Dead Ringer

by Kat Ross

  Chapter 17

  I ran out to the landing and looked down the curving staircase.

  A figure ascended the steps, dark head bowed. It moved at an unhurried yet inexorable pace, one hand trailing along the polished banister. Halfway up, it passed through a pool of light cast by one of the gas jets and I saw that the fingers of the hand were strong and elegantly formed. It did not look up, but I didn’t need to see the face.

  I ran back into the music room, slammed the door and threw the bolt.

  Moran stood over Emma, his fists balled. His aunt wasn’t laughing anymore. She stared at the door in mute terror.

  “It doesn’t have a key.” I chewed my lip. “Does it? Do you have one in your pocket?”

  “The witch lied,” Moran said softly. He began to laugh. “Of course she did.”

  I crossed the room, my heart beating fast. “Give me the key, James. We’ll throw it out the window. If it can’t get inside—”

  He stood very near me and now he pressed his thumb against my lips. The gesture was shockingly intimate, but I think he only wanted me to stop talking. His face was serene.

  “You asked me why I do it. Do you still care to hear the answer? I’ll give it to you true this time.”

  I fell silent, my skin crawling. The footsteps halted just outside the door.

  “Because I’m a god of the night.” His black eyes held me fast, his voice so quiet I strained to hear it. “Of the drunks and the marks and the brawlers and the thieves. The cripples and pimps and crooked cops.” His mouth twisted. “The suicidal widows and murderous orphans. I’m a god of the damned, Harrison. Of the needled dregs. The dose of chloral hydrate. The long drop into the coal chute.”

  “Don’t,” I said shakily. “Help is coming—”

  “They’ll remember me. Their native son. They’ll remember me with bonfires and riots and blood in the streets.” James Moran smiled and there was something so oddly fragile in his expression, it broke me a little. “I never expected to see twenty anyway. New York hates its young.”

  On the loveseat, Emma stared at him with glassy eyes. Despite her silk dress and strong white teeth, she had the look of the lost women of the Bowery.

  “You have to leave, James,” I whispered. “This instant.”

  Suddenly, the gun was in his hand. He pointed it at me.

  “No, Harrison,” he said calmly. “You do.”

  “Don’t be an ass—”

  Moran closed the distance between us in one swift stride.

  “Take care of your sister,” he said.

  Before I could reply, he kissed me, a fleeting brush of the lips. Then he tore the door open and pushed me into the hall. I tripped over my bootlace (oh, the delicious irony of that since I’d pretended to tie it for his mother in this very same spot!) and sat down hard. In the shadows, his doppelgänger leaned casually against the wall. Its attire – a grey frock coat and trousers, a starched linen shirt and gold cufflinks — mirrored Moran’s, though the black hair was windblown.

  The two of them locked eyes as if no one else existed in the world. Moran stepped back. His Other pushed off the wall, stalked past me with that familiar lithe gait, and entered the music room. The door closed and I heard the metallic thunk of the bolt shooting home.

  I threw myself at the door and pounded on it, but there was no reply. I felt like Lewis Carroll’s Alice, only the rabbit hole I had tumbled into did not lead to Wonderland.

  No, we had been marooned somewhere else entirely.

  “James!” I yelled, slapping my palm against the heavy door. “Open up right now!”

  I pressed my ear to the wood. I thought I heard the faint murmur of voices inside.

  “Moran! Miss Bayard! Someone open this door!”

  I pulled a hairpin from my French twist, bent it and inserted it into the lock. Long minutes later, I had only managed to add fresh scratches alongside Emma’s. Sweating and flustered, I leaned in closer until my nose was inches from the lock.

  It was odd, there seemed to be three distinct types of scratches in the wood. Emma’s, my own fresh gouges, and several from an unknown source.

  Oh, what did it matter now? She had probably tried again with some other type of tool.

  Frustrated, I gave the hairpin a vicious twist and it broke off in the lock. I swore an oath that would have made Moran’s toes curl.

  I sat for a minute with my back against the door, foolishly imagining things couldn’t get worse.

  Then I smelled fire.

  I jumped to my feet. Black smoke drifted under the doorjamb into the hall. I laid my palm against the wood and it was hot to the touch.

  Frenzied barking made my heart nearly stop. Both dogs had materialized in the hall; they must have run out when I first looked down the stairs. I dropped my hand to Blue’s head to calm him when I saw the gun where Moran had dropped it on the carpet. It had been hiding in the shadows.

  “Get back!” I yelled. “I’ve got the gun!”

  Then I stepped back and fired at the lock. It took three bullets but the heavy oaken slab finally gave. The door swung open.

  A cloud of acrid smoke poured into the hall. The fire burned hottest in front of the door, whether by accident or design I couldn’t say. Emma lay on the loveseat in a trance, her face a ghoulish mask from the nosebleed. Someone had thrown the windows wide and the gusts were whipping the flames inside to a pyre. I threw my arm up like a shield and took a step toward Emma, but the fire suddenly leapt and drove me back as if it were a sentient thing and it wouldn’t give her up.

  It wouldn’t give any of them up.

  Moran and his twin sat shoulder to shoulder on the piano bench, their dark heads nearly touching. One whispered into the other’s ear. They seemed oblivious to the inferno raging around them, as though they were utterly separate from the rest of the room.

  I raised the gun, pointing it at one and then the other, but I couldn’t tell them apart. I was about to scream his name when I glanced at the gilt mirror hanging over the fireplace. It reflected a single man and I understood that James was the one listening, his expression captivated.

  I thought I heard strains of music over the crackle of the flames, something haunting and elusive like a dream that fades the very instant you wake. One of them was playing the piano, or perhaps both together.

  The notes twined around me like tendrils of smoke. They insinuated themselves under my skin and made my chest ache. Never in my life, before or since, have I heard such music.

  I lowered the revolver.

  Time slowed and then stopped, although part of me knew it hadn’t, not really, because the fire was steadily consuming the room, the flames flowing up the walls like water. The drapes blackened to husks. The papers on the desk caught and went up like a torch soaked in pitch.

  I’m not certain how long I stood there. Smoke stung my eyes until the two Morans blurred into one. They were never destined to meet, but now that they had, something was happening. Something that felt momentous, although I didn’t understand how or why.

  “Harry!”

  The doorframe next to me caught and the wallpaper in the hall went up with a roar.

  “Harry!”

  A hand yanked me backwards as part of the ceiling in the music room collapsed. I doubled over coughing and John threw an arm around my waist, half carrying me down to the ground floor.

  “Where’s Moran?” he demanded.

  “In the music room with Emma,” I gasped. “It came, John. It’s in there, too. I tried to get to them but Moran locked me out. It was already burning by the time I got the door open . . . .” I succumbed to another coughing fit.

  John bravely turned back for the staircase, but the whole second landing was alight now and I feared it wouldn’t be long before the roof came down. I grabbed his arm. “Don’t! You’ll never make it back down. Have you seen the dogs?”

  “They bolted straight out the door when I opened it.”

  A section of the banister collapsed outward
, trailing flames that set the carpet in the foyer alight. The smoke was thick and choking as we stumbled to the front door.

  “Someone already sounded the alarm, there’s a pumper truck outside,” John said hoarsely.

  I sucked in a deep breath of fresh air as we emerged into the blustery night. Firemen in heavy coats from Hook & Ladder Company No. 16 were aiming cannon-like hoses at the flames leaping from the upper story windows. John ran over and told their captain that two people were trapped on the second floor. I watched with sick dread as they tried and failed to mount a rescue with ladders.

  “It’s too far gone,” one of the firemen muttered, his face grim. “Never seen a building go up so fast. The wind’s making it twenty times worse.”

  Within minutes, Fifth Avenue was closed off for ten blocks along the park. The street filled with police and firemen frantically pumping water at the inferno. John wrapped his coat around me and joined a bucket brigade that was soaking down adjacent houses to prevent the blaze from spreading.

  I scrubbed at my eyes. If I had gotten inside the music room earlier, would it have made any difference? Or was James Moran fated to die tonight no matter what I did?

  I remembered him standing by the window of the drawing room. It was only yesterday, but it seemed like a lifetime ago.

  What would you say the number one accidental death is? Take a guess, Pell.

  The answer, of course, was fire.

  “I know you.”

  I turned to find Quincy Hughes standing next to me. He wore gloves and an overcoat with the collar turned up against the cutting wind. His bright blue eyes gave me a penetrating look.

  “You’re Edward Dovington’s friend, aren’t you?”

  In the hellish orange light, the acne pits on his face looked like burns.

  I nodded wearily.

  Quincy stared at the house with a quiet horror that struck me as unfeigned. “Do you know if James is inside?”

  I nodded again, not trusting my own voice.

  “Dear God.” We stood in silence for a minute. “I live just around the corner. When I heard the commotion, I was afraid . . . .” Quincy glanced at me. “Why are you here?”

  I was suddenly tired of secrets. Weary to the bone of them. “He told me about the Pythagoras Society, Mr. Hughes. The charter you signed. Danny and the golem. All of it.”

  His eyes widened in shock. Then they went distant for a minute as he puzzled it out. “Fearing Pell . . . You’re that private investigator he mentioned, aren’t you?”

  “I failed him,” I muttered. “And now it’s too late.”

  Quincy stared at the fire, his jaw working. “He paid Cashel’s tuition at Columbia. Some of Danny’s, too. James could be a righteous bastard and I know what they say about him, but he didn’t deserve this.”

  “No,” I agreed. “Not this.”

  I thought of the seven names signed in blood. The next one was Quincy Hughes.

  I was about to offer the Night Squad’s protection, for all the good it would do him, when the front door flew open. A figure stood silhouetted against the fierce orange light, a woman dangling over one shoulder. Soot streaked his face. His coat was charred and smoking.

  My hand flew to my mouth. We watched in silence as he limped down the walk and through the tall wrought-iron gates.

  It seemed impossible that anything could have survived the inferno raging beyond.

  The firemen evidently thought the same thing for they paused with expressions of blank astonishment. The figure halted at the curb. I tried to swallow but my throat was too dry.

  I had just remembered something.

  The next victim always saw the doppelgänger of the last victim at the moment of his death.

  It had happened three times, with Danny, Francis and Cashel.

  Signs and portents.

  Quincy Hughes stiffened. “James?” he croaked.

  For a moment, the only sound was the hungry roar of the flames. It was as if a portal to Hades had been thrown wide.

  Then the figure scowled. “What the hell are you all goggling at?” he snapped. “My house is on fire. Put it out!”

  I saw a blur of movement among the dark trees in the park. The brindle dog leapt forward with a joyous bark and hurled itself at Moran, licking his fingers.

  A slow, happy grin spread across my face. It was my client, all right.

  Three firemen rushed forward to take Emma, whose face looked badly blistered. Moran seemed relieved to be free of his burden, but when they tried to lead him to an ambulance wagon he shook them off. The men finally shrugged and let him be.

  Quincy moved first, rushing over to Moran and clapping him on the shoulder. They spoke for a minute and then Quincy left, his expression both confused and relieved. I crossed the street, unsure what I planned to say but too curious to stay away. Moran stood alone in the midst of the chaos with his hands stuffed in his pockets, watching the house burn. He didn’t look angry or upset. No, he looked meditative.

  “You could have left her up there,” I said in a low voice. “No one would have questioned it.”

  The shouts of the firemen resumed as they redoubled their efforts to extinguish the blaze. Three horse-drawn pumper trucks were fighting it now and a dense plume of black smoke reached into the sky.

  “She was mad. What’s the point in punishing a madwoman?” He gave me a faint smile, then turned his gaze back to the fire. “Besides which, I didn’t think you’d approve, Harrison.”

  I glanced past his shoulder as a police wagon slowed at the corner of Fifty-Eighth Street and was admitted through the barricades. Sergeant Mallory stepped out with Detective Brach. Moments later, Harland Kaylock emerged, stooping from the carriage door like a dark bird of prey. My heart sank as he spotted us and began to stride purposefully in our direction.

  “When did you ever care about my approval?” I muttered.

  “Since you saved me.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did.” Moran met my eye. He looked older and wiser and a little sadder. He looked changed, in some indefinable way. “I don’t mean the times at Central Park or Division Street, though I’m grateful for that, too.”

  I smiled. “Your everlasting soul?”

  Moran laughed outright. “I’m still destined for Hell and I plan to enjoy every minute of the ride down.” His grin died. “But right now I need you to honor our agreement.”

  “Honor our . . . ?” I stared at him in disbelief. “You said we could call in the Night Squad! Now they’re here and they’re going to want answers. From me.”

  “That was before.” His jaw tightened and I saw the deep mistrust in his face. “I hate coppers. More than you can possibly imagine. They never did a single thing when my father—” He bit off the rest of the sentence. “They have no right to pry into my affairs. If Declan taught me one thing, it was to keep my mouth shut. I’m asking you to do the same.”

  A chilly gust sent whirlwinds of sparks into the darkness. I pulled John’s coat closer around my shoulders. “Are you asking or ordering?”

  His face softened a fraction. “Asking.”

  If Moran had bullied or threatened, I would have refused him, but the plea in his eyes got me. So did the memory of two laughing boys with parasols.

  “All right.” I straightened my back as Mr. Kaylock bore down on us like an avalanche. “Just tell me one thing. Why did it let you live? Is that all it wanted? To speak to you alone?”

  Moran didn’t reply.

  “Tell me,” I hissed, reaching for his lapels to shake an answer loose. “Damn you—”

  “Miss Pell.” Kaylock’s gaze swept over me and I saw relief in his eyes. “Thank God you’re unhurt. Weston’s message sounded dire. What exactly happened here?”

  I hesitated, glancing at Moran. My client crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow.

  “There’s been a fire, sir.”

  The stained glass windows of the turrets shattered as the frames buckled, yellow flames leaping
from the breach. Firemen shouted and frantically pumped the water trucks. Kaylock glanced at the inferno raging across the street.

  “I can see that, Miss Pell. Quit stalling. Mr. Weston’s cable said it was connected to the doubles case. That you required urgent assistance at the home of Mr. James Moran. A matter of life and death.”

  I was saved from replying by the arrival of Julius Brach and Sergeant Mallory. Brach gave me a searching look but held his peace.

  “Was it arson?” Mallory asked, squinting at the house.

  “An accident,” Moran interjected. “I was burning some personal papers and carelessly left the window of my study open. The wind must have blown cinders out of the hearth.”

  He reached into his shirt and found Klara Schmidt’s crucifix. Moran held the rosary in his fist for a moment, eyes closed in an attitude of prayer. Then he sighed and met Mallory’s stare.

  “Thank God no one was killed. My mother is staying at a hotel and the servants were dismissed for the evening. Only my aunt was home, but I managed to get her out.”

  “I’ll still need your full statement,” Mallory said with a frown. “All of your statements. If it has a bearing on the other so-called accidents—”

  “Pardon, but I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re talking about,” Moran said with a puzzled expression. Any trace of the Irish brogue was gone, ditto the salty slang. He sounded exactly like the other privileged sons of Mansion Row. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  Mr. Kaylock and Sergeant Mallory exchanged an irritated look.

  “You must be Miss Pell’s mystery client,” Kaylock said, studying Moran. “The one with a strong personal interest in the case.”

  “And who the hell are you?” Moran asked tightly.

  “Harland Kaylock of the Society for Psychical Research. Miss Pell’s nominal employer.”

  “Indeed. Well, I’ll gladly reimburse any expenses you’ve incurred in coming here. In fact, I would write you a check right now except that I’m afraid my checkbook was in my desk.”