Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (21 page)

Wage W.  Pascal

August 9, 1914

Thomason Railways Passenger Train

North of Fort Wayne, Indiana

She streaked across the first-class sitting car like a skater across an icy pond.  Her backside circularly turned like the side rod cranking the wheels of the train they were on.  She stopped promptly in front of a booth.  One passenger slept against the far window, his mouth wide open and his slouch hat acting as both pillow and sleep mask.  The other, bigger one, read the paper. 

“May I join you gentlemen?” she asked. The standing beauty adjusted the sheer white fabric that festooned from her black feathered hat.  She wore a long-sleeve black and white lace dress that reached the ankles of her high-heeled boots.  Perspiration made her white skin glisten in the noonday sun that shone through the windows.  After noticing her, Ol’ Bill crumbled his paper before standing up and taking off his flat cap.  He held his hat over his chest. “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said.  He looked over at his sleeping companion. “Well, it’s been a long two days for my friend and me, but your company would certainly be welcome.” 

“Thank you,” she said with a small courtesy and a smile that revealed unnaturally sharp canines.  She sat next to Wage and across from Ol’ Bill.  “Your friend seems to be awful tired.”  Wage snored as if on cue. 

“Oh, well, good ol’ Cap’n Pascal, he’s able to sleep through anything,” Bill replied.  “My name is William MacDonough, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Mallory Macy,” she said.  “A Captain? Was he in the army?”

“Yes, we both were. A long time ago. Cavalry.  Although our horses never quite made it to Cuba.” 

“A serviceman yourself?”

“1
st
Sergeant, yes ma’am,” Bill replied.

“Well, you will have to excuse me; my new husband insisted on getting some fresh air—he gets a bit sick on trains—and I don’t much care for sitting alone.  You do understand, don’t you?”

“Of course, of course.  Congratulations on your new marriage,” Bill said and bowed slightly.

“Oh, thank you.  We are off to Kalamazoo to see his family and take a holiday.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic!” Bill exclaimed.  “I’ve been married almost thirty years myself.  A wonderful thing marriage is!”

“And where is your lovely wife?” she asked.

“She’s back home in Tulsa.  We met when I was seventeen, just before I left for the Army.  Been together ever since.”  Bill patted the inner pocket to his coat.  “Just finished a few letters, and one of them is for her, gonna mail it when we get to Battle Creek.”  He reached into his pant pocket and pulled out a small locket.  He sprung it open, revealing a small drawing of his wife.  The picture was worn from years of caressing it with his thumb.  He handed the locket to her.

“She’s exquisite.  You must be a very happy man.”  She handed back the locket.  “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Oh, it’s been almost eight months now.  We only see each other a few times a year, truth be told.  It’s better that way, our relationship, when we see each other so seldom.  She’s a . . . difficult women, but I couldn’t picture myself with anyone else.  Our love is one that is best conveyed through, well, poetic correspondence.”

“Mr. MacDonough, what’s the longest you’ve ever spent with each other?” she asked.

“My first discharge from the Army, I was thirty-three. We spent a year together back in Tulsa.”

“What happened?”

“Well, she attacked me. With an axe.” Bill added.

Mallory Macy covered her mouth.  “Why, that’s awful!”

“She has her spells,” Bill replied.  “But my Delilah, there’s no one like her.”

“Do you have any children?”

“It was difficult for us, but we had one, ol’ Bill Jr.  Born with the thickest mop of black hair, he was.”  He paused and lowered his head.  “But he passed away before his first year—fell asleep one night and never woke up.”  The tear he shed blended inconspicuously with the thin layer of sweat on his face.

“I am so, so sorry,” Mallory said.

“Not a problem, ma’am.  It was a long time ago.”  Bill raised his head.  “Not a problem at all.”

Mallory frantically changed topics.  “You said Battle Creek?  What brings you there?”

“My friend and I could use a bit o’ health and wellness.  We’re headin’ to the sanitarium there,” Bill said, nodding his head in Wage’s direction.

“Well, I’ve certainly heard interesting things about Mr. Kellogg and his sanitarium.  I think many a soldiers seek refuge there,” she said.  “And a couple of serviceman like you, I am sure you bring a few burdens to Battle Creek.”

“Maybe a few, but the Army, the service, it was great for me. It was the only thing that brought order to my life.  I imagine for Wage, here, as well.”

“Wage?”

“Wage Winchester Pascal,” he said and pointed to his friend.  They both took a moment to gaze at the sleeping man with a chiseled jaw and groomed beard, but strangely, they both regarded him as a child.  There was something magical about sleep and its ability to bestow, on anyone, the vulnerability of an infant.

“I grew up a rancher in Oklahoma,” Bill continued.  “I remember storms, droughts, floods, fires, and all the other natural calamities that would plague our land.  I remember tuberculosis taking my brother Jimmy, and a buckin’ Thoroughbred taking my sister Ruth.  I never quite understood the unpredictability of life, the cruelty of chance.  I’ve only understood order.”  Ol’ Bill looked out at the passing terrain.  Faded green grass littered with brown, dry foliage met the shores of a cobalt lake and an azure sky.  “As a boy on my father’s ranch, I used to watch the sunrise and sunset from the saddle of my horse, like clockwork.  The air would cool, turn cold, would warm, and become hot before cooling again.  The color of magnolia flowers, the sound of rattlin’ cicadas, the moans of cows during birthing season, the constellations on a winter night.  That was the order I knew.  As a man, I could only find the same order in the Army.  The regiment.  Rising, dressing, eating, praying, and sleeping, every day at the same time with the bugle’s call.  Receiving orders and executing them.  Order and execution—life couldn’t be any simpler.”

“If I may say, Mr. MacDonough, you are undoubtedly a poet.  If your letters are half as profound as what you have just conveyed, then I am sure your wife is privileged and overjoyed to read your correspondences.”

Ol’ Bill lowered his head again.  “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Now, you simply must tell me, where did you meet this Captain Wage Pascal?” she asked.

“He was a young tyke.  Could barely grow himself a beard.  He showed up one day to camp, down in San Antonio.  I didn’t think much of him, to be honest.  He was a pompous little shit.  Pardon my language, ma’am.” Ol’ Bill laughed as he relived the memory.  “But he was tough as a railroad spike.  He wouldn’t let nothing and no one get the best o’ him, despite all the punishment he received for his . . . well, failure to comply. 

One day, Colonel Roosevelt himself, he comes to me and he says ‘Bill, this kid has potential.  He’s smart as a whip.  He fights like the devil and can shoot the pecker off a hummingbird.  He’s a natural leader and men will fight for him, I know it.  Now make him an officer.’”  Ol’ Bill looked down for a moment.  “Uh, pardon my language again, ma’am.”

“Roosevelt?  You mentioned Cuba earlier . . . were you Rough Riders?  They are quite the legend, I hear.” Mallory Macy unfurled a small fan and waved it briskly in front of herself.

“Hardly anything of legend, ma’am,” Bill replied.  “But sure enough, I trained him, and through hell and high water, he made 2
nd
Lieutenant.”

“The time in Cuba, it must have been terrifying,” she said.

“Oh, it was.  Mine and Wage’s platoon infiltrated the garrison on Kettle Hill.  It was there we found the Spanish commander, hidin’ away in some underground caves beneath the fort, and Wage . . . well, Wage—”

“Now, William,” Wage interrupted, making Bill and Mallory jump.  “You would not be telling this beautiful young lady our exploits in Spanish Cuba, now, would you?  There is no need to bore her with nonsensical stories.  All she needs to know it that Cuba is hot, humid and littered with every insect ever created or cast out by God himself.”  Wage’s eyes narrowed.  “There is really nothing more worth conveying about such a forsaken place.”

“Wage Winchester Pascal, I feel like I know so much about you already,” she said.  “Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Malloy Macy.”  She held out her hand.

Wage wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger before kissing her white-gloved hand.  “Well ain’t you just a diamond. It is most definitely my pleasure,
mon chéri
.”

Ol’ Bill cleared his throat.  “Uh, Wage, Mrs. Macy is newly married.”

“And what a lucky man he must be,” Wage said with a crocodile smile.

“Oh, Mr. Pascal, you have no idea,” she said with a wolf’s grin.

“Well, how’s about you join us for a drink then?  I’ll have the porter bring us some of their finest bourbon.”

“I’m afraid I must attend to my husband.  It has been a pleasure meeting you Mr. MacDonough.  Do wish your wife well for me,” Mallory said.

“I will,” Bill said, standing up and removing his cap once more.

“Mr. Pascal.”  She nodded.

Wage rose to his feet as if called to attention and placed his slouch hat over his chest.  “
Mon chérie
.”

Mallory Macy slid down the center of the train car, stopping just before the door.  While she waited for the attendant to open it, she looked back at the still-standing Wage and revealed her wolfish grin once more.           

John Hum

August 9, 1914

Smythwyck Estate

Winston-Salem, North Carolina

Amber Rose drove the horse cart down the dirt road at a brisk pace, her shirtwaist unbuttoned to an immodest level.  She sweated as she worked the reigns; they were an extension of her own body, a habit learned from her youth when she would deliver her father’s apples to the cider manufacturer in town. 

As a young girl, Amber Rose Macgillicuddy knew nothing of the cider industry, the process of mashing, fermenting, and bottling her father’s apples.  Her father just sent his only daughter on the cart runs in the late spring to sell the bitter delicious fruit he painstakingly harvested with her older brothers.  He would always fill the cart with more bushels than agreed upon, but who could turn down his daughter’s youthful innocence, especially when he instructed her to flash those wide maple eyes.  Her eyes had always possessed a hypnotizing splash of azure and were caged behind eyelashes like a Venus Fly Trap.

She never saw or touched the finished cider product until she was 12, when one of the employees gave her a few bottles for her three-hour ride back home to her father’s orchard.  She headed home in the late afternoon, but she didn’t get home until morning with a half-broken axle and one horse missing.  Her father fumed for days.  To make it up to him, she promised that one day she would sell every last apple in his orchard.  As she got older, she convinced her father to load the cart with as many bushels as two horses could pull.  She was able to sell every last one of them to the cider maker, but with more than a flash of her brown-blue eyes.  Eventually, her promise came true as she secured an additional deal with a local distributor, whose refrigerated rail cars could ship her father’s crop up and down the Carolinas. 

“Should be just down this road,” she yelled over the clanking wooden cart.

The summer sun lit up the blindingly white antebellum mansion, the iconic fixture of the Smythwyck Plantation.  On the porch, a young blonde woman dressed in a blue-and-white lace dress sat in a rocking chair sipping chilled water with a sprig of mint.  The rocking chair creaked almost in rhythm to the cicadas, who took turns rattling from the surrounding trees.  Amber Rose brought the horses to a halt and tied them to a hitching post where the driveway met the road. 

John Hum took off his hat and parted his hair as he approached the shaded porch.  “Good afternoon, ma’am.  Is this the Hamilton estate?”

The young women fanned herself with such intensity that she closed her eyes.  “Yes.  Yes it is,” she replied.

Amber Rose wiped the sweat from her brow with her sleeve as she stepped into the shade of the porch.  “I am wondering if it might be possible to talk to Mr. Hamilton, is he available?” John asked.

“No.  He went out with Mr. Humphries to mark some trees that need clearing.  I’m afraid I don’t know when he’ll return.”

“It’s awfully important, ma’am. Would you mind terribly if we waited here for his return?” John asked.

The woman finally opened her eyes and focused them.  “May I ask who you are?”

“I am afraid that is precisely why I am seeking Mr. Hamilton.”  John glanced at Amber Rose.  “As far as I can gather, I am a detective who is in some way connected to, or acquainted with, Mr. Hamilton.”

The woman stopped rocking.  “Detective?  You must be him!  You are the man searching for Wage Pascal!”

“Yes,” John said. “I am familiar with that name as well.”

“You’re the one my father hired!”  She stood up and approached them.  “Please tell me you’ve found him!” 

John looked at his companion, who shrugged.  “I am afraid I don’t know the whereabouts of Mr. Pascal, at least not at the moment.  I suffered a—”

“You listen to me you sonovabitch,” she interrupted. “My name is Cynthia Hamilton, and I’m not sure how much my father is paying you, but rest assured I will make sure it’s more!  You find Wage Pascal and wire me immediately with his whereabouts, you hear me!  I wanna know where he is and what he is doing, do you understand?”  The color left Cynthia face and her eyes widened.  She took a few quick steps to her left and promptly vomited over the wrought iron railing into the deep green hedge.

Amber Rose put a gentle hand on her back. “It’s all right sweetie, it’s all right.”

Cynthia ignored the consoling gesture. Instead, she composed herself and straightened her dress.  She pulled a monogramed kerchief from her sleeve and wiped her mouth daintily.  “I’m fine.  Truly, I am.  But I am afraid I must retire for the time being.  I meant what I said, Detective—please wire me the moment you find him, the
moment
you find Wage Pascal.  In the meantime, you should find my father and Mr. Humphries no more than a mile or two down the road.  If need be, I can have one of the servants accompany you.”

“That won’t be necessary, ma’am.  I’m quite certain we can find our way,” John replied.

“Very good.  Let me know whatever findings you come across,” she said, making her way back into the house.

“Well,” said Amber Rose, “Looks like you might just have quite the windfall when you find Wage.  Shall we saddle up or take a leisurely stroll?”

John answered by taking off his black coat, slinging it over his shoulder with one hand, and starting for the road.

They had walked for just over a half hour when they came upon a Model-T Touring Car off to the side of the road.  Black chevrons and green leaves adorned the driver’s side door.  John inspected the empty vehicle, not exactly sure what to look for.  Amber Rose pointed.  “There!” she pointed to a grove of hackberry trees, where a dark-skinned man with white hair was toiling while another man rested with his back against the trunk of the largest tree.  The dark-skinned man stopped what he was doing and watched as John and Amber Rose approached.

“Well I’ll be, if it isn’t our friend, the detective!” he exclaimed.

“Mr. Humphries, I presume?” John asked.

“That’s about right.  Ain’t it been awhile since you last came around?  How long’s it been, now?  And who’s your friend, here?”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Humphries, that I suffered an unfortunate accident, one that has taken my memory.  I would like to talk to Mr. Hamilton in the hope of regaining some of my memory.  It is my understanding he employed me to find a man by the name of Wage Pascal.”

“Well, now, ain’t that something,” Mr. Humphries said.

“Is that Mr. Hamilton there, then?” John asked.

“Is he sleeping?  He looks a little pale,” Amber Rose commented.

Mr. Humphries looked behind him.  “Oh, well.  I am afraid Mr. Jonathan Hamilton won’t be able to join us,” he said, his accent changing drastically to a refined British.

“What do you mean, won’t be able to join us?  What’s going on here?” John asked.

“If you will excuse me for one moment,” Mr. Humphries said.  He walked over to a small, polished wooden box on the ground, knelt down, and opened it.  Inside were two dueling pistols, smooth and ornately gilded.  “These were Mr. Hamilton’s favorites,” he said while loading one with a solitary bullet.  “This will be fitting.”

“What will be fitting?  I don’t understand.” John said.

“Uh, John, I think we should go,” Amber Rose whispered, clutching his weak arm.  “I really want to go.  I wanna go right goddamn now!”

Mr. Humphries whistled a tune and nonchalantly strolled over to Mr. Hamilton, whose eyes remained closed.  With his shoulders slumped he looked as though he was, indeed, taking an afternoon nap in the shade.  Mr. Humphries placed the pistol in Hamilton’s hand and turned the barrel.  Then he tried to pry open the man’s mouth; it finally opened with a loud crack.  It took some effort and repositioning, but he finally arranged Mr. Hamilton so that the pistol was in his mouth and a lifeless finger lay on the trigger.  Mr. Humphries walked back to John and Amber Rose while dusting off his servant livery.  “Well now, that’s better I’d say, wouldn’t you?”

“What in God’s name are you doing?” John yelled, unconsciously shooting his atrophied arm to his belt once again. Amber Rose cowered behind him.  “This is madness!”

“Oh calm down, Simon,” Mr. Humphries said.  “The man is already dead.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “For almost two hours now.  Soon the rigor mortis will spread to his extremities and a stiffened finger will pull the trigger, making this look like a suicide.” 

“Why would you do this?  Who is Simon?  Who are you?” John shouted frantically.

Mr. Humphries sighed.  “It’s fairly simple, really.  Mr. Hamilton was unable to keep a secret, and I’m afraid the consequence for such an indiscretion is rather harsh.”  He paused to wipe his shimmering forehead with a handkerchief.  “I have been slowly poisoning him for weeks, disguised it as painkillers for his hip.  I gave him the final dose this morning.”  Mr. Humphries pointed to the detective’s atrophied arm.  “It seems you know all about poison as well.”

“Poison?  You think poison did this?” The detective feebly lifted his arm.

“Yes, Simon.  Normally poison kills you, but it appears you have some resiliency,” Mr. Humphries said.  He suddenly moved to grab the detective.

“Stay away from me!” John warned.  “Stay away!”  He backed up, almost tripping over Amber Rose behind him.

“Honestly, Simon, if I wanted you dead, you would be so already.  Now give me your bloody arm.”  John—still not sure why he was being called Simon—relented.  Mr. Humphries inspected his arm closely.  “Unbutton your shirt,” he commanded.  John hesitantly obliged.  “Yes, this is Monomi’s handiwork isn’t it, at-a-boy ol’ chap, at-a-boy!  Where did you say you came from?”

  John started to button up his shirt with one hand.  “New Orleans.”

  “You are indeed lucky to be alive; Monomi rarely fails.  You have multiple pinpoint scars on your arm and midsection.  These were the injection sites, no doubt caused by a small gauge needle, and no doubt missed by your doctors.  Bloody ingrates probably thought they were blemishes, mild rashes, or bug bites.  The poison he used was the most powerful neurotoxin anyone knows of.  It comes from certain types of fish.”

“Neurotoxin?” the detective asked.

“Yes, the nerve cells in your arm incurred enough damage that they are no longer able to conduct a charge, meaning it is near impossible to retain full motor function.  The lack of motor function will lead, in this case, to atrophy.”

“This is one smart-sounding goddamn servant,” Amber Rose whispered.

“Miss, I assure you, I am no servant in the traditional sense.  My real name is Doctor Victor Mamba.  At least that was the name given to me at a very early age, when an Englishmen named Livingston came upon my tribe, deep in the jungles of the Congo.  You see, my father was something of a witch doctor, as his father and grandfather had been before him.  He was even the first consul to the chieftain himself.  When Livingston came in with his men, his rifles and machetes, he was near death and suffering from what he thought was an incurable fever.”  Victor Mamba turned to look at Jonathan Hamilton.  “My father cured him with the venom of a tree snake and a leech from the Mother Goddess River, what you refer to as the Congo.  After his recovery, Livingston inquired as to the type of medicine my father used.  It was simple, really.  You see, Simon, toxicity in any form in the human body can be counteracted with an equal and opposite counteracting toxin.  Think of it like Newtonian physics.  Well, in order to counteract such toxins, one must be well versed in all toxins and inject them in the appropriate amounts in order to heal.  It was an art that I learned from my father by my fifteenth birthday, in hopes of one day taking up the mantle of healer.  However, ancient knowledge was no match for European weaponry.  To spare the lives of my tribe, my father handed me over to Livingston, who brought me back to England.  My knowledge of toxins was used to destroy, to wither, rather than to heal.  In return for sowing a small stone to my chest, I received an education, culminating in a degree from Oxford.  Before I knew it, I was scarred, branded, carved, and tattooed.  I used my ancient talents, refined with modern science, to serve a greater purpose.  But I assure you, I am no servant.  You are wondering how I know Monomi’s work—it is because I am the one who taught him the craft of poisons.”

“I don’t understand.  Why are you telling me all this?” the detective asked.  “Who is Monomi?  Why did he poison me?”

“We are assassins.  Or at least, I
was
an assassin.  I retired some time ago.  Monomi, unfortunately, seems to have taken a different path.  We believe he now works against us.”  Victor took a deep breath of disappointment.  “I simply watch over those who our order is invested in now, and what better way to do that than to become a servant . . . in the traditional sense.  My God, you Americans.  You fight a bloody war over the rights of Africans, and when the winners free us of our bondage, we simply serve new masters at a slightly better wage.  It’s bollocks, I tell you, all of it!”  Victor Mamba started to laugh. 

“Can you heal my arm, then?” John asked.

The question made Victor laugh harder.  After a moment, he composed himself.  “There is no cure for the damage done.  But I can offer you something equally important.”

“What’s that?” the detective asked.

“Your memories,” replied Victor.  “I know who you are, Simon.  I know where you are from, your parents, your schooling, your employers, your beliefs, your secret penchants, your political ideologies, and all the women who you never shagged.  I know everything about you. And I can give it all back to you—your life!”  Victor stayed quiet for a moment.  “I can also offer you retribution.  The man known as Wage Pascal is the one ultimately responsible for your current condition.  I will give you the tools, and when I do, I want you to find him . . . and eliminate him.”