Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  The nun looked down and shook her head. “I am afraid not, my dear John Hum.”

  “No one?”

  “Not a soul, I’m afraid,” the nun replied.

  “Am I from here? Do I have a home I can go to? Someone? Anyone?”

  “Well,” said Sister Silvia, “now that I’m hearin’ you talk—I thought your voice would be deeper and more Southern, by the way—you don’t sound much like you spent your life in Louisiana, but who knows? There are so many different looking and sounding people ‘round here. If I had to guess, you are an Englishman, maybe? Perhaps one who’s been here a while?”

  The patient detected his own slight accent in comparison to Sister Silvia’s. “English? Are you sure there was no documents or facts that could help identify me?” The patient looked down at his hospital gown. “Was I wearing different clothes?” The questions sounded ridiculous. How does a grown man not know who he is? Not have any memories, but still know the names of rudimentary things like beds, windows, and nuns?

  “Well,” the nun said, “you have quite a few . . . marks on your back. Some of them fresher than others.”

  “Marks?”

  “Oh, wait here,” she said, straining to get up again. “It will probably be a while before you can walk, anyway. Your legs, God bless you, must feel like pins and burning needles.” She left the ward. The phrase “burning needles” brought back a flood of emotion that should have been memories, but it only triggered an unholy fire that coursed, slithered, through his veins like a serpent of fire.

  Sister Silvia returned with a black suit, black shoes, and two large handheld mirrors; the kind used in child birthing so the mother can see the delivery. She set the clothes down on one of the empty beds and placed one of the mirrors in his right hand. She leaned him forward to hold up a mirror to his back. Through the two mirrors, John Hum gazed upon the horror that was his back, which looked like a butcher’s cutting board etched with tan, pink, and red lines. There was no real order to the scars, as though it was a butcher’s apprentice who took his time learning and practicing the proper cuts.

  “Good God!” John said.

  “I know,” Sister Silvia said.

  “Where did they come from? How did I get them?”

  “I’m not sure, but I can tell you where else I have seen them,” she said.

  “Where?” he asked, looking at her through the mirror.

  “Well, I went on a pilgrimage to the Vatican when I was rather new to the convent; I was just a young woman then. On the way, we passed through Palencia, Spain, during the Lenten season and saw Los Hermanos Penitentes—men who whipped themselves so as to experience the pain that Christ himself suffered.” She made the sign of the cross. “Their backs were hideously bloody, they were, but the ones who had spent years doing it, their backs . . . they looked like yours.”

  “So I am what? A priest? A monk? And I don’t even know Spanish!”

  “I would say you are—or were—a flagellant, or . . .” the nun paused and made the sign of the cross again, “. . . or someone who has been subjected to some ungodly torture. But the fact remains, you have lived a life of suffering, John Hum.”

  Ironically, he responded with a noise that sounded like “hum” and set down his mirror. “And you are sure I came to the hospital with nothing?”

  “Well, you were wearing that black suit, but it is barely salvageable. The shoes, they held up better.”

  “Can you hand me the shoes?” John asked. The old nun handed him the black shoes. The leather was worn and dusty, but meticulously cared for and faintly shined. If there was any identifying brand, however, it had long since faded away. He asked for the coat and inspected it as well, the act of inspecting feeling strangely natural. The coat had no identifying marks, either. It appeared to be custom.

  “There is one thing . . .” Sister Silvia said, interrupting his study of the clothes.

  “What?” John asked. The nun was noticeably embarrassed.

  “Well, it’s just that—”

  “What is it?”

  She reached into the inner pocket of his black coat and pulled out a slightly crumbled piece of paper. She looked around the room to make sure no one was looking. She straightened the piece of mustard-colored paper and handed it to him. She blushed. The patient grabbed it slowly and awkwardly. All his body movements, no matter how slight, still felt foreign.

  The picture was a pencil sketch of a naked woman leaning over a chair with a monochrome curl falling in one eye. The hasty shading gave depth to her perfectly formed breasts and buttocks. Her face was as stoic as a statue of a Greek goddess. She was, in a word, breathtaking.

  Underneath the picture read, “25 May ’14, Amber Rose—Winston-Salem, NC.”

  Michael Callahan

  August 1, 1914

  Broadway Avenue

  Gary, Indiana

  Mink strolled down one side of Broadway Avenue. The sun was setting, but the electric street lights were still unlit. The buildings on both sides of the block were newly constructed; the mortar holding the bricks was still a bright white. The occasional streetcar would pass down the middle of the street, and the steel workers who rode it all stared straight ahead, unfazed by the loud, clattering bells the conductor rang. Some of riders were no doubt deaf from the thousands of hours hammering out imperfections in steel. Others probably just ignored the bells, not wanting a break from the trance that the ride from the mill to their homes afforded them.

  Practically erected overnight by the United States Steel Corporation, the town of Gary, Indiana demonstrated to the world modern, industrial living. The heartbeat of the town, of course, was the smoking juggernaut of a steel mill that belched its fumes over Lake Michigan. The steel mill, which employed nearly everyone in town, was the largest of its kind, churning more than four million metric tons of steel from iron ore each year.

  Ever since the tragic events aboard the Artemis, Mink had become Michael, taking the name of her father. She was once a lithe and graceful lady who married into one of the wealthiest families in America. Now she lived as a poor, skinny young man with shortened red hair and soft features. Despite her softness, however, she felt a dangerous burning inside.

  The town of Gary was far enough away to escape the authorities, but close enough still to find the Chicago Sun-Times. Days after she shot Reginald and dove into Lake Michigan, the headline read, “Maritime Murderer: Millionaire Heiress, Still Missing, Slays Husband Aboard Yacht; Stepson Still Unaccounted For.” Days later the headline read, “Maritime Murderer/Stepson Presumed Dead, Investigation Ongoing.”

  To be safe, she decided to stay in Gary for another month, hiding her soft features behind welding goggles and layers of dirt and black soot. Most mornings she would make her way to the corner of Broadway and 4th, where foremen would pick up day laborers to replace sick or injured union workers. The days she was able to climb aboard a foreman’s flatbed truck she would be put to work welding or monitoring a blast furnace. Her on-the-job training was frighteningly fast, which probably explained the alarming rate of injury among the workers. At night, she would take the street car from the mill back to the center of town, where she would walk the 10 blocks back to Saint Barbara of Perpetual Help, an overflow church for the diocese, and a part-time home for maimed steel workers. Because she was not injured or maimed but did need a home, she cleaned the church in exchange for a small bed and simple meals.

  Mink stopped in front of a store window. A beautiful dress, sea foam green with white lace and sage buttons adorned a blocky, headless mannequin. A small sage top hat and matching floral umbrella sat on a stand next to it. She pictured herself in the ensemble. It was form-fitting and her locks of red hair fell upon her shoulders shimmering while she strolled a lakeside garden, smiling and twirling the umbrella. The shopkeeper finally turned off the lights, ending her fantasy.

  Mink continued down the sidewalk. A man approached from the opposite direction. There was no tip of his hat, no polite greeting, no y
ielding the right-of-way. Mink slammed into the man’s shoulder.

  “Watch it, boy!” snapped the man.

  “My apologies, mister,” Mink replied, adjusting the goggles on top of her forehead. She watched the man walk away and heard the drone of the electric lights click on.

  She finally arrived at Saint Barbara’s. There were no street lamps on the outskirts of town, so the small stone church with multicolored light bleeding from the stained glass windows proved to be something of a beacon. She entered the church though the squeaky, round door and made her way down the nave, passing 20 pews on either side. Out of habit, she genuflected toward the alter that rested on a raised dais beneath a carved wooden Jesus affixed to a steel cross. As she briefly knelt, she felt and noticed dried bits of mud. It had rained last night, and the mud was probably the result of a small morning service. She continued through the transept and to another door that led to the living quarters, a shared water closet, and a kitchen. The wood-paneled room where she slept contained six small bunks, each with a footlocker. It reminded her of a ship’s living quarters. At present, there was only one other guest besides herself. This made it possible, but still not easy, for her to discretely change clothes and to adjust the silk gauze that kept her breasts bound tightly to her body. She placed her earned wages for the day inside her pillowcase, where she also kept her Steyr-Hahn Model 1912 pistol.

  After changing, she made her way to the water closet, thankful again no one was in there. The pitcher of water she used to fill the sink was only half-full because she had used the rest of the water early this morning. In the mirror she saw not her reflection, but her father’s. She had always had Michael Callahan’s features—a small brow, pointy ears, a delicate nose, sharp green eyes, thin, pale cheeks with the slightest of freckles, and a soft chin crowned with salmon lips that parted for a perfect smile. She moistened a small cloth and patted her face, removing the day’s dirt and grime. In the mirror, she noticed how her hair had started to grow out. In another week or two she would probably be able to style it a way that made her seem distinctly more feminine. Perhaps she could have it done in the latest fashion for her sister’s engagement party, which was less than a month away now. The very thought of seeing her sister again brought a tear to her eye. Her whole life, Mink had never played the role of helpless fairytale princess; her father never let her and her mother, had she been around, wouldn’t have, either. Despite her current distress, she still refused to be the damsel confined to this tower.

  There was a stirring in the hallway outside. Mink quickly wet her hair behind her ears and made her way to the sacristy, where she grabbed a broom and pan. The other boarder and former steel worker, Peter Delany, sat awkwardly in the first pew, his eyes closed in a silent prayer. He wore a frayed yellow shirt, and a crude, rusted metal brace encompassed one leg of his deteriorating pants. He rested his unbent, braced leg on the same pew where he sat.

  Mink ignored him and swept the floor as quietly as she could. His presence wasn’t necessarily unpleasant. Many nights, they both broke bread together with Father Jerome, sometimes in relative silence and sometimes in constant jest.

  “Oh, good evening, Michael,” the old, bald steel worker said, finally opening his eyes.

  “Good evening, Peter,” Mink replied.

  “I trust you picked up work today at the mill?” he asked.

  “I did.”

  “Ah, fantastic,” Peter said, clapping his hands. “You know, sometimes I sure do miss it, despite, you know, my accident.” Peter patted his leg brace. “Perhaps you would like to head down to the dance hall this evening, then?”

  “The dance hall?”

  “Yes, I understand quite a few young people will be down there this evening. Why don’t you skip your chores and go find a nice young lady to dance with, hmm? I’m sure Father Jerome will be OK with a muddy floor for one evening.”

  “I appreciate it, Peter, really I do, but I am not interested in dancing tonight.” Mink continued to sweep.

  “Tell me, Michael, has there ever been a young woman in your life?” Peter asked.

  “There was . . . I used to be . . .” she looked over at the old steel worker, who stared at her with slate eyes. “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “Such a shame. A handsome young man such as yourself.”

  “Well, there was one.” Mink rested her chin and hand atop the broom handle.

  “Well, I’m not getting any younger. Tell me, what happened?”

  Mink recalled Wage, her eyes drifting to the colorful ceiling of the nave.

  “Ah! I’ve seen that look before,” Peter said.

  “He . . .” she corrected herself quickly, “She meant everything to me. We grew up together. I often think it was just young love, two children who knew nothing of what love actually is, but as I think about it now, there is a part of me that can’t help but think it was something much, much, more. Someone once told me that a young heart beats the same as any other.”

  “Yes, yes,” Peter affirmed.

  “I remember we dared each other as kids to climb the ivy on the side of my house. She went first and ended up falling right into my arms. Knocked me over pretty good, too. That was the first time we held each other. I couldn’t have been more than 8 years old.”

  “What happened?” Peter inquired.

  Mink started to sweep the floor again. “Family tragedy. He left,” she said, not catching her error this time.

  “I’m very sorry.” Peter swung himself up and limped over to Mink, his brace squeaking as he did. He put a hand on her shoulder from behind.

  “It’s all right. It’s nothing, really,” Mink replied.

  “Have you ever loved another?” he asked, squeezing her shoulder.

  “No ... well … I recently met someone.”

  Peter moved his hand to her hip. “Michael,” he said softly.

  It was odd feeling. The last man to touch her hip was her husband, Ronald Thomason IV, and that only happened once, when they danced on their wedding night.

  “Is everything all right, Peter?” Mink asked.

  “Yes, my boy. Everything is fine.” Peter reached his hand around her hip and slipped it down her trousers.

  Mink froze. Something was terribly wrong. His hand pressed and prodded her, searching for something, grabbing for something.

  “You . . . you . . . you are a . . .” Peter stuttered in shock.

  Mink turned around with the man’s hand still down her pants. The old steel worker’s arm was painfully and awkwardly bent. Mink grabbed his wrist, locking him in a compromised position. A quick upward strike and she knew the man’s arm would break at his elbow. Her green eyes flared with such intensity that it could have boiled the water filling Peter’s eyes at the moment. His face twisted in embarrassment, confusion, and pain.

  Mink pushed his chest hard and he flew backward. His arm came loose and he lost his balance, falling over in front of the altar. He covered his face and stretched out his braced leg. Mink gave him a moment until he started to sob. She bent over to help him up. “Let me help you?” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Get away from me!” he snarled back. “Get away from me!” His high-pitched wail was louder than his squeaky brace and reminded her of her late husband’s laugh.

  An extreme focus took hold of her as she stepped over him and calmly walked back to her bunk. She operated with the same practiced regiment that allowed her to rob train after train without being caught. She made a beeline through the provided quarters, threw open her footlocker, and emptied its contents into a small duffle bag. Then she turned over her pillow and grabbed her hard-earned wages and her pistol. She went out the exit through the kitchen, and headed for the train station on the west side of town.

  A knight clad in polished armor, she decided, was not coming to her tower, nor would he be welcome even if he did. Like always, she would rescue herself. She would climb down her tower as easily as a white knight could climb up it. She would climb down her tow
er as easily as she could climb up and down the vines of ivy on the side of her house. The same vines Wage would always fall from.

  It was time, she thought, to see her sister. It was time, she decided, to head to New York.

  The Baron

  August 7, 1914

  RMS Lusitania

  The Atlantic Ocean

  Servants dressed in high-collared white jackets cinched with black sashes scurried around the fluted columns in the makeshift wardroom partitioned off the first-class dining room. The large, round, cherry wood table sat eight guests, seven of whom stared rather impatiently at the engraved silver warmers that covered their plates. A gold floral pattern adorned the rims of their fine porcelain plates. The same floral patterns adorned the jade green carpets of the boat deck.

  Captain Theodore Wickham Whitmore of the RMS Lusitania finally walked in, wearing a formal dining coat complete with gold rank and rows upon rows of colorful miniature medals. “Ladies and gentlemen, good evening,” he said.

  He removed his wheel cap and exchanged it for a glass of neat, single malt scotch from one of the servants. The captain stroked his gray walrus mustache, which obscured his upper lip. “I trust you have not been waiting long.” He sat down and immediately, a host of servants surrounded the dining guests, simultaneously lifting the plate warmers to reveal boiled beef, steamed potatoes, and a side of cabbage.

  “Bon appetite,” the captain announced as he carefully selected his silverware and sliced into his beef.

  “Tell us, Captain, do you expect an on-time arrival to New York?” asked an obese woman, wearing a pink and red floral gown. She had cropped brown hair leveled at her fat cheeks and large gold chains festooned around her ample bosom. She talked with her mouth full. Her husband, pale, sickly, and thin, echoed her question in a distractingly high voice.

  “Actually, we have made some last-second course adjustments,” the captain replied.