by Kat Ross
“That’s hardly the point!”
“Then what is the point? I’m tired and I want to go to bed.”
“What about the mirror?”
I didn’t answer. A wave of dizziness passed through me. I steadied myself on the bannister.“This is so typical,” John muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“If something doesn’t fit your tiny view of the world, it doesn’t exist.”
“My tiny view?”
“Yes. Your capacity for denial is boundless, Harry.” A heat came into his eyes that made me uncomfortable. “Something can be right in front of you and you just…you just don’t see it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said coldly, furious at myself and him both without being entirely sure why.
He stared at me for a moment without speaking. Then he sighed. “Goodnight, Harry.”
“John,” I said.
But he was already walking away.
11
I kept all the lamps burning that night and still didn’t sleep a wink. Contrary to what I had told John, I remembered quite a lot of what had happened in Rose Mason’s parlor.
I wished I didn’t.
Becky (if that’s really who was speaking through the board, an idea I was still struggling mightily to accept) called him The Hunter.
In my mind, it was definitely a capital H.
I’d been thinking of him as the soldier, but Hunter suited him better. I suddenly knew with cold certainty that he took great pleasure in stalking his victims before he killed them. He had come within inches of my bedroom door and never gave himself away. If I hadn’t heard the soft whisper of his breath, I wouldn’t have known he was there. If the landing hadn’t creaked, I might never have woken up. Or woken to hands already tightening around my throat.
Abyssus abyssum invocat.
Deep calls to deep.
Or hell calls to hell.
Well, that one was fairly self-explanatory.
We are dust and shadow.
The line was from Horace, if I wasn’t mistaken. I laughed and it felt strange, but good too. I hadn’t realized demonic entities from the twilight plane liked to quote poetry.
I threw off the sheet and hugged a pillow to my chest. There had to be a rational explanation for what had happened. There had to be. Otherwise, the case was hopeless.
More than ever, I knew we needed to see this professor at St. John’s. If Uncle Arthur recommended him, he must know an awful lot—more than I did, at any rate, which was next to nothing. The appointment was for Thursday afternoon, the day after tomorrow. I’d planned to let John handle it, but now I had my own questions for the man. And if we left on the first train out, we could still get home in time for me to pay a visit to the Bottle Alley Saloon. It was the last chance to find out who had given Becky the grimoire.
I felt calmer as I made a plan. Because even if John had been right all along, even if the man we sought was no man at all, that didn’t change the fact that maybe, just maybe, I could still catch him on my terms. He might walk in the dark and cold, but I believed in my heart that he walked in this world, too.
I rose at dawn. High cirrus clouds formed a herringbone pattern in the sky, their undersides gilded pink by the rising sun. The lake was like a sheet of glass, its surface unbroken except for the splashing of a gang of rowdy ducks. I washed my face in a ceramic basin nearly identical to the one we’d found in Straker’s flat. A quick inspection in the mirror revealed bloodshot eyes and tangled hair. The latter was improved by a vigorous brushing, although pieces of it kept drifting up toward the ceiling in a nebula of static electricity. That problem, in turn, was solved by a hat. I donned my last clean dress, a pinstriped silk fit for travel, and ventured downstairs.
Nothing stirred as I made my way to Library Street save a fat tortoiseshell cat that watched with slitted eyes from a porch swing as I passed. The greenery between houses drooped heavy with dew. Although the sun had barely broken the horizon, my dress felt too warm, and I guessed the damp would burn off by breakfast. All in all, it held the promise of a lovely morning. I felt almost sorry that we had to leave.
But The Hunter could already be choosing his next victim. And I hadn’t forgotten that Myrtle would be home in three days now. Time was running short indeed.
It took Samuel Mason more than a minute to answer my knock. He too was bleary-eyed, but he smiled politely when he opened the door, which is more than a lot of people would have done under the circumstances.
“I won’t bother you long, Mr. Mason,” I said. “I only wanted to make sure Rose is all right.”
“Thank you for asking. She’s on bed rest for the next week or so. But we’re both fine.”
“I also wondered if I might have a copy of the transcript from the séance. There’s an expert I’d like to show it to.”
“Just a moment.” He disappeared and came back with a sheaf of notes, which he thrust through the door. “Here, take it.”
“I can make a copy—”
“That’s all right. I don’t want it.”
“I understand.”
“Is there anything else?” He said this mildly, but I got the feeling my welcome was wearing thin.
“No. Thank you for all your hospitality.”
He nodded. “Good luck, Miss Pell.”
It was a subdued trio that boarded the eight o’clock train to Albany. I slept most of the way, the monotony of the landscape and the gentle click of Mrs. Rivers’ knitting needles lulling me into a restless slumber. The connection to the Hudson River Line was waiting upon our arrival, and we steamed into the platform in New York just as full dark was setting in.
A blood-red late summer moon rose above the buildings outside the station.
A Hunter’s Moon.
We took separate hansoms from Grand Central Depot, John to his home on Gramercy Park, and ours to West Tenth Street. As he handed Mrs. Rivers into the cab, he reminded me that we were attending a ball the following night at the Kane mansion on Central Park West.
“There’s no getting around it, Harry,” he warned. “You’ll have to wear something nice. Temple is quite strict when it comes to evening attire. And by that, I mean no boots.”
I swatted at him with my hat.
“Well, possibly boots, but be sure to scrape the mud off first!” John called as he swung up into his own hansom.
I made a face at him, and all was right with the world again, for the moment at least.
“Did you two have a row?” Mrs. Rivers asked, as we inched through heavy traffic down Fifth Avenue. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“Not really,” I said. “Well, maybe a small one.”
“You’re lucky he’s the forgiving sort,” she said airily.
“How do you know it was my fault?” I demanded.
Mrs. Rivers smiled. “Because it usually is, dear.”
“Well, that’s not…fair.”
“At least one of you knows how to forgive. You might do well to follow John’s example.”
I scowled.
“So what is this grand party you’re going to?”
“Edward got us invitations. He thinks Becky’s mysterious paramour might be there.”
“And how will you know if he is?”
“Not a clue.”
Mrs. Rivers patted my hand. “You’ll figure it out, dear. You always do.”
Somewhat mollified, I rested my head on her shoulder. She smelled of lavender and Microbe Killer, which was actually rather pleasant.
When we got home, Connor was waiting for us on the front steps. He’d charmed Alice into buying him a bag of sweet rolls, which he handed round in the kitchen while Mrs. Rivers made a pot of tea. I watched the clock with mounting impatience. Finally, I managed to get Connor alone and borrowed
an old set of his clothes, short britches and a loose button-up shirt with stains that smelled suspiciously like beer.
“Whatcha want those fer, Harry?” he asked suspiciously
.
I’d considered bringing him along, but finally decided it was too dangerous. Besides, the people I needed to talk to would be more likely to open up if I was alone.
“Just something I have planned for tomorrow,” I said, tucking my hair into a newsboy cap and surveying the results in the mirror. “What do you think?”
I figured I could pass for a boy if the lighting wasn’t too good, which you could pretty much count on in a dive like the Bottle Alley Saloon.
“You could be one of the Butchers, if you wasn’t so old.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment!” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “Goodnight, Connor. Thanks.”
He squinted at me. “Night, Harry. And bring those back when yer done.”
I was becoming an expert at sneaking out of the house undetected, a feat that was aided by Mrs. Rivers fondness for dry gin at bedtime. She referred to it as a “tot,” although a tumbler would have been more accurate. In any event, she was snoring gently when I tiptoed past her room and out the front door.
Nightfall had done little to ease the searing heat of August. Still, as I walked east to catch a streetcar on Broadway, a feeling of exuberant freedom stole over me. Bare legs! On the street! I almost laughed aloud at the subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) looks of distaste on the faces of the ladies and gentlemen I passed, sweating in their long sleeves and multiple layers of clinging fabric.
When I stopped to pat the flank of a beautiful chestnut gelding at the curb and had to nimbly dodge a swipe from the driver’s whip, I knew my disguise was working.
“Keep yer filthy hands to yerself!” he shouted at me as I danced out of range.
This was Connor’s life, the good and the bad. I had a sudden amusing image of dressing him up as a rich girl and letting him be me for a day. All things considered, I doubted he’d care to make a switch.
It was the first time I’d ever gone out at night alone. I realized that there was the New York of the daytime, the one I knew. And then there was New York after dark, when a very different city awoke. The air hummed with its usual energy, but it had a wilder quality. Like anything was possible.
I hopped on a streetcar headed downtown. We passed Harry Hill’s Dance Hall at Houston and Broadway, where it was rumored that Mr. Hill kept a private room in which his patrons could sober up before they went home, since a well-dressed man reeling down the street was practically an engraved invitation for robbery. Concert saloons like the nearby Gaiety seemed to draw a wider clientele, and though it was early yet, a boisterous crowd overflowed into the street.
Everywhere, everywhere, were people, louder, looser and yes, happier than I was used to. Handsome and ugly, young and old, rich and poor. Dressed by Saville Row tailors, and sporting rags that made my own outfit seem like finery. New York after nightfall belonged to the whores and the gamblers, the lovers and the brawlers, the pickpockets and their drunken marks. It was a true democracy in action.
A pair of showgirls in bright red garters and ruffled drawers ran giggling into a waiting carriage at Canal Street, their ascent aided by a white gloved man whose face was shadowed by a gleaming top hat. And in that brief instant, my buoyant mood deflated.
Because I knew that he was out there tonight too.
It had been three days since Anne Marlowe was killed. He would be feeling the urge by now. I wondered if he fought it, or if he had stopped even trying.
I kept my head down as I hopped off the streetcar at White Street and walked east to Baxter. If the Five Points seemed depressing by day, the lack of gas lamps made it downright frightening at night. It was too dim to see where to put my feet, but from the squelching sounds my boots made, I figured I’d walked through enough horse manure to fertilize the Polo Grounds baseball diamond.
There were noticeably fewer people on the streets here. I supposed it was safer to stay indoors. And for the ones who sought excitement—or prey—the action lay elsewhere. I felt eyes on me as I passed, but they were mostly indifferent. I was so busy being invisible that I nearly went right past the Bottle Alley Saloon.
It was easy to miss. There was no sign, just a little piece of plywood that said “distillery.” The door was at the bottom of a flight of stairs, across which a man lay sprawled. He seemed in a stupor, so after a moment’s hesitation, I took one step over his prone body, placing my right foot in the crook of his arm. I was just lifting my left foot to reach the second step when his eyes flew open and a hand with a surprisingly strong grip closed around my ankle.
“Where yer going, boy?” he slurred.
I kicked in a panic, but he didn’t let go. I’d thought him to be elderly, but I could see in the yellow light spilling from the bar that he was young, and cheap alcohol had ravaged his features into a puffy, veiny mask.
“Get off!”
“No one goes in without my say-so,” he said, pulling himself half upright as I hopped on one foot and struggled not to fall in his lap. “I’m the bouncer. Fat Kitty pays me to keep order, and by God, I’ll know yer business boy or I’ll cut out your liver and feed it to Kitty’s dogs.” He laughed. “They’re always hungry, the poor bastards.”
“I’m Becky’s brother!” I said, giving another futile yank. “Sir, I’m Becky’s brother.”
He frowned. “Didn’t know Becky had a brother.”
“I came from the country, sir, upstate.” I lowered my voice and hoped I sounded more like a boy. “Our mother sent me to claim the body.”
His death grip slowly relaxed. “I liked Becky,” he said. “Everyone did. She bought me a drink once.”
“Did you know her well?” I asked, thinking that I might not even have to go inside, the prospect of which was less appealing by the second.
“Nah. Kitty did though.”
“Is she here?”
“Nah. She took the night off to see a show.”
“Oh.” I tried to hide my disappointment. “Can you let go of me now?”
He looked down at his hand as though he’d forgotten it was there. “I guess so. Charlie knew her too.”
“Is Charlie inside?”
“What?” his eyes were already at half-mast again.
“Charlie. Is Charlie inside?”
“Dunno. Go on and find out if you want.”
And with that he resumed his position on the stairs and went back to sleep.
“Thank you,” I said, to no one, and continued my journey down the steps into the Bottle Alley Saloon without further interruption.
My first impression was of a root cellar. The floor was bare earth, just like the one where Becky had held the séance. But Fat Kitty had apparently decided that her customers deserved a touch of class, because she’d covered the walls with splashy posters advertising the “British Blonde Burlesque Troop” and “The Hurly Burly Extravaganza.”
I counted four people in the place, all in various stages of inebriation. Gender was indeterminate, likewise age. But after my experience with the bouncer, I took nothing for granted and it was with extreme caution that I approached the bar, which was a board laid across two sawhorses.
The bartender sat on a stool in front of a poster of “The Beautiful Indian Maidens,” whose feathered headdresses seemed to be the only “Indian” thing about them.
“Let’s see your money first, kid,” he said wearily.
The lighting wasn’t great, but I guessed the bartender was about eleven years old.
“I’m looking for Charlie,” I said. “Is he around?”
“She’s over there,” he said, pointing to one of the figures nursing a drink in the far corner. And then, warningly: “She ain’t workin’.”
“Oh.” I tried not to blush. “I’m not here for that. I just want to talk to her.”
He gave me a last hard look and nodded. “Go on then. But this place is for paying customers.”
I threw a nickel on the bar and he seemed satisfied.
“Slow tonight. Maybe it’s them killings in the papers. They’re calling him Jekyll
and Hyde.” The boy spat in the dirt. “Let ‘im come in here. I’ll give ‘im a taste of the old enforcer.” He flexed his skinny arms and glanced meaningfully at a bat studded with rusty nails that was propped behind the bar.
“Jekyll and Hyde?” I repeated. Of course, it would be all over the news by now. We’d missed it up in Cassadaga.
He shrugged.
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde had just been published two years before, and was an instant best-seller. It told the story of a man who became a monster, who had two distinct personalities. One good, one evil. But how could they know?
“Nellie,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
I wandered over to the corner. Two women sat there, laughing quietly with each other. They looked up as I approached.
“I’m not working,” the older one said immediately.
“I know. I’m not…My name is Harry. I’m Becky’s brother. Are you Charlie?”
There was a long silence.
“What do you want?” the same woman asked. She had thick black hair and might once have been beautiful, but her front teeth were missing. The others looked white and strong. Someone had knocked them out.
“I’m trying to find a man who gave her something. A book. It was about a week before she died. He gave it to her here, so I thought maybe someone…” I trailed off.
“Poor Becky,” she said. “You’re her brother?” She scrutinized me. “You don’t look nothin’ like her.”
“We had different mothers,” I said. “But she’s my only sister. Please.”
Charlie glanced around the bar. The kid was busy paring his nails with a huge knife, and the two other patrons were face down on a plank.
“I don’t know his name,” she whispered. “But yeah, I was here that night. Becky bought a round for the whole place after. She was the happiest I’d ever seen her.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?” I asked in a low voice.
Charlie laughed. “It would be hard to forget.”
“Why’s that?”
“He had a scar across his face. But not just any scar. It was dead white and shaped like a fishhook.” She drew an invisible line from her right eye down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “He scared me. Didn’t stay long. He handed her a package and took off.”
