Recognizing the somber expression on his face, Hanna swallowed. Frau Kruger had given her the same look when Hanna’s mother had died.
“Dr. Jones is our family physician,” Lucas whispered. “I’ll send Clive to call on him. He can take the girl. We’ll do without a carriage for now.”
Molly’s eyelids fluttered and her eyes rolled back to show their whites.
“Molly,” Hanna said, taking her hand. “We will help you. Clive will take you to a real doctor.”
“But I’m here to see Madame Costello,” Molly moaned.
“A witch doctor,” Lucas muttered. He lifted Molly into the carriage and pressed a few dollars into her palm. “Take this. Use it to start a new life. You must never return to Madame Evangeline’s house of ill repute. There is hope for you, child.”
Lucas turned to Clive. “After she has seen Dr. Jones, make sure she is taken to the convent of Saint Mary’s.”
“Will the nuns care for her?” Hanna asked, biting her lip. Molly did not need judgment or shame for the state she’d ended up in.
“I studied at the convent as a boy,” Lucas said. “It is a safe place across the bay in Berkeley, far removed from the Barbary Coast and its vice.”
“Can I keep my baby?” Molly asked, holding her stomach.
Hanna looked into the girl’s sea-green eyes, still taken aback by her youth. Only God would decide what happened to that baby, and he was not always kind. Clasping Molly’s clammy hands in hers, Hanna smiled. “Godspeed. Be well.”
Clive shook the reins and the horses snorted.
“Please hurry!” Hanna called to him.
With a start, the carriage rattled down the cobblestone street, taking Molly away from the dark groggeries, theaters, gambling dens, and smoke-filled saloons. Hanna could only hope she would find a better life for herself and her child, if both survived.
Once again, the door to Madame Costello’s office swung open, and the bespectacled man beckoned Hanna inside. “The madame will see you now.”
Hanna and Lucas entered a dim parlor, the door shutting behind them with a thud. It smelled of herbs and musky perfume. As she followed the man to a desk at the back of the room, Hanna’s eyes set upon a woman dressed completely in black. Her unruly dark curls were piled atop her head beneath a large feathered cap.
When she looked up, her blue eyes flashed, sending a shiver through Hanna. Madame Costello’s voice came out harsh as gravel. “How may I assist you?”
Hanna hesitated. Despite the madame’s handsome features, she looked the type to slit a man’s throat without second thought. To her right, a leather-bound ledger sat on her desk. Hanna strained to make out the names and dates written on the page.
“I’m here for the obstruction of my monthly periods,” Hanna said.
Madame Costello pursed her lips, false sympathy in her eyes.
Lucas removed his hat. “Unfortunately that is the case. May we obtain your services?”
Madame Costello flicked through her ledger with a clawlike nail. Then her unsettling gaze met Hanna’s. “How long has your monthly cycle been obstructed?”
“Several fortnights,” Hanna answered.
Madame Costello turned around, pulling a green glass bottle from the racks of potions on the shelf behind her desk. “Dr. Hart’s medicine for feminine ailments,” she said. “Removing from the system every impurity.”
“I’ve already drunk it,” Hanna lied, looking at the woman’s ledger. “And it has been a week’s time, and my impurities are not yet removed.”
“She requires your other services,” Lucas said, dropping his voice.
“I see.” Madame Costello picked up her quill pen, raising a thin eyebrow. “My services are fifteen dollars.”
“Must it be paid at once?” Lucas asked.
“You may pay half now, and the other half once the procedure is finished.” Opening her palm, she held it out to him. “Eight dollars.”
“That is more than half,” Hanna muttered, but Lucas reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, retrieving his coin purse.
“Here,” he said, handing the awful woman the bills.
Madame Costello smiled like a snake. “Then we have a deal.”
Standing up from her desk, she glided toward Lucas, ledger in hand. Opening the book, she pointed to the page. “You will sign your name here. And the name and age of the patient here.”
Putting a firm hand on Hanna’s shoulder, the bespectacled man steered her toward the back room. “This way. Time to undress.”
He pushed Hanna down the narrow hallway. Pulling back a stained curtain, the assistant revealed a coffin-like room with no windows. It smelled of turpentine. Hanna sucked in her breath, seeing the blood-spattered sheets covering a cot. On a table, hooks, needles, a spoon, and scissors shone beneath the lamplight. Hanna shuddered, recognizing the longest, sharpest needle, identical to one she’d used at the tailor shop.
In a metal pail beneath the cot, blood-soaked rags were piled in a heap. Hanna covered her mouth. There was no way out except the doorway through which she had come.
“Remove your clothing,” the man instructed.
“I— Please give me a moment,” Hanna said, pressing her hand against her forehead.
The assistant blocked the doorway, taking a step closer. “No time for second thoughts. Your man in there has already paid. We shall get this over and done with.”
“No,” Hanna said, pushing past him. “I cannot!”
She ran down the dark hallway, steadying herself against the wall. Perspiration pooled beneath her arms in Georgina’s tight gown.
Reemerging in Madame Costello’s office, Hanna ran straight to Lucas. He hugged her close, his eyes wide with concern.
“I fear your girl requires some convincing,” the elder man said, breathless.
Lucas returned the ledger to Madame Costello. “We don’t require your services.”
The madame smiled like a cat toying with a mouse. “I wager you’ll return. And when you do I shall be waiting. I’m keeping the eight-dollar deposit.”
“You will not,” Hanna said. “And we will not return.”
“My money,” Lucas said, extending his hand. “Or I’ll notify the authorities of your unsavory business practices.”
Madame Costello reached into her purse, holding the money between thin fingers. She paused a moment, then allowed Lucas to pluck the bills from her talons.
“Please,” Hanna whispered. “I want to go.”
“All right,” he said, placing his hat upon his head. He tipped it toward Madame Costello and her male secretary. “Good day.”
When Hanna opened the door onto the street, the stench of rotting garbage and horse manure had never felt so welcome. Sitting down on the rough planks of the sidewalk, she held her head in her hands. Hanna couldn’t erase the image of those blood-soaked rags. Lucas sat down, slinging his arm around her shoulders.
“Pray tell me Margaret’s name was not in that book,” Hanna whispered.
Lucas tilted his head toward her. “It was not. I managed to discreetly thumb through the pages. Margaret never came here to see this woman.”
Hanna dropped her hands, looking at him. “I am glad for that.”
“As am I.”
Hanna rested her head against Lucas, her stomach sinking as the terrible truth set in. “We are no closer to finding her.”
Lucas pressed his lips together, his eyes shiny with determination. “What of the man with the scar? What was his name?”
“Sam O’Grady. Perhaps if we find that criminal, we can find Margaret.”
“Ah,” Lucas said, stroking his chin. “But for one small problem.”
Hanna bit her bottom lip. “What is it?”
“We’ve sent Clive away with the carriage.”
Hanna stood up, brushing the dirt off the full silk skirt of her gown. “Then we will go on foot. Why do you give me that look?”
Lucas smiled. “Hannelore Schaeffer, I have never met anyone
like you. Will you be all right to walk in that ponderous dress?”
Hanna chuckled. “I am not one to care about ribbons and feathers. The dress is heavy, but I will manage.”
Standing, Lucas brushed off his trousers. “Where shall we begin?”
“The man, Sam O’Grady, he is known in Devil’s Acre. I fear we may see Pigeon-Toed Sal again if we walk that way.”
Lucas wrinkled his nose. “I do wish to avoid the Billy Goat, if possible.”
Hanna took Lucas by the elbow, trudging up the hill toward Pacific Avenue. “We will go wherever we have to. And we must keep our wits about us.”
“Do you really suspect the boy Margaret was courting, Kieran McClaren, might have harmed her?”
A tremor passed through Hanna as she recollected the uneasiness she’d felt this morning at the wharves. Hanna clenched her teeth. “When he said he’d sent Margaret to the abortion doctor, I saw the look in his eyes. It was beastly.”
When Lucas turned toward Hanna, his face was pinched. “Do you believe Kieran might have paid Sam O’Grady to drug Margaret, and to force her into an abortion doctor’s office against her will?”
Hanna’s mouth went dry. Lucas might not have thought much of fifteen dollars, but Kieran McClaren would never have that sum of money. Madame Costello’s services were far too expensive for a man like him.
Yet a house of prostitution, such as the one above the Tavern on Dupont Street, would likely offer women’s services at cheaper prices. There would be no bespectacled man, no ledgers, no desks, and no office. These back-alley procedures bore unspeakable risks, and a much higher cost—one Margaret might have paid with her life.
Chapter 17
Sarah, Present Day
The Victorian homes and tree-lined streets surrounding my bus stop faded to black when I opened the email attachment. I couldn’t breathe. The newspaper article appeared on my phone screen as a PDF file. I squeezed my eyes shut, and panic washed over me like a tidal wave. I knew what the clipping said without having to read it again. Those words would haunt me for the rest of my life.
November 3, 2001
Eagle River, Wisconsin—A plea agreement for the 16-year-old driver charged with hitting and killing a 3-year-old boy as he crossed a street was rejected by a Vilas County Court judge on Thursday and she was sentenced to one day in jail.
The teenage girl was charged with careless driving resulting in death and two counts of careless driving resulting in injury for the fatal collision on November 3 at East Main Street and South Wood Boulevard, outside the popular Bott’s Ice Cream store.
Police did not release the driver’s name, citing her age and concerns about retaliation.
Leah Nichols, 33, was walking with her toddler, 3-year-old Connor Nichols, at an intersection near Bott’s Ice Cream. Authorities say the teen’s vehicle collided with another car, which then hit the mother and son as they crossed the crosswalk.
A man who witnessed the crash told Eagle River News that Nichols was bleeding from her face and had a broken arm. Another witness said he saw a body fly through the air in the crash. Connor Nichols was taken to a hospital but died the next day.
The female teenage driver had accepted a deal with prosecutors that would have avoided jail time. But during an emotional hearing, the family of the little boy brought photos of him and placed them around the courtroom, then asked Judge Kerry Smith to reject the plea, which included 200 hours of community service and a driving class.
“You can’t be that reckless,” Connor’s father, Jim Nichols, said in court.
Judge Smith then asked: “What do you think would be the appropriate sentence?”
“I would never want her to drive again,” replied Nichols, saying the teen should receive the maximum sentence. “We have to live with this every morning and every night.”
Judge Smith then sentenced the teenage girl to one day in jail, 30 days of home confinement, 200 hours of community service, and to complete a driving course.
At the crash scene, a crowd gathered after the accident, adding to the candles, stuffed bears, balloons, and flowers. One of the balloons read, “One more angel in the sky.”
When I opened my eyes, I was reliving my worst nightmare. I still remembered my junior year of high school like it was yesterday.
I’d been speeding in the rain because I’d overslept, and my time card would show I hadn’t clocked in for my morning shift. I’d been working as a cashier at Gino’s Pizza for only a few months, but Mom really needed the extra money. She’d been so proud of me for getting this job.
I’d been thinking about the disappointed look on Mom’s face—the way her mouth would turn down at the corners if I told her I’d lost my paycheck—when I saw the car stopped in front of me. Thinking quickly, I grabbed my emergency brake and pulled it up by the handle. “Come on, come on!” I pleaded. But time seemed to move in slow motion, and I slammed hard into the bumper of the silver Toyota. Smack.
I felt a punch to my face like the time I’d been hit with a fly ball during softball practice. Touching my forehead, my fingertips came away covered in blood. I sucked in air through my teeth, the cut stinging. Ouch. My windshield wipers squeegeed back and forth, but the cab of the truck had fogged up entirely, so I couldn’t really see what was going on outside. The defroster in Dad’s old Ford didn’t work at all.
This is what you get. This is what you get when you mess with us.
I breathed in and out, like a woman in labor I’d seen on TV. I’d crashed—I’d crashed Dad’s truck. I could’ve killed myself, and now Dad was going to kill me. The hood was all crumpled up and we didn’t have the money to fix it. My Radiohead cassette continued playing in the tape deck, while panic swelled like a balloon in my chest.
For a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself.
Thom Yorke’s voice taunted me. What had I been thinking, speeding in this weather? I chewed on my bottom lip, feeling sick with worry that I’d hurt the person in the Toyota. With shaking fingers, I pulled up the lock on the door. Rubbing my sleeve against the condensation, I watched out the window as a man ran down the street toward the accident. Was it that bad? Other cars had stopped in traffic, drivers gaping at me with their mouths open. Why were they looking at me like that?
When I opened the truck door, stepping down into the rain-soaked street, a scream pierced the air. Suddenly I was hit with a pang of dread. I felt it deep down in my gut, like something rancid. The car in front of me, the silver Toyota, looked okay aside from a dent, and the girl screaming didn’t seem to be hurt. She was about my age, her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her pink winter parka splattered with raindrops.
“Are you okay?” I asked, slowly taking a step forward. “I’m so sorry I hit you. I don’t even know what happened—I pulled up my emergency brake but my car wouldn’t stop. Do you need me to call 911?”
An unearthly wail carried into the air, and I noticed the crowd of horrified people who had gathered around the crosswalk. Shivering as the rain hit my face and my shoulders, I looked around desperately for a pay phone.
With a sob, the girl pointed to the sidewalk where the wail had come from. “Look what you made me do!” she yelled, her face contorting. Turning completely white, she doubled over and vomited on the wet pavement. “Oh God.”
Peeking around her, I gasped when I saw the woman lying in the road. Blood gushed from her forehead, matting her wet blond hair. The woman’s left arm bent back at a sickening angle, like a chicken wing.
“My son!” the blond woman screamed. “Connor!”
The man I’d seen dashing across the road cradled her in his arms. When his dark eyes met mine, he looked at me like I belonged in hell. “Are you the driver?” he asked, the lines of his face drawn in judgment. “Did you do this?”
“I—I didn’t mean to,” I said, barely above a whisper.
“I found him,” another man called, running from the median strip. He carried a tiny body in his arms, legs dangling limpl
y, one shoe missing.
“My son!” the woman screamed again, struggling to sit up. “Connor! Please God, tell me my baby is all right.”
The man’s face crumpled as he lowered the child onto the ground, placing him at his mother’s feet. Bile rose in my throat. The boy couldn’t have been more than three, and he had a huge lump on his forehead and blood dripping from his mouth. His pallid face had bluish eyelids, closed like he was sleeping, framed by long lashes.
“No!” the woman in the crosswalk screamed, thrashing as the men tried to restrain her. “My baby! My baby! Connor!”
I felt the eyes of a hundred people on me. Heard a thousand whispers. The mother continued to scream, her face red and twisted as her howl came out raw with pain. She stopped fighting and collapsed. A sob escaped her mouth.
“Why?” she cried. “God, why?”
“No,” I whispered, sinking to my knees on the wet pavement. “No!”
I couldn’t speak. My arms lay there like two limp fish, shaking at my sides. The mother cradled her toddler in her lap, her body racked with sobs. Tears pressed against my eyelids. I needed to help, but I couldn’t move. The little boy . . . What had I done?
“I think she’s in shock,” a woman said, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. “Are you hurt? It looks like you cut your forehead. Come on, let’s walk this way.”
“It’s her fault!” the Toyota driver screamed at me as I marched past, her face streaked with tears. “My car was stopped at the crosswalk like it was supposed to be. I was waiting for them to cross the street. She hit me! It’s her fault!”
“You can both give your statements to the police,” said the woman guiding me by the shoulders. Her curly blond hair poked out from underneath a beanie. “I’m a nurse,” she said quietly. “I saw what happened. Breathe. It was an accident.”
My leaden right foot moved in front of my left. It was my fault. My fault.
Looking over my shoulder, I couldn’t stop staring at the little boy in the crosswalk or his mother, screaming as a police officer restrained her with his arms wrapped around her waist. When had the police gotten here? I felt as though I was having an out-of-body experience. This wasn’t happening.
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