“I’m great! And how is our Raja doing?” Quincey approached the tiger, put his hand through the bars and ruffled the beast’s snout. The tiger growled and shook its head.
“I am not one to understand the temperament of such a beast, but he seems very calm, all things considered,” Mink answered. “Quincey, I want you to meet a dear friend of mine; we grew up together in Baton Rouge. His name is—”
“Baton Rouge! How about that!” Quincey interrupted, walking over and extending his hand to Wage.
Wage grabbed the man’s enormous hand that was slick with tiger spittle. “Captain Wage Pascal,” he said.
“Captain, huh? I use to think I was bound for service myself. But,” Quincey said, gesturing to the tiger, “you don’t get to stalk and capture dangerous creatures like that in the Army. Took me three days to catch Raja here. He fought like hell, too. Here, have a look at this!” Quincey unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open, revealing a massive barrel chest with three diagonal scars halfway across his right side.
“Fascinating,” Wage replied.
“You a hunter, Cap’n?” Quincey asked.
“I guess you could say I am something of a man hunter at the moment,” Wage replied.
“Well remember, men aren’t hard to track; they’re hard to kill,” Quincey said, buttoning his shirt back up.
“Really? And let’s say I was hunting someone right now. How would you suggest I go about it?” Wage asked.
“Wage!” Mink cried.
“Don’t look for tracks. Find their food source. Find the resource they can’t live without, and camp out there. The best ammunition a hunter has is time and patience.” Quincey slapped Wage hard on the arm, nearly knocking him over.
“And any tips for the killing?” Wage inquired.
“Wage Pascal!” Mink cried again.
“Aim for the heart.” Quincey smiled and picked Mink up as though she were a child. “That’s what this one did to me with Cupid’s bow, that’s for sure!” He laughed and nuzzled his head into the side of her neck. “Has she told you the story of how we met?”
“Not exactly,” Wage said flatly. “If you will excuse me.” He turned to Andromeda, whose countenance looked like a sinister Mona Lisa. “I wish you all the best at your wedding, Andi. Hopefully your feet don’t get as cold as your soul.”
“I will wish you the best at your funeral, Wage Pascal,” Andromeda replied.
Mink Callahan
August 27, 1914
Carnegie Hall
Manhattan, New York
“Wage! Wait!” Mink yelled as her childhood fiancé disappeared from the tent and into the bazaar. The party swelled with more people now. A huge roar of applause erupted as the Japanese acrobats took their bows on the stage above them. “Let me down, you big oaf,” Mink yelled at Quincey.
He lowered her down. “Ah, what’s the matter, honeybee?”
“Yes, dear sister, what is the matter?” Andromeda asked.
“It’s nothing. I’m just worried about Wage, that’s all.”
“I am sure Wage can take of himself,” Andromeda said.
“Seems like a capable man to me,” Quincey added. “Hey! What do you say we keep Raja for a couple more days, take him out to my father’s estate? I’m sure the Bronx Zoo won’t mind.” Quincey said.
“If you will both excuse me, I require a bit of fresh air,” Mink said. “I shall return shortly.”
She strolled through the bazaar, her indigo sari swirling around her as she did. Her first inclination was to head for the main entrance out into the streets of New York, but she decided that it was not fresh air she needed, but isolation. She needed time to collect her thoughts. She took the stairs, all 137 of them, to the top balcony.
She was alone as she looked down over the entire bazaar. She saw the Chinese stagehands erecting wooden pylons and affixing them with paper lanterns and other oddities. She looked at the line of guests waiting to see her younger sister and fiancé, now both seated on their thrones. Some, no doubt, meant to wish them a healthy marriage, others probably expressed gratitude for the invitation to such a grand party, some surely wanted to introduce themselves for the first time in hopes of making an impression on a very well-connected family.
She saw Quincey having a drink with a group of gentlemen in nice suits adorned with random oriental props. He pointed twice at the caged tiger, then unbuttoned his shirt again. Mink then looked at herself, at her distorted reflection in the polished brass railing she stood behind. Her face was sadly long and somber, but with a slight tilt of the head it became compact and happy. The idea of instant contentment made her want to laugh deep down inside. She braced the railing with her hands and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scents from below. Calm was overtaking her now as she stared back at Quincey. A certain clarity of thought that she had gone without for so long blossomed like a wildflower after a spring rain.
In that very instant, she saw her future—an uncomplicated life. A life where she accepted Wage’s actions and permanent absence, a life when no one remembered her as the once-heiress to a railroad family’s fortune. A life filled with people who could not recollect her well-intentioned train heists, the incident on the Artemis, her time in Gary, Indiana. A life somewhere far away, Africa, perhaps, with Quincey. A life littered with the laughter of her own children, the boasting of her overly masculine but kind-hearted husband, the melodic sounds of Church hymnals, crickets chirping the whole house to sleep, pots and pans clanging as something wonderful was cooked in the kitchen, the uncorking of wine bottles, the shouts of her dinner party guests, when once again, her husband displayed the scars on his chest.
She saw it all in an instant. And a moment later, it was gone.
A man hurriedly raced toward her from the left side of the balcony. She turned to run the other way, her cloth slippers getting adequate traction on the carpet. As she sprung away, she ran into another man, her head bouncing off his chest.
“Hello, Mother,” he whispered hoarsely.
In a panic, Mink walked backward into the chest of the initial pursuer. That man smelled of cheap alcohol and body odor so appalling that even the frankincense and sandalwood couldn’t cover it up. He reached out and grabbed her by the arms.
“You seem so surprised to see me,” Reginald Thomason continued. His eyes burned with the intensity of hell itself. “Do you remember the last time we met? I do.” He removed the black gloves he was wearing and placed them in his suit pocket. Delicately, he placed his fingers over the white, silk scarf that covered his neck and removed it. A grotesque, thick red scar nearly circumnavigated his neck, almost as though his head had been removed and then poorly sewn back on. He hung the scarf over the balcony and let it go. It fluttered to the balcony a floor below as a Chinese dragon danced to roaring drums and cymbals on the stage. If she screamed, Mink thought, there was little chance anyone down below would hear it.
“You’ll have to excuse me; the bullet you fired severed most of my vocal chords. A devastating injury, but it proved not to be fatal.” He shot a hand up to her throat and squeezed. “Now, I have traveled a very long way and worked very hard so that you and I can have this time together. Will you agree to play nice, Mother?” Mink nodded, her eyes wide in terror.
Reginald Thomason smiled, let go of Mink’s neck, and stroked the side of her cheek instead. “Did you really think I wouldn’t look for you at your only sister’s engagement party? Christ himself wouldn’t miss this party. I mean, look at it!” He took a cigarette from his inner pocket and lit it with a monogramed Wonderlite. He inhaled deeply, his whisper voice now more hoarse. “You must be wondering how I knew? I’ve read every letter you kept in your vanity. It was nice to have met your sister; she is quite lovely. Although, I suspect she wouldn’t shoot someone and leave them to die as you did.” He held up a finger. “By the way, I have a gift for you, Mother.” He replaced his lighter and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to her. “Go ahead, have a look.”
The henchman released his grip. Mink unfolded the paper and saw her own death certificate. Irony set in, almost comically, as she had just foreseen her future life. Her eyes watered, but she refused to let tears overflow, not in front of him.
“I have friends in the coroner’s office now. It was necessary to take complete control of my late father’s estate. I own everything now that you are officially dead. Sure, I had to pay off a few fishermen, but it was a small price to pay. I now have everything I ever wanted, save for one thing.” He looked at her the way a rat might look at unattended cheese. “I knew you survived that night, Mother. I knew it!”
Mink slapped him hard enough across the face that his cigarette fell to the floor. The henchman grabbed her once more. Reginald smothered the lit roll-up with his shoe. His hand shot to her neck again, and he squeezed harder this time. The henchman maintained his restraint. “I could have initiated a nationwide manhunt for you. I could have had you charged with the murder of my father and the attempted murder of me, you insolent bitch!” He raised his voice as loud as he could. “But I had something better in mind!” He lightened his grip. “Now, you are going to come with us. You are going to get in the cab outside. We are going down to the docks where I have a boat waiting. We are going to cast off into the East River, and when I am sure no one can hear us, I am going to have you. Then, I am going to have you again.” Reginald laughed manically. “And then, I will take you aft and cut your throat. And after I weigh down your body, I will throw you overboard. No one will ever find you. Of course, even if they did, by some miracle, find and identify you, I wouldn’t be charged.” He smiled perversely. “Legally, you can’t kill someone who is already dead. You see, I’ve thought this through.”
Mink now let her tears overflow. She stopped struggling within his grip. Fireworks popped and whizzed from the stage below.
“Wait. . . I . . .” she stammered. Patrons below began a thunderous round of applause.
“It’s over, Mother! I will have my revenge!” He composed himself and looked toward the stage. “And who knows—maybe I will have your sister, too.”
“No,” she whispered back. “No. No.” Her legs gave way in resignation.
Reginald released his grip entirely. “Dennis, please ready the car. My mother and I have a boat to catch.” The henchman started toward the balcony exit, leaving the two of them alone. Reginald lifted Mink’s hijab slightly. “You cut your hair? That must have been difficult for you.” He stroked her cheek again.
An unmistakable Cajun voice came from the shadows. “Now, I am no romantic by any stretch of the imagination, but that is certainly no way to charm a lady.”
Reginald turned to the approaching man. “Get out!”
“Honestly, Mink. Are there any other men in your life you want to tell me about?” Wage asked.
She answered him with her eyes.
“I don’t know who you are,” Reginald said, putting a hand in his pocket. “But I want you to GET OUT.”
“Now, what in the hell is wrong with you? Why you sound like that? Cat got your tongue? Jesus! Looks like a Mink got your throat. Ain’t that about right . . . Reggie,” Wage smiled.
Mink affirmed this with her eyes.
Reginald revealed the blade from his pocket once again and took a step toward Wage. “I will not ask you again!”
“Funny thing, Reggie,” Wage said. “I found these binoculars laying in a seat down below. Thought I’d come up here for a better look. See, I’m looking for a man with one eye. He’s a Baron. You seen him?” Wage waved the pair of ornately decorated opera glasses at Reginald with his left hand, while his right hand drew Ol’ Snapper and pointed it at his forehead. “Put down the knife, Reggie.”
Reggie mulled it over, his muscles so tense they quivered.
“Reggie, this is a .45 caliber handgun, and at this distance it will bore a hole clean through you with such force that it will also snap your neck. Trust me. Now against my fine and better judgment, I am willing to let you go unscathed. Or . . .” Wage trailed off, pulling the hammer back.
Reginald dropped the knife, and lifted his hands in the air. An indigo slipper shot up fast to his crotch from behind him. The sound of hollow wood against bone rang out. Reginald did not flinch; instead he covered a small laugh with his hand. Mink recoiled, holding her foot in pain. “You already popped one testicle that night on the Artemis, Mother,” he said, still laughing. He rapped his knuckles on what was most likely a protective, wooden cod piece. “I planned for that one.”
Wage swung his gun hard at Reginald’s temple. This time, the sound of metal on bone rang out. Reginald’s body went limp and hit the carpet with a thud. “Plan B, then,” Wage said.
Mink limped quickly over Reginald’s body into Wage’s arms and held him. “Wage,” she said, “Wage, I . . .”
He held her tightly, feeling a flood of something he couldn’t readily identify, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. “It’s all right, mon chéri, it’s all right. Everything is goin’ to be all right.” They held each other silently for a full minute. Adrenaline graciously made it feel like an hour. “Listen up now, take yourself downstairs, have Quincey get you outta here posthaste, you hear?”
“Wage . . .”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it. Get out before someone spots you up here. Go.”
Mink backed away, still favoring her injured foot. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done, I’d . . . I’d been . . .” She froze. Her eyes streamed with tears again. Wage knew what they meant. He only had one question for her, a question that he had no business asking at the present juncture.
He asked it anyway. “What did you think about when his hand was around your throat? When you thought it might be over?” For the first time in his life, Wage saw Mink’s lip quiver.
“Wage, I . . .I . . .”
He shook his head. “Get outta here, Mink Callahan. Go!”
Mink turned and with long, painful strides, made for the doors to the stairwell.
Detective Simon Hum
August 27, 1914
Carnegie Hall
Manhattan, New York
Wage reholstered Ol’ Snapper and picked up the opera glasses from the ground as well as the knife that lay near Reginald, who was now subtly convulsing. He put the knife, a quality four inch blade with an antler handle, in his pocket. Then he peered down at the crowded bazaar.
With a magnified view, he saw Mink fly through the crowd and beeline for the tiger cage. She found Quincey Gartrell nearby. She grabbed him, pulled his massive head to her mouth and whispered something. Barely a second passed before the hulking man picked her off her feet and carried her toward the exit nearest stage right. Wage watched the door slam behind them. His own eyes welled.
Reginald groaned. Wage mule-kicked him and started to scan the audience for his target. He saw hordes of inebriated aristocrats lounging about their pillows and discretely withdrawing opium tinctures and packages of cocaine drops. He saw a troupe of belly dancers taking to the main stage. He saw the magician performing tricks for a young boy. He looked once again at Andromeda on her throne. Her audience had grown. And then he spotted him. Lantern light shimmered off his sweaty, bald brow. The Baron nonchalantly spied on the entire crowd, his one eye evaluating everyone and everything that came into his view.
“Got you, you sonovabitch,” Wage muttered.
And that’s when he heard the hammer cock. The sound gave it away; he didn’t need to look. He knew it was a Remington, a new-model pocket revolver.
“No sudden movements, please,” came a southern female voice whose politeness was not necessary. The barrel of her gun was close enough to his ear that it sounded like the ocean in a seashell.
Wage lowered his binoculars slowly. “You have got to be kidding me,” he said.
“I’m afraid not,” a man’s voice reassured. “Our employer wishes to speak with you. I have been instructed to take you to him immediately upon your apprehension. It is m
y hope that we will not find you disagreeable.”
“And if you find me disagr . . . wait a damn minute! Do I know you, friend?” Wage turned to look at the English-sounding gentleman who wore a white chamomile flower made of zinc on his lapel. “I know you, don’t I? You are that detective fella! You’re the reason I rotted in that godforsaken jail!”
“Simon, let’s get this over with, sweetheart,” the southern woman said.
Wage turned toward her, ignoring the point-blank barrel now aimed at his face. “Hey, I know you, too!”
“Hiya, Wage,” Amber Rose replied. Her hair pulled up tight into a ponytail. She wore a purple iris on her sleek, black Mandarin dress. She shrugged her shoulders. “Good to see you again.”
“You are that whor . . .” Wage started to say. Then he heard something he had never heard before. It had multiple clicks, cocks, and whizzes. No gun he had ever heard.
Tesla’s contraption deployed with pinpoint accuracy, ripping the detective’s sleeve. “Watch your goddamn mouth, sir!”
“What . . . in the hell . . . is that thing?” Wage said.
“Do you play chess, sir?” the detective asked.
“Yeah, I play chess . . . wait a minute!! We’ve already had this conversation, too!”
“Mr. Pascal—”the detective started.
“Captain, man! Get it right!” Wage yelled.
“Captain Pascal, you are all out of moves. Now come with us this instant!” the detective said.
Wage shook his head. Slowly at first, then faster, then manically fast. Like a hurricane, he drew Ol’ Snapper and Reginald’s knife simultaneously. His barrel went toward the detective’s head, the knife to Amber Rose’s throat.
“Now, listen to me!” he yelled. “I am tired of all this secret-society bullshit. I am tired of goddamn scientists. Tired of goddamn immortality. Of goddamn detectives. I’m tired of goddamn creepy stepsons!” Wage nodded at the body on the floor. “I’m tired of good men dying. I’m tired . . . fuck!”
Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Page 31
