Addleton Heights

by George Wright Padgett

  After I’d finished eating, I waited for the human host to come upstairs to retrieve my dish and clean the spot. I grappled with whether to ask for a John-John tink or for a forger for papers to flee the platform—or both.

  In the end, I slid a coin to him and asked for a tink. With a polite nod, he chalked out a map to a tink warehouse nearly a mile away.

  I already regretted the choice to continue with the case instead of taking the rational option of absconding the city.

  A man can change a lot about himself: his hair, his physique, the style of clothes he wears, and given enough time, maybe even his fortune in life, but one thing he can’t change or alter is his nature, and I had been stricken with an unyielding curiosity.

  When he was gone, I picked up the stubby pencil he’d left and wrote Nelson’s final message to the world: “LOOK AT JASON O” and studied it. Wondering if I’d made a mistake like with the Qin Shi Huang note, I played with the spacing between the letters. I recalled there hadn’t actually been a space between JASON and the final letter. The three of us had just assumed it was the abbreviation of the surname.

  I took a sip of hot tea and rewrote the sequence, this time replacing the “O” with a “D.” There was something here, I knew it. I could feel it. The answer was staring me in the face, but I couldn’t see it.

  I tried to recall where the bloody letters had fallen across the face of Fredric Montague’s portrait. Was that important? Probably not, but I found myself second-guessing everything I knew about the case, which admittedly wasn’t much.

  I tried to remember the color of the monthly ledgers for the last half of the year. Had those six books scattered on the floor of Montague’s library contained any inscriptions other than the month? Concentrating on the memory of the small bound booklets, I closed my eyes. No, I was certain of it, each of the monthly reports scattered in Montague’s study simply had the corresponding month printed below embossed lettering that read, “Year 1900.”

  I took out Nelson’s letter to Commissioner Davenport and reread the line about giving special attention to the first two pages of the six ledgers.

  My head ached.

  I stared out of the window at the street below for relief and rubbed my temples.

  And then I saw it.

  A team of two horses pulled a lengthy wooden cart containing a crate like the ones from Montague’s.

  For a second, I wondered if fatigue had conjured up the image. The steady sound of the clops of horse’s hooves assured me this was no hallucination.

  I rushed through the restaurant like a madman until I made it to the street.

  Lucky for me, the crowd in the market square was sluggish in parting for the carriage. One of the three men leaned from the carriage seat yelling at pedestrians to make way for Commonwealth business. I slowed my sprint to a brisk walk to avoid notice. Fortunately, the driver stopped on a back street after three blocks.

  They’d pulled up in front of one of the lowering chutes that led to the Under. The architecture of the small metal hut, while out of place with Chinese décor, was identical to the twenty or so facilities scattered throughout Addleton Heights. In contrast to the busy marketplace, this side street was all but deserted, save the four of us. I spied on the others from behind a steel dumpster bin in the alley.

  I thought of Olsen’s secret occupation as a munitions custodian and how he’d been oblivious to the crates. Maybe he’d been right, maybe the shipments weren’t weapons at all. It defied logic that anyone would mount guns at a portal shaft site, since Charon patrols had always kept scrapes from crawling up into the city.

  The trio made fast work of their cargo, the men heaving the bulky container off the back of the cart. The rectangular box hit the street with a boom that reverberated off the high walls of the surrounding buildings. Though the horses whinnied, they weren’t as startled as I was. I wondered if they’d delivered crates like these to every portal station in the city.

  The largest of the three men stomped at what remained of the crate. The two others assisted in flinging the more manageable scraps of wood to the side.

  I struggled for a better look but didn’t dare forfeit my hiding spot. I’d wait all day if necessary to see one of what Hennemann claimed were Montague’s Founder’s Day gifts to the community.

  The men still blocked my view of the crate’s contents as I pondered Nelson’s scribblings back in his apartment. He’d circled the words “BEFORE FOUNDER’S DAY” multiple times. Whatever was happening was certain to occur before January 13th. Had Nelson’s discovery and attempt to inform Commissioner Davenport accelerated Montague’s timetable?

  The sound of the men grunting to hoist the object upright brought me back into the moment. It was a statue of a man. At least it was shaped like a man if that man were nine feet tall and painted to look like he was made of pewter.

  One of the men mock-saluted the metal statue, which drew laughter from the other two workers. An indistinct conversation ensued as the trio returned to their places on the carriage and trotted away.

  I emerged from my hiding place in the empty alleyway and watched them disappear around the corner. Checking the street for anyone passing by, I eagerly made my way over to the metal sculpture. I stopped to pick up a stray scrap of wood with the familiar FD/Montague imprint, this one labeled number sixteen.

  I searched for a Founder’s Day inscription as I approached, but there was no plaque, let alone a base or pedestal. He simply stood poised like a giant soldier at parade rest.

  Also peculiar was the way the men hadn’t bothered to align the statue. It had been abandoned facing the street diagonally. It seemed unlikely that a separate team would be dispatched to straighten it.

  I was puzzled as to why it would be placed in such an undesirable location. Putting it outside a portal shaft to the Under was equivalent to placing a Michelangelo sculpture at the entrance of a sewer system. No one in their right mind would ever visit such a spot. Even the buildings facing the gated area were constructed without windows.

  I’d grown up next to the portal in the East Dolan sector, station number eight of twenty for the city, and the proximity to the shaft alone had condemned my mother and me to lives of social outcasts until I joined the police force and moved farther in, to the Gibba sector. Why was this “gift” put in such an awful place?

  Stranger still was how, if all the crates contained metal statues such as this one, Montague had missed an unveiling opportunity. This was likely the oddest thing about the entire incident, since his desire for recognition for his philanthropic deeds, large or small, was well known.

  The face of the thing had human proportions for the forehead and chin and an outward bevel hinting at a nose, but no mouth. A single long, rectangular slit represented the eyes. An inch and a half above that was something I recognized. My heart leapt with excitement as I stretched to run my fingers across the cool metal flange.

  I knew it was the same item, but I found myself taking out the device that Sawyer had slipped me anyway. I lifted what remained of my brass cylinder and compared the two as best I could when I was a good three feet shorter than the statue.

  Though the device embedded in the forehead of the metal man had no active blinking lights, everything else was identical to mine: the series of indentions, the small alternating square holes, and the corkscrew middle. It was undeniably the same “tinkware”—well, the same minus the half that was back in my office under my desk.

  I rapped the torso of the metal Adonis. It wasn’t hollow like the headless, bulky statue in Montague’s foyer. I returned Sawyer’s brass piece to my pocket.

  For a minute or so, I unsuccessfully attempted to pry out the statue’s device with the end of my lockpicking gear. When I couldn’t get it loose, I was forced to concede that I’d only be taking my piece to the Chinese tink’s warehouse. Depending on what it turned out to be, I might be able to convince the John-John inventor to return here with me to examine the “full” item embedded in
the metal man.

  I reviewed the directions on the map I’d received from the restaurant and headed north. I’d made it halfway to my destination when I collided with a young Chinese man making his way around the corner at the same time. Though the impact wasn’t hard enough to make either of us fall, it took a few seconds for us to regain our footing on the ice.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, holding the map up. “I shouldn’t have been looking at this while walking.”

  “It’s not a problem,” the man said while offering the slightest of bows. “I was in too big a hurry. I apologize.”

  I sensed his embarrassment and tried to ease it by asking for help. “Is that street over there Hang Ah Lane?”

  His countenance quickly changed to a pleasing smile, grateful to change the subject. “No, Hang Ah is the street behind it.”

  Offering a slight bow of my own, I said, “Thank you, and have a happy New Year.”

  “It’s not my New Year, but for you. Chinese New Year is February.”

  “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “February nineteenth,” he added. “It will start the year of the metal ox. You know, different months too, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know the calendars are diff—”

  I froze.

  My thoughts turned over and over, bouncing into each other in my brain like bubbles in a teapot about to whistle.

  Months . . .

  Six ledgers . . .

  Comprised of months.

  The stranger continued on his way, leaving me to count out on my fingers.

  July, August, September . . . O for October . . . N for November. “The last letter wasn’t an O,” I whispered to no one as unseen puzzle pieces snapped into place.

  Closing my eyes transported me back to Montague’s study. In my mind, I stood before the portrait of Frederic Montague. Jim Nelson entered the frame. His hand became mine as I painted in thick red characters across the face of the painting: J A S O N D.

  I shouted, “D for December!” I didn’t care who heard me. Let all of Chinatown think me mad. It was all about the six ledgers—there was never a Jason to be found! Nelson had hidden something in those reports.

  I remembered that the one labeled September had a mangled pastedown sheet as if someone had tried to separate it from the cover. It was obvious to me now that that someone was James Nelson. He knew that he was dying and that the only hope of disrupting Montague’s plan was to alert Chief Ormond’s men with a message written in his own blood telling them where the answers were.

  Since returning to Montague’s study was out of the question, the only option was to revisit Nelson’s. It was a long shot, but if he’d scribbled out a run-through of whatever was pasted into the six ledgers like he’d done for the note to Davenport, there’d be enough to go to the Commonwealth, and then they could requisition the ledgers for themselves.

  I chided myself for being so blind to the obvious, but for the first time since this had begun, I knew the next move.

  Pandora had her box, and I had this JASOND case. Despite the lunacy of continuing on instead of making a break for it, I had to know. Damn my compulsion, but I had to know. A forger to get me off the platform could wait. Seeing a Chinese tink could wait. Whatever Sawyer’s device was could wait. The nine-foot statue could wait. The answers were in Nelson’s ledgers. I was on my way.

  Seventeen

  On the bassel ride to Nelson’s apartment, I mused at how the answer had been under our noses the entire time. Hennemann had dragged me from one side of the city to the other while everything we needed had been in Montague’s study all along.

  My confidence had returned. Simply not having Hennemann around to tell me what a failure I was at every turn may have had something to do with it. The dreadful notion of him being at Nelson’s laying in wait for me entered my mind, and I found myself wishing that I hadn’t made such a thing of returning there.

  I consoled myself that if he was there, I’d have the jump on him. There was no way for him to know the exact moment I’d arrive. Plus, the steam carriage would be impossible to hide. I caught myself subconsciously running my thumb across the butt of Fitzpatrick’s gun.

  I transferred off the Chinatown Express to one of the main bassel lines that’d lead back to Nelson’s. It was the first time I’d ever been relieved to enter a bassel crowded enough to require its passengers to ride standing up. If Hennemann was waiting for me at the stop in New Gettys, I’d be able to blend in with the other riders and exit at another stop.

  As the carrier drew closer to my destination, I weaved through the other passengers to the front window of the transport. Beneath us were just the soot-stained, grimy tops of tink structures. If one squinted, the metal mishmash of various-sized buildings and shanties looked like a steel quilt assembled by a blind grandmother. Most of the tinks I’d encountered couldn’t have cared less about their own appearance, let alone architecture.

  I nearly missed my stop, with Nelson’s neighborhood looking different in the bleak light of day. I felt exposed, since I was the only passenger to exit at the stop. I quickly surveyed the area for the big man and the steam carriage while shuffling down the ramp to street level. There was no sign of him among the few locals stirring. Just to be safe, though, I skirted along walls and ducked in doorways and alleys every chance I could.

  I quietly closed the lobby door of Nelson’s building and paused to listen. In the few hours I’d spent with Marcus Hennemann, I’d learned an important fact about him: it was impossible for the man to be quiet. Yes, part of this was due to his size—floorboards creaking under the strain of his mass and all that—but there were also the little noises and sounds that came from him: labored breathing and nose wheezes, faint little unconscious grunts.

  I drew my weapon and took soft but deliberate steps toward Nelson’s partially opened door.

  I stopped in my tracks. Something wasn’t right. My skin rippled with gooseflesh, accompanied by a queasiness I’d learned to recognize as my subconscious early-warning system. Something was wrong here, something . . . something was missing.

  The mangled doorknob was gone from where I’d dropped it outside the door hours earlier.

  It defied logic that Hennemann would’ve cleaned up after us. That wasn’t his style. Had he brought it inside when he’d come back to get me? I couldn’t remember if I’d walked past it on our way out to Father J.’s church.

  Forcing my breathing to calm by biting my lip, I peeked into the ragged hole in the door. The only thing I could see in the natural light of day was one of Nelson’s rocking chairs across the room. It looked just as we’d left it, but I couldn’t deny that nauseated feeling twisting in my stomach.

  The prudent part of my brain pleaded with me to leave, to just turn and walk away—find a decent forger and use the tickets to New Haven to take the airship off the Addleton Heights platform. But my curiosity would only be quenched when I had all the answers, and I was fairly certain that the path to those answers started in Nelson’s waste bin.

  Prudence never stood a chance.

  Mouthing a silent curse, I clicked the pistol’s hammer back. It seemed ridiculously loud, but I knew that was due to my heightened senses. I debated whether to shove the door open or gently guide it. I opted for the latter.

  The door creaked on its hinges loudly and slowly, again impossibly loud. Seeing the room empty, a wave of relief swept over me and I stepped in.

  A slight creak from the door behind me caused me to turn. Standing at the ready behind it was the most resplendent creature that I’d ever laid eyes on. It was the woman in the photograph. I may have smiled as I lowered the gun, I’m not sure.

  She was beautiful.

  She was angry.

  There was a pronounced click followed by a mechanical whirling sound, and then my world exploded in a blinding pain of white-pink light.

  Eighteen

  I didn’t lose consciousness. I was aware . . . aware of it all. I dropped the gun. Electrical curren
t surged through my body, and every cell screamed in a chorus of unending pain. My body stiffened for an excruciating second or two, and then my limbs jerked like a marionette in a tornado as I collapsed to the floor in a heap. An overwhelming itching sensation covered me, but I was powerless to scratch, powerless to move.

  She leaned over and touched a stubby copper cylinder to my wrist.

  Another click, more whirling, more twitching, more agony.

  I wanted to pass out. I prayed to God to make me pass out or die—just to make it end. Finally, it stopped for the second time. I lay immobile, muscles vibrating, on the wooden floor.

  “You’re probably going to vomit. Most people do.” Those were the first words that she ever said to me. She crouched to my level on the ground and added, “But you won’t die. It may feel like you will, but you won’t . . . die that is. I only had Rodger here set to three. It goes to eight.”

  Through my blurred vision, I saw her twirl the copper object around like a toy.

  “I made a snake catch on fire once by zapping it on five,” she said with pride.

  The itching was maddening, and I was covered in sweat.

  She returned to a standing position, leaving me staring at her boots and the cuffs of serviceable pinstriped trousers. The sound of her winding the device was terrifying. There was no way out of this.

  Turns out being shocked to death was very high on my list of ways not to die.

  I couldn’t speak, though my teeth had stopped chattering. My mouth was all cotton, and a caustic metal taste was on my tongue. I managed a painful groan, a helpless plea for mercy as tears filled my eyes.

  “Anyway, like I said, you’ll probably vomit, so go ahead and get it out. I’m gonna lift you into that chair over there, and I’d rather not wear your breakfast.”