The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (36 page)

A paw struck into the filth. Cane heard the splash. It was far bigger than what a rat’s little claws would make. He swung his shotgun around, just in time to see some dark, blurry shape hurtling towards him through the tunnel. It drew closer and Cane saw that it was a rat – but far larger than a rat should be. This creature seemed more like a ragged, large dog, with a matted coat, hairless, twisting tail and eyes like dying coals in a dead fire. The rat bounded towards him, moving quickly over the sewer floor. There was little time to act.

Cane raised his shotgun and fired, just as the rat leapt for him. One of the barrels thundered away. In the enclosed space of the sewer, the gunshot made Cane’s ears ring. His shot cut the giant rat in half. Bloody bits of the rodent splashed down into the sewage, staining the greenish water red. Cane raised his lantern as he heard more rats approaching.

“Giant rats,” Cane muttered. He slammed open his shotgun and slid in a fresh round. “Guess those wealthy men weren’t spitting falsehoods after all.” There had to be something supernatural here, making these rats grow to a giant size and seek his flesh. He’d have to get to the bottom of it. His shotgun thundered again, aiming at sound and movement. A rat squealed, cut down in mid-charge. But it wasn’t alone.

Before Cane knew it, half a dozen more of the rats had reached him. They seemed to appear from nowhere, like they had crept out of the walls themselves. The giant rats lunged up and snapped at him and Cane struggled to gain ground and fight back. One of the rats scratched him, a jagged claw slashing past his leg like a stiletto blade. Cane kicked the rat in its furry snout and it stumbled back with a squeal. He lashed out with his boots and the butt of his gun, doing his best to drive them back. Another rat sunk a fang into his forearm, but he ignored the pain and sudden flash of blood. When the rats were far enough away, Cane raised his shotgun and fired it again, doing his best to ignore the sheer noise of the gunshots. Rats flipped back from him, their bodies shattered.

One of them scurried away. Cane saw it dash out of the circle of light from his lantern and gave chase. He pounded through the sewage, feeling like the cement walls were closing in on him. The only light came from his lantern and it swung and bounced with his every step. Shadows leapt and danced on the walls. Smaller rats were underfoot. Cane could feel them crawling through the sewage, running over his legs. There seemed to be far too many of them.

The giant rat stopped in front of him. Cane’s own feet skidded to a halt, kicking up putrid juices from the sewer floor. He raised his shotgun, only half wondering why the rat had stopped running. He took aim, reaching for the trigger and preparing to blast the giant rodent into red shreds. That’s when he heard the squeaking from the sides.

Ambushes and traps were a thing Cane understood. He’d ridden against the Apache, and knew that they could use a few snipers and riflemen to turn any canyon into a death trap for countless cavalry troopers. He still had some memories, drifting back from the bodies that composed him, of riding with Quantrill, Bloody Bill Anderson and the Confederate partisans, and had bushwhacked Yankee patrols time and time again. But he never figured to be led into a trap by rats.

They came roaring out every shadow and crevice and wrapped over Cane. He swung his shotgun around and fired, unloading both barrels in a storm of lead. Gore spewed into the green sewer water and then the rats were on him. There were all sizes, from the normal rodents to the rats that rivaled dogs for size, and everything in between.

Cane slipped backwards, his hands darting down to his revolvers. They were up and firing but then the rats were on top of him, biting and clawing with a thousand paws and mouths. He was bleeding in a dozen places in a matter of seconds. Then he toppled over and struck down into the sewage.

It splashed around him. The smell was overpowering. Cane wanted to retch, but told himself not to. He rolled over and forced himself to stand. He dropped the lantern. There was no point in seeing the rats now. He just had to get away. Instead, he grabbed his revolvers, holding one in each hand. He fired, blasting both pistols at the rats at his feet. They died all around him. He started to run. Rats tried to cling onto him, but they fell off and splashed into the sewage.

The flashes of gunfire let him look ahead through the sudden blazes of light. He could feel weakness seeping into him, his strength dripping away through a thousand cuts. Blood dripped into his eyes and he did his best to ignore it. Cane stared ahead and then he saw it – the rungs of a ladder in the wall. A manhole cover had to be above it. That was a way out of the sewer – and away from the rats.

With a final grunt, Cane ran for it. He was filthy, bleeding and weak, with a few rats still clinging onto him. The last of his pistol shots cracked off and then he reached the ladder. He gripped it tightly and began to pull himself up. The weight was almost too much. He felt like he had lost too much blood. He gritted his teeth and kept climbing and then he reached the end of the ladder.

The rats were coming after him. Cane could hear them making their way up the ladder. Some went by the rungs, while others used their claws and crevices to clamber straight up the wall. Cane looked down and reached for his knife. He drew it out and gripped it tightly, just as the rats were reaching his boots. One of the larger rats was close enough to take a bite. Cane kicked down, slamming his boot into the rat’s skull and sending it squealing back down into the sewers.

He jammed the knife at the edge of the manhole cover. His wrists ached. The rest of him did too. The manhole cover creaked open and a little sliver of sunlight crept in. It was like staring into a bonfire. Cane’s eyes hurt but he forced them open. He rammed his shoulder against the manhole cover and it creaked and flipped open, falling hard on the pavement. Somehow, he managed to climb out and sprawl weakly on the street.

A few rats followed him up, but they scattered in the sunlight and hurried away. Cane rolled over, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes for a few moments and felt something white and hot burn inside of him. His eyes slipped open. The whiteness seemed to stay. Cane slowly pulled himself up and looked around. He still hadn’t caught his breath.

The people of Van Wessel Street stared at him. Even the street vendors had fallen silent as they watched him take a limping, stumbling step in no particular direction. Cane knew what he must look like – a monster, coated in filth and blood, which had just emerged from the sewer. He wondered how true that was. After all, he was working for the men who kept Van Wessel Street poor – and he certainly was monstrous enough.

Cane took a single step. He looked up at the tenements. They towered above him, blocking out the cold gray sky. They seemed gray as tomb stones. The tenement buildings shifted as Cane struggled to move. Each one seemed like a single claw on a gigantic hand. Before Cane could take another step, the hand flexed and the fingers closed. They smothered him in darkness and he collapsed in a heap on the street.

He awoke in pain. The hundreds of cuts and bites seemed to flare to life, one by one, until they were all blazing at once. Cane felt something soft beyond them and realized it was a bed. His duster was gone and his shirt open. Bandages had been set over his deeper wounds, with even a few on his face. Clayton Cane forced his eyes open and did his best to ignore the pain. He tried to sit up.

“No, no, sir. There’s no need for that. Just lie back now.” It was a kind voice, feminine and with an Irish lilt. Cane was sitting in some cramped tenement apartment, a small window overlooking the crowded street below. It was unadorned and empty, with bare wooden floors and an open door overlooking the cold cement hall and stairwell where other boarders crowded into the hall. They all had to be curious about him.

Slowly, he turned and looked at the woman who saved him. Her gray hair was in a tight bun that seemed to pull at the skin of her face and she wore a dress of faded calico. Her crooked nose and wrinkled face surrounded two brilliantly blue eyes, which were wide and kind and sad. She handed Cane the flask of whiskey from his coat and he knocked it back without a word.

“My name is Rose Corcoran, sir,” she explained. “I’ve lived in this room for years, just by myself now, and help the people around me when I can. I saw you outside and knew you were one that could use some assistance.”

“I’m obliged to you,” Cane replied, the whiskey settling warmly in his chest. “You patched me up good.” He looked away from Rose. “Name’s Clayton Cane.”

“I did my best, sir.” Rose pulled aside the whiskey. She looked over her shoulder, at the crowded hallway. “They’re all curious about you, Mr. Cane – and I must admit, I am as well. It is not every day that you see a fellow emerge from the sewer, dripping with refuse and bitten by rats. We know you were hired by the men in Algonquin Hall, but we didn’t know why. Killing rats hardly seems like something a man of your type would do.”

“It ain’t.” Cane grunted and sat up. He pulled himself off the bed and tested his legs on the ground, before coming to his feet. His guns, coat and hat lay in a pile at the foot of the bed. Cane reached for them. “Bounty hunting’s my trade, but I’ll kill just about anything if the price is right. For these rats, it was.” He set his hat firmly on his head.

“So you work for Varrick and Talbot and McCall?” Rose asked. “They are wretched men, Mr. Cane – criminals and scum, the lot of them. Why, if you only know what they did—”

Her words made him pause. “What did they do, ma’am?” he asked. “Anything that would set these rats on them?”

“Well, I don’t know. There are all sorts of strange things in this city – ghost stories and the like. But that’s the same as anywhere in this country, isn’t it? We come here from County Kerry, or Calabria, or any place, and we bring our ghosts and our fears with us. And when we find the same kind of cruel men in power as we did back home, then we fear even more. I think that might be the case here.”

“You been in this street long, ma’am?” Cane wondered.

“Nearly all my life.” Rose walked down the hall, to her open door. She closed it gently. “I do work around the building here, minding children for some of the families and cleaning up when I can. These folks don’t have much to pay, but it’s enough to live on.”

“And your husband?” Cane asked.

“Dead and gone, with our three children to keep him company by the right hand of God.” Rose lowered her eyes. “I’ve been living here for a long time, Mr. Cane, since their passing. I hear all manner of gossip and I know that a good deal of it is far too horrible to be true. That must be the case with what happened to Father Badalamenti.”

Cane sat down on the bed and folded his hands. He got the feeling he was closing in on the truth. “Father Badalmenti,” he repeated. “An Italian priest?”

“Yes, Mr. Cane. He ministered for the little church, just down the road – though no one goes there now. It is haunted, they say. Father Furio Badalamenti was the priest’s name and he was a good man. I’ve heard that many of my countrymen doubt that the Italians even share our faith. They don’t consider them Catholics at all. But I know that can’t be true. Father Badalamenti was a man of God if ever there was one. And that’s why they killed him.”

“You mean Varrick, Talbot and McCall?”

“That’s right.” Rose Corcoran sat down next to him. “Father Badalamenti spoke out against them. He told the workers in Talbot’s sweatshops and the tenants in his buildings to demand their rights and stop their labor. He told the men to stop losing their money to drinking and dice games at McCall’s establishments. He even told everyone not to vote for Algonquin Hall’s candidates in the elections and risk getting thrashed by McCall’s thugs. Father Badalamenti tried to make things better for the people on Van Wessel Street. I believe you can imagine what happened next.”

“Yeah,” Cane muttered. He knew Talbot, Varrick and McCall had committed all manner of sins to stay in power – and he was still taking their money and working for them. Maybe hearing it just removed the doubts in his mind. “But you can tell me anyway.”

Rose’s voice faltered. “I don’t know the details. Like I said, I heard all this secondhand, from rumors. But these rumors say that Talbot and Varrick gave the order and McCall and his gangsters carried it out. They found Badalamenti in his church and beat him bloody with fists, boots and clubs, and then drew their knives and slashed him to pieces. But the truly horribly thing is what happened next – McCall brought in a few rats from one of his baits, which he had starved in a cage for days, and then unleashed them on Badalmenti. When the poor man could suffer no longer, McCall shot him through the head.”

So that was what happened. Cane could imagine what came next. He had seen it often enough. Father Badalamenti’s spirit, still full of rage and sadness from his untimely death, had sunk into the rats of Van Wessel Street. The rats had been trying to get revenge – so Varrick, Talbot and McCall had gone and hired Clayton Cane to protect them.

“Will you stop these rats, Mr. Cane?” Rose asked. “You’ll do like those horrid masters of Van Wessel Street ask?”