Redeemer

by C. E. Murphy

  "Just like you do." Johnson tapped his pen against his notepad. "I've seen men kill people before, Miss Ransom. You're holding up awfully well."

  "My parents think it just hasn't hit me yet and I'm liable to fall apart at any moment." Rosie glanced toward Moran, who had put his coffee aside and watched her without any of the discomfort he'd displayed earlier. Watching to see if she gave anything away. She wondered if she had, and shrugged, both at her own curiosity and the detective's waiting gaze. "They're probably right. I'm so tired right now I'm not sure any of it feels real. What're you going to do with poor Pearl?"

  "She's got an appointment with a court psychologist this morning. He'll determine if she's fit to stand trial or if she's crazy, and if she's crazy, she'll be committed for her own safety. She probably should be anyway."

  "At Eloise Asylum?" Rosie shuddered, no longer performing. "I've heard about that place. Poor Pearl."

  "Poor Pearl," Johnson agreed with a shake of his head. "Good thing you're smarter than she is, Miss Ransom, or you might find yourself there too."

  Puzzlement wrinkled Rosie's forehead. "Detective, I don't even know how I should take that. Do you think I'm lying to you? Do you think Pearl isn't?" A faint smile crept over her mouth. "Do you believe in monsters, Detective?"

  Johnson flipped the notebook shut and finished his coffee in one swallow. "I believe there's something strange going on in this city, and I think you know more than you're saying. Come on, Moran. We're done here, for now. Give Miss Diaz our condolences. Tell her the police will be notifying Miss McAnly's family. She doesn't have to do that herself."

  Rosie stood when he did, saying, "Thanks," uncertainly. She walked them out the front door, past Irene and Jean, who had at least gotten to the long blue living-room couch, and stopped on the hot porch to watch the officers head for their patrol car. "Detective?"

  Johnson, halfway into the car, shaded his eyes against the glaring sun and looked up at Rosie with the door a barrier between himself and her. "Why do you think there's something going on here? Have there been other murders like Ruby's?"

  The corner of Johnson's mouth turned up, like she'd asked a good question. "Police business, Miss. Nothing I can say. You call me if you remember anything else, Miss Ransom. You keep in touch." He got in the car and they drove away, leaving the heavy smell of gasoline fumes lingering behind them. Kids playing in the street scattered away, then returned to kicking the can and throwing baseballs, like it was any other Saturday morning.

  Rosie pressed her hands into the porch railing, dropping her head to loosen knots that had appeared while the detective questioned her. She didn't have anything to hide, she reminded herself. She couldn't help it if the truth sounded crazy.

  "The whiskey helped," Irene said from inside the front door. "Jean is half-asleep. I thought if I left her alone, she might drift off."

  "Thanks." Rosie leaned her bottom against the railing and folded her arms. "I know you don't hardly know her, so thank you, Irene. You've been a champ. You should go home and get some sleep."

  Irene came to lean her hips into the railing, looking at the yellowing grass in the yard. "Everybody at home read the papers already?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then I wouldn't get any sleep. I might as well stay here with Jean. I was really worried that creep wouldn't bring you home last night, Rosie. You don't know anything about him except—"

  "Except he believed my story." Rosie tilted her chin up to look at the veranda ceiling. "And that Detective Johnson sent him to drive me home, and Johnson seems pretty solid."

  "What'd he want?"

  "Pearl told him the truth about Goode. He wanted to see if I was willing to tell the same tale."

  Irene straightened in astonishment. "She told a cop there were vampires?"

  "Shh." Rosie laughed quietly. "Yeah. I think he even half-believes her. He said—well, he didn't say—that there's something funny going on in Detroit. More than PFC Goode. Hank said something about a—a demonus … no, darn it. Daemon rex. A king demon, anyways, somewhere in the Midwest. That's what he's supposed to be trying to find himself, and I think maybe Johnson's on to it, a little bit. He knows something stra …"

  She trailed off as Irene favored her with a hard look. "You can't let this guy's crazy stories take over your mind, Rosie. You gotta keep your feet on the ground. Detective Johnson doesn't think there are demons or monsters running around Detroit. At least, nothing more monstrous than men, which can be bad enough. I told you about Danny O'Brien back in Brooklyn."

  "You did. I'm sorry I'm worrying you, Rene."

  "But you're not going to change your story."

  Irene held herself a little away from Rosie, the same way Barb and Dorothy had done at home. It hurt more when Irene did it, though, and Rosie whispered, "I'm still me."

  "Maybe, but I see you different. Are you going to run off and find your new sheik, is that what happens next?"

  "He's not my sheik, Irene. He's a cop, he's a …" Rosie sighed. "But yes, I am. Because he knows more than I do about what's going on, and I need to find out. I'll come back this afternoon and check on Jean, okay? I can bring you some clothes that fit …"

  Irene brushed her hand over the yellow blouse she'd borrowed. "This is fine. Nobody's going to be coming over to see me, anyway. They'll be coming to help Jean as soon as word gets out."

  "You're a good friend, Rene."

  "The best." Irene's smile looked as forced as her voice sounded, but at least she'd made the effort. Rosie didn't make it worse by trying to hug her, and just went down the steps into the roasting afternoon sun. She'd wilted by the time a tram came, but for a small mercy, there were seats available, and she sank into one gratefully.

  "Just off shift?" asked a sympathetic girl. Rosie smiled without answering and leaned her head on the window, letting the tram's motion, creaks and all, lull her into drowsing. Goode's face drifted behind her eyelids, first the arrogance of his sneer and then the surprise of his death. Rosie shuddered and sat up, focusing on the heat haze softening the skyline and trying to erase the images from her mind.

  "Did you hear about the awful thing at the Highfield Road factory last night?" the friendly girl asked. "It's all over the papers. A supe went crazy and attacked a girl. She killed him with her riveting gun. How's that for a kick in the pants?"

  "I heard."

  "The papers say the police are investigating a lot of other missing girls from the same factory. I'm darn glad I work at Birch Walk factory. I'd be scared spitless to go back to work there."

  "Why? The crazy supe is dead."

  "But the girl isn't! Who knows what she might do! They say soldiers change when they've killed somebody. Maybe she'll become a maniac!"

  "I bet she just wants some sleep." Rosie got off two stops earlier than she needed to and sat on the nearest bench for a minute, looking bleakly after the tram. Everybody gossiped. She knew that. She did it herself. But she'd never thought what it felt like to be in the middle of the gossip storm, not when something big had happened. It didn't make any sense, the idea that other girls might be afraid to go back to the factory. She'd think they'd feel safer, knowing the danger was gone. Except maybe never having seen it in the first place made it worse somehow. She pressed her hands against the warm planks of the bench and made herself stand up. Sitting there like a big baby wouldn't change anything, but maybe finding out what strange things Johnson had been talking about would.

  The police station rose more imposingly in daylight, which didn't make sense either. Maybe she'd been too shaken up the night before to be properly cowed by it. She went inside and got an appraising look from the desk sergeant, whose paunch and bald head both put him at old enough to be her father. "What can I do for a pretty little miss like you?"

  Rosie plastered on a smile. "I'm looking for Hank. Is he in?"

  "The cripple? No, they said he was out all night squiring some girl around. Guess I would too, if I had the chance. He's got a great car, but who would wa
nt to play house with a guy who limps like that? I wonder what she saw in him." The sergeant looked Rosie up and down again. "What do you see in him, dolly? Moneybags?"

  "Steve Rogers," Rosie said coolly. "Where does he live?"

  "Aw, honey, Captain America was a wimp before he went to war. He didn't come home feeble. Anyway, he lives out on Lakeshore Drive. Hey, Millie, get her Hank's number, would you? Gotta give the poor sap every chance he can get if a pretty girl comes knocking. Unless you'd like to leave your number with me, sweetheart."

  Rosie's smile strained until she thought her lips might crack. "‘Sweetheart.' Gosh, that's what my pop calls me. I guess you must be about his age, huh? Fifty-five, fifty-six?" Her pop wasn't near that old, but it cleared the smirk right off the sergeant's face.

  "I'm thirty-eight, you little—"

  "Really?" Rosie widened her eyes. "Gosh, officer, you don't look it at all. I guess that's why they didn't take you in the army, huh? Afraid you'd have a heart attack or something? That must really sting, knowing all those other men your age are out there doing their part for the war effort and you're just stuck here behind a desk like some kinda patsy."

  The secretary, a trim woman in her forties, stepped up to offer Rosie a folded piece of paper across the sergeant's desk. She held on to it longer than necessary, making certain Rosie met her eyes and saw the sparkle of approval in them. Rosie chirruped, "Thanks! Look, I'm friends with Pearl Daly and I heard she got herself in some trouble last night. Is she here?"

  The desk sergeant snarled, "None of your business, you little—" while the secretary smiled and offered, "They've taken her out to talk to a psychologist. I think they'll be letting her go, though. This is all bad business and they won't want it aired around too much. Arresting a young woman in conjunction with the rash of missing girls and deaths would just bring too much attention to the whole mess."

  "Millie! You can't go talking police business to any nosy little girl who wanders in here!"

  Millie put her fingertips over pursed lips in a mimicry of apology, then snapped her fingers. "Oh, darn, I forgot to spell out Hank's last name for you. Give me that paper back, hon." She gave Rosie the gimlet eye as Rosie began a protest, so Rosie subsided and handed the paper back. Millie scribbled on it, then returned it to her. "Take care now, honey. Tell Hank hello."

  Rosie smiled and unfolded the paper on the way out the door, then shot a surprised look back over her shoulder. Millie, watching, winked before going back to her desk, and Rosie left the station, smiling and smug, with both Hank's phone number and the building address where Pearl had been taken.

  EIGHT

  Two bakeries lay between the station and the psychologist's offices, and the scent of fresh pastries made Rosie's stomach cramp with hunger. She cast a glance at the sun—past overhead—and counted the hours since she'd last eaten. Enough that she could indulge in a doughnut. She scavenged the emergency dollar she kept folded in the pocket of every pair of dungarees, bought two doughnuts, and stopped at a corner pay phone to call Hank's number with the change. An English woman answered, told her Hank was sleeping late, and offered to take a message. "No, it's okay," Rosie said. "I don't know when I'll be near a phone he could call me on, so I'll just call back later, thanks."

  "I insist. It's so nice to hear a young lady calling him."

  "Um, okay. You could tell him Rosie's trying to meet Pearl at Harper Hospital, but I'm not sure what time she'll get out. Thanks." Rosie hung up and hurried down the street toward the hospital. A shaded bench across the street offered some relief from the heat and gave her full view of the front doors. Rosie tucked her feet under herself and nibbled doughnuts to keep herself awake while she waited for Pearl's release.

  At least, she hoped it would be Pearl's release. If they kept her in custody, Rosie and Hank really would have to stage a jailbreak. The idea of tweaking the loutish desk sergeant made her grin, but she doubted Detective Johnson would look the other way if they got caught. Especially when he already thought she was lying about something.

  The sun slipped farther across the sky, until the shaded bench sat in the full afternoon glare. Rosie squinted into the sun, unwilling to leave and risk missing Pearl, but wishing she had a bathroom, water, and more food. And a hat. She lifted her hands to block the sun, and startled as Hank spoke from behind her. "You're getting burned. I'll spell you for a while."

  Rosie twisted to put her arms in the shadow of her body, checking their color. "Darn it. I've been working days so long I forgot about sunburn. Was that your mother I talked to? She has a nice voice."

  "Very British," Hank said, sounding as British has she had. "She works to keep the accent." He sat down beside Rosie, extracting two Coke bottles from a bag over his shoulder. "You looked parched."

  Rosie took a bottle gratefully and held it against her cheek to feel its chill. "Thanks. Except I can't drink this until I use the bathroom. Which one is your real accent?"

  "They both are," Hank said, sounding American again. "I use ske-jewl instead of shed-yule, though, and tomayto instead of tomahto. Except when in Rome. They'll probably let you use the bathroom across the street there."

  "I hope so." Rosie balanced the Coke bottle on the bench and jumped up to wait on traffic so she could cross over. Her legs tingled from the sudden change in pressure. Rosie groaned, bending to touch her toes and stretch the protesting muscles. "I've been sitting too long. I'll be back in a minute." She jogged across the street and up the steps, pulling the hospital door open. A secretary looked up and Rosie said, "Bad luck, having to work on Saturday. At least you have a fan."

  "It doesn't do enough." The woman, whose hair was limp even in the breeze, smiled tiredly. "Can I help you? You've been waiting outside all day."

  "Oh, you know how men are. He said he'd be there at noon, and it's three when he shows up. Do you have a bathroom I could use?"

  The secretary glanced out the doors at Hank, who had sprawled across the bench, a Coke in one hand. "He's a dish, but is he tasty enough to wait three hours in the sun for? Sure, down the hall to your left. The lock sticks, so give it a shake before you cry for help."

  Rosie laughed. "Thanks for the warning." The bathroom mirror confirmed her sunburn, reddening the tops of her cheeks and a V down her chest where her blouse buttoned, but her arms only looked strong and browned, not burned. She used the toilet, washed her hands, then drank a few palmsful of water from the faucet, reckoning the soda awaiting her wouldn't be enough. The lock didn't stick, and she left to say thanks to the secretary and to see Hank on his feet across the street, talking to Detective Johnson, Officer Moran, and Pearl Daly. Rosie ran for the door, but Hank flicked his fingers down low, by his hip, where it would hardly be noticed. She slowed and he dropped his chin in a minute nod, all without seeming to take his attention from Johnson. Rosie backed up and leaned in a window where she could see without, she hoped, being seen. Hank did a lot of talking, gesturing to Pearl, then around at the city, and offered Johnson a steady series of smiles and touches on the arm or shoulder. Over the course of a few minutes, Johnson's visible reluctance slowly turned to agreement. He spoke to Pearl, who lit up with disbelieving hope and then clung to Hank's arm as if he'd thrown a lifeline. Johnson clapped Hank on the shoulder, jutted his chin at Moran, and strode off down the street toward a distant patrol car. By that time the secretary had joined her at the window, peering out curiously. "What's going on?"

  "No idea. He asked me to wait inside, so I did."

  "You got a reason to avoid the cops, honey?"

  Rosie shook her head. "No, my guy there is with the cops. I guess that was just business. You know. Nothing to worry my pretty little head over."

  "Isn't it always. Who's the girl?"

  "Friend of mine. I was waiting for her, really. She had a bad night and I'm hoping it's better now." Rosie smiled at the secretary. "Thanks for letting me use the bathroom."

  "Anytime."

  The woman went back to her desk, leaving Rosie to case the s
treet and make sure Johnson had driven off before she came out and crossed over to Hank and Pearl. "What was that about?"

  Pearl looked positively star-struck at Hank. "They were going to bring me back to the station, but he just talked them into letting me go. He said to think of the publicity and how they didn't want it getting around what had really happened and the detective started looking like maybe he was right and then started nodding and said I could go home now." Her joy crumpled into fear. "Except I don't know where home is anymore. I was living with—with—"

  "Can you go to your folks?" Rosie asked as gently as she could. Pearl shook her head violently enough that Rosie didn't press it.

  "I know a place. It's not the greatest, but you'll be safe there." Hank said, meeting Rosie's eyes over Pearl's head. A fist tightened around Rosie's gut as she understood why he hadn't wanted Johnson to see her. If she had to Redeem Pearl, if it killed her, the only thing saving Rosie from jail herself might be the fact that Johnson hadn't known she was there.

  Rosie cast a despairing look over her shoulder at the secretary she'd left behind, and thought of asking Millie back at the station about Pearl. Johnson not knowing right now wouldn't save her. He'd find out soon enough, if things went badly.

  "So it just can't go wrong," she said under her breath. Hank's gaze sharpened on her, but she shrugged it away. "Come on. Let's get Pearl somewhere safe. She's had a rough day."

  "My car's down the street." Hank led them half a block while Rosie searched for the Jaguar's smooth lines, and frowned in confusion when he stopped at a dark blue Ford Coupe, one of the last that had come off the assembly lines before the war effort started. "The Jag's the Friday-night car," he said with a faint smile. "Even if I'm working. Mom takes it the rest of the time, so I get something more ordinary."