Chapter Twenty-Seven

“I’m going with you, Brendan.” Ginny spoke the words in that determined way of hers, the one Brendan had already learned meant she had to have her way.

Fine in bed, that. Not so good in daily life.

Focused on the task of flagging down another steamcab in front of the police station, he ignored her. Hell, he should have had the first driver wait after all. Now all the traffic that usually traveled round the block had melted away, and frustration gnawed at him.

Frustration and another emotion he didn’t like to acknowledge—dread. Or maybe it was horror. He didn’t like the prospect of facing that monster Mason again.

And monster he was.

Brendan thought about the man as he’d last seen him—mechanically enhanced and surely beyond mad, with his black hair and dead-white skin. All this time Brendan had believed him safely put away but never suspected it was right here in this city. His city. He remembered his terror that night when Charles and Mason had held him and Liam McMahon prisoner, the paralyzing fear of being strapped to a metal table, and the terrible sounds when the hybrid steamies turned on their makers. He might not be afraid of much—prided himself on it; truth be told, he feared Mason.

“Brendan?” He realized Ginny must have repeated his name more than once. “Are you all right?”

He looked at her blankly. “Sure, save I can’t seem to spy a fecking cab.”

“Listen to me.” Her beautiful dark eyes engaged and held his. “You’re just going to this place, asking questions. They might not let you see the madman.”

He tried to speak; no words came.

Ginny clutched his good arm. “I can imagine how this must feel—how awful that night must have been.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever have to face him again. Assess him, Addelforce said.”

“He’s still safely locked away.”

“Until they decide it’s a good idea to let him out to rebuild his own hybrid automaton. I’ll have to see him then, won’t I?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Still, if he can save Pat…”

“Aye.” There was that. Pat Kelly could be lost, one of the best men—human or automaton—Brendan knew. He drew a breath. “You’re right. But no doubt Mason’s so far gone he won’t be able to help.”

What then, eh?

The paper in his hand, signed by the mayor, was an official request to the administrator of the Forest Avenue asylum. Brendan had no choice but to deliver it.

“Thank God.” A cab approached at last—a shabby dark vehicle drawn by an aged horse. Brendan flagged it down. “Thank you for your words of support, Ginny, but I’ll not take you to that place. We’ll go by your house on the way and drop you there.”

“I’m going with you,” she told him as she climbed into the malodorous interior of the cab. “And that’s an end to it.”

****

Mr. Richardson’s grand building on Forest Avenue possessed an imposing profile and a grim aspect even though as a facility it was lauded as modern and state of the art. Brendan didn’t pass it often; when he did it never failed to send a chill up his spine.

Now, with all his Irish blood up, he wondered if that had been because he’d sensed Mason’s presence all the while. As they climbed from the cab and stood on the curb looking at the place, he swore he could feel the monster’s malevolence.

Built in the Romanesque style, the asylum offered the latest in care and comfort to those housed inside. Dr. Thomas Story Kirkbride, a pioneer in the field of mental health, had commissioned Richardson to build the facility and intended it as a great improvement over the many nightmarish hospitals and virtual prisons that dotted the city. Some folks, as Brendan well knew, kept afflicted family members in their attics, shut away from the world. He assured himself this must be better.

“My goodness,” said Ginny. “What an impressive place.”

“Aye.”

She threaded her fingers through his. “Come.”

Brendan stood rooted where he was.

“That night…that awful night…I was sure Mason was dead. The hybrids were so violent; there was so much blood. I only found out later they both survived—him and Charles. I hoped I’d never see him again.”

“This place looks very secure. He’ll not get out on his own.”

“I’m not worried about him getting out on his own.”

Inside, the facility proved well kept. They found Robert Dunner’s office on the ground floor, and the man came forward immediately to greet them. Of mature years, with silvered hair and wearing an expensive-looking pince-nez, he invited them to sit down before perusing the mayor’s communiqué with great attention.

When he finished, he laid the paper down and regarded Brendan with serious, dark eyes.

“Shocking, what is going on in this city. Just shocking. These last weeks I have followed the reports with some interest—murders, attacks, uprisings. And now this. I’ve heard of this Patrick Kelly, very highly thought of, as this missive proves.”

“He is that,” Brendan agreed.

Dunner sat back. “Is he not also the leader of this movement for automaton rights?”

“He’s leader of the official movement, yes. There seem to be a lot of factions, not all of them as peaceful as that run by Officer Kelly. Obviously some of them have been acting on their own. The department has not yet been able to get to the bottom of it.”

“Officer Kelly,” Dunner repeated with some emphasis. “He is, of course, a machine.”

Brendan stiffened, and felt Ginny twitch in the chair at his side.

“Pardon me, sir, but he’s much more than that.”

“Ah, yes. A member of this famed Irish Squad, so I understand—set up to be admired and encouraged to have delusions about themselves.”

Brendan leaned forward, ignoring the protest from his fractured ribs. “Pat Kelly’s a talented police officer, a valued member of the force, and a good person. He has a wife and a place in this community.”

Dunner tapped the mayor’s letter. “Still, it seems, regarding what has befallen him, he may have got what he deserves.”

Brendan felt like he’d been punched in the gut, busted ribs and all. “Now look here,” he began.

“No, you look, Officer, and listen. This city has turned dangerous because people like you have given license to machines—I repeat, to machines—and prompted them to have ideas above themselves. Officer, I am a psychiatrist as well as the director of this facility—a doctor first. I deal every day with the rehabilitation of diseased minds. The last thing that’s needed is yet another group angling for dominance.”

“Not dominance, sir,” Brendan said. “They just want a place…”

“And you are a sympathizer.” Dunner’s gaze flicked to Ginny and back to Brendan. Obviously he didn’t recognize her. “How did you sustain those injuries, Officer?”

“The riot in the Park, sir.”

“I suspected as much. And did that teach you nothing about the danger in which this city now lies? The mayor argues for Patrick Kelly as a voice of reason needing to be heard in the current plague of unrest. I say he is an obstacle best removed.”

“So…” Brendan’s nostrils flared. “You would like to see the movement crushed.”

“I would like to see the automatons take their intended places. They are mechanical devices, even the best of them. Not above two months ago, the most sophisticated among them beat their creator—a respected doctor—to death in front of hundreds of witnesses. They have no conscience, no compassion, no inherent decency.”

“I don’t accept that, sir. I will never believe it.”

“Then, Officer, you are indeed a sympathizer in a dangerous cause.” Dunner tossed the letter back across the table. “You can take that to the mayor and tell him I refuse to risk the welfare of my patient for the sake of a pile of nuts and bolts.”

“Nuts and bolts.” Brendan thought of Pat Kelly sitting with his glass of whiskey, coming over all Irish, thought of his sense of humor. He remembered the look in Rose Kelly’s eyes when she looked at her husband.

He fought to discipline his anger. Losing his temper would get him nowhere.

“But sir, I’ve been sent to ascertain the condition of your patient. Surely you can tell me that.”

“He has good days and bad days.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“On the good days he is very nearly rational. On the bad days he rages and attacks the walls of his room. We have to strap him down. But he is improving, and the periods of heavy sedation are much less frequent than they were.”

“I see.” Talk about someone getting what he deserved…

“Please tell the mayor that, in my opinion, Mr. Mason is not sufficiently recovered to perform the task he requests—rebuilding a hybrid automaton.”

“I will, sir, yes.”

Brendan stumbled to his feet. He must be much more debilitated by his injuries than he’d thought, because he swayed for a moment. Ginny steadied him with her arm beneath his.

Dunner tapped his desk. “You mark my words, Officer—this city will have no peace till those machines assume their rightful places.”

Brendan tended to agree, without agreeing what those rightful places were.

****

“You stand here while I flag down a cab.” Ginny placed Brendan’s good hand on the post of the iron railing in front of the asylum. She didn’t like the look of him, pale as milk beneath his tan and clearly shaken. What had it taken for him to go in there?

“Ah, we should have asked that last fellow to wait. I’m not thinking clearly, lass. Not sure what’s wrong with me.”

“Concussion, no doubt.” And she hadn’t helped a bit by taking advantage of him in her bed. She should have thought instead of felt. Trouble was Brendan Fagan tended to make her feel.

She managed to snag a steamcab around the corner on Delaware Avenue and waved it to the place where Brendan waited, his very obedience a concern. Dismissing her aversion to the vehicle, she thrust him inside.

“Where to, miss?”

“Where, Brendan?”

“Back to the station. I have to give Captain Addelforce the news. He can inform the mayor.”

Ginny bit her lips. “We could send word. I think you’re better off at home.”

“I’m on duty, lass.”

“You’re not.”

“Well?” The driver cocked a brow.

“To the station,” Ginny decided. “Then we’ll go inquire about Pat.”

Brendan remained quiet on his way downtown, far too quiet, in Ginny’s opinion. Snuggling closer to his good shoulder, she inquired, “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing. I’m just…Pat saved my life that night, Ginny.”

“So you said.”

“And I’ve failed to return the favor.”

“Not yet, you haven’t. Nothing’s saying they can’t revive him.”

But when they arrived at the station, they found the place in chaos, officers standing around in small groups and no one at his post.

“What’s going on?” Brendan asked the man nearest the door.

“Word just came, Brendan. The automatons managed to get Pat going, but his intelligence is wrecked. They’re trying to decide whether to shut him down again.”