by Kat Ross
I nodded, but I barely heard the rest of what Charlie said. The hair on the back of my neck was standing up like the fur of a cat that’s just been goosed. My mind raced, pieces of the puzzle falling into place, one after the other.
Because I knew this man.
His name was Thomas Sweet, and he was the bodyguard of George Xavier Kane, the wastrel son of George Kane, Sr., our host tomorrow night.
I thanked Charlie and stumbled out into Baxter Street. I should have noticed that the bouncer had disappeared, but my thoughts were spinning, rearranging everything I knew in the new light of what I’d just discovered. He was Becky’s lover. Of course he was. George Kane, Jr. had a reputation as being a cad. And Margaret Fox had named the Kanes when she reeled off the list of society people who had used Becky’s services. That’s probably how they met. And Temple Kane…she was feared even by her closest friends. I couldn’t imagine her reaction when she learned that her son, her only son, was sneaking around with her favorite medium. There would be hell to pay.
And Becky had paid it.
But why did he give her a grimoire?
I was just pondering this when a shadow detached itself from the alleyway ahead and began gliding toward me.
12
I spun around to run in the other direction, but that way too was now blocked by three men. No, boys. The oldest, who seemed to be their leader from the way he swaggered a few feet in front of the others, couldn’t have been more than sixteen. But he looked strong and vicious.
They spread out across the narrow street. I glanced over my shoulder. The shadow I had seen split into three more, blackjacks swinging from clenched fists. I felt like a fool. Their trap had closed before I’d even realized what was happening.
My pulse set off at a gallop as I considered my options. At least I was dressed as a boy. I prayed they’d be satisfied with roughing me up a little. I was a stranger, and this was their turf. Maybe assaulting interlopers was their usual evening entertainment.
Those hopes were dashed when I caught a blur of movement out of the corner of my eye. I braced for a blow, but instead, the thug yanked my cap off. They all laughed as my hair tumbled free. It wasn’t long, but I guess it was long enough.
That’s when sheer terror set in.
“Let me by!” I yelled. “Help! Somebody help me!”
This just provoked more laughter.
“I’m sure the Filth is on the way,” the leader said, using a slang term for the police. “What do you think, Danny? When’s the last time you saw a cop around here?”
Danny scratched his head. “Dunno.” Then he grinned and pointed to a garbage heap. “Hey, ain’t he buried over there?”
“Help!” I screamed again, even louder.
The windows on all sides remained dark. Somewhere, a dog barked frantically.
The leader crossed his arms and gazed skyward in feigned annoyance. He had flaming red hair and a nose that had been broken so many times it was just a flat knob of flesh. The other two had to be brothers, with identical dark hair and eyes, and the lean, hungry look of kids that had never had enough to eat in their lives.
I couldn’t say what the ones behind me looked like because I was afraid to take my eyes off of Red Hair even for a second. I figured the others wouldn’t attack until he did, or gave a signal.
The Bottle Alley Saloon lay just a block away. If I could somehow get past them, maybe Charlie or the bartender would intervene…
Red Hair seemed to read my mind, because he shook his head sadly.
“If you’re lookin’ fer Pickles, we told him to shove off. Pathetic excuse for a bouncer, if you ask me. Drinks more than the poor sots he tosses out. Now, we’d just like to have a little chat.” He held his hands up. “We work for Mr. Moran. He’s a gentleman, ain’t he, boys?”
They all nodded.
“Why doesn’t Mr. Moran ask me himself?” I demanded. “If he’s such a gentleman.”
“Shut your lip,” Red Hair said coldly, walking towards me. “I know who you are. I know why you’re here.”
I retreated until my back was pressed against the crumbling brick wall behind me. For a split second, I saw a frightened face peek out the window opposite. But whoever it was clearly had second thoughts about the wisdom of witnessing what was about to happen, and the face disappeared just as quickly.
“And why’s that?” I asked, silently berating myself for neglecting to bring Myrtle’s revolver.
“Mr. Jekyll,” said one of the dark haired boys, taking a menacing step forward.
“And Mr. Hyde,” said his brother, following suit.
“What is it you want?”
The semicircle began to tighten around me. I looked for something, anything I could use as a weapon, but of course the few square feet I stood on was the only debris-free spot in the whole street. I was just weighing the merits of horse manure as a projectile when Red Hair closed the distance and stood in front of me.
“I want to know—” he began.
He didn’t get any further because I suddenly decided that it was time to put John’s boxing lessons to good use. In Red Hair’s small mind, I was a girl. Girls didn’t hit hard. Therefore, he had nothing to worry about. It was a mistake I doubted he’d ever make again.
I hauled off with a neat right hook that gave his poor abused nose yet another spectacular lump. Before he could recover, I followed it up with a knee to the groin. To my intense satisfaction, Red Hair deflated like a popped balloon.
I leaped over his body and rabbited between the two brothers, who looked utterly astonished that their leader had been felled by a wee lass. But within seconds, I heard hard footfalls in pursuit. They started to gain, and I poured on the steam. Tumble-down buildings flashed by in a blur as I ran, faster than I ever had before. But it wasn’t enough. I could hear them getting closer. And to my growing dismay, I soon became lost in the maze of alleyways.
I’d thought I was headed west for the relative safety of Broadway, but the farther I went, the darker, gloomier and more deserted the area became. There were no street signs, but then I smelled the river and knew I’d gone in the exact opposite direction. I risked a glance over my shoulder. Only two of the boys were still pursuing. But I knew the others hadn’t given up. They were probably circling around to trap me as they had before. I had no illusions that they knew the area far better than I did. It was only a matter of time before I was again hemmed in.
So I made for the water.
Shouts echoed from the adjacent alleyways. Once or twice I heard a strange, trilling whistle that must have been some secret communication. They were tracking me like hounds after a hare. Shuttered warehouses loomed on either side, reeking of fish and brine. The height of the buildings lowered, revealing the orange Hunter’s Moon sailing high in the sky. And then I burst out into the open, near the edge of the wharf. Not far off, the Brooklyn Bridge straddled the river, its massive cables glowing with electric lights, appearing to my night-dazzled eyes like stars fallen to earth.
I could see a crowd of people, just a few blocks away, waiting to board one of the ferry lines. But as I veered toward them, two of the thugs tore around the corner and cut me off. They slowed as they saw me, evil grins widening on their faces.
I uttered an oath that would have made Mrs. Rivers’ hair curl, and possibly John’s as well.
Salvation was so close.
One of the thugs gave a high-pitched whistle, and my heart sank further when it was answered by a whistle to my right, and another just behind. I could see Red Hair coming now, and he didn’t look happy. Dried blood crusted his lips, like a sinister circus clown.
I thought about screaming again, but the tiny figures milling around the pier would never hear me. Red Hair halted and slapped the business end of a blackjack into his open palm with a frightening thwack. The very same sound I imagined it would make when it shattered my skull.
Then he started coming.
He didn’t say anything, or ask me any more que
stions. The time for that had passed. Now he just wanted revenge.
I spun in a circle. Every avenue of escape had been closed off.
I started to back toward the river. In my peripheral vision, I saw one of the thugs circling around to grab me from behind.
Then he gave a howl of pain and crumpled to the ground. I heard a hollow crack, like a wishbone snapping, and the thug—one of the dark-haired brothers—curled into a ball, clutching his kneecap. Standing over him, a stout cudgel in his fist, was Connor.
“You’ll pay for that, boy-o,” Red Hair snarled, as he and the four others tightened the circle.
Connor rushed over and grabbed my hand, his mouth tight.
“Did they hurt you?” he asked softly.
“Not yet,” I said.
But as I watched them advance, my initial surge of hope melted like ice cream on a hot sidewalk.
It was still five against two. And they were all bigger, stronger and far meaner than us.
We inched backwards until our heels hung over the edge of the wharf.
Connor looked up at me. “Know how to swim, Harry?” he asked.
I nodded, heart pounding, and squeezed his sticky palm.
“Good,” Connor said. “‘Cause I don’t.”
And with that he whirled and we both leapt into the river. I felt a brief moment of sublime weightlessness, when the world tilts on its axis and time slows to a crawl, and then the black waters closed over our heads. It wasn’t cold, but the current was strong, sweeping us out towards the middle where the shipping traffic was heaviest. If I’d been wearing my petticoats and corset and usual nonsense, I would probably have drowned. But Connor’s clothing was lightweight cotton, and though it billowed out around me, I managed to keep afloat. What dragged me down was the boots, which were laced too tight to get off. But I found that if I kicked hard enough, they were manageable.
Connor had been yanked away from me when we went under. I frantically scanned the choppy surface, calling his name. It seemed an eternity, but then his head and arms broke the water about twenty feet away. He thrashed hard and I could see he was starting to panic.
Several adjacent splashes signified that our pursuers knew how to swim too.
“Hold on, I’m coming,” I yelled, paddling against the current with all my strength.
Connor gave a choking cry and slipped beneath the waves.
The fear I’d felt on the pier was nothing compared to the sheer terror that seized me at that moment. I dove down into the foul murk, kicking and pulling with every ounce of strength I could muster. Aiming for the last spot I’d seen him.
It was pitch dark. My lungs screamed for air. But I knew that if I surfaced to draw a breath, Connor would be gone forever.
In the end, it was sheer luck that saved us. Spots danced in front of my eyes and I knew I couldn’t last much longer. Then my boot kicked something soft. I spun, groping blindly, and my fingers closed around a piece of cloth. I hauled us to the surface, flipping Connor onto his back and holding him afloat with one arm. To my vast relief, he coughed up a few mouthfuls of water and fell limp.
I let the current carry us for a minute while I caught my breath, though I soon realized that the channel was not a desirable location. After a near miss with a square-rigged clipper ship, I stroked hard for the Clyde’s Line pier, where a number of smaller boats bobbed at anchor. The wind rose. I thought I caught a glimpse of a dark head in the water, but the chop made it impossible to see far. Judging by the faint cries downriver, one of the thugs was floundering. Hopefully the others would heed his calls for help and give up their pursuit.
I reached one of the smallest boats and clung to it like a barnacle, but I didn’t think I could hold us both for long.
I hissed Connor’s name and shook him a little. His eyelids fluttered.
“Don’t let go,” I whispered, wrapping his thin arm around the gunwale. “Or we’ll be swept out to sea.”
Connor mumbled something too soft to hear, but he held tight. His red curls stuck to his forehead and his lips looked blue in the darkness. I locked my wrists together and we stayed like that for longer than I thought humanly possible. And then for a few minutes more.
Of course, I hadn’t thought to save a little energy in reserve for when we let go and had to swim to the mossy green ladder of the pier, so I did almost drown us both on the way there. But my stiff fingers finally closed around the bottom rung and we dragged ourselves up out of the river, cold and tired but glad to be alive.
“How’d you find me?” I asked as we trudged east on Pike Street.
“Followed you,” Connor said, wringing his shirt out. “Figgered you was up to something and I might have to save your bacon. I was about to jump in before when you dowsed that Jack Cove’s mug with a fine right hook. It was lovely, Harry.”
He gave me a happy smile. I shrugged as if it was nothing special for me to engage in fisticuffs with James Moran’s henchmen, although I was feeling rather pleased with myself.
It was a long walk home.
The little money I’d brought had been sucked right out of my pockets. But this was New York, so we barely earned a second glance, wet, dirty and bedraggled as we appeared. On the bright side, no one chased us, or tried to brain us with a blackjack.
At least it was August.
My clothes had dried by the time we climbed the front steps at Tenth Street, where I found another unpleasant surprise. The only thing in the world I wanted was to get undressed and crawl under a set of clean, starched sheets. But all the lights were burning in the windows, even though it had to be nearly midnight.
You’re in the soup again, Harry, I thought glumly. Mrs. Rivers woke up and found you out of your bed, and though she might be a mighty tolerant old lady, she’ll be forced to take some kind of stand on unauthorized nocturnal escapes.
I opened the front door, steeling myself for a righteous dressing down. But it wasn’t Mrs. Rivers we found in the formal parlor. Well, she was there too. But so were Nellie, Edward and John. They all turned and looked at me like I had two heads.
“Oh no,” I said, slumping against the doorway. “Not another body.”
Nellie shook her head. “Not a body,” she said, downing a tot of Mrs. Rivers’ dry gin.
“Thank God.” I pulled a strand of seaweed from my hair.
Nellie gave me her tight smile. “It’s two bodies this time.”
Edward wrinkled his nose. “Do you smell something? It’s like…sewage.”
“I think that’s Harry,” John said. “Or maybe Connor. What happened to you? Where did you go? We’ve been worried sick. I was afraid…”
“George Xavier Kane was Becky’s lover,” I said. “I went down to the Bottle Alley Saloon. Now what’s this about two bodies?”
We all talked at once for a confusing few minutes. I related my trip to the bar and run-in with Moran’s thugs, and Nellie told me what she’d heard just two hours before through the police beat grapevine. Two more victims, only blocks apart, both strangled. Both faces were covered, one with a linen handkerchief, the other with her own bedsheet. It had happened inside the woman’s flat.
I felt sick. While I was out playing dress-up, the Hunter had been conducting his grisly work. I stared into space, picturing their wide, terrified eyes as they realized what was about to happen.
I wondered if they had children.
I wondered what I could have done differently, if I could have prevented it somehow.
John must have sensed my feelings, for he came and stood next to me.
“It’s not your fault,” he said quietly.
“How do you know that?” I demanded. “How?”
“Because you’re the smartest person I know.”
“It’s not enough,” I said bitterly.
“Don’t,” John said. “Self-pity’s not your style, Harry. Now, pull yourself together and let’s get back to work.”
I looked into his calm brown eyes and nodded.
“Ri
ght,” I said. “Thank you.”
He went to squeeze my shoulder, then thought better of it.
“You really are ripe, Harry,” John said with a laugh.
I surveyed my companions on this strange, grim journey. Edward just kept repeating “George Kane!” in an amazed voice. They’d apparently just seen each other at the races that very afternoon. Our friend was impeccably dressed as usual, making me feel even more like the proverbial skunk at the garden party.
“There’s no point in trying to get to the scenes now,” Nellie sighed. “It’s a full on mob scene. They’ve got the whole area closed off.”
“Where did it happen?” I asked.
“Ninth Avenue and Seventeenth Street. Oh, and before I forget, no luck on that stockbroker named Gerald. I checked the employee records of the largest houses. There’s only two, and they’re both in their late sixties, highly respected. I can’t imagine they’d be involved with this man Straker. As for the smaller houses…well, there are dozens. It would take months to check them all.”
“Hold on a moment,” I said. “I really have to change.”
Even I could smell myself.
“That’s a good idea, dear,” Mrs. Rivers said.
She was acting suspiciously mellow, a state I attributed to the half-empty bottle of Hendricks gin at her elbow.
Not one to question divine good fortune, I dashed upstairs and washed as best I could, thinking hard as I donned a clean dress. John was right. We were at a pivotal moment in the case. We had a new suspect, a real one this time, and I felt a breakthrough was imminent.
“Let’s review what we know so far,” I told my friends when I returned to the parlor.
I rolled out a map of the city on the table and we all gathered round.
“The first victim, Becky Rickard, was killed at home.” I used a fountain pen to mark Baxter Street with an X. “Raffaele Forsizi here at Union Square, and Anne Marlowe here, at Sixty-Third Street. The last two at Ninth Avenue.” I made four more Xs. “What do you know about the latest victims, Nellie?”
