Beyond the Rails 3: Slayer of Darkness

Chapter 20

Kisumu Sunday morning

          “Strange goings on,” Bellouard mused, lowering her opera glasses.
          “What’s strange?” Two-Fives asked, leaning forward over the balcony rail as if that would improve the magnification of his telescope. “It looks like all of ’em left. There ain’t been a hint of movement since that carriage headed for town.”
          “And isn’t that strange?” the woman asked again, leaning back against the wall of the hotel. “We aren’t halfway through the witching hour on a Sunday morning. It would seem like innocent folks should be sleeping in their beds, like Benjamin, there. Instead we see the hard-working crew of the airship Kestrel going on midnight carriage rides by the dark of the moon.”
          “We know Bender ain’t innocent.”
          “No, but even if we thought the rest of them were, I would presume they all have beds on the airship. Why would they come into town and pay for lodging?”
          “Why, indeed?”
          “They wouldn’t, of course,” the woman said with a smile. “They’re up to something.”
          “Yeah, but what?”
          “That hardly matters, dear boy. The time has come, I think, to take him.”
          “Finally! I thought I was gonna die of old age before you made a move.”
          “I’m tired of having that particular conversation with you, sugar. If you don’t approve of my methods, then you should join another team. Oh, wait, there are no other teams that have been offered a job this big.”
          He cut his eyes toward her in a sidelong scowl, and spat over the rail.
          “It’s all the waiting, that’s all. You tracked him half way ’round the world, and brought us right to his door. That was a feat, and no mistake, but then to sit here twiddling our thumbs for weeks while he goes around unfettered, it’s just too much.”
          “You don’t hunt, do you, Johnny?”
          “Animals? No. So what?”
          “Nothing. It’s just that we’re hunting here. The first rule is that you don’t scare off the prey. Anyway, we’re ready now, and I mean to bag him before another day passes.”
          “Now you’re talkin’! It’s too bad we couldn’t get him down in Mombasa. We’re gonna have the devil of a time movin’ an uncooperative prisoner all the way to the border.”
          “We would, if we were moving him through Kenya.”
          “How are we doin’ it, then?”
          “I’ve chartered a fishing boat. A few miles down that coastline, Kenya stops and Tanganyika begins. There’s a port down there much like this one, with transportation lines running all the way down to Dar-es-Salaam. Even if the British get wind of what we’re doing, the Prussians will be like as not to help us, just to rub the Limeys’ noses in it. All that’s left now is to get the drop on him, and take him home.”
          Two-Fives chuckled menacingly.
          “You’re a devious woman, Miss Jubal. I could get used to havin’ you around.”
          “Don’t. You’re a tool I selected for a job, Johnny. Keep your mind on it until we’re counting our money, then we can talk about whether you'll be useful for another. I’m going to turn in. I suggest you do the same. We beard the lion in his den tomorrow. We’ll need to be fresh.”

Kisumu 12:50 AM

          Leprechaun circled a dark, monolithic block of masonry, keeping her distance against the likelihood of rooftop sentries. Almost nothing could be seen, the moon having just passed the quarter mark, and any lighting present in this industrial part of the city being extinguished overnight.
          “I left Dobbs just over there,” Captain Finney said from the wheel, pointing at an indiscernible location in the Stygian darkness off the southwest corner of the large building, “an’ O’Reilly is just off the opposite corner. You got a plan in mind?”
          “Nothing spectacular, I’m afraid. Kick the door down, shoot anyone who gets in our way, and bring Miss Jenkins home.”
          “Sounds simple when ye just say it all out like that.”
          “Our lot’s never simple,” Monroe said. “We need some luck of the Irish. What we’ve got is the luck of the Kestrel. What can go wrong will go wrong in the worst possible way.”
          “Sure, an’ it’s the attitude ye bring to it, Cap’n,” Finney replied. “Ye go around expectin’ bad things to happen, well, they almost certainly will.”
          “Oh, it’s all our fault, then, is it?”
          “I’m just sayin’ ye make your own fortune. So, who’s goin’ in, just the four o’ ye?”
          “That’s who we’ve got.”
          “Don't want to involve the Bill, then?”
          “We’d love to, but it’s one in the morning. The police would have to confirm our story, decide to actually follow up on it, then assemble an assault force, brief everyone... Yeah, these guys could be half way to Cairo by the time they’re ready to move. Miss Jenkins was just taken from us. I’d like to collect her before these bounders are expecting us.”
          “Commendable outlook. The execution might get ye ventilated, though.”
          “The option is to leave her in there. Not the way we do things.”
          “Aye, I’ll give ye high marks for integrity, that’s for sure.”
          “Thanks.”
          “Integrity has to be the leadin’ cause o’ death among them what’s got it. Where ye want me to put ye down?”
          “Near one of your people. I’ll want to ask them if they’ve seen anything since they got here. Patty, what’s it like in there?”
          “It’s a bloody rat’s nest, is what,” she said, looking up from cycling the action on Jinx’s gun, trying to gain a modicum of familiarity. “There are big machines in there. I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of factory, but there’s junk piled everywhere. Raw materials, trash, you name it. There’s plenty of cover everywhere, except by the doors.”
          “Men?”
          “Could be a dozen. I didn’t see too many. Of course, there may be a hundred more waiting in a side room.”
          “There’s a cheery thought. Well, I guess we look for two entrances at right angles, go in hard, and shoot anything that acts like it’s going to offer any resistance. Be aware of where your mates are coming in, and don’t fire in that direction. Who’s over here, Captain, Dobbs did you say?”
          “That’s right.”
          “May as well put us down near him, then. We’ll talk to him, circle around to O’Reilly, then in we go.”
          As the Kestrel crew nodded their agreement, Finney spoke up.
          “Me boys might want to help ye, Cap’n. You’re welcome to use ’em if they do, but you get any of ’em killed, I’m claimin’ one o’ yours, an’ I guess you know which one.”
          “That will be the day, you bloody pirate! Come on, set us down. It isn’t getting any earlier.”

Kisumu 1:25 AM

          They came up behind Dobbs, who was exactly where Finney had said he would be, and questioned him about any activity he may have seen.
          “Ain’t been a move since they went in there, Cap’n” the Irish navigator told them. “There’s been a dim light on toward the back, but I ain’t seen any movement, and nobody’s come out, at least on this side.”
          “All right,” Monroe replied. “Thank you for doing this for us.”
          “Ain’t nothin’, Cap’n. Ye paid good money, an’ we delivered.”
          “Still, this is above and beyond. We’re going in as soon as we talk to O’Reilly. Captain Finney said he’d pick you up, and us too, if any of us make it out, up the road to the north beyond where the buildings end. Any idea where O’Reilly is?”
          “Opposite corner. Nothin’ more specifical than that, though.”
          “We’ll find him. Thank you for your help, Mr. Dobbs. You may have saved a life tonight.”
          “Or cost some. Tell ye what, I’ll stick with ye until ye find Sean. After that, well, we’ll see.”
          They circled the big stone building, a good two hundred yards on a side, hugging the shadows and working to keep quiet, until they came to the opposite corner.
          “Sean,” Dobbs whispered. “Sean!”
          “Hold it down, mate,” came the answering whisper from the shadows as the big man stepped out beside them.
          “You’re preachin’ to the bloody choir,” Dobbs whispered. “You see anything over here?”
          “Not a peep. Quiet as a bleedin’ tomb over ’ere.”
          “Anyone come out?”
          “Not a soul.”
          “Well, we’re going in,” Monroe told them. “Mr. Dobbs knows where your Captain will pick you up. I can’t express my gratitude for what you’ve done for us.”
          “Likely got you killed is all,” Dobbs said. “What’d the skipper say about our role in this?”
          “That you could help us if you wanted, but I’d better not get one of you killed.”
          “Ever the pragmatist. What say, Sean, want to help these folks?”
          “Don’t see why not,” O’Reilly said, looking directly at Hobbs. “What ye got in mind?”
          “Well, I don’t fancy goin’ into a dark building full o’ bad men, but how about this. Sean, you an’ me wait out here. If these folks get in trouble, they can run to us, an’ we’ll ambush whoever’s chasin’ ’em. They get into a fight, maybe we move up to the door an’ add our guns to the contest.”
          “Could be all right, I s’pose,” O’Reilly said.
          “All right, then,” Dobbs said, “where you goin’ in?”
          “I thought we’d pick the first two doors along these walls, and come in at right angles. We’d have a crossfire as soon as we went in.”
          “All right, then, Cap’n, we’ll find a spot around here where we can watch both doors, and wait for developments.”
          “Good to have you watching our backs,” Monroe said. “Okay, David, you take Bakari down to the first door along that wall. Try to sneak in. No gunplay until it’s absolutely necessary. Patty, you’re with me. Be aware of where we are, and let’s try not to shoot each other. Questions?”
          There were none.
          “Let’s move out.”
          He led Patience to the right along the featureless brick wall until he came to an ordinary personnel door. He tried the handle, and found it locked.
          “Knife,” he whispered to Hobbs, holding his hand back and open.
          She placed the handle of her utility knife across his palm, and he leaned Smith’s rifle against the wall and set to work on the door. There was a bit of play in the frame, as was often the case in these big industrial buildings, and by leaning his weight on it and levering with the knife, he was able to gain enough leverage to pop the hasp out of its seat, and with a splintering shriek that was deafening in the quiet night, it swung inward.
          Quickly returning her knife, he took up the rifle and darted quickly through the opening into darkness as black as any cave, Hobbs right behind, mare’s leg at the ready. They flattened against the walls, waiting for their eyes to adjust, and they soon made out the fact that they were in a small office with an inner door that led deeper into the factory itself. This was locked, but from their side, so they simply had to turn the bolt and peek out.
          There was dim light out on the floor, a few lanterns burning at wide intervals, but the main lights secured for the night. Clearing the immediate area, they opened the door and darted for the nearest cover, Hobbs behind one of the big machines, Monroe peeking around a scrap metal bin. They could both see for a good distance along open aisles, and there was no sign of habitation.
          “Do you remember where they held you?” Monroe asked.
          “It was upstairs,” Hobbs replied. “There’s some kind of mezzanine in here. They brought me here from another place with a bag over my head. We went up to some offices while we waited for you to ransom me.”
          “Did they let you see while you were waiting?”
          “Yes. I told them I was having trouble breathing.”
          “Is this the same place?”
          “It looks like it. I suppose one factory looks like another, but these do look like the machines.”
          “All right. There are some stairs back in the far corner. Shall we have a look?”
          “We shall.”
          They moved in darting motions, cover to cover, one stopped and ready to shoot while the other moved. They neither saw nor heard movement of any kind on their route. Reaching the stairs, they started up. A couple of the boards creaked alarmingly, and as Monroe’s head came above the level of the floor above, there was a clank from one of the rooms. He crouched and aimed at the open door nearest him, but only one of Kisumu’s feral cats came bounding out. It didn’t relax him much, but he started up again, nerves on a hair trigger.
          The room that had disgorged the cat was darker than the outside area, which seemed odd if it was the center of activity. It proved not to be, just another empty office in a building closed for the night. Creeping through the darkness, they searched all four offices on the mezzanine. They found no sign of life.
          Lulled into a sense of complacency by the lack of opposition, Monroe came back out and walked to the rail. He looked over the side to find Smith’s pistol pointed at him. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. Smith repeated the gesture in reply. Monroe stood in thought for a moment, then called down to Smith, “I don’t think they’re in here anymore.”
          Smith tensed at the sound of Monroe’s voice, looking quickly around, then relaxed.
          “I think you’re right,” he called back up. “If they were in here, that should have brought ’em running.”
          “So, how did they get out?”
          “There’s skylights on the roof.”
          “But no way to get to them, unless an airship lowered a rope for them. The only airships here are us and the Leprechaun. You don’t suppose they did it, do you?”
          “You’d think if they had, they would have gotten around to mentioning it.”
          “You’d think. Well, if they didn’t go up, they had to go down. Start looking for a trapdoor or a stairway. We’ll be right down.”
          The subsequent search took the better part of an hour. They collected the lanterns from the various hooks and stands, and turned them up to maximize the light. Smith eventually found the disturbance in the dust near the southwest corner where a pallet of barrels had been dragged, and underneath was an opening some two feet square with a ladder leading down into darkness.
          “You know that means someone is still in here,” Smith said.
          “How’s that?” Hobbs asked.
          “Somebody had to drag these barrels back to cover the door. He’s in here hiding.”
          “Probably a wise decision on his part,” Monroe said.
          “Without doubt, but now he’s gonna have a report to make to his boss about who came looking for Jinx.”
          “Can’t be helped. It would take us the rest of the night to search this place, and we’re here for Jinx, who undoubtedly went down this hole.”
          “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go, then.”
          “Patty, go back and tell the Irishmen what we found. They can come or not, their choice, but don’t wait around.”
          “Aye, sir.”
          “What do you think, David?”
          “Don’t want to go in blind. We should lower a lantern on a rope, and see who shoots at it.”
          Monroe concurred, and finding a length of light line in the clutter, they tied off a lantern and lowered it into the shaft. It lit the sides and the floor some twenty feet down. There was no response. They were preparing to enter when Hobbs returned.
          “What’d I miss?”
          “Nothing yet,” Monroe said. “No Irishmen?”
          “They declined our invitation.”
          “No matter. This isn’t their fight. Let’s get in there.”
          Smith climbed in first, Monroe close behind with a lantern. Reaching a point just above the tunnel that headed off to the west, he loosed his hold on the ladder and dropped to the floor in a gunfighter’s crouch, Peacemaker at the ready. Again, nothing reacted.
          Motioning the others to follow, he started off down the rough-hewn passage. Not quite large enough for a man to stand erect, it had been hand-worked by laborers with no interest in craftsmanship. It ran straight, slightly north of west, and nothing blocked their view for as far as the light would carry. Eventually, after an estimated half-mile of travel, they could see bars ahead, like the door of a jail cell.
          It proved to be exactly that when they reached it, a door made of heavy iron bars set into cement mountings driven deep into the walls. It was secured to its iron frame by a thick chain padlocked from the outside. Through the bars, they could see the beach fronting on the harbor. Dozens, scores, of footprints led north and south, as well as down to the water, where they could see grooves made by the keels of boats that had been drawn up on the beach.
          “Well, ain’t this a daisy,” Smith grumbled. “They came this way, all right. The lock’s been fastened from the outside, see? We might be able to shoot it off with the rifle, but they could have gone anywhere from here, and if they put her in a boat, there sure won't be any tracks to follow.”
          “Dead end, then?” Monroe asked.
          “That’s the truth of it.”
          “Damn! Let’s get back then. We’re going to need a new plan.”
          “That’s it, then,” Hobbs asked, “we’re just leaving her?”
          “Unless you know which way they went from here. Do you?”
          She looked through the bars, her face a mask of helplessness.
          “No.”
          “Let’s go, then. We’ll report it to the police in the morning. Meanwhile, we have work to do.”

Hippo Point 10:00 AM

          The long-awaited interrogation was about to begin. Once inside the factory, her captors had placed a burlap sack over her head and secured it with a strap beneath her chin. A trap door was opened, that much her ears told her, and she was guided down a short ladder and through a long tunnel. A lock and chain were manipulated, and she emerged onto a beach; her nose couldn't mistake that. There was a brief walk, a climb up a short embankment, and she was loaded onto a horse-drawn conveyance that would make little noise and attract no attention at all. After a ride of some twenty minutes, she was ushered into another building (she assumed it was another), walked through some halls and down a long flight of stairs, her handcuffs removed, and she was pushed through a door that was locked behind her.
          “You can take that bag off now,” one of her of her captors told her. “You’d might as well make yourself comfortable. It’s the last chance you’ll have for a while.”
          There was some oddly effeminate snickering from one of the thuggish men who had accompanied her from the deck of the Kestrel to this point, and as she began to grope for the buckle, she heard them depart, climbing the stairs in their heavy boots.
         Free of the sack, she had examined her surroundings. The high, thin windows at the top of two walls told her she was in a basement. It was night, the only light provided by one of the newfangled electrical lights hanging from the ceiling. That meant there was a generator not far away, information that could prove useful should she manage an escape. The room was large, probably taking up most of the dimensions of the building she was in. The cell she was in was one of two, cemented into a corner as an afterthought, its only features an army cot and a floor drain. The partition running the length of the room, with doors obviously leading to other, smaller rooms, was a recent addition as well. Any space not directly in the walkways was taken up with piled crates and boxes, cluttered in similar fashion to the factory where she was first taken. Either this Reinhard was a terrible slob, or he was just beginning to arrange his brick-a-brack. She had sat back on the cot provided, and memorized the position of every item she could see.
          But it was light now, had been for several hours, and they were coming for her at last. Footsteps descended the stairs, she heard a door open out of sight somewhere, and three men came to the front of her cell. Two she recognized from her carriage ride last night. The third was a funny little man of mixed African race no taller than her, wearing brown and tan-striped trousers, the sort of ruffled shirts that one associated with poets and actors, and a cloth vest with the handle of a large knife protruding from the belt beneath. This comedic look was topped off with a derby. None of them had guns, she noticed, a wise precaution; she couldn’t take what they didn’t bring. The odd man handed her a cloth-covered flask through the bars.
          “What’s this?”
          “Water,” the man replied. “Our night crew’s hospitality leaves much to be desired.”
          He handed her a small, flat package wrapped in waxed paper. She took it, and raised her eyebrows in question; it was warm.
          “A scrambled egg sandwich. Poor fare for a guest, I know, but you will need your strength for what is coming. Eat quickly, Miss Jenkins. I will return for you in five minutes.”
          “How do you know my name?”
          “You forget, we spent a day with your companion, Miss Hobbs. A delightful girl. She told us all about you.”
          “Did you harm her?”
          “There was no need. She was most cooperative, as you will be. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
          The man actually dipped his head in a shallow bow, took a step back, and turned away, passing out of sight behind the end of the partition.
          She unwrapped the sandwich, still warm from the kitchen, and ate it slowly, but in large bites, studying the two guards as they studied her. By the time she finished the food and washed it down with swigs of lukewarm water, she had identified forty-six striking points between them that would be fatal or incapacitating. Those, too, she memorized.
          True to his word, the man returned within the few minutes allotted. He nodded to one of the guards, who stepped forward and unlocked the cell, and beckoned her with two fingers. When she stepped through the door, he said, as politely as any butler, “This way, please.”
          He led her along the partition, the two goons following close behind, to the end, around the corner, and through a door into a white-painted room lined with glass-fronted, sheet metal cabinets holding what looked to be medicine bottles and surgical instruments. Seated in one of the two chairs was Reinhard, the man she had crossed an ocean to find. He was unmistakable as he looked up from the tray he was arranging. His face was covered by a roughly L-shaped mask that covered his entire jaw area and halfway up his cheeks, and continued up to cover his left eye, a dark translucent lens allowing him some degree of vision through that orb.
          “Ah, welcome, my dear. Please, take a seat, and we can get started.”
          The other chair was little more than a steel frame with pads at bottom and back, and thick, buckling straps for the wrists and ankles.
          “There’s no need for all this,” she said cheerily, hoping she was able to keep the tremor from her voice. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
          “Indeed you will, Miss Jenkins. Now, will you sit down, or would you prefer to be beaten first?”
          She considered making her move right now. If nothing else, she was certain she could kill Reinhard before they could move to stop her, but she was here to gather information, not perform a simple assassination, and so as frightening as the prospect was, she stepped to the chair and sat down.
          “I’m telling you,” she said as the goons strapped her into the chair, “I have no interest in being tortured. Just ask me what you want to know.”
          “Oh, I will,” Reinhard said, stepping to a cabinet and selecting two bottles of fluid and a hypodermic syringe. These were placed on the tray, joining a set of dental tools, a scalpel, and some sort of probe with a wire running to an outlet in the wall. “The thing is that what I want to know is everything about these Darklighters you represent, and why they are so interested in insignificant little me.”
          “Darklighters? What that supposed to be?”
          “Now, you see, this is the reason for all this,” he said, waving his arm toward the tray. “I thought you might have some reluctance to part with certain information, and even under thumbscrews and red hot pokers, you would likely tell me whatever cover story you had been directed to feed me. So you’ll forgive me if I’m not prepared to trust your word. One professional to another, yes?”
          He picked up the two chemical bottles from the tray, held them up and compared them, then sat one back down and picked up the syringe.
          “Wonderful discoveries are being made about the brain every day,” he went on. “Much of the impetus began with the assassination of the American president, Lincoln. He was shot in the head, you know, with a small caliber pistol. Such a little thing, an ounce of lead, yet he never regained consciousness. Still, from that event has flowed so much knowledge. Did you know that men of medicine are saying now that the brain is a place that creates and transfers chemicals to perform every function? You’d be amazed at what happens when you introduce a foreign chemical into that soup.”
          He began to draw the yellowish serum into the syringe, and for the first time in many years, Abigail Jenkins began to feel true fear.