Sacred Lancers
This is the first squad of minis I’ve painted in a long time. They have very dynamic poses, so I spend a bit of extra time building the bases to raise them up and accentuate the silhouette.
The colour of the armour was achieved by glazing from an ochre brown to a cream through desert yellow. I wanted the cloth to look like a rich velvet, so I applied the highlights with some stippled pattern. The gold is Green Stuff World's Antique Gold Metal Pigment, which it the best-looking metallic gold I have come across.
I rarely do freehand work, and I spent quite a while trying to figure out what to paint on the battle standard. I was playing the video game Pentiment at the time, in which the main character is a medieval manuscript artist, so I combined religious illumination with the autumnal look to add some storytelling about these holy knights.
Cloth:
Texture/Stipple
- GC Gory Red + GW Rhinox Hide + Black
- GC Gory Red
- + MC Dark Vermillion
- MC Vermillion
- GW Wild Rider Red
Leather:
- GW Rhinox Hide + Black
- GW Rhinox Hide
- GW Dryad Bark
- + MA Sand
Horse Blanket:
- MC German C. Black Brown
- GW Baneblade Brown
- GW Rakarth Flesh
Armour:
Glaze
- MC Flat Earth
- MC Desert Yellow
- GC Elfic Flesh
Horse:
Line brushstrokes for horse hair texture
- Black + GW Rhinox Hide
- GW Rhinox Hide
- + GW Mournfang Brown
- + MC Ochre Brown
- Add in some MA Aged White for a final highlight of the mane
Skin:
- GWDryad Bark + GW Bugman's Glow
- + GW Cadian Fleshtone
- GW Cadian Fleshtone
Hooves/Book Pages:
- GW Rakarth Flesh
- GW Pallid Wych Flesh
- White
Fetlocks:
- MC German C. Beige WWII
- GC Bonewhite
- MA Aged White
Gold:
- Vallejo Metal Color Gold + GSW Pure Metal Pigments Gold
Base
Gravel:
Drybrush
- MC German C. Black Brown
- GW Steel Legion Drab
- GW Baneblade Brown
- GW Karak Stone
Rocks:
Drybrush
- MC German C. Black Brown
- + MC Flat Earth
- MC German C. Beige WWII
- GW Rakarth Flesh
Standard
Background:
- MC German C. Black Brown
- GW Steel Legion Drab
- GW Tallaran Sand
- GW Karak Stone
- GW Screaming Skull
Illumination:
"Lauda Domainae Autumni: Ea lux est Mori" - Praise the Lady of Autumn. She is the dying light.
- Gold: MC German C. Black Brown, MC Desert Yellow, GC Elfic Flesh
- Blue: MC Royal Blue, + GC Elfic Flesh
- Red: MC Dark Vemillion
- Red leaves: GW Doombull Brown, + MC Ochre Brown, + MC Ivory
Illustration:
- Dress: GW Word Bearers Red, MC Dark Vermillion, GW Wild Rider Red
- Hair: GW Rhinox Hide + GW Mournfang Brown, MC Ochre Brown
- Leaves: MC Ochre Brown, + MC Ivory
- Skin: GW Karak Stone + MC Sunny Skin Tone + MC Light Flesh, MC Light Flesh
- Background: White, + GW Fire Dragon Bright, + MC Flat Earth, MC Flat Earth
Paint Brands:
- GW – Games Workshop
- GSW - Green Stuff World
- MA – Vallejo Model Air
- MC - Vallejo Model Color
- GC - Vallejo Game Color
A Long Last Good Night
It rained that day. Black umbrellas held aloft at the graveside would have been appropriate; but there were none. The pallbearers thought it odd, but remained silent. The casket was lowered into the empty ground, the wet soil piled atop. The diggers departed and the slab of grey stone was left alone; nameless. That too was odd; its brethren had always borne the names of their wards, a quote or some dates at least. The faceless stone imposed, but did not invite query.
A watcher leaned against a tree a few rows away. This at least was expected. The figure wore a hat, of course, and the ascribed trench coat; inconspicuous, though there was no one there to notice.
The Anchor had been set; it was in motion now. The watcher departed and dissolved into the rain sheet evening. There was much to be done.
* * *
By dusk, the rain had stopped, and the fog-stained city streets bloomed with the flash and hiss of igniting lampposts. These streets were unfamiliar, though that mattered little; it was always a city, in one form or another, and there were certain constants that could be relied upon.
One last night in the old town. That’s how it always went. But this time, it wasn’t just empty words. He had made a decision, back in the graveyard; a decision he had made long before. A decision he was still making. A siren screamed passed; piercing the veil of the quickly quietening streets. Doors opened and closed, frenetic energy briefly let to escape.
He sauntered through a lamp-lit square; conveniently empty. Yes, this seemed about right. If any lamp were to flicker or unexpectedly go out, he was ready. This time however, a nearby payphone started to ring. He scooped up the receiver and held it to his ear – an automated message, on loop. Someone approached; he brushed them off, gesturing vaguely to the next phone in the row. He watched them hurriedly cross the road and loiter in a shadow where they thought themselves unseen.
He returned his attention to the voice in the other end of the line. Shipping news: a coming storm, wind speed and directions, coordinates. He pulled a pencil and notepad from the recesses of his coat and began scribbling, letting the message loop several times. It didn’t take him long to break the code; he’d been through this sort of thing often enough before. 50 Black Wharf, Dockside.
It was a cheap move, but he didn’t have time for the usual messing around; a cypher on a corpse or an overheard code word in a bar. Probably connected to that figure watching him from across the street.
Play by the rules. But no-one would notice if he was two moves ahead.
* * *
Men with shadowed faces met at the dockside. One held the presence of the sea, newly ashore from the nearby Vessel. A trawler, sitting heavy at anchor, with too many men on deck and no sign of their haul.
The other wore a tailored pinstripe suit; patent Oxfords that shone even in the dim light of the wharf. He had arrived by car, black to match his shoes and chrome to match their sheen. His four associates stood motionless around the vehicle, with an air of those ready to act definitively; violently.
An unseen listener, hidden perhaps amongst the netting on a deck further down the pier, might have heard part of their discussion as the pair strolled along the dock. Pinstripe was talking, “…all of it is inconsequential if you don’t have the package. That your boss may act as he does is at the discretion of my employer, and he will look very dimly on things if it is not delivered.”
“Well of course, Mr. D’Angelo is just as much of a businessman as your employer is. The package has been brought to him nice and safe, see. It will be exchanged at the appointed time, and no sooner. This deal”-he gestured toward the Vessel-“must be completed first. Our buyers are waiting impatiently.”
Match light reflected on across the polished leather shoes as their owner lit a cigarette, tossing the matchbook aside, where it came to rest with an edge peering out from under a tarp. The perfect place for an attentive investigator to find it later. He took a long draw, and turned slowly to the other.
“I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation. If my employer does not receive the package by the time this night is over, your boss, you, and this whole sad little empire are done for.” He departed quickly, leaving the conversation hanging in the still air.
The seafaring man stood rooted in place for a time. He swallowed hard, then beckoned to a nearby associate. “Send four boys over to the restaurant. Make sure that Mr. D’Angelo has gotten the package we sent over earlier. Don’t let them leave it out of their sight.” He hurried away down the pier.
A form dropped over the gunnel of the nearby boat, just one more moving shadow in the night. He bent and retrieved the matchbook. The Velvet Lounge - a clue. Leading to another, and another; a tangled yarn for him to unravel. He was supposed to find it once the docks were quiet, and the Vessel long gone. Another loose end; unresolved, forever. But he was here now. There was a hiss as the match dragged and sparked, and a simple flick of finger against thumb carried the lighted match towards the drums of diesel. The Vessel’s deck caught quickly as the tails of a trench coat swept into the night.
* * *
He stood on the parapet of the old clock tower, high above the city’s streets. A podium was being assembled in the park below. Toy cars and distant lives, all moving ceaselessly. A place he had never known, but echoed with everywhere he had ever been. It all seemed so far away from up here; intangible.
He leaned against the edge, looking down. It would be so easy to end this sorry tale right now and leave everyone unsatisfied. It wasn’t in his nature; he had so much left to do. But tonight would have an ending, he would see to that if he could. He turned and went inside.
The room was silent, but for the sound of the past. Each cog and gear a piece of history; each tooth a moment, a memory. Different days, different worlds. All turning diligently but getting nowhere. At the mechanism’s centre, the Toll. It hung still, waiting to claim another hour. It would sound but few more times.
He stood motionless, recalling every effort, every futility. It moved all around him; a fixed point. He wasn’t breathing. If he focussed, he could push one staccato breath into his lungs. Eventually, another, and another, until finally he no longer had to think about it. Spears of city light broke through the clock’s translucent face, the shadowed hours projected across the turnings of time.
He picked up a nearby sledgehammer, and hefted it, accepting the weight. He strode forward purposefully, towards the largest flywheel, hammer raised. The gear remained seated, but the blow had struck true against one of the teeth, shattering it.
Midnight; appropriate.
* * *
A diner, or a street-side cafe perhaps; somewhere with people, but not too many. The hour between evening and night, when everyone was done with work and returning to life. It had a long counter, of course, with swivel stools and a waitress patrolling, coffee pot in hand. To one side, a television played the news, muted. An apartment fire, gas explosion; 13 dead. The patrons ate their chocolate cake and apple pie, the sweet hum of socialising harmonized with the jukebox in the corner.
The door swung open and a young woman entered. She did not intrude, but carried herself with a quiet confidence. She sat at the counter, eyes closed for a moment as she shed the weight of the world.
Some deft manipulation of a fastener brought her hair down over her shoulders. She held a cigarette to her lips with her right hand as her left searched her purse. A flame ignited and completed the task, the match’s owner withdrawing it before setting his own cigar to trail a line of smoke upwards.
He didn’t normally smoke, but it was an assumed trapping of the setting. He took a drag before speaking.
“I’m not supposed to be here.” Mysterious; perfect. It fit the tone at least, even if everything else was wrong.
She gave him an intrigued glance, a genuine laugh, and turned to order coffee.
“I guess it’s up to you to decide where you’re supposed to be.”
He was caught off-guard by this, hiding it as best he could behind a gulp of coffee, as she watched sidelong, smiling.
He spotted the gold-lettered shopping bag by her side, newly-bought dress visible within. She was supposed to be a corpse wearing it later; that’s how these things usually went. Just another piece of the web he was meant to unravel.
Act casual. “Plans for tonight? I’m new in town, and it seems the city’s in a partying mood.”
“Of course. It’s New Year’s, every club and bar will be hopping shortly.”
“Any recommendations?”
She turned to face him, picking out his details. He hadn’t seen himself in a mirror yet.
“You don’t look like a reveller, or a tourist.”
“I’m… working. But I may get the chance to enjoy myself along the way.” He hated having to lie to her.
She took a breath of her coffee, considering. The scent revitalized her even before the cup touched her lips.
“Well, I’m meeting friends for drinks, and the Parade afterwards. That should be exciting! And of course the Mayor’s Speech should be worth seeing. The firework display’s at the end of the night, you might enjoy that”
The pair sat in silence then, each appraising their positions, each sipping their coffee. He spoke first.
“And if this was your last night? Where would you go?”
Three pretty blinks as she re-focused, considering the question earnestly.
“The Lovers’ Bench in Highgate Park. Above it all; you can see the stars hanging over the city’s glow, and the lights and cars are moving stars below.”
“Then perhaps I’ll meet you there, before this night is through.”
He’d stayed too long, he had to go. He downed his coffee and donned his hat.
She was worth it.
* * *
The streets were busy again, in ebbs and flows. There was a sense of eager urgency; everyone wanted to be elsewhere. He passed hoardings plastered with flyers; any free surface. Layer-upon-layer, all askew. Many had already begun to peel. “Re-elect Kimble”; “The Fantastic New Year’s Eve Parade”; interspersed with the usual collection of adverts and distractions. A whole block of eviction notices. An old man on the corner preached doom; a raucous crowd too early drunk stumbled along the sidewalk. He reached into the pocket of his coat, retrieving a card, a key. He had been given an office, this time.
A woman was already waiting when he entered. The shutter-split neon dappled off every shift of her silk gown. She turned from the window, a picture of temptation. Her lips were deep blood red, of course; her hair executed to perfection.
“Solomon Knight?”
He sighed. “That’s what the sign on the door says.” A cruel joke at his expense.
“I need your help.” An honest request; the siren’s call. But he always helped. It would come back to haunt him later on; he knew that. He gestured to the couch as he took his place behind the old desk. She sat meek, plaintive.
“My husband is missing and I don’t know what to do. I heard you’re the best, and I have nowhere else to turn. Can you find him?”
She wasn’t even wearing her wedding ring. He played along. “Husband?”
Layla DuBois began her long explanation of their troubles and misfortunes, his poor choices and efforts to turn things around; doing her damnedest to squeeze every drop of sympathy out of her story. He wasn’t listening. It was meant to set into motion this whole tired charade, but he was already well passed that.
“What was he looking for?”
She was taken aback, but regained her composure quickly, the slip of the mask barely noticeable. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean? My husband is missing and I fear something terrible has happened to him.”
Some information, but not too much; just enough to get to what he needed. “There is some thing in the city – a package, an item, that certain people are interested in. Dangerous people. You sent your husband to get it, but he hasn’t returned, so you sought me out to get involved.”
The deer-in-the-headlights was no more. A slight shift of the back and shoulders, and she was lounging on the couch.
“You mind if I smoke?” The silver-chased cigarette case was already halfway open before she had finished asking. She balanced the cigarette holder delicately between two fingers and took a drag. She pointed at him, the gesture tapping ash onto the floor.
“You’re better than I had heard, Mr. Knight. Already on the case. I do know how to choose my men.”
“I didn’t say I’d take the case. But let’s say I did, what would I be looking for?”
“A family heirloom, of great personal importance to me.” The lie was seamless, but he had to give credit to her improvisation. “It has been lost for many years, but now it seems it has resurfaced and returned to the city. I really don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.”
He hoped his silence would prompt her to continue; it did not. She smoked nonchalantly; drew a compact mirror to check the set of her hair.
“Alright, so what is it?”
She smirked; she had him. “Oh that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” She tipped the cigarette holder, finding the ashtray this time. It’s called the Windrose; kept in a box, similar to a cigar box, but square. Brass fittings and inlay. It’s unique; you’ll know it if you see it.”
He committed the description to memory. Finding it was a vital part of the resolution.
“You know he’s probably dead, right?”
She nodded, resigned. “It’s certainly a possibility. Shame; we had some fun together. But I can always find another.”
He stood, door in hand. He’d had enough of her company. “Don’t let me detain you, Ms. DuBois. Tonight is a celebration, after all, and I’m sure you have places to be. I assume we’ll meet each other again along the way.”
She gathered her things, paused in front of him; sizing him up. “So you’ll find it for me? I’m certain you’ll do a good job, Mr. Knight.”
She let her hand brush against his as she pulled the door out behind her.
“Well I don’t have a say in the matter.” But the empty room had no remark to offer.
He sat at the desk, thinking. He could see the shape of things now, clearly. He’d been lost in this empty cycle, doing what he could; doing it because it was all he could do. But there was no winning. He had so much more to do; and so much was chance, despite his efforts. He couldn’t think about that now, lest it overwhelm him. He had chosen a course, and had to see it through.
His eyes glazed over; he could feel the exhaustion dragging at his legs, setting root in his brain. He went next door to the bathroom and lowered his head to the sink, cupped hands delivering a blast of ice water to his face. He glanced up, and caught sight of himself in the mirror. Shadow-sunken eyes, a heavy dusting of stubble. Christ, it aged him. He was a young man still, under it all, though he had seen much in his time. Time lost. But the cost would be worth it, if he had his way.
* * *
D’Angelo’s was a family restaurant. The sort of family that did more than just serve the best of home cooking to hungry customers. It was a place that had started small, but expanded over time thanks to surprising good fortune, and the need to provide private dining to its more discerning patrons. They were still serving, and he managed to find a spot in the corner that gave him a good view of the comings and goings.
Not much action; the crowd had moved on. But there was still useful information to be found here – knowledge that would keep him ahead of the game. The waiter deposited a menu and basket of bread on the table, then returned to lounging by the front desk. The remaining diners showed little enthusiasm, some tepid attempts at conversation as food was languidly consumed. Making sure he wasn’t drawing undue attention, he rose and sought the men’s room. An unobtrusive door in the back of the main dining room, up stairs, through turns and corridors, occasionally signposted. Easy to get lost; perfect.
He breezed past a Staff Only sign, up another flight of stairs; pressed against a wall and leaned around a corner to make sure he wasn’t going to walk into any of D’Angelo’s men. The classic approach. The floor was dark, quiet – it wasn’t a night for desk work, and no-one would be stupid enough to break into the offices of someone with the D’Angelo family’s reputation.
He found his way by second-hand streetlight, diffracted through the frosted glass panes of the office doors. Mr. D’Angelo’s office stood apart from the rest, armchairs in the hall to accommodate visitors, or security. The door was locked, of course, but he navigated the mechanism with practiced technique.
The room was exactly what he expected: wood-panelled walls, deep leather furniture, a heavy hardwood desk dominating the space. A liquor cabinet stood against the wall to one side, an ornate painting hanging over it. Inviting anyone with even the slightest instinct for such things to investigate. He ran his fingers along the underside of the frame, unsurprised by the quiet click as the painting swung smoothly outwards. The safe was locked, obviously.
He stood for several minutes, regarding it. The thing taunted him; urging him to interfere. He could waste his night here, attempting to get it open. No; he knew enough of misdirected effort. The Windrose wouldn’t be inside. He had other avenues to pursue.
He went to the desk and leafed through the documents and folders piled to one side. Quite a portfolio for a humble restaurant owner. Mr. D’Angelo had interests across the city; all legitimate, certainly – everything else would never show up on paper. Construction seemed to be a particularly profitable industry, with a stack of recent contracts for a lucrative project. The Millstone Mile redevelopment, all bearing the approval of City Hall. Mr. D’Angelo clearly had friends in high places. The drawers contained the usual assortment of stationary, cigars, a revolver with a handful of loose shells rattling around. Nothing else in the office drew his interest.
Ensuring that everything was as he had found it, he made his way back through the warren of stairways and corridors. The door to the kitchen was ajar, and he could just make out a couple of not-so-wise guys shooting the breeze within. With an occasional glance around to make sure no-one was coming up behind him, he leaned against the frame and sighted the sliver of room visible beyond.
“You ain’t afraid of him Joey? He’s just a suit.”
“A suit who’s business is killing.”
“I mean, our business is kinda killing.”
“No, we kill so we can do business. This guy’s a real pro-fuckin’-fessional, art of the kill kinda psycho. Chen’s heart attack? That was this guy’s work.”
There was a pause, as if the speaker was leaning in conspiratorially, but his whisper was all theatrics and no subtly.
“You see the news this evening, the big fire? I’m just sayin’, one of them that burnt to death was a big pain in the ass for this guy’s employer.”
“Then why’s the boss doin’ business with him? Him and his employer?”
“The boss knows what he’s doing. If it wasn’t for this shitshow at the docks everything would be going according to plan. You better watch yourself, questioning the boss like that.”
“Hey, no disrespecting the boss. I’m just sayin’ everything was good before, why we gotta change?”
A door on the other side of the kitchen opened and the pair broke off their conversation. A new voice spoke, with an air of authority.
“Joey, the boss wants you to square things up with the Broker, make sure he has everything nice and safe. We can’t let anything happen to our Ace. When you’re done, meet us at the club. Tony, go round up some extra muscle – just in case this deal goes any further south.”
* * *
He stepped onto the street in front of D’Angelo’s restaurant, taking his time to don his hat. A figure emerged from the alley to his right; D’Angelo’s man. He waited the appropriate amount of time, then followed along the sidewalk after him. He fell into that measured cadence, the familiar roll and step that let him fade from attention. Someone thus skilled, with the right beats and pauses, could engage in one of these kinds of pursuits without raising any suspicion. He knew all the moves.
The mobster proceeded at a casual pace through the city, light pool to light pool. He turned a corner, followed several seconds later by his trench coat shadow. The streets throbbed with a rising bass, wrapped around something else; a discordant note. Groups of people littered the sidewalks, party clothes and affluent attitudes. Doors to bars and clubs spat noise and elation. A siren cried out in the distance, answered by another. He was sure he heard the muffled sound of gunshots, far away.
His quarry paused at a crosswalk, waiting for the lights to change. Idly shuffling side-to-side, taking a turn and glancing back down the street. He had anticipated this and was already pressed into the dark of a doorway. Cars screamed past, people with places to be. Lights snapped red, the pressure of brakes and the impatient growl of engines as pedestrians crossed the road. They entered a park. Passed lovers embracing on a footbridge. A drug deal was taking place underneath; the participants were alert, though largely unconcerned.
He moved by instinct; he didn’t have to think. This could continue forever.
They took a turn down a side-alley, towards a growing din. This wasn’t right. He emerged onto a crowded street, a tide of people dancing and drinking. He spotted the mobster on the opposite sidewalk moving through a void of partygoers. He tried to press through but was repelled by a flow of bodies. He did his best to continue forwards, probing for weak points in the throng, sidestepping the inattentive as they pushed against him.
Space opened up to the side of the street; he made a dash for it. A chance to get through. The opening door caught him full force; he was nearly lifted off his feet. He staggered backwards and collapsed to the ground. The crowd stepped around him, over him; all going in their own directions. D’Angelo’s man disappeared amongst the sea of faces.
The party raged on.
The world spiralled above him; he was all the way down. His thoughts scattered. Had he overplayed his hand already? It was folly to have tried. Everything taken away so easily; an inevitable fate he couldn’t alter.
All above was noise and emptiness.
Maybe it was better off this way; or maybe it would be better off if he just stopped existing. No, that wasn’t true; it mustn’t be true.
Breathe. Focus.
The frayed edges of his thoughts began to stitch back together, the ringing in his head dulled. One problem at a time. He managed a crouch, his vision swimming slightly. No-one noticed the hunched form in their midst, or perhaps some did notice but did not have the inclination to assist.
He regained his feet. The party was moving further down the block and he had some space now. At its end, the street split in two; he could turn right or left. His chance was slipping away, but he wasn’t lost yet. He tried right first, but it brought him back in the direction he had come from. The mobster would have had no reason to detour through the street party.
Right was wrong; left then.
This brought him into a different part of town; a quiet neighbourhood, older. The storefronts bore painted family names, layered with the city’s grime, but clinging to their pride. One store still shared its light with the darkened street; a beacon in the night. A jewellery exchange. He drew close, disappeared in the shadows beyond the store’s island of light. Through the heavily barred windows, he could see D’Angelo’s man, leaning against the cage-ensconced counter and talking to the clerk within. An envelope was passed; the clerk nodded and stashed it in a lockbox, momentarily disappearing into a vault in the rear.
The Windrose was in there. It was all he needed, really, to bring this all to an end. He could just storm in right now, gun drawn, and finish it. There was even a chance he’d make it.
That would be a hollow victory; success without meaning.
No; it would never work. Certain things still had to happen, things he needed to do his way. The Windrose would be drawn out as the night’s events unfolded. For now, he knew where it was, and that gave him strength. One more piece on his side of the board.
Still, it took every fibre of his being to stay rooted to the spot.
* * *
The mobster led him back into the livelier parts of town, entering an innocuous black door in the middle of a block. He took up position on the opposite crosswalk; casual, inconspicuous. He watched for a time, several groups coming and going through the door. There was a bouncer within, idly regarding those who passed, though not challenging entry.
He circled the block, approaching from a different direction. The bouncer gave him a vague nod, seemingly disinterested; though he knew his every aspect had been assessed. The club’s name was written in neon across the wall of the entrance hall: “The Velvet Lounge”. He retrieved the matchbook to double-check. Two paths converged; but he had different goals now than following matchbox clues.
This was an exclusive club, with a very particular clientele. A place to be themselves, with no questions asked. That was the police chief in the corner, snorting dope with two prostitutes. Three booths down, the heads of the triads and the Russian mafia sat across from each other. Politicians and judges, moneymen and mobsters. These people had been let to run the city. And it was all happening here – the trading of lives, the buying and selling of society. The drink flowed at pace with the outpouring of false camaraderie.
There was a band playing; jazz, obviously. A sultry-voiced singer would be joining them shortly – something moody and appropriate.
He took a stool at the bottom of the bar, where he had a good view; direct sight of the D’Angelo table. He ordered a double scotch, neat. The barman set the glass down in front of him and resumed drying a glass with a cloth. “Tough night, huh?”
He took a mouthful of amber fire and closed his eyes for a moment. “You don’t have to do that.”
The barman gave him a quizzical look and continued polishing. He sighed; best to play along with it for now. “Ya, sure, tough night. And it’s only just beginning.”
“Well a night’s short enough, in the end, and tomorrow will be around before you know it.”
He responded noncommittally, took another sip of his whisky. The singer had joined the band, her voice cutting through the mire of the patrons, reaching down to tattered souls. He broke his attention and scanned the room; few enough were unmoved.
She finished, releasing the audience from her spell. A pause for breath and the band launched into something more upbeat.
There was animated discussion amongst D’Angelo’s men, heads shaking and articulating arms. D’Angelo handed a card to his right-hand man, who glanced at it before slipping it into his outer jacket pocket. Another round of drinks was called; the conversation rose in intensity. Decisions were reached, D’Angelo gave his orders. The meeting began to break up, coats donned and hats retrieved. That was his cue: he downed his drink and nodded at the barman, leaving a crumpled bill tucked under the glass.
His path brought him through the gangsters as they dispersed. An unfortunate stumble, catching a shoulder to steady himself. All apologies. The mobster brushed him off, reuniting with his companions. He found the rear exit, keeping his head down and hands in pockets until he was several blocks away.
A classic manoeuvre. A lawyer’s business card; David Everett, of Wilson, Everett and Murdock. Gold lettering, a prime address. These were big players. He hoped the other man wouldn’t miss it.
* * *
It took him some time to find, since he did not know what form it would take. Time he should be using elsewhere, but this needed to be done.
An old curio shop, standing alone in a forgotten corner of town. He hesitated outside. He had it wrong, it wasn’t what he was looking for. But no, this was the place. A bell rang as he pushed open the door. The shopkeeper looked up, and catching sight of him, frowned.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
The shopkeeper shrugged.
“You know why I came?”
The other man removed his glasses and began gathering a few things from his desk. “I have my suspicions, and I won’t try to stop you.”
He turned away from the shopkeeper, and drew a glance across the space. Cabinets, rows of shelves, holding trinkets, lost treasures. Though not as many as he had expected. He picked up a nearby piece; delicately, examining its details. Recalling its purpose.
“This was mine once, or something very much like it.”
The shopkeeper hefted his satchel and made for the door. “Take a moment, if you need it.”
He wandered through the aisles, stopping from time-to-time as something caught his attention. There were tears in his eyes. Someone had owned these once, cherished them; or maybe sought but never attained, the opportunity missed forever. All abandoned now, yet kept here eternally, a reminder. He could just leave, forget he had ever been here, and go on. There was no harm in letting it be. He was so close to the door.
No; they could not remain, trapped in time. He had kept the box of matches from earlier. Fire to light the lingering shadow and snuff it out. He felt the orange heat on his back as he walked away, but did not look behind.
* * *
The law offices of Wilson, Everett and Murdock were spread across several floors of a majestic old building in the business district. Each floor faced onto the atrium, heavy with wrought ironwork. An elevator rose through the centre of the space, laden with architectural solemnity. He took the stairs.
The building was quiet, the city’s tone mostly muted by the aged stone. He was mildly surprised at how easy his approach was: he would have expected to come across a security guard or late worker at least. The city had other priorities tonight.
A corridor on the fourth floor lead to the office of David Everett, the door shut for the night, though not locked. He entered cautiously, but he doubted he’d encounter D’Angelo’s people inside. The office was tastefully decorated, new furnishings that did not diminish the space’s grandeur. Something struck him as awry, but he could not place his finger on it. He surveyed the room by the light that rose through the arched windows from the streets below.
David Everett was a young man, unmarried: family photos were with parents and siblings, not children. His father was the name on the firm, or perhaps his grandfather. Born into the business, though the position not unearned – the scrolls framed on the wall bore the seals of several prestigious universities.
He scanned the contents of the desk top: here again that stray thought itched at his attention. Files and folders, stacked in trays; a pile of books, taken from the surrounding shelves. All as expected.
But it was bothering him now. He took another turn around the office, inspecting every detail until he had it figured out. He bent down by the couch and retrieved the leaf of paper resting beneath; not left as a clue, or discarded by a busy lawyer. An oversight, something missed by someone trying to ensure that everything in the office was in its correct place. That was it; he went and stood by the door. The office looked tidy, but things were ever so slightly askew. Someone had been in here, looking for something. The place had been carefully turned over, everything more-or-less back in its place.
What had they been looking for? He went through the documents on the desk. It looked like Everett was building a big case; the Millstone Mile redevelopment. The district attorney’s office was involved. There was a chance it would make it to court, given a fair legal system. Unlawful acquisition of land, violation of zoning codes, and several handwritten notes referencing possible connections to organized crime. Though nothing so direct as to worry D’Angelo and his ilk. Perhaps a few pages astray, but nothing to indicate what the careful intruder had been after. Maybe he’d have better luck finding the man himself.
He stood in the doorway of David Everett’s office, gun drawn. A figure was approaching through the half-dark of the corridor. The silhouette’s affected strut gave her away.
“Checking up on me, Ms. DuBois?”
“On the contrary, Mr. Knight, I’m here on business. It does appear that someone attempted to interfere first.”
“I’m guessing you have an idea what they were looking for?”
“Oh, I know exactly what they were looking for.” She waved the large folder in her hand. “Typical that a woman would be underestimated. I doubt she even knows the contents, or what her boss is caught up in.”
The assistant; lying dead in her new dress, blood pooling around her. But only if Mr. Everett was compromised; only if he couldn’t take control and change things. Another piece on the board.
“What’s in it?”
“Come now, Mr. Knight, we need to work together. I’m sure your investigations have turned up some useful information.”
Some honest cooperation; he knew where it would get him. But it was in his nature.
“The Windrose is in the city, shipped in earlier this evening by Mr. D’Angelo. It’s not in his offices. He plans to trade it by the end of the night as part of some big deal, to someone powerful, dangerous. Ms. DuBois – Layla – this is the Mafia we’re talking about, and perhaps worse. I don’t think you want to get caught up in this.”
“Plenty to go on, but you still need the place and the buyer. I think –”
They were bathed in light as the door at the end of the corridor was pushed open and a gang of mobsters rushed into the space. Ms. DuBois smirked at him – she had what she wanted.
She screamed. “He’s got a gun! Please, help!” The charade was impeccable. He was surrounded; she slinked away in the confusion.
He didn’t have to go through with this part. The pound of flesh had long since been given. Penance; no, there was nothing to atone for. But if he acted out now, everything he had set in motion would be for nothing.
The pistol butt to the back of the head sent stars across his vision as he collapsed to the floor.
* * *
His focus spiralled, breath pushing pain into his lungs, awareness throbbing pain through his skull. They’d given him a solid once-over – blows to the gut mostly. Though there was one more enthusiastic than the rest who’d landed a few punches to his head. They’d left, but would certainly be back. He was tied to a chair. The room was dimly lit; somewhere deep, he could feel the roots of the city pressing down around him. Where was he at, in this grand scheme of things? Was he keeping ahead, or was he falling behind, dragged further back by this internment?
As his wits returned, he did a more thorough appraisal of his surroundings. Crates and shelves filled with boxes. What he thought was a pile of dirty clothes resolved into the form of a man, bound to a chair; slumped but breathing. It took him a moment, but he realised his current place on the game board.
“I’m guessing you’re Bradley DuBois?”
The other man raised his head, gingerly. A quick look up and down, assessing him; a grimace from the movement. “Ha. She got you into this? Poor bastard.” He blinked, wincing as blood ran down from his forehead. “It’s Stokes; Bradley Stokes. DuBois is her maiden name.”
He was certain Bradley Stokes was supposed to be dead before he found him; if he was supposed to find him. This man probably factored little into matters, but he was here now, and he had the power to change things.
“She hired me to find you.”
Stokes snorted. “I was a damned fool; but I could never say no to her. And look where that’s got me. It’s the thing I’ve been looking for that she has you chasing - I’ve probably already been replaced.” He grew quiet, staring.
He knew what Stokes was thinking: Is this man a plant, a setup to get information? Get him talking. “These D’Angelo’s goons?” He nodded vaguely at the door.
“D’Angelo? No – these are east towners. Foreign; Russian, or Europeans maybe. No friends of D’Angelo and his like.”
“So they’re trying to muscle in on his racket?” He worked his shoulders as Stokes talked, pressing against the rope and relaxing, pushing up.
“Probably; half the crooks in the city are cutting new deals and making moves, pushing out the competition. There’s a wind of change, and everyone wants their piece of ground when it settles down.”
“And how does all this tie in with what your wife is looking for?” He nearly had his torso free now; another few inches and the rope would fall slack off the back of the chair.
“It doesn’t directly, but it’s of great importance to someone new at the top; whoever has it can name his price, list his terms. I hear that some people – not D’Angelo’s friends, if you catch my meaning – are planning a surprise for the exchange. Two birds with the one stone-”
There was a grunt of steel as the door was pushed in. The rope binding him to the chair fell around his feet, but his hands were still tied. He managed to roll behind a stack of crates before the newcomer entered. He struggled silently with the knot as he caught a glimpse of the figure approaching Stokes. The man in the pinstripe suit.
“Ah, the man who knew too little. So you really won’t talk?”
Bradley Stokes spat out a gob of blood. “Mr. Nash, right? I’ve heard about you, and I think I’d just be wasting your time.”
“I respect that. But my employer values his discretion, and business is business.”
The man called Nash shrugged. Three quick shots. One to the head, two to the heart – the professional’s trademark.
No moment to act, to spring from his hiding place and prevent the death of Bradley Stokes. His hands were still bound. Nash lingered for a beat, eyeing the empty chair, draped in discarded rope. He returned his gun to its holster and departed.
* * *
Millstone Mile had seen better days. It had been a respectable neighbourhood in its time, but the city had grown around it, pressing in on it, leaving it behind. Several blocks remained intact, the inhabitants doing their best to maintain its dignity, fighting the forces that layered decay. But there was little they could do without support. He passed doorway-after-doorway plastered with eviction notices, until the brownstone gave way to hoardings that surrounded the expanse of levelled cityscape. Posters offered high-rise, high-density, low-cost, a sea of homogeneity.
The alcoves of an underpass were crowded with those who still wished to call Millstone Mile home, pushed aside in the name of progress. He wandered through the shanty village, pallet walls and tarps for roofs. Oil drum fires gave warmth to huddles of twos or threes, a few dispirited conversations breaking the sombre quiet. These people weren’t failures; they were part of the fabric of the city, but they were fighting to survive. A larger group were preparing for a protest, hoping to be noticed when the Mayor gave his speech later this evening.
Near the riverbank, he found a break in the boards and pushed through into the space beyond. Enormous pits opened into the ground at intervals, mountains of rubble and half-collapsed buildings. Excavators and bulldozers loomed in the empty spaces, eager to continue their calamitous work. A row of prefabs had been assembled - construction offices, storage. Shipping containers were stacked several stories high, ready to disgorge someone’s idea of change onto this old land. Of course, it was all a racket, money and power for those least deserving. But only ordinary people got hurt.
The sound of a motor drew him to the water’s edge. In the pool of light cast by the running crane, he watched Mr. Nash force a man into the driver’s seat of a waiting car, locking the door behind him. The man struggled with the door handle, banging on the window, shouting; but Nash was already at the crane’s controls, lifting the car out over the river. He caught sight of the other man’s face - David Everett; he recognized him from the photographs in the lawyer’s office. Mr. Nash was making quick work of loose ends; his window of opportunity was closing. Was it too soon to knock Nash off the board?
There was a mournful splash as the car was dropped onto the river’s surface, the water slowly pulling at its sides. Everett was in a panic, kicking and lashing out in vain. Mr. Nash departed.
Yes, Nash was the key. Everything else would fall into place around him. He made to give chase, but took one last look at the sinking car. A child’s head poked up into the frame of the rear window. David Everett had no children, and the hysterical man made no acknowledgement of the boy’s presence.
There was no moment between observing and acting. His hat and trench coat were discarded on the riverbank, a deep breath before plunging into the icy flow. The car was fully submerged now, the water seeking out in tendrils to pierce the well of air within. David Everett’s focus had narrowed to simple survival, taking breath-after-breath as he struggled with his seatbelt. The boy seemed unconcerned with his predicament, waving out the window, enthralled by the rays of city light that broke around the approaching silhouette.
He grabbed the rear door handle, anchoring himself to the descending car. He pushed with both feet, straining upward, but the door did not open. He repositioned, swinging himself away from the door, then bringing his full force down, heel first, against the window. Nothing.
Try again; and again. Fight the weight of the water. Finally, a crack in the glass. The boy watched, mesmerized. A final blow shattered a hole and the water burst in to the interior. He thrust a hand through, grabbing onto the boy’s arm, pulling. But the child was still belted in, and his hand came away with something the boy had being holding. He tried to fit through the window, get the door open, anything. The boy smiled up at him, quite content.
It was too deep now. He had a choice to make: let go, or sink all the way to the bottom.
He didn’t have the strength to hang on; the strength to swim and rise. He lingered in-between. His lungs burned. His vision was darkening. Air and light were barely a memory. But there was sound; a dulled cacophony of pressure all around. It pushed deep into his soul until he couldn’t bear it any longer. He kicked – he kicked with everything he had left within him.
He was drowning; but he was moving.
The dark surface of the river broke, a sodden form thrown on the riverbank. He sucked in the cold night air, gasp after gasp, until he was able to rise to his knees. His hand was clamped tightly. In all the mess and noise he’d nearly forgotten it. There were blood on his palm where it had dug in, but there it was, a real thing still; a toy soldier. Nestled amongst the damage.
He donned his coat, placing the figurine delicately in the inside breast pocket. Close to his heart.
* * *
This part of the city wore its prosperity with ease. The shops, though closed, still poured light out into the street, showcasing the treasures inside with elaborate displays. The parade had already passed through here, marching bands and extravagant floats, a testament to the city’s success. The sidewalks were crowded, the delirious jubilance shared amongst strangers. As the crowd moved on, the streets were left littered with the detritus of celebration; empty bottles and party hats. A healthy covering of vomit.
He didn’t know where he was going. So many moving parts, so many things that could go wrong. If he’d just played along, he would be through it by now. He let the swell and the ebb of the crowd carry him; meandering. Through it, but not out of it – never out of it. There would always be the next thing, him at the mercy of the cycle forever. He was so close to getting out. But the pieces weren’t lining up.
He found himself in an open square. From all sides, an impassioned press of souls converged, a vast congregation amassing. A podium dominated one end, lined with important people.
The Mayor’s Speech. Of course, he was a part of it. Every plot needed its facilitator; a keeper of the status quo.
He pushed through the throng, towards the podium. A great parting of the crowd, and there she was. The same honest smile she had shown back in the café. Wearing her new dress; elegant. He was glad she didn’t notice him, watching her at her ease.
This was where they killed her.
But it was all wrong. It should have been a dark alley; a little-worn park path perhaps. Somewhere quiet, where the body would lie waiting for several hours before being discovered. Three quick shots, the professional’s trademark – a link to the late Bradley Stokes. That would have set him on the messy trail to Nash. To justice – whatever that meant. He had thought he’d have time to be early. To change things. But no, it was going to happen now.
He was well off-script at this stage. In an instant, his gun was drawn skywards and several lead bolts seared into the sky. Chaos.
The answering bark of a high-powered rifle several seconds later told him he was right. But he had lost sight of her, the mass of panic boiling outwards in all directions. He tried to join the flow, but a group of cops circled him, and he was tackled to the pavement.
* * *
He tried to mark time as he stared at the crumbling brick of the interrogation cell. A single shadeless bulb flickered sporadically, engineered to unsettle the detainee. To his right, he could feel eyes upon him through the one-way mirror. He nodded at it, then set his head at a slump and closed his eyes. Might as well get some rest when there was nothing else he could do; sleep was such a distant memory.
Had he done enough? Was she safe? She didn’t deserve to be caught up in his torment, a pawn in the game. Then again, he didn’t deserve this either; but that was the whole point of this undertaking. Take back control.
The room shook as the heavy steel door was thrown back on its hinges, admitting two serious-looking detectives. The first had his shirt-sleeves rolled up above the elbows, tie thrown over one shoulder; ready for action. He slammed a folder down and took a seat on the table’s edge, glaring at his detainee. The second man moved more calmly, setting his cup to one side before sitting. He made a show of leafing through the folder, though there was only a single page.
“We need to ask you some initial questions before we move on with the process. This is just a formality, since there are now doubts as to the nature of your actions. There may be time for a statement and legal aid later.” The man seemed tired, disinterested. “State your name for the record.”
He sighed and shook his head. “It wouldn’t do you any good.”
The spirited partner hammered his fist against the metal table top. “Listen here, you son of a bitch, cooperating with us is your only chance of seeing the light of day again. No name, nothing in your pockets but a gun; showing up and causing mayhem. If I had my way you’d be tossed into the darkest cell and the key thrown away.”
The classic two-cop act. He almost found it amusing.
“What my overly-enthusiastic partner is trying to say is: you’re a nobody, showing up from nowhere, with nothing to your name. Did you really think you could make it? This city has chewed up and spat out far better men than you; what made you think you could go around acting like you owned the place?”
“That’s right. We value people of substance in this city, people who play their part and get things done. You? You amount to nothing. What could you ever hope to achieve?”
The pair riffed back-and-forth, digging into his soul. He sat silently, weathering it.
Finally, there was a knock on the door and the pair departed. He sensed a heated discussion from beyond, before bad cop re-entered. “Looks like today’s your lucky day. Get the fuck out of my sight.”
He collected his things and left.
Outside, Layla DuBois lowered her cigarette holder, tapping ash onto the pavement. “Well if it isn’t the city’s newest hero. Saviour of Mayor Kimble.”
She took another drag, exhaling in his direction. “It’s a miracle you knew where the shooter was and were able to fire at him before he could hit his target.” The irony hung in the ash cloud between them.
Her eyes narrowed, watching for his reaction. Nothing.
“The cops took some persuading to realize the truth. You’re welcome.”
What was her angle? “Your husband’s dead.”
She shrugged, flicking the cigarette butt down the street, before beckoning him to follow. “We have a meeting with the Mayor. He wants to thank the man who saved his life.”
* * *
He sat opposite Layla DuBois in the lounge of the Mayor’s suites, on the top floor of City Hall. She had produced another cigarette and was already half-way through it; he sank further into the overstuffed couch. An assistant had prepared drinks before departing, which sat now on the low table between the pair. Idle sips to fill the empty time; guarded looks and cigarette smoke.
Mayor Kimble was a squat man, balding; a body fuelled by too much of the finer things in life. He made a double-door entrance, a well-rehearsed grin on his face. The tumbler in his hand was already half-empty, so he prioritized the decanter to refill. Then it was handshakes and introductions. Layla presented the back of her hand to be kissed. Kimble leered at her in a way he assumed looked charming.
The Mayor was all praise and gratitude - confusion over the details of events; surprise that someone would wish him harm. Heartened that a citizen would rush to his defence. He raised his glass and toasted his visitors, downing it before pouring another.
Once the revelry had subsided, Mayor Kimble led him out onto the wide balcony for a private word.
“You see that? Every building, every street, every small life that plays out. It’s mine; understand? Nothing goes on here without my knowledge, nothing happens without my say-so. I don’t know where you came from or what your game is, but you better get the fuck out of town before you meet an unfortunate end.”
Kimble relaxed and put back on his grin as Layla joined them. She held in her hands the large folder he recognized from the law offices. This was her play. He leaned against the railing to one side as Ms. DuBois engaged Mayor Kimble.
“Mr. Mayor, you’re an illustrious man, with a career to match. I’ve often heard you talked about at parties I attend, but I never thought the man could match the myth.”
His ego swelled as she layered on the sweetness; setting the trap.
“It’s such a shame that someone would want to bring a man like you down. That someone would gather together vile lies and unfounded accusations in an attempt to unseat you.”
She opened the folder and picked out some choice examples.
“A list of criminal trials, all quietly acquitted during your time in office. Several bank account numbers, a record of transactions. I’m sure that’s all legitimate, and not the kickback from having enabled widespread organized crime. Appointments for a dozen high positions, all friends of yours or people owed favours. Then there’s the whole Millstone Mile development. This is your signature on the contracts? That’s certainly all above board. The list goes on and on; and we haven’t even gotten to the photographs yet…”
“Enough! Enough. I should have known better than to take this meeting. Let’s all just relax and come to an agreement. A lady such as you could be persuaded to part with those documents for the right amount.” The venom dripped from each word.
“The Windrose. You’re the man at the top, you must have it.”
The pair were deep in debate, but he wasn’t really paying attention. There was supposed to be a deal, a compromise. The corruption covered up and he a little more jaded; another beating by the world that he was supposed to just endure and move on from. He looked at the skyline surrounding him. It was all spread out around him; this man’s city. The beauty and beast, all tainted and stagnant. The trap; the cage.
The Mayor was making his case. “…and in exchange, I’ll give you the location of the Windrose. I know its worth just as well as you do and frankly I think this is an overly generous offer. I can assure –”
There was an explosion of black powder and a lead slug buried deep within the Mayor’s brain. Layla DuBois jumped, but had a pistol produced from her purse in an instant. A useful piece of information.
He let the smoke rise from the barrel of his revolver and returned it to his holster.
“What the hell did you do?!” She was agitated, but not panicked. “He was our man. He was going to give up the Windrose.”
He shook his head. “He wasn’t our man. He was just saving himself; and selling us out to the next complication.”
“Well what are you going to do next, Mr. Knight? You still owe me the Windrose, and you’ve just killed our only lead.”
He gestured for the folder. Layla initially recoiled, but grudgingly surrendered it. They returned inside. He resumed his position on the couch; she deposited her purse and busied herself at the bar. He watched her over the top of the folder while leafing through the pages, searching. It was close to the end, he could feel it. The pieces were all there; almost. A name, a place perhaps, mentioned amongst this chronicle of corruption, would yield the big reveal.
Layla pressed him for information once or twice, but settled into a quiet pattern of drinking and waiting.
And finally, there it was: Hytham Moore. A footnote in the Millstone Mile documents, a name he had not encountered in his earlier readings of the project. A discrete benefactor - some sort of businessman, new in town. The type to keep Mr. Nash in his employ.
He continued idly reviewing the Mayor’s sins, buying himself some time. Eventually, Ms. DuBois excused herself for the bathroom.
He was left alone, her purse opposite him. The pistol was nestled innocently amongst her things. He had the bag closed and everything back in order before she returned; an insurance policy. He hated that he’d thought of it, and winced at the idea of it coming in to play.
* * *
It was time; time for one last grand gesture before this all concluded. Time to overcome a final challenge and make his claim. It had taken some effort, but he stood now on the viewing platform atop the city’s tallest building. He looked out at the city. He was done here; it had nothing left to offer him. The same tired story played out across a thousand vistas. No more. Time for something different; something that was his.
On the far horizon, a deepening column of clouds smudged the night. The occasional burst of blue lit up its heart; too far to hear the bark of thunder, yet. He sent his gaze upwards. The antenna pierced the heavens, swaying erratically in the eager breeze. He jumped to grab the ledge overhead; pulling himself up, he began the climb.
The crisscross bars of the spire were cold to the touch. They resisted his grip. Could he have made this climb before? A year ago? A week ago? Should he have? It didn’t matter; he was here now, rising upwards, arm-over-arm.
As he ascended, the spiralling swing of the antenna grew. It dangled him over the distant city streets, indistinct and almost forgotten. One simple slip would bring him down; instantly, decisively. His fingers were growing numb.
The wind had picked up; he held on tightly for a time, steadying himself. His coat whipped wildly behind him, trying to pull free. It was no longer just an idea, a dream. It was out there, beyond; and very close now.
Finally, he was at the top, high enough that ground was more a concept than a fact. Here, a junction box was mounted to the antenna. He wrapped one arm around the antenna’s tip to secure himself in place, and unlatched the cover. The box was a nest of electrical components – cables and switches, fuses and sockets. He wasn’t exactly certain what he needed to do, but he had a broad idea; he set to work.
He threw one final circuit breaker, with one more check of his modifications before closing the box. The device was contrived, but he was satisfied with the result.
It called to the storm.
* * *
The hour was late. A whiskey distillery, in a quiet corner of town. A diligent investigator might have found a new name on the lease, a holding company for a holding company, a tenuous trail that led to one man: Hytham Moore. Of course, loose lips might also have whispered that a meeting was to take place here tonight, and that several parties were eager to influence the outcome. Some simply wanted to eliminate the competition.
The windows lit with the staccato flash of discharging firearms, the burst muted by the thick walls. Glass shattered elsewhere in the building, a body hitting the ground outside. A whiskey still exploded through the roof, tiles and flaming fumes raining down. The fire spread fast, and all was chaos. Another explosion took masonry with it; a support beam wrenched unnaturally outwards. The distillery was coming down. Anyone left alive fled.
He pulled himself out of a pile of rubble; sore but mostly unharmed. He had been far enough away when the fighting started. His hat was intact; he dusted it off, donning it as he made to leave.
A silhouette stood in an arc of streetlight, cigarette holder held at an angle.
“What a nice surprise to meet you here, Mr. Knight. I was afraid we weren’t going to be able to conclude our business.”
Layla DuBois took a step forward. “I trust you have what I wanted?”
He turned away from her, hands in pockets. His form was shrouded by the orange of the burning rubble.
“It’s gone; destroyed. I barely made it out alive.”
“Mr. Knight, I know you have it, and I will get it from you, one way or the other.”
A chill ran down his spine; he sensed the cold metal in her hand, her finger on the trigger. He didn’t dare look over his shoulder.
“Let it go, Ms. DuBois. I did everything I could, and you’re still here, unscathed. It’s over. Good night.”
There was a click and an explosion, and a scream of agony. He turned to Ms. DuBois, reeling on the ground, clutching her ruined hand as blood soaked into her silks. The twisted remains of the destroyed pistol ticked as the metal cooled. He wished he hadn’t been right. But he was alive, and hadn’t been cheated at the final moment.
He withdrew a large handkerchief and threw it to her to wrap over the wound.
“You’ll live; which is more mercy than you would have shown me. I’ll call an ambulance as I go.”
He departed, his hand nestling around the form of the Windrose, safe in his pocket.
* * *
The clock struck silence.
The New Year’s Eve fireworks erupted with no report; the city’s voice echoed and faded. A deep bass growl on the horizon announced the arrival of the storm, as tears of lightning lit the night. An arc of electric blue reached down and gripped the spire of the city’s tallest building; clouds blooming outwards like the canopy of a great oak.
A brief golden flower of light illuminated a trench coat breeze-blown on a rise in Highgate Park. He held his hat against the growing wind as another flash and loss of light plunged him into darkness.
The next multi-coloured fusillade painted a silhouette sitting on a nearby park bench.
“I had hoped, but I wasn’t certain you’d be here.” A pause as he removed his hat. “I never caught your name.”
“Nor I yours.”
She smiled, and patted the bench beside her in invitation. He sat, and together they watched as the sky was set aflame.
Lost River
The moonlight roared and cracked her head. Her mind throbbed with the echoes of the evening. She hurried across the park and dove for the amber safety of the streetlight. It was surprisingly quiet for this time on a Manhattan Friday; the Doppler drone of a distant cab spoke above the low bass of the city. She wasn’t drunk; it was a different pain that plagued her. Though the few drinks she’d had weren’t helping. A night out with her friends; it should have been nice. The truth soured it all now. They hadn’t even acknowledged it. She checked her phone in the hope of some sort of resolution, but knew that it would never come.
Madeline turned left, aimlessly.
She didn’t really want to go home; not back to that apartment. The night’s revelation carouselled in her mind, joined in chorus by the usual rogues’ gallery. Back to work on Monday - she should be used to that routine by now. The activity would quieten things for a while, keep it at bay. But it was just work. It all was. She felt she was being overdramatic. But that’s just how her mind worked. She didn’t know what to do.
Madeline looked up, realising she had walked quite a bit out of her way. She spent too much time in her own head. The welcoming sign of the subway lit up in front of her. She didn’t recall this station. The steps led deep into the earth, the city above forgotten. The walls were cream ceramic, accented with deep green. The vaulted ceilings bathed in the soft glow of gas lamps. So different to the white tiles and fluorescent lights she was used to. It was a maze down here, but she eventually found a platform.
The lanterns flickered and dimmed occasionally, her shadow stretching and receding as she waited for her train. Madeline grew restless, and sauntered along the platform. It was empty; there was no schedule on the wall. Maybe she had the wrong line? She set off exploring the warren of corridors and galleries, turn upon turn with no indication of where she should go. She was certain that this station had tied itself in a knot, with no way of unravelling it.
At the mouth of a hallway, she was greeted by a young dog.
An Aussie Shepherd, mottled grey coat with a few defiant copper patches around its muzzle. It tilted its head to the side and regarded her with ice blue eyes.
“What are you doing down here pup? Are you lost too?” Madeline knelt and met its gaze. It sat and twitched its right ear. She gave it an initial tentative pat, and as its grin slowly mirrored on her face, she really got into it.
“Who’s a good dog? Why are you out all alone on a Friday night?”
She reached for the tag on its collar. The front was blank, nameless. On the reverse, her name and phone number
“But I don’t have a dog.”
The dog gave a friendly yap. The lights went out for a moment and the barking retreated down the hallway.
“Wait, come back!”
The corridor arced in a wide curve, but ultimately yielded a dogless dead end. Retracing her steps, Madeline was drawn to a door she hadn’t noticed earlier. As she approached, the quiet was filled with the soft sound of gently flowing water. Beyond, the arched ceiling of the subway remained, but instead of floor, there was river. Grassy banks and a paved trail led away to either side.
Madeline followed the river’s course. After a short distance, the roof and walls opened out into friendly shadow, occasional lanterns scattered along the water’s edge. Their warm light made small pools; each receded into darkness before another sprang to life up ahead. At intervals, wooden footbridges crossed over streams as they joined the main flow. She could hear more than see it; there was a reassuring sense of space all around her.
A slap and splash of water, and a rowboat breached her well of light. The besuited man at the oar nodded in greeting. “Lovely night for it.”
She smiled politely in return. They exchanged a few words, and continued in pleasant silence for a few minutes.
“Did you see a dog pass by here?”
He gave the water two quick taps with his oars before responding. “Can’t say that I have. But then again, I haven’t really been paying attention. That’s what always happens: I get on the river, and let it take me where I’m going.”
Madeline covered her disappointment with another question. “Where does the river go?”
“Oh, most places you’d want to go, really. The airport, for instance. Which reminds me: this is my exit coming up. Flight to catch. Good night – and good luck finding your dog!”
“It's not even my dog…” But the boat had already dissolved into the dark.
She strolled for a time, letting the quiet calm of the river wash over her. The world was clear and placid down here, the air mild and sweet.
Madeline was sure she could hear barking in the distance, or maybe she just wanted to.
A spot of lamplight off to her right held a doorway in its thrall. With no immediate purpose, Madeline approached.
She stepped through, the light fading behind her.
Madeline was standing on the western tower of Brooklyn Bridge. It was rather lively up here. To one side, a loose circle of deckchairs were gathered around a campfire. It sparked occasionally, sending orange motes to dance among the stars. A guitar had, of course, been produced. Its mellow air stitched together the babel of the party. At the opposite end of the platform, a group in swimsuits were cheering. One of their number eyed the emptiness beyond, then taking a running jump, dived out of sight. Several seconds later, a distant splash rose from far below. A burst of delight from the crowd, and someone else lined up. The door behind Madeline opened, admitting the returning diver, dripping wet, with a beaming grin on his face.
Madeline stood on the edge of activity, looking on. Party-goers saluted her, or passed some words in her direction.
She was asked if she wanted to take a jump.
“I don’t think I could.”
But she was enthralled, and the idea wedged itself in her mind. “Maybe next time”, she assured herself as another run and jump and splash drew a satisfied response from the crowd.
Someone handed her a beer. “Meeting friends?”
“Oh, no, I don’t know anyone.” Madeline grew quiet, and hid behind a mouthful of beer.
“That’s ok. I’m just passing through too. Meeting my wife for dinner in a little while. You?”
He was a scattering of years older than Madeline, and she was inclined to engage with him.
“I’m looking for a dog, I think.”
He nodded, and thought for a moment. “I might be able to point you in the right direction. But I need to stop by the office first.”
Beer still in hand, Madeline followed the young man back through the door. They emerged in a service corridor, gratings and exposed pipes, and bare light harsh on her eyes.
“I was just on the river.”
“Well this is a shorter route to the office.” They made several turns, then pushed through a set of double doors into the lobby of a large shopping mall. Madeline was washed in the pink and yellow ambiance of the storefronts. She spotted several brands she was sure had stopped existing years ago.
There was a large fountain at the centre of the court, its jets turned off for the night. An old man was lying with his back resting against the low plinth, soft cap pulled over his face. He had propped up a fishing rod with his foot against it, the line trailing into the pool. A pluck on the line had the man on his feet, bent over the rod with the spool spinning. After much effort, he transferred his catch into a lidded bucket. He stepped back and set the bucket down, heavily.
Sighting the approaching pair, he lifted his cap and grinned, running the back of his forearm across his forehead.
As they passed, Madeline regarded the fountain’s pool. It was clear, still, about a foot deep. A collection of coins lay inert on its bed, but otherwise, it was empty. The old man reset his line and settled down to await his next bite.
They rose through the lattice of escalators, and passing through a staff break room, stepped out onto a quiet street. Her companion lifted the nearby steel cellar door, holding it open as Madeline descended. At the end of a short corridor, a frosted glass door was lettered with the words: “The Department of Inactivity”.
“Hang on a sec.” He rifled through his pockets and produced a key. The reception beyond was large and brightly lit. It had the bearing of office blocks everywhere. He gave her a passing tour of the campus as they journeyed through. “I work in Momentum…” Madeline listened, as one does when someone else is explaining their job. But too quickly, her thoughts were drawn back to her own situation.
“And do you like your job?”
“It’s just work”, he shrugged. “It has its interesting bits, and I do my best when I can.”
They stepped into an open-plan office space, row-upon-row of ordered desks. One wall was lined with clocks, each one labelled – most with a major city, though some simply bore several question marks.
A single desk had a worker sitting under its Anglepoise light, methodically writing line after line of 1s on a sheet of paper. He paused as if in thought, then quickly inked several more 1s onto the page.
“Working late, John?” But John was too enthralled by his work to respond.
They passed several desks with idle typewriters, each key bearing the number 1, sometimes in Roman numerals, or different fonts. Some held half-finished typed documents on the spool, all neat rows of identical 1s. A large fax machine rattled out an endless dot matrix stream of the number.
Several glass-walled corridors and two flights of stairs later, they came to a halt at an office door.
“I’ll just be a minute.” He unlocked the door and disappeared inside.
In the shutter-shadowed half-light, Madeline leaned against a wall and waited. She finished her beer and set the bottle carefully on the nearby janitor’s cart.
On the return journey, John was still engrossed in his work. “Oh, John, do you have the minutes from the last meeting? I’ll go over them first thing Monday morning.” If John had heard, he didn’t show sign of it.
* * *
They exited onto the sidewalk.
“Right, let’s go visit the library.”
“The Public Library? It’ll be closed this time of night.”
“Not the Library, the library.”
He gestured grandly across the street, to one of the city’s countless apartment blocks.
“Ok, but how are we going to find a dog in a library?”
They climbed the half-dozen steps and entered the lobby. One wall was lined with mailboxes, labelled A to Z. In the corner, the woman behind the reception desk looked up from behind her tortoiseshell spectacles.
“Records! The library has records for everything.”
He went over to the desk and struck up a conversation. The woman took some notes and disappeared into a back room. Her head poked through the door and addressed the pair of them.
“This might take a few minutes – feel free to browse. I’ll call when I’ve found something.”
Madeline sauntered down the hallway. The door of every apartment was open; some had plaques, citing topics like “Action” or “Mindlessness”. Some were simply blank. Each apartment had its own character and layout; no two were the same. Shelves were lined with books; kitchen surfaces and coffee tables held tidy piles – but never overwhelming the liveable space. She flicked through some as she went, an old leather-bound tome, a paperback so new the ink was almost wet. Though it was late, the occasional reader sat captured by words. A cage elevator brought her up several floors.
Madeline stood in the middle of a living room, momentarily desolate. A beam of light rested just beyond her feet. It looked like her apartment. But it reminded her of home.
Stuck between sofa cushions was a small book, with a simple tan-leather cover. The inside page bore the title, “The Beauty of Being”. She took it with her.
In the corridor, a pneumatic tube delivered the message that the librarian was ready. She re-joined her companion at the front desk.
The librarian had a dense ring-bound file open in front of her, and was pointing at a recent entry.
“This you?”
Madeline’s name and number held place over a brief description of the dog.
“Looks like she was registered earlier tonight – over on Fulton Street. But if you don’t have her name, I can’t find anything more specific.”
They thanked the librarian, and took the elevator down.
* * *
The ding and doors delivered them to a grand marble atrium. Double stairs led to galleries above, while candle-dusted chandeliers hung over the silent space. The young man checked his watch. “Shoot! I gotta go. Hope your dog’s on Fulton Street. It’s a good place to look anyway. It was nice meeting you.” He dashed off. Madeline realised she hadn’t caught his name.
She strolled along the line of wood-clad teller’s windows towards the door, but was persuaded towards the rising hum from behind the grand staircase. Marble-hewn steps and marble-columned corridors led to a massive vault door, resting roundly open. Above it, Altruism… was calligraphed in flowing orange neon. Madeline passed through into the space beyond. Cuisine-armed waiting staff bustled past, weaving amongst the busy tables. To one side, the bar was backed by a wall of safety deposit boxes, some open to reveal back-lit bottles of glowing amber or red. Patrons relaxed in leather armchairs, or cushion-topped stacks of bullion.
At a table to her left, a familiar-looking young woman was beckoning eagerly at Madeline. She had seen her around the office once or twice, and approached hesitantly.
“Madeline, right? Come and join us.”
“Oh no, I don’t want to disturb your evening.” But the other woman had already signalled a waiter to bring another chair and had surrendered her own to Madeline.
“I’m Jess, by the way – I work downstairs in Marketing. Madeline, this is my sister– she’s in town for the weekend. Madeline started work with us a few months ago.”
She directed her attention back and forth with barely a breath.
“I’m really sorry, I’ve been meaning to drop by your desk to say hello. It’s no excuse, but I’ve been super busy the past few weeks – in a different city every few days. I’m sure you’re up to your eyes as well at the moment. But – enough work talk, let’s eat!”
Madeline realised she was hungry, and accepted the offered menu with only a slight pause. The food and cocktails were exquisite, and Jess’ honest charm and good humour poured over the table, the party content and oblivious to the outside world.
They stayed long after plates were cleared, chatting with the familiarity of childhood friends. Another round of drinks came and went, but the rush of diners had abated. The trio lingered at the vault door, none eager to depart. “Dessert!” declared Jess, “And I know just the place.” She took her sister and Madeline by the hand, and the trio skipped childlike to the elevator.
It was a rooftop, high above the city. Among the metal and machinery that were the building’s vital organs. They ducked through the ducting, to a hollow of open lawn. Strings of lights spider-webbed delicately overhead. In the corner, a raised deck supported a pretty violin melody that wafted through the space. Between the air conditioning units and outlet chimneys, a collection of mismatched trailers were lodged. Sweet stalls and waffle huts, ice-cream stands and coffee counters.
Madeline evaluated every stall cautiously, weighing up what each had to offer.
“There’s too much; I don’t know what to choose.”
“Choose anything!” Jess responded with a grin. “You can always come again, and get something different. And besides, you’re going to have something interesting no matter what you try!”
She dashed off with her sister and the pair had their hands full in moments. Madeline took her time, but eventually forced herself to pick something.
She reunited with her companions, and the trio reclined in Adirondack chairs, sharing the joy of dessert.
* * *
The moon was resting lightly upon the Bethesda Fountain, watching quietly over Madeline. The city’s sounds were dulled by the presence of the park, its hue and energy muted. She emerged from the shadow of the terrace and sauntered along the trail. The lamps were unlit, but coloured fairy lights twinkled amongst the trees. The air was mild and smelled of life. She passed a painter with his easel set towards The Lake, canvas awash with movement. A flautist was playing a soothing air that meandered down the trail after Madeline.
She found herself standing at one end of Conservatory Water. It was quiet now; she held her breath. A model boat cut through the dark and glided over the glass-still pond. A tea light lit up on its bow; it was joined by another, and another. The swarm of miniature yachts floated passed her, and she followed, into the dark. It enclosed around her, above her; the water was flowing now, widening. The space was deepening.
A sailing dinghy joined the toy boats, its deck painted with candlelight. Its captain waved at Madeline. A rowboat carried violin music – joined in concert by guitar and flute, a full ensemble, as the little fleet continued to grow.
A boat waited on the shore ahead for Madeline. She jumped in and pushed off. Into the flow of the river. She was part of the flotilla, as the river carried them onwards. The music sang in harmony with the lapping of the water, and she sat back and let it take her.
The boats drifted apart. One-by-one their lights winked out. Madeline was left wallowing in the dark, alone. She closed her eyes, but not in fear. This space was hers; she owned it. Taking an oar in each hand, she began to paddle. The river’s flow picked her up once more, and she was moving forward.
She felt a rush and stop and breeze of outside air. Madeline opened her eyes. She was perched atop One World Trade Center, legs dangling nonchalantly over the edge.
There was a friendly bark from her left.
“There you are! Dawn.” The name was simple and true. She knew without looking that it was already on the dog’s collar. Dawn padded over and sat loyally by Madeline’s side. She rested her hand on Dawn’s head and the dog gave a contented yap.
Spreading out below them, the city’s lights were a bouquet of bokeh bloom. The placid moon bid farewell as it made for the horizon; a new day was soon to follow.
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