The Alchemist in the Attic (13 page)

“Then help me understand,” Atwood implored. They had built a connection before, no matter how tenuous. Hopefully that would be enough.

“I have seen the truth,” Collins breathed in awed tones.

“What truth?”

“His truth.” There was an expression almost of rapture on Collins’ face, rapture tinged with fear. It made Atwood uncomfortable. The itching behind his skin was growing worse, and he could feel Staalman stir behind him, his interest suddenly acute.

Collins saw it too with his restless, darting eyes, and sneered. “They’re jealous,” he said. “They dress it up in concern all they want, but they’re jealous of him and the Great Work.”

“They?” Atwood asked, planning to return to the ‘Great Work’ in a moment. “Meaning Staalman and the others?”

Collins shook his head. “Staalman, Stokes, Valli, they’re all just cat’s paws like me.” He smiled sadly, suddenly lucid. “And like you.”

“Is that what I am?” Atwood asked, thinking of Swifty. There was still no word from him, and that was starting to gnaw at Atwood, yet another in a pantheon of worries.

“You know you are, or else you’re lying again.”

“I’m no one’s pawn.” Atwood leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “Though not for their lack of trying.”

Collins started to nod, but found his head locked in place. “Have they installed you in my old apartment yet?”

“Yes.”

“That was quick work.” Collins’ eyes flickered to Staalman. “They must be getting desperate.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“I’m not,” Collins said. “Apart from a stiff neck, I’ve never been better.”

“Now who’s lying?”

Collins’ expression fell. “They’ve put me next door to a gentleman who believes he’s the second coming of Stonewall Jackson. Every night he shouts troop movements at the top of his lungs for two hours straight.” Collins met Atwood’s gaze, suddenly earnest and steady. “But I haven’t slept this well in months.”

Atwood shrank back from the understanding on Collins’ face. He felt as if he’d lost a part of himself, as though the very act of understanding was an invasion. That’s why Atwood had tried so hard all his life to keep people guessing, but Collins wasn’t guessing.

“How are your dreams?” he asked gently, as if Atwood were the patient.

“Dark,” Atwood said. “Full of trees and edges.”

“Yes. That’s how it starts, the forest and the faces. Then they follow you… Can you hear him at night?”

“The shrieks? The rumbling, bubbling, boiling sounds of tortured science? Yes,” Atwood admitted. “I can hear him.”

“It gets inside your head,” Collins said. “You’re made of sterner stuff than I was, but it’s getting to you too. I can see it in your eyes.”

“And the stain,” Atwood murmured. A spasm passed through him.

“Yes.” Collins closed his eyes and shuddered. “The stain.”

“You know what’s causing it, don’t you?” Atwood said gently. “You’ve seen the Great Work.” This was the question he had been dying to ask. The answer they were all waiting for. Behind him, Staalman shifted excitedly.

Collins opened his mouth once, twice, but no words came out. He jerked back suddenly, wrenching his neck, as he desperately attempted to turn away. The collar dug into his skin, but he didn’t seem to care. He thrashed about, still trying to speak. Atwood caught a few words here and there.

“I don’t remember,” Collins said over and over. “I mustn’t…I can’t..the Great Work must…be protected…”

Staalman sighed and stepped forward with a syringe in hand. Atwood rose to stop him, but he was too late. Staalman had already injected Collins. The younger man calmed down almost immediately, and sagged in his chair.

“What did you do that for?” Atwood demanded. “He was about to tell us…”

“Nothing,” Staalman said firmly. “You think I haven’t asked him about the Great Work before? This always happens.”

“Of course he never told
you
,” Atwood said.

“And you think he’d share with you?”

“Maybe.” Atwood shrugged. “I’m not sure, but he sees himself in me.”

“And you see yourself in him,” Staalman said. “The dreams, the
stain
. Perhaps you should stay with us a while too, make yourself at home. There would be plenty of time for the two of you to compare notes.”

“Never.” Atwood narrowed his eyes.

“Never is a very long time.” Staalman gave Atwood an unkind smile.

“Not long enough.” They stared at each other, neither backing down. Part of Atwood had been worried about this ever since he’d set foot in the asylum, worried they’d never let him out. Worst of all, he was worried that Staalman was right, no matter his motives.

“Atwood.” Collins’ voice was feeble, but echoed in the tense silence. “They abandoned me here,” Collins said, when he was sure Atwood was listening. “They’ll abandon you too.”

Atwood leaned in close and whispered, for Collins’ ears only, “Not if I abandon them first.”

Collins laughed. It was a pure laugh, sane, utterly devoid of madness, and yet it chilled Atwood to the bone. He left Collins, who was still laughing.

Staalman locked the door behind them. “I’ll have one of the boys drive you back to the city,” he said.

“Thank you.” Atwood’s mind was elsewhere.

“About the notebook,” Staalman said.

“And why would I give it to you?” Atwood asked. “You practically threatened to have me committed in there.”

“I was attempting to nurture the connection he felt with you. He feels persecuted.”

“Because he is being persecuted.”

“Nonsense. We take care of our own. Valencourt has twisted poor Collins around so much that he’s lost sight of that, but surely you can see it.”

“If this is you taking care of your own, I want no part of it.”

“I see.” Staalman sneered. “So you won’t give it to me but you’ll still give it to
her.
”

“Who said I was going to do that?” Atwood raised his eyebrows.

“You didn’t have to. I can see she already has her claws in you like she did Collins.”

Atwood barked a laugh. “Her claws aren’t that deep, but I do know where I stand with her.”

“And where is that?”

“She’s using me as bait.” Atwood shrugged. “I can’t blame her for that, not me of all people. But I don’t know what you’re using me as.”

Staalman glared.

“Good evening, Dr. Staalman,” Atwood said firmly. “Perhaps I’ll see you at Professor Stokes’ next little soiree.”

“If you’re still with us,” Staalman muttered darkly.

“Oh, I assure you, I will be.”

Atwood marched down the hallway with as much swagger as he could muster, but it was mostly for show. He was no one’s pawn, not Valli’s, not Valencourt’s, not even Maguire’s, and certainly not Staalman’s. The only one who’d ever been able to pull his strings with impunity was his father, and that man was long dead.

But Collins was a warning of things to come. Atwood fully intended to heed that warning. Still, as he emerged from the asylum into the chilly evening air, Atwood felt more broken than ever. His thoughts were sharp and slippery, singed with madness. The dreams. How had Collins known about the dreams? It was impossible and yet they had clearly recalled details in common. He could feel them inside him now, tainting his mind, twisting everything.

He found himself considering ideas he had never imagined: madness spread from person to person, shared dreams, thoughts that were not his own. What was next, ghost and fairies? Alchemy? Even a week ago he would have dismissed such notions out of hand as fantasy and delusion. Perhaps Staalman was right. Perhaps Madame Valli had sunk her claws in deeper than he’d believed, if they even were her claws. Atwood took a deep breath and shook those thoughts away.

He needed to find Walter. The ground was turning to quicksand beneath him and Walter was the only one Atwood could trust to keep him steady, not Madame Valli, not the inspector. No more occult mumbo jumbo, no more alchemy, just proper solid investigating. He and Walter had started this, and it was time they finished it, before Atwood truly went mad.

When Atwood returned to the
Oracle
building, he found it mostly deserted. The sunlight poured through the window in shafts of sickly gray light. Maguire was not in his office, and most of the other reporters, those that still remained loyal, were out on assignment. It was eerie, standing there alone, surrounded by empty desks. No gossiping, backstabbing reporters, no joking, no laughter. Just the sound of the printers churning and groaning.

That was where he found Maguire, at last, in the print room with his sleeves rolled up, and his fingers already stained with ink. A stooped, lonely figure, he was dwarfed by the machines around him, doing the typesetting himself, like in the old days. The situation must have been grimmer than Atwood thought.

Maguire had learned the trade and mastered it, but he had never enjoyed this part of the work. A quick glance around showed that the printing room was nearly as empty as the offices upstairs. At least half the pressmen and compositors were missing. It had happened so gradually that Atwood hadn’t noticed until this moment just how many were gone. Looking down at Maguire methodically preparing the next edition, it occurred to Atwood for the first time that the
Oracle
might not survive, that despite their efforts, he and Maguire might fail.

Atwood climbed down the stairs to join him. “Getting your hands dirty, I see.” He tried for levity, but it came out strained.

“Someone has to,” Maguire replied without turning.

“I thought circulation was up,” Atwood said.

“It is. No small thanks to you, but all the other papers have the story now.” He turned his dropping, baleful eye on Atwood. “And between them, Hearst and Young are hiring away our best people. I lost six this week.”

“Six!” Atwood was appalled. He’d been so wrapped up in the case, he hadn’t realized the extent of the problem. No wonder the offices felt empty.  “What can we do?” he asked instead.

“I’m already doing my part,” Maguire said. “I’ll keep this place running as long as possible, by hook or by crook.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Atwood smiled softly, but with genuine warmth. He had faith in Maguire’s abilities.

After a moment Maguire returned the smile wanly and then pointed an ink-stained finger. “And you?” He asked. “Any progress?”

“I’m working on it.” Atwood still hadn’t told Maguire about the alchemist, and he’d forced Walter to keep silent as well. It wasn’t time yet. Maguire would push to run the story now, but Atwood wasn’t ready. He still felt uneasy. He was missing whole pieces of the puzzle and that worried him.

Everyone was pressing in on him, pulling him in too many directions at once. They all thought he owed them something, and they were right, most of them. The problem was that he couldn’t see a way to keep them all happy. He could barely see a way to help himself. Atwood was closer to the story than ever, but somehow the answers were always just out of reach. He was used to the peculiar and the disturbing, but this investigation was taking him to ever stranger places. There were questions everywhere he turned, and few answers. Not knowing was a crawling, twitchy feeling. Atwood hated it. He needed time to think. He needed sleep.

“I thought you were going to…” Maguire trailed off delicately.

“I did.” Atwood bit out the words. “The bait is on the hook. My father would have been proud.”

Maguire looked down at that. “No bites?”

“Not yet. I haven’t heard a peep.”

“Then make it up. Unless you already have.” Maguire narrowed his eyes. “And you’re trying to use it as leverage. Hearst and Young would pay a pretty penny.”

“You know I would never do that.”

Maguire stared at him incredulously. “You would in a heartbeat,” he said. “You and I have no illusions on that score. We know each other too well.” His lips twitched in a scowl. “Don’t forget, I know exactly what you’re capable of.”

“Yes.” Atwood smirked. “I suppose you do.” After a moment, however, Atwood shook his head ruefully. “But nothing’s changed. My bridges are well and truly burned. You were there. Hearst will never touch me, not while Selby’s there.”

“And Young?”

“After the mess I made with his dear departed brother?”

“This story might build a few bridges.”

“It might,” Atwood agreed. “But I doubt it.”

Maguire studied him, weighing. “I believe you,” he said at last. “As far as it goes. But you might be wrong.”

“About Hearst and Young?”

Maguire shook his head. “About your bait.”

“What?” Atwood demanded, suddenly on edge.

“Five more bodies have washed up onshore,” Maguire said softly.

“When?”

“Less than an hour ago.”

“And you think it’s…?”

“I don’t know,” said Maguire. “This madman of yours isn’t the only one who dumps bodies in the Bay, after all.”

“No,” Atwood agreed, but he was sure of it all the same.

“Hearst will have a small army on this. I only have you and Walter.”

“I know.”

“And Teddy,” Maguire said softly. “They’re all boys.”

Atwood practically charged out of the room, despite the dread in his stomach, despite the sudden weakness in his legs. He needed to get to the crime scene. He needed to see, to know that his fears were empty. That he hadn’t sent those boys to their death.

“I’m sorry,” Maguire whispered as Atwood left, and he did sound sorry. That was the worst part.

Walter wandered in at that moment, grim and sickly as ever. He glanced from Atwood to Maguire questioningly. “You wanted to see me?” Walter asked.

“Where have you been?” Atwood practically demanded.

Walter frowned at him. “You know where I’ve been,” he said. “At the courthouse?”

He took in Atwood’s haggard expression, and the uncharacteristic sorrow on Maguire’s face.

“Did something happen?” he asked cautiously. Neither of them answered for a long moment.

“Yes,” Atwood said finally. “Come on. We have work to do.”

He moved slowly now, as though the urgency had been bled from him, leaving only dread.

“Where are we going?” Walter asked, resigned.

“To see some bodies,” Atwood said, and left without another word.

*

There were five boys lying on the shore, their skin bloated and their chests carved open. None of them were older than twelve. It was a gruesome, soggy sight. The crowd was murmuring to itself restlessly. Their unease was growing. They were used to death, and they even appreciated the macabre entertainment, but it had been almost a month now and the bodies were starting to pile up. This made thirteen. Atwood needed to get closer, hoping beyond hope that Swifty and Little Jake were not among the dead, but more certain with each passing moment that they were.

Atwood could see violence roiling beneath the faces around him. For them it wasn’t about the boys themselves—street urchins were killed every day—but the manner of their deaths. Murder was one thing, but being cut open by some mad doctor in an alley was something else entirely. Atwood and the other papers had been feeding them a steady diet of half-baked grotesqueries, and they had devoured it whole. Perhaps, Atwood reflected, he had done his job too well. This wasn’t a crowd; it was a mob waiting to happen. All it would take was one spark, as if a kind of collective insanity had taken root. Atwood could feel it in himself, poisoning his thoughts. Unlike the others, though, his dread had a face and a name.

He recognized his old, crooked-nosed friend Rehms in the crowd. The tall man was nowhere to be found, and that was even more worrying. Maguire had been right. Hearst had a small army on hand, swarming the crime scene. Young’s boys were there too, fighting for position. Atwood only had Walter. He felt distinctly outnumbered and as he studied the crowd he noticed a familiar figure. It was Selby.

“Dammit!” Atwood’s hand twitched. Selby was the last person he wanted to see, especially now when he was distracted. It was too late, though. Selby had seen him too and quickly detached himself from the crowd with a smirk.

“Mr. Harel.” He gave Walter a cordial nod. “Pleasure to see you again, and so soon.”

Walter shifted uncomfortably at Atwood’s glance.

“And Atwood.” Selby’s smirk was somehow even wider.

“Selby.” Atwood glared.

“I thought I told you to leave town,” Selby said.

Atwood spat. He wanted to wipe the smug look off the other man’s face, but this was not the time or the place.

“No.” Selby shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d listen, not even when I was trying to do you a favor. For old time’s sake.”

“A favor?” Atwood asked. “You had me beaten in the street.”

Selby shrugged, still smirking. “I was just trying to get your attention.”

“You have it,” Atwood said. There was no mistaking the threat in his voice, but Selby simply laughed.

“Poor Teddy. Still trying to save your precious paper, but soon you’ll turn around and find there isn’t a paper left to save.”

“Don’t count us out just yet. We’ve got a few tricks left up our sleeves.”

“Oh, I’m familiar with all your tricks,” Selby said. “Intimately.”

“Then why do your boys keep losing me?” Atwood asked. “Sloppy work.”

“Perhaps,” Selby admitted. “But you haven’t made a very good showing either. They keep finding you again.”

“But where do I go? I’m sure you’re just dying to know.”

“Of course,” Selby said. “I’m a reporter. Curiosity is my middle name.”

“I guess you’ll have to read all about it in the
Oracle
,” Atwood said. “Like everyone else.” Then he brushed past Selby without another word, practically shoving him aside.

Walter followed in his wake with a murmured apology to Selby. Atwood noticed the interplay.

“Making friends I see,” he muttered.

“Trying,” Walter said.

“Good.” Atwood grunted. He glanced around, making sure they were out of earshot. “I take it you’ve made no mention of my involvement?”

“I’ve been waiting for the proper moment.”

“Probably right about that.”

“But I will. I promise. That’s the deal. That’s what we planned. Hearst takes both of us or neither.”

“Thank you,” Atwood said, but he wasn’t sure he believed him. The plan had been Atwood’s idea, a fallback plan in case the
Oracle
failed. Walter had agreed, as Atwood had known he would, but lately, Walter had grown distant. Atwood couldn’t begrudge Walter for hedging his bets. Tying his fortunes to Atwood was dangerous, especially when Selby and Young were probably offering him good money. Why should he share any of it with Atwood? Why would he stick his neck out, when he knew Atwood would never do the same for him? It was foolish, and Walter was not a fool, usually.

But Atwood couldn’t worry about that right now. They had pushed their way to the front of the crowd, and all he could think of was the pit in his stomach, and the terrible certainty that Swifty and Little Jake were among the dead.

Sergeant Wry saw them immediately and glowered.

“Wonderful to see you too, Sergeant,” Atwood said. “Now where’s Quirke?”

“What makes you think that…”

“We have a deal and you know it.”

Wry gave him a long look then nodded. “True enough,” he said, and waved Inspector Quirke over.

“Atwood, Harel,” he greeted. “You’re late. Hearst’s boys have been all over this for the last half hour.”

“We’ve been busy,” Atwood said.

“Yes.” Quirke and Wry exchanged glances. “I’m sure you have. Very busy.”

Atwood ignored the comment. “I don’t suppose you’d let us have a peek at the bodies?” He asked. “For old times’ sake.”

Quirke narrowed his eyes, but he seemed to find something in Atwood’s expression. “Not here,” he said softly. “Gage is on the warpath but I trust that you and Harel know where the morgue is, you’ve been there enough times with and without permission.”

“We do.”

“Then be there in an hour. Don’t let anyone see you.”

“Understood.”

“And, Teddy,” Quirke said. “I’m putting my career on the line now. Gage has Hearst’s backing now. He’ll probably be the next Chief of Police, so you’d better have something up your sleeve.”

Atwood nodded. “I promise,” he said. The time for secrecy had passed.

They dispersed as subtly as possible in the circumstances. Atwood felt Selby’s eyes on them, but ignored him for now. He had other things to worry about. As they headed back to the trolley, he thought he caught a glimpse of Valencourt in the crowd, but when he turned, there was no one there.

*

The morgue was a cold, sterile place smelling of chemicals and death. The white tiles were thoroughly, if infrequently, scrubbed and could not hide the grim nature of the room. The bodies were already laid out on the metal operating tables when Atwood and Walter arrived, ushered in by a discrete uniformed officer. Quirke and Wry were huddled over the far corpse. Dr. Tully, the coroner, was describing his preliminary examinations in a dry, cracked voice. Cigar smoke clung to him even in this place, followed by the unmistakable scent of whiskey.

“The cuts are the same as the others,” he was saying. “Precise and surgical.” Wry scribbled away in his notebook, clearly doing his best not to look at the young boy on the table. Dr. Tully trailed off as the reporters entered. He glanced at Quirke, who nodded. They had been invited.

“Gentlemen,” Quirke said.

“Inspector.” Atwood nodded. He moved to join them, slowly, reluctantly. He needed to know for sure, but part of him was desperately hoping beyond hope that he was wrong. Looking down at the corpse, Atwood bit back a gasp. He’d been right, after all. It was Swifty, with Little Jake right beside him.. Their chests had been sliced open, the skin folded back and all the organs removed. Atwood did not have the medical knowledge to judge the quality of the knife work. All he saw was a bloody, mangled mess. He had sent them to their deaths. It was all his fault

“The others?” Walter asked, taking the lead for once and Atwood was grateful. He needed a moment to gather himself.

“Yes, this time,” Dr. Tully said, once Quirke gave his permission. “But I’ve seen similar knife work on the other batches of men and women, all dumped in the Bay.”