Geist, p.3
Geist, page 3
Victor had thought that leg of the journey was over. Ever since the tragedy of Thaddeus and Ingrid, Doctor Murdoch was obsolete as far as the case was concerned.
“By the by,” the bartender said. “I never got your name. Heard it in passing, but still….”
“Victor Roland. And yours?”
The bartender offered him a handshake, smiling softly. “Jerry Coleyard.” His grip was coarse, like that of most working men. “Good talk, Victor. I gotta prep for happy hour.”
A familiar siren blared in the distance; Jerry’s smile vanished. Victor shut his eyes, hoping the alarm would pass. It only neared, and his face lost all color. Victor knew what this meant. Against all instinct, he barreled out the saloon doors, down the cobblestone narrows. Black rain trickled off his trench coat. Victor saw a crowd gathered around a broken telephone pole, took a sharp right, and tried to nudge the stragglers aside.
“Shit,” he hissed. “Sorry, excuse me. Hey, could you—? Goddammit, move!”
A few drunks staggered back. Victor stopped to catch his breath, eyes fixed on the charred pole. The corpse was gone, no doubt removed and dumped into a mass grave.
“She popped up around dawn,” a punk said. “One of the Pagoda’s callgirls.”
“You missed it. Could totally see up her skirt—”
“That’s fucked, man,” a suffragette spat. “Show some respect.”
The crowd dispersed long before Victor left. His thoughts shrieked with dread, and yet, he knew there was no point in lingering. Time was running out. Something had to give. Haunted by grim purpose, Victor dragged his heels back to High Street.
Another red light had sizzled out.
#
Under the veil of twilight, Leng cracked open another pilsner. He tucked the lukewarm can under his raincoat, away from the cameras. It didn’t take a genius to learn their surveillance patterns, and drinking by the railways was always fun. Alone on a bench by the fourth platform, he checked his watch; the last train to Feldgrau was running an hour late.
Dammit, I’m gonna be gone by seven at the earliest.
Leng watched the church freaks and cross-faded punks go about their lives. In the end, Yoshiwara was a no-man’s land for vagabonds and bored aristocrats and a great place to find some fun. It was time to move on; the city had nothing left to offer.
“Excuse me, ser?” an old beggar wheezed. “Spare a—”
“Don’t have cash,” Leng lied, gripping his six-pack.
“Then, can you—?”
“Fine.” Leng tore off a beer and tossed it to the beggar.
“Thank you, but I’m actually trying to go cold—”
“It’s piss water, I know,” Leng said. “Still, take what you can get. Run along.”
The beggar nodded and limped off into the dim alley.
“Ingrate,” Leng muttered, raising the can to his lips.
When a light buzz hit, his gaze lifted to the far smokestacks. Reactor Two was being rebuilt along the Outer Wall. After those terrorist bombings, the serfs had to work swiftly if the trains were to still run on time. Life went on, even if good people got left behind. Thaddeus had been killed in action, and Leng excommunicated. There was no use crying over it, but Leng would be lying if he didn’t feel something. He paused, lost in thought, as his mind wandered to corners of bittersweet reminiscence.
When did we meet…? Almost a year ago?
Such memories came back vividly. Truth be told, Leng had “gotten a little lost” on the way to the recruitment office. The building was dull and drab, and its cubicles were no different. Hardly the prestigious halls of the Inquisition. Thaddeus had filled in as manager that day.
“You have a lot of gall to be an hour late for training,” the inquisitor growled, adjusting the knobs on his respirator. “Avoiding conscription is a grave offense.”
Leng tried to laugh it off. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
He handed Thaddeus the draft letter. The inquisitor took it with a firm grip—he was a hulk of ebony skin and enhanced muscle. Leng couldn’t tell where the man ended and the machine began but suspected he was a cripple. Still, Leng thought it best not to pry.
“Listen.” Thaddeus leaned in close. “Your cavalier attitude may be ‘hip’ among the harlots. However, this is Her Holiness’s Inquisition. The last line of defense against the criminal and the heretic. You’d do well to remember your role in keeping the faith.”
“Look forward to working with you too,” Leng muttered.
In hindsight, the irony was hysterical. Ser Hector Thaddeus and Walter Leng—the Imperium’s lethal joke. After two weeks of pushing pens, he was promoted to Thaddeus’s
supervisor. Title aside, the job itself was somewhere between “voice of reason” and “deputy.” Still, a celebration was in order. It took some convincing, but Leng dragged his new partner out to Soho’s if only to see Thaddeus blunder and blush.
Neon signs, sticky stools, cheap wells—the works.
Leng was sure to get there early. Soho’s was a personal favorite until it got shut down. Its distillery was polluted with mercury, though no one knew the full story.
“What sort of cesspit is this?” Thaddeus marched past the bouncer, knocking his head on a hanging lamp. “I lost my way here. Twice. Is this what they call a bordello?” He came to Leng’s table, pointing an iron finger. “You brought me to such a wicked place? For shame.”
“Relax.” Leng shoved a shot his way. “Here, first round’s on me.”
Thaddeus sat down slowly. He did not touch the drink. “Do you take me for some vagrant? I am not a man of debauchery.”
Leng shrugged and downed the drink for him. “Top shelf. Wasn’t cheap.”
“Pardon?” Thaddeus raised an eyebrow. “What are you—?”
“Listen,” Leng interrupted. “It’s customary for friends to buy each other drinks.”
“Perhaps where you come from,” Thaddeus said. “But in the monasteries, we are taught that discipline and virtue are whetstones of the soul. Every vice partaken, however, is a cobblestone on the road to damnation. I encourage you to repent, Walter Leng.”
“Right,” Leng snorted. “Sharpening your soul, huh? Explains why you’re so spiky. Hear you monks make awesome beer, though. Don’t friars get to sample? Quality control?”
“Do not mock my faith,” Thaddeus barked. “And that was one time.”
Leng raised a glass. “Not according to Brendel’s interns. Heard you got utterly wasted on All Saints Day. Been the talk of the records department for a while, actually.”
“W…what?” Thaddeus’s eyes widened. “Rowen Brendel? That mouthy cur.”
“Point is,” Leng said, “if we’re gonna work together, we need to make a few compromises. Morale, you know? An occasional pub crawl won’t kill you.”
“Then you’d best maintain your performance,” Thaddeus said.
“Maintain…what now?” Leng asked.
“I was the one to request your promotion,” Thaddeus explained. “I keep but one acolyte if I can help it. Make no mistake, you have the work ethic of a tapeworm and cut corners with a circular saw. However, you do get results. Why else would I agree to meet you here?”
Leng lowered his glass onto the table. “You mean that?”
“I’m afraid so,” Thaddeus said.
Leng didn’t know what to say. He’d almost forgotten what respect felt like. The inquisitor was curt to the point of cruelty, but Leng felt a faint kinship stirring.
“Now,” Thaddeus stood, “what would you like to drink?”
Just then, a steam whistle pierced Leng’s ears, dragging him back to the present. He caressed his forehead, stifling a shudder of regret. The train to Feldgrau crawled into sight. As Leng passed the brick columns, a plastered flyer caught his eye.
MUNCHAUSEN’S DETECTIVE AGENCY
Private Investigators and Security Inquire Within
Leng tore the paper aside, judging the faded pastels and font. Not the best choices for recruiting muscle and goon squads. Edgar was always eager to expand his company’s platform. He’d graduated from candy and soda to absinthe and whiskey to patenting some pretty impressive feats of engineering, all in a decade.
Still, private eyes are just stalkers with fake warrants. What’s Edgar up to?
The chocolatier had an affinity for Yoshiwara, and he wasn’t subtle about his aims; to save the hookers on a quest to end world hunger. Then, it hit him.
Of course, the idiot’s after the Dollmaker too.
Leng crumpled up the flyer, about to toss it until something stopped him. The train shrieked to a sudden halt. Leng’s mind roiled with conflict as he stared at the rusty tracks.
Goddammit, Thaddeus. I hate to admit it, but the only people I’ve cared about…they’re gone. Running away isn’t going to tie up loose ends. Sure, I could start over. Direct my own films again. I mean, I could live with myself. Easily. But it’s not finished. Not yet. Yeah, I should end this. For solid closure. Not just for my sake, but Victor’s too—
“Train departing,” the announcer called. “Train departing.”
The doors slammed shut, and Leng’s chance carried on without him. He shoved the flyer into his pocket and rejoined the crowd’s yellow coattails fluttering against the fumes. It wasn’t about “doing the right thing.” Down in the slums, people were faced with ugly choices. Night crawled over Holy Gothica, as Leng’s decision was already made.
You owe me big for this, kid….
#
Victor stared at the ceiling of his room, listening to the clock’s endless ticking. No progress had been made in the investigation. Charles and Beatrice were just as shocked as he, and none of the staff knew anything of note. Victor’s mind delved deeper into the abyss of anxiety. He turned to the window; streetlamps danced like stars in a sea of steel, and then—
Midnight….
Whenever the Thirteenth Frequency hit, the city was swallowed by monochromatic silence, punctuated only by static. Every night the surges hit, casting a pall of cinematic decay over the slums. Victor shuddered, turning to the doorway. All manner of evil lurked during the Devil’s Hour—lepers, daemons, and worse.
Just then, there was a knock on the door. “Hey,” said a familiar voice. “It’s me.”
Victor peered through a peephole. Leng greeted him with a thin-lipped smile.
Victor cracked open the door. “Leng? Thought you flaked?”
“Long story,” Leng said. “Mind if I come in? Think I found something useful.” He raised a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. “Brought your favorite, too.”
Victor lowered his guard. “Oh…okay, come in.”
Leng stepped inside, hanging his raincoat on a rack. “Thought we’d have a one-on-one.”
Victor pulled out a pair of shot glasses. “About the Dollmaker?”
“You know it.” Leng poured them each a whiskey and placed the drinks on the table. “Thaddeus and I used to do this kinda thing. He always had that ‘Earl Grey’ shit.”
“I never liked tea either,” Victor said. They clinked their glasses. Victor downed his double with hardly a cough. He was getting used to the harder stuff. “What’s new with you?”
Leng shrugged. “Freelance gigs. Getting back into filmmaking. Figured I’d flex my creative muscles. Orwell Optics just came out with some damn good boxed cams. Was gonna crank out a draft and try to get some funding.”
Victor chuckled. “I’d be lying to say I didn’t miss you.”
“No. You missed the free booze.”
Drink after drink, Victor and Leng talked until a lightbulb sparked by the nightstand. The deputy jolted but mustered a grin, finishing the last of the whiskey. Victor’s eyes fell upon the cardstock folder by his side and changed the topic. “What’s that, exactly?”
“Huh?” Leng flipped through the documents. “These? Been doing some studying on the Devil’s Hour. Skimming old files. Murdoch really dug too deep.”
“How’d you find them?” Victor asked.
“Never underestimate the black market and a printer,” Leng said. “Anyway, they’re theories on the surges. Unofficial, but well worth a read. Leprosy and power outages aren’t the only things to go wrong. Remember, kid. What’s the Dollmaker after?”
“I…kinda forgot,” Victor admitted.
“Vitae,” Leng said. “Bloodborne soul stuff of men. Every dead hooker so far was found drained of her bodily fluids. Left on the telephone poles to rot. Here, listen to this….”
Due to its spiritual connotations, one could suggest that vitae is an organic compound capable of fueling machines of “magical” design. But if one was able to use the compound on even the smallest scale, who knows what we could achieve?
I must report these findings to my colleagues.
“We know the killer is after the vitae of his victims.” Leng closed the folder. “He’s clearly using it for something. At first, I thought he was just killing them for fun. But this makes me think it’s is a big-scale thing, like an industry of murder.” He shuddered. “Found a lead too. I’m not saying this guy’s it. The opposite, actually. Remember that creepy chocolatier—”
“Edgar Munchausen?” Victor blurted. “Vaguely. We’ve met once or twice. Why?”
“I’ll tell you.” Leng handed him a crumpled flyer. “Edgar’s got a solid alibi for the successful murders. Now he’s hiring sleuths for an ‘undisclosed investigation.’ Given his ties to Yoshiwara, financial and otherwise, you can probably guess what’s going on.”
“He wants to catch the Dollmaker?” Victor asked.
Leng raised his glass. “Bingo. The first victim was Lady Fukuhara. Sex star of the Sunset Pagoda and Edgar’s beloved betrothed. Clearly, he wants to ease that sense of guilt. He’s accepting interviews when Xanadu opens. The day after tomorrow, so we’ve got time.”
“We?” Victor asked.
“I backed out of a new life in Lumiere,” Leng said. “Well, postponed is a little more accurate. Gotta do my part, even if it’s half-assed intel. If Edgar’s smarter than I thought, you’ll definitely want to check him out. Best case, it’ll steer you in the right direction.”
“Actual progress, what a concept.” Victor laid his glass down, almost knocking the bottle over. “This is good. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d come back. Thanks, Leng.”
“No worries,” Leng said. “But, there’s another reason I’m here. I know you’re close to Yuko. And frankly, that’s what bothers me. Syphilis should be the least of your worries.”
Victor’s gratitude warped into discomfort. “Look, I appreciate—”
“Just listen, all right?” Leng raised a hand. “I know what you’re going through. There’s a reason prostitution is the oldest profession. Still dating her? Think about it….” He bit his lip. “Know what? Maybe now’s not the best time for this. Be careful, that’s all.”
Victor’s chest tightened with doubt. He turned to the clock—the Devil’s Hour was almost over. And so, Leng caught on and walked out, dropping the bottle in the trash.
“Anyway,” he said, “have a good night.”
When the door shut, Victor lay down, trying to forget his romantic insecurities. Feigning extroversion was never his strong suit, and he welcomed the silence. The whiskey kicked in as Victor’s eyes drifted shut. He dreaded what tomorrow would bring.
CHAPTER FOUR
Victor awoke to cotton sheets against his skin as urban bustle filled his ears. He rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window—tattered garlands and canopies hung over the booths along High Street. He’d never seen Market Day in this light before. Donning his trench coat, Victor went downstairs and sat at the empty bar. Eventually, he ordered two poached eggs and picked at his breakfast. A little after ten, Charles and Beatrice emerged, still groggy.
“So, Leng’s back,” Victor called.
“And…?” Charles yawned.
“He gave us a new lead,” Victor added. “Something about Xanadu.”
“Oh, right,” Beatrice said. “Probably has to do with those adverts. I saw a flyer too. A freelance sleuthing gig, right? Bet you it’s bigger than a typical adultery case.”
Charles’s eyes brightened. “Sounds like some hardboiled shit.”
Victor shrugged. “We still have a day. But I recommend we all apply together and see what he can do. I mean, we’re not exactly making progress.”
Beatrice nodded. “Definitely can’t hurt.”
Not long after that, Charles and Beatrice departed for the day—hash dealing and thrift shopping, respectively. Another hour passed until a pair of heels clomped down the stairs. Victor glanced over his shoulder. Yuko smiled, dressed in a buttoned-up peacoat and black boots. She laid her hands on Victor’s shoulders, pressing her lips against his ear.
“How’s my little composer doing?” she whispered.
Victor loved it when she did that.
His ears were always sensitive, and her voice sent chills of pleasure down his aching spine. Yuko’s smile was far from hollow. He was undeniably smitten, but Leng’s warnings nagged at the back of his mind. He shuddered and shoved them aside.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“Oh?” Victor sipped at his root cola.
“You’ve been in Yoshiwara for a while but never left the Sunset Pagoda, right?” Yuko leaned closer. “I mean, been to any other bars. I like it here too. But it’s a dive. Cheap drinks and cheaper lays. Not much else to offer. Do you want me to show you around?”
“S…sure,” Victor managed.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You seem nervous. More than usual.”
“Just a little stressed,” Victor admitted. “You know the drill.”
“I think everyone is. Did you hear about Sally?”
Victor nodded but did not reply. Yuko’s eyes glimmered with grief, something even he could sense. He looked away, barely able to sustain his own mental stability, let alone—
