Booker Noir: Beautiful Memories

        The stars winked and twinkled, like lights shining through a black cloth. It was surrounded by the black blocks of the city. He felt warmth pool around his head as a chill ran through him. The warms spread all out around his body, but it never seemed to reach him. The stars wobbled and streaked across the sky, there were fewer and fewer of them. He watched as the stars died in front of him. As the last light went out, Booker closed his eyes.

 

        Elizabeth laid Anna down as the sun set outside the window. Her finger glinted gold in the light and she smiled. She looked behind her to see Booker reading the evening paper in the last of the light.

Booker looked up as Elizabeth closed the door to Anna’s room. Ever since Saturday there had been something different about her. She almost looked like she glowed in the fading ruddy light. “Anna’s asleep?”

Elizabeth nodded. She looked like a snake that had cornered a mouse. She sashayed like one too. She came to his desk and leaned against his desk, next to him. He returned to his paper.

        “No cases?” said Elizabeth.

        “None,” Booker replied. He kept on reading.

        “Anna is asleep”

        “So you said” reading still. Elizabeth couldn’t help but feel there must be a name for this.

        “Finally all alone…” She eyed the paper. She couldn’t see his face. She was sure he wasn’t really reading.

        “Indeed” The implication hung in the air and seemed to die. Elizabeth pulled down the paper. His scruffy face met hers; he almost looked like he did back then. Booker grinned at her. God she loved him.

Elizabeth swung her leg over his and sat in his lap, pulling at his vest buttons. Before either of them knew it, Bookers chest was bare, and he had finished unlacing her corset. She smiled and sighed as he kissed from the top of her corset to her clavicle.

There was a knock at the door, “Mister DeWitt?”

        Booker groaned, and kissed up to Elizabeth’s neck. The knocking continued.

        “There’s someone at the door,” Elizabeth giggled.

        “Then they can see the sign” Elizabeth pulled bookers head from the nape of her neck and kissed his lips. The knocking grew louder.

        “Mister DeWitt? It’s the police!”

        “It sounds important.” She kissed his cheek and back to his ear.

        “Then they can come back tomorrow”

        “But wha-Aahh!” She stifled a startled gasp as Booker’s hands slid up her leg and grasped her rump. Elizabeth laughed and Booker pulled her closer, kissing between her breasts. Elizabeth ran her hands through his hair, and held his head to her chest, moaning at his attentions.

        “Mister DeWitt! I-I can’t leave unless you…”

Groaning in despair, Booker got out of his seat, lifting Elizabeth with him. He set her down on the desk and, pulling his vest back on, went to the door and jerked it open.

        “What?!”

        It was a boy, he had jumped back when Booker opened the door. Younger then he was when he joined the army. He wore a police uniform. He had a folio in his hands. He was also shaking, “S-sorry, Sir.  It’s a… it’s a,” He held the folder like a shield. Booker took it.

        “What’s in it?” The boy stammered incoherently. Booker opened the folder. Half a dozen missing person’s reports, two cases of petty theft and a murder by the look of it. He closed the folder and glared at the boy. The name on the boy’s chest said M. Homes, and he was certainly terrified. Booker sighed. “Well done… Go… Tell them I’ll get right on these…” He nodded to the boy, and closed the door.

        Inside, framed against the golden light of the sunset, Elizabeth leaned against the front of his desk, corset loose and her hand holding her skirt up to her thigh. On her right hand her thimble blazed gold, on the left hand a band shone like the sun.

 

        Mycroft stood at the door, staring at it. The chief had been very clear that he wasn’t to come back with the folio; otherwise he wouldn’t have even knocked. He read the sign, and reread it. ‘Office Closed. Well Wishers Welcome,’ He stepped away and quickly walked to the stairs. He and his brother should have stayed in England.

 

        The next day saw Booker to the police house. It was brick faced, with large glass windows with solid iron bars over them. It clearly was not originally a police house. Wrought Iron lanterns lined the frontage as well, along with a simple sign, which read ‘Police,’ over a set of double doors, both painted in blue. The doors sat at the top of a three step stoop lined with more iron.

With a humph, Booker climb the steps and walked in.

The folio he had been given had a cover sheet recapping what was in it. But the last case, a murder was missing. If they were going to pay him to do their jobs, they might as well tell him what it was. He hated this place, wouldn’t have come here otherwise.

        The inside wasn’t any more flattering then the outside. Desks were shoved together, people sat and stood where they could. If Booker was claustrophobic he couldn’t have survived in here even if he wanted to. At the far wall was a flight of stairs. The second floor was much the same, only with a few separate rooms, one of which was the station houses’ chief’s office. He scanned the room. Almost a third of the force had been let go or arrested after the barrel murders case. Booker didn’t recognize most of the faces in the room. He saw Benson and gave him a nod. Benson looked back to his work without a response. Booker began walking over to his desk.

        “DeWitt! In my office!”

        The station houses chief was a rather burly man. In fact the best way to describe him would be a strong man in a suit. His completely shaved head and mustache did not help to dissuade these thoughts. Booker followed the man to the second floor and into his office.

        “I’m not one of your boys that you can ord-“ Booker began.

        “Close the door”

        Booker clenched his teeth and closed the door.

        “What do you want to tell me about this?” the man had stopped a small stack of papers on his desk, Booker looked at them. It was the missing murder case. A boy had been found dead in an alleyway. Beaten to a bloody pulp, and then shot in the head. After he had died, the words “White Injun” were carved into his stomach.

        Booker stared at the photo of the words.

        “You used to be called that, weren’t you Booker?”

        “Not… Not since I left the army…”

        “But it was your name?”

        Booker looked away from the picture, “It was never my name. They just called me that,” he glared at the man, “Why don’t you just ask what you want to ask. Did I do it?”

        The chief just stared at him then sat down at his desk, “You know how this is supposed to be done, DeWitt. We find something and we check it out.”

        “Well I damn well didn’t do it” He picked up the papers, yanked open the door, and stormed out. At the bottom of the stairs was Benson, looking guiltier then a cat with a canary in its mouth.

        “Sorry Book, I just couldn’t help it. I’ve been getting these weird dreams and haven’t gotten much sleep. I didn’t mean to drag you into it.”

“Don’t worry about it Oz.” Booker looked down at the papers. Something was bugging him about this. How many other people would know the name? “Oz, you haven’t heard anything about anyone w know coming to town, have you?”

“Not really, no.”

Tracking down anyone from the 7th cavalry would be his first step. Whoever did this was either in the army, or knew someone who knew him. But first, it was time to see where all this had happened.

 

        Booker glanced above him. The sun had long since passed under a blanket of clouds. It felt like it was going to rain. All the more reason to see to this case quick, he looked around, and seeing no one taking much of an interest in him, he stepped between the buildings. The buildings on either side of the alley were the quick bricked buildings one would expect. The alley connected Spencer and Mott between 149th and 147th. Trash littered the ground, amongst other refuse. The scene was already a few days old, but it hadn’t rained yet, the chalked outline of a body was scuffed and broken, but still recognizable. Even without the chalk you could tell what had happened, blood had stained the ground where the body was, a rust colored shadow burned into the ground.

       

        Booker flipped through the pages in his hand. A boy, maybe 15 years old. If it wasn’t for the corpse desecration it probably would have just been considered gang violence and left alone. ‘White Injun” Who else had called him that? Only a few people who knew him in the Seventh. Wallot had started it after he’d come back from one raid with a brave’s necklace. It had started as a joke, but eventually DeBries, Hammel, and even Ozzie had joined in. Then his sergeant had caught wind of it… Booker shook his head. This was getting him nowhere. He knelt down beside where the body had been. Found face up, but shot in the back of the head. Whoever killed him would probably have faced out to keep an eye for anyone coming by, then turned the boy over and went to work on him. The kid had blood streaked along his shirt as well… Booker got up and walked further into the alleyway. Blood streaked along the ground from where the body was found. Whoever had killed the boy had done it further in, and pulled him out to be found, then. The file didn’t say anything about this, thank you New York’s Finest.

       

        They wanted him found. The words were a warning or a calling card. Naturally the police felt he had done it, thanks to Benson. Not many people these days would want to gloat about being called a ‘White Injun’ meaning it was probably a warning. But a warning from who and for what?

 

        The pavement of the alley gave way to dirt, and in the center was a large mushy muddy puddle, the streaks of blood had lead right to it. So this was where he was shot, probably carved up too. Booker looked around, a few small patches of grass and weeds had eked out a living here, there wasn’t much else other then the trash and mud. A powder was around the area as well, almost like mortar. Not uncommon given the brick buildings. Whoever was here had to of left some thing. Booker cast about the depths of the alleyway and a glint caught his eye, after sorting through what he hoped was just trash and dirt, he was rewarded with a few pennies, a nickel, and a dollar. He pocketed the coins and sat back on his haunches.

 

        Not much to show for the trip. Police missed where the boy was killed, and that he had been dragged out into the open. Could the boy have known who had killed him? Going into an alley with him might mean he did, but who’s to say he wasn’t lured in by some other means. Crime was rising in Harlem in recent years, and gangs and more organized crime was coming in. The boy could have been a criminal himself. Booker sighed and looked into the sky. The overcast sky had grown darker, it didn’t threaten rain, it promised it. It was going to be a big one, he could tell. As he stared at the rolling clouds he felt he could make out a face. A harsh disapproving one, angry, his own face… Booker stumbled, nearly falling, but catching himself against the wall. Damn day dreams, they were getting better, but if he wasn’t ready they could take him off his feet. He breathed deeply, something he wished he wasn’t in the alleyway for, and calmed himself down. That man wasn’t real, not anymore. Just below him, was a half smoked roll up. Booker knitted his brows. It was far too new to just be another bit of trash left here. He bent down and picked it up. The boy, whoever killed him or someone that had been here recently had smoked. The roll up smelled familiar. He sniffed it. Now that is an old smell. Booker could only think of one place he could remember this stink from. South Dakota. The Lakota smoked a blend like this, or this at least smelled like their stuff. Booker stood up, and put the rollup into his pocket as well. Who in New York would want a roll up like a Lakota? Booker chuckled at the absurdity of the thought in his head; it seemed he wasn’t the only ‘White Injun’ around.

 

        The private detective stepped out of the alleyway and again glanced about. Just like before, no one was taking much interest in him. Good enough for him, the last thing he needed was another house call. He made his way home, winding through the streets. Elizabeth was already angry with him for taking on the job; she’d probably kill him if he ended up bringing trouble home. At the sound of a bell he looked to his left, a woman was stepping out of a store. A sign hung in the window, they had ice cream. Ah… Well, that should certainly give him a leg up. He couldn’t remember the last time Elizabeth had some iced cream. He smiled to himself and walked across the street.

 

        Flame licked up the sides of the tents, the smell of burning canvas and leather thick in the air. He looked up to the pandemonium before him. The burnt and the burning running for their lives, the dead being cradled by the living. Men without working legs crawling along blood slicked ground to the still burning homes of their loved ones. Small pops split the air, and those who could still run fell, those who could crawl lied still. A group of children fled in one direction as men with guns ran in the other. He opened fire on them and they scattered. He stepped over the smoldering and charred remains of a tent, and in the blackened circle he found a boy sobbing over his mother. They both stank of burnt flesh, the mother was blackened beyond recognition, the boy shook her. He stepped forward; the boy was almost in arms reach. The boy looked up and above him, green eyes glowing in the fires around them, a man. The man raised his pistol and the boy turned back to his mother and closed his eyes. Booker felt his finger squeeze the trigger.

 

       

        He stared at the ceiling. The apartment shown in a faint red as the predawn light leaked in through the windows, barely enough to see anything by.

Damn dreams. He hadn’t had any since Anna was born. No, he’d had very different and far more horrifying dreams. He shook his head. There were some things better left unremembered, words better unheard and unsaid. The weight on the bed shifted and Booker looked next to him, and was met with a sight far more pleasing then burnt bodies or empty cribs. Elizabeth slept soundly, her arm and head resting on his chest, his own arm about her waist. He smiled and sighed, looking over to his desk. He could make out the case’s file sitting there.

        Booker slid away from Elizabeth, doing his best not to wake her. He made his way to his desk and sat down. He couldn’t read any of the papers, but he didn’t really need to. He leaned back. A boy wanders into an alley, maybe he knows who’s there, maybe he doesn’t, but whoever is there shoots him in the head and carves into the body then drags it to the street. In doing all this he drops a cigarette that nearly no one in New York would smoke. He’d taken the roll up to four tobacconists and none of them could place anyone buying a blend like it. Whoever did it knew about him from back in his army days. That didn’t help much, nearly everyone he knew smoked back then, even him. He looked down, it was brighter now. He picked up the papers and flipped through them. One of the tobacconists had said that the blend wasn’t really all that good for smoking to begin with but none of that helped either. He rubbed his eyes and sighed again.

        “I’m still mad at you, you know.”

Booker glanced over to find Elizabeth staring at him from the bed. She was smiling. He chuckled and shook his head again.

        “I know I promised but th-“

“‘This is important’” she interrupted.

He sighed again, “Someone killed a boy. They carved my old nickname into his dead body,” he ran his hand through his hair, “I’ve already told them I’m not doing anything else, but whoever did this needs to be stopped”

Elizabeth got up from the bed walking over to the wardrobe, “I know but... this wasn’t how it’s supposed to go,” she looked over her shoulder and smiled, pulling off the smock she had worn to bed.

He looked down, back to the papers. She did this on purpose, he knew it. Booker glanced up just in time to see her pull the garment over her head and watch her hair fall down her back.

Elizabeth pulled a corset on; a front laced one and pulled the laces tight. She stepped into some under bloomers as well, and then pulled on a petticoat, snapping it at her waist. She looked behind her, just in time to see Booker look back down to his desk. She smiled to herself and, while looking for a blouse, swayed her hips from side to side.

        Booker groaned to himself and looked back down to his work. By the time he looked back up, Elizabeth was finishing buttoning up a white blouse with a blue skirt at her hips and her chocker and brooch always at her neck. With her heeled boots on she looked like a school girl. Every now and then it was impossible to not see her as his daughter.

        “And where are you going, young lady?”

        “I’m going out to get you some breakfast,” she smoothed out her skirt, “You know, things people do in the morning,” She smiled as she opened the door, “unlike reading about dead bodies,” she waved as she left.

        Booker looked back down to the papers on his desk. She really could be a bit of a brat at times. Reading over the papers and looking at his own notes for the fifth time was getting him nowhere. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He’d be better off going out and getting some fresh air. He got up and went to the wardrobe, and pulled on a shirt over his undershirt, then when back to his desk chair and put on his waist coat, glancing at the case work. Trying to find whoever did this with so few clues was useless, besides, if it was a warning for him the person would surely be watching his place, wouldn’t they?

        Booker froze in place at the thought. As his heart thundered in his ears he found himself locking the door behind him, and running down the stairs.

 

        The streets were mostly empty, so early in the morning, but Elizabeth’s other earlier risers had already started out on their day.

        Elizabeth herself walked into DuMont’s General Goods and Services, the small bell above the door jingling as she opened it. It was the ground floor of a small four story building, with apartments above it. Elizabeth had been coming here since she had started taking care of Anna.

        “Good morning Miss Elizabeth!”

        “Good morning Mister Burrnet!”

        She had never understood why Mister Burnet had decided to name his shop DuMont’s. He had said something about a woman he had known, but he wouldn’t go into it. Gregory Burnet himself was a stocky man, a little shorter then Elizabeth herself. He didn’t have so much of a barrel chest as a cask stomach. Large arms hinted at the physical labor he underwent each day, and short legs rounded him out. He had a bushed mustache over his lip, and combined with his slightly balding short hair gave him an amiable look. He smiled at her from behind his counter, cleaning the top with a cloth. She smiled back and looked around; maybe some apples would be fine?

        “Anna not with you today?”

        “No, no. She’s sleeping in today”

        “Ahh, bless her little heart,” they both laughed.

        Elizabeth picked up a pair of large red apples, and weighed them as she looked around. She walked over to another table and found a number of loaves of bread, muffins and other pastries. A large pastry caught her eye that looked to get like a large animal’s paw. She put down and apple and picked it up.

        “What’s in this Mister Burnet?“

The shop keep looked up from his counter, “Oh, that? Something Missus Davis brought up. Said she read about it in one of her newsletters. You know how it is.” He shrugged, “People seem to like them well enough. Some almond paste if I remember right.”

        Elizabeth considered it. Booker did try, he really did. He threw out the other papers, but the boy… what was done to him was wrong and what they carved into him? Booker wouldn’t say anything but Elizabeth knew he felt it was his fault, so it was his responsibility. She sighed. Maybe he did deserve something nice.

She picked up her other apple along with the pastry and stepped up to the counter, laying them out.

        “Nothing else today?”

        “No, sorry. Just something to eat this morning.”

        “Ah well, fifteen cents if you could”

Elizabeth laid out the coins from the small purse at her hip. As she did Burnet noticed the ring on her finger.

        “Ah-ha, finally got it done eh?”

        “Hm?” He pointed to her finger. “Oh!” Elizabeth blushed, holding her hand, “Yes, on Saturday, actually” The bell at the door jingled again.

        “Well good on you two” he said, and leaned over, looking behind Elizabeth “Be with you in a moment sir!” he picked up the coins and started to write out Elizabeth a receipt.

        “So how have you been, Mister Burnet?”

        “Oh well, I’ve not been sleeping well, bad dreams and the like. And I keep remembering doing things I haven’t done yet.” He sighed, and handed over the slip of paper, “I suppose I’m just getting old,” he smiled at the young woman.

Elizabeth smiled back and said, “Well thank you very much Mister Bur-“

        “I remember you, girl. The Tin Man’s Lamb,” the voice was behind her. Elizabeth turned and found an older man, in his mid thirties perhaps, with short cropped light brown hair that was crisscrossed with some faint scars running along the side of his head and over his crown. He also had a scraggly mustache and beard tangled and unkempt. His left eye was covered with a patch of cloth tied together around his head, and Elizabeth could see running down his left cheek rust colored stains. He wore a torn and tattered military uniform. His one good eye seemed to focus on her, and then glaze into a memory and back again. She remembered him. Booker had spared his life, but she was never sure if it was the right thing to do.

        “My God,“ Elizabeth said, backing against the counter, “S-Slate?” the man swayed slightly, and grabbed her arm for support.

        “You. The both of you can help me. He-His soldiers are there… Give my boys the death they- but they’re gone. And Booker wouldn’t.” He shook her arm. This close Elizabeth could see that his clothing was filthy, covered in dirt and filth, the man smelled as if he had been living in the streets. He spoke a few more rambled words, his eye pleading with her.

Burnet had made his way around the counter, and placed a large hand on the man’s shoulder, “Now, I think it’s time for you t-“

        Slate whirled around, letting go of Elizabeth, and pointed a pistol at the shopkeeper, “Don’t touch me!”

Elizabeth lunged forward, pushing Slate away from the shop keep. The gun went off, shattering a window as Slate lurched back. As he turned to face her Elizabeth lashed out, sending a clenched fist into the side of Slate’s head. His gun fell to the floor and skittered away as Slate was sent reeling back landing on the floor with a thud, clutching the left side of his head, a yellow and red liquid oozed from under the cloth. His eye darted from Elizabeth to Burnet to the gun, and back, when he tried to get up and go for his gun, Elizabeth dashed to her side and picked it up before him, pointing it at him. As she stared down the gun at him, he looked more confused than frightened.

        “But, no. You help me. We, we find him and you. You stop him, he. He does it again and you stop him.” When Elizabeth took a step forward, the man, scrabbled to his feet and ran for the door, knocking it open and barreling into someone else coming in.

        “Hey watch where you’re going!”

        “Booker!”

Booker turned to the inside of the shop and found Elizabeth running towards him, “I heard a shot an-“

        “Where is he?!” Elizabeth pushed past him and ran into the street, looking left and right, finding nothing but people who were just now coming out of the buildings to see what the commotion was about.

        “What’s wrong?” Booker stepped towards Elizabeth, putting his hand on her shoulder, she spun around, and Booker finally saw the worry in her eyes.

        “Booker, it was Slate. He was here…” she looked down, as if she was trying to make sense of what had happened, “I… I think he remembered what happened to him.”

 

        The next morning a man could be found in the middle of a street in Brooklyn. He was dead.

        When examined it was found that he had had four ribs broken, his skull cracked, his left femur, patella and tibia broken, and his right humerus fractured. His right orbit was cracked, along with the bridge of his nose. His jaw was both broken and dislocated.  His neck was slit open, most probably the cause of death. In addition, into his back was carved the words “Tin Man,” Thanks to a trail of blood leading to the body from an alleyway it is believed that he was killed nearby, and then dragged into the street. He was wearing a white shirt, with a dark green vest, and brown trousers, all of which were covered in blood, dirt, and dust. In his possession was a wallet containing fourteen dollars and nothing else, a package of cigarettes, a holster (empty), a note from a “Robert” thanking him for his help in some matter, and a peculiar clay casino token colored gold.

        Upon questioning the peoples that lived in the area near where the body was found, he was identified as one ‘Jeremy Sillight’ a known criminal who has recently begun a ring of prostitutes. When asked about the night people, who declared themselves witnesses, said that he was heard berating one of his girls that went by the name of ‘Grace.’ There may or may not have been an altercation between them. A scream was heard, though if it originated from Mister Sillight or ‘Grace’ could not be verified.

The body was found by a ‘Danielle “Danny” Ferguson’ an eight year old girl of Scottish descent on her way to her location of employ.

        Intense blood splatter was found at the scene, along with several shoe and hand prints. The trail of blood was followed until it entered into an alley where it was lost amongst the detritus of the city.

        Officers are currently searching areas within the neighborhood and asking for any witnesses to come forward.

 

        Booker looked up from the files. Benson shifted from foot to foot. He looked around; Booker’s apartment had changed since he was last here. Anna’s room was empty, her small bed brought into the main room. Both beds were now behind Bookers desk. Elizabeth sat there with Anna. Book looked like he hadn’t slept in days, “It certainly seems like the same person” Benson said “Figured it might be able to help you”

        Booker nodded, and looked over the pages again, then looked back to Benson “And what about Slate?”

        “Are you sure it was him? The description you gave certainly didn’t-“

        “It was him,” Elizabeth said. Booker nodded.

        “Er… Well, I went out and gave people the description. Some people have said they remember him near where the two bodies were found. One person said that he saw him running from where the second body was, with a knife and his hands covered in blood.” Benson couldn’t help but notice the two guns on Bookers desk, “But none of the witnesses could give much of a description beyond ‘a homeless man’” They looked loaded and they pointed to the door, “And the, uhm, trail leads seems to lead to the Jersey side of the river. Seems he might be living near one of the Erie rail yard down there.”

        “You’ve got all that in some notes somewhere?”

        “In the, uh, file..”

        “Thanks Oz.”

        “Listen, Book, about all thi-”

        “It’s okay Oz, I can take care of it”

        “But I can help, can’t I?”

        “It’s my job Oz.”

        Benson relented. Booker couldn’t be moved if you covered him in grease and put him on a hill, “Alright, alright… But if you need any help, I’ll be there.”

Booker watched his old friend leave. Minutes passed. He looked back to the papers. He didn’t know the Jesery side of the river as well as this one. He’d probably have to get a map.

        “Why can’t you let him help you again?”

        “You know why, Elizabeth. It’s already bad enough that he saw you opening tears. If someone like Slate tells him about what happened…” He could see pliers, scalpels, needles and calipers arranged on tables. Men in white coats standing around Elizabeth as she struggled with the straps holding her to the chair. He shook his head. “The fewer people Slate can talk to the better. I find him, I catch him, get him to confess, and we send him to an asylum. Best we can do for him.”

        “This is my fault.”

        “No it’s not.”

        “If I hadn’t come back then-“ Booker stood, his chair skidding back, Elizabeth stopped in surprise. Anna tugged at her skirt trying to get her attention.

        Anna turned to her father, “Da!”

        Booker turned and picked her up from the bed, lifting her up in the crook of his arm, “I’m going to find him. And until I get back, you keep the gun close and you don’t let anyone in unless it’s me. Got it?” Before she could protest Booker cut her off, setting Anna back down onto the bed. “I need you here, Elizabeth. Anna needs you”

Sighing, Elizabeth finally agreed. Booker nodded, and grabbed his waistcoat, pulling it over his shoulders as he walked to the door. As he looked back he saw Elizabeth, with Anna in her lap waving good-bye.

 

        Booker’s shoes plunked along the dock as he stepped off the ferry. The small pier was empty save for the few people that had joined him on the boat. It was still early for anyone leaving work to need to get passage, so few hangers on were at the pier. Booker pulled out the directions to the train yard. Good Lord. He didn’t know these streets like on the other side of the river. He looked about. He was in what he’d expect from a harbor district. Some warehouses, fisheries, even a tanner or two. Booker made his way through the streets and alleyways. Whenever he came to an area he backtracked until he came to his last direction and continued on. It wasn’t the best course of action, but it was all he could get. The sky was getting darker. The ferry ride over had taken longer to get going then he expected, and this town must have been laid out by a drunk. Booker didn’t know city planning but be knew drunk thinking when he saw it.

        His thoughts drifted back to Elizabeth and Anna. When he left, Elizabeth looked like she would never see him again; Anna looked like he was just going to go out for ice cream. He shook his head. He always wondered how people didn’t figure it out when they saw them together, they looked exactly alike. He took a step back as the feeling of vertigo faded. He was getting better with that. When it first happened he couldn’t even think straight, Elizabeth was always there to help him now, Anna too, now that he thought about it. He didn’t even want to think on what he would be like if he didn’t have them. That’s probably what had happened to Slate. Could Elizabeth do anything for him? He didn’t know. Regardless it didn’t matter at this point; he needed to find the man first.

After another half an hour of blundering through the streets Booker had found the stockyards for the Erie Rail System. The place was quiet, for a rail way station he guessed, the bustle of the city seemed to be muffled around the station. It was still operating, best to Bookers knowledge, but anyone living here wouldn’t be inside the complex. He’d circle around and see what he could find. If he remembered right, the stockyard was a little more than three city blocks in size, and he was on the south side. Some rail lines came in from the west, and most of them were to the north as well.

        He sighed and looked up; late afternoon sky was getting help from some clouds rolling in. One of the last things he needed was tramping about in the rain.

        The first set of tracks he came to didn’t seem to have any foreseeable layabouts. Not even any trash to speak of. The next set of tracks heading west was much the same and the tracks after that. They were all out in the open as well with the nearest buildings more than a hundred yards away. He moved on.

        The tracks running north were all grouped together, you could see all eight of them from any one of the others, and they all had signs of life, trash was strewn about the area. Booker stood amongst the tracks, they snaked out of the rail way behind him like the arms of some horrible sea creature. The tracks ran north, out of the stockyard, and between a number of buildings, Booker followed them.

        It had been almost an hour since he had found the stockyards, and Booker had found what he was looking for. In the midst of the buildings and alleys the tracks split into two groups of four and four, and in the area a number of men and women milled about. If Benson was right, Slate might be here, or someone who knew where he was might be here. Booker walked back, and found an alleyway back into the area, doing his best to stay unnoticed. He found a vacant spot with a good view of the clearing, and sat down, unbuttoning his waistcoat and shrugging himself into it as much as he could. He’d wait and see if Slate would show first, showing up out of nowhere and questioning these people would do no good.

        Booker waited. People came and went, no one bothered him. A few men sat together and were singing as a weak rain began to fall and Booker shrunk as far as he could into his waistcoat. It wasn’t a hard or oppressive rain, after a few minutes it actually became somewhat soothing. While some of the denizens fled from the water other came out to greet it. One group was a small family, a mother and three girls, singing songs, jumping in puddles and dancing in the rain. Even with where they had to live, the girls smiled and laughed. They reminded him on Anna and he briefly wondered what she would be like or what Elizabeth was like at that age. He smiled to himself, it might be nice to have a real family and he wouldn’t mind having another little girl. He closed his eyes and saw himself with Elizabeth in the park with Anna and two other girls eating a meal.

 

        When Booker’s eyes opened the rain had stopped and the crossing of the tracks was far fuller. Night had descended and the peoples were coming to, for lack of a better word, home. The family of girls was gone. Booker stretched, his joints ached and his back and rear were sore. He got up slowly, feeling like his bones were filled with the rain he had fallen asleep in.

        “Ahh, there’s my boy” he’d known that voice for years in the army, Booker turned his head and found Slate sitting a ways down, in a corner of two meeting buildings. Mortar dust surrounded him and above him wedged between the bricks was a knife. Slate waved him over. Booker walked toward him slowly, partly from his sore muscles and partly from wariness. As he did Slate began speaking again, “You looked just like that before. Back b-before it happened. Not like him at all no,” He spat, “Need your help. Give my men what they deserve,” he picked at the knife, and a small trickle of mortar fell onto him, now that Booker got closer, he saw he was covered in the stuff. Slate looked him in the eye, “But they’re not… not here. You didn’t do it”

        The man’s smell assaulted him next, mud and excrement, stale sweat and pus. Booker would not have been surprised to see the man’s teeth rotted, he must not have touched water in nearly a year. Despite all that Booker grabbed the man and hauled him up, slate gasped at the treatment, “You’re coming with me Slate. You’ve got to answer for what you’ve done”

        “Done?” Slate’s eye was filled with terror and he tried to turn away from Booker, Booker clutched the man’s face and pulled it back, “No, no! I did nothing!”

        “You killed those people, beat them bloody. You left them in the street like trash. Cut up their bodies and left them like notes!”

        “No. Didn’t do it.” he twisted away and crumbled to the ground, he pulled himself up along the wall and grabbed the knife, scraping it along the mortar causing more dust to fall, “Found them. I saw him do it and I found them. Warned you too. You’re here now, boy. Warned you” Warned him? The words on the bodies?

        “You… you cut them up to warn me? Why bother? Why not just find me?”

        “Too many… too many. Thoughts all jumbled. He’d follow me; I know it,” The man shook his head, still picking at the wall with his knife, “Told you about him too.”

        “Who?”

        “ The Tin Man. His soldier’s are coming. You need to give my boys what they need,” He shook his head again, violently from side to side, Booker turned his face away from the dirt and mortar that flew off him, “But you already did, but not to me. Gave me peace but let them cut me” Booker watched as the man seemed to try to shrink down without moving. He was so proud before, and memories of what had happened brought him so low.

        “Tell me what happened to you, Slate. What do you remember?”

        The man finally turned around, a black bile seeped from under his eye patch and water ran down his right cheek, “Everything”

       

        Slate laid out everything, remembering Columbia had been far, far harder on him then Booker had thought. He didn’t simply remember what Booker remembered about the events. He seemed to be like Elizabeth, he could remember everything any Slate had gone through. He couldn’t understand what had happened to him or what had happened to some other Slate. He had memories of battles he’d never fought, battled that he had died in. Killing people he’d never met. He stabbed out his own eye to ‘Try and make the memories fit.’ He never would have believed it if he hadn’t gone through it as well. To Booker, Slate seemed to pitiful not to believe, he was broken, like he had been. He glanced down at his hand, relived that there was no brand upon it. “And why did you come to New York, Slate?”

        “I remembered him,” Slate said. This seemed to be the extent of what he felt was needed.

        “Remembered who? The Tin Man?”

        “Yes. He kills so many. And then his soldiers come. He brings them and they burn it. You give my boys what they need,” He was becoming frantic again. Booker put a hand on his shoulder.

        “Calm down, Slate. Comstock isn’t here. He can’t be”

        “He is. He killed them. I saw him.”

        “Do you know where he is?”

        “Yes”

        “Where?”

        “There’s another body.”

 

        Slate had taken Booker back into the City. The going was slow with Slate leading the way, stopping and muttering, looking around and skulking off again. The man of steel that Booker had known years before was gone, it seemed. Drowned, floundering under a sea of terrors and memories he couldn’t understand. Half an hour had passed since they had stepped off the boat and while Booker didn’t want to agitate his only real, if flimsy, lead, he couldn’t help but feel they were getting nowhere. “Are you sure this is right?”

        The man stopped and Booker nearly crashed into him.

        “It’s here,” he said, “I find the body on the walk there” he pointed half a block away, two small streets intersected with a small square as a result. Booker vaguely remembered coming here and buying some food from a stall once.

        “Are you sure?” Slate only nodded, when Booker stepped forward, he stayed still. Guess I’m going alone. Booker unholstered his gun and cautiously stepped around the corner of a bakery and into the square. On the opposite corner of the square, beneath a lamp post the dark hunched shape of a person stood, shoulders slumped, head down, arms dangling at their sides. Booker brought up his pistol and slowly walked toward the figure. As he got closer he could tell it was a man, about his own height and build. He wore a dark pair of trousers with an open waistcoat and shirt underneath it.

        “Hey pal,” no reaction, “You probably want to get out of here” Still no reaction, Booker came closer and reached out for the man’s shoulder, “You listening? I said it’s dangerous here!” he pulled on the man’s arm, moving around him as he turned him and Booker came face to face with the stranger. He had green eyes that were shadowed by a heavy brow, with high cheekbones, and a square chin and jaw with close cut beard. Blood, old and fresh ran down from his nose and ears. He looked to be nearly forty. Booker knew that face. It was his own.

        “What the hell?”

        Before Booker could raise his weapon the man brought his own hand up whipping Booker across the face with his own pistol. Booker staggered back, pulling at the man’s shoulder and ripping his coat arm, he felt a kick to his knee and pulled away more at the clothing as he tumbled to the ground. The other man stood over him, he was no longer stock still as before, but swayed slowly from side to side. Booker kicked out at his feet, connecting with the stranger’s foot, and pushed himself back, and up to his feet as the man stumbled. The Other Booker came at him with a snarl, raising his pistol and firing.  The shot went wide and again Booker brought up his own weapon, and again he was hit across the face, and again kicked down. He kicked out again, but the Other Booker lifted his foot and brought it down on his ankle.  He could see a light in the man’s eyes, anger and hate and sadness.

        “Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt”

        “You bastard!” Booker brought up his gun and fired into the man before his hand was slapped away, his pistol skittering across the ground. Again the man stood over him, swaying, this time with his hand outstretched and a revolver in his hand, dancing in eights as it pointed at Booker. The man seemed confused and shook his head,

        “Settled the debt, but gave her away.” His eyes met his again, and Booker saw in them the same kind of sad madness he’d seen in Slates eye, “Dead, should be dead. Dead!”

        The pistol barked three times as it swung around its orbit. Booker felt a punch into his stomach, and another into his arm, and a third at his neck, as his head slumped back he heard a man howling, and a scuffle. He stared up into the sky and heard two more shots ring out. The stars winked and twinkled, like lights shining through a black cloth. It was surrounded by the black blocks of the city. He felt warmth pool around his head as a chill ran through him. The warms spread all out around his body, but it never seemed to reach him. The stars wobbled and streaked across the sky, there were fewer and fewer of them. He watched as the stars died in front of him. As the last light went out, Booker closed his eyes.

 

        Elizabeth looked down at Booker. Mister Benson had come to her and told her they had found him in the street, that he had been taken to the hospital. He’d been shot! He lay on the bed, chest bare, his midsection wrapped in cloth bandages, along with his right upper arm and shoulder. His arm was in a sling which held is close to his chest so he couldn’t move it. His neck was also wrapped as well. The doctors had said that he had been shot through and through, with no fragments to dig out, and that the biggest problem was blood loss and infection. He’d been asleep, and Elizabeth had been coming here, since. It was hard sitting there, not being able to do anything. That first day she was inconsolable. She was a bit ashamed to admit it but she had yelled at him, saying he’d promised he wouldn’t leave her again. Now she sat by his bed and read with Anna. The nurses suggested that she go home, but Booker didn’t leave her, she wasn’t about to leave him. There was a bunk room that the nurses used, Anna and Elizabeth slept in when they needed to. Anna was in there now. Elizabeth glanced out of the single small window in the room, it was pitch black outside, the night rain was getting heavier, even now she could hear it plink and plock against the window and on the roof.

        She had been here before, Booker laying there with her watching over him. It was back in Columbia, in Finkton. Booker had been shot in the stomach and chest, Elizabeth had dragged him back to an abandoned building. Comstock and Fink’s goons patrolled outside while she did her best to stop his bleeding. After three days she’d gotten him bandaged up at least somewhat properly, and then all they could do was wait. That only made it all the more distressing when he was awake. It almost seemed like he wanted to die. Maybe a part of him still knew about his past, about what he had done to her. As she watched over him then, she had to admit now that even despite herself and his lie about going to Paris, she was a still a bit smitten with him. She had even tried to kiss him while he slept. She reached out to his bare shoulder and softly traced the faint scar that ran across it.

 

        “Elizabeth?” It was Mister Benson, he panted softly, as though he had run to reach them. Elizabeth looked up at him, “We’ve found him. We got Slate.”

        It was a bit of a shock. They hadn’t been able to find the man for nearly two weeks, Now Booker wouldn’t wake up and had three new holes in him, and they have the man who was to blame? Elizabeth looked down at Booker as he breathed softly. The nurses would look after Anna, they adored the little girl and she was already asleep besides. Elizabeth looked

In her eyes, Benson saw a rare, for him at least, look of determination. It reminded him of Booker.

        “I want to see him”

 

        The man stumbled and shuffled down the streets. He fell, landing on his knee and into a puddle. The jarring stop only made the wound in his side hurt more. It must have been days since he got it, that strange man with him, he shot and missed but he hit as well. It was infected. It burned like poker and chilled him at the same time. That was good. He could use that. As contradicting thoughts and memories swam through his head he was still the most lucid he’d been in years. The pain helped. He could focus on something. He got up, holding his side, and shambled on through the rain.

        Crossing streets and through alleyways he came to any building that looked familiar. He remembered these places, but they didn’t exist anymore, yet here they were. He wouldn’t go to them. Only to places he knew were there. This wasn’t right.

        There were two of him. He didn’t remember there being two of him. He was younger then, there. What had he said? He couldn’t remember. What was the younger him saying? He couldn’t remember. He shook his head, water streamed from his hair and beard. As he tried to focus on what had happened those days ago, he felt a pressure in his head. It was always like this when he tried to sort these memories. It happened when they first came. The headaches came, and a rage welled up from some deep place that he didn’t understand. Before he could close the doors, lock it away, but something had laid him bare those twenty years ago. He staggered and landed against a wall. He pounded his hand against it, trying to will the pain and rage away. Blood and water ran down the wall as his own little war with himself ebbed. He looked around for anything he could remember, and his eyes were laid upon a church. That.       He remembered that. It was still there and it was still here. With a hand full of blood and brick and dirt he wandered through the street, and up the steps. The doors opened at his touch and the men stumbled in out of the rain.

        The nave of the church was carpeted with a short but plush red. The man stepped onto it and made his way through the house. His left hand steadied himself on the pews in the aisles. Even with the darkness outside the church was warmly lit. Someone must go around and keep the candles and lanterns lit. It cast the inside of the building in a soft orange glow, almost like from a small campfire, a single sheltered home in the darkness. The man shambled his way to the crossing and there found an altar covered in candles. He fell to his knees before the two steps to the transept as his mind bobbed among a sea of memories and thoughts not his own he remembered a man he had never met named Zachary Comstock. And so he lowered his head and prayed for deliverance.

 

        The pair of them walked through the police house, Benson escorting Elizabeth to a small room where Slate was being kept to be questioned. He’d convinced the officer in charge to let him do it; Booker was a friend after all.

        “He just seemed to be mumbling about some place called Columbia and Comstock. I doubt we’d be able to get much out of him,” He opened the door and let the girl inside; she turned and stopped him as he tried to enter.

        “I’d… I’d like to do this alone, Mister Benson”

        “I’m not sure that’s a very g-“

        “Please?” it wasn’t the hardened look he’d expect from a DeWitt, it was nearly innocent, but it still forced his hand. He sighed and nodded.

        “I’ll be outside.”

        He closed the door and Elizabeth turned. The small room was actually an office. A smallish desk stood in the center, with a chair on either end. The corner house a filing cabinet and a side table a lamp which illuminated the room. Slate as at a desk, his hands and feet were cuffed to the wooden chair he sat in. He didn’t so much seem to be sitting in the chair as merely occupying it. Like someone had taken a sheet and laid it over the furniture. He seemed thin, deflated, defeated. In the yellowish glow of the lamp he seemed almost jaundiced and decayed. Elizabeth set herself down in the chair across from him. He looked up and she saw the spark of recognition in his eye, he tried to reach out to her but the cuffs stopped him, he looked down at them as if he had only just noticed them. On the way here, Elizabeth didn’t really know what to expect of herself. She expected to be angry. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to slap him. To punch him. Yell and scream and ask him why. But she couldn’t. Whatever it was that her father had in him, whatever caused the anger he had, he hadn’t given it to her.

        “What happened to do, Slate?”

        Slate told Elizabeth much the same as he had told Booker before her. When the memories came, and what he saw, why he came to New York. The more he talked the more he looked like the Slate that had entrapped them in Columbia, his memories only poisoned him as he kept them inside, it seemed. He told her of finding Booker in the stockyard, and how they came back to the city to find ‘The Tin Man.’

        “Comstock is gone Slate. He doesn’t exist,” Not any more, she thought to herself.

        “He killed those two.” He shook his head, “I chased him too. I know where he’s going. But I left DeWitt…”

        “Did you attack Booker?”

        “No. No no. He did.” He looked at the girl. He may have told this story to everyone that would listen. But who would believe him but her and Booker?

        “Where did you chase this man to? Where is he going?”

He recounted the past five days, following the man through the streets, down alleys. It seemed as if he was simply shambling around the city, moving from one spot to another, “When your boys in blue took me, he was going straight down West 132nd”

        “Why?”

        “No idea…”

        Elizabeth stared at the man. What reason would he have to lie? She pushed her chair back and moved to leave. As she left Slate’s eye followed her. The door closed and he was once again alone. As he sat there he couldn’t help but feel an itching in the back of his mind and a faint whisper at the edge of hearing. His hands itched and as he scratched at them he began to draw blood, he looked down and found crystals growing from his wounds. He looked up and found the girl and Booker above him, he handed DeWitt a pistol and again begged him to do his duty.

        Benson opened the door once Elizabeth left, Slate was sitting in his chair, hands still bound, staring down at the table, blood dripping from his nose.

 

        Benson insisted on following her, chasing her down with an umbrella overhead. The rain wasn’t letting up. They had made their way to West 132nd and began their walk down it. Anything they could have used was washed away by the downpour but still they made their way slowly past the buildings, looking down alley ways, overhangs or cellar steps they found. Their man was so far nowhere to be found. Benson sighed as Elizabeth dashed ahead before following her. He hadn’t meant to listen to her talking to Slate, but ever since she’d come around things had been different for him. Booker was happier, no doubt about that, but the business with Anna? Those things appeared from nowhere. And now his dreams were getting to him. What was it they had talked about, Columbia? Elizabeth talked like she knew what it was. A city in the clouds? He’d kept his mouth shut about what happened in that bar, but by the end of this, he was going to need some answers.

        Elizabeth had knelt down looking as a small pot hole in the street. She seemed to know where she was going, he supposed. Whatever was going through her mind she kept her council to herself.

        “Elizabeth, where are we going?”

        “I don’t know yet…” She closed her eyes and her brows knitted together, like she was pushing through a headache. When she opened them again she stood up and walked over to the nearest building, looking at the brick face under a thin overhang. Water clung and ran down it weakly. “Look, there’s blood here,”

Benson raised the lantern in his hand. Between the bricks in the mortar there was indeed a reddish stain, “How did you see that from the street?” He turned to the girl and again she seemed to be concentrating. Her eyes snapped open.

        “He went this way”

He followed her through the muggy and wet streets until they reached a small square above which loomed a church. Its doors were opened and the orange light inside spilled into the streets. In the downpour and the darkness the orange light flicked and shined and wavered, Oliver couldn’t decide if it the light promised salvation or madness. Elizabeth nodded to herself and made her way inside.

 

        The man swayed softly mumbling for help, grasping in his mind for something to hold him where he was. The storm of thoughts whirled and a small light appeared before him. Slowly it grew larger, brighter, closer, and in its glare a face, and he knew her to be Columbia.

        “Hello?”

        A woman’s voice cut through the darkness and he jerked his head up. The light was gone and he regretted it, something about it filled him with hope. He could find it again he had to.

        “Is anyone here?”

It was only then that he realized he could think. The memories and voices of people and things he’d never seen or touched were gone. He was himself again… Booker DeWitt slowly stood up and turned around.

       

        Elizabeth paused as she saw the man stand up from the far side of the nave. She had only made her way halfway past the aisles of pews before he heard her. What had she expected to have happen? Hello, did you shoot Booker DeWitt? Would you come with me? The man had only just turned around. Behind her she could hear Mister Benson running up to the entrance, his shoes splashing in the water. The man took a step closer to her. And then another. The orange light around him cast strange shapes across his face, but it was the same as it would be twenty years from now. As he came closer his hand stretched out and lightly caressed her cheek.

        “Are you real?”

        She didn’t understand how, but the man she had known in Columbia stood before her, clothing disheveled, torn, stained and bloodied, hair unkempt and cheeks unshaven, but he was how she remembered him. When she didn’t say anything he pulled her close and hugged her, she gasped and tried to pull away until she felt his head hit her shoulder and the sobbing began. Soon he couldn’t even stand anymore, and the couple was forced to sink to the ground.

        Oliver came to the door, and found Elizabeth held in the man’s embrace, when Elizabeth noticed the lantern light she turned and held up her hand. Benson was already reaching for his pistol. “Hold on Mister Benson, it’s okay…”

The man’s shoulders and back bucked and rolled as he gasped for air. Elizabeth pried him away from her and looked at him. Tears ran down his face and matted his short unkempt beard. Water dripped form his face, but unlike her and Mister Benson it never seemed to hit the ground. His side was stained with blood and his hand seeped and dripped it as well. Where he touched her she felt a faint wetness but nothing damp remained. His clothing was clearly a waistcoat and simple white shirt under it, but the left sleeve had been torn almost completely off at the shoulder, and holes were torn into both garments in several places. Without thinking Elizabeth looked at the man’s exposed shoulder, in the flickering light it almost looked as though a faint scar lingered there. The man caught his breath back and looked at the young woman before him. She looked in his eyes and she saw the same sad look Slate had.

        He was just like him. She pulled him close and embraced him again. She could not imagine what it must have been like to live like he had. Booker had nearly beat himself senseless when he remembered, but he always said that Anna or Elizabeth helped him keep his mind right. Slate didn’t have anyone, but he had only lived with it for months. What must it have been like to have twenties years of pain come to you in one moment, and then live with it for a second life time? A third? A fourth?

        When she asked it of him, the man who was once Booker DeWitt told her his story. At the age of 15 he had joined the army, and fought in the Indian Wars. The battles there had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was proud of his service, but not his actions. He walked away from the military and tried to settle down; he had always wanted a family of his own. He met a woman, Abigail and they had married, but soon after became one of the few people to contract smallpox. He watched as her skin turned black, almost as if she was being burned from the inside. It was soon after her death that the memories began to bleed into his mind. At first it was just dreams, things he brushed off, but then he began remembering things that hadn’t happened. Remembering people walking into a room moments before they actually did. He found himself trying to find places that weren’t there and people that didn’t live. Eventually he remembered the face a child he’d never seen. He’d held her in his arms, he loved her. He gave her away as well, and it killed him. He gave her away so many times but he’d never even seen her. As he continued, His story sounded more and more like Slate’s. This man had no way of sorting these memories, and more and more came as time went on. Whatever had opened into his mind showered him with the lives of all the other Booker’s that were out there. Elizabeth felt tears well up behind her eyes. The universe did not like its peas mixed with its porridge.

        “I’m so sorry…”

        Benson was standing nearby now. Elizabeth was sure he had heard all of it. She’d have to find a way to explain it to him. She tried to stand up, but the man grasped as her hand.

        “Please no…” tears still streamed down his face, he waited for an answer to a question he had no idea how to ask. What could she do for him? For Slate, for Booker, it seemed being near her caused whatever this was to stop. Could she take him with her? Tell Booker what was happening? What would he say? She didn’t have answers, and an itch in the back of her mind made her wary of looking for one in another world. A man face down in a fountain filled with blood. “I’m sorry… I can’t do anything”

        “Please I… I just don’t want to go through it again,” he shook his head, “I get lost, I’m… I’m someone else. I can’t…” his eyes met hers, “Stop it p-please” The last time he had said that she had made him make a choice she couldn’t go through with. She knew what he wanted her to do. She stood up and held out her hand.

        “Are you sure?” she did her best to not let her voice crack. The man nodded. She wished he hadn’t. He took her hand and rose up. Slowly they walked up to the altar as the transept. At the fore of it was a hollowed bowl filled with water. She stood beside him and held his hand, she reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, dipping it in the water, and then washing the man’s hand free of the blood that still stained it. She looked him in the eyes again.

        “I’m so sorry, Booker,” he gave her a sad smile, and nodded again as her hand reached up to the back of his neck. He knelt down before the altar, and felt the water cover his face.

 

        A small stream of light danced over his face, and Booker DeWitt opened his eyes. He was met with an unfamiliar ceiling. Plastered and painted white. The walls as well. When he tried to get up a throbbing pain came to him from his side.

        “Hey, whoa. Hold on there, Book.” Oliver?

Benson was sitting beside his bed; Anna was on his knee, her big blue eyes filled with happiness.

        “Oz? Where am I?”

        “Bellevue. You were pretty messed up, Book” he chuckled and smiled, “Welcome back to the land of the living,” When Booker felt at the bandages across his body, Benson chimed in again, ”You were shot”

        “Thank you, Oz” He sighed and looked around the room, regretting every twist he made, “Where’s Elizabeth? Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to see you but you’re not really who I’d expect.”

        A shadow came across Benson’s face, “Elizabeth… She had a hard night. You see, we caught Slate. She said she wanted to see him. We found who shot you, Book.” He told him about the church, the man’s story, and what Elizabeth had done after, and how she had told him to come back to the hospital and get Anna. “I don’t really understand it all, Book. She called him Booker at the end and well… He really did look a lot like you…”

Booker was silent as he sorted out what had happened, eventually he swung his feet out over the edge of the bed, “Oz, find me some clothes. I’m going home.”

        “The doctors said it wouldn’t be good for you to-“

        “Oliver. I’m going home.”

Benson eventually found Booker his clothes. A pair of trousers and his shirt over his arm would have to do for now, the waistcoat was too small to be buttoned down so he just let it hang loose over his shoulders. After Booker stepped out of the bed and stumbled he remembered a foot crashing down onto his ankle. Benson offer a cane and Booker waved him away. Anna climbed onto the bed, and Booker picked her up in his free arm. Booker couldn’t help but like the picture of the man holding his daughter. As Booker limped his way out of the room, Benson said “I’m not going to pretend I know what’s going on, Booker. But at some point, you and Elizabeth are going to tell me what really happened here.” Booker stood at the door for a moment, and then limped out.

 

        The door opened and Anna dashed inside. The entire trip home she had asked again and again where Elizabeth was. Booker just told her they’d see her soon. The apartment was dark; the blinds were pulled down and deadened the early morning sun. As Booker closed the door he heard Anna yelp “Mama!” he followed her into her own room, and sitting in the corner, knees tucked to her chest was Elizabeth. Her face was wet, and she stared at her knees. Anna tugged at her skirt, but the young woman didn’t look up until the floor boards creaked as Booker stepped in. Her blood shot eyes followed him as she slowly hobbled over to her and sad beside her. He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders, she leaned her head against him, and he laid his head upon hers. Anna crawled between them and the family silently waited out the morning.