The Falling Machine (17 page)

“Sir Dennis was my friend!” she blurted out.

He nodded. “I know. He loved you very much, almost as much as if you were his own daughter. But that didn't stop you from nearly being killed on the bridge, and it didn't save his life. I should have never let you go!”

Sarah felt a tightness across her chest even beyond the corset. She stared straight into his eyes, and he turned away before he started to speak. “If you had died up there…”

Alexander shook his head, obviously trying to halt his tears, but Sarah already knew that he would never let them fall. “If that maniac had killed you I would have lost both you
and
your mother to enemies of the Paragons, and that simply can't happen. I won't let it!” His face was red now, and he had let anger wipe away the sadness.

“You can't protect me forever, Father.”

“No, you're right. Keeping you safe is something your husband should be doing.”

“My husband?” she said with a laugh.

They both sat there in silence for a moment, and Sarah continued to wrestle with her own tongue. She wanted to shout at him and tell him that she was her own woman. She certainly didn't need a husband to protect her! But her mind betrayed her, playing back images of that horrible morning: the spear, the screams, her hands covered in the blood of Sir Dennis and Nathaniel. It had been everywhere, and there was so much of it. The wetness, and the smell of it…

She didn't realize she was crying until she heard the sound of her tears landing on the fabric of her dress.

“Oh, Sarah,” her father said. He stood up and crossed the distance between them, easily rounding the edge of the table that had done such an effective job of smashing into her hip.

His arms enfolded her, along with a familiar scent of tobacco and wool. Once again he had succeeded in reducing her to the state of a child, although at least this time it genuinely did make her feel a bit better.

The moment was interrupted by a series of sharp knocks at the door. Alexander Stanton stood up. “Not now, O'Rourke!”

“I'm sorry, sir,” came the muffled reply through the wood, “but a gentleman has delivered a note. He said it was urgent that you give him your response at once.”

He leaned back down to her and whispered, “I'm sorry, Sarah. It will only be a moment.”

She looked up at her father and tried to give him a brave smile. At least the tears had stopped. “Don't worry. I'll be all right.”

He nodded and headed toward the exit.

“And Father?” she continued, catching his attention just as his hand settled on the doorknob. “If you could close the door behind you…I'll need a minute to compose myself.”

“Of course, Sarah,” he said with a warmth in his voice that she had rarely heard since her mother had died. “Take all the time you need.”

He opened the door and marched into the corridor.

“All right, O'Rourke,” he said, slamming the door shut behind him. His voice melted away into muffled sounds.

Sarah sat alone for a moment. Through all the other emotions there was a sense of glee that she had managed to escape from the closet without being detected.

Feeling the itch of the tears on her face, she reached into her pocket to try to find a handkerchief, but it was gone—probably confiscated by accident when Jenny took the cloth.

She wiped her sleeve across her cheeks, leaving a shiny slick along the dark silk. She rubbed away what remained of her tears as best she could with her hands, then wiped her damp palms against her skirts.

“All right, Sarah Stanton,” she said to herself, “one, two, and up!” She rose from the chair and sprinted over to the safe. Sarah grabbed the frame and gave the portrait a hard tug, expecting it to pull out as easily as it had gone in. Instead there was a loud “tunk” as wood struck metal.

“What?” Sarah pulled again, but the painting was, against all logic, stuck. She spent a few moments trying to manipulate the image back and forth, but somehow it had grabbed hold of the metal box.

Sarah felt panic rising up in her throat. She had no idea how long her father would be gone, but it seemed likely that after such a rare moment of genuine emotion between them he'd be eager to come back and see his daughter. If he found her fighting with his portrait…

Letting go of the painting she walked around to the other side of the safe. From this angle it was obvious what had gone wrong. A particularly ornate rococo flourish had entangled itself on the safe's back leg. She freed the painting by shoving it with her foot and tilting it forward, clearing space in front of the frame.

Running back to the other side of the iron box she slid the image out as easily as she had initially expected to. There was another small bit of damage where the gilt had been mashed into the leg, but it was a small-enough blemish that he might still not notice it.

Jenny would certainly see it, but it was obvious that she was already well aware that the picture had been moved, and by whom. Sarah would need to make the maid promise her silence, although she believed that their friendship might be enough that she'd at least ask Sarah before giving her up to her father.

She dragged the picture along the floor to the back wall, then rotated it so that it was facing the right way up underneath the picture hook.

As she slid it up the wall she cursed herself again for bothering to take it down in the first place. “But there's nothing for it.” She felt the seams on her jacket complain as she lifted her arms up to try to get it back in position.

“Drat!” Not only was the frame refusing to hang, but she couldn't even feel the hook pressing up against the wire.

Lifting it up over her head she peered underneath to see why it hadn't caught. The wire was long and slack, hanging down to the midway point. There was no way she'd be able to lift the portrait high enough for the wire to reach the hook.

The pump was already primed from her conversation with her father a few minutes before, and she felt tears of frustration about to flow again. The picture, her bustle, the hook, Jenny…everything—
“Everything!”
—seemed to be conspiring against her in an attempt to betray her to her father.

Sarah let the painting sink to the floor and took a moment to collect her thoughts. If her father could hold back his tears with nothing more than sheer force of will, then she could do the same!

From somewhere outside in the hall she heard the sound of her father's voice. Sarah froze. For an instant she was sure he was on his way back, and that she had finally lost.

But as the volume rose she realized that it was simply him shouting at someone. She could only hope that whoever it was who had the misfortune of being the target of her father's temper, he or she had committed a great enough sin that Sarah would have the time she needed to finish hanging the image.

She pushed her father's chair away from the desk until the back of it was up against the wall. The contraption didn't look too stable, and it was not something that she would consider using as a stepladder under normal circumstances, but it would have to do.

Sliding the picture upward, she tilted the frame back and stepped onto the chair. The springs gave a mighty creak as they took her weight, but it all seemed relatively stable as long as she kept her weight forward.

As she lifted the painting into place she realized that she was staring nose-to-nose with the image of her father. Ignoring his disapproving gaze, she gave the painting a final nudge, hopping the edge up and over the dreaded hook. Then, lifting her arms up as high as they could go, she slowly lowered it back down, letting out a sigh of relief as she felt the weight lifting off her hands.

Her modest celebration was interrupted by the sound of shoes tapping back down the corridor. She felt herself tipping backward, and she hopped off the chair, scooting it into position behind the desk place.

Realizing that she would never make it back to her side of the desk in time, she grabbed a book randomly from a nearby shelf. Just as she read the title her father burst through the door. His face was red and shining with perspiration.

She closed the cover of the volume in her hand and slid it back into its place. “Is everything all right?”

He looked over at her and scowled. “I didn't know you cared for war histories.”

Sarah frowned back at him. “If you left me in here much longer who knows what I might have decided to learn about next.” Both of their eyes went to the gas lamp on the wall.

“Sarah, I don't have to tell you…”

Sarah gave a slight smile. “Don't worry, Father. I won't go uncovering any more of your secrets.”

He pulled out her chair and pushed it forward as she sat down. “You know I only want to keep you safe.”

“I know.”

He began to walk around the edge of the table, and then glanced up at the image on the wall. “That's odd…”

“What?” Sarah asked, her voice catching in her throat for a second. “Is something wrong?”

He grabbed the edge of the frame and gave the picture a slight nudge. “It's crooked. I could have sworn it was perfectly straight when I walked out of here.”

Sarah suppressed a grin. “Well, it's perfect now.”

“That's the problem with having help around the house. Nothing is ever exactly where you want it to be.” He sat in his chair and leaned back. “Now where were we?”

Sarah could think of a dozen other topics that she'd rather discuss than her looming spinsterhood. “What was the message?”

He looked up at her, any attempt at finding continuity with their previous conversation totally wiped away. “What? You mean just now?”

Sarah nodded.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with. Peter Wickham—”

“You mean the Sleuth?” she said innocently.

“Exactly right.” He tapped the table and moved his lips back and forth, clearly deciding whether this was something he should share with his daughter. “Well, it seems the old man has reactivated the Automaton, against my express wishes.”

“That's beastly!” she replied.

“Well, I think he had a soft spot for the machine since he and Darby were such…close friends, and I—”

“No, I mean you
deactivated
the Automaton? He's one of you—a Paragon!”

He let out a sigh. “I knew I shouldn't have said anything. I'd forgotten that you were friendly with it as well.”

“Him.” Sarah said, trying to calm herself down. Her fake outrage felt all too real, and having just escaped from the frying pan, she realized that she didn't need to be playing with fire.

There was no telling which tiny mistake it might be that would alert her father to the fact that she'd helped to revive the mechanical man. But Sarah was a Stanton just as much as her father was, and sometimes her temper seemed to get the better of her,
especially
where her father was concerned.

“It
, Sarah—just an infernal machine and nothing more. Not a man in any of the ways that truly count.”

Her face went red as she realized what he meant. “Father!”

“Sarah, you're not a child anymore, and the world I live in has become far too dangerous for you to be around. You have your whole life ahead of you, and it won't be filled with decrepit inventors and clockwork men.”

“Father, I can—”

He stood up from his chair. “I should have mentioned this before now, but it's what I brought you in here to tell you: I've taken over Darby's place. I'm the leader of the Paragons now.”

“Oh!” she said, genuinely surprised. Dark thoughts raced through her head as she realized how he had profited from Darby's demise.

She pushed down her suspicions and forced herself to pay attention to her father. “But it also means that whatever danger this family was in before is doubled now. Darby's murderer is still out there somewhere, and I wouldn't be surprised to discover that he's coming for me next.”

Sarah considered it very unlikely. After all, they already had the Alpha Element. But…“The Children of Eschaton are coming,” she mumbled to herself.

“What was that?” her father asked.

She said it louder this time. “The Children of Eschaton are coming. That's what the Bomb Lance told me to tell you. He said there was nothing you could do to stop them.”

He smiled. It was both paternal and patronizing at the same time, but maybe that was part of being a father. “Sarah, villains always say that. Well, the madmen do, at least.

“They all think they have a master plan that will be the end of us. But in the end, so far at least, they make the mistake of thinking that anger and greed alone can defeat righteous and honorable men.”

“I understand, Father. I'll try not to worry, then.” She stood up. “And congratulations. I'm sure you'll be a great leader.”

He came around the table toward her. “I know it hasn't been easy for you, Sarah, being raised by me. It hasn't been easy for either of us since your mother died, but I do care about you.” He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her a second time.

This time, with her father's arms holding her to his chest, she didn't feel like a child at all anymore. Sarah felt as if she were very old indeed.

“I love you, Sarah,” he said to her, and tightened his hold, but after all the ups and downs of the last few hours she realized that she had no more emotions to be squeezed out of her. She put her arms around him anyway.

“I love you too, Father,” she replied. Right now all she could do was hug her father hard enough to make him feel better.

W
ickham furrowed his brow as he ran, trying to gather his thoughts. His lungs were burning from the exertion and the large quantities of the frosty air that he was pulling in through his nose.

While his body might not be as strong or reliable as it once had been, his mind was as sharp as ever. There was a slight concern, however, as he reviewed the path of the maze in his mind, that Brandon had taken them in a complete circle before he had brought him back into the cul-de-sac where the ambush had taken place. And that meant that even if he went the right way, they'd still be waiting for him before he could escape. But would the Ruffian even be able to pull off a scheme like that? He prayed the German was truly as big a buffoon as he appeared to be.

He made a sharp left and relaxed when he saw the street a few yards ahead of him. Once he escaped the maze he would be relatively safe. They could chase him, but assaulting him in public would mean police, or at the very least witnesses.

As he burst into daylight, Wickham's feeling of triumph instantly evaporated. He hadn't managed to reach the street at all. Instead it was another cul-de-sac—this one even smaller than the one he had just escaped from, and no more useful.

From behind him he heard gleeful shouts from Jack and his thugs. “We've got him now, boys!” The tone of the man's voice was truly the most atrocious blend of London and New York accents he had ever heard. Wickham would at least tell him that before he died.

He turned around to face his pursuers, holding up his stick as menacingly as he could manage. If he was doomed, then he'd go down fighting.

He hoped it would be Jack who came through first. He'd taken down big men like the Ruffian before, but it was the ability of the marksman to attack him at range that put him at the biggest disadvantage.

As he steeled himself for the final confrontation he felt something slip around his shoulders. Before he could react it yanked tight, pinning his arms to his sides. He gasped when he realized that he'd been roped and was rising up into the air.

It was painful and awkward, and by the time he had devised a plan to struggle free, he was already too far off the ground to avoid plummeting to his death. And even if he could survive the fall, he'd end up face-to-face with his pursuers.

With the next jerk of the rope the cane fell from his hand and dropped to the ground below. It bounced back into the air a single time before clattering across the cobblestones and finally rolling to a stop next to a pile of rubbish in the gutter.

Wickham looked up to the rooftops to try to see who it was who had captured him, wondering if it was friend or foe. But what he discovered was not an answer to that question. Though the details were hidden by the glare of the sun, the distinctive shape of the mask above made it obvious that he had once again been rescued by Anubis.

The enigmatic figure in black made no noise as he pulled the Sleuth up to the rooftop. He simply, and steadily, lifted the rope up hand over hand, as if he were pulling up an anchor from the bottom of the sea.

A few feet before he came to the ledge, Wickham heard a commotion beneath him and looked down to see three figures entering the courtyard below. “No use hiding, Sleuth,” Jack yelled out. His voice was filled with anger and anticipation. “But if you come out without making us look for you then I'll promise to kill you quickly.” At least his promises were getting more believable.

When Anubis finally grabbed him, the hands that dragged him up and over the edge of the roof were impressively powerful—close to, if not stronger than, the ones that had so recently been wrapped around his neck. But they also had a surprisingly gentle quality to them, and they placed the Sleuth softly onto the rooftop, standing upright on his feet.

Wickham began to ask “Why?” but found a gloved hand placed over his mouth. The masked figure shook his head and then pointed downward. They would need to remain silent until the others had left.

Wickham exhaled as softly as he could and leaned back against a brick chimney. Robbed of the urgency that had given him his strength, it seemed as if there was no longer a single joint in his body that hadn't joined the screaming choir that was telling him that he had pushed himself far too much for a man his age.

But even through the pain, he could hear the angry shouts from his pursuers as they went from taunting their cornered prey to the slow realization that he had somehow managed to escape them.

“I know you're in here somewhere, old man!” Jack yelled, but the tone of his voice made it obvious that he wasn't
actually
so sure.

The Sleuth let go of the chimney and took a long breath. He was rewarded with a series of popping sounds as his joints tried to settle back into place. If he actually was safe, and Anubis didn't end their meeting by dropping him off the roof, it would take him days to recover and realign himself. And even then he would need to find some pills and powders to dull the pain.

Peering over the edge he saw the round German using his massive arms to dismember a pile of trash. The round man paused for a second and then reached down to pick up the grubby walking stick. “I found something,” he said, holding it up.

Jack stalked over and grabbed it out of his hand.

“I think this belonged to him,” Brandon said.

Jack raised it up over his head menacingly, and the fat man cowered. “I know that, you jackass.” It was an amusing sight, like a fox threatening a bear. He lowered it without striking him. “But where the hell did he go? He can't fly, can he?”

Jack's head turned upward to make sure that he was wrong. Wickham realized that the sun was at his back, and if the villain turned his way he'd see him perfectly outlined against the clear blue sky.

A voice boomed out from the alleyway, and every head turned to look toward it, including the Sleuth's. “No, he can't fly, but they call him the ‘cleverest man in the world’ for a reason.”

Jack nodded. “Anubis. I was just wondering where you'd got to.”

“I was searching the rooftops. As far as I can tell he figured out where the false wall was and escaped the maze.”

“You're sure?” Brandon took off his top hat and wiped the sweat out of his brow. “He didn't see it as he came in.”

Anubis turned to face him. “No one doubts you
think
he didn't see it. But you can keep digging through garbage if you like.”

Jack stood frozen for a moment and then let out a shout. “This is your fault!” He pulled out a knife and flicked it at the man in black.

Anubis deflected the blade casually, almost as if this were a common occurrence between them, but his next words made it clear that it wasn't. “Try that again, and I'll knock the next one back into your throat.”

Jack sniggered. “Impossible.”

“Let's find out.”

Jack pointed a finger at him instead. “This is still your fault, mystery man. I don't care why you did it, but
you're
going to be the one to tell Lord Eschaton what happened and why, not me.” He began walking back into the maze. “C'mon Brandon. We're going to need to strip everything out of here before the Paragons come.”

Brandon bumbled after him, as did the other lackeys. “But I like it there,” he said with the tone of a petulant child. The echoing sound of footsteps vanished quickly.

Wickham looked around to see where Anubis had gone, but there was no trace. He'd been abandoned, and as tired and beaten as he was, he'd still need to find some way down from the rooftop. There were no obvious fire escapes, and he didn't have any idea what was actually inside the building he was standing on.

The sun was completely hidden by clouds now, and even though the wind had died down, it felt much colder. “It'll snow soon,” he remarked to no one in particular. It would be just his luck to escape from a cadre of villains only to freeze to death on a random rooftop somewhere on the West Side. “Sleuth found frozen in his tracks!” the paperboys would yell. It was the kind of sensational headline that editors killed for.

Shaking off his morbid thoughts, he took a step back from the edge of the roof and felt something poking his back. As he jumped forward with surprise, Wickham stumbled over a seam in the tin roof and tumbled toward the edge until a steady hand grabbed him by the back of his collar. When he turned around Anubis was standing there like a mysterious statue.

Wickham held out his hand. “We seem to have gotten into a very bad habit of having you save my life.”

Anubis grasped it and gave a single, firm shake. “Consider it repayment for everything you've done for this city over the years.”

“So, you've heard of me.” Now that he was no longer fighting for his life, Wickham noticed how flat the man managed to keep the tone of his voice at all times. Anubis had let no hint of emotion creep into his words, and his neutral cadence revealed nothing of his origin. He was, for all practical purposes, invisible to the Sleuth's methods of deduction. But there were other ways….“I thought you worked for that Eschaton fellow?”

“They found me. I said yes.”

“But you're not his man?”

Wickham could see the outline of his jaw as it clenched under his mask. It was good to see that beneath his leather covering Anubis was at least a bit more human than the Automaton. “I'm not
anyone's
man but my own, Mr. Wickham. There are, I'm sure you'll agree, many methods of disguise and infiltration. Some are simply more effective in particular cases.”

The Sleuth let his response sink in and then smiled. “Ahh, I see. Touché.”

Wickham reached up and felt his whiskers. They hadn't been peeling off at all; he had simply been outsmarted. “But for all the indignities I've suffered today, I'm still no closer to finding out who it was who killed Dennis Darby.”

“I can give you the name of his killer. The Bomb Lance is a man named Martin Murphy. He lives on the top floor of a tenement building on Allen and Grand.

“But you must have already deduced that there is more going on here than simple revenge. If you want to find out the reasons behind the assassination of your friend, then you'll need to know more than the name of the thug who pulled the trigger.”

“Like the whys and wherefores behind the Children of Eschaton…” The Sleuth reached his hands high up into the air and felt some satisfying pops run down his spine as some of the bones and muscles fell back into place. Perhaps it would only take a couple of days to recover….Even so, there was a painful catch in his back that spoke of pains to come. Perhaps he would treat himself to a massage when he got home.

Anubis watched him quietly for a moment before replying.”I need your help. There are things I can't find out by myself. I'm already under suspicion.” The Sleuth thought he could sense a note of annoyance in the man's voice.

“I can only imagine what they'll do to you for rescuing me.”

“I can handle Jack Knife and his crew. Jack may like to pretend that I'm an errand boy, but Lord Eschaton trusts me more.”

“And how do I know I can trust you?”

The Sleuth noticed that Anubis's gloved hand tightened around the metal pole. “Because I am going to tell you something that is absolutely true. It is asomething that you may have, up until now, only suspected.”

“And what is that?”

“One of”—As the second word came out of Anubis's mouth, the pieces that had been so jumbled inside of Wickham's mind slid into place. He knew the rest of what Anubis was going to say to him, even before he said it. “—the Paragons is a traitor.”

“So I was right….” It came out in a whispered croak. “But who is it?”

“I don't know, but I'm trying to find out.”

Wickham shrugged off his coat. The cold bit into him, even through the padding of his disguise. He needed to know more from his friend in black than words alone would tell him. “Don't know, or won't tell me?”

The Sleuth took a quick, aggressive step toward Anubis, and his motion was matched almost exactly by a step back. Wickham was impressed. The man's reflexes were lightning fast, totally smooth, and utterly practiced.

He took another step forward, and this time found himself chest-to-chest with the other man.

“I don't know,” Anubis replied. He was almost a foot taller than the Sleuth, and tilted his head down to look at him.

From this close vantage point there was nothing more disconcerting to Wickham than the way Anubis's mask completely hid his eyes from view. He could only see darkness and shadow behind the holes in the mask. “Is it worth it?” he asked.

“I am not lying to you!” Anubis replied with obvious anger in his voice. The intensity had put something into his words—a trace of something identifiable.

“And I'm not accusing you of lying,” he replied. “I'm simply wondering if you think it's worth obscuring your vision to hide your identity.”

The jackal mask leaned closer to him. “You won't find the answers you're looking for that way.”

“Fine,” replied Wickham. “Then let's try this.” He kicked the rod out of Anubis's hand, sending it clattering across the tin rooftop.

The figure in black reacted immediately to the attack, dropping backward and crouching defensively.