The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (37 page)

His only answer was to reach for his coat. Clayton Cane slid it over his shoulders, and then did the same with the strap of his rifle. He had lost his shotgun somewhere in the sewers, but it didn’t matter. He tied on his gun belt and slid in both revolvers. Finally, Cane reached into his pocket and pulled out a bundle of folding money. He held it out to Rose Corcoran.

“That’s all right, Mr. Cane.” Rose raised her hand. “I was just helping a weak man who needed my aid. I expect no money for that.”

Cane tossed the dollars onto her bed anyway, and then walked to the door. He pushed it open and stepped into the hall. A number of dark-haired children were perched on the stairwell above him, peering down with curious faces. Cane stared back at them. They caught a glimpse of his scarred face and hurried away, whispering in Italian.

He headed down the stairs. “You’ll be all right, Mr. Cane?” Rose called after him as he left.

“Yeah.” Cane didn’t look back. He walked down the long stairwell, feeling better with each step. The job wasn’t done. He had to get to that haunted church.

Just like Rose Corcoran had said, the church was at the end of Van Wessel Street, as far as possible from Algonquin Hall. About a block before he reached the church, the streets emptied. There were no drunks or vagrants in the alleys, no vendors on the sidewalk and not even stray dogs curling around the gutters. The horse-drawn carts and wagons going past seemed to speed up, like the animals didn’t want to linger. Cane didn’t feel like lingering either, but he did anyway.

He stood outside the church, looking up at the crumbling stone columns and collapsing gambrel roof. The door hung open, and Cane could see only shadows inside. He reached down and clasped his revolvers. There was no point in waiting. Cane strode up and walked inside.

It took his eyes a few second for to adjust to the dark. A set of busted pews stood before a chipped stone pulpit, with something behind it. There was some kind of carpet under the pews and on top of them, like living, moving shadows. It took Cane only seconds to realize they were rats. The rodents were everywhere, pressed together in a terrible, living mass. They were on top of the pews and in the corners and around the pulpit.

That was where Cane walked. He stepped carefully around the rats. They scurried out of the reach of his boots, squeaking slightly. Cane kept his hands on his revolvers. He didn’t draw iron. There was no point. The rats would rise up against him if he gave them an excuse.

Moving carefully, avoiding the rats on the ground, it took him a few moments to reach the pulpit. There was a great mass of the rats there, piled around the bars and railing of the stone pulpit. Cane realized that it was like the outline of a person, wearing a costume of rats. Cane reached out with one finger. The rats parted to avoid his hand.

There was bone under them. As soon as he touched it, Cane watched as all the rats fled the pulpit. They scurried away like spilled water. They revealed a skeletal body, slumped back over the pulpit’s railing. The skeleton wore a ragged preacher’s cassock, stained with dried blood. Cane looked at the hollow sockets, where a few scraps of flesh still remained. The rats hadn’t eaten their fill. A few bites would have been enough to fill them with Father Furio Badalamenti’s vengeful spirit.

“Afternoon, Padre,” Cane said. Before any of the rats could stop him, he drew his revolver and slammed it against the forehead of the skull. He knew the bones were a tether of Father Badalamenti’s ghost to the world of the living. Destroying it could weaken the spirit to send it on its way. The other way to do that was giving the ghost what it wanted – to fulfill what the spirit had never done in life. In Badalamenti’s case, that would be Varrick, Talbot and McCall. Whatever was left of Father Badalamenti wanted nothing more than revenge.

All around Cane, the rats scurried in to attack. They raced for him, but then Cane raised a hand. “I feel any of them little claws one me and I’ll pull the goddamn trigger!” he roared. “Go on and see if I’m lying! You’re fast – but you know I’m faster!”

The rats froze. Cane kept his finger wrapped around the trigger. He looked at the hollow sockets of the skull. He thought about what Rose had told him – of the awful way that Father Badalamenti had met his end. Cane had seen men die for hundreds of reasons. Men died because they insulted another man’s woman, or had a funny look to their eye, or seemed to pose a threat to a whiskey-addled mind. In one case, a fellow had been shot by his supposed friend for snoring too loud. But men dying like animals because they tried to better their community? That was new for Cane.

“Yeah,” Cane said to himself. “Reckon it weren’t fair, what they done to you. But this world ain’t fair. I look in the mirror and I know that for certain. I never asked to be put together. Never asked to get fused up with dark magic and to spend my life living by the gun. But that’s what happened, that’s what I am – and I gotta live with it.”

He looked down at the rats. They didn’t seem frightening any more. They huddled close together, squeaking pathetically and looking up at him with their dark eyes. The rats were scared. Father Badalamenti’s spirit must feel the same way.

Cane removed the revolver from the skull. He returned it to his holster with a spin. “I don’t work cheap,” he said. “And I aim to see some profit out of this trip. But why don’t we talk things over, padre. And don’t you worry. You’ll get to rest – one way or the other.”

His plan was simple. It didn’t take long to think it up, once he was resolved. The rats listened expectantly and Cane knew that they were noting every word.

Night came to Van Wessel Street. The vendors cleared off and their calls finally went silent. Traffic dried up and soon the street between the tenement buildings was empty. But the guards never left their post outside Algonquin Hall. They stood their ground, clutching their billy clubs as they looked out at the shadows that crept across the street. Accented voices came from the tall tenement buildings, but even those went silent after a while.

Clayton Cane stood in the alley across the street from Algonquin Hall. He grabbed his rifle and brought it to his shoulder, taking careful aim. When everything was quiet, and the gaslight lamps above the street had been lit to provide just enough light to see, he decided to strike. He fired twice, his gunshots blasting out through the silence.

The peaked caps of both the policemen fell from their heads, a bullet in each brim. The cops tried to reclaim their hats, terrified by the sudden gunfire. Cane walked out of the shadows of the alley, working the lever on his rifle and raising it again. He knew the kind of trouble that came from putting a bullet through a badge, so he didn’t fire. Besides, he didn’t have to. He let the cops look at his scarred face and his duster, still stained with sewage, and kept the rifle trained at them.

“Run,” Cane ordered. “And don’t you look back.”

The cops ran without a word. Cane walked up the stairs to the gilded door of Algonquin Hall. He could hear footsteps pounding inside. There were more policemen inside, as well as McCall’s gunmen. Cane would have to work fast. He slammed his foot into the door, kicking it open.

Then he looked back onto the street. “All right, Padre!” he roared. “Follow me on in!”

All the manhole covers on the street slammed open, one after the other. Rats spilled out, like boiling water overflowing a container. They washed over the street in a dark wave. The rats didn’t squeak or squeal. The only noise was the endless pattering of their feet, so it seemed like a storm of pounding rain was striking Van Wessel Street. Cane saw them coming up the stairs and he walked in ahead of them.

Three of McCall’s goons were in the lobby, going for their guns as Cane stepped inside. They were the worst sort of rowdy, with fashionable checkered coats in bright colors and stout top hats, knives and pistols slid into their belts. Cane swung his rifle around and opened fire, blasting one of the thugs through the upper chest. The recoil made his cuts and bruises ache, but he ignored it. He worked the lever and fired again, his second shot splattering open the skull of the second gunman. The third managed to draw a heavy pistol and get off a single shot, before Cane reached him.

Cane rammed the butt of his rifle into his gut, knocking the wind from him. He grabbed his arm, spun him around and gave him a push – right into the swarm of incoming rats. Cane turned away and kept walking as the poor fellow was swept up by the black tide. He didn’t even have time to scream before the rats tore out his throat and were running over his writhing body. Cane kept going. He felt his heart pounding inside of him. He didn’t usually betray his employers. But somehow, it didn’t feel wrong.

He reached the office door. Gunshots echoed through Algonquin Hall, but Cane knew that most of the other cops or gangsters had fled – and with good reason. The ones who stayed behind were prey to the rats. The three men he and the rats wanted were alone. Cane slid his rifle over his shoulder. He kicked open the door to Claudius Varrick’s office.

Claudius Varrick, Barnabas Talbot, and Lionel McCall were inside. Talbot had a shotgun and fired at Cane as he stepped inside. Cane felt the shot wing past him, burning his arm. He still managed to draw one of his revolvers and fired, planting his bullet straight through Talbot’s gut and knocking him back on the velvet carpet. Talbot looked up in disbelief. Cane kicked his shotgun away.

“But…we hired you…” Talbot grunted.

“And he’s betrayed us to the rotten rats!” McCall roared. He charged for Cane, pulling the carving knife from his belt. McCall was heavy and fast. He tackled Cane, striking like an enraged bull. Both men went down onto the carpet. Cane felt McCall’s knife slide into his shoulder. Cane was still recovering from his attack by the rats. He found himself wondering just how strong he was, even as McCall brought the knife to his throat.

Cane grabbed McCall’s arm and held back the blade. It was drawing closer and closer to Cane’s chin. Behind him, he could hear the rats running down the hall. It would take them time to get there. Cane looked into McCall’s blazing eyes and gritted teeth. He swung his head forward, bashing it into McCall’s face. McCall cried as his nose broke.

It bought Cane time. Cane grabbed McCall’s wrist and slammed it on the ground. He came to his feet and kicked the knife aside, then delivered a frenzied punch to McCall’s face. His knuckles burned. He left McCall on the carpet and then he saw the safe in the corner. He ran for it.

Varrick slid in front of the safe. He blocked Cane’s path, a derringer in his hands. Varrick’s face was red. “Why?” Varrick asked. “Tell me why, you murdering freak! Did we not offer you enough? Did that Dago priest’s disembodied phantom offer you more?” He pointed behind Cane, as the rats hurried into the office. “Why do you help these vermin?”

“They ain’t vermin!” Cane called. “They’re trying to survive in a cruel world.” He drew his revolver and fired. Varrick did the same, but Cane was faster. His bullet blasted in Varrick’s arm, spraying blood on the richly upholstered furniture. Varrick dropped the derringer and Cane grabbed his arm. “You can go and call folks whatever you like. But when they’re wronged, they deserve vengeance. And today, that’s what they’re gonna get.” He grabbed Varrick’s throat and hurled him into the swarm of the rats.

As the rats devoured Talbot, McCall and Varrick, Cane reached the safe. He blasted open the lock and pulled open the metal door. It was packed with cash. Cane grabbed two handfuls of dollars and slid them into his pockets. That would be enough for the job.

He grabbed the rest and held it in his hands, like a bundle of laundry. Then he turned and walked out. He stepped through the swarm of rats, still digging into the bodies of the men who ran Van Wessel Street. They were writhing, their screams muffled as the rats dug into them. Soon they’d be covered up and picked clean. Cane heard their screams echo behind him. The rats scattered out of his way, avoiding his boots. He walked down the hall and through the door, stepping onto the porch and looking out on the street.

The residents of Van Wessel Street had come down from their buildings and were curiously watching what was going on. Cane looked them over. “I know your lives are hard,” he said. He looked down at the bundle of money in his hand. “But this might make them easier.” He hurled all the money into the air. The dollars fluttered like a storm of green rain, falling into the waiting hands of the poor.