Chapter Text
Kate Bishop was unreasonably bored.
This was not uncommon in Manhattan heiresses, but she felt the affliction particularly strongly, and could not be entertained by any of the jobs her mother had wrangled for her. She was bored at home, bored at work when she had work, even bored during outings with friends that she was starting to admit to herself she only went on in an attempt to alleviate boredom. They were not successful. Her only entertainment came from scheduling different events at very similar times, for the chaos of travelling through the city streets still held just a smidgen of enjoyment to her. There was something inherently exciting about catching a train or hailing a cab, or even just running pell-mell through pedestrians.
Which was how it came to pass that on a delightfully sunny New York afternoon in the summer of ‘58, Kate was not at work, or with friends, even though she had social plans in less than half an hour – she was sitting in a strangely well attended matinee performance by a man named Jack Duquense; her mother’s new fiancé.
And trying not to yawn.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced an announcer grandiously, as small brass band drew to a disorderly close, “I have the honour of presenting to you one of the most remarkable men in the world.”
“How remarkable?” laughed an audience member. “He’s sweating!”
Kate, bolstered by her mother’s glare, mustered the immense force of will it took to avoid laughing at this comment. The rest of the attendees were not so boringly polite.
“Of course he is, for every day,” the announcer continued with dignity, making himself heard over the din with a professionality that implied that an unruly audience was not uncommon, “he commits to memory thirty new facts, and remembers every one of them. Facts from history, from geography, from newspapers and from scientific books, millions and millions of them. Think of the strain involved by his prodigious feat.”
“His feet aren’t half so big as yours, Ivan,” jeered someone in the front row. The audience there was indeed quite rowdy. Ivan glared at his mocker.
“I was referring to his feats of memory,” said the announcer, very professionally disguising his state of distress. “Ladies and gentlemen, please test him by asking questions, and he will answer them fully and freely. Mr Memory!”
Jack stepped forward, grinning like someone with rigor mortis. Eleanor, Kate’s mother, began clapping immediately in support. Initially, her applause was lone, but after some intense maternal glaring, Kate joined in.
After they stopped, there was an awkward silence that persisted for almost half a minute, filled with the muttering that stems from any large group of people.
“A question, please,” Jack almost begged.
“Where’s my girl been since last saturday?!” shouted yet another person, to raucous laughter and peppered answers that included Jail, a bar, and my mother’s house. Kate snorted.
“A serious question, ladies and gentlemen,” said Jack.
“Who won the world series in nineteen thirteen?” called out someone finally, and Jack visibly took a relieved breath.
“The Philadelphia Athletics,” he recited, “beating the New York Giants four games to one; the final game took place at Brush Stadium. Am I right, sir?”
“Er – yes!”
The audience murmured appreciatively, not quite sure how to react to an indication of competence.
“Who won in Nineteen Fifty Eight?” shouted Ivan’s tormentor again, thinking he was clever for saying the current year.
“Come back in Nineteen Fifty Nine and I’ll tell you sir!” called back Jack, to appreciative laughter.
“Who was the last British Heavyweight champion of the world?” came the next question, which was strange for a theatre in New York, but Jack knew it anyway, making himself heard over cries of Sydney Greenstreet and My old woman:
“Bob Fitzsimmons. He defeated Jim Corbett, heavyweight champion of America at Carson City, Nevada in March, 1897, reported by Nellie Verrill Mighels Davis. He was 34 years of age. Am I right, ma’am?”
The audience was definitely behind Jack now, cheering with gusto. Kate, despite her best efforts, was actually impressed. Her mother was beside herself.
(You must remember, dear reader, that this was in those dark forgotten days before the internet, when remembering various factoids was a necessary and difficult skill.)
“How old is Ingrid Bergman?”
“I know, sir,” said Jack, with the slight smirk of a ladies man, “but I never tell a lady’s age.”
This was the most popular yet, and it took Jack almost half a minute to regain control of the crowd in any capacity. When he did, the next question caught Kate’s attention like a cat catching a rat.
She wasn’t entirely sure why, either. It wasn’t a notable question – at least, not more notable than the others. The man asking it wasn’t notable either; a very fat, bald man in a cream coloured suit. Kate thought he looked slightly familiar, maybe he had been to one of her mother’s parties?
No, what was notable was a few people’s reactions to it. Her mother froze up like a marble statue, and Mr Memory himself stared at the fat man with an open mouth for an instant, blubbering slightly like a fish, before answering in a steady monotone.
“What was the address of the poet Thomas Parke D’Invelliers?” asked the fat man.
“Apartment one hundred and thirteen, number three building, Vaudeville Boulevard. Am I right, sir?” recited Jack. It was definitely a recital, in a way the other had been to an extent, but not the same extent. Kate squinted.
“I certainly hope so, I have no idea!” said the fat man, and the crowd erupted into chaos and the moment was lost.
“No, but seriously, man; how old is Ingrid Bergman?” shouted the same person again. Kate took this as a sign that nothing was going to be interesting again for a little while, and took the time to check her watch.
And swore loudly.
“Kate!” admonished Eleanor. “Watch your language!”
“Sorry,” said Kate dismissively. She was late for lunch with her friends Franny and Greer. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to it, if she was being honest with herself, but she had promised, and she hated to be rude. She seemed to be inadvertently rude so much these days; she wasn’t sure why her friends put up with it. She had even missed one of their birthday parties by sheer forgetfulness – and she couldn’t remember which one. “I have to go - I’m late to meet Greer and Franny at the Oak bar.”
“You aren’t going anywhere, Kate,” said Eleanor. “It’s the middle of Jack’s show! We’ve got to congratulate him afterwards.”
“I’ll send him a telegram,” said Kate, getting up in a rush. “Soon as I arrive.”
“Kate–” Her mother sighed. “Fine. Fine! But you had better be at the party this evening.”
“Of course,” said Kate, who had completely forgotten about it until that exact moment. “Your apartment, right?”
“Yes. And wear something more lady-like.”
“What’s wrong with my suit?”
Kate liked her grey business suit. It made her feel like the various nothings that filled her day were actually important stock deals or the like. Plus she looked great in it.
“Nothing,” said Eleanor, “it’s just not lady-like.”
“Fine,” lied Kate. “See you then.”
“You had better send that telegram, young lady!” said her mother after her, struggling to be heard over the crowd who were now collectively trying to ascertain the age of Ingrid Bergman.
“Right,” said Kate, and then more quietly, to herself as she left the theatre; “Love you, mom.”
She had long since given up hoping for Eleanor to say it back. She was fairly certain her mother did love her, but she wasn’t one to say it out loud, she thought as she traversed through town. She just … didn’t say it very often. Or at all. Nor show it.
But she did bail Kate out of jail that time she accidentally stole a car, muttering about scandals. And the other time she inadvertently ran an insurance scam involving arson. And the other time–
Wow, I get sent to jail a lot, thought Kate. So why does my life feel so boring?
Because you aren’t in control of it? proposed a smaller voice somewhere in her mind.
She told the second voice to shut up. She made the mistake of doing this out loud, and in return received a very scathing look from an old man passing her on the street.
—
– They’ll be here, – signed a long-haired, slightly hairy-faced man in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel.
– Why are you so certain? – returned the woman he was standing next to, with a ponytail and a stern glare, clearly his superior by both of their body languages. – They’ve never been anywhere we’ve waited before, even when they ought to have been. –
– Barton is not a ghost, – signed the man. – They’re just a very, … very skilled agent. –
– So skilled we don’t even know whether it's a man or a woman? All we know about them is that their last name is Barton and their first initial is C. I’m not entirely sure they exist. –
– Maya, they definitely exist. –
“Maya” surveyed the busy lobby.
– They could be any one of these people, Kazi, – she signed, – and we’d never know. –
– Barton will be here, – signed “Kazi” again, as though he could make it true by repetition.
Maya thought for a moment.
– Our intelligence says they’re here for some kind of meeting - where do people have meetings in this place? – she signed.
– Probably the Oak bar, over there. –
The Oak bar was a lovely room with dark blue walls and ornate wooden furniture, where old rich business people conducted meetings that dictated the financial future of thousands with the amiability of someone ordering lunch at a diner.
– Can we send a telegram here? – signed Maya, suddenly struck with an idea, – addressed to Barton? –
Kazi grinned, nodded, and went to the front desk to make such arrangements, bumping past a young lady in a grey suit and a hell of a rush.
—
“Sorry!” Kate apologised with a backwards flail to the man she had just inadvertently pushed past, and headed on towards the Oak bar. It wasn’t Franny and Greer’s usual requested meeting spot, so she had had some trouble finding it. Why on earth had they chosen it this time? She spotted them at a table by the wall.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said, spilling into the third chair, the only remaining empty one, “my mother’s fiancé’s memory performance thingamabob went on far longer than I expected, and there was this mean old guy on the way here, and then my mother made me promise to send him a telegram–”
“The old guy?” said Franny. There was a beat of silence.
“...My mother’s fiancé,” said Kate. “Anyway, I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting–”
“It’s fine, Kate,” said Greer. “We’ve come to expect it.”
There was something resigned in the way she said it, that made Kate feel as though this unreliable person who couldn’t help but be late was all she would ever amount to being.
“Oh,” she squeaked, very quietly.
“But forget that,” said Franny excitedly, “we’ve got something excellent for you. You remember that my uncle is a writer?”
“Of course,” lied Kate.
“Well, his debut play is being performed this evening! At the Winter Garden theatre!” Franny gave a silent third exclamation after these two with an open mouthedly excited grin. “Will you come?”
“Franny, that’s brilliant,” said Kate. “And I’m so happy for your Uncle Damien–”
“Derek.”
“–Derek, but I … can’t. Not tonight. I have a previous engagement.”
“Oh, but Kate,” said Greer, and Kate got the feeling that her friends had rehearsed this conversation, “it’s such a fun play, and if you see it then you might be able to convince your mother to see it and you know what such great friends she is with the theatre’s owner…”
Ah. And there the penny drops. They only need her to see the play so her rich mother can fund it or whatever. Kate sighed internally.
—
– Done it, – signed Kazi, returning from the front desk. – They were annoyed to be sending a telegram to the same building so I had to tip the receptionist - but the telegram should be going through any minute. –
– Good job, – replied Maya, eyeing the Oak bar from their vantage point by the door.
Behind them both, a bellhop in a green velvet uniform approached. The telegram in his hand seemed to glow malevolently, insofar as it was possible for a non-sentient piece of paper to A. Glow and B. Have Emotions.
—
“I would love to help, I really would,” said Kate, trying to ignore Franny and Greer’s pouting, “but I have to go to a party for my mother - it’s for Jack, he’s having an afterparty for his show.” Kate’s mind made a connection. “Shit! The telegram! I have to send him a telegram.”
“Send who a telegram?” asked Franny.
“Jack – I told you this earlier – damn it!”
“Alright, there’s no need to swear,” said Greer, spearing an olive with a toothpick disinterestedly. “Just ask a bellhop.”
“Hey, here’s one now.” Franny pointed.
“Telegram for Barton?” the bellhop was calling. “Barton? Telegram for a Mr or Mrs C. Barton in the Oak bar?”
Kate waved him over.
Some stories begin merely with incredibly unlucky timing.
—
“That’s her,” breathed Kazi excitedly. Maya grinned like a shark. They looked at each other, and Kazi spoke a word as Maya mouthed it in unison.
Barton.
—
“Can I dictate a telegram to you?” said Kate. The quicker she did this, the more likely it was that the telegram would arrive before Jack finished his show.
“Unfortunately not, ma’am,” said the bellhop. Kate didn’t complain about “ma’am” even though it made her feel very old. “You have to go to the front desk for that. If you’ll follow me…”
Greer and Franny waved away Kate’s apologetic assurance that she would return post-haste.
“Ten bucks says she’s not coming back,” sighed Greer, once she was out of earshot.
“You’re on.”
The bellhop led Kate to the exit of the Oak bar, and pointed. “Just over there, ma’am.”
“Thanks,” she said, giving him a dollar. Staff at the posh places like the plaza seemed to expect it, and she didn’t come here infrequently, so offending the workers wouldn’t be a good idea. She walked across the lobby, thinking about such matters. Even to her friends, she was nothing but a piggy bank you had to be somewhat social to. Was that all she would ever amount to? Surely she meant more than her money–
A man with scraggly facial hair grabbed her arm.
“The car is waiting outside,” he said calmly, “you will walk between us, saying nothing.”
“What?” said Kate. “Who are you? What is this?”
A woman caught her other arm – she was shorter, but far more menacing. She dashed one of her hands off of the other angrily.
“Let’s go,” translated the man.
“Go where? Let go of me–”
Kate felt something press against the back of her ribs, and knew by some previously unused instinct that it was the barrel of a gun.
Shit, she thought.
“Is- is this some kind of a joke?” she said, and all three of them knew she didn’t believe it.
“Yes, a joke,” said the man, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We will laugh in the car.”
In the fifteen metres it took to walk out of the Plaza Hotel, across the busy sidewalk and into the blue Mercedes parked right in front, Kate took some guesses as to why she was being kidnapped. She didn’t bother to try and find a way of escaping – by the way the woman kept jabbing the gun into her back, she had an itchy trigger finger.
Ransom, she thought. Very probable reason. Daughter of a wealthy business tycoon, it wouldn’t be the first time such an occurrence had, well, occurred. Surprisingly, this was somewhat comforting to Kate; it meant that her kidnapping tenure would likely be quite short and improved her odds of being returned safely, especially if the motivation was money.
The two kidnappers shoved her into the Mercedes. Not one passerby batted an eye.
“Next time, we should take my car,” said Kate. No reaction. The driver, a man who looked as though he must’ve been at least distantly related to a literal bear, didn’t look back or wait for an order; he just drove, immediately and fast, though not to the point where it would be noticeably different from the other traffic.
“Don’t tell me where we’re going, surprise me,” she said. Maybe if she kept the jokes going, then her brain wouldn’t have time to realise how likely, even if it was ransom, that it was for her to die here.
Don’t think about it.
The man and the woman stared straight ahead, sitting either side of her. It wasn’t exactly a large car – a convertible, yes, but with the hood up – so she felt rather squished.
Maybe that’s how they’ll kill you, squishing you underneath something very very very heavy - shut up!
“Y’know,” she continued, “I left some friends waiting for me back there in the hotel, and they're going to think I'm awfully rude, disappearing like this.”
Nothing but the noise of the traffic. Kate grimaced at the scraggly haired man.
“I mean, if you could let me out at a drugstore for a moment, I could call them and explain that I … am … being kidnapped?” she said haltingly. “...That is what’s happening, isn’t it?”
More silence, even including the car this time, which had slowed and stopped at a traffic light. Kate’s mind caught on the word stopped. She glanced surreptitiously at the door handle. The gun was no longer pressed anywhere she could feel – she eyed the woman’s hands: empty. With a sudden burst of motion, she dove for the door, and for one single glorious moment where the kidnappers did not have the wherewithal to react she could taste freedom and she was hugging her mother and a newspaper was writing a triumphant article about how brave she’d been–
Kate’s face slammed into the window of the unopened door. She tried again, but the handle wouldn’t budge. The man and woman stared at her with some disinterest. She retook her seat.
“Locked,” she informed them blithely.
—
“Ten bucks to you, I guess,” said Franny.
“Whoopee,” replied Greer sarcastically, crucifying another olive with five toothpicks in a row.
—
It was dusk by the time the car got to its destination. Kate wasn’t sure, her geography was pretty weak, but she was fairly certain that they were somewhere in the region of Glen Cove. About an hour and a half drive from New York – and yet this journey took much longer, she thought. Were they taking a weird route to lose a tail? Are the police already on this? Or am I just very wrong about where we are?
They drove up the gate of a magnificent estate, with a nameplate outside that labelled it as being the house of “HAMMER”. At some point in the drive, Kate had lapsed into silence, deeming it safer for her wellbeing to not annoy her kidnappers. She had read once that it was a good idea to befriend such persons, as they would then find it more difficult to kill you, but her mother had once said that Kate was annoying even when she was trying to be friendly, so she wasn’t taking any chances. Nevertheless, she couldn’t resist asking:
“Who’s Hammer?”
Stony silence. This time, at least, they didn’t fully ignore her – the woman raised an eyebrow so devastatingly that you could’ve used it to break down the Ishtar Gate of Babylon. (Kate had had the privilege of an … expensive education.)
“Oh, really?” Kate continued, bolstered by some small weapon of information. “You fascinate me.”
Sarcasm was her forte.
—
Inside the red brick manor, was a lavishly decorated hallway, with expensive carpentry and antique furniture. The room across from the entrance Kate had just been frogmarched through bubbled briefly with the noise of conversation and laughter – A party? – as a woman exited from it to meet the kidnappers, shutting the door behind her.
“Where is he?” said the man who was still holding Kate.
“He’s upstairs getting dressed,” said the second woman (Kate was very annoyed to not have anyone’s name yet) – an older lady than the first one, with glasses and hair that looked, at least from the front angle, like the bulbous head of an octopus.
“Tell him we’re here.”
“Dinner is about to be served,” she seethed, “our guests are hungry, we cannot keep them waiting–”
– Just tell him: Barton, – interrupted Maya. Kate didn’t know sign language, so she didn’t know this. But the second woman did.
“Really?” she asked, in disbelief.
Both the kidnappers nodded. The octopus-haired woman looked Kate up and down.
What the fuck is going on? Kate thought.
“By the way, what’s for dessert?” she said out loud, feeling a little defensive. Being quiet was wearing.
“Hm,” said the woman. “Wait in the library, I’ll tell him.”
The kidnappers dragged her down the hallway with a kind of jerking acceleration. Curiouser and curiouser, thought Kate, or at least a part of her; the rest of her was worrying whether “library” was code for “secret murder room with hacksaws and blunt instruments, none of which have been cleaned in years so even if you escape you’re likely to die of an infection within a week”.
Luckily, the incredibly specific latter option turned out to be false, and the library in question was just that, with bookshelves, a curtained cabinet, a lovely window view of the estate’s grounds, and a desk. The ponytail woman shoved her into the room.
Stay here, she gestured angrily, forgoing traditional sign language for a much more violent and instantly recognisable dialect to the uninitiated.
“Don’t hurry yourself; I’ll catch up on my reading,” drawled Kate, as the door shut firmly behind her.
Instantly, like a greyhound chasing an electronic rabbit, she dashed over to the window.
“Locked,” she announced to no one. She briefly considered breaking it with a paperweight or a particularly hefty book, but decided against it – the sound of glass shattering would alert people to her escape attempt. Kate ran back to the door, but it was likewise secured, presumably by the ponytail lady as she was closing it.
Ugh. This was so annoying, and Kate’s internal treatment of the experience as an unlucky and tedious but relatively harmless rite of passage was beginning to crumble at the edges. A proper freak out was coming on, she could feel it. But any time spent alone was time for self improvement, her mother had once (or thrice) told her, and right now Kate could think of nothing more “improving” than gathering information on her enemy. She scoured the desk. On it was only a letter, addressed to Mr Justin Hammer, Baywood, Glen Cove, N.Y.
“Justin Hammer,” Kate repeated to herself, committing it to memory. In her head, a judge announced: Justin Hammer, you are hereby convicted of conspiracy to kidnap the very brave and incredibly impressive Katherine Bishop. “Let’s see what mail you’ve been getting, huh? Rather stupid of you to leave it out.”
She ripped open the letter, shaking it vigorously, but all that lay within was a business letter, very formal and, by Kate’s assumption, very genuine.
M. Hammer, it said,
We have been very pleased with your work here at the United Nations Headquarters – “He works at the UN?!” exclaimed Kate. “What’s the world coming to?” – here at the United Nations Headquarters the last month, and we would like to invite you to our midsummer evening dinner at blah blah blah–
The door to the library rattled, which some dark part of Kate was strangely grateful for, because she could blame that for stopping her reading instead of the real reason; her attention had been waning very quickly. She shoved the letter back into the envelope like lightning, and hid the ruined envelope behind a lamp. Kate doubted it would work for long, but she didn’t have many other options beside eating the paper, and that didn’t seem very appetising, especially when all the adrenaline already made her feel like throwing up.
Whomever was behind the door finally managed to operate the lock, and it swung open. Kate gasped.
It was the fat, bald man from Jack’s performance. Is that a coincidence? she thought, or was he scoping me out? If the latter, nice job, idiot, my mom will remember your face in a police lineup.
He was dressed in a black tuxedo, and he smiled at her so genuinely that it came all the way back around and became so unnerving that goosebumps appeared on Kate’s arms. He was at least twice her size in every factor anyone would care to mention, and looked as though he could snap her like a twig if he so wished.
She very much hoped he didn’t so wish.
“Good evening,” said the fat man affably, holding out his hand. Kate made a gut call, and shook it. Two could play at this false game of respectability.
He gripped her hand like he wanted to crush it.
“Not a moment too soon,” she replied. It was cliche, but she really did sound a lot braver than she felt. The bravery began to drain away as the man inspected her in the same manner that the octopus-haired woman had: like a rare bird he was about to shoot and stuff.
“Not what I expected,” he said, almost to himself, “taller, rather more polished than the others–”
“I’m so glad you’re pleased, Mister Hammer,” said Kate. Sarcasm was easy to conjure, like a great big fiery toothpick to try and kill demons with. The man smiled, again with worrying genuinity.
“...but, I’m afraid, just as obvious,” he said.
“Forgive me for being obvious,” said Kate acidly, “but what the hell is this all about? Why was I brought here? If it’s ransom, you’d better half whatever estimate you’ve got for profits, my mother is unlikely to fork out on my account.”
Hammer sighed.
“Must we play these tired games, Miss Barton?”
“Not that I mind the slight case of abduction every now and then,” she rambled, “but I might’ve been going to the theatre tonight, and I get sort of unreasonable about missing trips to the theatre.”
“With such expert play-acting,” said Hammer, “you make this very room a theatre.” He was so frighteningly friendly. The door opened again, and the woman with the octopus-hair entered. “Ah, Liv. Have you met our distinguished guest?”
“Better tailored than the others,” said “Liv”, looking Kate up and down again, “isn’t she?”
“My associate is a great admirer of your methods,” said Hammer, “Miss Barton. Elusiveness, however misguided–”
“Sorry, ‘scuse me,” interrupted Kate, waving her hands around as though she could cut the conversation in half as easily as one does string with a pair of scissors. God, if this is just a case of mistaken identity I swear… “Did you just call me Barton?”
“I know you’re a woman of many names, Miss Barton,” said Hammer magnanimously, lighting a cigar, “but I’m perfectly willing to accept your current choice.”
“Current choice–?! My name is Bishop! Kate Bishop, it’s never been anything else!”
“Of course,” smiled the fat man. He clearly didn’t believe her, and when Kate turned to Liv, it was obvious that this disbelief was contagious. In fact, the woman began to chuckle a little cruelly.
“Your friends,” said Kate, thinking out loud, “must’ve picked up the wrong person when they bundled me into the car outside the plaza.” Was your presence at Jack's performance truly a coincidence? Or a mistake?
“Oh, won’t you sit down, Miss Barton,” said Hammer dismissively, as though what she was saying was still part of her “play -acting”.
There was another knock at the door: Kate whipped round so quickly she almost gave herself whiplash. The scraggly haired man and the ponytail woman entered.
“Ah,” said Hammer, to Kate, “you’ve met Kazi and Maya, of course.”
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” said Kazi, ignoring Kate’s rebellious grimace of a smile, “but dinner is ready, and the guests are waiting.”
“Tell them to begin without me; I’ll only be a few minutes.” Hammer blew cigarette smoke into Kate’s face, and she spent a great deal of effort not coughing.
“Don’t bother setting a place for me, Kazi,” she called after the two as they left, “I won’t be staying for dinner.”
Liv chuckled again. It was a very off-putting chuckle.
“Now, shall we get down to business?” Hammer sat down, but still seemed to tower over her.
“If you like,” said Kate, polite on the surface, but with some residual bite.
“Quite simply,” said Hammer, “I’d like you to tell me how much you know about our arrangements and - of course - how you’ve come by this information. Naturally, I don't expect to get this for nothing.”
“Of course not,” said Kate sarcastically.
“Don’t misunderstand me. I don't really expect you to fall in with the suggestion, but the very least I can do for such a talented individual is afford you the opportunity of surviving the evening–”
Surviving the evening. Not ransom, then. The wrong person, and this C. Barton was intended to end up dead. Kate began to hyperventilate.
Would her body even be found? Or were these people too professional for that?
“Now, why don’t you surprise me, Miss Barton,” said Hammer, not unkindly, “and say yes?”
“We know where you are headed for,” said Liv, “tell us what we want to know and it might be unnecessary to … take care of your inevitable replacement.”
“I,” said Kate, with force, “Kate Bishop, am heading to the Winter Garden Theatre, and I think I’d better get going.”
In the course of the interrogation, both Hammer and Liv had sat down, presumably to scare Kate with the veneer of disinterestedness, but it meant that she was unimpeded as she burst for the library’s one and only door – she was sure they wouldn’t lock it with their boss inside. She was right; but as the door swung open, it revealed Maya standing menacingly behind it. Kate skidded to a halt.
“There is nowhere to go,” said Liv, as both she and Hammer loomed over Kate from behind.
“We know,” said Hammer, again with an absurdly pleasant smile, “where you are staying now–”
“Room Seven Nine Four of the Plaza Hotel in New York,” recited Liv.
“–and where you will be staying next.”
“Checking in to the Ambassador Hotel in Chicago,” she continued, “in two days. Or rather, in our scenario, Lot One Hundred and Seventeen of St Paul’s Cemetery right here in Glen Cove.”
“I’ve never even been to Chicago!” said Kate desperately. They were closing in slowly on all sides. Was this what claustrophobia felt like? The feeling that you couldn’t move, and were about to be crushed any second and there was nothing you or anyone else could do about it.
“And now you never will,” said Hammer. “There is little sense in maintaining this fiction that you are deceiving the Thirty-Nine Steps, Miss Barton, any more than we are deceiving you.”
The hell does that mean? thought Kate. Sounds like the name of an english pub! “I don’t suppose,” she said out loud, voice shaking slightly, “it would do any good to show you a wallet full of identification cards, a driver's licence, things like that?”
“They provide you with such good ones,” chuckled Liv. Hammer checked his watch.
“Well, you have certainly succeeded at least in taking up a great portion of my valuable time, Miss Barton,” he said. “Do you intend to cooperate with us or not – a simple yes or no will suffice; I abhor rambling without cause.”
Kate bristled with a bravery that came more from spite than anything else. Rambling was her primary form of communication.
“A simple no,” she spat, “for the simple reason that I simply don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The fat man sighed. It was like a hippopotamus sighing, especially when you consider that hippopotamuses are among the deadliest creatures in the known world, killing almost five hundred people a year. That was the first fact Kate had ever seen Jack memorise. Strange, what flicks through your mind under duress.
“Well, no one can say we didn’t give you the option,” said Hammer. “Give Miss Barton a drink, Liv.”
Liv nodded with a raised eyebrow as Hammer passed her into the hallway.
Code for the secret murder room with hacksaws and blunt instruments.
Kate moved, something less than sentient taking control and forcing her forward, trying to push past Maya in a mad dash of survival, survival, survival–
Something collided with her face, and the world went white for a moment. For the first second, it couldn’t be recognised as pain, but then like a roaring wave, the hurt washed over her.
“–no punching, we can’t risk bruising her,” Liv was admonishing Maya, “some overzealous detective might get uppity and then we’ll have to repeat this whole charade.”
Kate was being held against the couch cushions by Maya and the newly appeared Kazi, utterly perpendicular. How long was I unconscious for? Her left eye wouldn’t open.
– Can you use words that are easier to lip-read? Jesus, – signed Maya angrily.
“No punching. No bruising,” said Liv acidly, signing at the same time. She walked over to the curtained cabinet, revealing various alcoholic spirits and beverages. “Scotch? Rye? Bourbon? Vodka?” she offered Kate. It was like being offered a violin by the devil. “This vodka is particularly fine; a Russian friend of ours sourced it especially.”
“No thanks,” said Kate, “I’ll just take a quick … ride back to town.”
Kazi, despite himself, bit down on a laugh.
“Oh, that has been arranged,” chuckled Liv – she seemed to be a very chuckling sort of person. “But first … a libation.” She selected a large bottle of golden-brown liquid. “Bourbon, I think.” She approached with the drink.
Drugged? thought Kate. Poisoned?
“Don’t–” she said, struggling against her hold without success. “Don’t you need a glass?”
“Not necessarily.” Liv uncorked the bottle.
“Alcohol poisoning?” Kate guessed. “That’s your M. O.?”
“That’s for us to know, and you to find out,” chimed in Kazi.
“Nothing so crude, Miss Barton. Open wide…” said Liv, and the bourbon was forced into her face.
Kate fought. Strength of the dying and all that – she briefly managed to get a foot free, and kicked at the bottle, sending at least three thimblefuls splashing onto the couch cushions. Stain, she prayed, leave evidence, something, anything.
Her struggle was short lived. She tried to hold her mouth shut, but the assailants reply to that was as inevitable as it was obvious:
“Hold her nose,” said Liv. Maya did so, and she had one hell of a grip. For a few seconds, Kate struggled against suffocation, but her body answered for her, and her mouth burst open–
“Cheers,” Liv smirked. Kate did not like bourbon at the best of times, and having a steady stream of the foul tasting stuff being poured down her throat at a faster rate than she could swallow did not increase her opinion. She choked, but they barely took the bottle away at all before shoving it back between her lips.
Kate lost consciousness before the bottle had been emptied … but emptied it was.