The Jekyll Revelation Page 30

  As if all the talk of riots had given rise to one, we heard in the distance a low swell of noise—a murmur of many voices, the tramping of many feet. Several heads were turned towards the French windows, including that of the police commissioner.

  ‘What’s that?’ Symonds said.

  ‘The symphony of insurrection, if I’m not mistaken,’ Henley said, tossing his napkin on the table and tucking his crutch under his arm.

  The servants were already attempting to draw the draperies, but Henley brushed one of them aside, threw open the windows, and stepped out onto the balcony overlooking Pall Mall. Others quickly followed, until even Symonds and I had left our chairs.

  I can only compare the sound to the rumble of distant thunder. The club members, some with brandy glasses in their hands, bent their heads towards each other, muttering of rebellion and foreign influences, Marxists and Irish malcontents. Even George Bernard Shaw, a noted Fabian, was singled out for calumny.

  But the rumble grew louder, and though nothing could yet be seen, Sir Charles Warren advised that all the electric lights in the club be extinguished. ‘Turn them off!’ he cried to the staff. ‘And tell everyone to stand clear of the windows.’

  In the Bloody Sunday riot the year before, all the windows in Mansion House and other fine homes along the route of the rioters had been smashed by bricks and stones.

  Henley had his note pad out and was already scribbling in it when the first wave came into view, surging around the corner with bullhorns blaring, banners waving, posters jabbing at the sky like lances.

  ‘Inside, all of you!’ Warren called out. ‘You’ll only serve as a further provocation.’ But the curiosity was too great, the spectacle too mesmerizing. A few cowards scurried back into the dining room, but the rest of us stayed on the balcony to watch the tide of history come on. In a darkened doorway across the street, I glimpsed what might have been a forward scout—a burly fellow in a deerstalker hat—lurking.

  Could it possibly be?

  ‘We’ve got ringside seats!’ Henley exulted, clapping Symonds on the shoulder. ‘And we’ve got you to thank!’

  ‘It was not a planned entertainment,’ he said.

  I craned my neck to catch another glimpse of the scout, but that doorway—indeed, the whole of Pall Mall—was eclipsed by the vanguard shouting slogans and epithets and brandishing fists at the façade of the Athenaeum. When they realized its members were observing them from behind the balustrade, the shouts grew louder and the curses more colourful. Four or five of them, in tattered jackets and caps, stretched out a banner that read, ‘We want jobs—not Jack!’

  Henley jotted it down. ‘Not bad, that.’

  A younger member of the club, plainly in his cups, staggered to the front of the balcony, and after surveying the mob, ostentatiously pinched his fingers to his nose as if smelling something unbearable.

  The brick that came flying up at him hit with deadly accuracy. The man went down on the flagstones like a poleaxed cow, a huge cheer went up from the crowd, and within seconds a barrage of bricks and rocks and bottles had thoroughly demolished every window in the club.

  TOPANGA CANYON—CALIFORNIA

  Present Day

  For the tenth time, Laszlo rummaged through the old clothes in the trunk—the battered top hat, the black cape, cotton gloves, a leather satchel like a doctor might carry, looking for something of any value. Axel had told him he’d have to pay rent for the privilege of living at the Compound, and Laszlo had almost laughed in his face. Rent, to live in this fucking barn and sleep on a stained mattress on a rotting old bunk bed? With Seth and Alfie snoring six feet away? Axel should have been paying him.

  Still, he did need to raise some dough fast. He had his own little habits to feed—mostly liquor, with drugs a close second—and the only thing in this trunk that could conceivably have any value was a tarnished and dented old flask. It took a while to get the lid unscrewed, but the minute he did, the smell of alcohol was so strong it was like he’d been punched in the face. Phew! He sniffed at it, and the closest he could guess was brandy. Very old brandy. Brandy that had been aging for an eternity. Laszlo had always been told that the older it was, the better and more potent it would be. By that standard, this stuff had to be dynamite.

  “I thought I’d find you in here, dipshit,” Roy said, barging through the door of the barn. Laszlo quickly screwed the top back on the flask and stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans.

  Seth and Alfie were loitering behind Roy as he said, “Guess what? You’re coming with us.”

  “Where?”

  “On a nature walk.”

  Even if it was a joke, Laszlo didn’t like the sound of that. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, I do,” Roy said, running one hand over his shaved head, “because if you don’t, I will have to beat the living shit out of you, right here. Now, put your boots on and get out to the truck.”

  Roy went back outside, leaving Seth and Alfie smirking in the doorway. “You don’t get no free rides from Axel,” Alfie said, turning the brim of his baseball cap backward. “And you better bring some water—it’s a bitch of a walk.”

  “And wear some work gloves, if you’ve got ’em,” Seth said. “You’re gonna get your hands dirty.”

  Now Laszlo was even more pissed off. What the hell was he being recruited for? But since he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to cross Roy—the guy was not only nuts, but Axel’s right-hand man—he put on his boots and fished the fancy white gloves from the trunk. Although thin and worn, they were a perfect fit.

  Outside, Seth was in the driver’s seat of the truck, and Roy and Alfie were crammed in the front beside him. There was no backseat—only the open flatbed. Maybe that was why they were laughing.

  “Get in,” Seth called out his window.

  “Screw you,” Laszlo said.

  “Then try to keep up with us on your tricycle,” Roy shouted. “We’re heading north on Topanga Road.”

  They pulled out of the yard, dirt and dust kicking up from the tires. Laszlo looked at his pathetic little Vespa, and then at the big gleaming Harley, with saddlebags and upright ape handlebars, parked next to it. The key was still in the ignition—the Spiritz knew no one would be dumb enough to come onto the Compound and steal one of their bikes—and the silver helmet was resting on the black leather seat.

  Getting on, he revved the throttle once or twice, and tore out of the Compound before whoever owned it could catch on; he was probably in the adobe house with Axel, getting stoned. It was a little hard to handle—so much faster and more powerful than the Vespa—but man, it felt good to have a real machine between his legs. In no time, he caught sight of the back of the old red truck, plodding up the two-lane blacktop with its bald tires and dragging tailpipe. He’d have raced right past it, but he didn’t want Roy to see him on the borrowed bike yet. Christ, he thought, what if it was Roy’s?

  Instead, he dawdled behind, getting used to the raised grips and riding with his butt so far back on the curved seat. Once he had enough money together, he would get himself a Harley just like this one. He passed La Raza, keeping his head down in case some other biker spotted him riding a stolen motorcycle, and slowed down when he saw the sign for the Cornucopia coming into view. At the thought of Rafe fucking Miranda, his woman, a surge of anger rose in his throat like a hot bubble, and he wished he had a weapon, like that knife Seth always wore, stuck through his own belt.

  But he saw no sign of either one of them. Even that purple piece of shit Rafe drove lately was nowhere around. What he did see in the side yard was Tripod running around in circles and that fat girl—Rafe’s sister, Lucy—chasing after it. As if the bike had a will of its own, it did an immediate wheelie and jolted to a stop in front of the store. The Closed sign was hanging on the door, which meant Miranda was probably away. This was getting better all the time.

  Still wearing his shades and helmet, he walked around to the side. Trip recognized him and didn’t bark. But the girl just sai
d, “Sorry, sir, the store’s closed.” She sounded like she had a bad cold.

  He tried the back door, but sonofabitch, Miranda had already changed the locks.

  “That’s too bad,” he said, not even breaking stride as he turned around and walked toward the trailer instead. Its door was hanging wide open.

  “You can’t go in there,” Lucy cried.

  He stepped up into it, taking off his shades. Jesus, what a pit. This guy was such a loser. No way Miranda could be doing him. Not after Laszlo. He took a quick look around and spotted a small floor safe tucked beside the fridge, but it was locked. When he tried to lift the whole thing free, he discovered that it had been bolted down.

  “You can’t be in here,” Lucy said from the door, her voice, between coughs, trembling with fear.

  “Almost done,” he said, giving up on the safe. He’d need a jackhammer to get it loose. What could a guy like Rafe have in it, anyway? Then, on the bed, half-hidden by the pillow, he saw the corner of a green book. He pulled it out. It looked more like a diary. Handwritten, with a funky old smell to it. It dawned on him that it was probably another item from that damn trunk. It didn’t look like much to him, but if Rafe had hung on to it, that was a good enough reason to steal it now. He took it, and Lucy dropped away from the door.

  “You can’t have that,” she cried out, as he walked away. “That belongs to my brother.”

  He kept on walking, but she ran up behind him and tried to pry the book out from under his arm. He turned just enough to smack her across the face with the back of his gloved hand. She fell back, stunned.

  “You tell that asshole brother of yours that if he wants it back, he should call Laszlo. Can you handle that?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Tell him it’ll cost him five hundred bucks.” It was a wild guess, but why not start out high?

  He unfastened the saddlebags to toss the book inside, and was very happily surprised to find that the owner had supplied him with the necessities of biker life—a half pack of beef jerky sticks, some loose joints, brass knuckles, a length of chain suitable for swinging, and, incongruously enough, a dozen boxes of pseudoephedrine. Tucking the fattest joint into his shirt pocket, he climbed back onto the seat and maneuvered the bike around toward the road. Those ape handlebars really took some getting used to, and the front wheel wobbled until he’d picked up enough speed and momentum. Still, he was more than satisfied with the fruits of his little detour.

  Gunning the engine, and learning to weave in and out of traffic using the opposite lane, he soon caught up to the back of the truck, and followed them another few miles. The left side of the roadway was mostly scrubby brush and stunted trees, but the other side often gave way to steep cliffs and deep gullies. Laszlo had heard stories about the bodies of Spiritz’ enemies getting rolled down into those ravines, stripped naked and coated with grease and honey, to be pulled apart and picked clean by wild animals and insects. It certainly looked like an easy way to dispose of your unwanted visitors.

  The truck waited in its lane for a passing camper van, then drove into and up a short turnoff. Laszlo followed them, and parked the bike off to one side. Roy, fortunately, was already plowing up into the woods, with a big empty net thrown over his shoulder, while Seth and Alfie unloaded a couple of low, flat carts on wheels from the back of the truck.

  “Is that Jake’s bike you’re riding?” Seth said.

  “Yeah,” Laszlo said, having no idea which one of the gang was Jake. “He’s cool with it.”

  Seth and Alfie exchanged a look of sly amusement. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s cool with it,” Alfie said, and Seth laughed.

  “You drag one of these,” Seth said, throwing a rope, attached to one of the carts, on the ground. “We’ll take the other.”

  “Where?”

  They didn’t answer, just turned toward the rough chaparral and started dragging their dolly behind them. It bumped and rattled along, but the wheels were big enough to keep it moving most of the time. Laszlo’s own cart kept getting snagged on the undergrowth, and he had to keep stopping to kick one corner or another loose. Bad as it was, it occurred to him it was going to be a lot worse coming back, when the carts were loaded with whatever they were planning to haul back.

  He’d never actually spent much time up in the wilderness of the canyon; what interested him most were the margaritas and the waitresses down on the main drag at La Raza. But he had to admit that out here the air smelled different—there was the scent of dry grass and wildflowers, of soil and sun, cactus and eucalyptus leaves. The sky, often obscured by overhanging trees and cliff walls down by the road, was wide open here, and as blue as a robin’s egg. For ten or fifteen minutes, the canyon worked its magic on him, but then he got bored and tired of dragging the cart.

  The other three were usually about fifty yards ahead of him, but he still couldn’t see where they were going. At one point, he saw a ramshackle hut, the kind of place where some witch might live, but then he spotted that forlorn pair of potheads who occasionally ate at La Raza standing outside, holding hoes and silently watching as they all marched by. Christ, why didn’t that woman cover her boobs? They were way past their sell date.

  No words were exchanged as Laszlo hauled his empty cart, sweating like a mule, past the two mute witnesses, then up over a ridge, down another, and finally, toward what looked like a cement bunker, almost level with the land, its roof tangled with rusty antennae. This was their destination?

  Even the ground around it was desiccated—stained weird colors and littered with used batteries and empty blister packs for pills. The door was a few feet lower than the ground, and when Laszlo left his cart outside and went down the steps, he found Seth and Alfie already starting to wrap up lab gear in old newspapers and pack them into cardboard boxes. Roy had gone to the far end of the room, put a face mask over his nose and mouth, and was tinkering with some dusty beakers and tubes.

  Although he’d sold plenty of meth in his time, Laszlo had never been in a lab before. He sure as hell knew he was in one now, however.

  “Start taking these boxes outside,” Seth said, and Laszlo picked up the one closest to the door and carried it out. The old white gloves he was wearing weren’t exactly tailor-made for the job, but they fit him like a second skin. By the time he went back inside, two or three more boxes had been packed up, filled with everything from bottles of drain cleaner and antifreeze to table salt and matchboxes with those long red strike pads along one side.

  After a few runs, he was sick of it, remembered the joint in his pocket, and striking one of the long matches, lit up. He took a heavy drag, waited a few seconds to gauge the effects, and blew out the smoke. Oh man, he thought, this was high-grade stuff. The Spiritz did not mess around. He took another hit or two, feeling lighter and mellower all the time.

  In fact, as a peace offering, he thought it might be nice to share this premium weed, even if it wasn’t exactly his own, with his fellow workers. It made him feel not only happy, but magnanimous, and the work might go a whole lot better if everybody was getting along. He stacked a couple more of the boxes on the carts, then went inside, the glowing joint between his lips.

  Seth looked up at him, smacked Alfie on the shoulder, and then without a word, they both crashed into each other, bolting for the door and knocking over anything in their path. What the fuck? A bottle of something smashed on the floor, emitting a harsh chemical smell, and a box toppled onto its side, spilling other glassware onto the rough cement. With the joint extended like a peace pipe, Laszlo wandered a few steps closer to Roy, who whipped around, his eyes wide over the face mask, staring at his gloved fingers. Laszlo heard some muffled words that sounded like stupid motherfucker! before the explosion ripped up from the floor, turning Roy into a burning matchstick from the soles of his feet to the bald dome of his head, and rocketing Laszlo backward so fast he landed with a thud on the outside steps, the wind completely knocked out of him.

  For some reason, his shirt and hi
s shoes were gone. His face felt hot, and when he ran his fingers over the skin, it felt like his eyebrows were missing, too. So were the tips of the gloves.

  The lab was an inferno, and he scuttled on all fours away from the belching flames and poisonous smoke. That euphoria he’d felt just thirty seconds before had been knocked out of him, too. Leaning back on his elbows, trying to come to his senses and figure out what came next, he felt a hard rock under his butt and scooted back another foot, only to realize the lump was still there, and it wasn’t a rock. It was that metal flask from the trunk.

  His throat felt like it had been scorched, too, and as he unscrewed the lid, he noticed that his fingernails were black. He tilted the flask to his lips, and the drink went down. It might not have been brandy after all—Laszlo wasn’t exactly a connoisseur of fine liqueurs—but it had a bite like nothing else he’d ever tasted. After a slug or two, it suddenly threatened to come up on him, like lava about to spew from a volcano, but he swallowed hard and it went back down, soothing his ragged throat and settling like a glowing coal.

  He moved back some more, looking around now for Seth and Alfie, but they must have hightailed it back toward their truck. All the salvaged supplies were still stacked on the dollies, and it dawned on him that if the flames got close enough, those carts were going to go off like nuclear bombs. He wasn’t completely sure he could get up and walk, but he knew that staying put was a very bad idea.

  10 November, 1888

  ‘You’re mad, the both of you,’ Symonds said, when first Henley, and then I, said we were leaving. ‘The streets are uncontrolled. The police have only the most tenuous hold on them.’

  ‘That’s precisely why I must go,’ Henley said, waving his note pad. ‘First-hand news for the next issue of the “Observer.”’

  ‘But Louis, you have no such excuse. Stay at least until all the protests have ended.’

  ‘We won’t know that until tomorrow’s papers come out,’ I said. ‘For now, I really must go.’