Bodacious Creed and the San Francisco Syndicate: The Adventures of Bodacious Creed, #3

By Jonathan Fesmire

Investigator James Creed has finally settled into life in San Francisco with his found family, the Brotherhood of the Golden Cog. Though he misses his adult daughter, he has a criminal leader to track down—an outlaw who murders innocents, enslaves the downtrodden, and uses machines to alter the bodies and minds of his many victims.

 

Months ago, the leads dried up. Creed despairs of ever collaring his enemy, the infamous outlaw Maxwell Gregg, until he spots an illegal automaton on Christmas evening. It's exactly the sort of technology his nemesis deals in.

 

The clues keep coming. Mechanically enhanced women stalk the red-light district of the Barbary Coast, and a young rancher leads Creed to the site of a mass grave. Known members of the Evil Eye Syndicate are spotted during the day.

 

Creed gains an unexpected ally—the mysterious Dockside Poltergeist, a vigilante who stops kidnappings and murders along the Barbary Coast. Now, the two are intent on Creed's target. But, time is running out and there are dark forces also hunting the undead investigator—forces intent on putting him back in his grave.

 

Can Creed stop his nemesis before the outlaw catches up to him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Fesmire
• Release date: Dec 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215818329

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Camilla Walling rode Dartanion at a trot, the mammoth jack donkey leading an adorable brown jenny. Her fluffy sheepdog, Sam, bounded ahead on the hilly path and then circled back, full of excitement. The air smelled of grass with a tang of salt from the nearby Pacific Ocean. The San Francisco Bay bordered them on the other side. They had just acquired the smaller donkey from a man who had traveled from Oregon to San Francisco with little else but his horse and the jenny to carry his belongings. He planned to join his brother, already living in the city, in a business venture, and he no longer needed the ass.

That was all right. Camilla loved animals and gave them a safe home on her farm, sometimes selling them, but only if she had a good feeling about the buyer. It seemed to her the man had treated this one well. The donkey, which Camilla had named Friend, seemed sad when the man gave her a final embrace around the neck and patted her cheeks, but she followed Camilla obediently and without protest. Of course, Camilla had attached long reins from her harness to the back of Dartanion’s saddle, making the jenny easy to lead. It seemed fortuitous to give the animal a new home now, the day after New Year’s.

Sam sniffed as he explored this new path. Camilla hadn’t taken this way home in months, but as the sun dipped into twilight, she thought it might be nice to take an alternate route. Sure, it was longer than the usual ride, but these hills had more trees and shade, and Sam and the donkeys got to drink at a clear creek leading to the ocean. Anyway, what was life without a little variety now and again? The temperature was dropping, and it was probably in the low fifties now, but her coat and jeans kept Camilla warm.

Camilla watched in stunned curiosity as Sam stopped, looked to the distance, snout pointing, tail straight back, and a front leg raised. Suddenly, he bolted.

Where did he think he was going? She looked to where he was running—the old Yates Farm. Chancey Yates had been a rancher there, sure, but the series of thefts he committed at nearby farms ten years prior led to a shootout and his death. No one had stepped forward to claim his land, and it eventually fell into ruin and disuse.

C’mon, Dartanion, let’s see what this is about.

She turned the reins and Dartanion obeyed, speeding up. Friend followed suit but brayed her first protest.

Sorry, Friend! Camilla called, looking back. Didn’t mean to surprise you there.

About an eighth of a mile from the farm, she noticed something peculiar. Though much of the area was dry or covered in sparse grass, one large patch in front of the old, open barn was covered in flowers and weeds. Orange poppies, purple irises, and white sorrel dominated the ground and seemed to continue into the old red barn.

It came as no surprise when Sam approached this building and whined loudly. He then started digging, first tentatively with one front paw, then aggressively with both, dirt flying back between his hind legs.

As soon as Camilla reached an old fence, she dismounted. With her being a little over five feet and the mammoth jack donkey standing a full neck and head taller, Dartanion was one of the largest donkeys she had ever cared for. She tied his reins to the fence, patted his muscular flank, and approached her dog.

What did you find there, Sam?

The dog had dug not quite a foot down and come up with nothing but dirt and roots. Now, she strode to the new donkey. Friend’s former owner had left her a pack with a few tools he didn’t think he would need. She removed a dirty spade from the pack and returned to Sam.

She scratched his head and then dug with him. The dog looked confused at first and took a few steps back, then returned and worked at it a little more slowly as though he feared being struck with the hand shovel.

They dug for ten minutes and went three feet down before Camilla said, There’s nothing here, boy. Come on. Time to go back. She took hold of his collar and tried to pull him toward the donkeys, but Sam whined and tugged away from her.

What has gotten into you?

Sam looked at her guiltily, brows turned up in concern in that way that only dogs can manage, then turned back to the hole and continued digging. Camilla looked in and finally saw it.

Under several earthworms squirming in the soil, she spotted a patch of gray.

Camilla gazed around, a sense of foreboding tightening her gut. The flowers, Sam’s behavior, and now that patch. Was it a bone? Though it was only mid-afternoon, the sun set early this time of year, so it was hard to tell what she was looking at in the fading light. She went back to Dartanion and took a mechanical torch from his saddlebag, flicked the lever, and shined the bright light into the hole.

Not gray, but a dull ivory white. The moist dirt around it shimmered.

The flowers hadn’t sprung up by chance. They had appeared because the soil was newly fertile. The only thing that could cause that? A freshly decomposing body.

As much as she wanted to mount her donkey, ride back to her farm, and forget about this, she knew she couldn’t. She knelt.

Let’s see what we can find, Sam.

The dog barked and started digging in another spot, so Camilla tapped the white thing in the hole. It sure felt like bone. She pushed dirt aside with her spade, revealing more. She spotted hair and what looked like a sheet of dried skin. She shuddered but kept digging, at last revealing a curved surface with two deep indentations beneath.

Eye sockets. This was a human skull.

She didn’t dare touch it with her hands, but as she dug around it, she discovered the teeth and jaw and some skin clinging to several vertebrae, the beginning of a neck. Hints of black hair surrounded it, as well as patches of skin, though it was too dirty to tell what color it had once been. She was no mortician or anthropologist, and she hadn’t a clue how long ago someone had buried the body here, but based on the growth of the flowers, many of which bloomed in spring and were unusual to see now in the winter, she guessed only a few months. Of course, winter here in the Bay Area was akin to spring in some other states.

Camilla shined the light around, and something twinkled on the right side of the skull. She used the spade to turn it and cringed. Was it creaking, or was that only her imagination?

Well, she hadn’t imagined that twinkle. A corrugated piece of metal, roughly the size of a quarter eagle coin, appeared to be attached to the back of the skull.

She knew of only one person with something like that—the lawman known popularly as Bodacious Creed.

Sam, we’ve got to go. Home first. She looked at Friend, who had to feel pretty tuckered out at this point. Then, to the police.

CHAPTER ONE

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A winter chill filled the secret Brotherhood of the Golden Cog headquarters, though James Creed remembered much colder winters. He recalled whiteness drifting from the sky and snow covering the ground, plants, and buildings. As far as Creed knew, San Francisco had never seen snow—not since becoming a city during the gold rush. In California, snow usually stuck to the mountains and, sometimes, to the far north of the state. The seasons here were mild. Many deciduous trees bloomed all year. In Santa Cruz and farther south, there were even a few palm trees growing their beards in winter.

Still, as a coastal city, the area was usually battered by a chill off the ocean. He thought how it might be good if the headquarters had a hearth, though fireplaces made him uncomfortable. Here, the Brotherhood—a chapter of E. Clampus Vitus—made do with blankets and coats. It rarely got so cold that a fire was necessary.

He and his fellow Clampers sat at the big kitchen table, snacking on pastries. The room smelled of sweet dough and coffee. Selena, the wife of this chapter’s de facto leader, Dr. Guillermo Moreno, ran her business, Panadería Moreno, on Fourteenth Street, along with her husband. Even though on this holy morning most businesses were closed, Selena had opened their bakery from eight to noon, providing a wide variety of baked treats for San Francisco’s many different ethnic groups. Her offerings included German pretzels, French pain au chocolat, and a plethora of sugary sweets from her native Mexico. Most days, she had help from two young ladies, Leslie and Aimée Barbour, the daughters of Clampers in another chapter. But, today, the sisters were celebrating the holiday with their family.

Weeks ago, Hiram Pinel—a Frenchman with Middle Eastern ancestry and one of the Brotherhood’s tinkerers—and Guillermo Moreno moved the chairs and chaise longue to the parlor. They were usually at the front end of the dining room. Meanwhile, Creed and Phillip O’Leary, the Clampers’ other inventor, had procured a tall and thick Douglas fir tree from a forest south of the city. Hiram had provided the horses and cart from his stables, Pinel’s Hostelry (a misnomer, as he leased only horses and provided no rooms for people). Hiram’s business was another front for the Brotherhood on the block’s east side, but Creed and the Irishman brought it back after dark, hoping few people noticed the tree disappearing into the stable and not coming out. They had squeezed it through the secret door that led to the backyard of the headquarters, carried it into the parlor, and set it up with the use of the Morenos’ iron Christmas stand.

Hiram Pinel then left to spend time with Emilia, his lady friend. The others, including Joshua Emperor Norton, spent the evening drinking tea and hanging a variety of shiny ornaments on the boughs.

After a blessedly long time to sleep in on this December 25, they opened the few presents under the tree. These included additional ornaments for the Morenos, sent from their grandchildren in Monterey, and a surprise for Creed, a new hat from his daughter, Anna. It was a black leather Stetson, and when he examined it, he learned this one was handmade.

There was a palpable sense of excitement in the room. They all stood around the table enjoying their desserts. Still, an unpleasant tingle of anxiety ticked away in James Creed’s chest this Christmas. It was the fireworks. Ever since the U.S. Centennial celebration in Santa Cruz, when Corwin Blake shot him dead, fireworks filled him with foreboding. He’d felt the same last July 4, the anniversary of his death, but he’d still gone out to the Presidio with his friends to watch the lights bursting over the water.

During the centennial, the outlaw Corwin Blake threw dynamite into the Federal Marshal Post in Santa Cruz, killing the head marshal, murdering Creed’s partner, and then, finally, killing Creed himself. If not for Creed’s daughter, who lived in Santa Cruz and was secretly a brilliant inventor, he would have remained dead. Anna recovered his body from his grave and used her luminiferous ether technology to bring him back to life.

Now, he relied on the machinery grafted to his body: a mechanical heart, automaton eyes, and a thin, flat metal unit attached to his right temple that kept his brain alive. These parts had their advantages. He was now far stronger than any ordinary man, could run as fast as a stallion at a gallop, enjoyed night vision and enhanced hearing, and his bones had grown as hard as steel. Last year, he used his abilities to stop Corwin Blake. More recently, he helped save a group of Chinese women, formerly prostitutes, from being subjugated by machinery similar to his own.

Funny enough, this year, San Francisco was having fireworks on Christmas, sponsored by none other than Miles Morgan. He thought it might bring his companies, Morgan’s Mechanicals and Morgan’s Automatons, increased business. Probably would. Anna worked in secret for both companies and helped revolutionize their technology.

All members of the Brotherhood of the Golden Cog were immigrants, except for Emperor Norton. Guillermo and Selena Moreno had moved from Mexico to San Francisco in 1861. Phillip O’Leary, a hockshop owner, immigrated to the United States from Ireland with his family when he was thirteen. Hiram Pinel came to the country from India in his early thirties. All were American citizens now, and all loved the excitement of the yearly San Francisco fireworks.

While amid a gulp of sweet coffee to wash down his cinnamon churro, the true source of Creed’s anxiety struck him. He was looking forward to an evening out with friends rather than trying to track down Maxwell Gregg, something he’d failed at for six months. He had put lookouts in place, members of other E. Clampus Vitus branches, so if they heard Gregg’s name, or Heilóng—the name the Chinese in Santa Cruz used in reference to Gregg—or spotted anything related to the man, they’d tell him.

Clues had been sparse. So far, no one had shared any intelligence. That disappointed Creed, but it didn’t surprise him. Gregg was an expert at covering his presence.

Lady Moreno, you look stunning in that dress. Phillip raised his mug to Selena, who stood with Guillermo on the other side of the table.

Though in her sixties, Selena had the energy and demeanor of a woman half her age. She waved her hand at the Irishman, then spun in place, her frilly azure dress moving around her like rippling water. Guillermo raised his mug to Phillip.

Creed guessed Selena had put something additional in her coffee, perhaps rum or whiskey. Though always kind, she rarely acted silly.

I’m happy to be with all of you, Creed said. I think tonight I can tolerate these fireworks.

Phillip tilted his head at Creed as they all turned to look at the private investigator. Affection washed over their faces.

We’re glad you’re with us and alive. Emperor Norton nodded, compassion filling his aging face. Norton was the most unusual of the bunch, but, still, perhaps the wisest. Once a prominent businessman during San Francisco’s earliest days, Joshua Norton had lost everything only to re-emerge later and declare himself the Emperor of the United States. It seemed odd, but his proclamations and contributions at city meetings were usually taken seriously by those in charge.

Put it out of your mind, if you can, said Guillermo. You’re safe with us. Or, should I say, we’re safe with you?

Creed never felt completely safe, but he’d learned to live with that. This was the life he’d chosen both before and after his resurrection at the hands of his daughter. He had gone from being a U.S. Marshal to a vigilante who was driven to pursue justice—whether strictly legal or not. Finally, he became a private investigator. That’s just what I’ll do, Guillermo.

The others recommenced talking and laughing.

Finished with his pastry, and tempted to grab another, Creed brushed cinnamon and sugar from his hands. He checked his pocket watch. It was nearly seven-thirty, and they would need to begin their walk north through Chinatown to reach the Presidio, where they would watch the fireworks over the water.

A rapping came from the back door. The headquarters of the Brotherhood of The Golden Cog was a large house with exotic red wallpaper and Persian rugs in various rooms. Many years ago, after acquiring a small block, the Morenos, Hiram, and Phillip paid to have a home built in the center of the lot but hidden behind their businesses. Panadería Moreno covered the south side, Miner’s Pledge to the east, and Pinel’s Hostelry the west. The north side had two apartments where four young, junior members of this branch of E. Clampus Vitus lived. Recently, Creed had asked the two young men to keep an eye out for suspicious individuals around the block, which might hint at activity by Maxwell Gregg’s Evil Eye Syndicate.

The visitor was likely one of those young men, Ethan or Brice. None of the other members seemed to notice the knocking, but Creed caught the sound with his enhanced hearing. He decided against another treat and strode past his friends, into the kitchen, and opened the back door.

On the porch, where the secret society members often sat enjoying beer and looking over the enclosed backyard—sometimes patting Creed’s coyote companion, Coconino—stood Ethan Smith, the son of a former slave who had done well for himself in San Francisco as a businessman and a member of a related branch of E. Clampus Vitus. Behind him, Coconino wagged his tail, and beside him stood Nicholas Pelton, deputy chief of police. Pelton, a tall, strapping man in his early forties, removed his black top hat and ruffled his own graying blond hair.

Creed, Pelton said.

The investigator nodded at the policeman, then turned to Ethan. You can close up the stable for the night and go see the fireworks if you like. If you want a pastry, come on in and pick one out.

Thank you, Mr. Creed! The young man nodded and, smiling, stepped past the men and into the headquarters.

What about you, officer?

Pelton licked his lips, then shook his head. No time. With the fireworks show tonight, we police are spread thin. We have some deputies, but we have to monitor the Presidio and the Barbary Coast.

Creed frowned, hit with a twinge of guilt. He was going to see the show with his friends when he might do more good for the city patrolling those districts with Coconino and his horse, Johann. But then, he reminded himself that even he deserved a break. He had missed the fireworks in Santa Cruz last year, and then Corwin Blake had shot him in the heart.

Anyway, the Dockside Poltergeist, a vigilante he’d heard a fair amount about of late, had a handle on the Barbary Coast. He’d stopped half a dozen crimping attempts in the last week alone, and while the police were certainly after him—if for no other reason than to learn his identity—Creed felt certain the man would prove a deterrent there. Creed himself would be in the Presidio area, and he would stop a crime if he found one.

Creed stepped onto the porch, pushed up the lever that illuminated the Tesla bulbs above the circular table, and waited for Pelton to speak.

I received news from the Monterey sheriff’s department. They did me a big favor down there. Took long enough. Pelton crossed his arms as though unsure what to make of what he was about to tell the investigator.

Good. What is it?

They exhumed the body of Maxwell Gregg.

Creed whistled. Six months we’ve been waiting for this. He shook his head recalling reports of a corpse, severely burned, but matching the criminal’s height and build. In an adjacent room that had escaped the worst fire damage, police found partial bank records that included his name. The body that is supposed to be Gregg’s.

Certainly. Pelton cleared his throat. There was nothing conclusive. I mean, the fire left little more than crisp tissue and bones, and it’s been rotting in the ground for many months now. They double-checked the height. It matches the descriptions of Gregg. Several back teeth were missing, but we don’t know if that’s a match or not.

They didn’t learn a thing from the body, did they? Creed asked.

Despite being in a hurry, Pelton sat heavily in one of the outside chairs. Creed took a seat and steepled his hands in front of him on the table.

No. They re-buried the corpse in its grave with a headstone for Maxwell Gregg and all. Here’s the thing, though. They went back to their own records. A few days before that fire, they arrested a vagrant for drunk and disorderly conduct and starting a fight. This man, Arden Groves, went to a local brothel and ordered shot after shot of their cheapest whiskey. He then approached a prostitute, who rebuffed him.

Pelton wore a wry grin. He stank something awful, they say, and considering how infrequently the cowboys bathe before they hit some of those bordellos, that’s saying something. The girl didn’t even say he could wash up in the nearby bathhouse and come back.

Common practice, said Creed.

"He grabbed her backside and tried to force a kiss on her, but the resident steely guard hauled him outside and tossed him into the street. A sheriff’s deputy was in there, saw the whole thing, and hauled Groves in to sleep it off in jail.

This hobo laid low over the next few days, but Sheriff Graves is thorough. They monitored him and mentioned seeing him a little cleaner walking the streets, eating a sandwich, that sort of thing. Then the report stops. The sheriff recalls the man just disappeared. And, the next day, that was the fire.

Let me guess, Creed said. He matched Gregg’s build.

Yes, indeed.

This was nothing definitive, but it was certainly suspicious. Put that together with Gregg’s Chinese nickname, Heilóng, which appeared in one of Ginger Guo’s ledgers, and, for Creed, it confirmed that Gregg was likely alive. Hell, Gregg had probably killed Groves to fake his own death.

Throughout the city, citizens had known Ginger Guo as a philanthropist helping Chinatown businesses. Secretly, she had used dangerous technology to alter former Chinese slave prostitutes and force them into her employ. Back in June, Creed and Pelton learned that Gregg was the real originator of the technology, which had surprised them.

What do you plan to do? Creed asked.

Hand it over to you. I’m off the case.

Why?

The chief says there’s not enough evidence to pursue it. You know how things are with our department. We’re spread thin as it is, and half the precinct is corrupt.

Creed knew. Many of the officers worked for the Chinese tongs, or gangs, and they helped to escort slave girls recently brought off ships from China to the cow yards, the lowest of the brothels. While Creed had helped save half a dozen such women and stopped Guo from making it worse, the problem was too big for him to fight alone—or even with his companions in the Brotherhood.

I hate to say it, but I understand his position, Creed said.

Yes. All we have is circumstantial evidence.

Gregg is building his army and his business.

Before faking his death in Monterey, Gregg ran his Evil Eye Syndicate out of a labyrinth hidden beneath the Railroad Flat district in Santa Cruz. The marshals and deputies there had routed the Syndicate and Gregg from their headquarters in a fight now called The Battle of Iron Nelly’s. During the reclaiming of the subterranean rooms as basements for the buildings above, the search party discovered something chilling. Gregg wanted to sell resurrection to the rich. Creed wondered if Gregg wanted more now.

Pelton leaned forward. If I can help, I will. But, I can’t make any promises.

The men shook hands and Pelton left through the stable-side door.

Creed waited a few minutes. He looked up and to the right, toward his second-story bedroom. While the canopy over the porch blocked his view, he considered staying in tonight and thinking on what Pelton said. Sure, he had dressed for the occasion in a clean suit, polished boots, and the hat from Anna, but might it be better to contemplate what he had just learned?

Coconino bounded up the back porch steps and sat on his haunches, looking up at Creed. The back door opened, and the Clampers stepped out, still chatting.

What was that about? Phillip asked.

I’ll tell you later. Creed had made up his mind. Let’s go see the fireworks.

CHAPTER TWO

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For a Tuesday after dark, the streets in the Presidio were filled with plenty of men, women, and children. Those of the male persuasion wore their best suits, and those of the female wore their fanciest dresses. To say it was their Sunday best would be wrong, as some women wore skimpier outfits, strapless dresses that showed full cleavage hoisted up with their bustiers,