by J. Stone
“Mmm,” he began with a slight nod. “Elise Upton. Quite the wealthy old woman. It seems, however, that she was careless with some of her expenses. Somehow, her account got into the hands of the Chromework Confederacy. From what I hear, even all the way to the heretic, Er--” Owen stopped himself and paused for a moment before continuing. “Well, an important member of their rebellion.”
“Fascinating,” Isabelle said, genuinely impressed with the magnitude of her husband’s knowledge on the others in the room.
“Have you ever wanted to meet Hugh Blackmoore?” Owen asked.
“You mean the Lord Reverend?” she inquired.
“The very same,” he confirmed, and he pointed across the room. “That’s him in the white and red robe.”
“What is such a powerful man doing here?” Isabelle asked.
“I’m important to him,” Owen replied. “And you’re important to me.”
She turned to her husband, lifted herself onto her tiptoes, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. It was then that an attractive young woman with an elegant blue dress approached the pair of them.
“Angela,” Owen declared dryly.
“Owen, my old friend,” the woman said smugly. She looked over to Isabelle and then eyed her slowly up and down. “And this must be your latest conquest.”
Sternly, he replied, “This is my wife, Isabelle. Isabelle, this is an old acquaintance, Angela Fern.” She noted that he stressed the word ‘old’ when he introduced her.
“Pleased to meet you,” Isabelle hesitantly said to Angela. “How do you two know each other?”
Owen opened his mouth to answer, but before he could Angela said, “I met him some years back when he was getting over… well, another pretty young thing. What was her name?” she feigned to ask Owen. Before he could respond, she again continued, “That’s right. Anne. Anne Pearce, I believe it was. Seems she wanted nothing to do with him, no matter how much he attempted to… woo… her. I tried my best to fill that hole in his heart, but it seems it was destined to be you to accomplish that goal... Isabelle.”
Again, Owen looked to be about to say something, but Deckland approached him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and leaned in whispering something into Owen’s ear. His eyes shot over glaringly to Isabelle, as Deckland spoke.
Once Deckland had finished, Owen said to both women, “It appears a situation has arisen that needs my attention. You’ll have to excuse me, ladies. Play nice.”
Without waiting for a reply from either of them, Owen turned and walked away with his servant, leaving Isabelle alone with Angela. The woman again looked her up and down in disgust and then casually turned and walked away. Isabelle sat there abandoned and alone amongst a sea of unfamiliar faces.
A sudden prick at her wrist distracted her from her isolation, however, and she inspected the area to find a small dribble of blood rolling from her bracelet. Sliding a finger underneath the metal loop, she found no sharp edges to explain the wound, but the blood was quickly pooling; so she decided to go to the bathroom to clean her wrist.
Isabelle made her way through the crowd of people to find the bathrooms. Upon entering, she found it to be entirely empty except for her. Off-white stalls ran along one side of the bathroom, and sinks atop a marble counter with silver faucets lined the other. She approached the counters and ran a warm stream of water over her wrist, clearing the blood from her skin. Nearby was a white towel that she used to dry her wrist, and when she was done, she placed it back, where she had found it.
She began to leave when she heard a slam, followed by a man speaking. She could not quite make out what he was saying, so she moved closer to a vent causing the voice to become more audible.
“This better be good,” a familiar voice declared. “What is it?”
“I got the results back from the blood test,” another man said.
After a brief pause, the first said, “Yes? And?”
“There’s something in her system,” he replied. “Something that is preventing her from accepting the conditioning.”
“You told me your process could not be overwritten,” the man responded.
“Technically speaking it isn’t,” the other replied.
“What are you talking about?” the familiar voice asked. “She keeps remembering. None of the others had any issues. Why her?”
“For one, I didn’t have to rewrite their entire history, like I did with your little toy,” the man said.
“You watch your damn mouth, Webber, or I’ll make sure the council knows exactly where to find you,” the first man warned.
“Look, whatever is in her system needs to be purged,” Webber said. “Until then, the programming is simply too big for her to accept.”
“You’re saying she’s about to crack again?” the man asked.
“Probably so,” he replied. “You should probably have your man get her back to the chair before she causes a scene out there.”
Isabelle stood at the vent, waiting for more, but the voices trailed off into the distance. A slam echoed behind her, as another woman joined her and went into one of the stalls. Isabelle turned back to the counter and looked at herself in the mirror. She found the reflection to be distorted and wrong, when she peered into it.
Strange thoughts began to permeate her mind, as she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. She touched the skin of her arm, expecting something to be there, beneath the surface, but found nothing. Even her hair seemed foreign to her, as though there was a façade pulled down over her eyes, concealing her from herself.
The woman behind her had finished in the stall and joined her at the counter. She washed her hands, and Isabelle examined the woman’s reflection as well. Around her neck, she wore a pearl necklace that Isabelle found herself intrigued by.
“You’re the reason we’re all here, aren’t you?” the woman cheerily asked.
Isabelle suddenly looked up at the woman and answered, “Uh, yes. I s’pose I am.” Both the woman and Isabelle found the sentence that came out of her mouth strange.
“Right,” the woman said. “Well, congratulations are in order. I understand you’ve overcome quite the ordeal.”
“Thank ya,” Isabelle replied.
“Well, I better get back to it,” the woman said before leaving Isabelle still standing at the counter pondering her sudden accent.
She was overwhelmed with a sense of sadness, looking at herself in the mirror and felt the urge to break into tears. It didn’t make sense to her, however, and she decided to rejoin the party and ignore the strange sensations she was having. Before she could, she glanced one more time into the mirror, to find a trail of blood leaking from her nose.
Reaching over to a hand towel, she grabbed the cloth and dabbed her nose, holding her head back. After few moments, she leaned forward again and caught the reflection of Deckland just as he plunged a needle into her neck.
Chapter 24. Vincent and the Sheriff
Vincent had been repeatedly told that he shouldn’t get into a dispute with Graham and his mining company, since being in town, but his anger over what been done to Cassie simply wouldn’t allow him to listen to their advice. As soon as he heard what Cassie had been subjected to, he wanted to kill every last man who had anything to do with her enslavement to Graham.
Both Vincent and Cassie had grown up in Chrome City, when it was first being developed as a western town. They were two of the only children in the town, so naturally they formed a friendship. Their fathers both worked in the mines, while their mothers combined efforts to school Vincent and Cassie together. When they were not being home schooled, the pair often went off into the open wilderness surrounding Chrome City in search of adventures.
Cassie had a habit of biting off more than she could chew, and it then became Vincent’s responsibility to come to her protection during these moments. He had only once let her down, and it was the last time he had seen her until finding her in that house. The thought of allowing anything further to harm her,
whether it be by Graham’s doing or otherwise, was something Vincent simply could not abide.
The irascible bounty hunter pushed in the double doors leading into the Graham Mining Company’s main office at the center of town. Inside, he found a series of desks occupied by what he assumed were inconsequential paper pushers. At the center of the room was a woman seated at a large desk with a shiny nameplate indicating to him that she was the receptionist for the office. She was an older woman who had tied her hair back in a bun, and wore mostly pastel clothing. A pair of pink-framed spectacles dangled down from a chain hanging from her neck, and her nails were painted pink to match.
He approached her and said, “Ma’am, I need--”
She held a wrinkled finger up to stop him, while she finished filling out a piece of paper. The woman took her time, clearly not hurried or bothered by his presence. When she finally looked up from her paperwork, she frowned and said, “We don’t do the hiring for the miners here. If you want a job, you’ll have to go down to the mine itself.”
She began to go back to her papers, when Vincent said, “I’m not here for a job, lady. I need to speak with Graham.”
The receptionist eyed him up and down for a moment before replying, “Yes, well, Mr. Graham does not meet anyone without an appointment... sir.”
“He’ll meet with me,” Vincent explained. “Now where is he?” He began to look around the room and up into the balcony above them where a number of offices lined the wall. “He up there?” Vincent began to head for the stairs, until the receptionist hurried from behind her desk and moved into his path.
“Sir!” she said. “You cannot simply come in here and do as you like.” Most of the room had quieted and all eyes had fallen on Vincent and the receptionist. “If you would like to make an appointment with Mr. Graham, I can try to fit you into his schedule, but this simply isn’t acceptable behavior.”
Vincent chuckled a bit, and replied, “Look lady, you don’t want to get in my way. Now, I’m going up there, so you’ve got a choice. You can move or I can move you.”
The receptionist seemed resolute in her hindrance, but before Vincent took any further action, a man approached the railing of the upper balcony and said, “It’s alright, Miss Goldwyn. Let him up.”
She nodded to the man upstairs and returned to her desk, while Vincent walked up the stairs to see the man gesture for him to follow into his office. The nameplate outside the office said Joshua Driscoll, and though it was not Graham, Vincent figured he would see what he could get out of this man first. He walked inside to find Driscoll had already taken his seat behind a desk. The man gestured for Vincent to take a seat in one of the two chairs facing the desk, so the bounty hunter complied, taking the one closest to the door.
Driscoll wore a shiny gold vest over a crisp, white, button-up shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had thick, bushy eyebrows that were slightly darker than the blonde hair that lay greased and combed over on his head.
“Now then, Mr...” Driscoll asked.
“Rourke, Vincent Rourke,” he replied.
“Mr. Rourke. Can I call you Vince?” the man asked.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Vincent replied.
“Well, Mr. Rourke, then,” he continued. “My name is Joshua Driscoll. I run Mr. Graham’s operations, while he is out, and currently he is at his home in Cultwick. If there is something you need to discuss with Mr. Graham, I believe you can take it up with me.”
“Fine,” Vincent said. “Cassie and Felix Ellington.”
“Mmm, I believe I’ve heard those names somewhere,” he replied. “What about them?”
“There’s a bounty out for them,” Vincent explained.
“Ah, yes, I recall now,” Driscoll said. “The escaped slave and whore.”
“Cassie is not a goddamn whore!” Vincent shouted standing up from his chair and leaning over Driscoll’s desk.
Driscoll leaned backward and raised his hands apologetically, “My mistake, Mr. Rourke.”
Vincent calmed himself and sat back down in the chair.
“If you’ve come for the bounty, I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with the sheriff, Mr. Kane,” Driscoll explained.
“I’m not here for the damn bounty,” Vincent replied.
“Then how is it I can help you, Mr. Rourke?” he asked.
“I want you to revoke the bounty,” Vincent explained.
Driscoll shifted his eyes side to side, before settling them back on Vincent and replying, “And why would I do that, Mr. Rourke. The Ellington’s reneged on their payments back to Mr. Graham. Local law states that it is his right to acquire that money in whatever way he deems best. The seizure was even exercised by none other than our town sheriff, so the whole thing was completely legal.”
“Kane’s the one who invaded their home and enslaved them?” Vincent asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t say he invaded their home, since it was, in fact, Mr. Graham’s property at the time,” Driscoll quibbled. “But yes, Sheriff Kane was responsible for the seizure.”
Vincent took a heavy breath before continuing, “Legal or not,” he began, “you revoke that bounty and allow the Ellington’s to pay off the bounty through their farm, or I’m going to have to get involved further.”
“I’m afraid I simply can’t do anything to help you, Mr. Rourke,” Driscoll said, standing up from behind his desk.
“Let me put it to you as simply, as I can,” Vincent said. “You’ve got twenty-four hours to revoke that bounty, or I’m going to come back here and put a bullet in you.”
Driscoll seemed unfazed by the threat, but Vincent felt he had got his message across to him regardless. He stood from the chair and left Driscoll’s office, and he quickly found himself outside in the fading light of the day. The wires of bulbs strung up between buildings began to illuminate with the onset of evening. Before going back to the Arcadia, however, Vincent felt compelled to watch the office building and see if anything of note transpired. Several minutes passed, before Vincent saw the sheriff enter with a pair of deputies.
Vincent expected that if the sheriff had gotten there that quickly and considering he assisted in the capture of Felix and Cassie, Kane was likely working directly for Driscoll and the Graham Mining Company. He headed back to the Arcadia, which he found to be packed with customers, as people hired dancers, played games of dice, and ordered beverages from the staff. He didn’t see Felix, Cassie, or Everett anywhere in sight when he entered the establishment, so the bounty hunter sat at his usual table in the back and motioned for one of the saloon hall girls.
When she came over, she asked, “What would you like? Drink or a dance?”
“Whiskey,” he replied.
She left him, but soon returned with his bottle. The staff there had quickly learned to dispense with shot glasses, as he wouldn’t use them anyway. Twisting open the bottle and taking a hefty gulp, he began to wonder why he had so brazenly called out Driscoll about dropping the bounty.
Vincent had not even seen Cassie in twenty-some years, but immediately he returned to the role of her protector. They had both clearly moved on in their lives, her marrying Felix, and he Lucy. Though, admittedly, he conceded that Cassie’s marriage had turned out better than his, even considering her current predicament.
He continued drinking his whiskey with the full intent of it nudging him to sleep in the back of the bar. He was so focused on his goal, he didn’t even notice when a strange, little fat man in a worn, gray suit sat opposite him.
“You’re Rourke, right?” the man asked.
“Eh?” Vincent replied, looking up and seeing the gentleman. “Who’s asking?”
“Name’s Bert Braxton,” he replied, extending a hand out to Vincent.
The bounty hunter looked down at the man’s hand and declined extending his own. “What do you want, mister?” he asked.
“Rumor around the town is you threatened the Graham Mining Company, is that right?” Braxton asked.
“Word travels that quickly?” Vincent asked and took another swig.
“Well, it’s not every day that someone threatens the most powerful company in town,” Braxton explained. “I was wondering if I could take your measurements, sir.”
“Not interested,” Vincent replied. “And for a tailor, you sure don’t dress the part.”
“Oh, no,” Braxton said. “I’m not a tailor. I’m the mortician. I thought I’d go ahead and start building your coffin.”
“Mmm,” Vincent growled. “You should get away from me now.”
“Very good, sir,” Braxton replied. “Good luck to you, but I expect I’ll be seeing you again very soon.”
Braxton stood from Vincent’s table and hobbled over to the bar. Vincent eyed him suspiciously, but he assumed the man meant to give a warning more than a threat. If Graham was going to come at him, Vincent fully expected it would be more direct and not in the form of threats.
As though his thoughts were made material, a gunshot echoed outside the saloon, followed by a familiar voice, “Vincent Rourke! This is Sheriff Kane! Come out and face judgment for your crimes.”
The noise from the Arcadia instantly died down and Everett emerged, rushing over to Vincent’s table. The bounty hunter attempted to stand, but it immediately became obvious to him how much whiskey he had consumed. Looking down at the bottle, there was less than a quarter left of the bottle. He staggered over, catching himself on the table.
Everett assisted Vincent in standing upright and asked, “What have you brought to our door?”
“Not sure, I haven’t seen it yet,” Vincent replied casually. He relieved himself of Everett’s help and staggered over toward the door.
“You can’t go out there,” Everett explained.
Felix and Cassie also emerged and joined Everett in attempting to get Vincent to stay inside. “He’s right,” she agreed.
“How many are out there anyway?” he asked.
“Three,” Everett replied after looking out through a window.
