Gabriel’s Watch - Book One: The Scrapman Trilogy (23 page)

“Well, they’re definitely intrigued,” I smiled.

The man without the weapon then reached down to detach an object that was fastened to Crayton’s belt. Unwrapping it from the surrounding cloth, he discovered a small man-made electronic device within. Looking first to his partner, the man switched it on and spoke into it.

“Hello?” The man’s voice appeared in the cavern, along with a small sizzle of static.

I swiped up the matching unit to answer his call. “Good morning,” I said. “I see you boys have found the governor! He was nice enough to deliver this little message, so I’m hoping you could be nice to him for the time being.”

The two men looked at each other as the one with the gun shook his head and shrugged.

“Uh ... ” the other man said, “who is this? And what’s your message?”

“The name’s Miles,” I said, “and this message is for Saint John.”

I watched as the two men continued to relay their baffled expressions, then looked to Alice, who seemed somewhat amused by their obvious state of confusion. I matched her devilish grin, raising the device to my lips, and held down the black button on its receiver.

“Take me to your leader,” I finished.

T
he two men allowed Crayton to rise. “What is this thing?” one of them asked. “This thing on his arm?”

“It’s a crude contraption,” I admitted, “but it got him to you.”

“You made this?”

I looked at Alice. “I had help.”

The two men escorted Crayton several blocks before the three of them disappeared into Dingy Pete’s Café. There was a rustle on their side of the transmission before a new, but familiar, voice leapt into the cavern.

“Miles?!” it said. “Miles, is it really you?!”

“And how are you, Saint John?” I asked. “Heard you’ve been looking for me.”

“Ha! Indeed I have, Miles.” His voice simmered off the walls. “Claire said I’d be hearing from you soon.”

“And here I am.”

“I must say ... ” John cleared his throat. “It’s truly barbaric the way you’ve managed to steer the governor to me.” He let out another hearty laugh. “Surely you realize you’ve marched this man all the way to his death.”

There was a faint sound of snickering on the line as a few eavesdroppers found delight in the latest words of their leader.

“More than you know,” I agreed. “But, killing the messenger? Now that is a medieval custom. I will not argue, however. I’m just sad we’ve regressed so far in our humanity.”

“Regressed?” Saint John chuckled. “You’re not about to spout ethics to a war veteran, are you?”

“I’d never dream of such a thing,” I said. “But Crayton is actually there as more of a ... demonstration.”

“A demonstration, huh?” John huffed. “I think we’d rather have a
demon stration
, huh boys?” There was instant clapping in the background, along with yelps of satisfaction.

“Yes, you hear them, Miles?!” Saint John asked. “We want a
demon stration
here at the diner!”

“Mercy,” I interrupted.

“What?”

“Mercy,” I said again, and the commotion ceased.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Crayton is there to teach you—the lot of you— about mercy,” I revealed.

“Mercy?” John bellowed, and the place erupted with laughter.

It went on for quite some time, growing gradually louder, before either of us bothered to say anything else. When the voices eventually withered to silence, it was his that appeared on the radio first.

“I’m looking straight at the piece of shit you sent over here, Miles—right into his beady little eyes,” he started, “and I can tell you there’s not a goddamned thing he can teach me about mercy.”

“Is that right?” I challenged.

“Absolutely.”

“Tell me, John. What exactly do you plan to do with the governor?”

Saint John chuckled a bit. “I’m thinking we’ll give him a nice, warm reception, and maybe ask him a few questions along the way.” Again there was laughter. “Why don’t you come on down and watch, Miles? We’ll save a seat for ya,” he offered. “Or should we make it three?”

I said nothing, left the receiver completely dead, and seriously contemplated ending the conversation altogether.

“What’s the matter?” Saint John called out. “There’s really no need to be bashful, Miles.”

“I’d like to talk to Crayton,” I replied.

“Yeah, he’s all ears,” Saint John said. By the sound of his following statement, the way his voice had been slightly muffled, it was intended for the audience he was currently entertaining: “It’s one of the last conversations he’ll ever have,” he whispered.

“Governor Crayton, can you hear me?” I asked.

There was no answer.

“Governor Crayton?”

There was the fleshy and violent sound of an impact when I heard Saint John shout, “Answer him!”

“Ah,” Crayton hissed, “I can hear you, dammit!”

“Good,” I said.

Here was a vile man—an unfortunate by-product of the ages—with an unholy patchwork of rape, torture, and murder stitching together a gruesome and guilt-ridden past. And this was his hearing, long overdue, complete with both a seething judge and callous jury; neither of which, I knew, would allow his crimes to go unpunished any longer. There was no doubt that Crayton deserved whatever horrors were in store for him at least a hundred times over.

“Crayton,” I said, “you must know that you are surrounded by people who would like nothing more than to kill you. And not just kill you, but kill you slowly. Are you aware of this?”

There was a brief silence, and then: “Yes.”

“Is there anything you wish to say to these men?”

Another brief silence, and then: “No.”

“Too proud to grovel, are you?” Saint John said. “I can change that.”

“Well, if there’s nothing he wants to say, there’s just one thing left.”

“And what’s that?” Saint John wondered.

“Is Claire with you?”

“She’s here.”

“Then I want her to give him his final prayer.”

“No,” Saint John barked, “he’s gonna rot in hell like all the rest of those filthy bastards. I don’t want ... ”

His words were cut short, interrupted by a slight rustling, and then:

“Hello, Miles.” Her voice seemed incredibly crisp in contrast to John’s, bringing an almost vibrant element to this dark scenario. It was not hard to believe that her presence, perhaps being the sole female amongst this small league—and despite what Saint John would most probably admit—made her the true backbone of this brigade. I wish I could have seen her reach over to pluck the receiver from his grasp. I’m sure he was thoroughly embarrassed.

“Hi, Claire,” I greeted her, “how have you been?”

“A little shaken up since last you visited.”

“That’s understandable.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“Can you say a prayer for the governor, something that might be suitable for this?”

“I sure can, Miles.”

“Awesome.”

“But, before I begin, can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“That woman that was here before, the one who came to save you, she is ... ” Claire paused for a moment. I could almost hear the churning of gears in her psyche, searching for the precise word. I looked to Alice when Claire’s silence had hung for just a moment, and watched her lean forward expectantly. “She is ... special, isn’t she?” Claire finished.

“You bet,” I said, but that was all the information I was willing to share with the crowd; looking back, even that may have been too much.

“I knew it,” Claire chuckled. “The cards don’t lie, you know.”

I said nothing, only offered her the slightest smile, one that was lost upon the receiver I held.

“Can I ask a favor of you, Miles?”

“What favor?”

“That woman, she’s there with you, isn’t she?” asked Claire. “She can hear me?”

I looked to Alice, not sure of what my response should be, and only knowing that time was running out. The longer Governor Crayton was alive, the greater the chances Saint John would stumble upon something rather valuable. Despite the military man’s strenuous efforts, Saint John had yet to locate me, and for someone with said information— such as the governor—it just might be worth enough to sustain his life for at least awhile.

This conversation was taking entirely too long.

“She’s not here,” I told her.

“Liar,” Claire responded, without even a hint of disdain; she said it almost playfully, in fact. “Let’s begin then, shall we?”

She instructed whoever was beside Crayton to step away and give him some room, for this would be his last, small pocket of peace, the last time he would experience anyone even remotely caring about his comfort. The next time Crayton would know this sensation would be upon his death—which was surely closer than he would have liked.

Claire began to pray, and it was beautiful. She prayed for his forgiveness, that all his wrongs be righted beneath the only One who could truly accept him. She prayed for those that had fallen by his hand, and for the serenity they might come to know. And she prayed for the women who remained alive, for the strength of their souls in such a dark and terrible place.

It had lasted for only a minute or two, but we could tell by the looming stillness on the radio that her prayer had moved the congregation as a whole. Alice herself had let a few tears fall, unhindered by her hands, to run the lovely course of her cheek.

“Amen,” I said thoughtfully, and lifted my chin to Alice. She nodded, pausing for just a moment of reflection, before she flicked a switch to trigger an additional mechanism within the Wraith. Once engaged, the mechanism released a plunger that pressed a thin needle through Crayton’s skin, injecting him with a small, but lethal dose of cyanide.

It was a substance we manufactured in-house years ago, extracted from several different types of produce. I told Alice it was for a projectile dart gun I wanted her to build, a weapon that had yet to make it past the early stages of concept design. In reality, that was only a partial truth behind my request for the toxin.

That poisonous concoction, I’m sad to say, had actually been meant for her.

If ever the time came when I couldn’t protect her any longer—a time when all hope for survival was lost—then it would be my last gift to her. And together we would vacate this residual chaos, a chaos left over from an age led only by hatred.

It’s a sad state of affairs when one begins to romanticize such a swift and merciful death. What wickedness could have plagued my mind that
suicide
would strike me as a noble gesture, a gift of the most profound kindness?

But now we released that gift into the veins of an enemy. An enemy, I’m assuming, who would have thanked us, had he the chance.

For Crayton, the tomahawk, died at Saint John’s feet before they could so much as throw a rock at him; and the moment the governor’s body collapsed, the moment his heart squeezed out its final pleading rhythm, there was a noticeable shift in the world. You could nearly feel it through the floor, as if we were all pewter-cast characters atop an uneven plateau. Our reality tilted, giving way to something new. The government must have felt it as well, perhaps only an hour or so later, upon the realization that their missing leader would not be returning.

But this, however, would not be entirely true.

Given the intimidation methods that Saint John preferred, and the extreme lengths that the government had pushed the rest of the city, Crayton would be returning to his beloved sanctuary—a martyr for his people.

Arcturus kept a digital eye on Dingy Pete’s and the streets of the inner city, ready to relay any suspicious activity. Saint John must have assumed I was close by, as an immediate search party was dispatched moments after Alice hit the switch to terminate Crayton’s life. They scoured the surrounding blocks as Saint John tried to keep me occupied on the radio with a series of questions that involved elaborate answers. I played along for a time, but soon said, “Your boys are way off.”

“What?” He tried to make his cluelessness sound sincere.

“The men you sent into the streets to find me—three of them just turned down Stilson and the other two look lost over on Bernard; either way, they’re way off.”

“You must be very high,” Saint John gathered, “to know such things.”

“Out of this world,” I mocked.

“There aren’t very many buildings around here that offer such a generous view,” he noted. “But there are a couple.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be found,” I said. “Maybe Crayton was a peace offering to end your search for me.”

“But you have so much to offer—so much potential; it seems a pity to let it go to waste.”

“Just because a potential isn’t used for war doesn’t make it wasted, Saint John.”

There was a brief silence when John had paused for a frustrated breath.

“Miles,” he started, “despite the fact that you
assassinated
the governor before I had a chance to interrogate him, I do thank you for delivering him to us; even in death he will prove to be valuable. But I’m afraid the search for you and your
entourage
will only continue until you decide to grow a pair and come face me like a man.”

Alice switched off the receiver before I’d spat something out that my brain hadn’t thoroughly filtered, leaving me to smash my fist hard against the workbench.

Saint John appeared on Arcturus’ visual just a moment later. He looked out into the direction of a high-rise building, the apparent place he thought I might be, and placed the thumb of his right hand against the left side of his throat, then slid it slowly across his Adam’s apple. Whether the deathly gesture had been meant for me, or perhaps was just his way of telling me what he planned for the governor’s body, I can’t say for sure.

As the collapsing sun later brought on evening, a new piece of artwork tracked its solar descent like some kind of bloody sundial—its base forced deep into the earth and its shadow stretched outward into a thin strip of ash, reaching a somewhat bulbous and grotesque end. The government would see it, and soon news of this appalling ornament would trickle further through its ranks.