Redeemer

by C. E. Murphy

  "Daniel Franklin. Jimmy Stewart. Gary Coo—"

  "Daniel Franklin! You got it in one!"

  This time, Irene laughed, elbowing Rosie hard enough to remind her she'd been kicked in the ribs a few hours earlier. "You're a riot, Ro, you—you're pulling my leg?" she finished uncertainly as Rosie's eyes sparkled.

  "Not even a tug. Honest, Rene. It's a charity ball at Harrison Vaughn's house and we're invited and Daniel Franklin is going to be there!"

  "At Harrison Vaughn's house? Ro, how could we even get noticed by somebody like that? You're joshing me. What a strange girl you are."

  "Hank the creep is his son."

  Irene's mouth formed an O, then closed into a purse as her eyes widened. "Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Oh no. And I said he was a jerk! I didn't know he was rich!"

  "I think rich people can still be jerks." Rosie smiled, though, as astonished color flooded Irene's cheeks. "I think that's probably what I looked like, too, except I was sitting in Jean's car at his giant monogrammed driveway gate when I found out. So we met his parents and Senator Haas and Mrs Va—"

  "You met a senator?" Irene's voice shot up and she clapped both hands over her mouth. "Did he seem, I don't know, wise and powerful?"

  "That's the wizard of Oz, Rene. No, he seemed kind of slimy." Rosie rubbed her hand against her dungarees, remembering. "He sweated a lot and his hands were oily. And he wanted us to vote for him."

  "Are you going to?"

  "Maybe." Rosie smiled ferociously. "If he can find me a job. Anyways, so Mrs Vaughn invited us to their charity ball on Tuesday and told us to bring our friends along. I'm not bringing those girls," Rosie said with a glare toward the living room, even through the closed door. "Not after that. Rene, you don't think I'm some kind of crazy killer now, do you?"

  "Of course not." Irene sounded less certain than Rosie wished she did, but at least she'd said the right thing. "Are we really going to meet Daniel Franklin, Rosie?"

  Rosie smiled. "You are. I'll just hang around in the background and watch him fall crazy in love with you."

  "He wouldn't." Irene looked dreamily at the ceiling. "But he might!"

  "Stranger things have happened. And Mrs Vaughn said she'd send over clothes for us and everything. It's a costume party, Roaring Twenties and glam thirties. She said we're supposed to call with our measurements."

  "I take it all back," Irene said. "Hank the creep isn't a creep at all. He's handsome and he's rich, and if you're not stuck on him, I might decide I am."

  "Unless Daniel Franklin falls in love with you."

  "Well, sure, honey. Then all bets are off." Irene laughed and hugged Rosie. "Come on. Let's go out to Big Bob's and get something to eat."

  Rosie groaned. "I've eaten there twice this weekend already and the last time was only a couple hours ago. I'm bushed, Rene. All I really want to do is get some sleep, even if there's a million other things I should be doing."

  "Like what? If you're not hungry, after the weekend you've had, I think sleep is the only thing you need to do."

  "Call my parents?"

  "Oh, right. Darn. I forgot about that."

  "I need to talk to Hank again, too. He was supposed to check up on someone and I want to make sure she's all right. And …" Rosie trailed off, not wanting to press Irene's patience beyond what it could handle. She didn't believe Goode had been a demon, and there'd be no telling her about the screaming demon from earlier in the day. Jean believed. Rosie could talk to Jean about the awful thought she'd had while talking to Mrs Vaughn, a thought she didn't dare mention to Hank: that Pearl Daly thought industrialists were mixed up in Detroit's demon problem, and that Harrison Vaughn, Sr. stood at the top of the city's big-industry rankings. Maybe that explained why Hank couldn't see the heart of the demon trouble. Maybe he wouldn't let himself look that close to home.

  Which meant Rosie had to look for him and be darned certain before she presented him with any arguments against his father. Mrs Vaughn had shanghaied them into coming to her party. Rosie might as well make the best of it.

  "And what?" Irene finally asked. Rosie frowned, then shook herself.

  "And I don't know. Call my parents, talk to Hank, and sleep. I should call Ruby's parents," she added more quietly. "To say I'm sorry and to find out when the funeral will be."

  "That can wait until tomorrow," Irene said firmly. "You do need to call your folks or they'll flip their lids and move in here, but can't the rest wait? You look awful, Ro. Blue shadows under your eyes and your skin looks dry."

  "Gosh, thanks." Rosie rubbed her eyes. "I think the thing with Hank can't wait, no. There's too much …" Strange and awful going on, she wanted to say, but kept it behind her teeth. "I'll go call Mom and Pop, and then decide about the rest."

  "I'll tell Barb I'm paying your rent." Irene kissed Rosie's hair and left the room. Rosie took a few deep breaths, nerving herself up to go, then followed her, expecting a gauntlet in the living room and surprised to find it abandoned instead. Low, tense voices came from the kitchen, though: it sounded like the whole crew had gone in there to argue with Irene. Rosie got the phone and, huddled in the same small space between the wall and the couch that Marge had been in, called her parents to say she'd been fired and reassure them that she was all right.

  Or to listen to her Mom lecture about how she wasn't all right, as it turned out. The whole neighborhood had been by for gossip and scolds and sympathy, each of them with a worse story about what happened to "a girl like Rosie." Rosie sat with her eyes closed, less hearing the dreadful tales than the concern and love in her mother's voice. She finally begged off by saying her housemates needed the phone, and got up wearier from the one-sided conversation than she would have guessed possible. Barb and Dorothy flounced out of the kitchen, gave Rosie glares both baleful and distressed, and went out the door. Marge came out a few seconds later and shrugged, as if matters were out of her hands. Tired worry twisted in Rosie's stomach and she stood with the phone clutched in both hands, waiting on Irene, who emerged after another minute with Wanda trailing after her.

  "Everybody thinks it's swell if I pay your rent," Irene said with false brightness. "Isn't it nice that's all settled? How are your folks?"

  "They still think I should move home."

  Wanda's eyes widened, but she ducked her head and scurried to the room she shared with Marge rather than saying anything. Rosie, sighing, watched her go. "I probably shouldn't have said that where she could hear."

  "It's going to be fine, Rosie. It has to be. Did you call your rich boyfriend?"

  Rosie shot her a startled look that faded almost before it had begun. "Oh. I thought you meant—Rich, boyfriend, and I thought, Rich isn't home yet, is he? You're the one who stopped thinking Hank was creepy when it turned out he had money. Maybe he should be your boyfriend."

  "I'm still not sure he's not trying to take advantage of you. Those stories you two were telling, Rosie … "

  "That's what I need to talk to him about."

  Relief swept Irene's face. "Oh, gosh, oh, good. I knew you'd come to your senses, honey. It's not your fault. It's been an awful few days. Look, maybe you shouldn't talk to him at all, just stay away. We don't even have to go to that silly party, his mother can't really expect us to come anyway …"

  Rosie smiled. "What, and lose you your chance to meet Daniel Franklin? I couldn't do that to you. No, I need to see Hank, Irene, but thank you. I'll—" She nearly jumped out of her skin as the phone, still clutched in her hands, rang sharply. The receiver fumbled in the cradle, lifting and pushing down again so the call was answered and hung up on all at once. Rosie swore and set it down on the coffee table, both girls staring at it as if it might strike like a viper. After a few seconds it rang again, startling them both a second time, and Rosie snatched the receiver up. "Yes? I mean, hello?"

  "Rosie? This is Hank. Can you meet me?"

  Rosie glanced around for a clock. "It's almost seven, Hank, and I haven't had much sleep. What do you need? Did you go see Pearl
?"

  "She's fine. I brought her groceries. She was eating all of them when I left. Are you sure you can't meet me?"

  "Is it an emergency?"

  "You mean, are—" He took a breath where demons would be in the sentence. "—involved? No, I just—"

  Rosie's voice sharpened. "Did you see another one?"

  "What? No."

  "Then it's not an emergency. Can it wait until morning, Hank?"

  An exasperated sigh came down the line. "I suppose, but I do have to work, Miss Ransom."

  "Thanks for rubbing it in," Rosie answered sharply. "Besides, I thought you worked late."

  "Just on Fridays, when they have a lot of drunks who need to have it walked off."

  "Well, call in sick if it's so important." Rosie bit her tongue on pointing out he didn't need the money anyways. "I will be sick if I don't get some sleep."

  "Fine. Capitol Park on Michigan Avenue tomorrow at eight."

  "In the morning or at night?"

  Hank sighed again. "In the evening. It's better if I don't call in sick."

  "All right. I'll see you then." Rosie hung up to find Irene frowning intently at her. "Don't look at me like that."

  "What's going on?"

  "Hank wants me to meet him, but I'm no good tonight. It'll wait until tomorrow." Rosie stood, shaking herself. "Let me make you some dinner, Rene, and then I'm hitting the sack."

  "No, that's okay, hon, I'll do it myself."

  "In that case, I might just go straight to bed." Rosie clutched her hair suddenly. "Or take a bath, gosh, I haven't had a chance with all the craziness. That sounds swell."

  "I'd wait until the girls are all out of the house in the morning," Irene said almost dreamily. "Then you could soak as long as you wanted."

  "Now that sounds swell!" Rosie gave Irene a quick hug, made herself a sandwich, and didn't even care that she dropped into bed before nine o'clock.

  FOURTEEN

  Irene getting ready for work woke her in the morning, and the smell of coffee tempted Rosie from her bed. Only tempted, though. She thought about Dorothy's furtive looks and Barb's nasty comments, and rolled over again, head buried under the covers until the house gradually grew quiet. Then she rose to make herself some fresh coffee and draw the bath she'd missed over the weekend. She ran it hot even though the day would be hot, then sank into it with her coffee, the cup held barely above the water's surface. Washing her hair, getting the sweat out, felt wonderful, once the coffee was done. Then she tied it up in pin curls and sank as deep into the tub as she could, drowsing as the water cooled around her. She finally got out when she was wrinkly, betting she'd been a kid the last time she'd taken a bath that long. At least getting fired had one tiny benefit, not that she could linger in the bath all day every day.

  There were probably a thousand things to do. Rosie pulled on a boxy-shouldered flower-print dress that would be cooler than dungarees and tied a scarf over her damp hair: there. That counted as one of the thousand things, at least. She had to find work, too, but that wouldn't be so easy.

  Signing up for unemployment, though. That would be easy, and with years of factory work under her belt, she didn't see how they could turn her down. Most unemployment paid out twenty dollars a week, just over half what she'd been earning, and that would sure be enough to shut Barb up. Rosie grabbed her purse, making sure it had everything she needed in it before hurrying out to catch a tram. It didn't smell too bad, with most folks already at work.

  The older lady at the unemployment office handed over paperwork for Rosie to fill out, and widened her eyes when she saw Rosie's name written on the page. "Aren't you the girl—"

  "Yes, ma'am, and they fired me for it."

  All the curiosity drained from the woman's expression, until her whole face, from the thin line of her mouth to the little muscles around her eyes, looked like she'd been beat down dozens of times and was just waiting for another hit. She took a pen and signed off on the paper Rosie had filled out, then slapped it into a processing box. Rosie startled. "Aren't you supposed to ask me questions?"

  The woman just barely shook her head. "My momma got put in jail for shooting my poppa after he'd come after her and us girls with his fists or worse. They all said it took two to make a fight, but I know better, and that newspaper article says that soldier killed a bunch of other girls too. Protecting yourself's no thing to get fired or worse for. You have any problems collecting your unemployment, Miss Ransom, you come see me. I'm Ida Mae Bartlett, and you come see me." She gave a short, sharp nod and sent Rosie out the door.

  Things wouldn't always go that easy, Rosie reminded herself on the way out. Mostly they wouldn't. Still, it felt good to have someone, a stranger, on her side. And knowing the unemployment money would come in made having to look for another job less scary. Worse came to worst, she could manage on unemployment until school started in the fall. At least she wouldn't be dipping into her hard-earned savings. Plus Superintendent Doherty had promised three months' severance. Maybe she ought to find a lawyer anyways. Doherty might be right that she'd never get the job back, but she might get a few months' more severance. Rosie turned around and went back into the unemployment office to ask Mrs Bartlett if she knew any lawyers for that sort of thing, and, to her surprise, came away with a number. She stopped at a pay phone, called the number, and next thing she knew, she had an appointment for the next week to talk about her situation. "Don't sign any paperwork yet," the man on the other end of the line said. "We'll talk about it before you do."

  Nobody could say she hadn't made an effort at getting her life in order. Rosie dusted her hands together and, glancing down the street at thickening heat waves, thought she deserved an afternoon movie. An Abbott and Costello film was hanging on at the theater, and there might even be a new Gary Cooper movie out. And even if nothing good was on, the theater would still be air-conditioned, which Rosie figured was worth the price of admission. There were sure worse ways to while away the afternoon, and she didn't have to meet Hank until eight. Popcorn and some M&Ms made a nice treat and filled her up enough to not have to worry about dinner when she emerged, squinting, into the evening heat. She got an ice cream and walked, slowly, to Capitol Park, thinking it had been a pretty good day, all things considered.

  She saw Hank from half a block away, leaning on the hood of the Ford Coupe he'd parked beneath the shade of trees yellowing in the relentless heat, and not far from the tram stop. He wore a button-down shirt and slacks, his hat tilted well over his eyes to protect them from the sun, and didn't look one bit cooler than Rosie felt. Rosie finished her ice cream and hurried toward him, her heels sounding especially loud against the sidewalk.

  He glanced up at the sound, then tilted his head at the car. "Mind going for a ride? I want to show you the library."

  "I know where the library is, Hank."

  "Not this one." He pushed away from the car's hood to open the passenger side door, his limp more pronounced than it had been earlier.

  "Gets worse with the heat?" Rosie asked. He glanced at her, at his knee, and back at her again with a scowl.

  "Or when I'm tired. You don't leave it alone, do you?"

  "I never met anybody who got his knee eaten by monsters before," Rosie said as she climbed into the car. "Makes a girl curious."

  To her surprise, Hank gave a snort of laughter, just audible over the closing of the door, and said, "I guess when you put it that way," when he got in the car. "Most people pretend I'm not hurt, or get sticky-sympathetic."

  "Which do you prefer?"

  He considered that a minute as he drove. "Neither. Even if they ignore it, I figure people are doing the sticky-sympathy thing behind my back. I'm not used to somebody just asking me about it."

  "Oh. Well, I guess I wouldn't if I thought it was just a regular old war injury. I know my pop doesn't like talking about the Great War. But you're different. Monsters are different." Rosie looked out the window, watching streets roll by. "What library are we going to? Mom would sco
ld me for getting into cars with strange men all the time."

  "Oh, come on." Hank smiled crookedly. "I'm not that strange."

  "You're pretty strange, library man. Oh! That library?"

  "Yeah." Hank turned down an alley too narrow to imagine itself a street. Not even tram tracks had been laid in it, and there were tracks everywhere in Detroit. "It's not much of a location, but it doesn't draw attention, and that's most of what I need. Hang on, I have to get the door." He pushed the car door open almost wide enough to let himself out easily and squeezed past the vehicle up to the alley's cinder-block back wall. With a quick grin over his shoulder, he sank his fingers into the wall, twisted something, and pulled a smoothly rolling door open.

  Rosie laughed in astonishment as the cinder blocks swept past, revealed as nothing more than a terrific paint job. Beyond the door a deep black room gaped. Rosie lifted her eyebrows and pointed to the driver's seat. Hank stepped out of the way, and she scooted over to ease the car into the garage. Hank came inside, pulling the door closed again. Lights came on overhead as it clicked shut, and Rosie squirmed out of the car. "A secret hideaway! You have a secret hideaway in downtown Detroit!"

  Hank grinned fit to beat the bank. "It's all right, isn't it? We're behind the Industrial Building, and we're about to go below it. The architect who designed it built our house, too." He edged past the car—the garage wasn't much wider than the alley—and pressed open another door without a visible handle. Rosie paused to examine it, finding an indentation where pressure made the latch slip open, before she followed Hank down a set of well-kept concrete stairs into a daylight-window basement split into two spaces.

  One side—the bigger side—had mats, punching bags, bull's-eyes and weaponry that included everything Rosie could think of, plus some, except maybe for rebar. Squares of light from the dirty windows made mottled spots over everything so it looked old and badly used, but the smell reminded Rosie of a new car: fresh and sharp and clean.