A Perfect Machine(15)

Palermo swiveled in his chair, picked up his journals, pulled open a drawer in his desk, and placed them gently inside. He shut the drawer and stood up, breathing deeply of the crisp night air. He glanced back at the door; the snow Marcton had ushered inside had already melted into his rugs, sunk into his wall hangings. Only a sprinkling remained near the foot of the door where a thin strip of the caboose’s original hardwood lay exposed.

He walked to the dresser next to his small bed, examined the framed photographs there, searching for one in particular, but not finding it. He frowned, tried to remember where the photo might be. It’d been so long…

Then he remembered. He reached across his bed to the tiny nightstand. Pulled out the top drawer, dug under some papers, his gun, and a bottle of whiskey. The picture he pulled out was not framed like the others. It was in terrible shape: burnt-edged, sun-faded, bubbled, and warped. A decade of neglect, both emotional and physical. Until last night, he had barely thought of the girl in the photograph. It was just too heartbreaking.

Palermo stood up straight again, back popping, fingers brushing the girl’s photo. Over the years, pain had settled into the creases of Palermo’s face, but when he touched the photograph, he felt a thin smile playing about on his lips, easing – if only momentarily – some of the heartache imprinted there. He still loved her, of course he did, no matter what had happened. He always would.

When the door suddenly flew open again, Palermo nearly dropped the picture, but caught it at the last second, thrust it deep into his coat pocket. Turned to greet his visitor.

Snow blasted in again, swirling around the caboose, creating little blizzards for the elephant statues peppered throughout the furniture surfaces.

Marcton escorted James Kendul, leader of the Hunters, inside, pulled a fold-out chair from inside the redwood armoire, snapped it open, motioned to Kendul to sit.

Kendul thanked Marcton, sat down, and sniffed. Once.

“Thank you, Marcton,” Palermo said.

Marcton nodded, shivered, and bounded out the door, slamming it behind him.

Palermo bent to look out the window, watched Marcton plod up the path toward the warehouse – careful, of course, not to step in any of the footprints already made. He watched Marcton knock at the warehouse door, shift from side to side as he waited for it to open. Cleve’s bulky frame filled the doorway, then Marcton was in.

Palermo looked back at his guest, sighed, pulled out his own chair at the desk, and plopped himself in it. The two faced each other. Old friends, occasional enemies.

“What are you doing here?” Palermo said. “Why now? Why not just send one of your boys?”

“Want something done right, do it yourself,” Kendul said. James Kendul was fairly short like Palermo, but built thinner, sleeker. Kendul’s crisp blue eyes rarely left the person to whom he was talking. “You know that as well as I do, Edward.”

Palermo nodded. “So why now?”

“You know why.”

“Because one of your boys got killed in a Run? Goddamnit, it happens; not very often, but you know it happens, so–”

“One of mine saw him, Edward. Near the hospital this side of the tracks. Luckily, one loyal to me, one I can trust not to say anything about it to the others.”

Palermo thought of carrying on with the ignorance act, but knew it would be pointless. Kendul knew. Kyllo’d been seen.

“How long were you going to wait before telling me, Edward?” Kendul asked, anger rising. “How fucking long?”

“We knew it would happen again one day,” Palermo said, resigned, unable to look his old friend directly in the eyes. Palermo put his hand inside the coat pocket where he’d stuffed the picture of the girl. His fingers stroked the burnt edges of the photograph. “I just always wished it wouldn’t be on my watch.”

Kendul nodded, shifted his weight in his chair, glanced out the caboose window at the warehouse. The light from the top windows made the snow glow a dirty yellow. “We have to find him,” he said, brushing his hands once down the creases in his pants. “See exactly what he’s become. We on the same page here?”

Palermo pulled his hand from his pocket, gestured vaguely at nothing. “Of course.” Kendul usually made him a bit nervous – the same way Palermo made other people nervous – but he was determined not to show it. At least determined to try not to show it.

“You OK, Palermo?” Kendul asked, shifting the full weight of his gaze onto Edward. “You seem… distracted. More distracted than usual, I mean.”

Always with the little digs, Palermo thought.

“No, I’m fine, Kendul. We dealt with this situation before, and we’ll do it again. Let’s not make it worse than it already is by getting at each other’s throats. It’s wholly unnecessary and, frankly, beneath us.”

Kendul sniffed again. Twice this time. Looked away.

“I’ll be in touch,” Kendul said, then stood up, extended his hand. Palermo stood and shook it. Kendul moved toward the door. “And Edward,” he added, opening the door, letting the screaming night inside, “see what your weather visions have to say about this. I’m open to taking advice from any source willing to offer it up.”

Kendul stepped outside, his floor-length weathered brown trench brushing the lip of the doorframe. He turned around. Squinted against the snow and wind. “What’s his name, anyway, Edward? Not that it matters. But what’s his name?”