Booker Noir

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BOOKER NOIR PILOT

 

        Booker leaned against the wall. He’d been here all night, and he’d be here until morning if he needed to be. Earlier he had paid a visit to Michael Johnsons, known as ‘Mick’ or ‘Mickey’ to his friends. He was a lowlife, but enough of a coward to turn on anyone. Booker was not his friend. Soon enough he told him that Terrance McGinnus visited the 'Five ‘o Clock Bar' on K street every Thursday for a back room poker game. Booker watched the back door.

 

        Terrance. He was a confidence man, his sheet mostly consisted of petty theft, his cons, and other minor crimes, not a violent man. Not until he carved up Polly Oliver’s face and worse and left her to bleed in the gutter. Booker had seen worse. Hell, he had done worse, but that didn’t make it right. Polly didn’t deserve that.

The Door opened, a weak orange light poured out into the street, and a number of dark figures followed it out. They walked out the alley way, and into the light of the streets.

McGinnus was with them. Too many men though. He’d have to wait them out, follow them until they split off. Once the group was past him, he detached from the wall and started to follow. He walked through some back alley’s making sure he was never directly behind them, or obviously following. They were reaching M street already. At the corner more than half of the group separated, McGinnus was with just three men now. Four against one, but the four were drunk. Booker liked those odds better.

This was just what he needed. Being on the street, following some thug, it was simpler. He needed simple after what happened with Elizabeth.

 

        He couldn’t stop the thought, and he nearly doubled over as the pain spiked in his head, like the insides of his skull were larger than the outsides. He could barely see through the fog in his head. Panting he looked down the street, he must have cried out when the pain took him, McGinnus and his company had noticed him, they were coming his way. They’d knock him over if they thought they could, and they’d find his badge. He thought of Anna in her crib. Or when he first held her, or when she cried. Anything to stop the images of this man Comstock, or Elizabeth, or a songbird. The pain lessened, but his eye sight was still blurry. They’d be on him any second. They didn’t look like they had any guns, but that wouldn’t matter much if they just gutted him in the street.

Damn it all.

       

        Booker pulled out his pistol and aimed it at a man he was sure wasn’t McGinnus and fired. He hit him in the leg, the man went down howling and clutching his thigh as blood pulsed out of him. Booker was aiming for his chest. One down, three drunks to go. The other three were on him. Booker lashed out with his pistol, smacking one of them in the face. The other two came at him from his side. He saw a glint, but wasn’t sure if it was a knife, or knuckle duster. He kicked out, and ended up getting one of them in the knee cap before he felt a punch to his side that sent him reeling away. He brought his gun up again, but it was smacked away, and he felt a fist hit the side of his head. For a moment, just a moment, in the light of the night, the two men in front of him looked like him but someone that wasn’t him. Booker flailed out with a closed fist and felt it hit the abdomen on the man closest to him. He doubled over in pain, and his friend lifted Booker up by his coat. His nose met with Bookers forehead. As the man swore, Booker came upon him, bringing his fist to the side of his head, the man went down in a heap just as the first one he had punched and gotten back up, with Booker’s gun in his hand.

        Both men panted, staring at each other.

        “Who… who are you? A cop?”

        “Some. Something like that.”

        “This is… about the. The girl?” Booker lunged forward, bringing both hands down on the gun. It fired, and booker felt a burning in his leg. His shoulder smashed into the man, tumbling them both into a wall. Booker got up first. He was McGinnus. He grabbed his arm and threw him to the ground, and put his knee on his back. Since the fight had started, Booker looked around. Save for the man he had shot, the two were alone.

“Looks like you… you need better friends” McGinnus tried to get up, Booker leaned on him.

        “She was just some whore! She didn’t ma-”Booker hit the man’s head against the pavement.

        “She was a girl!” He grabbed his head, and smashed his face down, “She never hurt anyone!” again the man’s face hit the pavement “She had a baby in her belly, dammit!” McGinnus wasn’t moving anymore. Booker got of him, almost stumbling over, and rolled the man onto his back. His face was a mess, but he was gurgling. His kicked him in the ribs.

        Booker looked down at the man, and he saw himself. He kicked him again.

 

        Booker leaned his head against his door. The police had taken McGinnus away, and his wounds had been seen to. Just a graze to his leg, his face might be puffy for a day or so but “he’d still have his good looks” He opened the door, and wandered in. The pain in his head never really left. He’d still remember things, a gunsmith, men flying on rails. He went to Anna’s room. She was asleep. He sat on the chair by her crib, and let his arm fall inside it. As he stroked his daughter’s cheek his mind cleared. Booker slowly drifted to sleep as the sun rose in the sky.

 

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BOOKER NOIR

THE BARREL MURDERS

 

        Booker stepped around the table, staring at the man he’d sat there.

“Come on Mick, I know you’ve got something for me,”

“Sorry DeWitt, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about” Michael ‘Mick’ Johnsons was a pigeon. Every now and then he got it in his head that the people he squealed to should pay him for it. Booker’s fist slammed onto the table, Mick jumped. Booker could feel blood oozing from his knuckles, but it looked like Johnsons was ready to talk.

“I am not a patient man Mick. Now. Tell  me. What. You know.”

 

        Booker pulled on his waistcoat as he left the backroom. He pulled out a dollar and flipped the coin to the man, they both nodded at each other as he left. As he stepped out into the slightly muggy night air, Booker wondered if Mickey would ever learn to last past being scared. He might get somewhere if he wasn’t such a coward at the threat of violence. Of course, then Booker would actually have to hit the man. He looked down at his bloody knuckles and flexed them a bit. He was fine.

 

        Mick had let slip that the recent barrel murders weren’t the work of the Morellos family. Someone was killing people and trying to pass it off as the mafia. Most of the barrels were from the same warehouse at the docks. Now that he knew it wasn’t the usual Mafiososi he might be able to get somewhere at the warehouse. As he made his way to the harbor Booker couldn’t help but feel he was being watched. He turned into an alley and waited.

If the usual guys weren’t killing these people, then Booker had no motive for them. There was one thing you could say about organized crime, the motives were simple. No one came by the alley, or even turned in. Booker continued down and exited the other side. Someone, or a group of people were going on a killing spree and trying to blame it on the mob. Feeling eyes on him again he ducked into another alleyway. When no one passed by again, he went through and did it again, and a third time. Each time the feeling returned. It must be his nerves. He should have had a drink, but he did promise Elizabeth. He leaned against the building beside him as the ache came on him; it wasn’t so bad these days, just a little woozy. He was on his way again soon.

 

        The warehouse wasn’t much. As far as Booker could tell, all they did was make and ship barrels and casks. No guards that he could see, strange, usually there was a watchman or an off duty officer. Booker made his way to one of the side entrances. He stepped up to a small stoop and tried the door. Locked. Damn. If there was anyone inside kicking the door in would be out of the question, he’d have to find some other way in.

 

        “Mickey tells us you’re lookin’ fer some people” Booker turned, reaching for his pistol, and received a punch to the side of his head, sending him sprawled onto the concrete of the landing. Shaking his head he looked up, two men, and one of them was a big guy, even for him. Whichever of them spoke was Italian from his accent. They just stood there as Booker tried to get to his feet, “No it’s okay, we’ve got time. Ain’t no one around for this mug to call to.” The little guy gave the larger man a smack on the arm, “Give ‘im another one.”

 

The large man lunged forward, Booker ducked to the side, and the man ended up punching a hole in the door. So much for getting in unnoticed. The guy must have been at least seven feet tall, a goddamn mountain of a man. Booker pulled out his gun and fired, hitting the giant’s chest. He didn’t really seem to care. The little man was laughing as the giant came at him again.

 

        “Stay away from him!” the small man turned, and then corkscrewed the opposite direction and crumbled to the ground. The giant turned to see what was going on, and Booker jumped on his back, wrapping his arm around his neck. He squeezed as hard as he could, as the man trashed around, hitting Booker against the wall of the warehouse. With one final jerk, the giant of a man slammed Booker’s back against the wall, before he too fell to the ground, unconscious. Booker had fallen next to him. He was going to be bruised in the morning. He looked up.

        “Elizabeth? What the hell are you doing?”

The young woman stood there, holding a surprisingly large lead pipe in her hands.

        “I’m pretty sure I just saved your life, Booker” Booker got to his feet, dusting himself off. His clothes were torn and disheveled, he looked a proper mess.

        “What are you doing here?”

        “I..well, I followed you,” She let her arms hang down, still holding the pipe, “You always go out at night these days and, well, I get sick wondering how you’re doing so..”

        “Get on home, Elizabeth.” The girl gave him a stony look.

        “No. I’m tired of feeling like I can’t do anything.” Booker sighed. She could be so stubborn some times. He chuckled to himself, must have gotten it from her father.

        “Alright, alright. Fine. Just stay down if anything gets hairy, got it?”

        “We’ve done this before, Booker”

Booker’s hand went to his temples, he felt Elizabeth’s hand on his arm “Yeah, yeah I remember…”

Elizabeth gave him a slight frown, before looking at the door, “It’s locked, but-“

        “Don’t worry I’ll take care of it,” as she kneeled down she pulled out a lock pick. Booker came up behind her, and kicked the door; then again, it burst inward.

        “Like I was saying, we don’t have time for the sneaky approach anymore.” Elizabeth gave him a look, and the pair entered.

 

        If there was anyone here they had absconded at the noise of the fight. Open barrels littered the warehouse floor, while others were stacked in giant cubes of the things. It was like being out on the streets again. The open floor itself had barrels in various states of construction, complete but open ones at the end of the line. The two spread apart. “So what are we looking for?”

        “Anything? I’m not sure. These guys might have been using this place just to get something to put their victims in”

Booker scanned along the walls. Work orders, worker schedules were pinned to boards. There was even a sign proudly saying it had been 26 days since their last work accident.

 

        “Hey Booker, look at this” Elizabeth was considering a barrel when Booker came over.

        “Yeah?”

        “Isn’t there something off about this one?” He looked at it, looked inside.

        “Looks normal to me.”

        “Help me up” She offered her hand. Booker took it as he put out his knee; she stepped up and into the barrel. She was just as tall as him now.

        “How-“

        “There’s a false bottom!” He pulled Elizabeth out, and they rolled over the barrel. She swung her pipe at the bottom of the thing. It took several swings but eventually the wood cracked and broke, bags fell out of the false bottom. Booker took one, opening it and reaching inside. It was filled with cash and coin. There must have been thousands of dollars in just this one barrel alone.

        “This doesn’t make any sense… They’re using the barrels to smuggle money? Why the killing? And who are they paying? Every time one of these is found the…”

        “Police take it as evidence” they said it at the same time.

        “They’re paying off the police with the money?” Elizabeth stood up as booker put the money back in the bag.

        “But paying them off for what?” Booker stared at the bags, “We can’t leave anything here that might show what we found. If the police are involved, they’ll come down hard on us.”

 

        Booker rolled the broken barrel off the end of the dock, and tossed the money bag into the water, with a few less dollars and a few more bricks. When he came back, Elizabeth was going through the pockets of the two men. She handed Booker the smaller man’s wallet. He was Vincent Carrebo, and the other man was Julius Marcosa. Booker didn’t know them but he had an idea on who they were. The money and the bodies, the pay offs, it wasn’t much but it made some sense.

        “They’re Black Handers, probably pretty small time if they’re working with the police in this”

        “What’s a Black Hand?”

        “It’s an extortion racket. They threaten people, and when they don’t pay they get violent. Looks like they found a way to get their money and pay off anyone that might try to stop them.”

        “So what are we going to do?” Booker looked at her when she added the ‘we’ he never really had help doing this, not until she came along.

        “We’re going to lay low. See what else there is to be found about this. See how far up it goes…”

They left the two men there, and walked back out to the streets

 

----

 

        She turned the page. Booker had been staring at his notes of hours it seemed, and she had been reading her Book of Poe’s Tales. It had been near a week since the warehouse and Booker hadn’t gone out to check any leads, or gather any information since. When she asked about it, he told her that ‘I’m not putting my family in danger, not after I’ve just got it back’; she could have kissed him for that. She hadn’t. She looked at Booker as her eyebrows came together. Since the harbor Booker had almost been avoiding her. Maybe it was the work, or maybe Booker didn’t see her that way anymore. She opened her mouth just as a knock came at the door.

 

        “Booker? Hey Book, it’s Benson!” Bookers head shot up and he left his seat, he looked at the door, and then to Elizabeth.

        “Elizabeth, go be with Anna”

        “What? Why? Who’s Benson?”

        “He’s a buddy of mine; he’s the guy that brought me on for the barrel murders. He’s a copper”

        “Come on Book, I know you’re home”

He looked at the door again and back to her “Elizabeth, I need you with Anna. Please” She nodded and did as he said. He turned to the door and opened it.

 

        Oliver Benson. He was a little shorter then Booker, black hair he liked to keep slicked back. A hawkish face, strong pointed jaw, and a sharp nose. He served with Booker in the army, when they came to New York he got a job with the police. He shook his hand.

        “Feels like it’s been twenty years since I last saw you, Booker” He smiled. Benson always had an easy smile.

        “It’s only been two weeks, Ozzer.” He let the man in, closing the door behind him. Benson looked around.

        “I see you’ve still kept the place the same. Didn’t you get a nanny or something?” Booker walked back to his desk and leaned against it, keeping himself between Benson and Anna’s room, “I would have figured having a woman around would rub off on you”

        “What’s this about Oz?” The man’s smile disappeared.

        “That’s quite the shiner you’ve got there Book. Heard you got on the wrong side of some thugs” Booker touched the side of his face, the bruise wasn’t as bad as it looked, but that giant sure could throw a right hook.

        “I figured it was some of Mick’s friends, if he had any. Must have gotten fed up with me” Booker held the man’s gaze. Benson shrugged.

        “Did you at least get anything good out of it?”

        “Mick said that it had something to do with warehouse on the docks that your men already checked out,” he sighed, “I took another look around, but couldn’t find anything. The place is clean. Mick’s either found enough courage to lie, or he’s not nearly as in the know as I thought”

 

Benson walked over to the bed and sat on it, leaning back against the wall. “Things ain’t going well, Book. The chief is on all of us to figure out what’s going on, and we’ve got nothing. It’s why I told them to bring you on. You caught that guy that tore up that’s girls face when we couldn’t. Got your picture in the paper didn’t you?” Elizabeth had wanted to put the paper in a frame, he’d told her not to.

        “Cant’ help if there’s nothing to go on, Ozzer. Whoever these guys are, they’re good” Booker looked at his friend.  He didn’t seem smug from the comment. He was strangely melancholy. He got up from the bed.

        “Well, Booker, it was nice seeing you again. I don’t suppose I could take a peek at An-“

        “She’s sleeping”

        “Right, right. I’ve always said you were overprotective of her, you know” The two went to the door, Booker shook Bensons hand again. Benson leaned in close, “I heard some guys at the house talking about the case. Something about a fishery on the other side of the harbor from that warehouse. Think about it, eh?”

Booker watched his friend walk down the hall and down the stairs. He closed the door. Elizabeth was in front of his desk, holding Anna.

        She looked Booker in the eye “So, what now?”

 

        It was two days later; Booker had told Elizabeth to meet him at the harbor. The Koch and Sons Fishery was… well, to call it rundown would be a cross on condemned buildings. It was one of the oldest fisheries in the city, and unlike the others it showed. Planks were missing from the halls, struts were held up with other struts, there would be no problem sneaking in. Booker was leaning against the wire fence the surrounded the fishery. The gate was opened, there wasn’t even a latch. Whoever decided to make this place a meeting area was either trying to hide in plain sight, or they were just a plain idiot. Booker looked up into the sky. He wanted to get this done quickly, the police were going to be here in a few hours, and it looked like rain. He’d already gotten the wire down from around the room from laundry.

 

        “Booker… Booker!” the whisper came from his side.

        “We’re not doing anything wrong, Elizabeth, you don’t how to whisper” He looked to his side, she was crouched down. She gave him a sheepish grin and stood up. She was wearing a cream colored blouse that offset her choker nicely, and her hair was tied back into a small pony tail. Instead of a skirt, she wore a pair of bloomers that she had tied to just below her knees. You could barely see her stockings between her boots and the athletic pants.

        She caught him looking at her and spun herself around. “What do you think?” Booker had a sense of déjà vu, and a memory of a place called Emporia and rain came to his mind. He blinked it away.

 

        “You, er… you look fine,” That was the problem with the memories. They were there. There were things he knew. But after the initial shock most of them were just disconnected, not personal. Like a paperboy shouting headlines from a street corner. Looking at her again, Booker was convinced the bloomers were for someone slimmer then her; they were form fitting at her hips. They were rather fetching. Booker shook his head. He shouldn’t think about her like that, not after everything, “We’re just going to go in, and take a look around. Shouldn’t be any problem.” Elizabeth walked through the gate ahead of him, Booker grabbed her arm, “You go in behind me” He walked passed her, and looked back “And we don’t touch anything unless we have to.”

 

        The pair walked into the fishery’s complex, or what it passed for one. The main building functioned as a dock for whatever ships still used the place, with a second building for something else, equipment maybe? They’d look into it after checking out the main building. A number of planks from the side of the building were missing, just enough for someone to squeeze through Booker shouldered aside another loose board, and the two passed through. The smell of fish was bad outside, it was nearly unbearable inside.

 

        The inside of the building was packed with containers for the fish to be sold. Crates and barrels lined walkways and like the Black Hander’s warehouse it began to form their own streets inside the fishery. Elizabeth went up to one stack of barrels.

        “Booker, these barrels have the same brand on them as the ones back in the warehouse”

        “I guess that’s our connection, But we’d have to check them for if they actually have anything in them, none of the murder barrels had any markings.”

        “I don’t think I want to open these things”

        “Right”

        The place was a maze with the buildings of containers. After a few minutes of winding through them, they came to the center of the building. It had been cleared, and at the far end the floor had been cut open to allow fishing boats to easily come into the fishery proper and unload. There was a boat there now, men were getting onboard and off, Booker pulled Elizabeth back into cover. He peered out from the crates. Then men didn’t seem to be taking any fish off the boat, just small lock boxes. One of the workers caught his eye, “Oh Hell. It’s that giant from before.”

 

        Elizabeth leaned out and looked. It would have been hard to miss Julius Marcosa is a crowd, even harder when he was carrying two sacks each as big as a man, “I guess this means it’s the right place, right?”

“Right. We get out and come back after the cops do their business.” The pair made their way back through the stacks of crates and through the opening in the walls. Shuffling through the opening Booker only had a brief glimpse of the men at the gate before they saw him. Some ten officers, and one was looking right at him.

        “Hey! Stop there!”

        “Hell” Booker grabbed Elizabeth and ran. Benson had said the raid would happen at dusk, they were hours early. Of all the times for the police to come before they’re needed. They ran for the secondary building, Booker just hoped there was another way out of this place. Like the rest of the place, the locks were barely even a though, the door opened at a touch, Booker closed it behind him, leaning on it to listen.

Elizabeth looked around the gloomy building. The small fogged windows let in barely any sunlight. The place was filled with machinery parts. Pistons for engines, long leather belts and gears, long thin metal struts. It put her in mind of Songbird. “I’ll see if there’s another way out” She left Booker at the door and walked into the bleary darkness.

 

        His ear pressed to the door, Booker could hear feet shuffling around outside. “Alright boys, you two stay by the gate. You two find those two that ran off, I want them rounded up and questioned! Everyone else with me.” He backed from the door. There wasn’t anywhere else to hide outside of the fishery, they’d be sure to check this building first. He looked around; Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen.

“Dammit Elizabeth? Elizabeth?” The crunch of boots came from outside. He could only hope she was hiding now. He pushed himself back behind the door and waited. Nothing to do now but try and get out of here. The door opened and a revolver stuck itself into the darkness of the equipment shack, followed by an electric lantern. Two men slowly walked in, fanning the lantern left and right as they moved forward. Once they had cleared the door Booker came up behind the second man, putting his hand over his mouth, and punching him as hard as he could in the kidney, he buckled but Booker couldn’t cover up his groan at the attack. The first officer spun around, his pistol aimed right at the pair. “Hey I-“He crumbled to the ground. Elizabeth stood behind the man’s body, another length of pipe in her hand.

 

        “Thanks Eliz-“

        “Booker, I found something” She helped him up and took him deeper into the workshop, eventually to a table, open moneybags strewn across it. “There’s got hundreds of thousands of dollars here.”

At least. Did the Black Hander’s use this place to sort the money, then head for the warehouse to give the police their cut? The barrels, the giant, the money, it connected everything together, but Booker couldn’t see how. Not yet anyway. He looked at Elizabeth “Is there another way out of here?”

        “I didn’t see any””

He looked back to the open door, then at the money. “We leave everything here. They’ve got men heading into the fishery and at least two on the gate. Same plan as before, we leave, just this time no one sees us long enough to pin us.” The girl nodded, and lifted her pipe.

        Booker looked around the far corner of the workshop. The gate was about fifty feet away; the guards were looking around, but not really paying attention. It’s not sentry duty boys, you’re on guard for people leaving. Booker picked up half a brink, and tossed it over the fencing. At the sound the two men turned, and he ran for them. Elizabeth was on the other side, as soon as she saw him hit them, she’d come from the other side for the other man. Booker’s shoulder met the first guard square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him, and sending him to the ground. Elizabeth came up behind the second man and swung, but he had moved to the side from Bookers charge. The guard turned seeing the pipe, and caught the girls hand as she brought it down for a second time. Elizabeth didn’t miss a beat and kicked out with her boot. The man went cross-eyed as he sunk to the ground and landed on his side.

        “Come on!” the pair ran out the gate and into the inner harbor. The pair ran hand in hand until the fishery and harbor proper were well behind them and out of sight. They swung into an alley way to catch their breath. Elizabeth started to giggle between her gasps for breath.

        “That…that was kind of fun. One you… Once you forget we could be arrested…”

        “I guess you’re a proper PI now…everything you found… and all”

        “Do I get... get a badge?” they smiled at each other, enjoying the euphoria as the adrenaline left their systems.

 

        The sun was beginning to sink below the buildings as they reached Bookers apartment. They had taken a few detours to try and make sure no one was following them. They came to Bookers apartment. The door was ajar. Booker pushed the door open, the place was torn apart. His bed was moved the mattress thrown onto the floor, the small wardrobe had been tipped over, clothes littered the place.  Mrs. Peterson lay on the mattress. Elizabeth went to her. She was unconscious, but breathing. Booker stared at the old woman, and then to Anna’s door. He felt something eat away at him, until he felt hollow. His feet dragged through mud as we walked to the door, and opened it. Anna’s room hadn’t been touched. He looked into the crib. Inside was a strip of paper, at the bottom was a hand raised in angry violence, drawn with thick black ink.

Anna was gone.

 

----

 

        Elizabeth looked up from the woman; Booker was just standing in Anna’s room.

        “Booker what’s wro-“and the same feeling hit her. She got up and walked into the room. The cradle was empty, Booker staring down into the empty sheets “Oh no… no, no nonono…”

Booker stared into the crib. The problem with most of the memories was that they weren’t personal. But a few sucked at his soul, a few he knew were true, on some level.

 

        He gave her away.

 

        No. No! They took her. The fishery, it was a set up, it had to be.  Benson. Something pulled at his arm. It was Elizabeth. Her eyes and cheeks were wet.

        “Booker, we have to-“

        “We get Mrs. Peterson to her apartment,” he stepped away from her and out of the room, “Then we’re paying a friend a visit”

 

        Oliver Benson stared at his door. It was hanging off its hinges; Booker wasn’t fooling around when he smashed it in. It worked with the current décor though. His ‘buddies’ didn’t leave much of anything standing, buying a new door would go well with the new table and chairs. The girl was with him too. He wasn’t sure if it was from what had happened, or from Booker.

        “Hey Book…” Booker reached down, hauling Benson off the floor, and lifting him against the wall.

        “Where is she?” Benson looked like hell. Blood had already dried over his face, his face was already puffy and a bruise was starting to show.

        “I tried to stop it, you gotta believe me Booker” the man panted softly, “I’d never do anything to hurt Anna. For God’s sake I was your best man when you married A-“

        “Tell me what happened to her!” He shoved him into the wall, and the man grunted, sliding back down the floor.

        “The… the raid was just supposed to scare you off. I told them it wouldn’t work, so they said they’d hit you close to home. I…I tried to stop it. Guess you can see how that went…” The man drifted off, but snapped back, shaking his head. “The boys… at the station. They’re running the whole thing. The murders and those guys that jumped you, they’re just grunts for it…” The girl kneeled down and looked him in the eye.

        “Where did they take Anna?”

There was something about her face, her eyes. “They…they have a bar they go to, not Freddy’s like the rest of us. It’s…It’s called the Crippled Drum” Booker started walking away. The girl stayed where she was, still looking at him.

        “Thank you.”

        “Come on, Elizabeth” She got up and turned around.

        “W-wait! Book.” Benson struggled to his feet, “I’m going with you”

        “Like hell yo-“

        “I got you into this,” Benson stumbled, Elizabeth caught him and helped him up, “I’ve…I’ve gotta do right” Booker looked from his old friend to Elizabeth next to him. After a few seconds she nodded.

        “Fine.”

 

        The Crippled Drummer Boy was more of a tavern then a bar. Like the kind you’d find out west, but in the slums of the city. As far as Booker could remember it wasn’t much of a meeting place for anyone. The bar itself was attached to a small rise, where tenants could get rooms above the place. It’s façade had nothing to speak of, save for the sign of a drummer boy with a bandaged leg. Everyone just called it The Crippled Drum, or The Drum.

Benson had finally gotten his bearings and no longer needed Elizabeth’s help to walk, though Booker wasn’t too sure how much help he’d be. Elizabeth though… He didn’t want her there, but the thought of her not being around had shaken him. He’d be damned if he was going to lose both her and Anna. He looked at both of them; Benson had his police revolver at the ready, Booker pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster.

 

        “Elizabeth, you stay out of sight as much as you can. Oz, any idea on how many people we’re likely to see in there?”

        “Five, six men, maybe. Forrester’s the head of the bunch. I don’t know if they’ll be down here or in a room. Sorry Book”

        Six men weren’t going to be enough to keep him from his daughter. Booker shouldered the door open, and the three charged into the bar. It was an open space, plenty of tables, with a long bar at the far side. The stairs ran along the wall to an outcropping above the bar itself, that lead to the rooms above. Two men sat at the bar, and the bartender with them. Seeing the two armed men enter he raised both his hands. After a moment’s notice the two men turned and did the same. Booker and Benson walked to the bar, their guns held on the men. Benson showed the men his shield. “We’re police; you’ve got some men here, one by the name Forrester, right?” The barman nodded.

 

        “Where is he?” Booker’s tone held the promise of violence for anyone that wouldn’t answer. The barman pointed up.

        “Th-Third floor…3D” They left the men, and ran up the stairs.

 

        They dashed through the second floor, coming again to the stairwell. As Booker and Benson began to climb the steps another man was coming down. He wore a black street officer’s uniform. The man recognized the two of them. “Shit! They’re here!” Booker charged the man the moment he opened his mouth. As their two bodies met he fired his pistol straight into the man’s gut and Booker shoved him into the wall. As he stepped back the man groaned and slid to the floor, a streak of blood following him.

 

        “God damn it, Booker, now they all know we’re here!” Benson ran ahead of Booker to cover the landing on the next floor. As Elizabeth came upon him, he was pulling the dying man’s gun from him, and placing it in his own holster. They shared a glance before continuing on. As they reached Benson doors were already opening to see what had happened, and on seeing the two armed men, began closing, all except one. Three men came out of the fourth door, pistols in their own hands. Booker and Benson opened fire and the men scattered to what cover the door frames could provide.

 

        Benson ducked to the side as the wall beside him exploded, He could hear Booker call the girls name. By the time he looked up there was a heavy set door open in front of him. Booker grabbed his shoulder and pushed him to it. Benson crashed against the door, and found himself in a corner created by the door and itself.

        “What in the he-“

        “Shut up and help me!” Booker leaned out from the side, and fired. The man closest to them went down clutching his shoulder, and Booker ducked back behind their cover. “Elizabeth, think you can do two at once?”

        “Watch me” Benson stared as the girl closed her eyes, and the air in the hallway shifted. For a moment, the wall paper changed, from the plain taupe it was to a floral pattern, and then bare wood, then back to taupe. The girl opened her eyes and smiled. Booker nodded and ran out of cover, and she followed. Benson peered out, where once there was an empty hallway he now saw large furniture in the way, a sofa sticking halfway out of a wall, and a safe in the middle of the walkway. Booker had run over to the couch and was crouched behind it.

        “God damn, Oliver! Fire!”

       

        Benson aimed for the open door to 3D as another man came out, the door frame exploded and the man shrieked and fell back inside. As he did Booker popped up and sent two shots at the second closest man, plumes of red erupted from his shoulder and neck and he fell to the ground. Benson juked out from behind the door, running around it to hitting the wall hard, firing at the only man left in the hall. The officer’s pistol followed the movement, and Benson felt a hot pain in his shoulder and across his side. He answered with his own shots, and the man’s calf exploded and both men fell to the floor.

       

        “Ozzer!”

        “Damn, I’m fine! Go on!” Benson held his side as he propped himself up on his elbow. Booker and Elizabeth nodded and as they stood the phantom furniture disappeared, and they ran for the open door. Booker skidded and turned into the room, a man was laid out just inside the doorway, splinters littered his body and ruined face, Benson hadn’t been far off on his shot. He felt Elizabeth at his side and he could hear crying within, they stepped over the body.

 

        “That’s far enough Mister DeWitt.” Booker swung his gun to the right and froze. A man with a wide forehead and a flat nose and shaggy parted brown hair sat on a sofa, in one hand he held a pistol and in the crook of his other arm was Anna. “One more step and I’m afraid you’ll have to have a closed casket for your little girl.” The two didn’t move, “Good. Now you’re going to walk out of here-“

        “Like he-”

The man poked Anna’s cheek with the barrel of his pistol, Booker fell into silence, “Good, now, you’re going to walk out of here, and you’re going to get me twelve hundred dollars. And when you do, you’ll get your little girl again, got it?” Booker’s jaw clenched, Elizabeth nearly thought she could hear his teeth being ground down. Before she could think, she had stepped beside him. The man on the sofa kept his gun pointed at his hostage.

        “Why, are you doing this?”

        “Because you only get anywhere with money” The man smiled “All the people in this world are out for themselves, and I’m just ahead of the game” he pulled the gun up, and waved casually in the air. Before Booker or the man could noticed, Elizabeth had reached over and pulled the revolver from Bookers holster and brought it before her and fired. The man’s own pistol dropped from his hands along with two of his fingers, blood had splattered across the couch and wall behind him. He dropped Anna onto the cushions beside him and grabbed his hand. “You Bitch! My ha-“ Before he could finish Booker was upon him and delivered a hook to the side of the man’s head, sending him sprawling across the floor. Elizabeth quickly followed and scooped up Anna.

 

        It had happened so slowly to her. The moment he wasn’t pointing the gun at Anna she knew she had to do something. Elizabeth would wonder later if that was how Booker had seen everything whenever he had fought. She hadn’t killed the man, but it still felt strange how easy it was to shoot him. She looked at Anna. She’d do it again if she had to.

        Booker and Elizabeth were silent; the only sound in the room was the man’s groans as he grasped at his mangled hand.

 

        “Booker?” Elizabeth let out a gasp and clutched Anna to her as they both turned, Benson blocked the doorway. He nodded at both of them. “That’s Forrester. You okay?”

        “Yes” the two of them answered at the same time.

        “Oz, take Elizabeth and my daughter home, and get yourself looked at.” Elizabeth whirled around

        “But Book-“

        “Go home, Elizabeth. Take care of Anna.” It wasn’t so much a request or a command as a fact. She wasn’t going to stay here. She looked from Booker to the man on the floor, and back again. She stepped out of the room.

        “Book, listen you shou-“

        “Go Oz.” Benson stayed at the door and turned “And thanks"

        “Benson you shit! You’re dead when this is over! Dea-“Forrester began shouting before Booker kicked him in the stomach. As the man brought his stump of a hand to his gut, Booker stepped over to the sofa, and pulled up one of the cushions. He brought it over and, pointing his pistol at the man on the floor, waited. As the man shouted more obscenities at him, he stood there and waited until he was sure Elizabeth and Oliver had gone. He kicked the man again.

 

        “Even after everything she’s seen, Elizabeth thinks people are good. But you and I know different. She likes to think I’m a good person, but I’m not.”Booker kicked the man’s leg out, and dropped the cushion onto it. As it landed he knelt down, and pressed his pistol to it, and fired into Forrester’s knee. And again. And a third time. He could barely hear the man’s cry. He flipped the cushion off; it would take some kind of miracle for the man to walk again. Booker again stood over the man “There some’s who deserve a chance at redemption. You’re not one of them” He stepped down on the man’s knee. He heard him scream this time. He leaned off him.

“Booker you-“ He leaned on him again and Forrester cried out. “I- I’ll tell you w-whatever you want!”

“I don’t need to hear anything from you.” Booker’s shoe rose into the air, and landed with a wet crunch and thump against the floor boards. Forrester looked up through tear stained and hazy eyes. The man above him looked like the prophet of an angry god.

 

        Elizabeth sat by the crib. She hadn’t let go of Anna for nearly an hour since getting back. She cradled her. Anna was awake and cooing and gurgling to herself in whatever baby language she could think of. Elizabeth looked down at her.

        “You’re such a brave girl, going through that, Anna.” She could feel tears start to well up, “I’m very proud of you.” She was never going to let her go again. Anna looked up at her with eyes that were her own, but different, and reached up. Elizabeth held her close and she could feel the small hands touch her cheek.

        “Ga..gam, gama…” Anna felt a small tear touch her finger. “Mama”

 

As Booker walked in, Elizabeth clutched the girl to her breast, smiling as she cried.

 

----

 

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.