked more and more these last few minutes like a commander surveying a battle scene, one that was going in his favor.
They fell silent as tourists poured out of a doorway onto the gallery, having made the long climb from the floor of St. Paul’s and the whisper gallery. When the group wandered off, following the curve around the dome, E said, “Something else, then?”
“The National Task Force is still withholding the information that the victims are Talents. Isn’t it time to let the papers loose with that piece? It would give the parents of adolescents with Talents—those that are aware of their children having an ability—a chance to be on the alert.”
E shook his head. “I’ve spoken to the JIC about this already, and they’re adamant that we forestall any fearmongering around the Talent question. We must encourage people to register as Talents. National security is at stake. We might not match German conventional arms, but we have a fighting chance with Talents. This Nachteule thing could knock us out of the game.”
Julian knew better than to argue when the Joint Intelligence Committee had weighed in.
“One more thing, then: I think it’s time to pass intel more freely to our Continental counterparts. We should coordinate. Talon may be wounded, but he may live to kill again. Or he’ll be replaced by another, just as deadly.”
E shook his head. “We don’t want foreign agents tracking Nachteule on our soil. They’ll be in the way, the Security Service will howl.”
“Then make an exception for the Poles. For Gustaw Bajek. We share intel with him, and he lets us know what the Czechs, French, and Dutch have. He passes on to them only what we approve, and meanwhile, we stay abreast of Nachteule.”
E looked at Julian directly for the first time. “It puts at risk his ties with his counterparts. Why would he agree to such a lopsided arrangement?”
“Because of Tilda Mazur.”
“The woman we almost snatched from the Polish army?” Julian nodded. “I should think that is a reason he wouldn’
t cooperate.”
Julian saw that E was starting to close down, to fall into a mood of leave-well-enough-alone. “Bajek wants Mazur’s assassin. He hated that it was his own countrymen who leaked names of Polish talents. And Tilda Mazur . . .” He struggled to find words that would convince an old army man that emotions swayed decisions. “Mazur put a face on the exterminations. She ran for her life and was put down in a field like a deer. He wants the killer.”
“So, he activates his people here—”
“No. He works with me, period.” If Julian was wrong about Gustaw, it could compromise Crossbow. But without a break in the case, more youngsters would likely face a brutal death. They couldn’t wait for Talon to expose himself; they had to take some risks to finally track him down.
E pulled his jacket collar up against a smattering of rain carried in on a freshening breeze. “All right. Bring your Pole in on it. Time to shake things up and see what falls out.” He shared a glance with Julian. “It ends now. Five murders are enough.”
He didn’t correct his boss that only four had died. George Merkin wasn’t dead yet.
Julian descended the narrow stone stairs to the cathedral’s main floor and crossed the south transept, noting that Elsa had just arrived at the south door and was preceding him down to the floor below. The crypt.
After paying his respects to Lord Nelson’s sarcophagus, Julian wandered over to the William Blake plaque. Elsa knew her poetry, but all Julian had of William Blake was Tyger, tyger burning bright, in the forests of the night. And something about fearful symmetry. What was fearful about symmetry, he wondered, and why must poetics be so obscure one always felt like one had rather missed the point?
“Young man,” Elsa said, looking worried, “might you know where they’ve buried Wellington? I’m afraid I’ve lost him.”
“He’s over there,” Julian said, pointing. “I say, you can have my guide if you like.” He passed it to her along with his letter to Gustaw Bajek, prepared ahead of time in the hope of E’s approval.
“Oh, thank you very much indeed. If you’re sure you don’t need it.” She turned to the Blake plaque. “Didn’t he write about flowers in the crannied wall? Or was that Kipling?”
Julian squinted at the inscription. As he did so, Elsa murmured, “Courier to our Polish friend?”
“Yes, quick as can be done.”
He turned to leave, saying over his shoulder. “A great soldier, Wellington. You won’t want to miss him.”
“Oh, gracious no. But we need the poets as well.” Delightfully, she wandered off in the wrong direction, holding her guide upside down.
22
A LONDON PUB
TUESDAY, AUGUST 25. Ed Gardiner clutched his beer and regarded Lloyd with a fishy stare. “Bum luck, getting sacked.”
“Don’t worry, I got prospects.” Lloyd hoisted his glass in a toast to something, didn’t matter what. He took a long pull. “Got a big piece coming out in the East End Express.” His own earth mysteries article. “Mind you, if you hear anything, I’m willin’ to consider other offers.” Gardiner was still on with the Register, lucky sod.
“Right-o.”
Gardiner didn’t give a rat’s ass about Lloyd, of course. Just the same, he didn’t seem to like the way Lloyd got fired. In favor of a Yank, a woman, who nosed in on a story, and not even on the London Register.
“Ever see this Tavistock girl at the office?” Lloyd asked, picking at the sore.
Gardiner shook his head. “She’s going to do another in the series, too.”
“Series? What series?”
“On spiritualism.”
Lloyd felt sick.
“Same as you were doin’,” Gardiner added, as though it needed saying. Lloyd thought maybe Gardiner was enjoying this.
“Purloined it, she did,” Lloyd muttered. “Purloined.”
It was odd how you could hate someone you hardly knew. Kim Tavistock, lately of Uxley, Yorkshire. But the injustice was almost too much to bear. Where was he going to find another position, with three million able-bodied men out of work? Come to that, how was he going to pay his rent? And he knew that Maxwell had given her his idea for earth mysteries, and his contact with Lord Ellesmere, as well. He’d be happy if the twit had a run-in with a bus.
“I know a shop that needs some help cleaning up. Evenings,” Gardiner said, avoiding his gaze. “Until your prospects pan out.”
Lloyd struggled with himself whether to answer. Truth was, he needed a job, any job. Gritting his teeth, he said, “I might pass a name on. Lots of people in my predicament.”
Gardiner wrote down a name and telephone number on a scrap of paper, pushing it across the table.
Lloyd slid it into his pocket. “You ever heard Maxwell mention someone named Galbraith?” That was the name, underlined twice, written on Maxwell’s tablet along with Tavistock and Coslett.
“Why?”
“Just, did you? I’m runnin’ down some leads on a story to sell.”
“Well, you know about the medal, right? Max used to know this toff, a Galbraith, in the war. Colonel Galbraith, the one in the picture.”
“Picture?”
“Right. Max was his batman, and got a citation out of it. Has that picture on his wall, from when he got his medal pinned on. Don’t tell me you never heard about the sodding medal?”
“Can’t say as I did. Colonel, was it?”
“A regular toff, and Maxwell dug his latrine holes for him.”
“Where’s he now?”
Gardiner shrugged. “Don’t know. I could ask Max.”
“No, this is a private matter.” The urge to follow a lead reared its head. Galbraith. R. Galbraith. The one time in his life where Maxwell Slater’s path had evidently crossed that of gentry. He might have been on the telephone with Galbraith that day he scrawled his doodles. And it might be that this Colonel Galbraith asked for a favor for the twit.
Well, now. Seeing as how he had nothing else to do, Lloyd might just track down the fellow. Get to the bottom of things, wrap up the story, like.
He twirled a finger at the barman for two more. Gardiner was all right, a waster on the job, but in a pinch, he knew how to come through. One more pint, and he’d take a little jaunt, drop in on some mates with a hand in policing. A bloke in the business always had a few colleagues at the Yard, people who knew people or could find out.
He had plenty of time on his hands. And he was curious as hell.
WRENFELL, EAST YORKSHIRE
In the loo, Martin scrubbed at the snake on his wrist until his skin grew bright red. He had inked the line into his skin so many times, it wouldn’t come out, but it was fading. He hated to admit it, but his da had been right. The Adder clubs were a stupid idea. And now an awful one.
The clubs wanted secrecy so that adults wouldn’t interfere, and the rest of the kids wouldn’t badger you. But now one of the Adders was squealing, he’d bet. One of them was revealing names. How exactly could they do that, though? There was no list of Adders, not that he ever heard of. The clubs were all separate. He always thought they just caught on, as word got around. But maybe other clubs were part of a list, and his club all the way off in Coomsby was just ignored. Or worse: somehow his club was on a list and the killer could come after him next, or Christopher or Teddy, and he would feel responsible.
Leaving the toilet, Martin crossed the hall to his room. He took the newspaper articles out from under the mattress. There, in the newspaper photo of Jane Babington holding up her music trophy: the Adder on her wrist. Add that to Rupert Bristow, the one murdered by the river in Cambridgeshire, with the little wavy line on his neck. Martin had to squint, but he was sure the line had three crosshatches across the tail. The sign of the Adders.
And someone was killing them. He didn’t know about the other two kids; maybe they had Adder marks that didn’t show up in photographs.
Maybe the murderer had come into one of the clubs, pretending to have a Talent, acting like one of the group, but sec
retly hating them all for what they were. Maybe, like a lot of people—like Reverend Hathaway—the murderer thought Adder abilities were wrong. Something that must be wiped out.
He looked at his pile of newspaper articles. From the beginning, with Rupert Bristow, he’d been hoping that the mark on his neck wasn’t an Adder mark, or if it was, that it was only a fluke that he’d been murdered and had a Talent.
But now two Adders. He had a sinking feeling, a hunch that had been gathering strength since Rose told him about that girl’s murder at a church, that these were Talent murders. And that the police knew and were keeping it secret. Because, like Miss Kim said, the police didn’t tell all the details, so as to keep the killer off-guard.
He put the newspaper articles back under his mattress. Would he be adding to them?
Since the police weren’t stopping the murders, it was time for people to fight back, like that fellow in Stourbridge did. They tried to kill him by the pig trough at his farm, and his da, he came out with a shotgun, and fired at whoever it was. Regular people ought to help out. Maybe people like him.
It was hard to stop thinking about how he might be able to use his site view Talent to find clues. That would be fair, to use a Talent to catch a Talent-killer. Maybe people would finally believe him, if he could prove he had site view, and if he could do something important with it.
He couldn’t use his ability at the pigsty, because he didn’t know where it was. But that church in London should be easy to find.
St. Mary-le-Bow.
23
BESELARE, BELGIUM
WEDNESDAY AUGUST 26. The tractor lay half-buried in the cornfield. In a hired motorcar, Gustaw Bajek drove past a group of men using a team of horses to extract the machine from a deep hole.
Driving through the storied battlefields of Passchendaele, Gustaw saw that the war remained imprinted on the land. Cemeteries corralled white gravestones like ghostly dominoes, row on row, many noting only, A SOLDIER OF THE GREAT WAR, KNOWN UNTO GOD.
