The Devil's Workshop

“Good. Because it’s true. And you are going to be just fine because I am going to take care of you now. I promise.”

He smiled, and she smiled back.

Then he sent up a silent prayer to a god he did not believe in that he would be able to keep his promise.

39

Day woke to the sound of a man screaming. He opened his eyes, but it made no difference. The world was still black. There was something covering his face, a bag or a hood. It reeked of sweat. There was a slit in the bag near his chin, and he breathed through his mouth. He was shivering and tried to move his arms, but they wouldn’t respond. I’m paralyzed, he thought. I’ve been hit in the head and I can’t move, and I’ll never move again. Then he heard the faint clink of metal ringing against stone behind him and realized that he was in chains. Now that he concentrated, he could feel shackles on his wrists and ankles. He couldn’t feel the comfortable weight of his gun and his flask and he understood that his jacket had been taken from him. His hat was gone, too. He remembered dropping his gun, so it wouldn’t have been in his jacket anyway. Perhaps it was still on the tunnel floor. Maybe it was within reach, if he could only move a little.

The man stopped screaming and panted as if out of breath. The sound of him was nearby, yet distant, on the other side of a wall. Day realized he was chained up in one of the three alcoves he had seen and someone else was chained in an alcove next to him.

“March!”

There was no answer. He tried again.

“Adrian! Inspector Adrian March! Can you hear me?”

Something moved. Day felt a change in the air in front of him, but there was no change in the darkness under the hood. Then there was a voice, a low rasp, and it was directly in his ear. Someone was standing with his lips against the rough fabric of the hood, pressing it against Day’s ear. He smelled copper and fish.

“You’ll get your turn,” the voice said. It was deep and muffled. “Be patient.”

“Who is it? Who’s there?”

But there was no answer. Day couldn’t tell whether the man had gone or was still standing right there next to him. He turned his head, but it moved slowly, as if his neck needed to be oiled, and a sharp pain lanced through his skull, radiated outward through his face. Warmth moved down his spine and spread out into his torso, down his limbs to his fingertips and his toes.

He blacked out again.

When he woke up, he sensed he was alone. He could feel his pulse in his temples, beating at his brain. He heard low murmuring somewhere far away and he concentrated on the sound, dragged his attention away from his throbbing head. The voice he heard was somewhere to his left, the opposite side of him from the screaming man he had heard before. There was another wall. There were walls on either side of him and, he could tell by the movement of air around him, a wall behind him. But the space was empty in front of him. He was in one of the cells and it opened out into the tunnel. There were other men, possibly also shackled, on either side of him. He listened harder to the murmuring voice.

“Say anything,” it said. “Anything at all.”

“Go to hell, you monster.” That was March’s voice. Loud and defiant, but there was pain evident in the way he clipped his consonants.

“Oh, I will,” the voice said. “But you’ll be there with me. I thought I knew you. And now I do. By your voice. I heard your voice nearly every day of the past… What has it been? Did you keep me here for a year? I should look at a newspaper.”

Day heard March coughing.

“Would you like some water? Here.”

March’s cough turned into sputtering and gasping.

“Leave him be!” Day said.

March continued to cough, but Day heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The stranger came through the tunnel, and Day could hear him breathing, standing not more than two feet away.

“I don’t know your voice,” the man said.

“Which one are you? Hoffmann? You’re not Cinderhouse. I’d know his voice.”

“Oh, we’re both playing a game of place-the-voice,” the man said. “Delightful.”

“This is no game.”

“Everything’s a game. Tell me something…”

“What? What is it you want?”

“Exitus probatur. What do you say to that?”

“I don’t know,” Day said. “I don’t understand. Tell me what you want.”

“What I want? I haven’t decided yet what I want. What’s your name, bluebottle?”

“Tell me your name first.”

“Your name, I said. Don’t make me hurt you. Better yet, don’t make me hurt your friend next door.”

“My name is Day. Detective Inspector Day.”

He heard the man gasp and then the sound of hands clapping, three loud echoing reports.

“Day? Not Walter Day, by chance?”

Day felt his stomach turn over and he suddenly couldn’t breathe. The man knew his name. Did he know where he lived? Was Claire in danger?

“Oh, my,” the man said. “Have I guessed correctly? Do you know, Walter Day, that we have a friend in common?”