“Sorry, Lane,” she said while nervously fingering her long ponytail.
“That’s okay, did you need something?”
“Yes, actually, I do. I’ve been waiting to get you alone to give you this. I found it on the floor near my desk. I thought I had dropped it, but when I picked it up and read it, I . . . I didn’t know what to make of it. I don’t know what it means, but it sounds strange to me.” She suddenly became nervous and jittery, like she was going to hyperventilate, and I did not want to deal with that. So I led her to a chair and had her sit down.
“All right, Lizzie, take it easy. Let me see it.” She handed over a rectangle of creamy linen paper that looked like it should be a thank-you note to someone for a birthday gift. The letter was written in a neat hand in perfect cursive lettering.
Please reconsider, darling! It’s not the right timing, and there are too many lives at stake. It won’t work with the plan. Think of me, think of the big picture. There will be too many children there, it won’t have the right effect. Just wait and be patient. Trust me, please.
The paper had been crumpled, like perhaps it had only been a first draft.
“What do you think it means, Lane?” asked Lizzie.
I put my hands on my hips as I considered the troubling words and took a good look at the girl nervously twitching in my chair. “I’m not sure, but I’ll give it some thought. You’re acting str—, not like yourself. What makes you think that it’s something dangerous? And is it Roxy’s writing?” I already knew it was Roxy’s writing. I’d seen her precise script enough times, but I wanted Lizzie to confirm it.
“Yes, it’s hers, all right. I don’t know what it means, either, but the part about children, the lives at stake . . . made me concerned. We’ve been working so many hours lately; we haven’t had time to talk like we used to do. She’s still acting weird, not wanting to chitchat or anything.” Which I had noticed, too, now that I thought about it. Roxy would even choose to sit by herself over lunch sometimes or just disappear for breaks instead of hanging around picking on everyone. It made me nervous.
“Okay, let me think about it,” I said while pocketing the note. We said our good nights, and I made my way home.
It was my favorite time; the city was cloaked in her nighttime apparel. At the bottom of the steps of my townhouse, I could see that the household was asleep but the little golden light in the living room had been left on for me, its warmth glowing out the front windows. I loved the front of our brownstone, with the bumped-out front window topped and bottomed in green copper, the mullioned windows on all four floors, with small, curved attic windows at the top. The steep front steps led up to a large, red front door flanked by a tall, skinny side window, with Ripley on the other side wagging his tail.
Ripley had taken to sleeping by the front door as a sort of sentry, and I saw his stalwart form behind the side windows well before I came up to the front door. He always knew when any of us was due to arrive home. He’d be sound asleep or in another part of the house, but then suddenly and quietly get up and go to the front door to look out the side window. Sure enough, the homeward-bound traveler would round the corner within a couple of minutes. He lifted his big head and pricked his ears in greeting as I walked up the front steps.
I quietly went in, gave Ripley a big hug, and smiled as he let out an enormous yawn. I got the message: I was home late, and I’d better get to bed. I made my way up all those stairs to my soft blue and white room with the tiny candle lamp beside my bed, beckoning me to come and rest. It looked enormously inviting.
I got ready in a jiffy, and as I got into bed, I picked up the scarlet journal from my parents and started to gently turn the well-worn pages. There was a first love note from my dad to my mom when they were probably my age now. There were several pictures of the three of us when I was little, and one that I loved of us with Aunt Evelyn. Huh. If she was in the picture, who took it?
Several pages later, there was a small postcard from a lobster restaurant they went to in Maine. There was a tiny note next to it that said, The best dinner! Blueberry pie was amazing! I flipped to a matchbook from a Parisian hotel and a few photos of my mom and dad looking young and chic. It was hard to imagine these two sophisticated people were the same parents from Rochester, Michigan.
Wait a minute. Michigan. No, it can’t be. That niggling feeling I’d been having returned in full force. Why was Roarke in Michigan? And more importantly, why was he acting so secretive? I rifled through the book some more, just knowing that I was going to find something interesting and I’d know it when I saw it. I turned to a page that opened easily because it was one of my favorites that I looked at frequently. There was a photograph of my mother in a long white dress and fur stole outside of some dazzling restaurant. I took a closer look. Yes. This was it.
Right behind my mother, I saw the side of a face that made my heart skip a beat. No. It can’t be.
But it was—Uncle Louie. Directly behind her. Not with her, exactly, but he looked like he was in her party. Someone’s hand was on my mother’s shoulder, and her other hand was flung out to the right in an elegant pose, her eyes intently looking at the camera—at me. At the top of the photograph was the bottom half of the restaurant’s name on the famous sign. It could only be one place: The Casino. My mother had been in New York City at Jimmy Walker’s Casino, with Uncle Louie.
And that hand on her shoulder. I looked closer. I’d seen that hand a million times. It had served us scones this morning.
* * *
The next morning dawned too early to interrogate Aunt Evelyn about my mother’s presence in New York and her close proximity to Uncle Louie, one of the most notorious of all gangsters. I had a hard time sleeping with the intense heat and the bickering thoughts milling around my mind, but I managed a couple of hours. I got out of the house by about six and started to make my way to Randall’s Island.
The city was just waking up, but there were still many people out and about already. The morning always held a different air about it, a quiet, peaceful, heavier feel. Like the city was trying to wipe the sleep from its eyes to prepare for the busy day ahead. The early dog walkers were up and out, paper boys were making their deliveries, merchants were hosing off their storefronts and sidewalks. I saw many familiar faces as I made my way east, then took a bus uptown to the walking bridge that led to the island.
I was just a couple of blocks away from the bridge when someone came up right next to me, walking in step. I had been looking out for him, so he didn’t startle me.
“Roarke!” I started to yell, ready to give him a hearty hug, but tightened up my voice and my posture when he made a small gesture with his hand and a quick shake of his head to keep me walking straight.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?”
He remained silent but picked up the pace. I took a good look at him and saw dark circles under his eyes; his usually well-brushed and shiny blond hair was darker, and he looked, overall, like he’d been sleeping in a barn or something. Considering his dapper and sophisticated tastes, that must have really cost him something. But instead of enlightening me about his trip and his cryptic telegram, he added more questions to the pot.
“What’s been going on here while I’ve been gone? I’ve been getting this feeling that I’ve only collected a few pieces to a very complex puzzle.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” I murmured. “Roarke, you’re killing me! You’re really going to make me wait longer?” I said, with an exasperated tone.
Instead of bantering back and forth like we usually enjoyed doing, he just said, rather tightly, “Just fill me in, Lane.”
“All right.” I couldn’t deny a growing sense of urgency and alarm in the air. It had been gnawing away at me all night, and it was becoming more and more tangible, something I could almost touch, yet remaining just out of reach. I quickly filled him in on the burglary and the note that Lizzie gave me yesterday with Roxy’s writing.
“My God, yo
u’ve been busy,” he said while rubbing his tired face like he had an invisible washcloth. “Tell me again what Roxy’s note said.” I told him.
“She’s got to mean today, this opening. Something’s going down, and I don’t like the sound of it. And there’s one more thing,” I said. He groaned. “I was looking through an old photo album from my parents last night, and I found a picture of my mother that I’ve looked at a thousand times, but this time I took a closer look. She was at The Casino. Here in New York City.” Roarke abruptly stopped walking and looked at me.
“What?” he said, his eyes turning dark and sober. “That was a really high-rolling place. That doesn’t sound like the typical hangout for a couple of bookstore owners.”
“I know, and that’s not the kicker,” I said, starting to get more and more edgy. “Uncle Louie was in the photograph right behind her.”
“Oh, shit. We’ve got to get to Randall’s Island. Now.” He took off running. I’d never be able to keep up, but I ran after him, my own sense of mounting fear propelling me forward. Something he found in Michigan had clearly just been confirmed. He outpaced me, and I lost sight of him.
Around another corner, with a painful stitch in my side, I saw a young paper boy making what looked like the last delivery in his bag. I ran up to him, panting, and told him I’d buy his bike from him. I thrust several ones at him, and it was obvious he thought he’d gotten the far better end of the deal, since a brand new bike cost about seven dollars. I was wearing a black skirt suit with a jaunty little red scarf at my neck that matched my shoes. Luckily, the hip-hugging skirt had a little give with its flared hemline. I hiked it up a bit, threw my leg over the bar, and raced off with the wind throwing my hair off my face.
I made much better time despite trying to pedal with high heels. I biked my legs off across the walkway suspended over the East River that joined Manhattan to the little island. Up ahead, I saw that Roarke had gotten the same idea, having commandeered a bike as well from another lucky kid. His bike had playing cards woven into the spokes of the wheels, and I could hear the buzz of the cards whirring around. He was still outpacing me as we biked north along the island, past some sort of factory or plant, and under another bridge, and at last I saw the arena, my thighs burning and sweat trickling down my neck.
At the entrance to the arena, the only people around were the setup crews. I thought I caught a glimpse of Roarke running up ahead, having ditched the bike, with his eyes scouring the area for . . . something. Anything out of the ordinary, I supposed.
On the bike ride over I’d had time to give some thought to this predicament. Something was linking all this together. The letter from Roxy pointed to here and now, with thousands of people expected. If Uncle Louie was involved, he was well-known for scare tactics, including the use of explosives on buildings—and people—that were in his way.
Those two points alone were enough to bring out a cold sweat. I tried to find a policeman around to notify, but they hadn’t arrived yet. The only thing they would be preparing for would be the normal protocol for high-profile guests like Fio. And Fio wasn’t due to arrive for two more hours; he’d probably be at home still or city hall.
I ran around to the other side of the stadium, hoping to cover ground Roarke hadn’t canvased yet. I rounded the smooth corner of the massive building, and up ahead I saw a thin man with a shining black head of hair, smoking a cigarette. He flicked the remains down on the ground and looked around in nervous agitation, his mouth working, licking his lips. It was Danny. I ducked into a doorway to get out of sight and then peeked out to take a careful look.
I was just about to start walking cautiously in his direction to see if I could get a better look at what he was doing when a hard arm wrapped around the front of my shoulders and pulled me back into the doorway. A hand clamped down on my mouth. My hands went up to pull down the strong arm, and just as I was about to give a mighty kick behind me into his shins or, better yet, up higher, a whispery voice said in my ear, “What are you doing here, love?”
My hands stopped pulling and I stopped the kick from happening, relaxing into him. He let go of my mouth but kept his arm around my shoulders, and I felt him exhale. I twisted around to look him in the face. His eyes looked tired, and his five o’clock shadow had grown to a distractingly sexy, scruffy morning shadow. Apparently no one had slept well last night.
“Finn, listen,” I said quickly. “Roarke just got back from Michigan. He said he found a connection to what’s been going on here. But first I filled him in about the events here: the burglary, and then last night I found an odd letter from Roxy to someone about not rushing into some event here today. Something big, something bad. And since things just aren’t exciting enough, I also came across a photo of my mother taken here in the city with Uncle Louie right behind her.”
“Oh, shit.”
“That’s what he said. So we’ve both been running around here looking for anything out of the ordinary, when I spotted Danny up ahead.”
“I know. I saw him, too. In fact, I saw all of you and couldn’t figure out what you were doing. You have the most uncanny ability to get yourself in the worst—” I was about to roll my eyes at him when he cut off and pulled me back tighter into the doorway. I heard footsteps. I felt Finn’s arm reach back behind him and heard the gun’s safety click off.
“Yeah, I got it figured out, quit worrying,” said Danny’s high-pitched voice. “I put it where they’ll never find it. And this is going to do the trick. My other ideas were child’s play, they said. Well, they’ll take me seriously now. No doubt about it.” I heard another voice but couldn’t make out the words. The footsteps had stopped, and Finn and I were holding our breath. His arm clamped tighter across the front of my shoulders, every muscle taut and at the ready. Then the footsteps started up again, taking them farther away from us. The safety clicked back into place.
I swiveled around again to face him. “What do we do?” I whispered.
“Come on,” he said, taking my hand and leading me out of the doorway in the opposite direction of Danny. We slunk along, trying to stay close to the side of the arena.
Finn pulled me over and put his hands on my shoulders. “Look, stay here for just a moment. I’m going to make sure Danny isn’t backtracking.” I started to shake my head vehemently, and was just about to say, You are not going to go gallivanting off and keep me out of it.
But he closed his eyes for a second and moved his hands to my head. “I’m not trying to keep you out of this, Lane. Look, I’ll run around to the other side, and you can keep an eye out on this side for Roarke, all right?” That same smile was playing around the corners of his eyes. I couldn’t help but smile back at him, grudgingly, realizing he had read my thoughts perfectly.
“All right. Go, I’ll watch for Roarke.” He quickly and cautiously went back the way we had come.
I walked just a little farther on, watchfully scanning the area. If Danny was here, who else was? And what exactly had he put where no one would find it? Inside a corridor that looked like it led to the interior of the stadium, I heard the sound of agitated voices. They started getting louder, and I could hear Danny’s familiar voice.
Danny was arguing with someone, then I heard a scuffle break out. I tried to see farther into the corridor, but it was too dark. Suddenly, Danny yelled, “Hey! Hey! What do you think you’re doing? Drop it or we’ll . . . Hey!” Then he and his scrapping partner took off running after whatever miscreant he’d been yelling at. It sounded like they went dashing into the belly of the arena.
Then, from up above, I heard another familiar voice. It was Roarke’s. I looked back behind me, where I’d just been standing with Finn. There was a temporary upper walkway for the construction crew that was basically a small, makeshift bridge from the arena to a walk along the water. Roarke was up there, running from the arena toward the water. His voice was filled with more terror than I thought possible. “Oh, God, oh, God.”
Oh, no, we’re too late
.
Roarke carried a bundle in his arms and was running with all his might toward the water. You only run with that much terror when you’re carrying one thing. I started to run away from the water, but something caught my eye back under the walkway.
It was Finn. My God, he didn’t see Roarke. He didn’t see the bomb.
I ran toward him. “Finn! Look out!” He looked up at Roarke’s running form and understood the situation in an instant. Roarke heaved the bomb into the water and dove backward. I turned back to Finn, only twenty feet away now, locking eyes with him as we ran toward each other. “Finn!” I screamed as the explosion rocked the ground out from under me.
CHAPTER 13
One must work and dare if one really wants to live.
—ML
I woke up coughing and spluttering. My eyes fluttered open, but it was just as black as if I hadn’t opened them. An ocean of old, secret fears came cascading down on top of me in a single, horrifying wave. The cold, dark water. The long, agonizing swim up the endless tunnel toward consciousness. The claustrophobic feeling of being trapped. I started to kick and scream when I felt two strong arms come around me and gently but firmly force my head against his chest.
“Lane! Lane! I’m here. You’re not alone. I’m right here, love.” He kept his arms tightly wrapped around me while I tried as hard as I could to stop gasping for air, to control the fear that was ripping through me.
I finally started to feel other sensations: the softness of his shirt against my face, the firm, strong muscles of his chest, the warmth. His heart was racing, and I let that sound absorb into my mind. I started to concentrate on the in and out of my breathing. After a while, a huge shudder ran through my body, and then I could relax. He took one hand and stroked the back of my head. Over and over, not saying anything. I rested my hand on his chest.
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