Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  He drifted into a shallow, uneasy doze, lulled by the sound of their voices.

  “Shhh,” Dora hissed, jolting him awake. “Somebody’s coming.” She was glaring at the others, a dainty finger over her lips.

  Hy reckoned that Dora had broken up the argument just in time, as his grandmother looked on the verge of hitting the priest with the dense loaf of German rye she held cradled in her lap.

  The next noise he heard was the distinctive rattle of keys and the turning of a heavy tumbler; Dora had good hearing.

  The thick wooden door creaked open, and a fireball of pain slammed into his forehead. The light didn’t just stab the front of his eyes; it stabbed from behind, the sides, and below, squeezing his head with jagged pincers. He ducked low to cover his face with his forearm but couldn’t block all the light or stop the pain.

  “P-Put that lantern aside, Mr. Schumer. You’re bl-blinding him.” The voice was clipped and hard like diamonds, underlaid with confident command. Even discounting the stammer, Hy had never heard an accent quite like it.

  His jailer responded to the voice’s authority instantly and the light eased, casting the figure in the doorway into relief, the soft glow illuminating his face and person.

  If the accent had been one of a kind, the man who owned it was even more unusual. He had a face to match his voice: a defined jaw and chin; high, angular cheekbones with a narrow nose. Below it were thin lips pursed in a frown. He had dark, deep-set eyes that glittered with an emotion Hy wasn’t currently equipped to decipher.

  He was tall—although still shorter than Hy, who at six and a half feet looked down on most men.

  And then there were the man’s clothes, which were so blindingly clean and obviously expensive that they appeared obscene in the confines of Hy’s filthy, cramped, miserable cell.

  He was the most immaculately gloved, hatted, and clothed man Hy had ever seen. And yet he didn’t appear girly. No, he was what money would look like if it sprouted arms and legs and wielded a walking stick.

  “Go fetch some water,” he told the guard, his dark eyes flickering dispassionately over Hy’s half-naked body. “And locate a blanket and some c-c-clothing. It’s bloody freezing.”

  “Um, but Lord Lightner, the warden said—”

  “My authority comes d-directly from the mayor and the commissioners, Mr. Schumer. This p-prisoner’s condition is a disgrace, and I daresay heads would r-r-roll—beginning with your own—if it were to c-come to anyone’s attention that you were st-st-starving him to death.”

  “But, my lord, I wasn—”

  “You may l-leave the lamp.”

  “But, it’s dark in here, sir. I might—”

  “I d-dislike repeating myself, Mr. Schumer. Are you going to m-make me do something I do not l-like?” He’d not raised his voice. If anything, it had become softer. His profile, which was limned by the light behind him, was like something from an ancient coin: hard and unyielding.

  “All right, all right, Yer Lordship—I’m goin’. But it’ll take a while,” Schumer grumbled, his voice fading along with the slow shuffle of his feet.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. L-Law. I’m Detective Inspector Lightner. I wonder if I could have a few m-moments of your time?”

  Hy could only stare in slack-jawed wonder.

  The tall, broad-shouldered shadow leaned toward him. “Are you c-conscious, Mr. Law?”

  Hy looked at his three companions, hoping for guidance. But, for once, they were silent.

  “Are—” Hy cleared his dry, raw throat, wincing at the pain and swallowing the metallic tang of blood. “Are you real?”

  The man—Lightner—dropped to his haunches, his quick movements stirring the sour, reeking air of the cell. Hy caught the faint smell of perfume.

  Dora giggled. “Not perfume, silly—cologne.”

  “Yes, Mr. Law,” Lightner said. “I’m r-real.” A hand—gloved in cool, butter-soft leather—landed on his shoulder and gave a light, reassuring squeeze before disappearing.

  Hy hadn’t realized until that moment just how alone he’d been—for how long? Weeks? Months?

  “How—” Hy started, but his throat was too dry and the words became stuck.

  “You shouldn’t speak, Mr. Law. W-Wait until the guard brings water.” He stood up, making a small sound of discomfort when his knees cracked. He surveyed the cell, the nostrils of his aquiline nose flaring before he fixed his thoughtful gaze on Hy. “I d-daresay you are wondering how l-l-long you’ve been in here.” His thin lips twisted into a smile that lacked humor. “The record of your entry has been l-lost—like so many things concerning you,” he added cryptically. “But as far as I’ve been able to d-discern, you’ve been in the Tombs almost eight w-weeks—since the day you, er, struck your c-captain. According to the g-guard, you’ve been m-m-moved several times since then and have been in this cell for less than t-two weeks. Mr. Schumer claims you w-were transferred here because you were b-b-belligerent and a danger to yourself and other inmates. He s-said you were pu-put on a diet of water to”—Lightner tapped his chin with one finger—“what was his phrase? I b-b-believe it was ‘to calm you d-down.’ ” Lightner frowned. “I must s-say it appears to have worked—almost too well, in f-f-fact. I suspect Mr. Schumer would have been summoning an undert-t-taker if you became too much calmer.”

  Hy closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall, Lightner’s words spinning inside his addled brain. Eight weeks.

  You deserve worse, Hieronymus Law, you incompetent bastard. This voice did not belong to his three companions, but to his conscience, which—unlike the rest of him—hadn’t been diminished by incarceration or starvation.

  “I’d hoped to speak to you t-today,” the clipped voice continued. “But I had n-no idea you would be in this c-condition. I think our conversation will have to w-wait until tomorrow, after you’ve had some food and water.” There was a long pause, during which the three apparitions in the corner had a heated conversation, the outcome of which was an unprecedented point of agreement: Hy needed to keep the man here—at all costs.

  “Talk about what?” Hy asked. The words were no louder than the skitter of dry leaves across cobbles.

  The Englishman stared at him for a long moment before he spoke. “Have you ever heard of a b-b-businessman named Alard Janssen?”

  Hy blinked at the unexpected question. “Er—” His throat caught and he coughed.

  “Just nod if you have.”

  Hy nodded; he’d heard of Janssen—every copper in the Muni knew Janssen had been one of the wealthy reformers behind the new police department.

  “Mr. J-Janssen has been garroted and st-st-stabbed to death.”

  Lightner’s words were like a kick in the gut, and Hy’s stomach cramped and heaved. But there was nothing to bring up.

  “Steady on, old m-man,” Lightner said after Hy stopped, compassion coloring his voice.

  Hy’s mind circled back to what the man had said: Janssen was dead—another millionaire strangled and stabbed. That could only mean—

  “I’ve been told Janssen’s m-murder is very s-similar to those of Sealy and Dunbarton.”

  Hy’s jaws clenched at the sound of names he wished he’d never heard.

  “I can see by your face you know w-w-what that means. I’m afraid somebody is either aping the k-killer’s methods or—” He had the mercy not to finish.

  Oh God.

  “Takin’ the Lord’s name in vain won’t help your eternal soul, lad.”

  Hy ignored the priest and tried to focus on Lightner, who’d resumed speaking.

  “—and so I went r-round to the Sixth Precinct station, wanting to have a l-look at the files on Sealy and Dunbarton.”

  Hy knew what he was going to say before he said it.

  “Your Captain McElhenny told me b-both f-f-files had gone missing. He c-claims you d-destroyed them.”

  Hy was grateful his throat was too sore for him to speak, or he’d have been yelling.

  “He
is n-not very happy that this case is in the h-hands of the Eighth P-Precinct. I get the distinct feeling he will n-not b-be cooperative.”

  Hy’s mind boggled at the thought of this man talking to the coarse, not-too-smart captain of the Sixth.

  “I’m afraid Captain McElhenny is not your gr-gr-greatest admirer—but I’m sure you were aware of that. In addition to d-describing your assault in detail, he s-said you’d taken b-bribes to hinder the investigation.”

  Lightner’s words were like a knife in his chest. Raw denial pulsed in his veins, but he kept his mouth shut; nobody had cared about the truth then, they’d care even less now—especially this stranger.

  The Englishman idly spun the handle of his cane, making it twirl like a top. The handle appeared to be a silver woman—naked, Hy suspected, although the lighting wasn’t good enough to confirm that.

  Lightner’s teeth flashed a startling white in the gloom. “I believe my captain—D-D-Davies—dislikes me almost as much as McElhenny does y-you. I d-daresay he’d put me in a cell right beside you if he c-could.” His smile grew into a full-fledged grin. “So we have that in c-c-common.”

  Hy reckoned that was all he shared with the refined creature standing across from him.

  “But that’s not all we have in common,” Lightner said, as though Hy had spoken out loud. Which he very well might have.

  The man cocked his head and fixed Hy with his dark gaze. “I’m sure that b-being in here all these weeks—with only your c-conscience for company—has g-given you time to reflect. Making one bad d-decision does not mean you are a bad man, Mr. Law. I would imagine absol-lution is something you’ve thought about a g-great deal.”

  Hy doubted the man would want to hear what he was really thinking: that if he ever got out of this fucking cell, he’d run so fast and so far nobody would ever find him. He also considered, very briefly, telling Lightner what a liar McElhenney was.

  He did neither. Instead, he nodded.

  “Excellent. So that l-leads me to my last p-p-point. Captain Davies despises me so much he gave me this case—no doubt be-believing I would fail sp-sp-spectacularly, shame myself, and be sent scurrying b-back to England.”

  Hy suspected Davies was correct. Again, he kept that to himself.

  “You’re probably w-wondering where you c-come into all of this.”

  Actually, Hy was wondering if Schumer had gone to fetch a higher authority rather than clothing and water. He was bloody terrified the man might return with the warden and take Lightner away before Hy could find some way to convince the man to help him.

  Still, he could hardly admit as much, so he nodded again, and Lightner’s smile told him it was the correct response.

  “I thought you m-might be. You see, rather than d-d-dissuading me, Captain Davies has fired my curiosity to find this k-k-killer. I’m n-not sure if this r-recent killing was like the others, and it appears you are the b-best source of inf-information about the first two victims. I will make sure any assistance you offer is cr-credited to you and advocate for your f-f-freedom.”

  “I have notes,” Hy wheezed.

  Lightner’s lips curved into a genuine smile. “I was hoping that was the c-case. I’ll talk to somebody about g-getting you out of this cell in ex-ch-ch-change for your notes.”

  Hy stared up into the other man’s smiling face and shook his head no.

  Lightner’s smile drained away, the expression replaced by one that made hairs all over Hy’s body stand up.

  “You want m-money?”

  The tone he used made Hy’s ears burn with shame. But, in for a penny … “Out,” Hy coughed. “Want out.”

  “I just s-said I w-would—”

  “Now.”

  Lightner’s dark eyes glinted as he stared down at him; Hy was not making a friend.

  “You don’t need friends, Hieronymus,” Großmutti reminded him. “Tell the man whatever you need to tell him to make him get you out.”

  “Two notebooks. One each—case,” Hy rasped. “Out now. Only deal.” The effort of forcing out the words sent him into a fit of coughing, and for a moment he believed he’d die from sheer pain; death would be a bloody relief.

  He recovered from his paroxysm as weak as a kitten. The atmosphere in the cell had become even more unpleasant. Father Thomas and Großmutti were arguing violently about Hy telling lies; Dora was crying about him leaving; and the English detective was studying him the way a man might look at a stray dog he’d just tried to feed—and which had bitten him. Hy closed his eyes. He’d done plenty in his short life he wasn’t proud of, but he usually drew the line at barefaced lies.

  He listened for the sound of the Englishman taking his leave, unwilling to open his eyes and watch as freedom—and, yes, maybe even a chance at absolution—walked out the door.

  But the cell remained quiet; even his companions were silent. The torturous silence stretched and stretched—

  “I’ll g-get you out.”

  Hy’s eyelids snapped open. Had he said … out?

  Father Thomas slapped his sizable thigh and laughed. “You see, Hieronymus, they’re sending you home!”

  “Home?” Dora put a dainty, perfect hand on each rosy cheek. “Oh, Hy.” Her blue eyes shimmered. “You’re not leaving us, are you?”

  “Mr. Law?” a distant voice said. “Mr. Law?”

  “The two of you just let him be,” Großmutti snapped in German, ignoring the girl’s crying and the priest’s glare. She gave Hy a loving smile. “See what I told you, Hieronymus? God will understand a little untruth if you—”

  “Mr. Law?”

  Hy’s head snapped up at the sharp voice.

  Lightner’s cold, aristocratic features were creased with worry. “C-Can you hear me, or have they damaged something in your h-head?”

  Hy stared.

  “Are you in internal p-pain?” When Hy hesitated, Lightner frowned. “You must tell me—did they beat you, Mr. L-L-Law?”

  Hy shivered at the chill in his voice. Lightner was one of those men who didn’t bluster. Instead, he’d mastered that rare knack of sounding more menacing the quieter he became.

  Hy shook his head, terrified that the Englishman might decide to take the matter up with the guard—that Hy might be stuck here. And that he might never get out.

  “I’m fine,” he whispered, his voice a dry husk. And he was fine, certainly fine enough to get up and walk—if not run—out of this hellhole if given the chance.

  Lightner propped his weight on his fancy cane while looking down at him—assessing him in silence.

  They had beat him, as a matter of fact. So badly his ribs still ached, even all these weeks—eight!—later. But he didn’t care about that right now because his brain had become stuck on a single word that wiped all the beatings and suffering from his mind.

  “Out?” Hy was afraid the whisper might be smothered by Großmutti and Father Thomas, who’d resumed their strident bickering.

  But Lightner heard him—somehow—and nodded. “Yes. I’ll g-get you out of this cell in exchange f-for your case notes.”

  Hy squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would somehow stop the cacophony of cheering in his skull. Over the racket, one phrase rang over and over again like a church bell: out of this cell.

  He worked his mouth to find the moisture necessary to force out one word. “How.” As questions went, it was vague, but the other man knew what he meant.

  “Captain Davies—rather un-w-w-wittingly, I believe—gave me the authority I’ll need to free you. He told me I c-could have anyone in New York City to assist me with my p-p-politically unpopular, extremely high-profile, impossible-to-solve mu-murder investigation.” Lightner chuckled with what sounded like genuine amusement. “At l-least until he is able to send me packing. Until then, I c-can have anyone; anyone aside from one of his p-police detectives, that is.”

  “You want me to work for you?” The knowledge that this man wanted his assistance was … flattering.

  “No.”

&
nbsp; The word clanged in the tiny stone cell, and the shame that came with it surprised him. Even now—even here in the depths of hell—he could still feel ashamed.

  “I don’t need your help, Mr. L-Law”—nor did he want it, Lightner’s tone said. “But that is a fiction I m-m-must promote if I am to g-get you out. All I w-want is your notes. Once you give me those, you will be f-f-free to do whatever you choose. I r-recommend you get as far away from N-New York City as you are physically able. I don’t think C-Captain McElhenny will take your liberation well.” He paused, fixing Hy with a look that bored into him. “I asked your captain if you were c-coming back to w-w-work once you were released from jail.” He shook his head. “After seeing you t-today, I realize that what I should have asked him was if he ever p-p-planned on releasing you.”

  Hy could have told Lightner that he already knew what future McElhenny had planned for him. After all, he’d heard the man say it more than once when he’d come to the Tombs to direct Hy’s punishment—back in the early weeks, before he’d broken Hy and lost interest in him.

  But he kept his trap shut; he was already humiliated by the look in Lightner’s eyes—pity mingled with disgust.

  The barely audible sound of boots on stone came from the corridor.

  “J-Just to be sure we are clear: your notes for your freedom. Do we have a d-deal?” the Englishman asked as the footsteps grew nearer.

  Hy met Lightner’s cool stare and made one more black mark on his soul. “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 9

  It was nine thirty by the time Jasper walked into the foyer of the Astor House.

  “Lord Jasper?”

  He turned to find a hotel functionary hurrying toward him.

  “Good evening, my lord. Superintendent Tallmadge and Mr. Dell are waiting for you in one of our private dining rooms.”

  Jasper was momentarily nonplussed; so, Dell really had waited for him.

  “Sir? This is for your room.” The concierge handed Jasper a key, hesitated, and then said, “Your servant—er, Mr. Paisley—had you moved to a suite rather than what the commission paid for.”

  Jasper bit back a smile. “P-Please see that the bill comes to me rather than the c-commission.”