by Andrew Mayne
“Maybe that’s your man from Boston’s secret, too? Something in the blood?”
Lindestrom couldn’t tell if Doyle was joking or not. The round little man was far more clever than he let on. “I’m beginning to believe that his methods are something other than what I’ve suspected. His use of gadgetry and science has made me think its time to take another approach.” Lindestrom hoped that he could still prove useful to his employers. People who were no longer of service to them had a habit of either vanishing or becoming the subjects of unpleasant experiments themselves.
Doyle reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “You know they don’t like exposure. The mess in Boston was most unpleasant. Some think you’re getting too arrogant, treating rich dowagers and barging into police stations trying to buffalo them into trapping the man, so you can poke around his basements. Clumsy.” He pointed a stubby finger at the freight car. “Letting one of these get loose was a mistake.”
Lindestrom’s eyes narrowed. “While I’ll accept part of the blame for that, the real cause was the late Mr. Reece. Who, I might remind, was assigned to me by them.” Lindestrom tilted his head in the direction of the huge mansion hidden by the trees. “His methods were not my own. I had to deal with the aftermath. As far as the man in Boston is concerned, it seemed prudent to act on the opportunity.” His eyes drifted down to the envelope.
Doyle shook his head. “It’s going to take a while before the repercussions of what they found in your basement die down. It’s been decided that your skills could be better put to use elsewhere.”
“Such as?” asked Lindestrom.
Doyle tapped the edge of the envelope into his palm. “There’s a German chemist who has been doing some interesting experiments with gases. There are some obvious military applications. Unlike bullets, gas can find a soldier in a trench. We need someone to run the laboratory outside of Graz. We’re curious of the effects some of these gases may have on human anatomy.”
“I’m not interested in making weapons, Mr. Doyle,” said Lindestrom in a terse voice. “I am a doctor, after all. My concern has always been life.”
Doyle stepped toward him and poked a finger into Lindestrom’s chest. “Your concern should be life, Dr. Lindestrom, continuing to have one. You’re not in a position right now to make requests. Personally, I think they’re being far too lenient with you.”
Lindestrom realized that matters were as bad as he feared. He had no choice. He nodded to the man. His eyes drifted toward the road that led to the tall mansion. Inside its curtained windows were men he knew as little about as he did Smith. He feared them more than anything else.
Doyle handed him the envelope. “Tickets and passport.”
Lindestrom held the envelope in his hand like it was a sentence from a judge. Gone was the high life of Boston society where he got to enjoy all the privileges of being a prestigious physician catering to the wealthy and often lonely.
“Don’t be so glum. While you were focusing all of your attention on the man himself, others were looking elsewhere and made more headway than you have in the last several years. We’ve managed to obtain the records of all of the supply houses that we know have been making regular shipments to the man in Boston.”
This was new to Lindestrom. “What of it?”
“Some of those components can be used to make gases like the ones our clients are interested in for use on the battlefield and for certain, let’s say, ‘hygienic’ purposes. Our German scientist has a theory that I think you might find intriguing. He thinks that certain gas mixtures might be used to not stop but slow down the body’s biological functions.”
“You mean like hibernation?” asked Lindestrom.
Doyle smiled. “A perfectly biologically rational explanation for our man in Boston, wouldn’t you say? A chamber perhaps of some special mixture?”
Lindestrom’s weary face lit up. His life had been dedicated to dissecting and figuring out how creatures obtained their special evolutionary advantage. Now, he was present for an alternative explanation for the apparently preternatural man who called himself Smith.
“How soon may I leave?” he asked, eager to get as much distance from the mansion as possible.
Chapter 27
April watched as Smith sat at his desk and placed a piece of cardstock into his interpreter. He used a small brass tool to punch notches into it in different places.
“My mistake,” he started, “was my assumption about what we were looking for.”
“How do you mean?” asked April.
“I jumped to a conclusion a little bit too hastily when I saw the pins on the map.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
Smith shook his head. “No. Not at all. The way you laid them out told us it was almost a certainty we were looking at an animal. I gave you a vial of ammonium because I suspected we were dealing with something of the sea. Initially I thought it was some kind of amphibian that felt comfortable in the fog — the thick fog ruled out most land animals because few things would want to hunt out in it, except the two-legged kind, of course.”
“I’m not following you,” said April. “What was your mistake?”
“It’s why I had to kill it that night.” Smith looked up from his brass machine. “That wasn’t a hunting pattern as I assumed. That was a nesting pattern.”
“How so?”
“When I was down in the sewer, I didn’t realize it at first, but the creature was acting very territorial. The pattern of pins was what you would expect from a creature seeking out prey in a limited area and not a hunter ranging far and wide. I wanted a hunter. I saw a hunter. This thing was about to give birth to more creatures. Creatures born in the sewers and about to be taught how to feed off of what lived above.”
April thought about Broderick’s story. “Broderick said that when Lindestrom’s man, Reece, dissected the mate, he found eggs. So they weren’t a breeding pair?”
“In some sea animals the male can carry the eggs. These things, however, appeared to be hermaphroditic. At least the one I dissected. It could be something that turns on or off. Either way, when I carved it apart, I found the egg sack. They looked fairly well along. There were hundreds of them.”
April shuddered at the thought of hundreds of those monsters loose in the sewer. “My goodness. What of Lindestrom?”
“He collects things, he and his masters. The more exotic, the better. The poor creature we dispatched was just one more victim.”
“Poor creature?” asked April. She stole a glance at the metal door she knew he was about to step behind. She wanted to stall him with questions.
“What would you have done had someone killed something you love? Let it go?” replied Smith.
“Is that what the creature felt for the other? It seems like a rather alien emotion for such a beast,” said April. She’d watched as the men from MIT packed it up in preservatives to bury away in some basement.
“Love, passion. They all have the same roots. Who knows what kind of bond the animals felt. What we call love is an emotion that began millions of years ago. We didn’t invent it. We named it, refined it, perhaps.” He pulled the card free and gave it a flick with his finger to knock free any punches that were still clinging to it and fed it into a slot in his desk. He turned a handle and looked up at April, who had been sitting across from him at her desk, staring at him.
“Don’t look so forlorn, Miss Malone. I’m sure they’ll catch up with Dr. Lindestrom after what they found in the basement of his apothecary shop. Human remains from the pauper’s cemetery. How grotesque.” Smith placed another card into his interpreter and began notching holes.
April gave him a skeptical look. “I’m sure you and Mr. Broderick had nothing to do with that.”
“Miss Malone, I’m shocked by the accusation.” He looked back at the punch card. “Only returning what he’d bought. Fool.”
“Will you be attending the service for the people they found in its gullet?”
> Smith shook his head. “I’ve seen enough death.”
“I think they’d like to see the hero who killed it,” she said.
“And they will, Miss Malone. You. If you hadn’t ventured down after me and shot the umbrella at it, I never would have made it out alive, and we’d have had no proof to show what was down there. And it was you that figured out how to stop it.” He looked back up at her. “You really are quite remarkable.”
April looked away, hiding her blush.
Something mechanical made a sound from within Smith’s desk. A card popped out. He held it up and looked at it in the light of the gas lamp. He shook his head.
“Is the matter still unresolved? Your elliptical problem?” she asked.
“The current one is righted. But one of the longer-term ones, the reason this all began, sadly, no.”
April tried to read his face. He talked in circles without trying. “I see.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I know I must be a cipher to you, Miss Malone. Tell you what, I trust you and your integrity, ask me anything you like. Any question at all and you’ll have the truth. You’ve certainly earned it.”
April looked at the metal door and then back at him. She stared directly at him with her piercing blue eyes. “Will I ever see you again?”
Smith took in a breath and then looked down at his hands. “Yes. Yes, Miss Malone.” He sunk down in his seat and looked toward the window. “But don’t wait for me.”
He pushed another card into his desk and waited for it to spit it back out. The two of them sat in silence. The card finally returned, and he crumpled it up and threw it on the floor. He placed his elbows on his desk and rubbed his temples as he stared at the interpreter.
“This isn’t what I’ve chosen for myself,” he said softly. “It’s not what I wanted, not this way.” Smith stood up and walked over to the metal door and pulled it open.
April left her desk to hold it open.
Smith gave her a grin. “Until next time, Miss Malone.”
She reached out and pulled him by the collar and placed a kiss on his cheek, leaving a bright red blotch of lipstick. “Until next time.”
They both looked away, embarrassed.
The door closed behind him and locking mechanisms whirred into place. April stood there for a while with her hand on the door.
After five months, she’d stopped looking at the metal door every day when she sat in the office. She continued her work, filling the coffee pot, getting pastries that would be thrown out, reading, filing and all the other things that were part of her routine. She had a better idea how important those trivial bits of knowledge were, so she filed them all away, even the most mundane things. Smith had showed her how even the smallest detail could have grave importance.
Sometimes she could feel machinery below the floorboards come alive. She’d look at the three light bulbs above the door, hoping they would come on. But they didn’t. Sometimes she pressed her ear to the door trying to listen for anything beyond it. Once she thought, but only fleetingly, that she could hear the sound of a child’s laughter.
She found time to continue acting. Although it wasn’t anything she wanted to pursue beyond a hobby. She was cast in a local production and took the role when she was convinced it wouldn’t conflict with her working hours.
It was a small production by a local playwright. By what seemed a coincidence, Sgt. Robertson was cast as the male lead. April played his outspoken daughter. Most nights the house was half empty, but the players gave it their best no matter how small the crowd.
On closing night, she looked out into the crowd as the cast members took their bows and she thought she saw a familiar face. As soon as the curtain went up, she raced out of the theater still in her costume to the street outside.
She saw a figure walking down the dark side of the street and ran up to him. The man heard her footsteps and turned around.
“Oh hello, Miss Malone,” said Mr. Coen. “You startled me.”
April looked around the street. Other than the crowd waiting for carriages under the light of the marquee, there was no one else there. “Hello, Mr. Coen,” she said out of breath. “I’m delighted you could make it.”
“You were wonderful.”
Robertson, continuing his paternal role, caught up with her. He looked over at Mr. Coen and nodded.
“Well, good evening,” said Coen. He smiled and then continued walking down the sidewalk.
“Are you all right, April?” asked Robertson.
“Yes. Yes I’m fine.”
Robertson gave her a knowing look. He put a hand on her shoulder and guided her back to the theater. April stole another glance behind her. All she could see was Coen fading into the dark.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this, and don’t ask me how I know,” said Robertson with a wink. “But I think Mr. Coen is the benefactor that paid for our play.”
“Benefactor?” said April.
“Didn’t you know? One week into rehearsals and someone stepped forward to make sure we got a full run in a nice theater. Not that second-rate vaudeville shack they do the other plays in. Nice man, that Mr. Coen.” Robertson waved to a woman waiting under the marquee.
Epilogue
Two months later, April felt the floor vibrating below her. She resisted the urge to put her ear next to the door. She continued reading the copy of National Geographic that had arrived for her.
She turned a page and read with genuine interest about a race of cannibals on the island of Borneo. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the first red light turn on.
April forgot to breath.
The second light came on.
April hesitantly stood up and straightened her dress. She looked down at her feet to make sure she was wearing proper shoes this time.
The third light came on.
From behind the door came a clicking sound as sliding rods unlocked. The door slowly swung open, revealing darkness beyond. April touched her hair to make sure it was in place.
Footsteps ran up the stairs.
A shape emerged from the shadows and a disheveled Smith emerged. He bolted into the room and his eyes locked on hers and he smiled. April put a hand to her mouth. Her cheeks felt on fire.
He read the card in his hand. “Hello! Er, it says here that my name is Smith.” He looked at her with a hopeful look. “Have we met?”
April noticed the lipstick mark on his cheek. It was in the same place where she’d last kissed him goodbye.
“Oh dear,” said Smith. “Are you all right Miss …?”
The adventure continues in: The Martian Emperor
Also by Andrew Mayne:
The Grendel’s Shadow
When an unknown animal starts killing off settlers on a backwater planet run on coal and steam power, there's only person who can help stop the slaughter; T.R. Westwood. A distinguished professor of biology and the galaxy's greatest hunter, he's the man to go to when the local wildlife needs to be reminded who is the galaxy's top predator.
In a galaxy filled with millions of worlds, his specialty is evening the odds for the ones with technological restrictions. Rocks and spears or shotguns and canons, he'll use whatever is allowed to get the job done.
Public Enemy Zero
The world is out to kill Mitchell Roberts. A strange virus is on the loose sending everyone he comes in contact with into a homicidal rage. From narrowly avoiding getting murdered at his ex-girlfriend's front door, to a crowded shopping mall turned one-man zombie apocalypse, he's got to stay a step ahead of everyone around him if he doesn't want to get ripped apart alive.
Be sure to visit AndrewMayneBooks.com
Copyright © 2011 Andrew Mayne
Cover Copyright © 2011 Andrew Mayne
@AndrewMayne
andrewmaynebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction.
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