The Oilman's Daughter (21 page)

Phinneas’ minor irritation at this whole setback finally boiled over. He slapped the counter hard enough to make the shoddy merchandise inside it clatter. There must have been fire in his eyes too, for MacPherson nearly tipped backward off his stool under Phinneas’ gaze.

“The cargo we’re searchin’ for is worth untold millions, paid by an extremely wealthy Houston businessman. The girl, and the secrets she carries, is worth so much that dozens of people have crossed the reaches of space to get her. These same people would use yer bloody twelve hundred to wipe the shit from their arses. If ye assist us in rescuing this woman, ye’d be cut in a considerable portion of the ransom. Real money, probably for the first time in yer pathetic career as a second-rate drug and junk peddler. What say ye? Are ye ready to play with the big boys, or are ye gonna sit there on yer fat arse and pule over a few hundred measly bucks?”

While MacPherson was busy soaking in the words, Phinneas’s hand flew out in a blur and grabbed Orbital’s pistol. With the same lightning quick speed, he reached behind the counter and grabbed the shotgun that had only a couple minutes ago been pointed at his heart. The sudden power shift in the room made him feel as if the earth had tilted the opposite way on its axis.

MacPherson raised his hands in a feeble display of surrender. “Okay okay! I see your point. You fellers drive a hard bargain.”

“Ye ain’t as dumb as I thought, then.” Phinneas stepped back with the guns. He handed the pistol back to Orbital, who cocked it and kept it by his side at the ready. Phinneas didn’t point the deadly close-range weapon at MacPherson, but he was ready to at a moment’s notice. He felt keyed up by the confrontation, but most of all he was just fed up. He hated the gravity of this planet, and the look and stench of this cursed city. He was tired of this chase that didn’t seem to have an end in sight, and continued to throw one wrench after another in their paths. Shooting this bastard might not solve their problems, but it would go a long way toward satisfying the angry monster in his gut that wouldn’t stop gnawing until he was released from the clutches of this dying rock. “Tell us what ye’ve heard, and mind ye I don’t have a high tolerance for anymore subterfuge today.”

Dutchy nodded quickly. “One of my couriers came in a little while ago mentioning a group of foreigners wearing suits with head scarves at McKinley Tower. He didn’t say he saw a woman with ‘em, but I guess it’s possible they disguised her so she wouldn’t make ‘em stick out even more than they already did. Ain’t that often ya see Ay-rabs in these here parts.”

Jonathan looked like he was about ready to jump out of his skin. “When was it your courier saw those men?”

MacPherson pulled out his pocket watch and appeared to think about it for a moment. “He was here near an hour ago picking up more goods, and I s’pose it’d been a couple hours since he’d seen ‘em when he mentioned it. They caused quite a commotion tryin’ to get onto the elevator, from what my man said. They were over capacity and some folks lost their seats, I guess. It’s why he’d brought it up in the first place.”

“Damn!” Jonathan exclaimed. “I hope Jefferson was able to stop them.”

Phinneas turned for the door. “We best hurry and find out.”

“Hey! Hey!” called MacPherson. “What about our deal? And where are ya headin’ with my gun?”

“Call it payment for me trouble,” Phinneas said. “And ye are fortunate that’s all I’m taking.”

“You’re a goddamn liar and a thief, Phinneas Greaves!” MacPherson bellowed. “Don’t ever trust a pirate, Orbital. You hear me? Never trust a pirate!”

Once they were outside the shop, the two men bolted toward the steam carriage, where the boy driver was still waiting behind the wheel to take them on a futile trip to McKinley Tower. Phinneas had a sinking feeling that this day, like all the others that had come before it since this madness began, was about to take an elevator straight to hell.

Jonathan knew they were too late. As the steam carriage left Dutchy’s shop behind, he’d leaned way out of the window, training Phinneas’ spyglass upon the cable that stretched between McKinley Tower and Roosevelt Station. From the distant area of Rice Village, the cable was barely more than a hair-thin thread, mostly obscured by the trapped pollution over Houston. But just before it became completely obscured, he’d spotted the car sliding upward like a droplet of dew running in reverse.

He checked his pocket watch, fumbling with the unfamiliar catch. It was a cheap French reproduction of a model similar to the one that had been his grandfather’s. The short and long hand spelled out what he already knew in stark, roman numerals. The car had left nearly an hour before. Trying to stop or recall it once it started was far too dangerous an operation. Trying to coordinate a precise halt of both the winches in McKinley Tower and Roosevelt Station would be nearly impossible, and there was a significant risk of snapping the cable or pulling Roosevelt out of its orbit.

“Shit. Shit!” Jonathan smashed his fist into his palm as he fell back in his seat in dismay.

Phinneas retrieved his spyglass before Jonathan’s machinations could shatter it. “It’s already launched, I take it?”

“Yes. Damn me, I forgot what day it was.”

“Let’s hope Mister Porter was successful in his mission and Miss Renault is in safe hands,” said Phinneas.

“Yes.” Jonathan pulled down the speaking tube. “Pick up the pace if you can. It’s an emergency!”

“Yes, Mister,” shouted the boy, barely audible over the clatter-splash of the carriage wheels over the rough streets and their coating of thick mud.

“What’s yer plan if she’s there?”

“I’ll remove her to Orbital Industries headquarters under cover of night, with as many men as I can manage to provide a safe journey. Once there, we’ll be protected by my father’s own private security. We’ll cable her father to let him know she’s well.”

“And then what?”

“Well. . .” Jonathan felt his ears grow hot even in the sweltering carriage cabin. “Then perhaps she and I will wed.”

“And ye think she’ll just turn over her secret formula to ye?”

“Yes, of course! Why wouldn’t she? We’re in love.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, lad, but I can’t help but wonder if that love might be a bit one-sided.”

“And what do you know about it? Isn’t a pirate’s idea of love something that comes at a price in a Lagrange cathouse?”

Phinneas raised his hands in amused supplication. “Easy, now. First of all, there be some women in Lagrange who could put any Earth woman to shame. At least there used to be before the
Albatross
flew away to join Willy Wright. Second of all, I’ve seen yer French lass when she weren’t actin’ all sweet and demure. Ye’d best believe me when I say she’s a devious one. She might play at lovin’ ye, but I wouldn’t put it past her to kick ye out the airlock if she finds a better man.”

“A better man than the one who went beyond the moon and back to rescue her?” Jonathan tried to smile, but it just wouldn’t come. He’d been feeling a bit of doubt in the back of his mind, like an out-of-tune oboe in an orchestra, ever since she’d called out Phinneas’s name at the farm before being hauled away by her kidnappers, and the pirate’s reassurances had only been temporary. And his explanation about the kiss they’d shared nagged at him too. If she’d thrown herself at him as a means to an end, could the same be said for what she’d done at the hotel back in Kansas City? He supposed he wouldn’t be able to settle his mind until he had her back in his arms again, and could ask her directly.

“It may be hard to believe, but there are men out there who are a wee bit older, wiser, and richer than ye.”

“Yes, and you were working for one of them, weren’t you?” Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “If Cecilie is not safe in the Tower, and we can prove she isn’t aboard the elevator car, that means MacPherson was a liar and your former employer becomes the prime suspect.”

“I’m no detective, but I’d wager that he’s still tryin’ to find out why his men aren’t back from the farm yet. No, I’m sure of it. Yer lady friend’s in the hands of those Arab bastards, wherever they might be.” The carriage slid to a halt, brakes squealing hard enough to dislodge Phinneas from his seat. “Bloody hell!”

Jonathan peered out the windows. He recognized the part of town they were in, but they were still a good mile or more from McKinley Tower. He grabbed the speaking tube once again. “Why have we stopped?”

“Can’t go any further, Mister. There’s a derry down in the road,” called the boy.

“Go around it.”

“There’s too many other carriages.”

Jonathan threw open the carriage door and leaned out to see. Carriages, both horse-drawn and steam-powered, were spread across the road in haphazard fashion, jammed together and facing in every direction. A huge cargo dirigible had come down, spread all the way across the road with its deflating bag draped across buildings on either side. The internal framework poked up through the fabric like tent poles, and the gondola was completely submerged beneath acres of the bag. Jonathan’s first instinct was to rush toward the crash to try to help the derry’s crew, who could very well be suffocating underneath the bag. But McKinley Tower rose up into the smog beyond, mocking him with its nearness.

The boy was standing on top of the driver’s bench, staring open-mouthed at the collapsing dirigible. Jonathan was about to order him to turn the carriage around, but when he glanced back, he realized they’d already been hemmed in by more traffic. Off to one side, two drivers were engaging in a rousing fistfight over a smashed fender and besmirched honor.

Jonathan stuck his head back inside the carriage. “We’re leaving. We’ll get the rest of the way on foot.”

“Bugger me.” Phinneas followed Jonathan out into the chaos of the street.

They ducked around a wagon, avoided the sudden kick of a spooked horse, and then encountered a cluster of four carriages crushed together with a crowd milling around it. Jonathan didn’t hesitate. He put his foot onto one fender and pulled himself up onto the driver’s bench, eliciting an angry shout from a sweating man in a stained homburg. Jonathan didn’t look back to see if Phinneas was keeping up or not, and ran across several carriage roofs, leaping across gaps between them like a Chinese acrobat.

“Slow down, damn ye, Orbital. I’m no spring chicken,” called Phinneas from behind him.

Jonathan slid down the rear slope of a taxicab and slipped into a cobblestone alleyway. He shoved his way through the crowd gathered at the alley’s mouth and then was in the clear with only stacks of crates and barrels and stray cats to impede his progress.

A thick forearm appeared out of nowhere from a doorway and caught Jonathan full in the face.

He slipped on wet cobblestones and staggered into some barrels, sending squalling cats in all directions. “Y’all look awful rich there, mister,” said the man who’d clotheslined him, displaying an ugly Bowie knife. “Lessee the color of yore money.”

The crowd at the alley mouth melted away from Phinneas, who had the shotgun out from under his coat and raised up to his cheek.

“Leave,” he said to the would-be mugger.

The chubby man dropped his Bowie knife and ran up the alley, away from the angry black man with the big gun.

Phinneas staggered over to Jonathan and offered him a hand up. Jonathan accepted it, dismayed at the blood dripping from his nose. He picked up the Bowie knife. “Shame that such a noble weapon had to fall into the hands of a louse like him. Do you want it? It’s an authentic Texas heirloom.”

Phinneas gasped for air. “Orbital, ye goddamned jackrabbit. If ye want my support on this rescue, ye’d best not go harin’ off like that again. Next time, I might not catch up so quick.”

Jonathan wiped his nose. “Sorry. I’m just in a hurry.”

“I see that.” Phinneas accepted the knife from Jonathan’s outstretched hand. “This pigsticker makes up for it. Now get yer head back on square. The bloody elevator’s already on its way up. Killin’ yerself gettin’ to the Tower’s won’t do us any good.”

“You’re right, of course,” said Jonathan. “Nevertheless, let’s hurry. If they’re not aboard the elevator, the quicker we discover that, the less of a head start they have upon us.”

Phinneas nodded. “Lead on, lad.”

By the time they arrived at McKinley Tower, both men’s trousers were damp and mud-stained up to the knees from having to cross a washed-out road. The stench of the mud seemed like it might cling even past repeated washings. Jonathan decided it would be simpler just to dispose of their clothing altogether and replace it at their earliest opportunity. Shopping would have to wait, though, because he had his love to rescue and a little bit of filth wasn’t going to keep him from her. Nor would the doubt that tickled in the back of his mind.

He shoved through the rotating brass-and-glass-pane door into the tower, Phinneas on his heels, and strode across the lobby toward the ticketing booth.

“Mister Orbital?” called one of the red-jacketed porters. “My, you’re a mess.”

Jonathan held up his hand to the man and banged his fist on the closed window.

“Open up!”

“We’re closed,” said a voice from behind the shutters. “Ticket sales for the next car begin Tuesday morning.”

Jonathan felt his entire body grow hot, as if he’d just walked into a burning building. By God, he would open that window! He grabbed one of the brass-and-mahogany stanchions that held the clipped velvet rope.

“What are ye doin’, boy?” came Phinneas’ soft voice from behind him, but Jonathan paid the man no heed. He swung the post against the wooden shutters, which splintered apart in a satisfying crunch.

“What the hell are you—Mister Orbital?” The ticket clerk’s hands hung at his sides, clearly unsure of what to do.

“Jonathan,” said Phinneas.

He whirled around. “Either do something to help or stay the hell out of my way, Greaves.”

Phinneas raised his hands. “Suit yerself. Better you throw yer tantrum here than someplace with vacuum on the other side.” He strolled away through the lobby.

Jonathan turned back to the startled clerk. “Did you work the entire morning? Did you account for all tickets sold upon the car that just departed today?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Were there any Arabs aboard it?”

“Arabs, sir?”

“Yes, curse you, Arabs! Goddamn Arabs with scarves around their heads. They would have been wearing suits, and might have had a young lady with them a prisoner.”

The man visibly relaxed. “Yes, some men of that description did board, though I don’t recall a female passenger. Or at least one who stood out among the others.”

Jonathan wished he’d managed to keep one of the daguerreotypes of Cecilie so he could show the clerk. “The young lady, she would have been French. Raven-black curls. Gorgeous.”

The ticket clerk only shrugged and stared back, fear and uncertainty glazing his eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Dammit!” Jonathan spun on his heel and realized Phinneas was standing a few yards away, clearly unwilling to approach closer with Jonathan’s temper raging. “I think we missed them. We better start searching train and air stations. We’ll never find them now.” His eyes fell upon one of the shoeshine men stood beside Phinneas, hat in his hand. “Who’s this?”

“Mister Roberts has something to say, if ye can stop thunderin’ about here like a boiler about to blow.” Phinneas didn’t raise a finger to scold Jonathan, but he may as well have. The few employees in the lobby were all staring open-mouthed at Jonathan, and the only sound that permeated the air was the nearly subsonic thrum of the reactor that drove the cable winch for the elevator.

Jonathan took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Please, tell me what you have to share, Mister Roberts.”

The shoeshine man glanced at Phinneas, who nodded and smiled. He looked back at Jonathan. “I seen some foreign fellers like you described. They was talkin’ in a language I didn’t understand, and they had a young lady with ‘em. One of ‘em bought tickets for the rest, and then he done left the Tower. The rest of ‘em, they got onto the elevator. Is that what y’all wanted to know, Mister Orbital?”

Jonathan could have kissed the man. Instead, he seized the shoeshiner’s hand and pumped it up and down in gratitude. “That’s exactly what I wanted to know, Mister Roberts.” He pressed twenty dollars into the surprised man’s palm and turned to Phinneas. “Let’s see if we can find Jefferson and then figure out our next move.”

“Your next move should be explaining to me why you’re tearing up my lobby . . . son,” said a familiar, gravelly voice.

Jonathan’s breath caught as he turned around to face the force of nature that was his father, Victor Orbital. He was a giant of a man, both in physical stature and presence. His shoulders were twice as broad as Jonathan’s from a lifetime of hard labor, and his belly was of prodigious girth from a lifetime of eating well. His silver hair needed the attention of a barber, as it usually did, and his jawline skirted the line between stubble and a beard, which meant he’d been working hard on some project. His trusty filtered cigarette jutted from the corner of his mouth, and a jovial grin turned up one corner of his mouth. Jonathan wondered if his father had worried at all about him, given that his only son had been on board his train when it was raided by pirates, but he doubted it. The worrying and doting had been his mother’s job, and she’d passed away five years ago. Victor didn’t take up that particular mantle in her stead, instead maintaining his usual friendly detachment, treating Jonathan more like a trusted colleague than a son. Not that Jonathan complained too much about that, especially as he’d needed the freedom and the resources to embark on this insane journey, but he wondered if he had now reached the limit of his father’s generosity in such matters.