Last Orders

by Laura Strickland

  “Miss Landry,” Addelforce began, “just what would you have me to do?”

  “Trace the cab in which he was taken away.” The entire crowd of steamies waiting outside Pat’s house had seen Brendan enter that cab and had watched it head east down Bryant Street.

  “Do you know how many horse-drawn cabs still operate in this city?”

  “Track them all down.”

  “Miss Landry, I haven’t the resources. We’re already stretched impossibly thin.”

  “He’s your sergeant! Is this how the Buffalo police force looks after its own?”

  “Miss Landry, the entire Irish Squad is off duty, most of them keeping vigil at Kelly’s place. I have men investigating two new murders and more putting out the kind of fires that could easily flare into confrontations between the human and automaton citizenry. On top of that, the most dangerous man in this city has unaccountably escaped from the asylum on Forest Avenue.”

  Ginny fought to keep her expression from changing.

  “This man,” Addelforce went on, “could easily tip the city into a state of riot. The mayor has charged me with recapturing him at all cost, and I have much of my limit resources concentrated on locating him.”

  “What do you know about this man who took Brendan away—Klemmer?”

  “Good man. Never made any trouble on the force. Did his job and went home at night, put in his time and made retirement. Miss Landry, it’s possible you’re mistaken. Klemmer might be operating in good faith.”

  “Without your sanction.”

  “Without my sanction,” Addelforce admitted. “But this is an all-hands-on-deck situation.”

  “He was in uniform.”

  Addelforce frowned. “Men often keep their uniforms when they retire, for sentimental reasons.”

  “So you’re not concerned.”

  “I am concerned, Miss Landry, about any number of things, Brendan Fagan among them.”

  “But you won’t search for him?”

  “Miss Landry, you haven’t been listening. I can’t search for him—I haven’t the manpower—and I’m not convinced of the need. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  So was Ginny—but in what condition? “I want Klemmer’s address.”

  “I can’t give you that.”

  Ginny’s desperation flared into something far fiercer. She’d often wondered whether any trace of Candace Landry lurked inside her. She’d modeled herself after her father, or so she hoped—strong and compassionate—and had always believed the wild streak belonged to her alone. Now, though, she tasted a ruthlessness that almost frightened her in its intensity.

  She leaned across Addelforce’s desk into his face. “You listen to me. That’s my man out there—injured and in danger. Whether or not you grasp that doesn’t concern me. Give me Klemmer’s last known address or I’ll get it from members of your force. I’m sure you don’t want me distracting them from their assignments.”

  Addelforce blinked at her. “Don’t try and bully me, Miss Landry. The last thing I need is a vigilante.”

  “No, Captain, the last thing you need is me good and angry, at large in your city.”

  “Don’t make me arrest you, Miss Landry.”

  Ginny laughed. “What, with your limited resources? The same that prevent you from providing backup to one of your best officers, a man who’s put your department first in his life time after time?”

  Addelforce sighed. “Is Petersen still out there? Send him in. I’ll give him the address and I’ll let him accompany you there, just to set your mind at rest. But don’t let me hear of you stirring up trouble.”

  Ginny turned away toward the door.

  “Oh, and Miss Landry—should you locate Sergeant Fagan, send him here to me. I still need him on these murders.”

  Ginny Landry bared her teeth. “With all due respect, Captain, I’ll be damned if I do.”

  ****

  Three against one did not make good odds, especially when the three were armed and the one was carrying a full set of broken bones. That thought whipped through Brendan’s mind as he stood in a half crouch, facing the men ranged against him. He’d need to use his brain rather than his muscle if he meant to get out of this.

  And be with Ginny again.

  Oh, God, he lived to be with Ginny again. The big, bad bachelor—fairly caught, he was. But he’d worry about that later, when he was sure there’d be a later.

  He wondered how easily his opponents could see through those hoods. Made of heavy, black cloth, they had mere slits for eyes. And they couldn’t whack a target they couldn’t see.

  Upon that thought he leaped, giving the kind of yell his ancestors might have during a bloody battle back in Meath. He and his brothers used to play at that, pretending to be wild Irish clansmen making battle, till his ma would come out of the house and tell them to stop hollering like banshees.

  Now the sound echoed through the dark building, amplified a thousand times. Brendan grasped his first opponent’s hood, jerked it over his eyes, and kicked him in the knee.

  The man went down with a grunt, but the other two closed on him immediately. One gave his broken arm a thump with the club, and the ensuing pain drove all the breath from him. For an instant he saw only black fog. But he kept moving, barreled his body into the fellow’s midsection, and rolled with him across the floor.

  Toward the door.

  That fellow would not stay down long. Wracked by pain, Brendan stumbled to his feet and kicked the downed man in the head. Good sturdy police-issue boots—good for more than the streets of Buffalo.

  Klemmer bellowed and started for him, along with the third hooded man. Giving himself no time to hesitate, Brendan leaped again—toward rather than away. Neither of them expected it, and he succeeded in grabbing Klemmer before the third man could prevent it, trapping him with the plaster cast up across his windpipe.

  “Toss down your weapons, all of you.”

  The first man had climbed to his feet. The second, still down, moved like a turtle on its back. Brendan throbbed so fiercely he could hardly see straight. He could hear the pain in his own voice.

  “Your weapons—all of them! In a pile over there, or I swear I’ll choke the life out o’ this one.”

  “You won’t,” Klemmer croaked. “You’re a good copper under it all.”

  “And you’re a murderer, Klemmer. How many people died when you staged your supposed automaton killings? I’ve no compunction about strangling a little rat like you.”

  “I don’t see how you can side with them. Those damned hybrids nearly killed you that night Charles and Mason were arrested.”

  “Nearly, Klemmer—that’s the word. They didn’t, and do you know why? Because there’s something in them that’s the same as what’s in us. Unless you see that and stop the hating, there’ll be no peace in this city.”

  He drew a breath, struggling for it. He could feel the tension in Klemmer’s body, tight against his, could smell the man’s sweat. If Klemmer made a break for it, Brendan couldn’t be sure he had the necessary strength to subdue him. His entire body hurt like toothache, and he felt pretty sure only the rush of the fight kept him on his feet.

  “Now,” he jerked his head at the first man, “tie up your buddies—use the rope you used on me.”

  “Don’t do it!” Klemmer bleated. “He knows who we are.”

  “Knows who you are,” corrected one of the men in a deep voice. Snatching up the ropes from Brendan’s chair, he tied up first the hooded man beside him and then the one on the floor, Klemmer cursing him for a coward all the while.

  When he finished, he took another look at Brendan before turning and pelting away into the dark recesses of the building.

  Klemmer used the opportunity to make his move, bucking against Brendan’s hold and trying to wrest his way free. With the last of his strength, Brendan increased the pressure on Klemmer’s throat, using the man’s own strength against him, and dropping him to the floor only after he went limp.

&nbs
p; “There now,” he said, fighting for breath, his ribs screaming in protest. “Your friend was the smart one. I won’t know who he is. As for you other two…”

  He moved forward and plucked the hood from the head of each bound man, stared hard at their faces in the limited light. Strangers both, the one he’d kicked in the head looked barely conscious. The other regarded him with wary dismay.

  “I’ll be sure and remember you.”

  Moving like an old man now, he tied up Klemmer, using the man’s own belt. With that one secure, he took all three billy clubs and stuffed them in his pockets.

  He needed to get out of here fast, before the third man thought better of it, gathered some friends, and came back. He needed to reach Addelforce and tell him what he’d discovered about Klemmer, the truth about the murders.

  Maybe that would soothe some of the rampant hate in this city and defuse the likelihood of a riot.

  But first he had to find Ginny and ask her just what she needed to tell him.

  Aye, Ginny first—because he wanted her to admit it, once and for all.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “My husband is not here.”

  The small woman who opened the door at Klemmer’s address wore a stubborn expression and had a small scar on her face, what looked like a burn to the right cheek. Three young children crowded her skirts; all of them stared at Ginny, round-eyed and wary.

  “Where is he?”

  Mrs. Klemmer’s gaze flicked to the face of Dennis Petersen, who stood at Ginny’s shoulder, and back again. “I don’t know. He’s gone out on official business.”

  “Not on police business he hasn’t, Mrs. Klemmer,” Petersen said. “He’s no longer part of the force.”

  Something flashed in Mrs. Klemmer’s eyes—the merest hint of deception. “He’s helping out.”

  That flicker gave her away. Without it, Ginny might have believed this woman didn’t know what her husband got up to. Now she said, “You mean he’s out on the devil’s business. He’s abducted a police officer, Mrs. Klemmer. I suggest, for your own sake, you cooperate with us.”

  Mrs. Klemmer’s upper lip rose like that of a snarling cur. “And who are you to come here making demands? If my husband’s not part of the force, well, neither are you.”

  “I have a personal interest.”

  Mrs. Klemmer’s gaze narrowed abruptly. “I know who you are. You’re the daughter of that vile creature who constructed those—” She broke off and glanced at the children behind her. “Go inside,” she told them sharply.

  They went without argument.

  “Your grandchildren?” Ginny asked.

  Mrs. Klemmer gave a hard nod. “We’re raising them, Emil and me. Their mother was killed.”

  Must be difficult on a retiree’s income. A lot of people in this city had it hard. Did that explain the resentment in the woman’s voice?

  “And, Mrs. Klemmer, how do you know who I am?”

  The woman raised her chin with a jerk. “Emil pointed you out to me at the Park.”

  “You were there?” A significant admission. “Mrs. Klemmer, I don’t care what you thought of my mother—I never knew her and I’m my own woman. But your husband’s getting into some treacherous waters. Abducting a policeman is a serious crime. Tell us where they’ve gone and make it better for you and those children.”

  “I don’t know and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. Do you suppose I keep track of where Emil goes every time he leaves this house?”

  Ginny thought she might. “There must be a place where he meets with his cronies.”

  Mrs. Klemmer’s lip lifted again. She lowered her voice to an ugly whisper, presumably so the children in the house wouldn’t hear. “I hate your kind, siding with those infernal machines, pretending they have feelings like the rest of us, that they matter like the rest of us. Everybody with an ounce of proper understanding knows only people bleed and weep—and feel.”

  Ginny bit back all the things she wanted to say: that she’d seen humor in a hybrid’s eyes, and kindness. That Rose Kelly’s husband mattered to her so much she’d tried to take her own life rather than live without him.

  This woman, with her prejudices, wouldn’t hear any of it. So instead, with despair in her heart, she said, “Mrs. Klemmer if your husband comes home, please dissuade him from carrying on with this ruinous course he’s embraced. I beg you to—”

  “He’s protecting us all. I’d expect you to see that, given how your mother died. It’s a fight for survival, and in the trenches there must be sacrifices. Now get away from my door.”

  “Mrs. Klemmer—”

  The door slammed in Ginny’s face; she heard the bolt slide home.

  Panic in her heart, she turned to Dennis. “Where to now, Officer? Where can Brendan be?”

  ****

  As soon as Brendan poked his head out the door of the darkened building and peered down Broadway toward Main, he sensed something afoot. He knew this city—the look, feel, and smell of it. He’d spent sufficient time on foot patrol to know how it sounded at night, a subdued hum, never quite silent.

  Now, over the thump of his own heart, which kept time with the various aches in his body, he heard…

  Footsteps. The scrape of boots on bricks. Hushed voices. Wrongness.

  He wondered suddenly if this building—perhaps not just a holdup place but some grim headquarters—weren’t surrounded by others like those he’d left inside, and whether the fleeing man had summoned others after all. Maybe defeating those inside had done him no good.

  He needed to move, and quickly. If only his battered body would cooperate.

  His thoughts of Ginny got him moving. Away first of all, and after that, so he told himself, to. Hugging the shadowed buildings, he moved out to Main, looked southward down its broad expanse, and saw…

  Initially, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He blinked fiercely. An army. One bent on destruction.

  Even as the thought exploded in his mind, they proceeded toward him—no, not an army after all. An army kept some order and had some discipline. This, most decidedly, was a mob.

  They carried what in the dim light looked like the pikes carried by rebel Irishmen in the old stories and songs from back home. Heroes, those—Brendan couldn’t be so sure about this lot. Even as he stood watching, his breath held tight, stones were flung. Glass broke. The businesses along Main Street would pay a price tonight.

  And then what? Once this group ran amok, would they try to blame the damage on automatons? Another black eye for the steamies, to dissuade the powers-that-be to keep them down?

  Men like Emil Klemmer wanted all the steam units destroyed, rubbed out like a disease. They wanted the automatons’ jobs and felt the threat of units like Pat Kelly and Chastity Greely perhaps achieving more than they could. They wouldn’t rest until others agreed with them.

  But wouldn’t this mob realize they’d be seen engaging in all this destruction? How did they mean to deal with that? Through more threats and intimidation?

  It would tear Brendan’s city in two.

  Standing there in the dark with danger surging toward him, he realized how much he loved this city. Aye, he’d come from the old sod and carried a goodly measure of it within him, but in this magical, beautiful, stubborn place perched on the edge of the blue lake like an eccentric lady on a slightly seedy settee, he’d grown and learned and become a man. He wanted to be nowhere else. And he’d be damned if he’d let anyone destroy it.

  What he needed was an army of his own. Of policemen? No—they were too few, and unable for the most part to take sides. He needed an army that would take sides.

  And take orders.

  He needed an army of automatons.

  Frozen in place, watching the mob of humans come steadily closer, he looked the prospect squarely in the face. An army facing a mob would spark a battle royal. Did he want that? No, but he wanted this thing over and done. And as the old stories told, at least in Ireland sometimes a battle had to be fought for
the sake of justice.

  The automatons in this city wanted their freedom, did they? Let’s see if they’d be willing to gain it by taking a few last orders.

  He stepped out onto the street and, by a trick of the starlight, the mob saw him. A howl went up, a bloodcurdling sound like beagles on the scent that bounced off the buildings and echoed eerily down the street.

  Brendan turned north and, for all he was worth, ran.

  ****

  “What do you mean she’s not here?” Brendan had burst through the door of Pat Kelly’s house and into a circle of lamplight that, after the dark streets he’d coursed, hurt his eyes. He’d managed to lose the bulk of his pursuers along the way—too many of them to move quickly—but he knew a few individuals remained on his tail. He’d hated leading even those few here but remembered the crowd of steamies outside—a good start. Besides, Ginny was here, or so he’d believed, and she drew him like a lodestone drew iron.

  Now ready hands caught hold of him. A strong pair—they belonged to Topaz Gideon—pressed him down into a chair.

  “Sit before you fall. What’s happened?”

  Spent, he had to fight for breath before he could say, “All hell’s broke loose. I know who’s behind the murders around the city and why. Where is she?” Out there somewhere in the darkness, where people hated her for her mother’s sake and any harm could befall her.

  Topaz Gideon’s amber eyes met his. “She went looking for you.”

  “Why?”

  “The police captain sent someone here after you, when you’d already been fetched to him by that fellow—”

  “Klemmer. He’s behind most of this. Humans against automatons. We have to find her. Tell me she’s not alone.”

  “She went with an officer. What was his name? Petersen.”

  A good enough man, trustworthy, but young and inexperienced. Brendan groaned.

  Rom Gideon, now returned, emerged from the inner room and joined those ranged around Brendan.

  “How do things progress with Pat?” Brendan asked him.

  Gideon shook his head. “Our friend is still working and making demands. To be perfectly honest, I’m no longer certain whether he actually needs the things he’s asking for in order to achieve the rebuild or whether he can complete the job at all.”