The White City (2 page)

He opened it again after what seemed not more than a few seconds. “Come inside.”

Stacker shoved Buck forward and they entered a narrow hallway. Other men were waiting down at the far end, other men Buck was certain were concealing guns. “Mister Tinley there will take you to see Mister Grevol,” the agent who opened the door said.

Stacker and Buck went down the hall, where one of the men slid open the metal grate of a door. “Follow me,” Tinley said.

The three stepped into a small chamber. As the man closed the thin metal door, Buck wondered why they were in this small room. Then his stomach lurched as the floor suddenly rose. He heard the
clank-clank-clank
of chains beyond the walls. They reached quite a height before the chamber stopped, and Tinley opened the metal door again.

“After you,” he said.

Tinley led them down a winding hallway, through several offices where voices and the patter of machines silenced as they passed, and finally into a large room with thick carpet underfoot.

The agent continued across the room to a group of men seated together in leather chairs, smoking cigars and sipping cognacs. The conversation fell as Tinley whispered something. Then a man rose from one of the chairs. “Gentlemen …” Buck
recognized the voice as Grevol’s and could not stifle the cold constriction that drew at his throat like a noose. “We’ll have to continue our discussion at a later time.”

As the others stood one after the other, Mister Grevol added amicably, “Mister Burnham, you’ll send word with your man on the attendance numbers … Mayor Harrison, get someone at the
Tribune
to write another piece. Publicity is still critical to our continued success. Have him send the story to papers back East.…”

The men exchanged promises and parting words, and as the group extinguished cigars and set down their glasses, Tinley returned to Stacker and Buck. “He’ll see you in his office. This way.”

He brought them to a room and closed the door behind him as he left Stacker and Buck to wait.

Stacker leaned close to Buck, his mouth near Buck’s ear. “I don’t know what he’ll want to do with you.” He snapped something open with a flick of his hand. Buck knew right away it was the long-handled razor that Stacker carried. “Kill you, most likely.” Stacker pulled up Buck’s sleeves and cut the rope binding his wrists. He closed the razor and put it back in his pocket. “Or maybe something worse.”

The door opened, and Mister Grevol entered.

As he strode across the room toward his desk, he said, “Your man reeks. Have him stand at the door.”

Mister Grevol rounded the desk and sat down. Stacker came forward, and Buck heard the clunk of something heavy being placed on Grevol’s desk. “I was met with success, sir,” Stacker said.

Mister Grevol was silent, and Buck made out the faint strokes of Grevol’s fingers caressing worn wood and tapping at the iron head. “You’re certain this is the Nine Pound Hammer?” he murmured.

“Of course,” Stacker said.

Mister Grevol stood and drew something from his desk. Buck focused his attention, trying to discern what Grevol had picked up: the creak of leather gloves grasping a handle, the swish of air as Grevol moved what seemed to Buck a short staff toward the hammer. Grevol’s cane. Buck remembered it from the battle on the trains. The walking stick that Grevol, otherwise known as the Gog, had used to battle Conker.

A hum rose from the end of the walking stick, a whirl of intricate gears and tiny machine parts alight with activity. Mister Grevol passed it over the hammer. “Yes,” he said. “You have brought me the weapon.”

The humming grew louder as Mister Grevol brought the walking stick up to Stacker’s chest. Then abruptly the noise stopped. “Did you find it in the river?”

“No,” Stacker replied. “John Henry’s son, Conker. He had the hammer.”

Mister Grevol gasped. “He survived the destruction of my train? How can this be?”

“I don’t know. He travels with a siren. They have healing wells, or so I have been told.”

The Gog came around the desk with a rapid flap of his coattails. “Why did you not kill him?”

“I was not able to.”

“You?” Mister Grevol chuckled. “
You
were not able?”

“I had the Nine Pound Hammer. My job was to bring it back to you. If I could have … Conker took down both my men. I felt it best to leave before—”

“Both your men? Then who is this?” The humming of the walking stick returned, and the Gog turned sharply toward Buck. “Ah, yes … Why, it’s the medicine show’s sharpshooter. I remember.”

Mister Grevol approached Buck, but Buck did not move. “You were there that night. You shot that boy. What is your name?”

Buck was silent.

Stacker said, “His name is Eustace Buckthorn.”

“Has he gone mute as well as blind?” Mister Grevol asked.

“No,” Stacker said. “He can speak when he wishes. He has been broken.”

The Gog brought his walking stick up next to Buck’s temple. Buck could hear it better now. The tiny, buzzing clockwork reverberated inside the sphere of glass that capped the end of the stick.

“Yes, I see,” Mister Grevol said. “He feels shame and grief.…” The dizzying noise of the walking stick passed closer to Buck’s ear. His knees began to buckle, and Mister Grevol grasped his arm, holding him up with an unnatural strength. This brought Buck back to his senses. The Gog was so close to him now that Buck could smell the faint hint of charred flesh, a network of scars covering Mister Grevol’s skin.

Mister Grevol dropped Buck with a hiss. “Remorse over killings and for abandoning your child. Your self-pity sickens me.”

“What of our agreement?” Stacker asked.

Mister Grevol said, “What of it?”

Stacker hesitated before saying, “The clockwork in me … I want it taken out. I brought you the Nine Pound Hammer. My service is complete.”

“Don’t be so hasty, dear Stacker. I have much greater opportunities for you.”

Buck sensed something in Stacker’s reaction. He drew in the smell slowly through his nostrils. Not fear. This clockwork killer was incapable of being afraid. But there was something in his reaction akin to fear, although Buck could find no name for it.

“Mister Grevol,” Stacker said, “I wish to have my heart returned to me. I understood our last conversation to be a bargain between us. John Henry’s hammer in exchange for … for my humanity.”

“Yes, of course,” Mister Grevol said. “I can return you to a lowly man again, but how sad that would be. I have given you something very special. Something very important to me and to my Machine. A gift that proves my faith in you. Don’t you see? You, your clockwork heart, it is my finest creation so far. You are my guiding light in the coming war. A silent and swift war that will hoist this nation to heights its founders could never have imagined.”

Mister Grevol struck the base of his walking stick to the floor. He spoke low. “Our country is young and bold and bloodthirsty. Just like you, Stacker. You are my ideal. You are my new America. You could be the general of my army. You, who have been perfected by my ingenuity. By my vision. By my
Machine. Once the Darkness rises over this city, a new society will be born. Fear will be our seed, for fear makes the weak docile and the strong angry and ready for change. We will have a perfect working class. A servile citizenry solely intent on making this world better. And a new race of men will lead—strong and pitiless men. Men who will bring freedom through the destruction of the old. We will build cities of industry, tall and sleek. We will shape this world, Stacker. Can you see it? Do you share my vision?”

Stacker Lee stood silently. Buck could sense the dark feeling that he could not name clouding Stacker.

Mister Grevol had stopped. “Wait awhile. Consider what I have said. See what our new society will be like and imagine your place in it. I need you now to amend for your cowardice.”

“Cowardice?” Stacker hissed.

“You let John Henry’s son live.”

“What will you have me do?” Stacker asked, his voice dry and hoarse. “Destroy the hammer?”

Grevol chuckled. “No, we have nothing to fear from this relic. We will make a trophy of it. It will be displayed in the hall below us. Something that the rabble who flood to this exposition will relish.”

“He will come for the hammer.”

“Yes. And you will keep watch over it. Wait for Conker to arrive and try to take it back. This time, you will kill him.”

“What of Buckthorn?”

“I assume you have not slit his throat already for a reason.”

“A hostage,” Stacker said.

“A pawn that will draw Conker and his friends into a fatal position. You, my knight, will strike. And when our opponents are defeated, you may do with him as you wish.”

Stacker said, “There is the Rambler boy I have heard so much about.”

“Rambler,” Mister Grevol scoffed. “My men are hunting him as we speak. He flees across the prairie, running for his life like a hare before my hound. We’ll capture him and his rabbit’s foot. It undoubtedly is the source of the boy’s power. With them both destroyed, there will be no threat of any
Ramblers
reaching my Machine in the Gloaming.”

Buck’s jaw tightened. He knew the Gog underestimated Ray and Conker but was not sure it made any difference. What hope was there left in stopping this enemy?

Mister Grevol strode around his desk, settling back into the large leather chair. “I have all the pieces in place to assure my success. My Machine has been completed in Omphalosa. It has been brought to Chicago. It is being hidden in the Gloaming beneath this very building as we speak. The sirens have been lured here. They are captive in the depths of my hall. I have filled them with my clockwork. They serve me now. And the last of the old Ramblers, Joe Nelson, that fool Peg Leg Nel, we know where he hides in his mountains. Yes, success is assured. It is within my grasp. I only need you, Stacker, to stop John Henry’s son. Will you do this for me?”

“Yes,” Stacker replied.

“Good,” Mister Grevol said. “Then soon we will reconsider our bargain. But I expect by that time you will understand the folly of your desires. If you don’t, then I can return you to your former state. Be assured. I am a man of my word.”

As Stacker turned to walk toward Buck and the door, Buck understood the emotion he had been sensing in Stacker Lee. Remorse. Stacker regretted his bargain with the Gog.

Stacker opened the door, and Buck followed him out where Mister Tinley was waiting in the hallway.

Hope grew in Buck’s chest. Hope in the form of a clockwork killer.

T
HE HORSE GALLOPED ACROSS THE SUN-BLEACHED PLAINS
.
Ray leaned forward in the saddle, and Jolie, sitting behind him, tightened her grip around his waist. A wake of dust rose behind them as they crossed the wastelands of sagebrush and bone-colored earth. Tumbleweeds broke loose and bounced across their path before tangling again on gnarled shrubs.

“I do not see the steamcoach,” Jolie called over the thundering hooves. “Where are they?”

“Don’t worry,” Ray assured her. “B’hoy sees them.”

Ray squinted up from the shelter of his hat to spy the black silhouette of the crow against the blue sky. He did not need to link with the crow to see through the bird’s eyes. He knew they were not following the steamcoach any longer. How much longer could he hide that fact from Jolie?

“Are they getting farther ahead?” Jolie asked.

“We’ll catch up.”

Saddle-sore and thirsty, Ray shook the reins and hoped they would reach the river by nightfall. They had set out three days earlier in pursuit of the steamcoach. The horse, who had belonged to one of the Gog’s agents, had kept up the grueling pace better than Ray had hoped. There had been clumps of tough grass for her to eat. And they had found shallow trickles of streams for water. But she had two riders to carry, and the steamcoach rolled relentlessly westward. Somewhere beyond, farther than B’hoy had been able to see, Sally and the rougarou Quorl were moving even faster.

“We can’t keep going like this,” Ray said. “This horse will collapse if she doesn’t rest soon. How are you holding up?”

Jolie said nothing, and after a moment he cocked his head to see if she was awake. She looked up at him, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. “Fine,” she said.

The horse rode on and on as the land dipped and swelled like a stormy sea. At last, they climbed a low butte and stopped. The sun was veering down before them, casting its harsh glare into their eyes. Ray wiped the dust and sweat from his face.

“Mountains,” Jolie murmured.

Far to the north, a snowcapped range jutted up from the plains. Ray whistled. “They’re bigger than anything I’ve ever seen.”

“How far away do you think they are?” Jolie asked.

“I can’t tell,” Ray said. “I’m not use to all this … openness. I’m used to the forests back home.”

He turned in the saddle to check how Jolie was doing. Her dark, tangled hair was powdered with dust. Despite the days of riding in the blistering sun, her skin held its strange,
unnatural pallor, glowing white like a piece of quartz. But her eyes showed she was weakening, and this worried him.