Blood & Rust

by S. A. Swiniarski

  When Ness called his forces down on the transient population, he had solidified Dietrich’s control of the city.

  “Now the only one of the blood here that isn’t pledged to him, is me.”

  Ness shook his head. “You started on this supernatural nonsense before you left. I still don’t belie—”

  Stefan held up his hand, silencing Ness. As Ness watched, transfixed, the skin darkened and thickened. The fingers lengthened with the sound of breaking bone. Nails grew into black talons as the hand became a weapon capable of tearing Ness’ throat out.

  “You do not know everything,” Stefan said. “Melchior believes he is Satan and destined to rule the Earth, and he does not know everything. I have been saved from my fate, and my purpose is only to stop him and his plans. Do you understand? I am here because his darkness hasn’t reached you, and his destruction by human forces will be far preferable to the means I would have to use.” He clenched his demon hand into a fist and it slowly returned to normal.

  “Preferable for whom?”

  “Every human in this city who would be near Melchior when he dies.” Stefan said the words with such gravity that Ness feared for anyone who would be near that event.

  “He has prepared himself to regain the kingdom he lost a millennium ago.” Stefan pulled a sheaf of documents from the pile and handed it to Ness. “Eric Dietrich is a Hungarian expatriate industrialist. He has become an influential voice in the legislature, in the administration in Washington. He’s invisible, but he’s taken in thrall major forces in our government. All of this was in preparation.”

  “Preparation for what?”

  “That folder contains an agreement between Dietrich and our government. In return for his resources, and contacts in Europe, the Allies have agreed to install him as the provisional leader of the occupied German Empire.”

  Ness stared at Stefan, and then looked down at the folder.

  “Melchoir knows who will win this war. He was planning this long before the first shots were fired. Before this century began.”

  The folder was official-looking, and carried markings from half a dozen agencies of the US Government, including the Army. It was marked top secret.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I’m invisible,” Stefan said.

  It went on, and on, and on. How Melchior took over the rail empire of the Van Sweringens, using it as a network to move his influence across the continent. How the killing ground rode on the rails themselves. How every organized force, human or not, was stalled, subverted, or destroyed if it served Melchior’s purpose.

  Ness watched as Stefan sifted through the mountain of evidence. Deep into the night he asked, “How did you gather all this?”

  “I am alone. No one is left to betray me. He might sense others of the blood, or his own thralls, but my nature has become alien to his. I walk on ground he cannot perceive.” Stefan stared at Ness. “Do you believe in God?”

  Ness nodded. “Of course.”

  Stefan frowned slightly, as if the answer came too quickly, too facile. “You should. That is all that can protect you from him.”

  Stefan watched Ness and hoped. Stefan had worked alone, gathering the evidence of what Melchior had done, what he was doing. He hoped he could cause something to happen, stop Melchior short of what would be the ultimate solution. Ness had the forces of the city under his command, and through connections in the Treasury Department he could call on many more.

  If Melchior’s plans were balked, if he were discredited, Stefan hoped it wouldn’t end the way he feared it would. If he could take away the human levers that Melchior used to amplify his power ...

  Ness looked at the pile of documents, listened to Stefan’s story, and shook his head, “I don’t know what you want me to do, arrest him?”

  “Perhaps as a beginning. Even though he is old enough and powerful enough to walk abroad in sunlight, he still relies on darkness and fear. Illuminate him, just a little, and these tangled plans begin to crumble.”

  Ness gathered up the pages and photographs and told Stefan, “I’ll think about what you’ve said. Look into it. If anything’s here, we’ll see this guy behind bars.”

  I hope so, Stefan thought.

  2

  Wednesday, March 4

  Eliot Ness spent most of his spare time in the first half of the week trying to independently confirm the evidence Stefan had given him. He couldn’t double-check more than a fraction of what he had been given, but what he had checked seem to pan out. The man named Eric Dietrich was many of the things Stefan said he was.

  Ness was still far from believing in the supernatural.

  But confirmation of any part of Stefan’s story was unnerving. Deitrich, or Melchior, seemed the center of his own twisted form of worship. Stefan had given him dark pictures of ceremonies that twisted Ness’ stomach. Even if there was nothing supernatural involved, there were people who followed Melchior as if he were the God of his own religion. After two days going over Stefan’s papers, it was easy to believe that sacrifice was part of it.

  By Wednesday, Ness believed that he might be the one to bring in the Torso Murderer. He might be able to erase the one dark spot of his term as Public Safety Director.

  He was in a good mood as he accompanied his wife to one of the parties he frequented. As he danced with her, he felt as if he were just about to reach the high point of his life.

  Driving home, his wife asleep beside him, slightly high from the party, Ness imagined the headlines when he would capture Dietrich. It would be a news story of epic proportions, not just here, but all over the country, maybe even overseas.

  The night was dark, the roads slick and icy. The headlamps of his car picked out a tiny circle of reality ahead of him on the road, the rest of the world vanished into blackness. Ness suddenly felt a shiver of apprehension and he reached first to touch his sleeping wife, then the satchel that sat in the back seat—

  Stefan’s evidence followed him everywhere, even to the party. It was too important to let out of his sight.

  The road was dead in front of him, the only sound the wind and the engine—

  Then, as he rounded a curve, a car appeared in front of him. It appeared suddenly, as if it had been pushed out into the road ahead of him. He slammed into the side of it, his head striking the steering wheel, then snapping back. His car rolled to a stop ahead of the car.

  My God, where did he come from? What happened? Ness’ thoughts were a haze. He looked in the mirror and saw the other vehicle unmoving by the side of the road, windshield shattered, driver slumped behind the wheel.

  Good lord, I’ve killed someone.

  A shadow passed in front of the mirror. Ness looked up to see a figure standing in the darkness between the two cars. Ness wasn’t a fearful man. People had often said that he had less fear than was smart. All the threats that followed him throughout his career had left him unmoved—

  The figure standing in the moonless night, backlit by the damaged car’s headlights, that frightened Eliot Ness.

  “You broke one of your own rules,” Ness heard on the air. The voice was quiet, but as hard and icy as the pavement. “One of your commandments for safe driving. You have alcohol on your breath.”

  The words slammed into Ness like blows. They left him dizzy, speechless. There was barely time for him to wonder who this figure was, angel, devil, Melchior, or some phantom called up by the blow his head had just taken. All he could think was that his own mistakes had probably killed a man.

  The figure stepped up until it was next to Ness’ car. Ness couldn’t take his eyes away, even though it never became more than a shadow.

  It pointed an accusing finger and said, “Your wife needs to be tended to.”

  Ness looked into the passenger seat, and felt his heart nearly give way. He saw his wife’s face as a nearly featureless mask of blood.

  He had no time left for thought. He accelerated away from the scene. He had to get her to a hospital. He
had driven like a madman for what seemed like hours, but must have only been a few minutes, when he heard her say, “Honey, we need to go home.”

  Ness turned to look at her and felt a sick wave of disorientation when he realized that her only wound was a scrape and a bump on her forehead. There was no sign of the massive hemorrhage he had seen earlier.

  He swallowed and drove home, while through his head he kept telling himself that he had to return to the accident. But he didn’t remember exactly where it was any more, and every time he looked across at his wife he felt that he couldn’t trust his own memory.

  When he got home, he realized that the satchel with Stefan’s papers was gone.

  When he made sure his wife was all right and in bed, he started calling hospitals to find the unknown man he had collided with. He eventually found him, alive and all right. He hung up without leaving his name.

  He knew that wasn’t going to be the end of it. He couldn’t live with himself if he allowed himself to become a party to a criminal hit-and-run, even if it wasn’t his fault. He picked up the phone and called the Central Station.

  Afterward, shaking, he walked to the bar in the den and poured himself a drink. He was picturing different headlines now. Eliot Ness stared into the amber liquid and realized that his career as Public Safety Director had just ended.

  3

  Thursday, April 30

  Watching the end of Eliot Ness’ career was like watching newsreel footage of a bomber going in extreme slow motion. Stefan read the papers, saw every hit as it landed, read salvos that lasted days.

  Ness had been a public hero, but the act of fleeing the scene of a drunken accident was the one thing that would have made the public turn on him. If there had been an accusation of bribery, or corruption, the public wouldn’t have believed it. Somehow it was easier to believe in personal hypocrisy, and it was somehow more damning.

  Stefan suspected that it had been more than an accident.

  He knew it was more than an accident when every move Ness made toward Melchior petered out and eventually stopped. He knew it when Ness resigned.

  Stefan sat on a bench overlooking the night-blackened lake and reread the story over and over. There was no choice left. He had spent his time to gather the evidence to support Ness’ actions, and with Ness gone there was no one left for Stefan to turn to. The only other ally he could trust was Nuri, and he was overseas.

  And Stefan saw that trust was no longer an issue. He could evade Melchior because he was alone. Every time there was anyone else involved, Melchior began to see what he was doing. He had been more than aware of the police and the local gangs, he had manipulated them. Even with a conspiracy as small as him, Nuri and Iago, Melchior had seen through it. Now, the instant he tried to bring some human agency into the picture, the most trustworthy man Stefan knew of, he was removed from any position of authority.

  Ness had asked someone the wrong question.

  He tossed the paper on the ground, and watched it blow away. He had no choice. The only chance against Melchior was an individual with no one to share his secrets.

  It would require more time for preparations, and Melchior’s fall would come at a cost that Stefan didn’t want to contemplate. He sat and began to pray for forgiveness.

  1944

  4

  Sunday, October 15

  Nuri Lapidos walked Euclid Avenue as the night turned to dusk. He was still getting used to being home. More than that, he was still getting used to the absence of half his right foot. He used a cane, but the doctors said that he’d eventually regain his equilibrium. He’d been lucky. The sergeant who’d actually stepped on the land mine behind him lost a more than his foot—some of the shrapnel they’d taken out of Nuri’s legs had been splinters from the sergeant’s pelvis.

  The sergeant had died within minutes, while Nuri spent three months in a hospital fighting off a dozen infections. He had managed to return home a lieutenant, and something of a war hero. He still wore his uniform, as if putting on civilian clothes would deny what happened.

  Also, a uniform and a cane gave him more respect than a badge ever did. It occasionally made asking questions easier. That’s what he’d been doing ever since he had hobbled off the train, asking questions.

  He’d been wondering, since before he was wounded, since he began getting letters from people he knew on the force.

  There were rumors about Stefan Ryzard. Nothing concrete, but people said they had seen him. The reports were enticing: stories of Stefan asking questions, lurking around neighborhoods at night. The oddest ones were about people seeing him at nighttime services. He had apparently been at more than one midnight Mass.

  When Nuri returned, he felt an impulse to seek him out, to find him once and for all.

  What Nuri had found out for himself was more than the rumors. He had followed Stefan’s trail all over the city. He had been visiting junkyards and hardware stores, apparently bribing people out of some items collected for aluminum and copper drives. He had paid cash for a ten-year-old Lincoln V-12. Most disturbing was his purchase of a large quantity of dynamite.

  From there, Nuri struck a dead end. He found no one who could tell him where Stefan was. He appeared, bought what he wanted, and disappeared again. It took a while before Nuri had an idea of where Stefan might be hiding.

  Nuri turned off of Euclid and began walking north on East Fifty-Fifth. He was heading toward the Slovenian community on St. Clair. Toward the unpretentious structure of St. John’s. Father Gerwazek had retired, and the Church had decided to close down the building rather than appoint a new pastor to the superfluous parish. Everyone in the community went to St. Vitus now.

  But the building was still there.

  Nuri stopped in front of it and suppressed a shudder. It had only been shut up for a year or two, but it looked as if it had been abandoned much longer. The paint had peeled away, someone had removed the statue of Mary, and the sign saying “St. John’s” had disappeared, leaving a dark spot of unpainted wood on the side of the building.

  But a cross still stood, at the peak above the front doors.

  A gate stood in front of the church, locked with a rusty chain.

  Not knowing quite what to expect, Nuri circled the structure. It was crowded on all sides by turn-of-the-century working-class houses. It hugged its small grounds to itself with a wrought-iron fence that two winters without maintenance had canted at an inward angle, as if it were retreating from the surrounding neighborhood.

  Nuri followed a narrow alley, paralleling the fence, all the way to the rear of the church. Another gate stood in the fence, but on this one the chain was shiny, the lock new.

  Nuri prodded the weeds around the gate and uncovered the remains of an older chain, the metal still shiny where the links had been cut. Past the gate, Nuri could still see signs of a car passing through—a rut in the weed-shot lawn where the wheel had left the drive.

  Nuri looked up at the church, through the bars. There was a large shed that took up almost all of the church’s small back lot. The doors were shut and locked, but Nuri suspected that there was just enough room there to hide a car the size of a Lincoln.

  Nuri walked up to the fence, shoved his cane through the bars, grabbed the top, and heaved himself over. He barely avoided impaling himself on one of the ornamental spikes on top of the fence, and landed shoulder first into the tall grass behind the church.

  He grabbed his cane and used it to push himself upright.

  Nuri stood still for a few long moments, waiting for someone to notice him. The church stayed dark and silent, the only sounds distant ones from the neighborhood around him; a baby crying; a dog barking; two children shouting at each other in the distance; a radio ...

  Nothing came from in front of him, no sound of alarm, as if the building was a tomb.

  What do you expect? It’s supposed to be abandoned.

  Nuri walked up to the shed. The entrance was two swinging wooden doors, securely padlocked. The lo
ck and the clasp that held it were both new. Nuri tried to see through the crack between the doors, but the interior was as dark as ink. He couldn’t see anything but flat blackness.

  He moved around to the side, where a dirty window looked in on the shed. Nothing was visible there either. Nuri stood and stared at the window. Something was wrong with it. The window was covered in grime and cobwebs, but there still should be moonlight leaking through. He reached up a hand and wiped away some of the grime.

  The blackness beyond was too flat. The other side of the glass had been painted so no one could see in.

  Nuri tried to open the window, but it refused to move, locked, painted, or nailed shut. After shoving the frame a few times he smashed in one of the panes with the head of his cane. The sound seemed deafeningly loud in the quiet space around the church, and Nuri paused and waited for something to react.

  Nothing did.

  The glass had shattered, but the cane stopped moving an inch through the window. The cane leaned against something inside as shards of black-painted glass fell by Nuri’s feet. Inside was still blackness.

  Nuri pulled the cane back and felt through the broken window. The cane had caught on a drape of heavy velvet, dark as pitch. Nuri tried to push it aside, but there was too much of it. It felt as if it covered the entire inside wall of the shed.

  Feeling around, Nuri found the latch to the window. After a few tugs, it loosened.

  The window frame let out squeals of dry, warped wood as Nuri forced it open. Again, when he was done, he waited, listening if anyone heard him.

  Again nothing but the nighttime sounds of the surrounding neighborhood.

  Nuri pulled himself through the window, sliding behind the velvet drapery. For a few claustrophobic seconds he tried to find the bottom of the drape. He finally got his hand underneath it and managed to duck through to the other side.