Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  “Good evening, Mr. Pascal. My name is Eric Jerome Delacroix,” he said, adjusting his glasses and crossing his legs.

  “Why I am here, Eric?” Wage asked.

  “That’s the Honorable E.J. Delacroix to you, maggot!” Deputy Leblanc yelled.

  “Calm down, Perry. It’s quite all right,” Judge Delacroix said. “Why don’t you give us a moment.” The deputy adjusted his gun belt and walked away.

  “I don’t take kindly to being imprisoned, your honor,” Wage said.

  “We are all imprisoned, Mr. Pascal. It’s just so happens that some of us have smaller cells than others.”

  “Then why am I in this smaller cell, your honor? Two months is quite a while for a drunken bar fight, don’t you think?”

  “This facility is . . . well, let’s just say it’s off the books. We reserve it for . . . special prisoners.”

  “What makes me so damn special?” Wage asked.

  The judge smiled briefly. “A few things, really, but regardless, I am willing to grant you your freedom this evening, that is of course, if you agree to my demands.”

  “And if I do not agree?”

  “Then you will be tried for murder,” Judge Delacroix replied.

  “Impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I didn’t murder anybody,” Wage replied simply.

  “Ah, but you did. That night at the brothel. You shot a man to his death.”

  “I didn’t even fire my gun that night!”

  The judge leaned over his chair and pried open the nearby black bag by its handles. He reached in and grabbed a leather folder. Inside the folder were papers of all sorts. He pulled one out. It was a photograph of a deceased man, his eyes closed and with a permanent grimace. The judge held it up. “This man, here.” He looked inside the folder for a moment and found the corpse’s name. “Guy Jardin. You killed him that night. Shot him in the chest and head six times in the alley behind the House of Black Curtains. Made his little boy an orphan.” He put the picture back in the folder and pulled out more papers. “Here are the signed affidavits of witnesses that saw you do it. It doesn’t look good for you Mr. Pascal.”

  “What motive would I even have to kill a man I don’t know?” Wage asked.

  “Ah, I am glad you asked! It appears your confinement and utter lack of libations has not affected your senses after all. Mr. Jardin was to be your accomplice in a robbery.”

  “Robbery?”

  “Yes, it appears you were planning on robbing the Louisiana State Bank but could not agree on how to split the money, so you killed him.”

  “How do you figure I was going to rob a bank?” Wage asked.

  The judge reached into the bag once more. He pulled out a stick of dynamite and a crumbled piece of paper and put them on the table. “We found hand-drawn schematics and dynamite to blow the vault with Mr. Jardin’s belongings. First-degree murder and conspiracy will put you away for a lifetime, Mr. Pascal.” The judge clasped his hands in his lap.

  “That’s quite the fabrication you have concocted, your honor.”

  The judge nodded his head. “Thank you.”

  “Too bad no one will believe it.”

  “Oh? And why not? After all, I even have a fingerprint specialist from Atlanta coming down to verify your prints on this stick of dynamite”

  “My father will ensure that I have the best lawyers available to prove my innocence, and no jury anywhere will believe that a Pascal would need to rob a bank.”

  The judge sighed deeply. “Yes, but while we are on the topic of family finances . . .” He reached in his inner jacket pocket and unfolded a parchment littered with official seals. “Official copies of this letter have been dispatched to every major bank in the region. It cuts you off from your—or rather your father’s—trust. I am afraid you are broke and alone, Mr. Pascal, by written order of your own father.”

  “Impossible! My father would never sign it; he couldn’t sign it!”

  The judge perused the document. “My mistake. It was signed by the new administer of the Pascal estate, your brother, William Henri Pascal Jr. By the way, I hear he may be Louisiana’s newest congressmen. That is exciting. Doesn’t’ surprise me that he would want to keep his derelict brother out of sight for a while.” The judge slipped the parchment through the iron bars and it drifted slowly, silently to the ground. “Like I said. Broke. And alone.”

  Wage gritted his teeth. His mind and heart raced. His fists clenched. He was unsure of what to believe now.

  “I thought that might get your attention. Now, Mr. Pascal, let me present the alternative to your predicament. I would like you to work for me.” The judge reached inside his inner pocket once again and pulled out a round stone with curious etchings on it. “You have seen this before, haven’t you? You took it off Mr. Jonathan Hamilton nearly three months ago.”

  Wage remained silent.

  “I have reason to believe you exchanged it with a man called Mr. Jade for an undisclosed amount of money. I want to know who Mr. Jade is, where he is, who he works for. I want to know his friends, his business associates, and why, why, why he wanted that stone.”

  Wage turned his head away. “He’s just some opium peddler. He didn’t say why he wanted it. It was just a job that paid.”

  “You don’t need a paying job, Mr. Pascal, not when you have a family fortune. Or should I say, had a family fortune.”

  “Not everything is about money, your honor.”

  “In all my time on this earth, I can assure you that phrase is only uttered by those who have it. But it does not matter whether you act for financial gain, or for charitable causes, or even to satisfy some twisted urge you have; my offer is as follows: Join me. Tell me everything you know about Mr. Jade. Help me seek him out. If you are amenable to this, I will grant you your freedom.”

  “Work for you?” Wage asked. “Are you serious?”

  “I am,” the judge replied.

  “Who exactly do you work for, your honor?”

  “An organization older than you can imagine, Mr. Pascal. One that is more powerful than any you will find on any stock exchange, I assure you.”

  “So powerful you can’t find one little old Chinaman? So powerful you need my help?”

  “You are a hired gun, Mr. Pascal. What difference does it make who hires you? I assure you, our organization could use a man like you. We pay well, and for somebody with your skill sets, we even have room for advancement.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Wage continued to look away at the small, high window. The sunlight was fading.

  “One question,” Wage asked.

  “Yes?” Judge Delacroix replied.

  “Do I have to wear one of them stones?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. It is a requirement at first.”

  Wage turned his head back toward the judge. “Then I will take your fancy stone . . .”

  “Excellent choice, Mr. Pascal.”

  “ . . . and shove it right up your ass.” Wage smiled.

  The honorable E.J. Delacroix rose from his seat, placed the stone back in his inner jacket pocket, and closed his folder. “I will derive no pleasure in presiding over your trial,” he said. “I will personally oversee the filing of charges in the morning and see to it you never see the light of day.”

  “Why not just kill me then, Eric?”

  “For now, killing you would bring about far more attention than is necessary. But believe me, your expiration will be soon enough.” The judge walked away and whistled for the deputy.

  “We’re all expiring!” Wage yelled. “Some of us just doin’ it a little faster than others!”

  Deputy Leblanc walked back into view. He started to gather up all the evidence left on the table.

  “Hey! Leblanc!” Wage said. The deputy ignored him. “Leblanc! Don’t you think my gun should be admitted into evidence, too? Better take it out of your holster and put it back.” The deputy continued to ignore him. Wage looked down at
the floor of his cell. The parchment nullifying his trust fund lay face up. Wage stood up, a more laboring process than he had anticipated, and grabbed it. “Hey! Leblanc! You might need this, too.” The deputy looked over and saw the important-looking parchment. He put his hand on the butt of his gun and stepped toward Wage, who waved the document like a child. The deputy went to grab it, but Wage being a head taller, raised it up out of his reach. Leblanc began to turn an angry red and took a step closer.

  Wage dropped the paper and shot his hands through the bars, grabbing Leblanc by his collar. With all his strength, Wage pulled the deputy as hard as he could against the iron bars. Leblanc groaned and the iron bars clanged as Wage repeated the process, only this time, when Ol’ Snapper was in reach, Wage removed it from the holster at lightning speed. Wage took a step back, flipped the revolver, and cocked the hammer. “Whoooooooo,” he whispered, before firing the gun from his hip, placing a round in the bewildered deputy’s chest. Leblanc fell backward, knocking over the table of evidence. The single dynamite stick rolled along the ground.

  The other deputy, the only other one Wage had seen here, ran in with his gun drawn. With his eyes fixed on the fallen deputy, he never saw Wage in the corner of his cell. Wage expertly put another two rounds through the space between the iron bars into the other deputy’s chest. Both deputies were now down. The other deputy had a key ring on his belt, but try as Wage did, the key to his freedom was just out of reach. The only thing in reach was the solitary stick of faded, red dynamite.

  Wage grabbed it and surveyed his surroundings. The cell was small, and shooting a stick of dynamite might just blow the cell door open, but it would also obliterate him in the process. He thought as fast as he could, anticipating some kind of reinforcements at any moment. He tried using the six-inch barrel of his gun to spear the deputy’s key ring, but they were clasped to his belt, and Wage was unable to get the leverage necessary to drag the turnkey any closer. He was running out of options. He took the dynamite and stood it upright on the other side of the cell door near the bottom hinge. He grabbed his gray wool blanket from his haystack bed and walked to the opposite corner. Using his teeth and uncut fingernails, he tore away small strips of blanket and quickly shoved them in his ears. He took what was left of the blanket, crouched down, and covered himself.

  “Here we go!” Wage heard the words echo in his head because his ears were plugged. He popped his head out and aimed his six-shooter at the small red tower of dynamite. He pulled the trigger.

  A loud echo and then nothing. He missed. “Damn!” The word echoed in his head again. He readjusted and aimed, knowing he had two shots left. He clenched his entire body save for one eye. Slowly he pulled the trigger.

  The blast was deafening despite Wage’s precautionary measures. His whole tiny world seemed to move in slow motion as bits of wood, hay, and anything not tied down became airborne. The blanket protected him from the flying debris and a waste bucket, but a shockwave of air pinned him against the wall. For a moment, it felt like all his organs liquefied. Wage fell over and breathed in the acrid smoke that draped the entire cell. He coughed uncontrollably before he realized—he was still alive. Slowly, he got up. His head was ringing and pounding. The bottom hinge of his cell door was warped, but still attached. With a renewed strength, he used both his bare feet to pry an opening barely large enough for him to fit through. With reptilian-like contortions, he escaped.

  He made his way through the smoke. In his haste, the turnkey deputy had left the last securing door open. Wage made his way through the secret jail and to the street, where a few people started to gather. There was no sign of Judge Delacroix. The unkempt Wage placed his six-shooter with one bullet left in his waistband and began walking barefoot toward the Mississippi River.

  Two hours later, he finally arrived at the Dauphin Hotel just west of the French Quarter, their emergency meeting place in New Orleans. Patrons in the lobby regarded Wage as a soot-stained, disheveled, feral beast dripping Mississippi mud all over the maroon carpet. He ignored them and made his way to the adjacent bar, where he found Ol’ Bill reading the evening paper at a table by himself. Wage took the seat across from him, placed his gun on the table, and raised his hand for a drink. “Bourbon,” he called out. He couldn’t hear himself at all, only a high-pitched ringing.

  Bill folded the paper down and regarded his longtime companion. Wage couldn’t hear but could read Ol’ Bill’s lips. “What took you so long?”

  John Hum

  August 1, 1914

  Charity Hospital, East Wing

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  The walls were a blinding and sanitary white, with a giant brown spot near the ceiling. As his vision slowly came back into focus, the giant brown spot became a detailed crucifix on the opposite wall, Christ’s copper face half-grimacing with eyes fixed on heaven; the visage of Christ illuminated by sunlight from the windows that indicated either sunrise or sunset.

  “Praise be to Jesus. Glory be to God. Hosanna in the highest!” exclaimed an older woman in sweat-stained white robes and habit. She rushed over to him and put a cool hand with swollen joints on his forehead, inspecting him like a nurturing mother soothing a child who just awoke from a nightmare.

  “Who . . . Where . . . I . . .” said the patient who lay on the yellowed sheets of a hospital bed. He looked around, eyes constantly bounding. Six beds filled the room, but only two were occupied.

  “Be still. Be calm,” she said, now patting his face with both hands. “All is well.”

  As the patient’s state of sleep dissipated, his confusion grew. He instinctively tried to raise his left hand but was unable to. Confusion turned to concern.

  “Be calm, now. You’ve been sleeping for a while,” the nun said, the deep wrinkles in her face looking as though they were drawn with charcoal. “Comatose more than two months, don’t you know!”

  A sweltering heat baked the room. Sweat saturated his nappy hair and scraggly beard. Once again, he tried to lift his predominant arm, but it only fluttered as though the telegraph lines between his brain and arm corroded and could not properly deliver the signal. Upon closer examination, he noticed that his left arm, compared to his right, had significant atrophy.

  “You have lost quite a bit of weight since you first arrived, which was to be expected, but your arm . . . your arm, I’m afraid we couldn't help. The doctors were unable to slow the rate of emaciation” the nun said.

  The patient tried to speak, but the uncomfortable dryness of his mouth and throat made it difficult.

  “Here, child,” she said, as she scurried to the other side of the bed and poured a glass of water. She grabbed the back of his head and tipped it forward with a calm strength, and with her other she forced water into his mouth. It hit his throat like a biblical flood. He coughed for a moment and tried again to move his left hand, this time to cover his mouth. It didn’t move. After the coughing fit passed, she gave him more water.

  After a moment, he was able to grasp the glass himself with his only working hand. Finally, he spoke. “Where am I?”

  “You are in New Orleans—Charity Hospital. You probably don’t remember coming here,” the nun said.

  “No. What happened?”

  “Some folks found you in an alley. Looked as though you were in a nasty fight, it did, with your eyes all swelled up. You even had a rib near poking out of your skin. You were in mighty bad shape, I’d say.”

  The patient felt his side. It was still tender. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am Sister Silvia. I have been your caretaker since you arrived.” She smiled angelically and patted his leg. “You and I have had nearly every meal together for almost two months. Spoonful by spoonful, I was able to coax every variety of soup we make here down your gullet. It’s been just the two of us . . . Well, that is, until he arrived.” She tilted her head toward another sleeping man two beds over. “Now, I think it’s about time I learned your name, don’t you think?” Sister Silvia said, as she patt
ed his leg again.

  “I . . . I’m not sure,” the patient replied.

  “Well, that is not uncommon for those that wake up after a long sleep. It may take time for your memory to come back. Truth be told, most of the ones they put in here don’t ever wake up. You are a lucky one, blessed by God himself, I’m sure of it.” She steepled her hands and looked up.

  “You don’t know my name?” the patient asked.

  “Oh my heavens, no. You came in with no personal effects, nothing to identify you. Hospital procedure requires your file to be named John Doe, but . . . the chief physician here lets me change the names slightly. I named you John Hum.”

  “John Hum?” he said with a slight accent.

  “Yes.” She patted his leg once more. “Late at night, you would hum. To yourself? To me? To God above? Who knows! Sometimes, I would hum with you.” She began humming a tune the patient did not recognize. She repeated the verse again, humming louder and closing her eyes. The tune reverberated against the walls and sounded as if for centuries, mothers used the same notes to put their children to sleep. “Is it bringing back any memories? No? Perhaps it will come back to you in time, dear.”

  “Who is that?” John Hum asked, nodding toward the other sleeping man.

  “Oh, that there is John Doe. I don’t know enough about him yet to give him a more fitting name. He joined us about a week ago. He was found over in Algiers Point, with a head injury, some burns, and a bullet wound in the chest. Poor thing, he was wearing some kind of uniform, but no one could identify it, not even the local police. As a matter of fact, no one has even come inquiring about him,” she said. “Normally somebody follows up with me.” Sister Silvia leaned in closer and whispered, “Maybe I should name him John Snorer.” She giggled.

  “Has anyone inquired about me?”