A Lesson in Love and Murder

by Rachel McMillan

  She went through the motions, following Ross and Benny as they handled the explosives, Benny touching each one so gingerly that Ross chuckled. “First time for everything, eh?”

  Benny nodded, and they moved to the next target.

  “They’ll be moving in soon,” Ross said as the third and final explosive was positioned and their steps echoed in the broad Coliseum while night dragged on outside. He gripped Merinda’s elbow and led her to the exit that would see to their fast escape the next day. “Roosevelt always ends his speeches with something memorable. As soon as the first hint of applause begins, I’ll flick the match. You and Benny will be armed to ensure no police get in our way as we forge a path.”

  “It’s rather kind of you to let the fellow finish his speech before you blow him up,” Merinda said dryly.

  “Let them have hope,” David said. “It’s a cruel thing. But it can act as a temporary balm.”

  Benny saw Merinda to the Palmer. Their walk back from the Coliseum was silent. No playful banter. No flirting.

  “People walk through life so complacently.” Merinda finally broke the silence. “They never have the zest or passion that David Ross lives with every single day. I keep thinking… if he could only channel it for good.”

  Benny nodded. Merinda echoed everything he’d thought about Jonathan over the past weeks spent tracing and tracking him.

  Once she was safely inside the hotel, he splurged on a taxi to his own guesthouse, deciding that a few hours of sleep were needed before he set to finding Jonathan and looping him into the plan.

  Ironically, the instant he opened the door, he found Jonathan sitting at the small table.

  “You tracked me here?” Benny said with a laugh.

  “I always know where you’ve been in the city. And the lock on the door doesn’t work.” Jonathan shrugged.

  “A footprint?” Benny asked.

  “A footprint beside another footprint. Those other prints always punctuated by a walking stick.”

  “Merinda Herringford.”

  “She’s quite something,” Jonathan said easily.

  If Benny had known that the curtain between him and Jonathan was drawing shut forever, he would have found a way to freeze the moment in time. But like so many moments where one cannot see their fleeting brevity or that they are poised on the brink of finality, he merely existed in the present. In the mix of elation, hurt, and anger therein.

  Benny laughed suddenly. “No! I can’t just sit here and talk to you like this and fall into the easy camaraderie we had before. I keep seeing blasts that left innocent corpses in the streets! That young officer Jones! All of the fear you instilled. I can hardly believe it. And all for what?”

  “Don’t you see? Something that starts as a seed of an idea can grow into something terrible. Ben, it twisted into something I didn’t recognize. But it was too late.”

  Benny seized the moment for truth. “I just want to understand. We wanted to align ourselves with authority. To be redcoated men! Maintiens le droit!”

  “Every night when I left the barracks, I saw a world that hadn’t decided what it wanted to be,” said Jonathan. “I read the papers from Toronto and even here in Chicago, and I saw how authority can corrupt. I wanted a chance for all of us to live equally. For women and children to find safety. For men of any rank to find value. Even in our little world, we were held under the thumb of those who had ascended the ranks. The Canadian military is still run by men who can purchase commissions. I didn’t want a world like that. I wanted to find a way to pair all of the grandest things about the Force with an opportunity for reform. I met a fellow at the gaming tables, and while he was a little rough around the edges, his heart was solid gold. I needed a friend. Then he introduced me to Ross and I had another friend.”

  Benny cleared his throat, hoping his cousin didn’t see the flash of hurt in his eyes. “You had me.”

  “I couldn’t talk to you about this! Ben, you worshipped authority and fell straight into line. You would blindly defend the uniform forever and into any danger. I needed someone who could help me try out a new voice. Of whom I could ask questions. And once I had a taste of anarchy, a chance to submit to something of my own choosing and not a logbook or an inspected kit, I found my calling.”

  “A calling that let you tie your signature into wires that would kill dozens,” Benny spat. “You betrayed me every time you flicked the flame and set off an explosion.”

  Jonathan shook his head vehemently. “You know I didn’t murder those people. Ross took the signature, and it got out of hand!”

  “Then why didn’t you leave?”

  “I had pledged myself to this higher cause and purpose. I couldn’t just go back to Riverton to break my mother’s heart. I couldn’t turn myself in at Regina. I felt I had to see it through to the end.” He smiled sadly. “I believed it would all straighten itself out and come back to what it was: a glorious idea.” Jonathan’s eyes pleaded. “Then I needed to stay to find a way to end Ross forever. He was bandying about putting my signature on things. I would never be free of him. I knew they would send you for me, and I knew that you would find me. Who uses a Turk’s knot to tie off a wire? Some part of me always wanted you to find me. Even before I consciously knew it. Thus, the trademark.” Jonathan scratched the back of his neck. “But I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” There was a rare ripple of vulnerability in Jonathan’s voice. “And that’s the worst part of all, Ben. Losing your opinion of me.”

  “I didn’t want to believe you would hurt anyone. I tried to hold out no matter what they said of you. I knew you better than everyone. But it became harder and harder to convince others. I still stubbornly thought there was some mistake.” Benny stopped and examined his cousin: same bright eyes, though smudged with purple circles from exhaustion, and same features that made the girls snatch a second look. “But then even I had no choice. I saw those knots, and I knew them as well as a fingerprint. Your fingerprint. And I was losing my faith in someone I had always believed in.”

  “You were always more grounded, Ben. It was easy for you to believe in Grandfather’s God. I always wanted to find the next perfect voice.”

  “And you found a perfect war.”

  “Everything’s a battle,” Jonathan said. “Chicago in particular interested me because of Roosevelt. He has his own battle. They sing a song—all of his throng—‘Onward, Christian Soldiers!’—and they wave their banners and follow him. Everything is a battle. Even a belief in God.”

  “A battle?”

  “Some people are wired to immediately find a cause greater than themselves. Others take a little more time. You always believed in Grandfather’s stories. You subscribe to the rules of the Force. My mind keeps railing against them. I kept wanting to find some loophole.”

  Jonathan broke off, and Benny wondered for the first time how two people so close could be so, so different. “I need you to come with us tomorrow and make sure none of the three bombs that David planted will actually go off.” He took a small map he had drawn and passed it over.

  Benny wanted to sustain the moment and let the world slip by. Talk to Jonathan, lighten the mood, slip into the past. Save him! Yes, he wanted to save him. Take him out of this guilt and misdirection and make him see that it would all be set to right again. Then he could slip back into the way things were.

  “It will all turn right, tomorrow,” Benny decided with cautious optimism. “I can prove now that you weren’t the mastermind behind these slaughters, and we can work out some kind of reduced sentence.” He thought for a moment. “You came and found me. You turned yourself in. You helped stop a massive explosion. That has to hold some weight in court.”

  Jonathan held up his hand. “I can’t get out of this one. I’ve dug myself in too deep. They’ll cart me off to the gallows the minute you point in my direction.”

  Benny shook his head violently. “I won’t let them. Then we’ll run for it. We’ll go to Europe.”

  Jonathan chuck
led. “Are you listening to yourself? Royal Northwest Mounted Police fugitive of the law? You always get your man, Ben. You’ve got him.”

  “I wanted to find you. Not arrest you. Now I wish I had never found you.”

  “I know.”

  “I would do anything if it meant giving you a chance, Jonathan.”

  “I’m the albatross around your neck, Ben.” Jonathan chewed his lip. “But it has to be you,” he muttered after a painful silence. “At the end. Turn me in. Just you. Tomorrow, after we foil Ross’s plan.”

  “I want you to have the chance of a life, Jonathan. You’ll serve your time and lay low for a while. Don’t you want to make your way back to the old homestead? Get out your compass? Track a few lynx? You’d love the Yukon. My cabin there is small but cozy, and you see all the seasons! Winter there is crisper and whiter than anywhere else. Pure, somehow.”

  “Pure?”

  “Without any kind of stain or footprint. Just a blank, wonderful canvas with all measure of possibility for adventure.”

  “You go dream about that adventure, Ben.” Jonathan rose and took the two strides to the door.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “See the streets of Chicago one last time.”

  “Jonathan, surely you can’t think that… ”

  “It’s not quite our northern wilderness,” Jonathan said with a gruff chuckle. “But it will have to do.”

  * * *

  *Merinda would never admit to the slight pang in her chest at the realization that Benny would miss her golden moment.

  †Benny could rant and rail about his reputation as a member of the Force, but in this instance, Merinda would compel him to rely on something more concrete than his reputation and good name.

  ‡This was one word he had not yet used to express his disdain at Merinda’s plan. He had exhausted every other adjective he could think of.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  In legends of great hunters throughout history, cursorial hunting refers to the painstaking process of outpacing one’s prey. Though the hunter may be slower than their prey over short distances, a careful combination of running, walking, and tracking can exhaust the prey.

  Benfield Citrone and Jonathan Arnasson, Guide to the Canadian Wilderness

  Benny and Merinda took the South Loop at a quick pace in the rising humidity. They strode Wabash in the direction of 15th Street. Merinda looked about her at the policemen guiding traffic in white gloves and hats, the automobiles skidding to a halt, at children weaving out of traffic with yoyos and toy boats, women pushing prams, and a group of musicians striking up an impromptu ragtime tune.

  Finally, as a horse-drawn cart turned off the road, the Coliseum came into view and she saw it clearly in daylight. With turrets and banners on display, it reminded Merinda of a gated, moated castle. It was broad and spacious enough to hold hundreds for political rallies, entertainment events, and even sporting matches. The passersby were as interested in the excitement surrounding the place as the events therein.

  Benny and Merinda strolled over echoing stone through a wide corridor to the auditorium.

  The speakers droned on for hours, and even though a new progressive party was on the brink and an ideal was rolling out over hundreds and hundreds of eager attendees, it was achieved tediously. Committees! Credentials! Merinda was tempted to set off the bomb herself if required to listen to another report.

  M.C. Wheaton said that crime was easy to spot when you knew what you were looking for. A wink, a nod, a slight flick of a suit jacket, and Benny and Merinda knew who to follow and engage amid the milling men and women wearing boater hats and feathers. The people Ross had paid for their easy access inside.

  Time ticked by and the Coliseum became overcrowded. Benny and Merinda were in their position as journalists, dignitaries, and men and women jostled in. The high arched ceiling made every lapping voice echo in a dizzying whirr. Jem was first inclined to think of the opulence she had read of in Rome—the lore of the gladiators and centurions—but Chicago’s assembly space was far more modern, if just as overheated.

  Merinda smoothed her striped day suit, adjusting her smart spectacles to look the part of a lady reporter. Ross had secured her an identification card and assured her no one would think twice about a lady reporter from a Canadian women’s magazine. It was easy for her to make her way to the front. Benny’s identification read “Yukon Gazette.” A paper no one had ever heard of and Benny assured Ross and Merinda didn’t actually exist.

  A gavel rapped on the podium, and silence fell over the throng. The last seats scraped their legs over the cement floor. Then, in a sudden growing symphony, a thousand voices lifted a lilting, patriotic song of several stanzas. Merinda pretended to sing, presumably being the only person who didn’t know the words:

  My country, ’tis of thee,

  Sweet land of liberty,

  Of thee I sing;

  Land where my fathers died,

  Land of the pilgrims’ pride,

  From ev’ry mountainside

  Let freedom ring.

  Stanza after stanza, until a prolonged final note was warbled by some of the lady delegates.

  The Reverend Andrew Spetz was introduced to give the divine blessing, and the place was shrouded like a solemn church service, with only the occasional cough to rattle the hallowed silence.

  An achingly long time after (she had the scrawls and scribbles from nervous exertion on her reporter’s pad to prove it), Merinda’s stomach gave a little leap as the chairman introduced the guest of the committee and every delegate rose to attention as President Roosevelt entered the hall, escorted to the platform by several men. The room erupted.

  And something was stirring: a collective hope. Even in this grand place with these finely dressed people, their banners, and their songs, it was not completely different from the feeling she’d had standing in the midst of the Goldman rally. People wanted to believe in something. People needed to submit to something.

  Merinda could feel something beyond herself, and she even found her thoughts tugged from the imminent and explosive danger in the explosives temporarily in repose. Mr. Roosevelt’s clear, clipped voice filled the auditorium, making it seem smaller. His presence diminished everything. This man had these people in the palm of his hand, for he had a history of driving people into battle, whether by words or on a bloody field.

  A robust and powerful figure, with his customary circular glasses and broad, toothy grin, he was as large in life as she anticipated, and he brought to mind the similar command of Emma Goldman. Something about the candidate commanded the respect and attention of the room. But even as Merinda felt herself thrum with the possibility of every word, she knew that their immediate world was teetering on a blast. She couldn’t forget the gunpowder and dynamite hibernating near her.

  The bank was pristine in polished marble and large columns, its outer layer hinting at the extravagant glory promised therein once the final touches had been finished. But the closer they got to the side entrance per Hedgehog’s instructions and the guard who had been paid a dividend of Hedgehog’s promised sum, the clearer it became that something was amiss. And then it became glaringly obvious, for blood marred the marble floor. Unfurled like a ribbon from the doorway. Ray turned around suddenly, shoved Jem at Jasper, and went to investigate.

  The corridor was quiet. Lumber and sawdust besmirched the cavernous main floor despite the opulent and ornamented terra-cotta and the chandeliers cascading from the ceiling.

  Ray’s steps sounded hollow crossing the floor as he followed the trail of blood and finally found its dismal source: Hedgehog’s limp body shoved behind a glass case.

  Ray looked around before quickly jogging back in the direction of the doorway.

  “Get out of here now!” he said. “Go, Jem.”

  Jem crossed her arms. “Not a chance.”

  “Hedgehog is dead. His body is just lying there, and there is no one else around. Not even Tony!” Ray looked agi
tatedly about him. “And I don’t know who else is here and… Jemima! Get out of here.”

  Jasper handed her a bill. “Go wait for us at the hotel,” he said. “The coast is clear. We’ll get this all solved.”

  “No!”

  “Jem, this took a decidedly different turn. I was stupid to let you near this in the first place.” Something about the blood trailing from the door slapped Ray in the face.

  “Ray DeLuca, I am not budging an inch.”

  “Do not make me pick you up and carry you to the trolley stop, Jemima!”

  Jasper looked between them, a flash of impatience in his eyes. His hand moved to the firearm at his side. “Well, you two figure this out. Ray, I’ll be looking around.”

  Ray nodded then turned to Jem, tightening his hold. “You go now.” He flung his hand toward LaSalle Street.

  “You need me!” She said. “Whither thou goest…or…or…something like that.”

  “Whither thou what? No. You are leaving now.”

  “Have you had much success in the past telling me what to do?”

  “I am trying to communicate.” He hissed. It was hot. Jasper was inside facing heaven knows what. Hedgehog was dead, and they were standing on the precipice of disaster. If Merinda and Benny couldn’t stop the explosives, an entire city might soon be smoking chaos. “I have so little control over what is happening. But I need this one certainty. Do it Jem.”

  Jem floundered. Shook her head. Bit her lip. Crossed her arms over herself and tried to match his stubborn glare. “Ray, I am my own person.”

  “I know that. But you could get hurt.”

  “So could you.”

  “Your life is worth more than mine!”

  “Not to me.”

  “Jemima!”

  Jem exhaled. Tapped her foot and looked about her. It was better than staring up at the plain fear on Ray’s face. He wasn’t angry; he was terrified. This wasn’t a marital spat. This wasn’t her testing his will and standing off; this was him staring at her with sheer anguish on his face. She could stand firm or she could make this small sacrifice because she loved him. More than her ideas of independence or her need to be a part of an adventure. This wasn’t weakness if it was borne of her choice to do something for him.