10:50 pm, abandoned Oldsmill aircraft factory
Factory District, Detroit, Michigan
On the other side of the decrepit parking area, a red car pulled to a stop just outside the rusting chain-link fence. The barrier was no obstacle to anyone with a good pair of wire cutters, which John Blacksad and Cotten Miller didn't need for a collapsed section of the fence. They'd gotten out of Blacksad's car and crossed over the jagged ends of the interconnected steel wire that reached up in a subtle attempt to grab at the cuffs of their pants, completely ignoring the large sign that declared everything within the fence private property, then hurried as quietly as possible across the crumbling parking area while skirting worthless equipment and slipping past the abandoned assembly plants and decaying storage warehouses.
Because he'd never been there before, Blacksad let the magpie take the lead. The snow was coming in sheets now, at times reducing the looming hangar only a hundred yards away to a misty gray outline visible only for the glaring city light behind it. The bird obviously knew where he was going—almost too well for the detective's comfort, considering he was blind—and Blacksad would have been blind himself if not for the magpie's mental map of the facility.
As if reading the cat's thoughts, Cotten said, "I know this building like the back of my wing. After all, I worked here when it was the largest aircraft factory in the whole country. I could get around this place with my eyes closed!" He let out a humorless laugh. "It was my only contribution to the war effort; because of my blindness, I couldn't fight."
"Personally, I'd rather forget what I saw over there." Blacksad had served in the war, signing up a week after the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor and finding himself assigned to the Third Army Group headed for Africa. He'd gone all the way from Kasserine Pass to the crossing of the Rhine before coming home, seen and done things he'd sooner leave unsaid and in the past than bring up in tales told to those who couldn't possibly fathom the experiences.
"Where did you serve? Europe?" Cotten went on like he hadn't heard him. "I dreamed of being a pilot. Cosmic irony: A bird who can't fly."
Right then, a tingle went up Blacksad's spine that told him there was someone other than himself and Cotten in this particular part of the factory. Without so much as turning his ears, he brought his left arm up and drove his elbow back, hearing and feeling the impact as it smashing into the nose of the pig behind him. To those who thought pigs' noses were just tough cartilage, he'd tell them to brush up on their anatomy. For the next half-hour his elbow would be feeling the bone located inside that snout. "Hardly the first time your kind has tried to lure me into a trap, Cotten," he growled, before turning around and realizing the bird had flown the coop, so to speak. "Cotten?"
—
Hans walked up to the small crowd of Arctic Nation members assembled before him. All were clad in their signature white uniforms that bore the Arctic Nation symbol on the left breast and pointed hoods, cinched at the waists by leather ammo belts that held everything from shotgun shells to hand grenades. Several held torches and all had type of firearm. The burning cross behind them symbolized their interpretation of the passage in Revelation, which stated that "God's people must make ready the earth for His second coming." These people weren't here to terrorize and subdue; they were here to wage war against the population whose fur was darker than white. The bear himself wore his own uniform, which was red and identified him as the head of this chapter, but carried no weapons.
"We've been waiting," said the one up front with his arms crossed.
"You may now begin," Karup answered.
"And so we shall." Only then did Karup recognize the glint in Huk's eyes. "Get him."
Karup let out a cry of surprise as his red uniform disappeared beneath the white ones of his followers. Knowing the bear could easily overpower any one of them, they'd all jumped him at once, locking themselves onto his neck and arms to immobilize him. Even so, it almost wasn't enough as he struggled to get free, loosening a few of them from his shoulders and flinging them several feet away. "What are you doing!?" he roared in shock and rage. "Release me at once!" In the end, however, his efforts were for naught. The ones he'd dislodged had come back and piled on him, upsetting his balance and sending him crashing to the hard concrete floor with a heavy thump. "You'll all pay for this!" he promised. "Huk! Order them to release me!"
"That's not the problem," Huk replied, taking one of Karup's ears between his thumb and index finger and pulling hard, making the bear roar in enraged pain. Then he released his grip and held up a small, bloodstained pink-and-white striped overshirt just the right size for a six-year-old girl. "But perhaps you might be able to tell us the owner of these little things the bishop found in the trunk."
The cavernous spaces and deathly silence of the factory created the perfect conditions to bring the echo of voices to my ears. The sounds were faint at this distance, but I recognized Karup's and the voice of his fox henchman, Huk, the one who'd been screaming from the podium just a few days before. The voices were both familiar and threatening at once, and I didn't have a lot of time. Weekly was surely here with them and about to face the hangman's noose. If I didn't get there soon, I'd be carrying my friend home in a sheet. I refused to let that happen.
The masquerade ball had just begun, and I'd sent myself an invitation.
The dark, empty factory was a shell of what it had been. At the height of its operation, nearly two thousand workers manned the machinery that produced twice as many aircraft per month. After the war, the demand for military vehicles had plummeted and now that machinery sat silent and still, collecting dust and turning red with rust. Someday, some aspiring aviator might show up and buy the factory from Oldsmill and put it to use again.
But whether that would happen or not was the farthest thing from Blacksad's mind as he raced toward the sounds of voices that echoed through the vacant halls of the dead factory. He'd taken the hood and uniform from the pig he'd elbowed in the face, intending to use it as a disguise that would hopefully get him close enough to free his odorous friend. He just hoped he'd get there before it was too late.
—
"This is a great day for us, my brothers!" Huk shouted from the platform beside the gallows' trap door. "Today, we will see not only the removal of a vermin accessory to the Claws, but also of a spot which for many years has stained our divine organization."
Karup stared down at the assembly before him, slowly overcoming his shock but angry enough to rip them all to pieces. If he could free himself of the ropes binding his wrists, he'd be able to exact vengeful retribution on these misguided lackeys of a traitorous element, but they'd obviously planned all this out in advance. They'd hit him on the back of his head with a baseball bat made of white ash the minute he'd been immobilized, knocking him out just long enough for them to bind him and lead him onto the gallows.
His lip was cut and nose was bleeding, but his injuries were nothing compared to his indignation and rage at being wrongfully accused of things that he knew he'd never done. There was no argument that Arctic Nation's policies and methods were harsh, but they worked toward the cleansing of the world by the subjugation, control and eventual elimination of the inferior species. What was one man's grudge against that noble goal? "You've all lost your minds!" the bear roared over Huk's ranting. "Don't believe a word of this! It's the devil speaking!"
But Huk continued like Karup had never spoken. "He who we believed flawless has proved himself a traitor to both our race and our ideals!" He jabbed a finger in Karup's face. "He has defiled every Christian value! He has murdered an innocent Negro and done God knows what else to countless other children, perhaps even our own! All thanks to our blind confidence and his privileged position!"
Now the crowd were joining in, all yelling over each other as they called Karup a filthy degenerate and demanded his end. He raised his head and shouted, "But I did nothing! It's all lies! It's been blown out of proportion! I'm innocent! INNOCENT!"
Blacksad was only a few dozen feet away when Karup asserted his innocence, pulling the hood of the uniform he'd taken over his head, and the tone of Karup's voice told him that the bear was indeed innocent. He had no love of racism and wanted to see those who aligned themselves with the ideals of white supremacy brought to justice, but he disliked the punishment of those falsely accused even more.
"Don't worry, chief," Huk said, holding up the rope tied to the small piece of wood that was holding the trap door in place. "I'll take good care of Jezebel in your absence!"
Karup's face lit up with righteous fury. "BASTARD!" he roared.
It was all over in less than a second. Huk pulled the rope, the trap door fell and Karup's neck broke with a sickening crack as the noose around his neck went taught and suddenly stopped his descending body. Weekly cringed from the sound. Now the crowd looked on silently—whether in sorrow or resentment, Blacksad didn't know—as Karup hung there, his head cocked at an unnatural angle.
"And now," Huk continued, looking down at the weasel, "your time has come, filth!"
Weekly started as an Arctic Nation member gripped his shoulders and shoved him up the steps to the reset gallows. Since he was so much smaller than Karup, three packing crates had been stacked so his neck would reach the noose. The figure lifted him onto the crates, then started to slip the noose over his head. "Oh, god," he whimpered.
As Huk started to preach again to the assembly, the noose stopped just off Weekly's nose, and he stared at it in bewilderment. "A favor," the figure said. "Get as far away from here as you can." The weasel's eyes bulged as his fear subsided and he recognized Blacksad's voice. "Now!"
In one fluid motion, Blacksad cut the rope binding Weekly's wrists and swung outward on the noose, kicking out with one leg and knocking the burning cross into the assembled Arctic Nation members, who all scattered to avoid it. He let go of the rope and sailed through the air, taking advantage of their confusion to leap behind the unfinished tail section of a B-17 bomber after he landed. And just in time. Only seconds after taking cover, bullets flew past, sparking off the metal and shattering glass as he ripped the Arctic Nation uniform off of himself.
"FIND HIM!" Huk screeched as he took off running.
A hand suddenly caught the collar of his uniform. "A fire!" Cotten yelled. "The factory's burning, is it now?"
"Let go of me, you stupid old man!" Huk ordered. "I need to get out of here!"
He tried to push past, but Cotten blocked him. "What about the girl?" the magpie demanded. "We need to find her before the fire spreads!"
"Do whatever you want," Huk told him. "It's not my problem!"
"But it is your problem if the others find out you're the one who kidnapped her!" Cotten countered.
Huk put his hand to his chin thoughtfully. "You're right," he said. "But I think I have a solution." Then he pressed the muzzle of his pistol into Cotten's stomach and fired, the barrel still smoking as the bird doubled over and he walked away.
—
Blacksad crouched inside the tail section of one of the dilapidated bomber hulks, peeking through the machine gun port as two Arctic Nation goons passed slowly, scanning the tool-strewn assembly bay for their quarry. Both were armed—one with a Colt .45 pistol, the other with an M1 Garand rifle—but neither had a torch, so locating him was going to be a challenge. It was typical of non-felines: They always assumed that cats had as much trouble seeing in dark places as they did.
He waited until they passed, then leapt out the open end of the fuselage section and landed with his full weight on the back of the closest one, catching both of them by surprise. He locked his arm around the man's neck and turned to face the other one just as he brought his rifle to bear, using the one he was holding as a human shield. His captive's compatriot fired, noticing too late that one of his own was held between him and his target, and the round pierced his heart. Blacksad then grabbed up his prisoner's pistol and fired off three quick shots at his would-be killer, hitting him twice in the left breast and once in the right—all crippling wounds.
Blacksad knew something of anatomy, so he also knew that his rounds had shattered the left collarbone, likely punctured the left lung and lodged beneath the right scapula of his assailant. Even if his last shot hadn't been a fatal blow, he knew his assailant would have been unable to fire or control his weapon without immediate surgery and several months of rehabilitation.
With the immediate threat neutralized, he pulled the hood off of his former captive's head. The ferret from the diner, who'd entered with Huk and the bulldog and harassed Cotten before coming over to give himself and Weekly grief. Two less neo-Nazis meant the world was that much safer, even if it was only marginally so. Arctic Nation as an organiation was far from finished—there was a chapter in nearly every major city with cells spread throughout—but the chapter here in Detroit would descend into chaos and hopefully destroy itself as infighting and competition for the Grand Wizard's robes fractured it from within.
The sound of panting and a rubber-soled boot falling made him whip his liberated firearm up and point it at the figure, who was rounding the corner. "Don't shoot! It's me!" Weekly said, throwing out his hands, and Blacksad lowered the gun.
"We need to leave," Blacksad told him. The burning cross he'd knocked over earlier had fallen into a pool of evaporated oil, which had ignited not long after he'd saved Weekly from the gallows and was quickly filling the assembly bay with smoke and heat. It was only a matter of time before the flames ignited some other fuel source and spread to the rest of the factory. Sweat dripped down Blacksad's face, both from the heat and his own exertions. "This place is turning into an oven." He turned and started walking toward the massive exit door with Weekly on his heels.
As they passed a T in the corridor, the sound of gurgling coughs caught their attention and they looked over. "Oh, lord!" Weekly gasped, bringing his hands to his muzzle in shock. Cotten was slumped against one of the rusting engine assemblies, grimacing in pain as he held his arms tightly over his middle. Weekly and Blacksad each took an arm.
"This is nothing," Cotten moaned as they lifted him. "Go to my nest," he told them. "The girl is there."
What Cotten called his nest was the wingless chassis of a B-17 Flying Fortress long-range heavy bomber, abandoned when hostilities in Europe had ended. They had to clamber over the rusting hulks of other planes and crawl under the scaffolding supporting them to reach it, dragging Cotten the whole way. A light emanated from within, seeming to originate near the bomb bay. When they finally reached the dilapidated craft that would never fly, Cotten directed them to the open loading port on the far side.
Once inside, they saw a single incandescent bulb on a thick cable that hung from the ceiling. Beneath it—sitting cross-legged on a ragged mattress, wrapped up tightly in a blanket and surrounded by empty food cans—was the object of Blacksad's entire investigation. "Kylie?" he asked, and the girl looked up. She was miserable, her quiet sobs and tear-stained face speaking the depth of her ordeal. Cotten signaled them to let him go and went to the cockpit while Blacksad knelt down in an effort to appear less imposing and slowly approached.
Kylie scurried away from him, pressing herself against the wall. "Get away from me!" she screamed.
"It's okay, sweetheart. I'm not here to hurt you."
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"I've been trying to find you," he answered. "I want to take you someplace you'll be safe. My name is John Blacksad." At the mention of his name, Kylie abandoned the blanket and leapt into his arms. He caught her and held her close as she sobbed her relief, soaking his shoulder with her tears. "It's okay now, honey." This little girl had been terrified beyond words and would be scarred for life. Who could be so callous as to kidnap a six-year-old child from her home? The answer was so simple that the question wasn't even worth the energy to ask. "The bad men aren't going to hurt you anymore. You're going home."
"Blacksad!" Cotten called from the cockpit. "Are you still there?"
"Yes, Cotten." He set Kylie down and entered the cockpit while Weekly buttoned her coat.
"Have you ever been inside a casino?" the bird asked. "It must be marvelous. The lights, the noise." He was interrupted by another wet cough, and he knew he wasn't much longer for this world. "That fox promised to take me there in exchange for my help. It seems he's not a man of his word, eh?"
Blacksad rubbed two fingers above his left eye. "I understand you magpies like shiny things, Cotten," he said laboriously, "but this is simply obsessive."
Cotten weakly reached up a hand and took Blacksad's in it. "I entrust the girl to you," he said, his voice now barely a whisper. "But then you'll owe me a favor as well." With his last breath, he requested, "Promise you'll take me to Las Vegas."
"Fine," Blacksad sighed, closing his eyes. "We'll go to the damn desert." Then Cotten died, and the bird's hand fell from his. Blacksad respectfully swept a hand over the magpie's face, closing his eyes for the last time. "Rest in peace, old codger." At least Cotten had died happy with a smile on his beak.
"Blacksad, hurry!" Weekly said urgently, interrupting the somber moment. "We need to get out of here before we roast!"
Blacksad snapped out of his military reverence and swept Kylie into his arms before jumping out of the plane, then ran out of the factory with Weekly close behind and Kylie clinging to him for dear life. The flames were fast approaching, swallowing everything they touched in flickering tongues and choking black smoke. They rushed out through the massive hangar door and into the cold night, a searing heat at their backs as the raging inferno finally engulfed the assembly bay and quickly spread to the rest of the factory via ruptured gas lines and hydraulic hoses.
At least Cotten would finally be able to go to Vegas, his ashes carried aloft by the prevailing southwesterly winds.
