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I STARED AT MYSELF in the mirror. Or rather, I gaped at the figure who consequently resembled the person I thought to be myself. Grease paint had been painstakingly applied to my face and neck, stopping at the black, high-necked collar of my shirt, which was tucked into trousers of the same mournful colour. Keane, in his endless generosity, had loaned me a pair of thick socks to go beneath the pair of rubber-soled shoes a size too large. I had drawn the line at darkening my hair for the occasion, and therefore willingly settled for a tight-knit cap one might find at the docks. Overall it was mildly ridiculous, some occurrence of an overactive imagination. I resembled the darkest point of humanity; a common criminal disreputable to the equally common man. We are all thieves in some way. We all wish to steal from society its many failures to better illuminate our few successes. Even the great moralists steal from the rich to improve the salvation of the poor. I was then merely a representation of that belief, and therefore acquired more dignity through my unusual costume than a king in his chains of gold.
A sharp rap shot into the wood door separating the washroom from the spacious hotel room. When I did not answer immediately, Keane thrust his head inside, causing the figure in the mirror to start visibly.
“Good lord, Keane, I thought you were a proper gentleman. What if—what if I had been indisposed?”
“Then you would have shouted to high heaven when I knocked. Are you nearly finished?” The mirror person leaned dangerously close to my face, inspecting the pale slivers of skin still visible just below my eyes.
“I should say so. This blasted stuff really does smell awful though.” My companion gave a sharp bark of sardonic laughter and leaned casually against the doorframe.
“I believe the ‘stuff’, as you so eloquently call it, was made for practicality, not to appease your aromatic senses. Come here for a moment. Your neck and ears are still exposed. Yes, it goes on your ears, though I assure you there is a greater chance of discomfort than actual harm.” Keane took the tin from his pocket, tipped my head back at a precise angle, and began to smear the nasty substance along my skin. It was a thick, slimy affair that would have been quite unbearable if he had not undergone the same ordeal himself. The dark paint had been rubbed completely into his eyebrows and well into his hairline. Our clothes were much the same as well, though his guernsey was tight against his torso, while mine remained loose and unshapen. His gun and holster had been strapped over his left shoulder, while my penknife was safely folded in my pocket. I had offered to carry a second firearm, but it was decided to be unnecessary and impractical.
It also meant I could not shoot Keane if I had half a mind to do so.
Not that I would, of course.
A small amount of water soluble dye had been washed through his hair to conceal the light shades of grey at the temples, turning them soot-dust black. He appeared as a chronically depressed mime, with paint to conceal his expressions rather than encourage them. We could slip into darkness as shadows and not let the shadows follow us. I was; however, extraordinarily pleased that he had not had the damnable stuff on when I informed him of the concealed darkroom, else I was to miss the brief glimpse of shock as it melted gradually into an odd combination of amusement and intrigue. But there was no time for such amusements then.
No time.
That afternoon had been packed full of exchanged information and a few hours of sleep to compensate for those precious nocturnal moments to be missed on that harrowing night. Keane had secured an automobile sometime earlier that day, and, at precisely the stroke of midnight, we leapt into the mechanical steed and started off toward the castle. Our tires trembled over the dodging roads; spotted with rocks and the mutilated corpses of unfortunate animals born without foresight. Twice I feared a punctured tire, but that dutiful little car kept on steadily at Keane’s skillful hands.
Approximately two miles down from our destination, he drove off of the road into a patch of sparse trees (the thin edge of a forest, I thought) and jumped out from behind the wheel. He paused only to grab a canvas bag stained charcoal grey. We pushed the car further into a space that had been cleared that very day, proceeding to line the metal with nature’s discarded shrubbery. It had been agreed we would not light our torches unless it was vitally important to our task. Instead we stayed within arms reach of each other, communicating with brief brushes of our hands rather than endangering ourselves with speech. We were the wavering outline of some childish comic illustration; me with my black little cap and Keane with the sturdy bag slung over his shoulder.
We jogged quickly through the brush, dodging across abandoned streets, and continuing on through the feeble representation of nature’s brethren. Eventually sparce arteries of the city gave way into a clear stretch between us and success. When at last we came half a mile from the enormous house, we realised our deepest fault and stopped immediately.
“Keane, is that . . . music?” My companion leaned forward slightly and winced at the faint blair of overzealous brass.
“I fear so. Appealing, isn’t it?”
“I should say not. What should we do? Turn back? There is tomorrow, I suppose, though I can’t say I relish the thought of having to apply this grease to my person for a second time.”
“We have come too far to retreat.”
“Keane, be logical. We are hardly dressed for a party and our presence—our coalition—would spoil all that we have worked to achieve.” His blackened chin jutted up a bit and he immediately seemed to add another inch to his towering stature.
“You seem to be under the impression I shall be seen. Yes, I. You stay here and—”
“Why can’t I come? As you said, we did come this far.”
“Lawrence, there are over a hundred people at that house; at least half of them armed.”
“Is there more to that statement; because, I am already aware—”
“Damn it, it will be dangerous!” The volume of his voice had not changed, but the sudden burst of intensity threw me back on my heels with a staggering blow. My voice, when at last it came, was exceedingly cool and cold against my throat.
“Say that once more and I shall not only disappear, but do so permanently. Never have I heard such nonsense of my inability to face danger. I am going with you. Or have you forgotten that I know which floor the darkroom is on?” Keane glared down at me with half-lidded eyes, his lips drawn tight in a line until they began to pale into the natural color concealed beneath the grease. Had it been in better lighting, I might have caught the tightening of his spine as his shoulders rolled back defensively; every inch the commanding sailor. But there are consequences to power, and I had named them eagerly and without remorse. Should he push me away, I would leave. His will slackened. My victory was fast coming.
“Very well. But stop wasting imperative time with this idle blather. I assume you feel up to a bit of a climb?”
We stalked forward, staying well into the shadows on the side of the enormous mansion opposite the uproarious party. Dangling above us was a scattered row of windows, many open, with only a few panes of glass shimmering beneath the ominous moon. Keane dropped his bag silently to the soft earth and pulled from it a long stretch of sturdy rope with metal claws sweeping outward at the end. I staggered back a step as he dangled the heavy bit by his legs and swung it up, over his head until it arced through the window frame.
“A grappling hook?” I hissed. “For God’s sake—”
“Only to the second floor. Third at most. Ready? Fine, now up you go.” I dug the toe of my left boot into the building’s brick exterior, pushed quickly, and managed to get both feet jammed into the wall with minimal effort. It really wasn’t much of a climb, but the process was excruciatingly tedious. With each step I was forced to let go of the rope with one hand and swing my arm up a ways before grabbing hold once more. More than once I had to consciously force the muscles of my hands to open and allow me to dangle dangerously above the ground. When at last I scrambled over the window frame, crouching painfully on the polished floors, the rope grew taunt once more. It did not take long for Keane to scale the building, though I dared to glance down from my safe perch a few times to check his progress.
Damn the man.
Of course he made it look effortless.
In no time at all, he was sliding his long legs through the window frame and pulling the rope up after him, winding it skillfully into a heavy coil before shoving it into the bag and slinging the entire bundle over his shoulder with an exasperated glance in my direction.
“By God, Lawrence, stop that staring and start moving.” We cautiously began our ascent up several flights of stairs; our footsteps giving a far gentler titter than what was natural. No mortal man had yet become aware of our presence as we reached that long hallway. I recognised it at once, the paintings ever so slightly more majestic than the others. Oak doors appeared every now and again between the paintings, but, as with my first visit to this particular floor, I had not paid them much heed.
And then it struck me that perhaps I ought to have noticed.
“I . . . I think it is a bit further down. Further. Yes. No. Oh, I should have marked it. What a foolish thing not to at least memorize which painting it was near. I wish I had bothered to do that much.” My companion’s answer came over his shoulder as he ran his fingers along the wall in search of a fault when there was none.
“If wishing made it so, the world would not have need for well-kept minds. You said the butler fell into the wall. That would create scratches to the floor, would it not? But look, there are none. Barker’s staff have cleaned them away as assuredly as they would have a smudge of lipstick to the wall papering. Those with any sense would have discovered our plot immediately. There now, stop that blasted self reflection and—” Keane pushed himself back from the wall with a flicker of satisfaction before ramming his shoulder into the yellow paper. The same eerie growl erupted around my ears, forcing me back with fists high in horrid fear we might have awakened one of the monsters below. But ours was not above a whisper in comparison to the roaring music outside or the flat mimicry of a phonograph some floors down. As the hidden doorway lurched forward further, my companion settled his gloved hands at shoulder width across the panel, tested the weight, and opted for a sturdy push with his right arm. The door swung forwards into the darkness. He did not stagger back, but he did pause for an instant with childish wonder before lurching to life and thrusting himself into the darkness. Here he again made a full turn of the room with his illuminating torch. No doubt our presence caused the ruin of a hundred photographs in that moment, but that was the point. Wasn’t it? Had our very lives not been teetering in the balance of our actions, I might have expected Keane to let out a low whistle as he examined the drawers and glanced at the enormous safe. As compensation, he whispered while he sized up the metal jail of all things sentimental and compromising.
“My God, all these souls captured by that man’s greed. How many men died with his hand to their throat? Lawrence, I have made an unforgivable blunder. I have underestimated your words to believe these great masses were only a few boxes easily disposed from the earth.”
“We can return some other time. We can liberate the others once Harrison is safe. We can—”
“—We cannot. How could we know what a wonderful thing it is to be safe while others lay in deathly petrol? No, Lawrence, we must act now and quickly.” Keane dropped his ear to the safe’s surface and silently began the tedious task of spinning the dial back and forth until the mechanism announced it was time to move the other way. I feared my thudding might spoil his work, but it did not. He pulled the door open and came face to face with shelves and shelves of letters and envelopes bound with string and ribbon alike. With a great sweep of his arms, he began knocking the piles to the floor, covering the wooden panels with misdeeds held woefully above man. In his example I took to the photographs, adding them atop the letters without care to where they landed. Surely these would not fit into Keane’s canvas sack. They would not fit into a dozen similar bags. Soon, all the papers and sins had piled upwards to our calves; a pure snow created from evaporated murk. Keane shoved me out into the hall before dumping the trays of chemicals, once used for the development of man’s horrid deeds, out upon the white. In moments he was beside me on that marble floor and shoving a cloth into my hands.
“Over your mouth and nose.” He demanded curtly as he grabbed one of the chemical stained letters from the top of the loathsome stack and brought an inexpensive lighter out from his pockets. I started.
“Keane, you can’t be serious.” But, by God he was. The well-mannered little flame sprang up with life along the paper’s edge. He worked from back to front until a great monster billowed before us; belching thick, black smoke as the man with the cigar had done upon our arrival. Was that man one of Dragna’s men as well? Suddenly a hand was on my arm, dragging me along the hall until my feet remembered the great thrill of running. But we were not running away. No, this was not a retreat.
This was to be a victory.
Down the stairs we flew, lower and lower. We must have been on the second or third floor when the first gasps of fire started up among the servants. But there was nothing to be done. The great orange flames spread faster than either Keane or I might have imagined, clawing along the papered walls; swallowing the paintings, and grinding along the floors. Rugs sprang into forests of smoke. Doors became fringed with an unnatural glow. Even the great tiles became black and charred, soon to be nothing but pieces of the past.
We reached the first floor when we first heard it; that great wine of strength easing from an old man’s bones. It came slowly but grew louder until it was a scream not to be ignored. Keane dragged me by the arm to the nearest window where one could see automobiles filled with horrified guests retreating in dark veins of death against the smokey sky. I nearly grabbed for my companion’s collar as he leaned far out of the wooden frame. When he threw himself back to our side, he held my shoulders tightly and pulled my face to catch his.
“We have to jump.” He shouted above the growing screams and moans. I tried to pull back from his grasp, but he held me all the tighter by the one opening between life and death. The flames were behind us now, so close I could feel their heat singing the skin of my hands and melting the grease from my face. I watched the lethal fingers claw upwards toward the electric lights and further through the wall toward the lines. But what lines were these? Surely not—oh God—
“Listen to me, Lawrence, we must jump. The shrubbery will break our fall.” That wasn’t what I was concerned about breaking, and the arm at my back, turning my face down into the darkness did nothing to steady my throbbing nerves. “With me, Lawrence. One . . . Two—”
A sharp smack to the back of my head strangled whatever chances of hearing the announcement of the third number . . . had there been an announcement. My body was suddenly swallowed up in a singeing heat and I had the vague recollection of an enormous hand hoisting me up by the collar and flinging me forward into the world, just as assuredly as I was to be taken from it.
I began to fall.
––––––––
I CAME TO IN IMAGES; stages mauled and clouded by a battered brain and eyes unwilling to bear witness to any more destruction. Eventually I became aware of a few distinct factors.
I was lying on my back.
Someone was leaning over me.
And we were moving fast.
I must have announced the coming of my conscious state—a none so subtle curse, no doubt—that made the figure over me chuckle dryly just as a shower of painful shards fell upon my sorry form. I recoiled automatically and awoke, for the most part, immediately. But a hand—no, an arm—pinned me down.
And, of course, I fought it . . . until the moral screech of an oncoming bullet whizzed past my ear. I shouted then, and was suddenly aware I was shouting for Keane. Greater still was the realisation it was indeed his arm I was fighting to defy.
“Quiet, Lawrence. By God, I knew you had a fine pair of lungs but this is not the time. No, don’t sit up. Can you turn around a bit?” It was excruciatingly painful to do so, but I managed to roll onto my side and make more room for Keane to face the back of the automobile and aim something out of the rear window. His pistol. It was then, through the shattered glass, that I saw the faces; faces carved from a stone’s anger and glowing with the eternal fires of Hell. A burly man had been shoved behind the wheel, while Sam Barker, worse for wear and charred by ash, leaned out of the window with something oddly metallic and—
BANG!
Something flew through the metal through one of the side windows only milliseconds after Keane dove down on top of me in a hurl of shouting toward the front.
“We need to lose them!” I wrenched my neck up to catch the driver’s face and found the infamous Meyer Cohen twirling the wheel between his hands.
“Can’t go much faster than this.” He huffed, screeching around a turn. “Already pushing ninety-four.” At that very instant, something that vaguely resembled an explosion erupted below us and the roaring ninety-four immediately dropped to a depressing zero. Cohen was the first one out of the automobile and dodging into the alley. Keane was second and dragged me into a close third; firing every so often behind us. It occured to me that Sam Barker was the only one at our backs. He was the only man to represent Jack Dragna, who, though I myself had never met the man, had become our adversary. Our advantage lengthened gradually, or victory eminent . . . until—
BANG!
I was shoved behind a stack of crates just in time to see Keane’s body jerk and fall to the ground in a pool of blood near his head. The world stopped dead only for my life to return in a blazing force. In a deaf shriek of adrenaline, I threw Barker to the ground in a flying tackle, knocking the gun out of his hand and against the cold ground. I worked rhythmically, pounding my clenched fists into his chest and face without noticing the crimson blood pooling over my knuckles. The pain in my body gave way to strength. I continued harder—maddly—until the young millionaire was barely conscious. It was then I took up the gun and aimed it down at his fogged eyes.
“You shot him.” My voice was cold and dangerously foreign to my ears. “You shot him. You sent a man to kill us when we arrived and, when that didn’t work, you shot him.”
“Look behind you. I missed. He’s fine.” It was true. I knew it was true. I heard Keane’s steady breathing behind me as he slowly rose to his feet; the red puddle turning black and oily in my vision where grease had been smeared from my companion’s face. But I didn’t care. I could see it as clearly as though it had already occurred. The deep crimson red of his blood coating the street in rust. It made my stomach turn, but he had not shot Keane. The bullet had missed.
But he could have killed him.
It could have left him contorted and cold against the stones. Still. Silent. Dead. But Barker had not shot him. He had missed. Like Michael, he had missed. And yet, even my companion’s resonant voice did not pull me from the abyss into which I was gradually sinking.
“Lawrence, you do not want to do this.”
I did, in fact, want to do it. I wanted to give the dangers we had faced some finality. I wanted to give all those lives he had ruined some salvation beyond the mere knowledge his hold was destroyed. As by God’s own omnipotence, the first solemn yelps of a police squadron entered into the world, approaching steadily. But it was Keane—a man who, in himself, could be considered omnipotent—who fished together the bruised edges of my conscience. His hand, long and dry, rested lightly on my shoulder. Were I able to feel the presence of my guardian angel, I would have thought it very much the same. The fingers brushed at my collar bone as his voice appeared; thick with an emotion I was unable to understand.
“Joanna.”
The gun fell from my hand, and with it, my desire for revenge. Sam Barker was arrested, just as Leslie McCormic and Devon English disappeared from the world.