House of Corruption (5 page)

Locals recognized provincial stock with his slender gait, his long, straight nose and pointed jaw. His family line came from both eastern Europe and a rarely-mentioned strain from North Africa (that business with his great-great grandmother, quietly hushed up), producing a ruddy, olive complexion with hair like wheat. He was a handsome man by all accounts, if not aquiline in his symmetry as the season kept him hunched, bundled in his heavy ulster, his high collar perpetually raised over his neck. In warmer climates his skin would catch the light, the picture of health; in Louisiana’s soggy autumn he was almost transparent.

He pulled his hands from his pockets and gazed at the cracks in his skin, his slender wrists, the long fingers ending in gnawed fingernails. He could only imagine the terrible voices that could condemn him from those hands.

Could it have been?

Rain pounded against the hansom’s coverage. He looked into the sky and his eyes dilated as he took in more light, hoping to convince himself he was lucid. He was awake, was he not? Truly awake? Four years had passed since his last living nightmare and yet...

And yet.

He touched at his chest, pressing down against the upraised scar—the smooth, thumb-sized blotch set an inch above his heart. Through the thick fabric of his coat and waistcoat and shirt and undershirt and skin and muscle he felt the hard knot of tissue, the silver bullet worming its way a little deeper, a little closer, every day. It had given him what he wanted most: time, the prodigal’s chance to regain a life he had lost.

Yet the bullet served its blessing on a shallow plate. One day it would complete its slow and dirty work as it burrowed ever deeper. How would it feel when it pierced his heart?

The Beast is gone
, he thought.
It has to be.

Four years had passed, and yet...

Could it have been me?

He arrived at a bland four-story brick building on New Orleans’ Royal Street. The anonymity of LaCroix Brokerage’s main office made men like Bill all the more necessary; he found the wheels of business moved easier when he was unburdened with unsolicited salesmen, unhappy clients, tax collectors and other such rubbish.

“Monsieur LaCroix?”

A man in a stiff frock coat stood beside the front steps as Reynard descended from his cab. By his polished shoes, a high-collared suit, and an umbrella draped over his arm, he was as grim as a barrister attending a partner’s funeral. He had the look of a bird with his hornbill nose and high forehead and long, mobile throat, his black hair slicked back save three, unruly hairs at attention behind his left ear.

“Edward Tukebote,” he said with a thick accent Reynard could not identify. He extended his hand and a business card appeared. “I represent Miss Kiria Carlovec, daughter of Sir Wilhem Carlovec of Her Majesty’s North Borneo Company.”

“Are you from the constabulary?”

“No. Her message may have mentioned me?”

“I received no message.”

“Ah yes, of course,” Tukebote said. “Forgive my imposition. I supposed your man upstairs would have...” He cleared his throat. “I wonder if you might spare a moment to—”

“No.”

Reynard did not take his card. He moved past him up the steps, entered the building and ascended the stairwell. The man did not follow. At the uppermost floor, Reynard went to the third door on the left, an inconsequential flat without sign or label. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting the solicitor at his heels. Thankfully, the man did not follow. They were like cockroaches, weren’t they?

He went inside, and stopped short.

“Hello, Reynard.”

Artémius Savoy sat in one of three chairs that made up the flat’s waiting nook, a carpetbag at his feet, his familiar notebook resting on his lap and a steaming pipe and cup of tea on a table beside him. He smiled as if he had always been there. He was alone—which meant Mister Burlington, the office manager, was out on errands and Betty, the part-time secretary, made good to stay home with her so-called influenza.

“Just how did you get in?” Reynard asked.

“I have been here since ten o’clock,” Savoy said. He was at least twenty pounds lighter, the grey in his hair and beard more pronounced than Reynard remembered. “Mister Burlington trusted me to mind the store. Your manifests make for fascinating reading. I was not aware you secured the Kansas line. When did you start brokering cotton into Texas?”

“It has been a long time.”

“Too long, my boy, too long.”

“And not a word you were coming?”

Savoy stood and drew him into his arms like a father reuniting with his long-lost son. Reynard allowed himself to be embraced, arms at his sides. When they separated, Reynard coughed into his fist, hung his coat in the hall closet, and continued down the short hallway to his office. Maybe if he stopped believing he was there, he considered, Savoy would vanish.

“How is your sister?” Savoy asked, following.

“Fine, thank you.”

“And her health?”

Perfect as always
, he wanted to say,
not like she is any of your business
. 

Reynard’s office was filled with overflowing bookshelves and cabinets, dominated by a massive oak desk. The closed windows left the room smelling like the radiator. He opened his liquor cabinet, removed a bottle of Svënets-brand vodka, and poured himself a splashy drink. He swallowed and poured himself another. On the third he caught Savoy standing in the doorway, watching him.

“Drink?” Reynard offered.

“What is wrong?” Savoy asked.

Savoy grimaced into something of a smile. “Did you know Bill Tourney?”

“An employee, yes?”

“He has been murdered.”

Reynard recounted the morning telephone call that roused him to Chalmette; the details of the dead men in that filthy alley; the words of the inspector and the theories germinating from those spectators who had gathered nearby. He noted Savoy’s attention, the quickening of one intrigued, how his methodical mind began turning over the story’s minutia with alarming tenacity. Reynard took another drink, disgusted at the man’s morbid interest.

Yes
, he thought,
it has been a long time
. Here stood the one whose silver bullet staved off that which nothing else had power. Yet with each twinge under his scar he wondered how much thanks he really felt.
He’s almost glad to hear my news
.

“A wild animal?” Savoy asked.

“It is not what you think.”

“What would I think, Renny?”

Reynard pressed his glass to his lips and thought back to the Monastery of Jerónimos. He remembered the clay mug pressed against his weakened lips, drinking water as greedily as he now took vodka. He remembered itchy, woolen blankets, the burnt-herb scent of dying candles, the distant sound of bells. He remembered the hollow pain in his chest that saturated into his tissues and veins and between his ears. When the burning of his wound eased, the subtle torture of silver in his blood lingered; it was nearly six months before he managed a full night’s sleep.

Why did he save my life?

Savoy had shot him—and then he had saved him, for the monks of Jerónimos never suspected the wounded stranger under their care was the very creature who had slain one of their acolytes. He was a wretch, Savoy explained, a vagabond. They had accepted his explanation without suspicion—for Artémius Savoy had driven the
lobis-homem
away, and that was all that mattered.

“Do you have time to spare?” Savoy asked.

“I can make some.”

“Then let us take a walk.”

They took the back stairs and avoided the bustle of Royal Street, working their way toward St. Philip underneath terraced, terra cotta apartments with their many balconies and iron-lace galleries. The wind brought a southern breeze from the river, smelling of smoke and burnt leather, and Savoy kept his umbrella under his arm and an eye on the darkening sky.

They walked until their pauses grew longer, their casual discussion less productive, keeping pace as if both expected the other to know their destination. Despite Savoy’s subtle attempts to draw him out, to reveal the day-to-day goings on in his life, Reynard proved less than candid. Upon reaching Esplanade Avenue with its wide sidewalks and whitewashed trees, they headed north at a more leisurely pace. Rain began to fall; Savoy popped open his umbrella. Only when there were few pedestrians and none close to them did Reynard ask:

“Why are you here?”

“I told you,” Savoy said. “To check on your progress.”

“There is more.”

“Yes.” Savoy removed the newspaper clipping from his bag. “Are you aware of the similar incident in Gretna, last Saturday, described in the
Advocate
?” He gave Reynard the clipping:

GRUESOME DEATH AT GRETNA RIVERSIDE!

Gretna, October 12– An unidentified woman’s mutilated body was found near Sutton’s Warehouse yesterday evening, and authorities declare she may have been attacked by one or more feral dogs roaming the south quarter.

“Wild animals are on the loose,” said Chief Constable Thornton of Jefferson Parish. “Until our capable officers can track these ferals down, mothers are strongly advised to keep nursery windows securely shut.”

The grisly discovery was made by Able Seaman Edward Trellis, formally of Baton Rouge and on leave from the USS Brooklyn. Trellis described a stink like unto rancid beef before finding the dead woman.

Unidentified witnesses claim a horrific crime scene: the poor woman’s dismembered remains strewn about, (not all recovered), such violence as to erase the identity of she who met such an end.

This reporter will continue to provide information as it becomes clear. Either way, it behooves all to—

Reynard stopped reading. “You’re not serious.”

“You know me better than that,” Savoy said.

“You know of what I am capable. And not.”

“No recent blackouts?”

“None.”

Savoy took a deep breath. “By your description Bill’s death is the ninth of its particularity this year—
ninth
—with very specific physical trauma. A headless woman was pulled from the Thames back in February. I first thought it another in that horrid Ripper business...then a decapitated girl with nearly identical wounds washed up on shore near Boston, soon after my arrival for my summer sabbatical. Another appeared in Baltimore in July, a man that time. Pensacola in September, Gretna last week, and now Chalmette.”

“All headless?” Reynard asked.

“Yes, though the male victims showed some considerable...” He cleared his throat. “Unusual damage. Their...personals...were also ravaged.”

Reynard grimaced. “Their personals.”

“Yes. Every report blamed a rabid dog, a lunatic, an accident, random events to random people with little to no social standing. None saw any connection.”

“And you do.”

“Of course,” Savoy said. “A murderer’s style is as unique as his fingerprints. By the time I saw a trail developing, I thought it prudent to investigate. That trail has led me here.”

“I have visited neither of my offices in Baltimore nor Pensacola since last May,” Reynard said, “and I’ve not been to London since eighty-six. You may check with Mister Burlington if you do not believe me.”

“I never said otherwise,” Savoy said.

“Yet you doubt me.”

“I see a trail. That is all.”

“Not every death has its monster.”

“And how is Lasha?”

“My sister...” Reynard stammered. “The curse must pass her by.”

“LaCroix blood runs in her veins,” Savoy said. “She may not be immune. I have an obligation to your family, Reynard. I must assume every possibility.”

Reynard’s anger grew hot, stronger than he anticipated. This was a sore subject since the Lisbon Incident, as Savoy liked to call it. Savoy had made it his duty to visit when he could to monitor Reynard’s remission. The positive reaction to his silver bullet was unexpected, but they both suspected the lycanthropy had not been cured. Reynard sensed the ebb and flow of his internal cyclical habits as if the Beast waited deep inside, tethered, straining to break free.

So Savoy dedicated himself to his study. One visit became two, then many, and in time Reynard found he dreaded his comings. He saw his own late father’s disapproving face, the judging drop of his eyebrows or turn of a lip, the subtle yet familiar message:

It does not matter what you want, boy.

“You promised me permanence,” he said.

“I did not promise anything.”

“Are you so sure?” Reynard’s voice was hard. “You’ve promised with every examination, every bitter concoction, every poppycock you’ve thrown at me. I’ve to accept every flim-flam and now...
now
...you accuse me?”

“I—”

“Tell me Arté, why are you here?”

“I told you.”

“To help me?”

“But of—”

“Or stop your Cambridge cronies from laughing behind your back? I’m not about to be your thesis. I’m bloody well sure you won’t start on Lasha.”

Savoy gaped, looking very old, the color drained from his cheeks, the muscles in his face gone slack as the accusation emptied its bitter poison. Reynard smelled a change in his temperature, the subtle whiff of sweat, and he caught the imperceptible sound of the man’s teeth grinding. Savoy considered the pavement then walked from the moment, uneven, drifting away as if the breeze caught his umbrella and whisked him lazily down the street.