Steampunk!: An Anthology of Fantastically Rich and Strange Stories (16 page)

"Perhaps you would like to share your regrets with me," Constable Etreyo says. She has angled herself so that she is closest to the door, and both doctors are before her. Clearly they do know something about the Califa Squeeze, and in case they are in league with him, she doesn't want to give them the chance to get the jump on her.

"It's my fault. I take full responsibility," Dr. Elsinore says.

"Are you saying you committed these murders?" Constable Etreyo says, her grip tightening on her truncheon.

"No, of course she didn't. Don't be an ass, Adelaide," Dr. Ehle says. "If anyone is responsible, it is me."

"Why don't you tell me what you are talking about," Constable Etreyo says, "and I can decide for myself."

"We will do better. We will show you. Come!"

Constable Etreyo hesitates. Perhaps she ought to arrest them both, take them back to the station, where she can call on backup. But they are here, and the station house is full of eager ears, and she'd prefer to keep whatever the doctors tell her private, until she's had a chance to check out their claims. Dr. Ehle says, "We are not murderers. The exact opposite, as you will see. You may release your death grip on your billy club, Constable. You are in no danger from us."

Well, they may claim so, but many police officers have ended up dead because they believed they were in no danger, so Constable Etreyo prefers to remain on the skeptical side. "You go and I shall follow."

"As you wish."

Dr. Elsinore has already darted ahead, toward the coil transformer and the stretcher beneath it. They step over a ring of charred wood flooring, still smoking slightly. Constable Etreyo hates to get too close to the coil transformer, but she swallows her trepidation and peers over Dr. Elsinore's shoulder. A narrow figure lies on the stretcher, covered to the neck with a pink sheet. Dr. Elsinore holds a white globe in her hand, and in the dim soft light, Constable Etreyo sees the pale profile of the pretty chorus boy, who has been dead for three weeks. But Constable Etreyo has seen corpses that have been dead for three weeks, and they do not look this dewy and fresh. Their lips are not so full and red, and their cheeks are not so firm and round. Their hair does not curl so romantically over their marble-smooth foreheads.

Nor do their chests rise and fall as they breathe.

"This man is not dead," Constable Etreyo says.

"He was dead. But he is alive now," Dr. Ehle says proudly. "He has been revivified."

"How is this possible? Are you magicians?"

Dr. Ehle snorts. Dr. Elsinore shakes her head. "No, not magicians. scientists. Theo, you should explain. You are the genius behind this."

Dr. Ehle says, "I shall try to put it in layman's terms, Officer. The spark of life, as they call it, is really just a galvanic current that runs through our body, powers our brains, our muscles, our limbs. Upon death, this spark ceases. We can no longer move, no longer think. Our flesh, without the galvanic current to keep it warm, begins to decay, to die. I have simply restored the galvanic spark. And thus he lives again."

Constable Etreyo gingerly touches the chorus boy's cheek. It feels cool, but it also feels alive. "He is the Califa Squeeze," she says.

"No, he is not." Dr. Elsinore lifts the edge of the white sheet, revealing a white muscular arm — that ends in a neat stump. She says, "His hand is."

Constable Etreyo believes in science, but if she hadn't seen the proof of Dr. Elsinore's story before her own eyes, she would not have believed it, for the story seems more like a fairy tale than science. And yet there the proof lies, breathing faintly.

The body on the cot is not the dead chorus boy. Oh, the head is, and so is the right hand, and the left leg. The torso belongs to a blacksmith from Yucaipa who had an unfortunate accident with an anvil; the left leg came from an Atacasdero cowboy who fell under his horse during a stampede. Apparently, the doctors have been traveling around Califa, collecting body parts.

Dr. Elsinore says, "We would have preferred to use an entire body, of course, and not have to mix and match like this, but it's very hard to find an entire body in suitable condition. Most young fit people die in accidents, in a manner that renders parts of them unusable. Or they die whole, but their bodies are ravaged by disease. So I had to piece our perfect specimen together. The chorus boy provided the last bits."

"Adelaide is a genius with the needle," Dr. Ehle said. "She performed the surgery that allowed me to speak. She did a marvelous job on our boy."

"Isn't he lovely?" Dr. Elsinore makes a move to withdraw the sheet farther, and Constable Etreyo hastily stops her. Seeing a body cut up is bad enough, but seeing it stitched together, like a monstrous crazy quilt, somehow that seems much worse. She is content to use her imagination. As it is, she can now see the small black stitches around the base of the neck where the head has been attached to the trunk, and that's more than enough, thank you.

"The problem remains the blood," Dr. Ehle says musingly. "In a living being, the heart pumps the blood, and the blood circulates through the body, carrying with it oxygen and other vital nutrients. By the time I get my hands on blood, it's always sluggish and thick and will not circulate. So eventually the flesh will begin to decay, anyway, and the galvanic charge weakens down, and he will die again."

"The brain is a problem, too," Dr. Elsinore says. "The galvanic spark revivifies the body but does nothing for the brain. He is alive, but vegetative —"

"I tell you, a fresher brain will be the answer —" Dr. Ehle says.

"I don't think so, Theo. That doesn't solve —"

They sound as though they have had this argument before, and that it is a lengthy one. Etreyo interrupts, "But what about the hand, Doctor? How can it act alone?"

Dr. Ehle says, "A mistake. I always prime the body part with some galvanic current before I attach it, to ensure that the part is still fresh and works. I used too much current and gave the hand such a jolt that it became completely animated. It jumped off the table and skittered away, and though Dr. Elsinore and I tried to catch it, we failed. I thought it didn't matter; the galvanic current would wear off, and the hand would die again. I had no idea that it would prove so indomitable."

"And look what has happened," Dr. Elsinore says sorrowfully.

"Ayah, look what has happened," Constable Etreyo says grimly. "Four people dead, and an innocent man about to be hanged. And more important, the hand still out there. We have to catch it before it kills someone else. And in time to exonerate Nutter Norm."

As far as Etreyo can recall, Bertillo's System has no suggestions for catching murderous revivified hands. However, before Etreyo became a police o~cer, she worked two summers as a rat catcher, and it seems to her that the same principles should apply. She needs a trap and bait. The trap will be easy enough; it's the bait that proves perplexing. What would lure in a hand? Etreyo thinks back to the crimes and feels like an idiot not to have seen the connection between the jewelry before: the Squeeze only stole items it could wear. It has a taste for gimcracks. She needs bait that a vain luxury-loving hand will find irresistible. Dr. Elsinore, eager to help, provides the solution. What would prove more alluring to a hand than a lovely embroidered glove? She has just the thing tucked away in her portmanteau.

Constable Etreyo extracts from the doctors the promise that they will not leave the Octagon House until the case is closed and the hand is caught. Dr. Ehle agrees, but to her surprise, Dr. Elsinore insists on accompanying her. The cabbie still waits outside, asleep in his greatcoat; the fog is beginning to lift. Dawn is not far away. They ride back into the city and stop at the first hardware store they see, where Etreyo buys a rat trap with a voucher.

Nutter Norm had claimed he had found the bag of jewelry hidden in a duck's nest near Strawberry Pond in Abenfarax Park. The cabbie drops them off near the pond; Etreyo pays him with another voucher. In the early morning light, the grass is wet with dew, and the ducks are still in their nests. The pond is not far from the end of the Qhorsecar line. Another connection between the murders snaps into place, belatedly; they all occurred within a block of the Qline. The Squeeze had been commuting to its crimes.

"What if it's gone?" Dr. Elsinore asks worriedly as Etreyo tramps around the bushes, looking for a good place to put the trap. In a duck's nest, she finds a small horde of nail polish and emery boards. The Squeeze is also a shoplifter.

"It's still around," she says. "I just hope it's out getting more polish and not looking for more jewelry." She drops the glove into the trap and props the door open, then pushes the trap into the bushes.

"Perhaps the galvanic current has worn off," Dr. Elsinore says as they settle onto a park bench to wait.

"For Nutter Norm's sake, I hope not. The captain is not going to believe my report if I cannot present the hand as proof."

"But at least then we shall not have to worry about anyone else getting hurt. I will swear an affidavit," Dr. Elsinore says. "Surely the captain will not doubt me?"

Surely not. Etreyo says, "Let's and wait and see."

They wait and see. Foggy dawn fades into a warm blue day. The ducks leave their nests and take to the pond, swimming and diving. A group of small schoolchildren parade by, two by two, hand in hand, and are swarmed by the ducks, looking for stale bread. The chaper-ones look sideways at Dr. Elsinore and Constable Etreyo sitting so aimlessly on the bench. Eventually, the schoolchildren leave and the ducks go back to the water. The trap, hidden in the bushes, remains unsprung. A red dog arrives, chases a ball into the water, and then swims frantically around, barking at the ducks, until he's whistled away. The sun is getting warm. The trap springs and they rush to it, only to find an angry squirrel catapulting around inside. They release the squirrel and reset the trap. Dr. Elsinore goes to the pond chalet snack shop and comes back with two boxes of pink popcorn and two coffees. Etreyo is sweating and not because of the sun. It's almost noon; Norm's execution is scheduled for two
PM
.
She checks the trap again: nothing.

A horse cop clops by and asks them why are they are loitering. A flash of Etreyo's badge sends him on his way. Dr. Elsinore goes off to find a bathroom. It's almost one. The trap is still empty. Etreyo's imagination keeps sliding back to poor Nutter Norm. He's probably eating his last meal right about now; then he'll be dressed in the coarse sacking of his shroud. He never hurt anyone; his only crime was to be crazy and old. She could have saved him if she'd been smarter —

"Well, what a fine day to sit in the park."

Detective Wilkins sits down next to her. He holds two ice-cream cones. He offers her one. He smells of bay rum and roasted almonds, and the slight breeze is blowing his hair into romantic curls, gusting the edges of his cape dramatically.

"What do you want?" she demands, refusing the cone with a shake of her head.

"Just taking the air."

"I thought you'd be at the prison. That you'd want to see the fruits of your labor fulfilled."

"My job is done. I never linger when my job is done. The ice cream is dripping on my hand. I'll toss it."

She takes it. It's a pity to waste good ice cream, and besides, she's starving. She's had nothing to eat since that long-ago cheese waffle. The pink popcorn had stuck in her throat when she'd tried to eat it.

"You are not very nice to me, Constable. I only did my job."

"Tell that to Nutter Norm," Etreyo says, licking at her cone: salted caramel with orca bacon. Her favorite. She knows she should not be enjoying the ice cream while a man waits to die, but she is very hungry and the ice cream tastes very good.

"He had a miserable life. He is better off dead."

She tosses the cone away, the taste of the ice cream suddenly slick and sickening in her mouth. "That's not for you to judge —"

"Constable!" Dr. Elsinore says excitedly. She has returned and yanks excitedly on Etreyo's sleeve. "The trap has sprung."

"Trap? What trap?" Detective Wilkins asks.

She ignores him and hurriedly follows Dr. Elsinore into the bushes. It's probably just another squirrel, and in twenty minutes Nutter Norm will be dead.

But the thing in the trap is definitely not a squirrel.

The murderous hand has had a hard life since it escaped the doctors. Its nails are broken, rimmed with dirt. Its knuckles are bruised and its fingertips calloused. The wrist ends in a ragged, oozy wound. It looks more pathetic than horrifying. The hand throws itself upon the glove, clutches at it, tosses it up in the air, but, of course, one hand alone cannot put on a glove. Its anger and frustration is palpable.

"Poor thing," Dr. Elsinore says. "I think it needs medical attention."

"It killed four people," Etreyo says, gingerly hoisting the cage up. "Come on—we may still have time to save Nutter Norm."

"What the fike is that?" Once again Detective Wilkins blocks her way. But this time he's not looking at her; his attention is focused on the trap.