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Author: Elizabeth Massie
arms and frowned as if in deep thought. He blinked his red eyes and rubbed his chin. Then a small smile flickered across his face and he nodded at the brunette. “Kill her.”
She went to the window, drove her elbow through the glass, and selected an appropriately jagged shard. As the blonde stood still and obediently, the brunette brought the shard back, tilted her head to determine the best angle, then drove the glass down and into the blonde’s shoulder. The woman squawked and dropped to the floor, but did not resist. She just blinked.
The brunette knelt. She jammed the glass deep into the blonde’s chest. Dark red flowed out and around the glass and down onto the floor in a bright puddle. The hooker’s mouth drooled a pinkish foam. Her arms spasmed and her legs kicked, and then went still. A whistling breath eased out through her teeth and faded away.
The brunette looked up at the man. She lifted the hand with the glass; an offering. “Tell me what to do,” she said.
The man waved one hand. “That’s all. Now get away from me, you foul creature.”
She obeyed and went to sit on the bed.
The man dipped his finger into the blonde’s blood and scrawled on one warped, water-stained wall: THOMAS EDISON.
***
Friday, January 9, 1903, Glenmont Estate, West Orange, New Jersey
The clock in the parlor chimed twelve times—slow, steady
pings
that caused Edison to look up from his chair and wait until it went silent again. He savored thestillness of midnight, the blank slate of the witching hour when his wife, Mina, and three youngest children were fast asleep and he had no distractions other than the flurried thoughts in his own head. Most nights, he would be in his laboratory with his assistants until the wee hours of morning, working on any number of projects, but tonight he remained home. Tonight, ghosts of the past seemed determined to wreak his ability to work or sleep.
The clock ceased its chiming and Edison turned his attention back to the letters and telegrams he’d scattered about on his desk. There were congratulatory missives from senators and congressmen, presidents and industry barons, marveling over his various inventions and accomplishments. There were clippings from newspapers across the nation in which reporters gave eyewitness accounts to the installation of his electric light systems in their cities. Some were little notes from schoolchildren, fascinated with science and wanting to come work for him. “I will do it for free!” quoted one cheerful note, written by someone no older than ten. “I want to be like you. I want to invent things!”
Edison ran his hands along the letters and articles, feeling the affirmation in the paper and ink. There was not a critical message in the bunch; he made a point of burning anything sent him that was insulting or challenging. He did not need that. He did not want that.
Outside the parlor window, in the black distance of night, he could hear a lone mockingbird begin to sing. Odd, that one would be singing in the dead of winter. One melody after another after another. Much like himself—one idea after another after another after another.
I wonder if the mockingbird ever gets letters criticizing him, telling him he is dishonest and he should just shut up and go away?
Edison folded the articles and letters, slid them back into the top left drawer of the desk, locking it afterward. Then he unlocked the right drawer and took out a small oak box that was also locked. He found the tiny key, and looking over his shoulder to makesure none of his family or household staff had come into the parlor unannounced, he opened the box and pulled out the lone telegram.
It was a short note, as were all telegrams. Dated September 17, 1890, and sent from Paris.
Caught 2:12 at Dijon. With much effort offending package opened and discarded permanently from train. Q and K lost. —CS Anderson
.
Although the telegram was intentionally coded, Edison had understood immediately
She went to the window, drove her elbow through the glass, and selected an appropriately jagged shard. As the blonde stood still and obediently, the brunette brought the shard back, tilted her head to determine the best angle, then drove the glass down and into the blonde’s shoulder. The woman squawked and dropped to the floor, but did not resist. She just blinked.
The brunette knelt. She jammed the glass deep into the blonde’s chest. Dark red flowed out and around the glass and down onto the floor in a bright puddle. The hooker’s mouth drooled a pinkish foam. Her arms spasmed and her legs kicked, and then went still. A whistling breath eased out through her teeth and faded away.
The brunette looked up at the man. She lifted the hand with the glass; an offering. “Tell me what to do,” she said.
The man waved one hand. “That’s all. Now get away from me, you foul creature.”
She obeyed and went to sit on the bed.
The man dipped his finger into the blonde’s blood and scrawled on one warped, water-stained wall: THOMAS EDISON.
***
Friday, January 9, 1903, Glenmont Estate, West Orange, New Jersey
The clock in the parlor chimed twelve times—slow, steady
pings
that caused Edison to look up from his chair and wait until it went silent again. He savored thestillness of midnight, the blank slate of the witching hour when his wife, Mina, and three youngest children were fast asleep and he had no distractions other than the flurried thoughts in his own head. Most nights, he would be in his laboratory with his assistants until the wee hours of morning, working on any number of projects, but tonight he remained home. Tonight, ghosts of the past seemed determined to wreak his ability to work or sleep.
The clock ceased its chiming and Edison turned his attention back to the letters and telegrams he’d scattered about on his desk. There were congratulatory missives from senators and congressmen, presidents and industry barons, marveling over his various inventions and accomplishments. There were clippings from newspapers across the nation in which reporters gave eyewitness accounts to the installation of his electric light systems in their cities. Some were little notes from schoolchildren, fascinated with science and wanting to come work for him. “I will do it for free!” quoted one cheerful note, written by someone no older than ten. “I want to be like you. I want to invent things!”
Edison ran his hands along the letters and articles, feeling the affirmation in the paper and ink. There was not a critical message in the bunch; he made a point of burning anything sent him that was insulting or challenging. He did not need that. He did not want that.
Outside the parlor window, in the black distance of night, he could hear a lone mockingbird begin to sing. Odd, that one would be singing in the dead of winter. One melody after another after another. Much like himself—one idea after another after another after another.
I wonder if the mockingbird ever gets letters criticizing him, telling him he is dishonest and he should just shut up and go away?
Edison folded the articles and letters, slid them back into the top left drawer of the desk, locking it afterward. Then he unlocked the right drawer and took out a small oak box that was also locked. He found the tiny key, and looking over his shoulder to makesure none of his family or household staff had come into the parlor unannounced, he opened the box and pulled out the lone telegram.
It was a short note, as were all telegrams. Dated September 17, 1890, and sent from Paris.
Caught 2:12 at Dijon. With much effort offending package opened and discarded permanently from train. Q and K lost. —CS Anderson
.
Although the telegram was intentionally coded, Edison had understood immediately
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