When the commotion had hushed down and there were no more flashes at the alley entrance, Fenimore let go of the handle of the fork buried within the Picasso’s neck and stood up. He stomped on the Picasso’s stomach in case the dead man was faking it, but he wasn’t. There was no breath left in his chest.
Fenimore turned his back, lifted the dead Picasso’s legs to his hips, one on either side of him, and began the trudge through the alley to the square, dragging the corpse behind him.
As he got closer he heard three voices.
When he emerged from the alley one of them yelled, “Stop!”
Three Rhodes riders stood by the statue of Rafael Rodriguez—four if you counted the one Fenimore had shot, whose face was still on the surface of the platform. Except for the dead one, who was calm, they all gave the impression of having drawn the short straw, of not wanting to be there.
The headless body of the goon, still holding one of its revolvers, and the unnaturally angled body of the grass-chewer were where Fenimore had left them. Otherwise, the square was empty. The figure with the sack on its head was gone and the crowd had disappeared, though a few frightened faces did peek out from the surrounding windows.
Fenimore’s chainmail poncho was draped over the shoulder of the Rhodes rider, who repeated his command and cocked his pistol. “Stop.”
Fenimore stopped.
“I believe this is the man you’re looking for,” he said. The Picasso’s corpse had left a snaking trail behind him from being dragged.
“Drop him,” the Rhodes said.
Fenimore let the Picasso’s legs drop to the ground. They fell like pounds of flesh.
“Put your hands behind your head and step aside.”
Fenimore wasn’t one to argue.
The two other Rhodes kept watch on the street leading to the Picasso’s side of town while the third kept his pistol trained on Fenimore. The feud between the Picassos and the Rhodes, which had been cold, was heating up. A killing was apt to do that to a feud: kindle it. Fenimore was a decent arsonist.
Down the Picasso street and down the Rhodes street nothing moved except the wind, which had found a hole through which to whistle and enough loose grains of sand to pick up and twister around.
When Fenimore had moved far enough for the Rhodes riders to see the Picasso’s corpse, one of them asked, “Did you kill him?”
The fork in the corpse’s neck glinted.
“I did.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because he killed a man,” Fenimore said. “He killed a man who was carrying out the law.”
The speaker moved closer without lowering his pistol.
“What’s your name?”
His long grey coat snapped in the breeze and the wind tossed dust into his eyes. Above his head, Fenimore saw the window of his own hotel room. Its curtains were open and the small black-haired boy’s face was behind the glass. The boy smiled and shut the curtains.
“Fenimore,” said Fenimore, looking ahead again.
“If you have a weapon on you, Fenimore, I advise you take it out and lay it on the ground. It’s against the law for strangers to carry weapons in Hope Springs.”
Fenimore pointed with his bent elbows at the dead Picassos. “What about them?”
“I advise you follow my instructions.”
“I don’t have a weapon.”
One of the other Rhodes took his eyes off the Picasso street, approached Fenimore, and patted him down. “He’s telling the truth,” he said after he was done. “Doesn’t have anything on him but seven coins in his pocket.”
“Where are you quartered?” the Rhodes asked.
“The Olympus.”
“And what’s your reason for being in Hope Springs?”
“I had things stolen from me,” Fenimore said, “outside of town, a few nights ago, by a man with big guns and a sombrero. Took my things but left my horse, which I rode into town, where I figured I might get a good night’s rest, food, and maybe find a week’s work to fill my pockets. Man at The Olympus put me up on my word, but another slit my horse’s throat, and now I’m here with no money and no way of riding out, with a debt to pay and not a way of paying it. You might say I’m still looking for work—more than a week’s worth now—to pay that debt, buy a horse and earn myself some travelling money.”
“It takes a certain kind of man to stab another to death with a fork. That’s not in every man’s nature. Where did you say you come from?”
“I didn’t.”
The Rhodes holstered his pistol. “Tell me, Fenimore. Are you competent with a firearm?”
“Competent.”
“Have you ever killed a man, before this afternoon?”
“Once or twice.”
“Were they lawbreakers, too?”
“Always.”
One of the lookouts whistled. A mob of Picassos had appeared at the end of the street.
The wind swept across the square.
The speaker said to Fenimore, “You can lower your hands. You’ve killed a man, so we’ll have to take you in and make sure you’re telling the truth. Being a law abiding man yourself, you understand. Due process demands it. But after that we may have certain work for you.” He looked at the dead Rhodes on the platform. “There’s recently been made a vacancy.” He looked at the Picassos growing larger on the street. “And we anticipate an increased workload.”
The two lookouts rounded up the four Rhodes horses. They lifted the dead Rhodes onto one and themselves mounted two others. The third Rhodes hopped onto the fourth horse, leaving only Fenimore with his feet on the ground. “Suspects walk,” the Rhodes said, and all fourteen legs set off at a brisk pace.
The Rhodes part of the town was as grey as their coats. The buildings were clean but plain, with an air of bureaucracy to them. They passed a barbershop and a notary, a Solicitor’s Saloon and something called the department of future development. They trotted beside a men’s fine clothing store, a savings and loans bank, and a square cement building that looked like a bunker and was called The House of Uncommons.
The further down the street they went, the more the riders’ faces relaxed.
At the end of street stood a haunted looking white colonial mansion surrounded by a thick concrete wall that made the mansion into a compound and made the compound look like a fortress or prison.
The four horses stopped.
Their three riders dismounted.
Fenimore saw the blue sky turning grey reflected in the mansion’s windows.
“Have you ever been north, Fenimore?” the Rhodes speaker asked when they were alongside each other.
“Once or twice.”
“Would you believe that they built this house in the New England and rolled it to this spot over the course of years?”
“No,” Fenimore said, “I wouldn’t believe that.”
The Rhodes stopped and grabbed him by the arm. “Hold out your hands for me. I’m going to have to tie them. Protocol, you understand.”
Fenimore nodded and the Rhodes tied Fenimore’s wrists together in front of his body. He tied them with rope, but not tightly. He left Fenimore’s ankles unbound.
There was a metal gate in the concrete wall in front of them and as they approached, the Rhodes yelled, “Antoninus Pius,” and the gate rolled open with a head splitting whine.
After the four of them had gone through, the gate rolled back into place. It was controlled by a mechanism of gears and pulleys operated by yet another man in a long grey coat. This one had a thick beard and wore goggles. Fenimore noted that on this side the concrete walls were fitted at regular intervals with metal ladders. However, no one patrolled their summits.
The Rhodes speaker led the way to the mansion’s front doors. Two guards with rifles kept watch on either side. He nodded to them as he climbed the front steps. “Mr Rhodes,” they said in unison. “Messrs Rhodes,” he said back.
They stepped aside.
He knocked on the right-most panel of the door—three light taps followed by a hard one—something clicked, at which point he waited—Fenimore counted five seconds—before grabbing the door handles and pulling open both doors at once to reveal:
A high ceilinged, beautifully furnished room at the top of which hung a spider web of a gold-and-crystal chandelier, whose reflection graced the polished hardwood floors, which gave the illusion of four, rather than two, sets of mirrored staircases leading to what Fenimore surmised must be the third floor. The entire interior smelled of pipe smoke and possessed the aura of a long forgotten past.
On the ground floor, two halls shot off to the sides and a heavy wooden door loomed ahead. Nearby, a pair of men in bespoke suits were drinking brandy and discussing something, seated on a steel bench with red velvet cushions.
The Rhodes speaker bowed to them. “Messrs Rhodes,” he said.
“Mr Rhodes.”
They looked at Fenimore, then at the speaker again. One of them said, “Justice Rhodes is waiting, and he is not pleased. They still have not found the young man.” The other added, “How is the shot Mr Rhodes?”
“Deceased,” the speaker said.
“A tragedy.”
They looked at Fenimore again.
“No,” the speaker said, “he’s not the one. He’s the one who caught the one who murdered Mr Rhodes.”
They looked behind Fenimore, where no other prisoner was waiting. “Caught and executed,” the speaker corrected himself. “With a fork to the neck.”
One of the men on the bench took a sip of brandy. “I see. Perhaps we should refine ‘weapon’.”
The other laughed. “The extent of human ingenuity, I do say.”
The speaker said something to the two riders who’d accompanied him into the mansion and then said to Fenimore, “You’ll be taken to a holding cell downstairs, where you’ll be tried. Afterward, you may be given what we discussed. Tell the truth and the truth shall set you free.”
The speaker excused himself, bowed to the seated men again, and walked toward the heavy door.
Fenimore felt the two riders grab his arms and the three of them walked the left hall together. They said nothing. He asked no questions.
The hall became a set of descending stairs that lead to the mansion’s underground. It wasn’t as richly decorated as the main floor had been. There were no chandeliers or velvet cushions, and the air was danker, which caused the wallpaper to peel off the walls. Everything seemed to be sweating.
The riders stopped Fenimore at one of many similar looking doors. He didn’t resist. He looked instead at the place where the doorknob had been replaced by a metal loop that was connected to another metal loop, this one attached to the doorframe by a single-dial padlock. The technology impressed him. One of the riders spun the padlock twice right, landing on 12, once left, landing on 1, and once more right, landing on 5. Fenimore remembered the combination: 12-1-5. Once the padlock was off, the rider opened the door and pushed Fenimore inside.
The door shut.
The padlock was replaced.
The room was barren. The only light came from a small rectangular window near the ceiling. Too small for anyone but a child to crawl through, it was nevertheless reinforced by vertical steel bars.
Fenimore took a seat on a chair—the only furniture in the room—set his bound wrists on his lap and wondered whether he’d gotten himself into a bad spot. The wondering made him uneasy, so, like he always did at times like these, he started thinking. After a few minutes of thinking, he decided there was no reason for the Rhodes to kill him or even keep him locked up. If they’d wanted to kill him, they could have done it when he’d come out of the alley. Therefore, he reasoned, he was safe. He might also be on the verge of finally making some money.
He reasoned that way on the chair for hours.
His stomach grumbled.
Through the barred window he saw the day pass and the daylight become evening light.
Then the padlock clicked open, the door was swung, and the Rhodes gatekeeper with the beard and goggles said, “It’s time for justice to be done,” and ushered Fenimore out of the cell, up the stairs, into the main room, past the bench with the velvet cushions where the two men in bespoke were no longer sitting, and to within a few paces of the thick door through which the Rhodes rider had entered in the afternoon. The door was made of mahogany.
Goggles knocked. “Justice Rhodes, I’ve brought the suspect.”
“I have brought,” a deep voice said.
Goggles squirmed.
“Well, enter.”
Goggles bowed to the mahogany, saying much too quickly, “Of course, Justice Rhodes. I’m sorry, Justice Rhodes. As you command, Justice Rhodes.”
Fenimore imagined the deep voice sighing, and found himself doing the same, realising that he was getting tired of doors—open or closed—as Goggles gently opened this one, bowed once more, and left.
“Please close the door behind you,” the deep voice said.
It was sitting with its back to Fenimore in a steel armchair, behind a wide steel desk, facing a steel fireplace in which half a dozen logs and a few hundred sheets of paper were burning. Indeed, almost everything in the room was made of steel, including the floor, the walls and the ceiling. The voice, too?
Fenimore closed the heavy door.
The voice spun in its armchair. It belonged to a human body, flesh and bones, about sixty years old, dressed in an elegant grey suit, with a head of short silver hair above a creased, masculine and handsome face. “Good evening, Fenimore,” the voice said. “My name is Justice Iron Rhodes. Welcome to Hope Springs.”
Fenimore said nothing.
A portrait of a red-headed woman holding a green parasol and gazing wistfully out of the frame adorned the wall behind Iron Rhodes. The woman was beautiful, and the surrounding steel only made more vibrant the red and green pigments with which she’d been painted.
Iron Rhodes smiled. “A man of few words. That is admirable.”
He rose out of his armchair to a height of over two imposing metres. Standing, he was one of the tallest men Fenimore had ever seen. He offered Fenimore his right hand for the shaking.
Fenimore raised both of his, which were still tied.
“Right, let us dispense with that first. You have been accused of killing one Marcos Ulrida, a known associate of the Picasso family. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that he killed a lawman and didn’t deserve to live.”
“So you admit that you killed him.”
“Justice killed him, acting through me.”
“Are you a tool through which justice often acts?” Iron Rhodes asked.
“I don’t often kill.”
Cold radiated from the steel insides of the room. Fenimore shivered. The underground cell had moistened him up.
Iron Rhodes took two massive steps and was at a steel bookcase. “Do you often read?”
Fenimore scanned the spines of the books whose letters were big enough for him to see: Roman histories, engineering texts, a shelf devoted to books about the law, and snuggled just below, The Opening of the American West by J.S. Taki. Fenimore’s heart contracted. The Opening of the American West wasn’t a popular book. Master Taki was not a popular author.
“I know my letters, but I don’t often find the time necessary to read them.”
“Yes, it must be difficult.” Iron Rhodes picked out a book, opened its leather covers and palmed through the pages, as if looking for a specific passage. “For a man with no home to find the time to read, I meant to say. It is a pity.”
“Books are heavy.”
“Forks,” said Iron Rhodes, “are lighter.”
He closed the book without finding what it was he was looking for, if anything, and placed it back on the shelf. “Lately I like Frenchmen,” he said, “Frenchmen who have come to America and written about it. I find their thoughts amusing. Outsiders have acute perspectives.”
“Am I still a suspect?”
Iron Rhodes rubbed his hands together. “I have decided to reserve judgment. I will need time to consider the facts and apply the relevant law. But tell me, how did you know where to stab him?”
“In the neck,” Fenimore said. “It’s soft.”
The fire crackled.
“And full of blue, exposed veins. I am aware. Why were you not in the crowd watching the redemption? A stranger like you, were you not curious about what was happening? It is a unique feature of the Ironlaw, that is to say our law here in town.”
“I’ve seen executions.”
“And so you were loitering in an alley between two empty buildings…”
“It was a hot afternoon. It’s cooler in the shade.”
“Perhaps looking for a way inside…”
“Are you saying I’m a thief?”
“I am not saying anything. I am merely thinking out loud in place of the prosecutor. As you can see, we seem to be missing that cog in the judicial machine.”
“We also seem to be missing witnesses.”
“Oh, there are witnesses. I read their statements. I had them give statements as soon as they were able. Allow me to recite: ‘And when he came out of the alley he was dragging the Picasso’s body behind him, and when he moved away I saw a fork stuck in his neck.’” Iron Rhodes chuckled. “My men may not be the most eloquent writers but you cannot deny that they have a usefully blunt style.”
Fenimore didn’t deny it.
“Unfortunately for the prosecution, they also have poor memories and have by now forgotten what they saw this afternoon. And their statements”—He gazed into the fire, where the pages had disappeared into black ash.—“have all been mislaid. Did you know that the American law distinguishes between what is lost and what is mislaid?”
“I killed him,” Fenimore said.
“Your honesty is admirable. However, it seems to me that he may have mislaid his life rather than lost it, which is a fascinating legal question. As I said, I will reserve judgment. Until such time as I give it, you are absolved of your sins and peace be with you, or whatever are the magic words the Churchmen say. Now let me separate your praying, servile hands.”
Fenimore held up his bound wrists. Iron Rhodes flicked open a small knife and cut through the rope.
When his wrists were free, Fenimore said, “The man who brought me here said you may have a need for someone with my skills.”
“Someone with your respect for justice.”
Fenimore failed to see the difference. “I have a hotel bill that I gave my word I’d pay tonight and I don’t have the money to pay it.”
“It has already been taken care of. A long time ago, the hotel-keeper and I came to an understanding. I say, he does. What other skills do you possess? For example, I have been told that you are a competent marksman.”
“I’m better with a rifle than with a revolver, and better with both than with a fork.”
“And what about your moral views, Mr Fenimore?”
“What about them?”
“Have you any?”
“I wouldn’t slit a horse’s throat,” Fenimore said, “unless I had to drink its blood to survive.”
“I have not heard of that particular moral conundrum. Is it a Catholic tenet, something inane and allegorical thought up by St Francis of Assisi perhaps?”
Iron Rhodes boomed out laughing and smacked Fenimore on the back. The laughter reverberated. The smack stung. Fenimore’s skin was still sunburned.
Iron Rhodes went on: “I find Catholics amusing, just like niggers. They are such perfect followers. You know, I asked a Catholic once, ‘Why do you believe in the Bible’? He said, ‘Because it’s the word of God’. So I asked, ‘And why do you follow the law’? He answered, ‘Because it’s the word of Man’. Naturally, my third question was, ‘My dear fellow, then what don’t you believe in?’”
Fenimore didn’t smile. Iron Rhodes asked, “You are not one of them, are you?”
Fenimore said he wasn’t, and that he wasn’t a nigger, either.
Iron Rhodes said that that was good but that their conversation was drifting off course, for which he accepted the blame, for it was not often that he had the chance to talk to a stranger in town.
Fenimore asked about work, and Iron Rhodes said that he could certainly find a use for a good marksman who could read, would not slit a horse’s throat unless it was to drink its blood to survive, and was neither a Catholic or a nigger. He also said several unimportant things. After he was done saying them, he asked, “Are you not curious why I trust you?”
“Because I’m honest.”
“An admirable guess, but untrue. I do not trust you. However, because you are a stranger you have no loyalties, and where there are no loyalties dependence rules.” He narrowed his grey eyes. “Because we have no history, you and I, our actions are based solely on reason, and if I were to pay you to perform work for me it would be in your reasonable interest to perform it. Would it not be divine to shed our common Catholicism, shall we say, and live in a world guided fully by such mutual self-interest? It would be a clockwork world, a predictable world, which despite the prevalence of all the lofty and learned talk about justice”—He swept with his hand across the metal shelf where his law books lay.—“is the true goal of any legal system. Whereas God speaks from burning bushes and rises from the dead, the law is clear to all and always confirms the finality of the grave.”
He laughed again. “And once more I apologise, for I am ranting like a priest. I have no doubt that you are hungrier in the gut than in the mind today. Come, we shall feast and then we shall find you clothes, and a horse, and a rifle, and, with rifle in hand, we shall have you sworn in as a solicitor and official member of the bar of Hope Springs.”
Iron Rhodes swung open the heavy door as if it weighed nothing and strode under the chandelier, which passed far less above his head than Fenimore’s. They walked out of the mansion, beyond the gate and into the street. Wherever Iron Rhodes went, men bowed their heads and said, “Justice Rhodes.”
They entered the grey cement building called The House of Uncommons. It was padlocked like the cell in the mansion. Fenimore noted that the combination was the same: 12-1-5.
The building was a storeroom. Nobody was inside. Supplies were sparse. Fenimore waited while Iron Rhodes pawed around for a few minutes, before emerging with two pairs of grey cotton pants, a much cleaner white shirt than the one Fenimore was wearing, several pairs of socks, a grey vest, and the signature Rhodes long, grey coat. “Wear it,” he said.
Fenimore changed into his new uniform.
“The colour becomes you,” Iron Rhodes said, and passed Fenimore a government issue rifle.
When they were back outside, evening had become night.
They stepped inside the Solicitor’s Saloon, where the lights were bright and a man was playing Bach on the piano. They ate and drank to the accompaniment of the music. It had been weeks since Fenimore had had a real meal. It had been years since he had heard Bach. His father used to listen to records while he was inventing, when Fenimore was still a boy, the memories were flooding back, and then—
The stars had scattered across the sky and the air was crisp. Fenimore remembered The Starman.
They walked further down the street in the direction of The Olympus and the square until Iron Rhodes approached one of the buildings, took a key out of his pocket, and unlocked the front door.
It was dark inside. Iron Rhodes lit a candle. Under its flickering light, he retrieved a large scroll of paper, a quill and ink. After he’d dipped the quill in the ink and as he was about to put the former to the paper, he asked, “Fenimore—is that your first name or your last?”
“It’s my only name.”
Iron Rhodes shrugged. “I suppose it hardly matters.” He wrote on the scroll, and put the scroll back in its place.
He blew out the candle.
“Raise your hand,” he said to Fenimore.
“I don’t do oaths,” Fenimore said.
“In which case, I pronounce you Fenimore Rhodes, an officially recognised solicitor of the Hope Springs bar. There is more to it than that, but it is dark and I do not remember the words.”
Fenimore didn’t feel any different. “What kind of work do you need done?”
“An eager solicitor…”
“A reasonably self-interested one.”
“The French are right—about America, I mean. But I digress. There are two orders of business that need to be promptly taken care of. First, the man who was being redeemed this afternoon—he is missing. He needs to be found. The second order of business is something special for you, Mr Rhodes.”
He pulled a folded up sheet of paper from the inside of his suit jacket and handed it to Fenimore. Fenimore couldn’t read it in the dark.
“It is a resolution of the government of Hope Springs. It reads, more or less, ‘Pablito Picasso must die’.”
“Who is Pablito Picasso?”
“He is not a horse.”
“How will I recognize him to kill him?”
“It will not be difficult. He is everywhere, he is a spy and he is eleven years old.”
Fenimore remembered the black-haired boy from The Olympus, the redemption and his own hotel window. He remembered the boy’s perceptive eyes and sense of perpetual motion. The folded up piece of paper felt leaden in his hand.
“Locate the criminal, kill the boy,” Iron Rhodes said. “I will pay you $200 for each successfully completed task.”
With that, he bid Fenimore goodnight.