A Dodge, a Twist and a Tobacconist

by Sophronia Belle Lyon

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I heard that Twist had indeed gone in search of his former teacher. He had left all of his gadgets, even his armored jacket and top hat, behind, insisting that this Professor Polidori could detect any of his devices in a heartbeat. He took a pair of Zambo’s security team members and set off shortly after darkness fell, insisting that the professor was a night-owl.

  Oliver Twist had not returned or contacted anyone by midnight. Madame Phoebe had already worn a path in the penthouse sitting room carpet. The rest of the legacy members had run out of things to say to reassure her. The two security guards who had been sent to shadow him had not reported anything, either.

  “He portrayed this fellow as an eccentric, the sort you’d have to sit up with all night just to get him to open his mouth and tell you anything, Phoebe,” Mr. Campbell finally exploded. “The man was his teacher. Surely he wouldn’t harm the little fellow. Everyone should go to bed. Twist keeps strange enough hours in his own right, and he wouldn’t want you fretting like this.” He took her by the shoulders and steered her toward their bedroom.

  I took my turn down in the lift and said my good-nights. Kera lingered in the hallway when she saw that I was not going to my room as the others did.

  “You’re going to look for him. aren’t you?” she demanded.

  “He went off like a fidgety child with something to prove.” I did some pacing of his own.

  “I agree with you that something may well have gone wrong, and I’m going with you, but how do we know where to go?”

  “Madame Phoebe made him write down the professor’s name, Doctor Polidori, and his last known address, but for all my time in this country I have never heard of the place and have no idea how to find it.” I repeated what I had seen on the paper as my pacing intensified.

  “You forget, my handsome prince, that I have been in the company of people who have been in the company of Dodge,” Kera said softly, stopping my pacing by touching my face. “But before I lead you there, I need to remind you that before you left the country house you said God had told you to ask me a question. Please ask it now.”

  “Oh, my little vessel ... Very well, then. I am old and you are young. I am poor and have scarcely a pillow of my own to lay my head upon. We are both risking our lives to confront a murderer and slaver and may not see the morning’s light. But if none of these things ends my life, will you share the rest of it with me? Will you be my wife?”

  “Yes, yes, with all my heart. And I will kiss your graying hair, and share your borrowed pillow, and help you bring down the murderer and free the slaves. We will both risk all for Christ’s sake, and pray that our wedding is not the end of our quest to see men free, body and soul.” She came into my arms and we kissed.

  “Now to find Doctor Twist.” I reluctantly broke off the embrace.

  “This is where Doctor Twist said his professor’s workshop used to be located,” Kera said as we stood on the cobblestones before a large warehouse. The black-mouldy red bricks were faintly mirrored in the oily pools from an earlier rain and the sky showed fitful signs of clearing. I gazed around in the dreary shrouded full moon’s light escaping around a retreating mass of clouds and stubborn patches of fog. “I see no lights, hear no sounds, and have no idea how to get in.”

  “Twist said the place is protected from intruders in some way.” My eyes cast about for the twentieth time. “Everything looks so ordinary. The workshop could be underground. There could be weapons set to kill automatically. Just when we need Twist’s brains most, we must go wanting.”

  Kera and I prowled some more and located a lever and gear-and-chain assembly along the side. Both of us strained and worked it until a great steel and wood door swung upward with a heavy clanking and hissing. Thick clots of greasy mud and water dripped from the fouled wood and stone ramp beneath it. We ran around to the opening and saw a strangely-glowing figure haloed in the black interior. The short, bow-legged figure had its back to us and faced a far rear corner of the cavernous room.

  “It’s Dodge,” Kera quavered. I stepped up onto the dock toward him at once, drawing my firearm, though Kera tried to hold me back.

  “Where is Doctor Twist?” I demanded. Seeing I would not be stopped, Kera drew her pistols as well.

  “Where is Doctor Twist?” I gritted again when the apparition turned to face us but made no answer, only began to retreat backward.

  “Look over there.” Kera pointed at a small huddled figure behind our quarry, starkly white and bloody and filthy, tied and motionless. The man kicked at it in passing. I fired the gun directly at the man walking away and struck him in the chest but he hardly flinched. We both fired until our guns were empty, aiming for the head, but the bullets ricocheted harmlessly. The figure kept backing up as we struggled to reload in the murky light.

  The glowing shadow turned and walked away into a passage at the back of the warehouse.

  “He must have some kind of armor, like Spring-heeled-Jack,” I spat, starting to run after the retreating shadow.

  “Let me go after him, while you help Twist,” Kera hissed, drawing her sword. “I can cut metal with this. He will not keep taunting us without a head.”

  I looked at her in agony but nodded. “Go.”

  We separated and Kera disappeared into the blackness. I knelt beside the crumpled-up figure and threw my coat over Oliver Twist, cutting the ropes and lifting him up into my arms. Twist briefly fought and sobbed but abruptly fell still again. A slip of dirty, bloody paper fell on the ground and I saw written on it, “Newsome will follow my plan without even knowing he’s doing it.”

  A terrific clang split the air, echoing off the abandoned machinery and the metal and stone walls of the empty building. It was followed a moment later by several heavy, dull clanks. Twist jarred and jolted me at each sound but as I scrabbled to pick up the taunting message he lost consciousness altogether. Kera joined me, carrying a strangely rounded object by some dangling, severed and frayed cables and gear chains. I stared at the thing in her hand.

  “It was nothing but an automaton,” she said bitterly, throwing the almost featureless metal head onto the flooring. It bounced and clattered out into the street.

  “He dodges us again,” I said softly.

  “Is Twist alive?”

  “Yes. Come. We must get him back to Doctor Campbell. But bring that head along. Once again, we must grasp the one thing we have.”

  The warehouse was miles away from the Bronze Cascade. We had walked there hand in hand, Kera and I, softly speaking of Twist’s and our newborn loves and fearless in those sweet dreams, almost light-hearted. The trip home was something else again. A Hansom cab was not even to be found in the warehouse district, or apparently anywhere at such an hour (rather, hours) along the torturous path we had to take to stay out of sight, to keep Twist and ourselves shielded from prying eyes.

  No sane cabbie would have taken such passengers aboard in any case-- Kera with her Khanda sword, a mechanical head loose-wrapped in her blue silk cloak, dripping hydraulic fluid out of its severed neck and the bullet-holes in its bronze surface. I was in my shirtsleeves, smeared with mud and blood, carrying Twist wrapped only in my overcoat.

  It had been a little humorous when Doctor Campbell had confined me to my room by means of depriving me of my clothing. I thanked God over and over for the blessing that the tortured little creature did not wake during that horrible journey. The few people we did see were such that did not even find that sight worth a second look.

  “Will he recover?” I demanded when Doctor Mac finally emerged from the latest sickroom.

  “Physically, yes. Dodge couldn’t have done anything worse to him to destroy his spirit, though.”

  “It was what was done to Dodge while he was in prison,” I responded. I could not bring myself, nor could the good doctor, to speak the word “sodomy” aloud.

  Doctor Mac stared at me. “You think so?”

  “Of course. Powerful, evil men robbed
of their freedom, frustrated by the loss of control, must assert dominance somehow. So they do this thing to the weaker, the more helpless. Dodge paid a heavy price for protection, and learned the lesson of the most effective way to command submission. There is a face he will always see, a pain and humiliation he can never escape from.

  “But these monsters will also whisper, ‘I alone can protect you, help you, provide for you,’ into the ears of the victims when they are most vulnerable, most helpless, most terrorized.”

  “How in the world can you -- ?”

  “I was a soldier. It is also done to the conquered, by the master to the enslaved. It is the key to understanding everything Dodge has done to assert control. Capture, subjugate, and create such a paralyzing guilt combined with a false security that those who have no resource in God to defend against it can never be free again, never dare to want to be.”

  “Maybe you should talk to him,” Doctor Mac suggested. I stiffened.

  “I could not begin to speak words of comfort,” I demurred. “Knowing the cause is very different from knowing the cure.”

  “I thought maybe if Tatiana came to see him--”

  “Merciful heavens, no!” I practically exploded. “Just now he thinks he is ruined, never again worthy of a decent, pure young woman. He might even feel conflicted, wondering if he has something within himself -- that it is an inescapable part of his nature. He must get past thinking that way before he can look at any woman.”

  “Well, if I can’t even get a nurse to help care for him--” Doctor Mac continued to study me. “He needs to be watched ‘round the clock, for a few days. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I took in Doctor Mac’s whole exhausted posture. It was just a little past dawn and no one else was even awake yet, possibly did not even know yet what had happened.

  “I will go and sit with him,” I said at once. “Please make my excuses to Madame Phoebe if there is a meeting to attend.”

  “Did you sleep at all?” he demanded.

  “When I am in need of rest, I will send for relief.” I was trying to imagine ever thinking of sleep again. While I had been contemplating sleep Twist had been enduring the unimaginable. “Is he sleeping now?”

  “No, hardly,” Mac growled. “He stares at the wall, says nothing, reacts to nothing. It’s like Charley Bates but there’s no physical paralysis. And Charley’s trying as hard as he can to live and get well. I’d swear Twist is willing himself to die. I removed everything that he could use to -- well--”Doctor Mac quit trying to talk, blew out a breath, and turned the doorknob, gesturing to me to enter and walking slowly away.

  I entered the room and spoke gently. “So, Doctor Twist, shall I bring you that automaton head to study while you get back on your feet?”

  “Bring me a gun, or a knife, or anything to end this,” Oliver said in a low voice. I hesitated, then reached out and clasped the thin little shoulder I could see beneath the tight-drawn covers. Twist started violently and stared round at me with eyes so enormous, so full of pain, that it was all I could do to keep my hand where it was.

  “Do you have to touch me?”

  “I do. I am certain I do. You must understand that there are people who can anchor you back in this world of love and kindness, who can touch you in God’s name and tell you that one day you will claim His comfort and His peace again.”

  “I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it.” I kept holding on while Twist sobbed, just as I had done for so many comrades in so many battles. This was a different kind of wound, but the only medicine I had to administer was the affirmation that Oliver was not despised or rejected -- that Someone else had taken those unbearable heartaches on Himself and could take the burden. I said as much to the young inventor.

  “People accused Him--” Oliver blurted out. “Because He never married, because he kept company with men, because John leaned on His breast at the last supper -- They did, didn’t they?”

  “I have heard that they did,” I admitted. Oliver sat straight up in the bed, wincing a little, but determined. I hated to see that angelic little face bruised and his form trembling with the effort to suppress human weakness and bitter memories, but I had sense enough to be glad when Oliver put his hand on top of mine and pressed it with gratitude.

  “Yes, prince among men, I do want that automaton head after all,” he grinned. “And I want my tool kit, and that table moved over closer to the bed, and--”

  “Doctor Campbell asked me not to leave you,” I apologized. “Perhaps in a little while, when some of the others are stirring, I can send for it.”

  “Mac was afraid I was going to do myself a mischief, and I would have, till I realized that Dodge’s whole purpose in doing that to me was so that he would win. It almost worked. But I’ve got more reason than ever to beat him now, haven’t I?”

  “You have learned the lesson that escaped him, surely.”

  “You think -- ?” Oliver considered that. “Then there’s someone else to look out for, isn’t there? Someone who mastered Dodge, who taught him all he knows in a mighty perverse classroom.”

  “That person is likely dead. Surely Dodge would have revenged himself long ago, as soon as he had any power to strike back. It pains me to ask, but can you tell us now who we are looking for? These people from your old life seemed so insistent that you know who Dodge is.”

  Oliver faltered and trembled. I feared I had been very foolish to push the issue but Oliver only looked blank.

  “He grabbed me from behind, and used some kind of distorter on his voice. I could see those goggles, with that eye, and sidewhiskers, but I still have no idea who it was. I wish I did. Come, now, Florrie, be a good chap and get me that head and my tools.”

  I went out into the sitting room of the suite Twist occupied, only to find Tatiana in a dressing gown staring at the blank metal face resting in a wingback chair. Kera apparently had left the head there after we had brought Doctor Mac to Oliver. Tatiana looked up at me and beamed.

  “I’m so glad you brought him home safely, good prince,” the girl said, so full of sweet innocence. “Is he awake yet?”

  I blanched. “Mademoiselle ... Doctor Twist .. he was injured last night, and he may not be quite ready..”

  “Injured! Then I shall tend him!” the girl cried.

  “I cannot allow you to--” I set myself in front of the door.

  “What do you mean? You must let me see him!”

  I grabbed the automaton head and fled into Twist’s bedroom, locking the door behind me. Oliver looked up, startled.

  “You look as if you’d seen a ghost, Florrie!”

  “Mademoiselle Tatiana is out in the sitting room.” I said helplessly.

  Oliver hesitated almost a minute, until the girl began tapping on the door. “Let her in,” he told me finally.

  “Are you certain? She knows nothing, except that you were injured. She expects to be your nursemaid.”

  “Well, she’s a prettier one than Mac sent me,” Oliver grinned. “I keep saying to myself, ‘You’re not despised and rejected, because He took on all that for you.’ But do get me my tool kit before you leave me to her tender care, will you?”

  I collapsed into my bed and slept until noon. When I awoke I found both Madame Phoebe and Kera at my bedside.

  “Did you heal Twist?” Kera exploded before Phoebe could say anything. “He and Tatiana are in his room, twittering like little birds, as if nothing happened! He said you only touched him, and God made him well!”

  I had not even begun to get used to waking up with women in my bedroom staring at me. I flushed crimson. “Ladies, if I could beg a moment to clothe myself--”

  “I tried to remind her of your modesty, Florizel,” Madame Phoebe smirked, “but apparently you have invited her into your room before, so you are to blame. I only wanted to thank you both for ignoring all our sane and sensible and so very wrong conclusions last night. We will have a meeting in about an hour, and I left you some food in the outer room. K
era, you can talk to him in a few minutes and he will explain to your heart’s content where miracles really come from, I am certain.”

  I dressed as quickly as I could and emerged to find Kera pacing my sitting room and a tray groaning under the weight of an odd mix of breakfast and luncheon. Kera planted herself between me and my tray and put her fists on her hips. The Indian girl stared expectantly while I eyed the food with a wistful gaze.

  “Doctor Campbell admitted to me that he expected to find poor little Twist hanging from his bedsheets off the chandelier. I could not sleep a wink for fearing the same thing. I thought he would never be able to look Tatiana in the eye again! What did you do?”

  I told her, all the while trying to edge around to get at the tray of food. “Those few words washed away an act of sodomy? I saw boys impale themselves on the sword of men who came to take them. You expect me to believe that?”

  “My little vessel, sit down and let me eat this wonderful food and I will tell you a story.” I pushed Kera down into a chair and settled myself before the tray. “There was a man called Naaman, a mighty warrior for a powerful king, who had leprosy. A little girl captured in war served his wife, and told her about a prophet who could heal the master if he would only go to her homeland.

  “He went, and with him camel-loads of gold and garments to reward the mighty prophet. He had gone first to the king of the land, you see, thinking the possessor of such a mighty power must reside in a palace. But the king tore his clothes and whined and could do nothing. The prophet Elisha sent for Naaman to come to his home. The mighty warrior came to a stop in front of what must have been a disappointingly small house.

  “Do you know that the prophet did not even come outside? He sent a servant to tell him to wash seven times in the Jordan River and be clean. What do you think was that great warrior’s response?”

  “I would have been furious,” Kera exclaimed. “The man came for healing, and the prophet did not even come to speak any words of comfort to him? He sent a servant? Did the warrior go cut of his head?”

  “He certainly did get angry.” I suppressed a smile with difficulty. “He told his servants he expected the prophet to come and strike the spot of leprosy, and call on the name of his God. He said that there were better rivers to wash in back home. What do you suppose the servants said to him?”

  “They reminded him that he could cut off the prophet’s head, I hope.”

  “They called him father, Kera, just as you have done before to me, and asked him why, if he would be willing to do some great thing if the prophet had asked, he was not willing to do a simple thing? So he went, and washed. Imagine him, Kera, dipping once, twice, thrice -- and seeing no change. Four times, five times, six times -- still nothing. Do you not think his servants had to urge him to keep doing it, saying, ‘Just once more, my father, please, just once more!’”

  “So he did this simple thing, and the leprosy was healed?”

  “It was. The Scriptures say his skin became like that of a little child.”

  “These are the words of our God? Well, then, that explains it. So what you did was tell little Twist words of God, and they healed him. It was not anything you did at all.”

  I finally allowed myself to laugh. “Yes, little vessel, that’s exactly how it was.”