He thought it would mark some transition when he walked back here. He feared it wouldn’t.
Stefan walked the slate walkway, past the subdued statue of Mary, past the sign naming the place. Father Gerwazek was still pastor here, like he’d been all of Stefan’s life. He stopped and wondered how close Gerwazek might be to retirement; the man had to be nearing seventy. They’d probably close the church down then. St. John’s was a small, redundant parish. Too close to St. Vitus. The congregation was never very large, mostly eastern European immigrants that weren’t of Slovenian descent like the rest of the community around Fifty-Fifth and St. Clair.
He quietly slipped through the doors in the front of the church, where Mass was already in progress. He did his best to be unobtrusive as he took off his hat and crossed himself and faded to one of the back pews. Gerwazek was in the middle of a Latin prayer, but Stefan couldn’t help but think he noticed his arrival.
Stefan sat through Communion this time, but he didn’t walk up to take the host. He hadn’t taken confession in years. In a way, that, not the Mass, was what he was here for.
“What brings you here, son?” Father Gerwazek sat behind the desk in his little office and looked Stefan up and down.
Stefan wished he could tell if the look was disapproving or not. He had an urge to leave right then, to forget about it all. None of this, none of his past was going to help him. He wasn’t even sure what kind of help he needed.
He sat down and shook his head. “I don’t know, Father. I think I’m trying to find my faith again.”
“You haven’t been here for a long time, have you, Stefan?”
Long enough that Stefan was surprised that Gerwazek remembered his name. “Not since I buried Mary, and our son.”
“I remember.” The sympathy in Piotr Gerwazek’s eyes was difficult to look at.
Stefan waited for the trite words that usually followed, about how tragic to lose his wife in childbirth. Tragic to lose his only son as well. How hard it must be. Must have been. Stefan waited, but Gerwazek said nothing more. None of the phony words of comfort that Stefan heard so much of whenever someone learned of his past.
Just I remember.
Somehow Gerwazek knew that was enough.
Stefan felt his eyes burn as if the loss was still fresh. “I know I shouldn’t,” Stefan said. “But I feel abandoned, as if my beliefs counted for nothing.”
“You still grieve,” Gerwazek said. “He grieves with you.”
Stefan stared at his hands. “Everything around me, everything since, is so corrupt, so base—What if He had abandoned us? What if this is all there is?”
Gerwazek stood and walked around the desk. He placed a hand on Stefan’s shoulder. “We all feel abandoned at times. It’s our faith that draws us through those times whole. You’re here because of that. You know.”
“I don’t want to be lost, Father.”
“You aren’t, my son.” Piotr Gerwazek squeezed his shoulder. “You aren’t.”
25
Thursday, June 4
Every circle had its meeting place, and the place Raphael chose for his befit his past as a seaman. To Iago, little distinguished the Janus from any of the other vessels docked at the marina. As yachts went, it was of average size, smaller than many. It was outshone by those representing ostentatious wealth that survived the Depression.
Iago had a membership card, given to him by Raphael. But it was deep night, and he had to use the keys Raphael had presented him. He had to pass two gates before he even stepped onto the pier where the Janus was docked.
It appeared that he was one of the last to arrive. The Janus was lit in a subdued manner, and he could feel the presence of others. As he walked up, a guard slipped out of the shadows to confront him. He wore a tuxedo, but he carried a tommy gun loosely in his hands.
The guard represented fear, and Iago didn’t like it. The guard wasn’t even one of the blood, just a human servant—perhaps bound, maybe only an employee.
Iago shook his head and said, “I am a guest of Raphael.”
“Why are you here?”
“To take in the night air.”
The guard nodded at the correct responses and stepped aside, back into the shadow from which he’d emerged. Iago walked up the gangplank, around the deck, and stepped down, through a door, and into the meeting room.
Raphael stood at the far corner of the room, arms folded. Everyone else, about a dozen, were seated on couches, facing him. Raphael was in the middle of a speech.
“... members of the Council have interests in direct opposition to the Mayfield gang, and will not act while Dietrich is diminishing them. Other members might take the threat seriously, but are afraid to act. Worse are those members who see this as an opportunity to advance themselves among us, those who’d use Melchior’s own methods if the Covenant did not bind them—” Raphael paused as he saw Iago enter the room. “News?” He directed the question at Iago.
Iago shook his head. “The Mayfield gang isn’t going to risk anything more on Dietrich. They’ve lost too much already.” Iago had spoken to Angelo several times, and each time the local gang seemed less eager to confront Dietrich. Every time they had tried to “teach him a lesson,” they lost more men.
Raphael shook his head. “It is time for us to act,” he said.
“Without the Council?” asked one of the younger ones.
“What about the Covenant?” asked another.
Raphael looked over all of them and said, “The Council will not defend the Covenant. The duty of protecting it falls to those willing to do so. It is either that, and slip the balance of power toward us, or bring in outside forces and cede our heritage here to them.” Raphael looked at each of them in turn. “We will fight this invader.”
“What about the thralls he has brought into the country?” Iago asked. “His force may already outnumber our circle.”
Raphael shook his head and paced in front of the cabin’s bar. “Numbers should not worry us. Our target is the master, not his blood-bound slaves. What are they without him? A loose collection of rogues, easily dealt with.”
Iago didn’t feel as optimistic, but he kept his mouth shut about it. He was still the newest member of this circle, little better than a thrall himself. His connection with the underworld, the information he brought, that gave him a seat here—little more than that.
It was galling, after being Anacreon’s right hand. That was, unfortunately, how it worked. One’s status rose and fell with those above. When Anacreon met his death, most of Iago’s voice in the community died with him. Joining with Raphael at least gave him back something, even if Raphael seemed to be after Dietrich-Melchior for the status it would bring him and his circle more than protecting the Covenant, or even avenging Anacreon.
Iago didn’t care; at least Raphael was doing something. Those who moved the Council were paralyzed by fear or the thought of gaining power.
Raphael talked on about his plan to destroy Melchior. The options were limited because of Melchior’s age and power. He had enough control of the flesh to go out in sunlight. It was possible that even decapitation and removal of the heart might not bring the true death. Then there was the problem of the dozens of thralls under his command. Avoiding them would be difficult, and dealing with them after their master’s death would be more so.
Raphael went over all of that and came to the conclusion that Iago had tried to impress on Angelo—as far as he could without breaking the Covenant. “To be certain of Melchior’s destruction, he must be trapped in a conflagration. No ordinary fire that he might escape, but a thing intense enough to consume the flesh before he has the time to react. If this happened where a number of his thralls are, so much the better.” Raphael smiled. “Fortunately, I see a simple way through to this.”
Iago sat up, suddenly more attentive. He thought that any trap involving Melchior would be terribly elaborate.
“I have some of my own contacts,” Raphael said, “And I’ve learn
ed where he is keeping many of his thralls. Melchior has hidden them among the immigrant population of this city. Much of this city is of the same European descent as his thralls, and they find comfort with the Slavs, the Poles, the Czechs—the neighborhood that he has chosen is perfect for our purpose. In the midst of this neighborhood is the device of his own destruction. He has even visited there already. Melchior may not yet be enough of this century to realize ...” Raphael trailed off.
Iago sensed it, too. Something was wrong. There was a sudden deep tension in the air, and something that could have been fear. Everyone in the cabin stood at the same time, all sensing the same thing.
“All of you, get out of here,” Raphael shouted. His head was cocked as if he were seeing something other than the cabin around him. His smile was gone, replaced by a stony expression. “This place is no longer secure.”
Iago backed toward the door he had just entered. As he did, he heard something thump onto the deck. He pushed his way through the door and was swamped by the smells of blood and petroleum. He was the first to reach the head of the stairs.
Someone stepped out in front of the stairway, leveling a machine gun down toward the cabin. Iago didn’t have time to think. He dove as the man began firing down the stairs. Iago felt two or three shots slam into his chest and abdomen as he hit the deck by the gunman’s feet. He could feel the pull of his flesh as his skin tore apart and reknit around the wounds. It felt as if the muscles tore free of the bone.
A wave of heat and orange light washed over the end of the yacht in front of him. He ignored it for the moment as he pushed himself upright next to the gunman. The man was ignoring him, firing down the stairway, emptying his Thomson.
Iago grabbed his neck from the side and pulled him back like a rag doll. He could tell by touch and smell that this one was just a bound human, which meant he didn’t hesitate when he tore open the gunman’s throat.
He tossed the body aside, and it landed next to another. Iago saw the broken corpse of one of Raphael’s guards. Iago turned back toward the stairway. He had just barely formed a thought of helping the others ...
The other end of the boat was an inferno. Orange flames rippled across the deck, in his direction. Before Iago had taken a step, he heard glass shatter at his feet. The gasoline wiped out any other odor. He felt it on his skin.
He only had one choice. He raced the fire to the edge of the boat and dived over the railing. He hit the water like a rock, flames already tearing at his legs. The black water grabbed him and pulled him under.
The sense of death followed him into the water. He could feel the life being torn away from those on the boat. He sank, unbreathing, to the bottom.
26
Friday, June 5—Monday June 8
Stefan was at the Central Station, sifting through files he’d amassed on Dietrich, when he heard the news. All morning, like the whole week before, talk had been on the upcoming Republican National Convention. It would open on the eighth, and a good proportion of the police force, including Ness, was involved with the security.
Stefan wasn’t. He sat behind his desk and tried to make sense of the information they’d gathered on Dietrich. Occasionally he would tell Nuri about his speculations, but for the most part, he kept them to himself. There was still little direct connection between Dietrich and the bodies.
But late on Friday, the conversation slipped away from Republicans and began to dwell on murder. Stefan was poring through a typed list of Dietrich’s known business associates when he overheard Detective Orly May saying to someone, “They found another one.”
The way he said it prompted Stefan to get up and walk over to him. “Another what?” Stefan asked. He suspected what the answer would be, since May had been on both the Andrassy and Polillo murders.
He turned around, and the answer wasn’t a surprise. “Two kids found a head by the railroad tracks, wrapped in a pair of trousers.”
“Which tracks?”
“A little west of the Kinsman Road Bridge, by the rapid-transit.”
That was less than a mile from where they found Andrassy in the Run. Trains again ...
Stefan drove out to where Nuri was supposed to be staking out Dietrich. He found him at the same warehouse overlooking the Dietrich mansion. When he walked up, Nuri turned around and said, “You’re early. I thought you weren’t going to be here until eight.”
“Change of plans; we have a meeting.”
Nuri looked back in the direction of the mansion. “But he hasn’t left the mansion. If we’re supposed to keep an eye—”
“We’ve missed it.” Stefan walked to the edge of the roof and leaned against the wall overlooking the mansion. The clay tile was warm under his hands. “There was another murder. We missed it. We were watching him, and we missed it.”
“Is it connected to—”
“A severed head, found by the Kinsman Bridge over the Run. I’d think so.”
He looked down at Dietrich’s residence. In the light it seemed out of place, a chimera of the prior century. “Hard to believe,” Stefan muttered, “that thirty years ago all of Euclid was like that....”
“Where’d he slip by?” Nuri asked.
Stefan kept staring at the building. Looking at the blackened sandstone for signs of life. “He knew,” he said finally. “He knew we were watching him. He probably knew from before we started.” He turned to Nuri. “Somehow we have to get ahead of him.”
“So what’s this meeting? How do we get ahead?”
“We’re going to talk to someone about Dietrich.”
A half hour later, the two of them were walking into the Union Terminal downtown. When they entered the lobby, the last of the commuters were being replaced by the first of those coming into town for the nightlife.
“I’ve seen Dietrich coming here often enough,” Nuri said as they pushed their way through to the elevators.
Stefan nodded. “Something about trains. And we’re standing at the heart of the largest rail empire in the country.”
The elevator doors slid open and the two of them slipped inside.
“Do you really think Van Sweringen is involved?”
“I’m not sure, but Dietrich has been seen with him, and the bodies are collecting on the rapid-transit property.”
They rode the rest of the way up in silence.
There was a sense of foreboding as they left the car and walked to the offices of the Van Sweringen Company. Stefan tried the door and found it unlocked. When they entered the offices, though they were lighted reasonably well, the sense Stefan felt was of an empty darkness, a sense of void.
There was a desk for a secretary, but no one was manning it.
“Now what?” Nuri asked.
“We see if Mr. Van Sweringen is in.” Stefan led Nuri down a hallway past rows of empty offices. The sense of emptiness became oppressive. Near the end of the hallway, close to the corner of the tower, they passed an open office whose door read, “Mantis James Van Sweringen.”
Nuri stopped at the door and whispered. “Do I remember wrong, or did the papers say this one died?”
Stefan nodded without saying anything. The office of Mantis James was eerie. The desk lamp was on, illuminating a neatly kept desk. A small stack of papers rested on one side of the desk, as if waiting for someone to return and read them. Everything was clean and dusted, as if the occupant was just about to return. The only sign of how long it had been since Mantis James had been here was a Christmas card peeking out from the stack of papers.
Stefan pulled Nuri away, feeling as if they had just desecrated a tomb.
Oris Paxton, the surviving Van Sweringen, kept an office a little farther down. It was the only one that was occupied. Stefan stopped in front of the half-open door and pushed it open with one hand. The office was a mirror of Mantis James’. Sitting behind the desk was an average-looking man in his late fifties. He was dressed plainly, and the clothing contributed to the subdued impression the man gave.
He
was shaking his head at the papers in front of him, the expression on his face grave. He didn’t look in their direction when he said, “William? I thought I told you to go home....”
“Mr. Van Sweringen?” Stefan said.
Oris Van Sweringen turned to face them with a bit of a start. “Who are you?” There was a challenge to the words, but Stefan thought he could hear a little fear in his voice.
“My name is Detective Ryzard, and this is Detective Lapidos. We would like to ask you some questions about a business associate of yours.”
The fear left, replaced by an expression somewhere between disgust and contempt. “The ICC just can’t leave a businessman alone, can it? We almost tottered over the edge, and you won’t be happy until you push us over, will you? At this rate,” he tossed the papers he’d been reading down on the desk. They scattered in a fan across his blotter. “At this rate, everything will go bankrupt in four months. You can talk to our council—”
“We aren’t from the Interstate Commerce Commission,” Nuri said.
Oris Van Sweringen stood and looked at both of them again. His eyes narrowed. “Who are you from, then?”
Stefan pulled out his badge and showed it to him. “Cleveland Police. We want to ask you about a gentleman named Eric Dietrich. We believe you may have had business dealings with him.”
He looked from the badge to Stefan’s face, and Stefan could tell that the fear was back. The man had some self-control, since it only showed in his eyes and in a twitch at the corner of his mouth. It took him a long time to say anything. He eased himself back into his seat and said quietly, “I have had informal dealings with the man. I know nothing about him except that he came from Europe, escaping the Nazis.”
“What kind of informal dealings?” Stefan asked.
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