Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1)

by Sean Michael O'Dea

  Wage rose to his feet as if called to attention and placed his slouch hat over his chest. “Mon chérie.”

  Mallory Macy slid down the center of the train car, stopping just before the door. While she waited for the attendant to open it, she looked back at the still-standing Wage and revealed her wolfish grin once more.

  John Hum

  August 9, 1914

  Smythwyck Estate

  Winston-Salem, North Carolina

  Amber Rose drove the horse cart down the dirt road at a brisk pace, her shirtwaist unbuttoned to an immodest level. She sweated as she worked the reigns; they were an extension of her own body, a habit learned from her youth when she would deliver her father’s apples to the cider manufacturer in town.

  As a young girl, Amber Rose Macgillicuddy knew nothing of the cider industry, the process of mashing, fermenting, and bottling her father’s apples. Her father just sent his only daughter on the cart runs in the late spring to sell the bitter delicious fruit he painstakingly harvested with her older brothers. He would always fill the cart with more bushels than agreed upon, but who could turn down his daughter’s youthful innocence, especially when he instructed her to flash those wide maple eyes. Her eyes had always possessed a hypnotizing splash of azure and were caged behind eyelashes like a Venus Fly Trap.

  She never saw or touched the finished cider product until she was 12, when one of the employees gave her a few bottles for her three-hour ride back home to her father’s orchard. She headed home in the late afternoon, but she didn’t get home until morning with a half-broken axle and one horse missing. Her father fumed for days. To make it up to him, she promised that one day she would sell every last apple in his orchard. As she got older, she convinced her father to load the cart with as many bushels as two horses could pull. She was able to sell every last one of them to the cider maker, but with more than a flash of her brown-blue eyes. Eventually, her promise came true as she secured an additional deal with a local distributor, whose refrigerated rail cars could ship her father’s crop up and down the Carolinas.

  “Should be just down this road,” she yelled over the clanking wooden cart.

  The summer sun lit up the blindingly white antebellum mansion, the iconic fixture of the Smythwyck Plantation. On the porch, a young blonde woman dressed in a blue-and-white lace dress sat in a rocking chair sipping chilled water with a sprig of mint. The rocking chair creaked almost in rhythm to the cicadas, who took turns rattling from the surrounding trees. Amber Rose brought the horses to a halt and tied them to a hitching post where the driveway met the road.

  John Hum took off his hat and parted his hair as he approached the shaded porch. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Is this the Hamilton estate?”

  The young women fanned herself with such intensity that she closed her eyes. “Yes. Yes it is,” she replied.

  Amber Rose wiped the sweat from her brow with her sleeve as she stepped into the shade of the porch. “I am wondering if it might be possible to talk to Mr. Hamilton, is he available?” John asked.

  “No. He went out with Mr. Humphries to mark some trees that need clearing. I’m afraid I don’t know when he’ll return.”

  “It’s awfully important, ma’am. Would you mind terribly if we waited here for his return?” John asked.

  The woman finally opened her eyes and focused them. “May I ask who you are?”

  “I am afraid that is precisely why I am seeking Mr. Hamilton.” John glanced at Amber Rose. “As far as I can gather, I am a detective who is in some way connected to, or acquainted with, Mr. Hamilton.”

  The woman stopped rocking. “Detective? You must be him! You are the man searching for Wage Pascal!”

  “Yes,” John said. “I am familiar with that name as well.”

  “You’re the one my father hired!” She stood up and approached them. “Please tell me you’ve found him!”

  John looked at his companion, who shrugged. “I am afraid I don’t know the whereabouts of Mr. Pascal, at least not at the moment. I suffered a—”

  “You listen to me you sonovabitch,” she interrupted. “My name is Cynthia Hamilton, and I’m not sure how much my father is paying you, but rest assured I will make sure it’s more! You find Wage Pascal and wire me immediately with his whereabouts, you hear me! I wanna know where he is and what he is doing, do you understand?” The color left Cynthia face and her eyes widened. She took a few quick steps to her left and promptly vomited over the wrought iron railing into the deep green hedge.

  Amber Rose put a gentle hand on her back. “It’s all right sweetie, it’s all right.”

  Cynthia ignored the consoling gesture. Instead, she composed herself and straightened her dress. She pulled a monogramed kerchief from her sleeve and wiped her mouth daintily. “I’m fine. Truly, I am. But I am afraid I must retire for the time being. I meant what I said, Detective—please wire me the moment you find him, the moment you find Wage Pascal. In the meantime, you should find my father and Mr. Humphries no more than a mile or two down the road. If need be, I can have one of the servants accompany you.”

  “That won’t be necessary, ma’am. I’m quite certain we can find our way,” John replied.

  “Very good. Let me know whatever findings you come across,” she said, making her way back into the house.

  “Well,” said Amber Rose, “Looks like you might just have quite the windfall when you find Wage. Shall we saddle up or take a leisurely stroll?”

  John answered by taking off his black coat, slinging it over his shoulder with one hand, and starting for the road.

  They had walked for just over a half hour when they came upon a Model-T Touring Car off to the side of the road. Black chevrons and green leaves adorned the driver’s side door. John inspected the empty vehicle, not exactly sure what to look for. Amber Rose pointed. “There!” she pointed to a grove of hackberry trees, where a dark-skinned man with white hair was toiling while another man rested with his back against the trunk of the largest tree. The dark-skinned man stopped what he was doing and watched as John and Amber Rose approached.

  “Well I’ll be, if it isn’t our friend, the detective!” he exclaimed.

  “Mr. Humphries, I presume?” John asked.

  “That’s about right. Ain’t it been awhile since you last came around? How long’s it been, now? And who’s your friend, here?”

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Humphries, that I suffered an unfortunate accident, one that has taken my memory. I would like to talk to Mr. Hamilton in the hope of regaining some of my memory. It is my understanding he employed me to find a man by the name of Wage Pascal.”

  “Well, now, ain’t that something,” Mr. Humphries said.

  “Is that Mr. Hamilton there, then?” John asked.

  “Is he sleeping? He looks a little pale,” Amber Rose commented.

  Mr. Humphries looked behind him. “Oh, well. I am afraid Mr. Jonathan Hamilton won’t be able to join us,” he said, his accent changing drastically to a refined British.

  “What do you mean, won’t be able to join us? What’s going on here?” John asked.

  “If you will excuse me for one moment,” Mr. Humphries said. He walked over to a small, polished wooden box on the ground, knelt down, and opened it. Inside were two dueling pistols, smooth and ornately gilded. “These were Mr. Hamilton’s favorites,” he said while loading one with a solitary bullet. “This will be fitting.”

  “What will be fitting? I don’t understand.” John said.

  “Uh, John, I think we should go,” Amber Rose whispered, clutching his weak arm. “I really want to go. I wanna go right goddamn now!”

  Mr. Humphries whistled a tune and nonchalantly strolled over to Mr. Hamilton, whose eyes remained closed. With his shoulders slumped he looked as though he was, indeed, taking an afternoon nap in the shade. Mr. Humphries placed the pistol in Hamilton’s hand and turned the barrel. Then he tried to pry open the man’s mouth; it finally opened with a loud crack. It took some effort and repositioning, but he
finally arranged Mr. Hamilton so that the pistol was in his mouth and a lifeless finger lay on the trigger. Mr. Humphries walked back to John and Amber Rose while dusting off his servant livery. “Well now, that’s better I’d say, wouldn’t you?”

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” John yelled, unconsciously shooting his atrophied arm to his belt once again. Amber Rose cowered behind him. “This is madness!”

  “Oh calm down, Simon,” Mr. Humphries said. “The man is already dead.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “For almost two hours now. Soon the rigor mortis will spread to his extremities and a stiffened finger will pull the trigger, making this look like a suicide.”

  “Why would you do this? Who is Simon? Who are you?” John shouted frantically.

  Mr. Humphries sighed. “It’s fairly simple, really. Mr. Hamilton was unable to keep a secret, and I’m afraid the consequence for such an indiscretion is rather harsh.” He paused to wipe his shimmering forehead with a handkerchief. “I have been slowly poisoning him for weeks, disguised it as painkillers for his hip. I gave him the final dose this morning.” Mr. Humphries pointed to the detective’s atrophied arm. “It seems you know all about poison as well.”

  “Poison? You think poison did this?” The detective feebly lifted his arm.

  “Yes, Simon. Normally poison kills you, but it appears you have some resiliency,” Mr. Humphries said. He suddenly moved to grab the detective.

  “Stay away from me!” John warned. “Stay away!” He backed up, almost tripping over Amber Rose behind him.

  “Honestly, Simon, if I wanted you dead, you would be so already. Now give me your bloody arm.” John—still not sure why he was being called Simon—relented. Mr. Humphries inspected his arm closely. “Unbutton your shirt,” he commanded. John hesitantly obliged. “Yes, this is Monomi’s handiwork isn’t it, at-a-boy ol’ chap, at-a-boy! Where did you say you came from?”

  John started to button up his shirt with one hand. “New Orleans.”

  “You are indeed lucky to be alive; Monomi rarely fails. You have multiple pinpoint scars on your arm and midsection. These were the injection sites, no doubt caused by a small gauge needle, and no doubt missed by your doctors. Bloody ingrates probably thought they were blemishes, mild rashes, or bug bites. The poison he used was the most powerful neurotoxin anyone knows of. It comes from certain types of fish.”

  “Neurotoxin?” the detective asked.

  “Yes, the nerve cells in your arm incurred enough damage that they are no longer able to conduct a charge, meaning it is near impossible to retain full motor function. The lack of motor function will lead, in this case, to atrophy.”

  “This is one smart-sounding goddamn servant,” Amber Rose whispered.

  “Miss, I assure you, I am no servant in the traditional sense. My real name is Doctor Victor Mamba. At least that was the name given to me at a very early age, when an Englishmen named Livingston came upon my tribe, deep in the jungles of the Congo. You see, my father was something of a witch doctor, as his father and grandfather had been before him. He was even the first consul to the chieftain himself. When Livingston came in with his men, his rifles and machetes, he was near death and suffering from what he thought was an incurable fever.” Victor Mamba turned to look at Jonathan Hamilton. “My father cured him with the venom of a tree snake and a leech from the Mother Goddess River, what you refer to as the Congo. After his recovery, Livingston inquired as to the type of medicine my father used. It was simple, really. You see, Simon, toxicity in any form in the human body can be counteracted with an equal and opposite counteracting toxin. Think of it like Newtonian physics. Well, in order to counteract such toxins, one must be well versed in all toxins and inject them in the appropriate amounts in order to heal. It was an art that I learned from my father by my fifteenth birthday, in hopes of one day taking up the mantle of healer. However, ancient knowledge was no match for European weaponry. To spare the lives of my tribe, my father handed me over to Livingston, who brought me back to England. My knowledge of toxins was used to destroy, to wither, rather than to heal. In return for sowing a small stone to my chest, I received an education, culminating in a degree from Oxford. Before I knew it, I was scarred, branded, carved, and tattooed. I used my ancient talents, refined with modern science, to serve a greater purpose. But I assure you, I am no servant. You are wondering how I know Monomi’s work—it is because I am the one who taught him the craft of poisons.”

  “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me all this?” the detective asked. “Who is Monomi? Why did he poison me?”

  “We are assassins. Or at least, I was an assassin. I retired some time ago. Monomi, unfortunately, seems to have taken a different path. We believe he now works against us.” Victor took a deep breath of disappointment. “I simply watch over those who our order is invested in now, and what better way to do that than to become a servant . . . in the traditional sense. My God, you Americans. You fight a bloody war over the rights of Africans, and when the winners free us of our bondage, we simply serve new masters at a slightly better wage. It’s bollocks, I tell you, all of it!” Victor Mamba started to laugh.

  “Can you heal my arm, then?” John asked.

  The question made Victor laugh harder. After a moment, he composed himself. “There is no cure for the damage done. But I can offer you something equally important.”

  “What’s that?” the detective asked.

  “Your memories,” replied Victor. “I know who you are, Simon. I know where you are from, your parents, your schooling, your employers, your beliefs, your secret penchants, your political ideologies, and all the women who you never shagged. I know everything about you. And I can give it all back to you—your life!” Victor stayed quiet for a moment. “I can also offer you retribution. The man known as Wage Pascal is the one ultimately responsible for your current condition. I will give you the tools, and when I do, I want you to find him . . . and eliminate him.”

  “Tell me who I am! I must know! Is my name truly Simon?” John Hum asked.

  “Yes, you are Simon. Find Wage Pascal and kill him, and I will tell you everything.”

  “Please! I beg you.”

  Victor took a notebook and pencil from his back pocket. “First, you will sow a small rock to your chest as a symbol of our covenant. Lose it or reveal it to anyone and I will kill you.”

  “What about me? Can he reveal it to me?” Amber Rose asked.

  “Unfortunately, no. I am going kill you, Amber Rose,” he replied calmly.

  “No! You can’t!” Simon shouted, stepping in front of her.

  “I’m sorry, Simon, but we’ve had our eye on you for some time, and we still think you have great potential. You possess a distinct set of abilities that can be of use to us, at least when they return fully. She, on the other hand, does not. I am going to turn this scene,” Victor gestured to Hamilton sitting against the hackberry tree, “into a murder–suicide. I can see the headlines now: “Plantation Owner Embarrassed by Affair with Former Town Whore. Kills Her, Then Himself.” Victor seemed to relish the idea.

  “I need her, Mr. Humphries, Dr. Mamba, whoever you are! I need her, or I cannot . . . I will not fulfill your task!”

  Victor Mamba contemplated for a moment, chewing on the pencil he still held.

  “I mean it, Mamba. You might as well kill me now, too!” A tear glistened in the detective’s

  eye.

  Victor saw the conviction. Conviction that looked akin to carnal desire, or secret penchants. He grinned. “All right. Have it your way. You will both wear the stone. Lose it or reveal it to anyone other than yourselves, and I will kill you both. Simon and Amber Rose, your fates are now tied. Oh, how this will be sporting.”

  “How do you know my name?” Amber Rose asked.

  “Ah, an excellent question! Your former associate, Colleen, was killed by Mr. Hamilton after she discovered his stone during a late-night romp one evening.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, placing her hands o
ver her mouth. “Oh my God, Colleen?”

  Victor began writing furiously in his notebook. “You will need to see a man in New York City. Just tell him I sent you, and repeat the phrase on this paper. He will outfit you with all you need. This Wage Pascal is a dangerous fellow, and you will need all the help you can get.” Dr. Victor Mamba ripped off the piece of paper from his pad and handed it to Simon. Amber Rose reached around and snatched it first. “Our enemies are on the move, and you two are about to be on the front lines. Come with me now,” Victor continued. He gathered up his effects and walked back to the road, whistling an uplifting tune as he did.

  Hesitantly, Simon and Amber Rose followed him to the Touring Car and climbed inside. Victor sat in the driver’s seat and checked his watch again. He nodded and placed the watch back in his pocket. Jonathan Hamilton’s gun went off, scattering every bird within a quarter mile. His body slumped to the side at an odd, grotesque angle.

  Victor Mamba started the car and chauffeured the newest disciples back to town.

  Wage W. Pascal

  August 11, 1914

  Battle Creek Sanitarium

  Battle Creek, Michigan

  “How do I look, William?” Wage asked as he adjusted the vest of his charcoal grey, three-piece suit.

  “Like a thousand bucks,” Bill replied.

  They stood just down the street from the sanitarium, a collection of four white buildings that jutted out like the points of a star surrounding one very large gymnasium. The main building—the northern point of the star—was four stories high and resembled an American Parthenon; a mixture of Greek columns, Midwest masonry, and European paneled windows. It was framed by the verdant leaves of the elms and cottonwoods that shaded the city of Battle Creek.

  “Well, I do believe it’s time to make a donation,” Wage said. “Let us commence with this afternoon’s activities.” He adjusted his matching grey derby hat and scratched his bare chin. His full beard had been groomed into something distinctly more aristocratic, a horseshoe mustache that curved into perfectly symmetrical mutton chops. Wage considered the barber to be quite the Michelangelo, painstakingly sculpting and meticulously plucking out rogue gray hairs one by one. The haircut and grooming was costly, but not as costly as the new tailored suit Wage had purchased for the occasion.