Robert Walker - Shadows in the White City

Denton hadn’t the brains to fear him.

Had no idea what Alastair Ransom was capable of.

Alastair had only one fear of his own remaining: that, in his vengeance and what he perceived his duty, he’d leave Jane and Gabby and men like Philo also fearful of him.

“One hell of a price to pay for peace and payback,” he muttered to himself. In the exchange, for loving and protecting Jane and Gabby, he’d teach them fear as well.

Others would wait and see.

Wait and see-and expect to read about it in tomorrow’s Tribune or Herald.

Alastair awaited the arrival of the hansom cab as it was due any moment now at the Chicago River wharf. Alastair knew who would alight from the cab and precisely what would happen when Chicago fire investigator Harry Stratemeyer climbed from that coach. All had been timed, but already the timing was off.

Harry Stratemeyer and Investigator Alastair Ransom had shared many a drink and brawl, and were usually on one another’s side. Alastair had asked Harry for a favor earlier in the day, saying, “I need to take some garbage out, Harry.”

“Garbage? And how far out are you talking?”

“The deep.”

“Ahhh…I see.”

“And I don’t own a boat.”

“It’s been too long since we last cranked up the old fire boat.”

“You’re a good man, Harry.”

“I consider it my duty-anything to heave out the stench.” Harry had seen firsthand and close up the results of Denton’s kill-spree.

Ransom now saw the cab turn onto Randolph and approach the wharf, where he remained in deep shadow in a recessed warehouse doorway. It was not far from here that young Campaneua’s cursed father had died amid the flames during that botched interrogation years ago. Now it was the kid’s turn to die. He’d caused enough suffering.

Alastair patiently watched the cab halt before the wharves, Denton sitting high and blinking in the setting sun. Harry played his part well, slurring his words and stumbling about as he asked Waldo if he’d like to see the Chicago Fire Department’s pride and joy, a diesel-powered tug that piped its way up and down the river in the event of a fire along the length of the Chicago River, the boat fully equipped with the latest in pumps and utilizing the river water itself to douse errant fires that might break out at warehouses or aboard ships harbored as far as the eye could see.

Waldo Denton-Campaneua-took the bait, wide-eyed and curious at the wondrous fire tug sitting at the end of the pier. He stepped aboard behind Stratemeyer, who waved at a couple of his lads already aboard. “I’ve another to take the tour, boys!” he proclaimed.

This was met with boredom from the two men aboard, both in suspenders and boots, a heat wave having descended over the city.

Waldo was well into the tour, being conducted about the fire-fighting tug and his head half in the barrel of the water cannon when Harry said, “And just to your left is Inspector Ransom.”

Ransom and the two other firemen grabbed Denton, who was quickly overpowered and hog-tied. “Into the ice chest, now!” shouted Ransom even as Harry lifted the lid to the huge onboard ice chest, a leftover from a time when the fire tug had been a fishing trawler. It held nearly a ton of ice and Waldo Denton, tied and gagged, was dropped inside.

In a matter of a half hour, the fire boat was out over Lake Michigan, its crew, Harry and Ransom enjoying a Pabst-the beer that “Only Yesterday” won the blue ribbon at the World’s Fair. Harry remained skeptical of the new beer, but said he wanted to give it a try. They toasted to a job well done.

Alastair added, “To my lovely Polly Pete, my Merielle. May she find the peace in death she sought in life.”

“Here, here!” cheered the firemen, all of whom had been on hand the day Polly’s blackened body and separated head had been discovered amid the ruins of a fire, the source of which had been her apartment. She’d been one of Denton’s first victims.

“And to Griffin Drimmer,” added Harry.

Alastair raised his bottle of Pabst and clinked it against the others. “A better-hearted young detective, and so dedicated, never lived.”

“Nor died,” agreed Harry as he and Ransom began feeling the effects of their third beer now. By now they’d taken the boat several nautical miles out over Lake Michigan.

All four men stared at the ice box, imagining its contents, now silent after much kicking and thrashing.

“You think he’s froze to death, Alastair?” asked Harry as he gulped down his Pabst.

“We need to get back to the river and soon,” said one of the fireboat men.

“Don’t want anyone missing us,” agreed the second boatman.

As if on cue, Denton kicked out at his ice coffin again. “Frankly, I want the bastard alive for the next shock to his system,” replied Alastair. “Boys,” he addressed the two younger firemen, “appears we are alone with the elements and the waves here, so let’s get the bastard outta deep freeze for phase two.”

The two younger men stared at one another.

Harry erupted, shouting, “Do as Inspector Ransom says, boys!”

Ransom explained, “So he’s conscious of his fate. I want him to know he’s to be cold beneath the lake for eternity.”

They opened the chest to find Denton turned blue and near solid save for the shivering. “Took some doing packing all that ice into the old chest for you, Inspector,” said Harry, “but there’s not a one of us who didn’t like Griff.”

The younger men hauled Denton from the ice. They laid him on the deck and attached his hog-tied body to a wench and hauled him up over the deck, just high enough so Alastair could look him in the eye. Alastair pulled away the gag and said, “I’d suggest you say your prayers, but then…what sort of prayer does a hound of Hell send up?”

“Yeah,” agreed Harry in back of Alastair, “pray to your dark savior in the underworld?”

“Tell me why? Why bloody hell did you do it? Did you like it?” Ransom struck him so hard blood spewed from his mouth despite his temperature.

He made an animal cry, unable to form words, his teeth chattering, blood dripping onto the deck.

“I’ll have an answer! Why kill so many innocent people who had naught to do with your father, Campaneua? Answer me, you bastard!”

Denton attempted to spit on Alastair, but he could not manage it as his chattering teeth and thick tongue were in the way along with the blood he was swallowing. But he didn’t deny the truth-the conclusion Alastair had come to understand.

“OK, then! Pray now to the bloody father who spawned you!” Alastair cried out, wrapping Denton’s garrote about his own neck.

“You b-bastard, you-you killed my father!” he choked out.

“Know this, you gutless, heartless bastard, and take it to your grave: It wasn’t my doing-your father’s burning to death. Yes, I was there! But the torching was the work of your friend Nathan Kohler, you fool.”

Denton, while thawing, remained too chilled to respond, but he made another feeble attempt to bring up phlegm to spit on Ransom, failing but obviously also failing to believe a word Alastair had imparted. He could not; it would obliterate a worldview, a customary mindset, a way of rationalizing all his actions.

“I say ice followed by fire,” said Harry. “We are, after all, firemen, and this bastard was spawned in flame.”

“Just drop him, now!” shouted Ransom.

And the block and tackle lifted him higher and the boom sent him out over the lake, dangling like a limp, gangly bird, legs flailing. For a moment, Alastair saw a human being inside this cretin, a child that never was, struggling to the surface. Denton began begging for his life. “Please, please! For God’s sake! You have the wrong man!”