The Franklin Incident (Philly-Punk) Read online

  Praise for The Fire Inside: A Sidekicks Novel

  “The world the author has created is complex, realistic and most likely allegorical. I’m not an accredited scholar, but what I can tell you is: I. Want. More.”

  Michelle, Reading Lark (http://readinglark.blogspot.com)

  “The ending was perfect, wrapping up all the loose ends in a way that was fitting for the story.” Kelly, Reading Between the Wines (http://readingbetweenthewinesbookclub.blogspot.com)

  "Rose’s world building is well done and again quite a visual masterpiece."

  Leslie Wright, Blogcritics (http://blogcritics.org/books/article/book-review-the-fire-inside-a/)

  "Really, I can't say enough good things about this book, and I can't wait for the next Sidekicks novel!"

  Katie B, GoodReads user

  Readers love Better Together

  "I really liked Paul. He seemed like a real, normal person to me. I felt that his character reacted to his life's situations in a truthful, realistic way. Above all, every single thing in this book is believable, and that adds to its strength."

  Sarah, Sarah Reads Too Much (http://sarahreadstoomuch.blogspot.com)

  "The characters are extremely well developed, making it very easy to connect to them emotionally as the story progressed. The story was definitely an emotional roller coaster and I was swept away along with the characters in their ups and downs."

  Kim, The Caffeinated Diva (http://thecaffeinateddivareads.multifacetedmama.com)

  "Paul will become a familiar friend to you and his son an adorable little sidekick who you just want to hug. I certainly was sad when I had to put the finished product down and I will still think of the characters."

  Erica, Soon Remembered Tales (http://soonrememberedtales.blogspot.com)

  “Better Together really captures that kind of dual-living that usually only happens if you’re a parent or a bodyguard: you look out for your own self, but you’re hyper-focused on anything that might affect the health and safety of the person you’re caring for.”

  Tiger Holland, All-Consuming Books (http://tigersallconsumingbooks.blogspot.com)

  First Edition, July 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Raymond M. Rose

  Cover photography by Marcus J. Ranum

  Artwork and Book Design by Raymond M. Rose

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  Christopher Williams Books

  www.raymondmrose.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request.

  Raymond M. Rose

  Novels:

  Sidekicks

  The Fire Inside

  Black Mirror (coming soon)

  Boyertown Quartet

  Better Together

  Short Stories:

  Philly-Punk

  The Franklin Incident

  Mr. Dad

  Career Path (coming soon)

  THE FRANKLIN INCIDENT

  A Philly-Punk Story

  by

  Raymond M. Rose

  I squeeze myself deeper under the massive mahogany desk, contorting my body into a horribly-uncomfortable position. My limbs protest silently yet painfully at such unfair treatment. I ignore them and continue to push until I can go no further down the 'rabbit hole.' Deeply ensconced, though, I can hear nothing, and, regrettably, see less. All I can do is smell: a trace of leather cleaning oil, a redolence of spent tobacco, and the coppery tang of blood spilt on the hardwood floor—

  click... click...

  Fingernails scrape against wood. It's found us! I try to push past my sudden panic and strain my ears to listen to....

  click... click...

  Nails dig through paint and pulp as... hands try to open... a doorknob? Yes, I can hear the jingle of the slightly-loose knob as unseen hands slowly rotate it. Though it's released before it can reach the full revolution.

  click... click...

  I didn't think he would find us. No, strike that, I hopes he wouldn't. Why would he return to the scene of an earlier crime? I need only glance toward the front of the office to see what happened that first time: she lie on the floor, her fingers pointing towards me, palms open. If it wasn't for the dried blood – dark splotches on her alabaster skin – it might seem as if she were merely extending her hand to me. Thankfully, I can't see her dead open eyes because my coat respectfully covers her.

  click... click...

  Clearly, I was wrong about the killer's thought-process. Though, I imagine, a part of me had indeed thought I was incorrect for I took pains to position the constable and I in such a way that, if the killer did enter this office, the desk would hide us. Yet, the doorknob he was turning was not the one I thought he would use. Not the one in front of us; but he was coming in behind us, leaving us completely visible when he opens that door.

  I quickly shuffle out of my place of refuge and sneak around the desk, taking care to drag my unconscious friend with me.

  click... click...

  The fingernails – let's call them what they really are, claws! CLAWS! – scrape against the door as the killer tries the doorknob again.

  click... click...

  creak...

  The door opens behind me. I press my body as firmly as I can to the side of the desk. Any further and I would be part of the desk. I listen.

  thump... thump...

  The sound hammers my already-crumbling resolve. I am firmly rooted to this hiding place not out of comfort but out of pure, strickening fear. Every vein feels ablaze and nerves drawn as tight as a garrote. I wish, though, with all my heart, that my fear was purely of this killer, of this thing stepping into the room. I wish that I was afraid of the harm he might inflict on my person or my defenseless friend beside me. I wish it be fear of death. And not fear of what I'll become if I chose to fight back.

  thump... thump...

  The stench that I smelled upstairs fills my nostrils again. It smells of death, putrefaction, and burned incense. Such smells seem intimately familiar but unrelated to my current predicament. A rite of some—

  thump... thump...

  A shadow grows ahead of me. At first, it's an expanding dome of darkness; an inverted rising sun. Then it grows larger, swallowing all light in its path. I need to get out of this place. I need to draw the killer away from my friend. I need to flee before all light is gone and only shadow exists.

  thump... thump...

  * * *

  Three hours ago, I stepped out of the 'mechanical' hansom cab and into an intense June afternoon sun that left me squinting and wishing I'd brought my hat. I paid the driver, a man wise enough to wear a pair of dark glasses against the afternoon's strong sun, and the coins clunked into his fare box. The driver nodded 'thanks.' The engine huffed and the carriage shuttered forward, small clouds of steam marking its departure. Although these 'mechanical' hansoms had become the standard over the past couple of years, they still struck my eyes as queer: I expected to see a horse – or even a team of those fine beasts – in the front, pulling a simple 'box on wheels.' However, recently, a horse-drawn carriage was the rarer of the two.

  I smoothed the wrinkles out of my charcoal frock coat and fixed my cravat. Although the coat was a decade out of fashion and slightly-frayed in spots, I found it utterly indispensable: it had two wonderful deep outer pockets that could hold all manner of items. I like to believe that I am a man who always has a need for voluminous pockets. The power of utility over the fancy of men's fashion.

  I c
arried my instrument valise across the city square toward the address written on a message hand-delivered a half-hour ago by a young man from the Pneumatic Tube Co. The Franklin Building was a squat beast that looked large enough to berth one of those new luxury liners the White Star folks were always going on about. Five stories high, the building was as eccentric as its namesake (whose Bacchus-like 'homage' of a statue was shooting water from its pursed lips in front of me): each level a jumble of gothic and baroque architectures. Gargoyles guarded the east and west. Sphinxes riddled the north and south. And winged seraphs looked to the heavens on the top floor. Just plain mad.

  Ben Franklin would have been proud.

  Gathered around Franklin's statue was a crowd of men that bordered on unruly. Although impeccably dressed, the angry clew of dark suited-men was a sight to behold and, it seemed, a force to be reckoned with. True, this part of Philadelphia was usually swarming with professional men buzzing to and fro in pursuit of wealth, health, or justice. They rarely, though, did so in such a large scourge... or so vehemently. As I approached them, they glanced my way, their walrus mustaches twitching and muttonchops bristling as they growled.

  "Do you know the meaning of this?"

  “This is preposterous! I'm losing money!"

  I did not know what this brood of men was clucking for I found my attention diverted as I crossed some unmarked line of demarcation from sunlight into blackness. I looked up to see her. This part of Philadelphia lay firmly in the shadow of a giant airship tethered to the proud William Penn statue atop the gothic building the shared her name. The airship, long and sleek an all her black beauty, had appeared one morning six months ago. Although airships filled our skies the night before, none of them resembled in neither size nor mystery the black ship that was suddenly berthed above the city that Christmas morning. Though rumors spread like flames across dry tinder, no one seemed to know who resided in her for she never responded to any hails. Parliament, City Hall, and, even, the Constabulary seemed unconcerned about her so she remained a grand puzzle for Philadelphia citizens.

  And a fine bit of shade.

  A silver handled walking stick suddenly appeared out of nowhere and pressed itself to my chest. I stopped walking and glanced at its owner: a dastardly tall man wearing rose-tinted glasses. The handle was shaped like an eagle, wings spread and claws out. Ridiculous.

  I fixed the man the most blasé of glances and asked, "Can I help you, sir?"

  "I demand to know the meaning of this!"

  "You need be a little more specific than 'this'."

  He motioned to The Franklin Building and, clearly, the wooden barricade erected outside. A lone constable stood behind it. "The Constabulary has kept us out of our place of business for two hours. Two hours! I ask you why, Mr..."

  "Jonathan Adams," I replied promptly. Then, much to his chagrin, I shrugged. "But I do not know what is going on."

  "Are you not with the constables?"

  A delicate question, indeed. And never one that I can answer easily enough for my relationship with the Constabulary was complicated at best. "I do work for them... occasionally. In a consulting capacity—"

  The man rolled his eyes at me. “Good Lord, not another self-fashioned Sherlock Holmes."

  "Pardon me, sir, but I know not that name," I responded abruptly. "I am merely a collector. Sometimes the Constabulary calls on my expertise."

  The man squinted his eyes. “Aren't you a little young to be an expert... on anything?”

  I loved repartee as much as the next man but I, as a rule, did not engage it with men who jabbed me with their walking sticks nor assumed my breath of knowledge based on my age. “Good day, sir. I have more important things to do than trade barbs with you."

  I made to leave but he held his cane tight to my chest. I felt the tip of the wing bore slightly into my chest. I thought he might find the handle a little hard to swallow should I elect to make him eat it. Taking a deep breath to calm my anger, I turned to him. "Yes?"

  He fixed me a stare that must make other men shiver in their shoes. I was not 'other men.' “Do tell the constables that Hart would like to return to his businesses as soon as possible."

  I bitterly acquiesced with a nod. Mr. Hart removed his walking stick and I, casting him the briefest of glances I hoped convey my sentiment regarding his existence, continued my way. I worked the flimsy wooden barricades and nodded to the constable standing at the door. Clearly the Constabulary's Office had started recruiting from the Irish boxing circuits again for the man looked as if his flesh were made of dough, a nose repeatedly-broken, and hands like sides of beef. The constable's name was unknown to me – I am horrible with names though faces I remember instantly – but he knew me, nodding me into the Franklin Building.

  The inside was a cavern not of rock but wood paneling, stone pillars, and an ornate glass ceiling overhead. I could see the airship through the ceiling, a dark shadow against the afternoon sun. As I made my way across a sea of marble, I could hear echoes of my footsteps and electricity purring like unseen rats humming the same note.

  Ahead lay a grand staircase that led to the second floor. A man stood at the top, his posture military-straight and his eyes glancing upward as if he too were gazing at the airship. He held a pistol in his hands. That said something. In my seven years of associating with the Philadelphia Constabulary Office, I had known the sergeant to pull his pistol only three times. And one of those was to show the thing to me.

  It meant that he was frightened.

  And what scared Sergeant Edgar Poe would make normal men soil their pants.

  I climbed the stairs to meet Poe. The sergeant casually glanced back and I saw shadows fill the dark circles around his eyes. I hoped his wife wasn't sick again. Every time the consumption came upon her, it seemed as if she drew closer and closer to death's shores only to return miraculously to good health. Each time, I feared, was driving Poe more and more... mad.

  I motioned to the weapon. "Is that to keep the gaggle outside in order?"

  Poe snickered but made no reply.

  We stood in a strange silence for a moment or two. Although we enjoyed each other's company when not on official Constabulary business, I felt uneasy at that moment. Perhaps it was the mysterious calling – an address and a Come quickly. E. Poe. – or the pistol in his hand. Either way, the silence was threatening to drive me mad. "Why am I here, Poe?"

  "That's never a good question to ask."

  Wry bastard. Before I could rephrase it better to his liking, Poe left, heading down a hallway. Having no choice, I followed, my feet treading on the soft carpet that ran up the center of the hallway. I did not ask him further questions. It would be like asking a boulder for the time of day. He would tell me more when he wanted to.

  Poe made a right at the end of the hall into another, longer and with handsome cherry furniture and wall sconces. Electric light seemed to stretch for miles. He headed down, passing identical doors with names etched in glass. It was in front of such a door, this one marked FRANKLIN JAMES, ESQ, that he stopped. Without another word, Poe opened the door, revealing a simple office furnished in a mahogany banker's desk, two leather chaises, and a plush Oriental rug. A single Tiffany lamp illuminated a pool of viscous liquid in the center of the rug.

  The coppery smell of spilt blood hung heavy in the air, invading my nostrils and clothing fibers alike. A woman's body laid on her side, her hand reaching out for something that wasn't there. Her face was calm though her death spoke otherwise: something sharp had bisected her head just above her eyebrows. Where the dome of her skull should have been, there was only a concave cavity empty of its major inhabitant.

  I stood in the doorway watching this horrid tableau in front of me. My soul did not fill with dread. I did not scream in fear, lest I lose my sanity. I only stared at the dead woman. I did not know her but that wasn't a particularly good reason why the sight of her death caused no emotional response in me whatsoever. No, the only thought that did come was one of
identity. "Who was she?"

  Poe stood beside me, his breathing controlled. When he looked at this woman, did he see his wife? He motioned to the name on the door. "Eliza Goodkind. She's Franklin James' personal maid."

  I turned to Poe and repeated my earlier question: "Why am I here, Poe?" I'm not doctor nor am I an expert on murder. Why am I here?"

  Poe made to reply, his lips opening just partially then he closed them. Saying nothing more he stepped carefully into the room and took an item off the top of the banker's desk. He put it in my hand.

  I took a large magnifying glass that I carried in my valise and ran the glass over every centimeter of the object. It was metal, light in weight, and the length of my forefinger. In the shape of a V, the two pieces that jutted from the base looked like fountain pens that ended not in a nib but ten or fifteen hair-thin metal pieces.

  "Wires?" Poe asked me, looking over his shoulders.

  I ignored him though people looking over my shoulder was about as horrid as people who talk during operas and continued my inspection. "They look more like antennae."

  I closed my eyes and turned the piece over and over in my hands, letting my fingers do the 'looking.' The base was a thicker metal tube that ended in jagged metal and strands of flimsy broken wires. It had been broken off as if someone—

  thump! thump! thump! thump!

  Loud footsteps suddenly sounded out behind us and a voice boomed into the room. "Sergeant!"

  Poe and I turned to see another constable in the doorway. A tall, wiry man with a bushy moustache, he wore a Fightin' Jack on his left arm: his hand encased in an iron fist and the rest of his arm and shoulder folded into a brace. I had seen one used with devastating effect by a debt collector years ago. They were still picking pieces of the debtor's jaw out of a brick wall.