Sanctuary sleep was a well-known but rare phenomenon. Torpor stole away time and sustained the body, but it never brought genuine rest. On occasion, when the mind was exhausted and all the detritus of thought needed sorting, a cultist would pass from hibernation into dreams, sleeping through their final hours in the domain of the gods.
Fragments of the surreal flowed through d’Holbach’s head, failing to produce complete stories but successfully echoing recent traumas. Images of the Zombie strung themselves together like beads on a narrative thread. The invincible man was coming to save him, both in this dire era and long ago in Enlightenment France.
d’Holbach only had to wait until this argument was over. Phyllis was shouting at the philosophers in his salon, speaking snatches of English mixed with centuries-old French. They were threatening him for being an atheist, for denying Meister Schuler’s arguments. She was defending the Baron from Voltaire, who complained loudly in English about the Zombie.
It was a strange dream with a simple truth at its heart. Alone, the Baron was at the mercy of a world that would cheerily dispense with his rebellions. Together with the Zombie, the world was forced to respect him and his inconvenient philosophies.
Days ago and hours in the future, the Baron had dodged, leaving friends behind. Fear rummaged through these images, selecting the juiciest anxieties. Everything reminded him of the isolation he’d face in the hours to come, Baron versus the world.
Still, dreams helped him recover from the pains of death.
The Baron’s first meeting with the Zombie was at rue Royale, butte Saint-Roche, about twenty-five years before the Fall of Trust. He wasn’t even a cultist then, nor wished upon. He was merely a man with a position of extreme wealth and high intellectual prominence.
His home boasted a library of more than three thousand volumes, and his chefs served the most expensive food and wine of any salon in Paris. His radical atheist philosophy and vitriolic anti-Church rhetoric drew a subversive element, and regular attendees were a who’s who of French and British Enlightenment thinkers.
That afternoon, the primary guest list was brief but rich. Hume was visiting, Diderot was working on his Encyclopédie, and Voltaire was arguing with the Baron about determinism while sharing a plate of greek olives and expensive cheese in the dining hall.
Other men were spread about the salon, having come to write, study, or argue, but not to interfere with the Baron’s circle of friends. In general, the Baron’s servants kept track of the guests, and everyone tended to account for their companions, so it was a surprise when a servant interrupted the Baron’s conversation with a warning.
“Baron, Marquis de Condorcet has arrived with an Oriental guest.”
Voltaire seemed irritated by the message, but the Baron poured him another glass of wine and asked his servant, “Does Condorcet vouch for him?”
“Yes.” The servant’s manner was plainly nervous.
“We welcome intellectuals of every race,” the Baron said firmly. At least, that was the plan. So far this year, his servants had turned away a Mexican-Spaniard and two Moors, but the Baron had corrected them each time, and since then, most foreigners had been allowed to enter.
“Baron,” said the servant, “the Oriental gentleman refuses to give his name.”
“Then take it from the Marquis,” Voltaire snapped.
“He doesn’t know it,” the servant answered.
Baron d’Holbach stood, opting to solve this himself before someone gave up and threw out Condorcet’s guest. “Where is the man?”
“Paul-Henri,” Voltaire said. “Just kick him out!”
The servant took a step back, lowering his head as if waiting for a punishing blow. “The Marquis won’t let anyone touch him, Baron. My deepest apologies.”
The Baron waved the servant onward. “I’ll speak with him.”
“T’sch!” Voltaire took the bottle of wine and topped off his glass.
The servant led the Baron to the southern anteroom, a small chamber of warm, wood-paneled walls and well-swept brick floors, lined with hooks and shelf space for dozens of coats and shoes. “In here, Baron,” he offered, stopping at the entrance.
“Marquis de Condorcet,” d’Holbach said when he saw his friend, leaning against the front wall beside a tall, handsome man, whom the Baron guessed was Chinese. They’d been camping near the entrance table with its open guest-book, waiting for the servants to return with the master of the house.
Condorcet righted himself, stepping forward to meet d’Holbach with a forced smile. “Baron, thank God. Please, let us in. We’ve had a long morning.”
“You look hounded,” the Baron agreed. Condorcet powdered his own hair and shaved his own face, but the powder was thinning and his stubble was dark. “I see you have a shadow,” he joked, tapping his own chin.
Condorcet was a young mathematician and political philosopher, and it took him a long moment before he touched his cheek and smiled. “Ah, apologies! I’ve been entertaining my guest. There’s been little time for such things, if you’ll forgive me.”
“I’ll always forgive you, Condorcet.” The Baron glanced at the guest-book, looking for the Chinese man’s signature. The Marquis had elegantly written his name across the page. Above him, Voltaire’s tight signature followed an imaginary straight edge. No other names sat below theirs.
The tall man noticed his behavior and grinned broadly. Unlike Condorcet, who wore dark conservative coats and traditionally ornamented white shirts, the Chinese man was dressed in red and crimson with an aggressively simple cut. His wig was low and severe, and if he hadn’t worn it with immaculate style, the Baron would’ve assumed that he was mocking French nobility. As it was, the Baron could only imagine he was a Canton merchant, touring Europe.
“I haven’t been introduced to your friend yet,” the Baron said. “What’s your name?” he asked the tall man directly.
Condorcet tried to answer for him. “It’s hard to pronounce.”
“Ah, you’ve made me curious,” the Baron said, locking eyes with Condorcet’s guest.
“Truthfully, I don’t have a name,” the Chinese man said in fluent French.
Condorcet flicked his gaze nervously from one man to the other. “Baron, I vouch for him. He came to see the library.”
“Three thousand volumes,” the tall man said. “One of the best in Europe, I’ve heard.”
“What do you call him, Condorcet?” the Baron asked. He didn’t break his gaze with the Chinese man.
“I don’t name…” Condorcet said weakly.
“He’s afraid of me,” the man muttered.
“I see.” The Baron cleared his throat. “I’m sorry if I offend, but have you threatened him?”
“I have,” the man admitted. “But only indirectly. I have a reputation.”
“Yet you don’t have a name.”
“He had one for me.”
Condorcet tittered with a desperation that belied fear. “He jokes. He hasn’t threatened anybody.”
“Marquis, you don’t need to lie. He’s an honest man, even if he’s a scoundrel.” The Baron offered his hand to the Chinese man. “What should I call you, sir?”
The man shook his hand gently. “Depends on the legend.”
“What does Condorcet call you?”
“What would you call me if I said that I was the oldest man alive?”
“Methuselah,” the Baron answered, “or the Wandering Jew. Tithonus, if you weren’t so young.”
“I’ve never been called Tithonus. I like it.” He tapped his finger on his thin beard. “What would you call me if I said that I was invincible?”
“Achilles.”
“No, I have nothing like his heel.”
The Baron spent a moment thinking. “Invincible men always have a weakness. Myths often teach a lesson about pride.”
“I don’t have a weakness.”
“Then I have no name for you.”
“They called me the Golem in many places. They were afraid that I’d rampage in the temple. What would my name be if I didn’t have a human soul?”
“Golem is good,” the Baron said. “Homonculus… Doppleganger? I’m afraid I don’t have many names. Condorcet, do you know any word for the reanimated dead?”
No response. Both Condorcet and the Baron’s servant seemed mortified by this strange game, and the “Golem” was not going to volunteer all the answers.
“I know a few,” the man said, “and I’ve been called them all. Here, one more try. Which legend would I be, if I committed the first sin?”
“Pandora, if you were a woman. Adam, the first man. How about Cain?” He glanced at Condorcet. “First murderer. The Serpent. Prometheus.” He was counting on his fingers now. “Azazel, thief of fire. Loki. Cronus or Zeus, depending on which the author identifies as the traitor. Any traitor of the gods, really. I’m sure there are others.”
“Many others,” the man said. “You missed one, but for today, call me Cain.”
The Baron laughed. “Fine, you are the first murderer. I only have one question. Will you murder Condorcet if I don’t let you in?”
“No. He’s afraid of me, but I only want to see your library.” The newly-minted Cain pulled out a closed folding knife. “Do you want to see the trick that scared him?”
“No, I trust it was impressive.” The Baron stepped aside and waved him in. “Welcome to my salon. Condorcet, go to the hall and find Voltaire. He’ll pour you some wine. Monsieur Cain, if you come with me, I’ll show you the library.”
“May I borrow something?” Cain asked. “There’s a book.”
“Is it valuable?” the Baron asked. “What is it?”
“It’s in print, but there’s a reason I don’t want to tell you.”
The Baron smiled. “Is this part of the game? You can keep it.”
“It is, and I appreciate the radical trust. I rarely receive it.”
The Baron left Cain in the library and returned to his friends in the dining hall. By sunset, the man had left without a further word, and if he’d taken a book, the Baron couldn’t see where it’d gone missing. All the truly valuable tomes remained.
It was almost a year later, long after Condorcet had declined to tell the Baron anything about Cain, that he found the empty spot on a shelf of his personally annotated volumes.
The Baron laughed out loud in a library full of friends. “Tricky bastard.” People looked at him. By way of answer he said, “I was trying too hard.”
The missing book was Paradise Lost.
Twenty four years later, in the fall of 1788, the gods assigned a great task. Every Oracle in Europe and many in Asia and North Africa received the order and spread it to their flocks.
Convince Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach to believe in the divine, and everyone who contributes will be rewarded a portion of prestige from a pool of one millennium, scaled to the significance of their influence.
This triggered a year-long deluge of letters to d’Holbach’s home in Paris. Men of all stations, from barely literate peasants to the highest Cardinals of Rome, sent page after page of rational argument and emotional appeal. In waves of paper and ink, they begged, pleaded, and demanded change. Altogether, they asked the Baron to renounce atheism, choose death, and go to the gods. They would’ve drowned him in discussion.
He argued with the first few correspondents on principle, ran out of time to argue further, and ignored the rest. When increasingly desperate Vatican cultists came to visit him personally, he considered whether he could continue to live, ageless, under his birth name.
In January of 1790, about a year into the French Revolution, he gave up and faked his death with the assistance of Marquis de Condorcet, one of three members in his coterie that’d been inducted into the occult mysteries. This was supposed to be an escape from the eyes of occult power—instead, it directly triggered the Fall of Trust.
The gods issued a second task to kill the Baron before the end of the year. He didn’t learn this from any normal messenger or letter. On the day that the Fall of Trust began, he was sitting in Condorcet’s parlor, reading a volume on ethics, when the Cain of his youth entered the room, shouting, “Good afternoon, Baron d’Holbach!”
“Afternoon,” the Baron replied, looking up from a book spread on the table in front of him. “I recognize you. The Golem, right? The man I called Cain in my ignorance?”
“Ha, yes! The Marquis knew me as Golem. I’m sure he’ll be terrified to see me again.”
The Baron glanced down at the man’s hands. They had a deep, dark, wine-stain color, and glimmers of sunshine, sneaking in through the curtained windows, reflected off the wet textures of his hands. “Is that blood?” the Baron asked.
The Golem grinned, clapping his damp hands together. Slap, slap, slap. “Yes, I’m happy to inform you, blood has already been spilled.”
“On what grounds, Golem?”
The Golem pulled a chair over and set it behind the table where the Baron sat. “The Marquis signed your death certificate this morning. Now, the gods have insisted on its accuracy.”
The Baron stared at the fresh blood smeared over the lacquer of the armrests beneath the Golem’s hands. “Are you here to kill me?”
“No. I killed the first man who came to kill you. There will be many, many more, and I might kill them too. How well do you remember me?”
“With crystal clarity.” The Baron smiled at the absurdity of having this legendary murderer in Condorcet’s home. “The Marquis only taught me about you this year, but I remember the book you stole from me. Did you want me to call you Satan?”
The invincible man laughed. “No. I wanted you to know that I inspired Satan, but he lives in hell, and this is the Earth. We’re in my domain, forever and ever.”
“And what does such a worldly king want in his domain?”
The Golem pointed. “A perfect question. I like you, Baron. I like what you’ve done to the world, denying its occult foundations. You’re interesting, and—” He spread his hands wide like red flags. “You aren’t afraid of me. You weren’t the last time we met either.”
“Call me mad if you like, but you strike me as an honest man,” the Baron said. It was the truth. There was something earnest about the Golem, which made him easy to trust.
The invincible man laughed pleasantly. “It’s the honesty of murderers. Don’t worry about yourself though. I’m here, and for today, you’re safe.”
“Because you’re here?”
“Mm. Exactly. I cannot die, but other men always can.” The Golem took a deep breath. “So let’s get to know each other. Talk. Maybe we’ll be friends, and come to an arrangement?”
The Baron couldn’t yet grapple with the full weight of what was happening—that the so-called gods had ordered his demise for daring to hide from their servants—but he knew what was in front of him. A unique man, born of strange philosophies, wanted to deliver him out of a year of madness. d’Holbach leaned back, forcing himself to accept this situation.
What’d begun as a deluge of letters was about to become a storm of knives, and the aid of an invincible murderer might cut the difference between life and death.
“What kind of arrangement?” the Baron probed.
“Costs and causes. We can hash out specifics later, but here’s the gist. If you’ll always hurt powerful people like this, then I’ll always want to protect you.”
“Are you talking about my ageless properties?”
The Golem wove his bloody hands together on his lap. “And your atheism, and all other things besides. You are a thorn in the Pope’s ass, Baron. I like that. And if you like it, then when the Marquis comes home, he can bear witness.”
“To what?” the Baron asked.
“To a Pact, sworn by the oldest man in the world. I won’t let you die.”
Dreams eased. Sleep ended.
The Baron opened his eyes to see a brief burst of flame. The end of the cigar burned to ash all at once, and the hot peppery tobacco smoke filled his nostrils. He peeled his back off a sanctuary carpet and sat up, body well-rested, mind recovering, and patted his jacket pocket.
The lighter and guillotine cutter were still there. He pulled out the cutter and snipped the end of the cigar for his mouth, then took a long draw. Smoke rolled around his tongue and palate. The tobacco had dried out a bit over the last few days, but the burn was perfect.
He blew a smoke ring and pinched the cloth of his stiff dress shirt. The sanctuary door cracked open on its own, letting in a soft pale light.
He was swamped in dry, clotted blood. No wonder he’d peeled off the carpet. There was a dry lakebed surrounding him, a sure sign of death. The Cat in his belly was cool. There were no lashes of fire holding him together. A knot of scar tissue bound together the left side of his chest. His aorta must’ve been lightly ruptured when he was shot.
All the bullet wounds were closed up and stiff, no longer aching but certainly uncomfortable. His conditional agelessness would restore him fully in time, but the Cat had rushed these primitive repairs, and he’d feel the scars for weeks.
He drew again on his dry cigar. There was a lesson here. He needed to be prepared with even more prestige in the future. He needed to break guns and heal wounds aggressively. He couldn’t reproduce Schuler’s skills or resources, but he could afford to spend more money on more wishes. For the sake of the world, he should.
Few people found the opportunity to learn from their near demise. The Cat had given him a chance to gauge the danger of modern urban combat. The Baron wouldn’t pretend that everything would be alright in a scrap, not after this. People really were willing to risk the Zombie’s Pact in order to kill him. That recklessness implied things about human nature—and about the future of the Cold War—that sent chills down the Baron’s spine.
For now, he’d have to make do with the Cat’s multiple lives, keep his wits about him, and find out where he’d teleported in the city. He got to his feet. The blood on his clothes would be a problem, and he couldn’t afford to wish it away—cleanups were surprisingly expensive, and he could only afford a maximum of one week of debt.
At least the room he was in would never be found again. It was impossible to tell whether the gods generated the sanctuaries for each individual debtor or cleaned the rooms after each use. Marks in a sanctuary disappeared when the door closed.
He put the guillotine cutter away and pulled out the lighter to keep the cigar burning. He felt grooves under his fingers. He raised them to the door’s light and read an engraving, “The Improved Order of Red Men.” Below it, a machine had stamped the simple image of a man in Delaware tribe headdress. Enzu had stolen it from some New York noble for the Baron’s cigar.
The Baron turned it about, watching the light play over its finger-polished surface. This racist trinket could be useful as a prop. The Red Men were the original mixed colonial and Native American cult that founded the first of the secular Tammany societies. The Tammany Hall of today knew nothing of the customs and rituals that’d defined the old American cults, but engraved lighters like these were clear tokens of a “rich heritage.”
With this, the Baron could pretend to have a connection to New York’s nobility.
He pocketed the lighter and walked to the door, peering out of the gap. The hall outside was simple but obviously historied; last-century wooden floors sagged between sheets of pale purple wallpaper, and most of the doors sat askew in their frames, marked with brass stars. Dressing rooms?
At this angle, he could just barely spy two police officers standing guard in this temple hallway, waiting for people to emerge. For a moment, they were turned away, talking quietly together. He doubted they were here on secular business, but they probably weren’t on guard for him either.
At this point, there were two options. He could run, immediately marking him as someone worth chasing down and interrogating, or he could try to talk his way out of the temple.
So long as he was on temple grounds, nobody would be eager to manhandle him, let alone assault him, and enough fast talk might get him out the door before anyone could ask the right questions. Once he was on the streets, the conditions would favor him immensely. It was the middle of the afternoon, with both the National Guard and the secular public wandering the neighborhoods. He could try to hail a cab, steal a vehicle, or simply beg for a ride to… somewhere. He needed to discover his location before he could make better plans.
As it was, he ought to step outside, get his bearings, and start working the crowd until he could escape the building. He nudged open the door with his toe and slid out into the hall.
The sanctuary door closed itself behind him.
The cops twitched, turning to face the sound. First they noticed him. Then they noticed his blood, and their eyebrows jumped towards their peaked caps.
“Oy, what’s this mess about, sir?” one of them asked. The older one, it seemed.
The Baron sucked on his cigar, drawing in smoke. “Thank the fucking gods.” The forced relief bought him a second to think. They might be affiliated with New York. They might not. “Have you been looking for the Baron d’Holbach?” he asked angrily.
“Aye,” the officer replied.
Best guess then—these were idle CPUSA and not New York vassals. After all, New York’s men were marching the streets, not sitting around inside temples. “Fuck those Russian bastards for dragging me in,” d’Holbach muttered, releasing puffs of smoke. He glanced down at his shirt. “It’s a goddamn bloodbath out there. I just came from the bridge.”
The cops glanced at each other. The younger one squinted at the Baron and asked, “Why did traffic administration order the workers to salt the roads?”
Traffic administration? Reusing that code name was lazy security on the part of Malik. These were definitely CPUSA insurgents, either stationed here or waiting for orders after dodging to this location. “Fuck this code crap,” the Baron grumbled, “I’m not working for Malik anymore. This is about revenge, you understand me?”
“Malik?”
“The fucking Russian can’t keep his trap shut. His real name is getting around.”
“Jesus,” the younger cop said.
“Yeah, Jesus—” The Baron scoffed. “What the fuck is this?”
“What is what, sir?”
The Baron gestured to the double doors at the end of the hall. “Why are you here when the Baron is out there?”
The officer hooked his thumbs to his belt, shrugging. “I was running from the spooks and had to dodge here. The CIA’s gotten a list of our names somehow. They must’ve stolen ‘em from the Soviets.”
“Right, but what are you doing in this borough?”
The older officer answered this time: “Administration sent some of us to Queens, in case the Baron snuck over the East River.”
The Baron was relieved. He’d dodged to a temple in Queens, probably the largest one in this slice of town. He glanced down at his bloody clothes, taking the initiative before the cops could bring it up again. “I had to spend all my prestige on these goddamn wounds.” He shook his head sadly and looked them in the eyes. “How can a man afford an afterlife like this?”
The cops were briefly confused. “Didn’t they give it to you during your induction?”
The Baron covered for his surprise by rolling his eyes. That explained why the CPUSA members were so ready to die. Every last one of them had a ticket punched for eternity. “For fuck’s sake, not me. I have a new wife—you know what, nevermind. We’ve got to get ready.”
“Get ready?” One of them stepped into the Baron’s path. “Sir, who are you?”
The Baron fished his wallet out of his pockets and pulled out his driver’s license. “Ray Dufraine.”
The cop took it and held it out to his companion. “This is a Massachusetts license.”
“You’re damn right it is. When the Smith Act trials got rolling, I skipped town.”
“Why’d you come back?” the other cop asked.
“I didn’t. Some asshole in Barilla’s crew ratted me out to Malik.”
“Barilla?”
“Jesus Christ, really? We killed him on Sunday.” d’Holbach took back his license with a little more force than needed. He antagonized them so they’d know that he had no reason to fear antagonizing them. “Can we get moving?”
“Uh—”
“What’s your name?” the Baron asked the older cop.
“Officer Byrne. My partner is Grenham.”
“Byrne, Grenham. Glad to meet you. If you’ll follow me?” Without waiting for an answer, he pushed past them and beelined for the double doors at the end of the hall. When they didn’t immediately follow, he turned back to glare at them, nearly demanding their assistance. “The Baron might be coming, gods damnit. Let’s get ready to jump him.”
“The Baron might be here?” Byrne asked skeptically.
“If I’m here, then he’ll be here, cause I think the other temples are full. Now, come on, we need to tell the rest.” The Baron clenched the cigar between his teeth and pushed open the doors. There was an auditorium spread out before him, black velvet walls, black carpet floor, and bright stage lights. It was filled with chairs, a 19th century theater with an orchestra pit, boarded over like a broken window.
A tired audience stirred to meet him—at least two dozen cultists, waiting for something.
The Baron understood the precarious balance of the situation. Push too hard, and people would stop to examine his anxious behavior. Wait too long, let the momentum flag, and people would find the time to test their suspicions. He’d already pushed too hard and failed earlier with the Guard. He’d have to try again with CPUSA and do a better job. Or else.
As it was, someone in the room probably recognized him as the Baron d’Holbach, but there was a confusing detail—the NYPD officers, both CPUSA, were following him as if he belonged. Their presence muddied his identity.
“CPUSA soldiers, New York vassals. There’s a mix in here, and I doubt everyone knows who is who, but it doesn’t matter.” The Baron swung the smoking cigar around to emphasize his words. “My name is Ray Dufraine. You’re all going to help.”
“Who the fuck are you?” someone shouted from the back.
The Baron dug into his pocket, casually relit the tip of his cigar, and lobbed the lighter into the audience. “Catch!”
Someone caught it and passed it towards the back of the auditorium.
“Look at the engraving. I’m an officer in the Boston junta, operating under the authority of General Osman. Before that, I beat Pinkertons for cash and signed up with the Commies because I was poor, young, and stupid. That’s come back to bite me in the ass. Now give me back my goddamn lighter.” It was passed back down to the front row and lobbed up. The Baron caught it and took center stage. “Before I dodged here, I was up on the Queensboro Bridge. You assholes heard the shooting? The blasts?”
There were murmurs of assent and several clear ayes.
The cops assumed a subordinate position behind the Baron. It strengthened his image, but it meant that his back was turned to two potential enemies.
“It’s a bloodbath. I was caught out in a car with a couple of others.” d’Holbach took a draw on his cigar. He was talking fast, rolling over his own words to create a sense of urgency. “The National Guard caught the devil trying to cross the strait. Of course, the dipshits opened fire before we were ready, and I got shot for my trouble. Now I’ve healed up and dodged, and I’m looking to get the jump on the Baron, but we don’t have much time.”
There was a confused litany of follow-up questions, some of them asking about the Boston junta. He knew enough occult politics to answer, but acknowledging individual questions would’ve brought disaster by opening the floor to close scrutiny.
“There were hundreds of soldiers on that bridge!” he yelled over the crowd. “Do you understand? Sooner or later, the Atheist is going to dodge here, and I’m going to kill him. We’ve just got to catch him when he comes outside.”
“Kill him?” someone shouted. Probably a New York vassal, scared about the Pact.
“For fucking with the crazy ass Russian instead of surrendering.” The Baron shielded his eyes, as if searching for his interlocutor. He dropped his hand and waved any responses away. “Forget it. I’m not looking to break this down, and I’m not looking to win this bullshit for the Reds. I just want my revenge. If you’ve got a reason to see Baron d’Holbach dead—or at least whipped—then let’s go. We’ll set up in the streets, just bring what you’ve got.”
He hopped down and marched up the center aisle like he was in charge. Officers Byrne and Grenham fell in behind him, and the rest of the cultists stirred from their seats into a rising, murmuring mass. Momentum favored d’Holbach for now.
He barged out of the plain theater and into a larger foyer, a vast and incredibly ornate lobby of rococo architecture, gold trim, and red carpets. It was bright, even without windows. Hanging chandeliers glittered two or three stories above, and large, elaborate sconces lined the high walls, each as wide and curved as Venus’s hips. Balconies were flanked by columns spiralling up like carved unicorn’s horns, jutting out over arches of polished stone and doors paneled in bronze. Stairwells circled up the sides of the foyer to the balcony level of the main theater, each step cut from creamy limestone and lined with fine red carpets.
“Jesus Christ,” the Baron murmured, channeling his awe at Gilded Age art into a kind of macho spite. Vanity mirrors hung in frames more ostentatious than a Baroque palace. A stone cherub spat water into the bronze bowl of a fountain, which then fell in two soft waterfalls to a crystal clear pool formed out of grey granite and lined with sea-green tiling.
There was a billboard at the Baron’s right hand. The theater he’d been in was marked the Smalls Concert Hall, reserved for private parties only. The temple was only one part of a larger building, left bare and forever-rented to cover for the sanctuaries operating out of the back. The broader building was a fever dream of endless wealth, an echo of an explosion of prewar prosperity.
After a few moments, rusty memories finally shook loose, and he recognized this absurd place. He was in Flushing, in Queens. This was the RKO Keith’s Theater. A few employees were idling in uniform, bright red like bellboys, sweeping or brushing carpets. They paid the Baron no attention; he supposed the Smalls Concert Hall was locked at night and busy during the day. Like all temples, it was hopelessly normal and uninteresting if viewed by its secular face.
The cops came out behind him. The Baron glanced at them. They appeared worried. There was probably another way to leave the theater without going through the public foyer. “I know, I know,” he murmured.“I had to check. Someone, tell the rest to take the regular exit.”
“Yes, sir,” Grenham said, clearly relieved.
“I’ll scout out front. Byrne, come with me?”
The cop nodded; by the better light of the main theater, the Baron could tell Byrne was a clean cut Irish-Catholic man with a flinty stare. “Sure, Mr. Dufraine. After you.”
The Baron crossed the foyer, finally grabbing attention with his bloody clothes.
“Jet,” said a boy, just old enough to work, “swell costume, man.”
“It’s a frightening play,” the Baron said as he passed.
d’Holbach opened the front door and stepped outside. Officer Byrne would give him legitimacy and put witnesses at ease, even while he was covered in horrendous bloodstains. Warm air washed over him, filled with spring smells and the first hints of cooler air on the wind. He must be near another park, though the exact layout wasn’t certain. Several pedestrians stared at his clothes, but Byrne smiled and nodded, and they kept walking—only a little faster.
“It’s not very busy,” the Baron said. There were maybe twenty people in view, most of them heading east with the sun at their backs, overdressed in upper middle class clothing, pieces made of the finest cloth but just one pay grade short of fully tailored suits and dresses. This must be close to Broadway-Flushing. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he could ask. “Any National Guard armories around here?”
“The Flushing Armory is a half a mile south, on this side of the meadows.”
The Baron was unhappy with the location. He’d ended up on the east side of LaGuardia, much further away from any of the temples close to Manhattan. This was the largest one in Queens by far, but geographically, he was miles away from the Queensboro Bridge.
If his memory served him well, the best location for his arrival would’ve been a small temple near the Queens approach to the bridge—the Railyard Temple. It was snuggled in a warehouse between a trainyard and an industrial park, near the junction of Queens Boulevard and Northern Boulevard. Assuming Phyllis and the Zombie made it off the bridge and across the eastern channel, they’d check there first. He needed to get there quickly and find a stable hiding spot.
“We can’t stay on the street long. Not so close to the armory,” the Baron said. “Do you have a patrol car here? Assuming you didn’t dodge, or called in some help?”
“Grenham dodged. I drove here to help him out.”
“Keeping it in the back?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring it out front. You, Grenham, myself—we’ll keep watch on the street.” He gestured around the side of the building. With some luck, he might be able to talk the cops into driving him to the Railyard Temple on the assumption that the Baron hadn’t dodged to this one. Otherwise, he’d see if it was possible to steal the car. Failing that, he’d just bail on them and walk away. Maybe.
They left the shadow of the marquee. The theater was advertising a final showing of The Greatest Show On Earth, that very evening. That was too bad. The Baron hadn’t found a chance to see the movie, mainly because his friend wasn’t interested in it.
In general, it was difficult to keep the Zombie’s attention on a film unless the concept was deeply grotesque, esoteric, or sci-fi. He preferred to concentrate over a book, if only because their fantasies were grander, bolder.
Three hundred years of memories, of hard living and violence—they could make mundane dramas and romances seem pale and lifeless. The Baron didn’t share the feeling, of course, but he understood his friend, his monster.
The back alley was narrow, only wide enough for one vehicle. The Baron followed Officer Byrne, eyeing the man’s holster—he had a Colt Official Police, a .38 special revolver. If this place was similar to the 8th Street Temple, that was one of the only firearms still on site. Any armory would’ve been emptied while New York deployed their borough militia, and everyone else who’d dodged here was forced to leave their weapons and radios behind.
It was disappointing to see the pistol, but he’d expected to run into some firearms. Mobs of violent people accumulated weapons naturally, like static charge around bits of lint and paper. In the end, snatching that Colt could give the Baron a decisive advantage, so he paid attention to how Byrne wore it and measured how closely the Officer was guarding his gun.
They passed through the alley into a broader space behind the theater. A patrol car and a couple of other vehicles were parked in an unpainted patch beside the theater’s oversized dumpster. Maybe fifty feet away, a small band of people were exiting through a fire door, but no bells rang when it opened. That must be the temple’s standard entrance.
The Baron carefully relit the end of his cigar and puffed. The prop calmed him, gave him something to occupy his hands, and soothed the savage nicotine craving. Unlike most addicts, he could cure himself by simply waiting, but only because addictions were regarded as diseases in the eyes of the so-called gods.
Oddly enough, torpor and debt didn’t count as time spent without smoking. The addiction that he’d indulged once that morning was just as fresh this afternoon.
The Baron raised his hand to the approaching men, coming out of the back of the theater. “How many of you got fucked by the Russians?”
No response from the bunch. There were well over a dozen of them.
“Show of hands?” the Baron asked.
Reluctantly, a couple raised their hands, men near the back. Once someone moved, the rest of the mob followed suit, and all hands rocketed high. Mob mentality ruled them.
That was good and bad. If the Baron could pretend to lead, things would be safe. If they’d all silently concluded that he was suspicious, there’d be no persuading them.
The Baron quickly decided to split them up, relying on the old instinct to divide and conquer when it came to wheeling and dealing. He shouted to them, “Hurry up now! Split into groups and assign yourselves to the exits. Grenham,” he pointed to the second cop, bringing up the rear of that dangerous dozen. “You’re with me and your partner. We’ll be heading out front.” To Office Byrne, “You got the keys?”
Byrne pulled out a keyring and shook his keys at the Baron. “What’s the plan?”
“We park on the street and wait. If he comes out front, we run him down.”
The officer nodded. Grenham joined them. Nobody else approached, but the remainder of the mob was huddled, chatting amongst themselves. They were forming a hierarchy without the Baron sitting at the top, but he couldn’t justify interfering any further. Damnit.
He needed more time away. Time to direct his marks. He knocked off the ash and went for the passenger’s door on the car. “Take me around the front.”
“Sure can.” Officer Byrne opened the driver’s side, leaned over the interior of the car, and unlocked the passenger’s side for the Baron. They got in, with the second cop taking the back bench behind the cage. Byrne started the car and rolled them towards the street.
“What’s your beef with the Baron?” Grenham asked from the backseat.
The Baron wasn’t paying much attention to the unarmed police officer. He was trying his damndest to dehumanize them both, to ensure that he had no sympathy for the people he might harm. It was a deliberate act to make it possible to pull the trigger of a gun when facing someone he didn’t hate and hadn’t attempted to take his life yet.
It wasn’t working. Grenham was young and curly-haired, mid-20s, and clearly the rookie assigned to Byrne’s veteran position. He must’ve been a teen when he got sucked into Communist circles for good reasons—labor reasons—only for the States and the Soviets to ruin his life from two directions at once. Now he might die, working for Malik.
“I already told you,” d’Holbach muttered. “New wife in Boston, new life. Now it’s all shot because the Baron wouldn’t give up yesterday.” He shook his head. “Fucking Langley.”
“Where were you yesterday anyways?” asked Grenham.
“Red Hook,” the Baron said.
“You were there when they had the shootout with the mobster?”
“I used to fucking work for the man,” the Baron answered ambiguously, implying nothing about his location or his actions. Ambiguity was his last solid defense.
Officer Byrne parked the car out front but left the engine running.
“I’m not sure I follow,” said Officer Grenham.
The Baron glanced in the rearview mirror. The cop was squinting at him. It’d been a mistake to call him along, but Officer Byrne would’ve been suspicious if the Baron hadn’t explicitly invited them both on this farcical stakeout. One of the cultists must’ve identified the Baron already, but best guess? There’d been an argument. Nobody had been able to prove he was the Baron. Now Grenham was trying to determine it for himself.
“I was spotting for the traffic admin, checking if our boys fought to the bitter end. I saw Barilla’s corpse in an alley. It was strange. I worked for him on the docks.” The Baron sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Fuckin’ Russian sent us up against Schuler himself. Miserable shit.”
“I didn’t see you at any of the meetups,” Grenham noted.
“When? Back in the bad old days or leading up to this disaster?”
“Both.”
“Were you a stevedore?” the Baron asked.
“No.”
“I was. Beating people was a better job.”
“Where were you when the traffic administrator was briefing us?”
“Did he do that?” the Baron asked grimly. “Stupid to show his face to a bunch of people that hate him. I was approached a while back. A Soviet cultist came to my work. He said they could activate me at any time. Just wait for the call or we’ll tell your wife.”
The cop smiled a little. “Nah, he wasn’t—nevermind.”
The Baron felt a flood of relief. Grenham had asked a trick question, and d’Holbach had anticipated it correctly. As it was, the officer in the back almost certainly wanted to trust him. Otherwise, he would’ve flaunted his suspicions instead of accepting the Baron’s answers.
Fortunately, it’d been easy to guess how the Soviets were activating their fifth column insurgency. The Baron wasn’t going to be tripped up with bland references to a recent, unreal past.
“I don’t hate the guy,” said Officer Byrne. “I just made a mistake.”
“Joining the Pinkos?” the Baron asked.
“It was a labor movement. I wanted more money. Now, I just want my life back.”
The Baron almost suppressed his frown, but not quite. He didn’t want to know this kind of thing. He didn’t want to know about the people he’d hurt simply by resisting. No more details, he hoped, and no more stories. Hurting people was psychotic. Hurting enemy combatants was, until the modern era, a gentleman’s profession, made easy by class divisions and prejudices.
Now, in a more egalitarian era, it felt like violence was everyone’s duty.
Officer Byrne killed the engine but left the keys in the ignition. Now, there’d be nothing but time until the Baron made his move. It couldn’t happen instantly. d’Holbach needed to wait long enough for these men to get impatient. Then he could suggest checking on another temple.
Alas, time wasn’t free, and the balance here was precarious. The Baron felt confident that he’d taken control of these two officers for the short-term, but these kinds of false identities failed quickly in practice, and someone might come over to question him soon. He watched the mirrors for more CPUSA on the approach.
Grenham leaned forward. “Hey, Ray, did you ever read that book, by that lady?”
“A book?” the Baron asked.
“The one about the occult. She wrote it.”
“The Apostate?”
“Yeah, that’s the one, Apostasy. You read it?”
“What’s an apostate?” Byrne asked.
“It’s someone who renounces their religion,” the Baron said. “Yeah, I read it.”
“She stopped being a cultist?” Byrne asked.
“No, she stepped outside, kinda. You know, refused to play ball? Bartered with the gods.”
“Ah, trade!”
“Yeah. That was enough for the people who named her.”
Grenham piped up, “She wrote good things about the Baron.”
“Not much though,” the Baron replied.
“Still, you’ve read it. He keeps that monster under control. Are you sure you want to kill him?”
The Baron shrugged. “I don’t know, officer. A man can live a good life and still do something bad. I’d know. I’ve been that man for years.”
“Yeah, but we’re talking death here. And there’s that Pact, right?”
The Baron shrugged. “I don’t think about it too much.”
“We’ve at least got to catch him, or we’re dead anyways,” Officer Byrne said. “I don’t like it though.”
“I’m with you. Shit. I guess we can try to capture him, if we can isolate him.” The Baron caught a flicker of motion in the rearview mirror, and he turned around to look back. Officer Grenham was confused, then turned with him.
A trio of men in business suits was leaving the back alley. They spotted the squad car, pointed. The man at the lead was tugging on his jacket lapel, showing a strap from a shoulder holster. He was getting ready to pull his pistol. The two men behind him were carrying improvised clubs. One was a solid copper candlestick. The other was a wooden rod, slapped like a drumbeat against his palm.
“What the fuck are they doing?” Officer Grenham asked.
Byrne stared into the rearview mirror. “Huh. I know them.”
The Baron grunted, pretending calm even as his heart began to race. These men were advertising their aggression, but they weren’t trying to warn the Baron or scare him off. They were working themselves up to a confrontation. They were psyching themselves into believing they were innately violent.
Who else could their target be, but the Baron himself?
Author’s Note:
Skullduggery!
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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