A Beautiful Poison

“He’s part owner. Of course he’d have a key to the factory,” Allene said. She pushed it open, and it was very dark inside. The corridor led to a hallway that circumscribed the entire building. The faint noise of a machine whirring sounded from somewhere above, giving her the impression that the building was awake and breathing, its industrial heart beating somewhere. A loud knock and a shout echoed from the ceiling above them.

“What was that?” Jasper asked for the both of them. Their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and they pressed forward past the administrative offices, the case and finishing rooms. A narrow stairway emerged from the gloom, and they began to climb, slowly because of Allene’s fatigue.

“I don’t know why I let you come,” Jasper growled.

“Because I would have killed you if you hadn’t.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Upstairs, it was dark. Jasper tried a light switch but it didn’t work. The whirring sound was closer, and a metallic scent pervaded the air. A muffled grunt came from down the hallway. Jasper clasped Allene’s hand and led her quickly down the corridor, past a room filled with half-finished mantel clocks and another containing nothing but metalwork.

They approached the last room. Inside, the electric overhead lamps were off, but light from the row of windows shone on rows and rows of black drills and machines for buffing and sanding clock parts. Electric cords twisted to the ceiling, and belted rotors coiled in figure eights every few feet. Several of the drills had been turned on, accounting for the hum in their ears.

Allene peered down the aisle between the rows of worktables and machines, all covered in fine metal dust. Two sets of feet tangled and kicked on the dusty floor twenty feet away.

“Andrew!” Allene cried out.

A choking, gargling sound came from the struggling figures. Jasper broke free of Allene’s hand and bolted down the aisle. Despite her weakness, she gathered her skirts in her hands and scurried after him, barely able to catch her breath.

Between two machine tables, Ernie and Andrew lay locked in battle. Ernie was sitting astride Andrew, who was struggling with one hand to choke Ernie and with the other to prevent the descent of the jeweler’s screwdriver in Ernie’s fist.

Andrew half screamed, half shouted, “Get him off me! He’s trying to kill me!”

Jasper lunged forward, but Ernie turned to him and yelled savagely, “Stay back! He’s lying!”

Never had they heard such a voice come from the complacent and obedient Ernie. Allene held on to a table, the violence of the scene making her flush. Blood streaked down Ernie’s back, and his shirt was torn where something had pierced his right shoulder. And Andrew’s face was like a skull, his skin like yellowed vellum. He kicked and screamed again, trying to buck Ernie off him, but Ernie was a vigorous six feet of well-fed youth.

Jasper and Allene froze.

It was obvious who the aggressor was—Ernie’s screwdriver inched its way closer to Andrew’s face, and that was sufficient information. Jasper dashed forward and yanked Ernie’s shoulders from behind, and grabbed the wrist holding the screwdriver. They both flailed backward. Ernie swallowed a protest as Jasper pulled his arm back hard. It looked like it would dislocate with one more tug.

Ernie howled in pain, and Jasper wrestled the screwdriver out of his hand, tossing it behind him, but not before Ernie kicked Jasper in the gut so hard, he crumpled to the ground. Andrew scrambled back, distancing himself from Ernie. Allene darted to Andrew’s side and cradled his shoulders. He trembled from head to toe, and his pale face had a sickly green tint. Ernie stumbled away from Jasper and rubbed his sore shoulder.

Allene thought, He’s going to attack again. And I’m too weak to do anything. It was up to Jasper to catch his breath and stop him, but Jasper was still moaning and clutching his abdomen.

The air sparkled with the faint dust of powdery metal shavings. She looked quickly at the table nearest to her. A pile of clock faces had been sanded down so their surfaces were etched with a pattern. Piles of silvery metal dust covered the table. But it wasn’t silver. It was like the face of the clock she had at home—a zinc disc, a touch cloudier than silver with a matte finish.

Ernie gathered himself to renew his attack on Andrew. Without hesitating, Allene drew her beloved lighter from the hidden pocket of her dress, pulled the strike out, and quickly ran it against the ferrocerium on the bottom. It lit, and she puffed forcefully on the table, sending a cloud of zinc dust into the air. Ernie ran forward.

Allene threw the lit striker into the cloud.

The zinc combusted with a flash and a bang. The explosion was big, enough to slam Allene back onto the floor and on top of Andrew. Ernie fell too, his hair singed and shirt smoldering. The blast didn’t kill him, but it dazed him enough to give Jasper the momentum he needed. He managed to plant his feet, lift Ernie by the collar, and slam his fist against Ernie’s right temple. Ernie’s body jerked at the impact. Andrew pushed Allene away and scrambled on hands and knees until he found the screwdriver on the floor. He plunged it into the center of Ernie’s belly and pulled it out.

Ernie couldn’t speak, either from having the wind pummeled out of him or from being impaled. He curled his fists into the bleeding wound of his belly and rolled over. His body jerked once before sagging against the dust-and soot-covered floor.

“Good God!” Andrew wheezed.

“Allene, are you all right?” Jasper asked.

She nodded. She was still sprawled on the ground, skirts askew and petticoats in a tangle around her calves. She panted with exertion, unable to utter a word. Andrew lay flat on his back, taking rasping breaths, rubbing his recently choked neck. Finally, Allene composed herself and stood with Jasper’s aid.

“We ought to call the police. And an ambulance.” Jasper looked over at Andrew and offered a hand to help him up, but Andrew ignored him, still rubbing his throat. Slowly, he got to his knees and then stood, leaning against one of the drill machines. His usually slicked-back hair was in a tumbled disarray, his shirt untucked and stained with industrial grease and blood.

“No. Not that.” Andrew shook his head. “I don’t need an ambulance.”

“He tried to kill you!” Allene’s voice trembled and tears gathered at her eyelashes. “You almost died, Andrew!”

Andrew smiled, which was odd and unexpected. “Eh, that is true. That is true. But I’m already a dead man, anyway.”

“What are you talking about?” Jasper took a step closer.

He laughed again and took out a folded handkerchief and rubbed the perspiration away from his forehead. “Lord, you have poor eyes. Can’t ever see what’s in front of you.”

Allene glanced uncertainly at Jasper, who took a careful sideways step just as Andrew lifted his fist.

He was still holding the bloody screwdriver.

He held it in his thickened palms, transferring it from one hand to the other, testing its weight.

“Ernie tried to kill me, it’s true,” Andrew said. “Because I was trying to kill him first.”

Allene swallowed, taking a cautious step back to lean against one of the drill tables.

Lydia Kang's books