Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Of course, child. Come this way.” He extended an arm towards the confessional booth—dark ornate wood with two doors and heavy scrolling.

  Daisy stood her ground. “I confessed to Father Caraher last time.”

  “All ears are God’s ears,” he intoned.

  She summoned tears, then a pain-filled sob escaped her throat—an act she’d perfected after years of being a resident virgin. Her distress echoed in the domed chamber, and several petitioners turned in surprise.

  “You don’t understand,” she choked between tears. “He’s my guiding light. It must be him.”

  The priest tried to calm her with placating words, then finally gave up as her sobbing increased. Eventually she was shown to the confessional with promises he would find the priest.

  Daisy settled onto the bench to wait. Some minutes later, the door opened to the other booth, and a balding man seated himself on the bench behind the wooden screen.

  “I hear there’s a hysterical girl I’m guiding,” Father Caraher said by way of greeting. His gruff voice had a lilt to it that softened the severity of his words.

  Daisy skipped the ‘Bless me, Father’ spiel, and got right to the point. “You took my confession some weeks ago, Father. I’m Rahab. Do you remember?”

  A pause. “Why, yes. Of course. How are you, child?” It was a sincere question.

  “I made my choice. And that’s why I’m here. I left my life behind and hired on with a detective agency.”

  “A step in the right direction, but hardly… wholesome. It puts you in the path of unsavory sorts.”

  “Like the two spies in that story about Rahab. Or like being a priest,” she said cheerfully.

  Father Caraher gave a grunt, scratching the stubble on his chin. He’d likely been there since the crack of dawn. “So it is,” he admitted. “What can I do for you? You hardly sound as if you need my guidance.”

  “I’m here to save your life. You’re in danger, Father.”

  To her surprise, he barked a laugh. Then caught himself with a quick clearing of his throat. “My life is always in danger, child.”

  “This is a more pressing threat, I should think,” she said. “Tonight, in fact. A group of men posing as common thugs are set to kill you on your walk home. My agency discovered the plot.”

  “Every brothel owner, corrupt city official, graft-ridden judge, saloon keep, and gambling den wants me dead. I’m waging war on organized vice, and the people who profit don’t care for my tactics.”

  “But this isn’t ordinary, Father.”

  “I entrust my life to God’s hands. If it’s His will, then so be it.” Father Caraher cracked his knuckles. “But I won’t go down without a fight.”

  “You told me that story about Rahab and those two spies for a reason. And now here I am, a whore, offering you help. I think this might be God’s will. It would be rude not to accept my help.”

  There was a long moment of silence as he considered her reasoning. Put like that, a man of the cloth could hardly refuse.

  “What do you propose?”

  “I need your clothes.”

  “Don’t you feel just a little cowardly?” Daisy asked.

  Lotario had his elbow on an armrest with his chin in his hand as he gazed out of the carriage window. Fog swirled in the night, pools of electric light flickering and fading, then rallying and blazing, trying to push back the dense mist.

  It didn’t have much more luck than gaslight.

  “I’m the Director of Operations. A director doesn’t act, Daisy. He watches.”

  “Or she.”

  Lotario waved a languid hand. “I considered wearing a dress, but Matthew has such delicate sensibilities.”

  “I think it’s cute.”

  “He’s also available and kindhearted.”

  Daisy sighed. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? He’s a nice fellow who deserves more than a soiled dove.”

  Lotario clucked his tongue. “So judgy.”

  “That is not a word.”

  “It is now,” he drawled, rubbing his shoulder. “God, it’s cold.”

  “Don’t you ever stop whining?”

  “I don’t want to get out of practice.”

  Daisy sat up straighter. “The show’s on, I think.”

  “It looks that way.” He drummed his fingers on his cheek. “Shit. There’s four of them. I hadn’t accounted for that.”

  Daisy frowned into the murky night. ‘Father Caraher’ walked under one lamppost to another with a purposeful gait, his hat pulled low and his collar turned up against the cold.

  It was a night for murder. Quiet, concealing, with the kind of silence broken only by a death rattle. Daisy chewed on her fingernails. What if they shot the decoy? Wouldn’t that be the easiest way to murder him?

  Everything happened at once—smooth and practiced, the four men moved as one, coming at the priest from the four points of a compass. Four shadows converged. Two stepped out of a lane, another peeled away from a lamppost, while the fourth approached the priest from the front.

  The thugs didn’t waste time with words. They rushed forward. The priest jumped back as the man in front slashed a blade, but he leapt right into the blade of the assassin at his back. Gunfire shattered the stillness. A police whistle blew. And the priest elbowed the man behind him, then slid a billy club from his sleeve and bashed the man in front.

  The man in the rear dropped from a bullet, and a man emerged from a doorway to tackle the third thug. The priest finished bashing two thugs into submission, and all went quiet. Four men lay dying or wounded at his feet.

  ‘Father Caraher’ ripped off his hat and coat, and kicked the closest. But it wasn’t Terence Caraher. He was safe in his parish. It was Sgt. Price, who matched the priest in height.

  Matthew was busy latching irons onto the thug he’d rammed, and Inspector Coleman stepped out of a doorway, holstering his revolver. He’d shot the knifer. Three more officers stepped out from various hiding places.

  “Are you all right, Sgt. Price?” Matthew asked.

  Price slapped a fist against his chest. “Chain mail. Old hatchet man trick. Works like a charm, but my back will be black with bruises.”

  The booming voice carried in the quiet, and Daisy breathed with relief from the carriage.

  “Well, that is that,” Lotario bumped his stick against the ceiling, and the carriage rolled forward.

  “Aren’t you going to question the thugs?”

  “I know what they’ll say,” Lotario said. “And I think I prefer to be an invisible director.”

  Daisy frowned at him. “Should I start calling you ‘The Ghost’?”

  “Too dramatic.” He thought a moment as their carriage drifted through the fog. “EL.”

  “What?”

  “Like the letter ‘L’.”

  Daisy shook her head. “I thought you weren’t going to make up any more identities, Lotario.”

  “This one is all-encompassing.”

  “You’re full of it. That’s what you are.”

  “Of course I am.” Lotario smiled, charmingly. “But tell me… how did it feel?”

  Daisy felt her cheeks warm. A true blush. Not a made-up one like from her previous profession. “I think I enjoy saving people.”

  Lotario snorted. “I meant, how did it feel to play God?”

  She kicked him in the shin.

  55

  A Dangerous Turn

  The time for subterfuge was ending. All Isobel had were theories; she needed proof.

  Mrs. Noble was resting. Mr. Noble was in his study, and the sisters, along with Freddie, were headed to Golden Gate Park. Sarah would be safely on her way home.

  With cleaning bucket in hand, Isobel walked to the far wing where the guest rooms were located. Freddie’s room wasn’t locked. There wasn’t even much in the way of possessions. She suspected he kept rooms at the Palace.

  She set down her supplies, opened the drapes to air out the room, and took her feather d
uster to the desk. A thorough search turned up nothing of interest.

  Where were his art supplies? He’d likely taken them to draw at Golden Gate Park.

  She checked the bedside table: sleeping pills, a vial of laudanum, headache tablets and stomach seltzer. All likely cures for hangovers.

  Isobel knelt beside a travel trunk, and slipped out her lock picks. The lock gave. Most everything had been hung up in the wardrobe or put into drawers, but there were a few odds and ends: neckties, a pair of shoes, socks, a baseball, and a swimsuit.

  Isobel set those aside, then felt around the lining. It was filled with stuffing for cushioning, except for one panel that was uneven. When she inspected it she discovered a tear at the base of the lining. Isobel pulled free the uneven bulge, but it wasn’t padding; it was a shirt.

  Isobel shook out the garment. Dark stains on the collar. Rips in the sleeves and the back encrusted with blood. Freddie’s blood.

  Footsteps clicked in the hallway. Isobel stuffed the shirt back inside, closed the trunk, and darted to the mantel to start dusting.

  The door opened. But it wasn’t Abigail, or Cecilia. Or even Mrs. Noble. It was Sarah, standing stricken with a gun to her head.

  56

  All Action

  The Nymphia was a large U-shaped building that took up an entire block, its wings stretching back from Pacific Avenue along Stockton Street and Grant Avenue. A narrow lane ran between the hotel and a derelict building of red brick, three stories high and with a fire escape attached to the front. It looked like an old block of apartments. It wouldn’t take much to attach the two buildings.

  Riot clenched his jaw as he examined the boarded-up windows. A thousand women crammed into cell-like rooms—the thought made him sick.

  The street was clogged with traffic from Chinatown and with children walking home from school. It was home to grocers, restaurants, and residences. Small wonder preachers were fighting the expansion. It would put an entrance to the hotel on a main thoroughfare frequented by families.

  Riot stepped into a recessed doorway where a sign welcomed him: Trespassers will be Shot.

  “How do we get in?” Dollie asked. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

  “It’s ungentlemanly of me to ask, but I could use some concealment,” Riot murmured as he slipped out his lock picks.

  It took Dollie a split second to realize what he was asking. Then she chuckled to herself and planted her girth in front of the alcove, shielding him from prying eyes.

  The lock gave, and Riot slipped inside, gun in hand. He stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. It was dark. And silent. He thumbed on his flashlight and felt Dollie step in beside him.

  “You don’t have to come,” he murmured.

  “I’m in here, aren’t I?” she whispered, closing the door.

  His light illuminated dingy carpet, peeling wallpaper, and shattered lamps. Glass crunched underfoot as he moved forward, the floorboards creaking with each step.

  The hallway smelled of urine. Rats, judging from the pellets on the carpet. A mark on the floor caught his eye—two thin lines trailed through leftover rubbish.

  There were other signs of life too, of the human variety. Footprints on the dusty carpet, brush marks from a broom. The rooms themselves were empty of furniture and garbage, as if the Twinkling Star Improvement Company had cleared it out to prepare for renovations.

  Riot hesitated at a stairway leading up. Should he head to the next floor, or search for a basement? Basements were always a favored hiding place for a body, so he moved farther back into the building. He stopped when he spotted a door with candles on a small table next to it. It looked like a door to a basement, and it was close to the back door of the building.

  Dollie picked up a candle, and fished around her handbag for a matchbook. Warm light flooded into the hallway. Riot exchanged his flickering flashlight for a candle, as she lit a second.

  “Good Lord,” Dollie whispered. “There’s a lock.” She was right. A padlock hung from a latch on a basement door. Hope edged into his heart. Could Sakura be alive?

  Riot holstered his gun, handed over his candle, and had the lock open in seconds. With Dollie behind him holding the candles, he moved down a rickety staircase with gun in hand.

  A thin form curled on a dingy mat in a corner. A chain linked her ankle with a rung in the wall. Dollie made a strangled noise and rushed past him, kneeling beside the woman.

  The sound of boots stomping up the back steps alerted Riot. He rushed back up the stairs, and burst through the basement door as the back door opened. A hulking man filled the doorway, holding a tray in hand. Claude.

  Riot leveled his gun at the guard. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

  Claude tensed. Riot saw intent in his eyes—the muscles of Claude’s arms, the flexing of his thighs, the way he shifted onto the balls of his feet. All action is of the mind and the mirror of the mind is the face, its index the eyes. It was all there, plain as the words on a page. Riot squeezed the trigger as Claude flung the tray at him.

  The tray hit Riot in the face. Food and water splattered, pottery broke, and Claude dropped to the floor. Dead.

  Riot wiped food from his face, then bent to drag Claude farther into the building. Blood blossomed over the carpet as he closed the door.

  “Kyd?” Dollie called from below.

  Riot moved to the basement doorway. Dollie stood in a pool of light, with a little derringer in hand. “Is she alive?” he called down.

  “Barely,” Dollie said. “What was that about?”

  “Claude.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good riddance.”

  “We need to get her somewhere safe.”

  “There’s a chain around her ankle. We’ll need those lock picks of yours.”

  Riot glanced at the back door, hesitating. The gunfire could draw attention, and he didn’t like the idea of being cornered in a basement. While no one generally paid much mind to gunshots in San Francisco, Kane would eventually notice when his guard didn’t return.

  “Come up here,” Riot said.

  Dollie didn’t ask why. When she emerged, he drew the more powerful Storekeeper from his back holster, and handed it over to Dollie. “Shoot anyone who comes through that door.”

  He moved downstairs to kneel beside the woman. Sakura was battered, one eye swollen shut, and angry bruises covered her face. She shivered with cold, staring at nothing. When he touched the chain, she jerked.

  “We’ll get you to a doctor,” he said, softly. “And I’ll bring Akira.”

  At the sound of her daughter’s name, her gaze came into focus, looking at him for the first time. Careful not to touch her, he popped the lock off her ankle, and removed his coat, placing it over her shoulders. Although weak, she shrank back from his offer of help.

  “Sakura,” he said. “I’m Atticus Riot.” He didn’t know how much English she spoke, but hoped his voice sounded reassuring. “Who did this to you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Was it Kane? Ian Noble? Freddie Starling?”

  Sakura hesitated at the last. Answer enough. He held out his hand, and she searched his face. Whatever she saw put some light back into her eyes. He helped her up the stairs, and when she saw the bleeding corpse of Claude, she kicked the man with her bare foot.

  It seemed to bolster her. “Starling,” Sakura said with a nod.

  Riot’s heart skipped. Freddie Starling. Based on Billy’s description, he’d suspected Freddie, but the confirmation made him sick. Isobel was in that household. And Sarah. He had to warn them, but he needed to ensure Akira’s safety first.

  Kane was capable of anything.

  “You said the clinic opened up onto Grant Avenue?” he asked Dollie.

  “Yes, but it’s guarded. And they won’t let just anyone in for the ‘safety of the residents.’”

  Riot pondered his options as he locked the back door, then propelled Doll
ie and Sakura out the front. He searched the street for a likely candidate and settled on an old man with a handcart.

  “Honored father,” he addressed him in fluent Cantonese. “This woman is injured. I need you to take her to Dr. Wise.”

  The old man looked to the woman leaning heavily against Dollie’s arm, hesitated, then sketched a bow, gesturing to his cart. As soon as Dollie helped Sakura into the cart, the old man tossed a tarp over her, and trotted off at remarkable speed.

  Dollie had to run after him.

  That taken care of, Riot had another matter to deal with. He wished he could count on the police, but Kane had likely bribed the patrolman in the area. So he set his sights on a group of men lounging in the mouth of an alleyway. They had the look of laborers. Maybe even a few low-ranking hatchet men in the mix.

  The group watched him warily as he approached. “You fellows look bored,” he said in Cantonese.

  A twitch of surprise rippled through the group. One young man with a cigarette dangling from his lips jutted his chin towards the street. “Get lost.”

  Riot touched the brim of his hat. “I suppose you’re not interested in cash.” He made to leave.

  “Wait,” another man said. “He doesn’t speak for us. What do you need?”

  Riot took out his billfold. “Nothing too illegal. And I guarantee it’ll be entertaining. I just want you to make some noise.”

  57

  Tigress

  Isobel tried to speak, but only a choked sound emerged as Freddie stepped into the room, holding Sarah in front of him as a shield. He closed the door with his foot.

  “I debated what to do about that shirt,” he said easily. “I couldn’t leave it at the hotel. It has my launderer’s tag on it and it’d look awfully suspicious for me to be walking out with no shirt under my coat. I thought of burning it… but that could also draw attention. So I just tucked it away.”