Henry would stretch and sit up in bed. “Tell me what you learned at McCleester’s.” His voice fills Walt’s head. “I’m feeling much better now; my fever broke a few hours ago.”
I should never have left you here alone.
“I thought it was you, at the door.”
Keep talking, Henry.
“Tell my parents I love them.”
Don’t leave me yet.
But the voice stops.
Frankie gave me a name. Sheriff Petty. I don’t know how it all fits together yet. Henry. Oh, Jesus.
“Say something.” His own voice startles him. He clears his mind, hoping to hear Henry’s voice once more, but the only voices he hears are those from the bar down the street. He opens his eyes. The cold air rushes through the gaping window, the blinds bang against the frame, and all he has left is reality—
Henry Saunders is gone.
Chapter 21
Walt is running as fast as he can. His chest hurts. He is sweating. The watch house is several city blocks away from Henry’s room, and the accumulating snow makes the going difficult. His feet stick in the fresh drift, scraunch, then slip. He catches himself with his arm before he hits the ground, then keeps running. He’s counting on the sheriff to help him.
Whitman is frantic. He and Henry were supposed to go to dinner together. They should be there right now: Henry in the Pewter Mug, a glass of sherry on the table in front of him, smartly dressed, a dark coat over a white shirt, black tie, silk vest, and he’s smiling at Walt, telling him how much better he feels now. Henry takes his hand, squeezes—
What if he can’t find Henry?
The snow falls harder now. Whitman slogs through the blizzard and re-creates Henry in his head. What would he say to Walt if he were here?
“Keep your head up.”
No.
“I wanted to come with you.”
Too obvious.
And then it hits him. He can’t imagine Henry into being. His thoughts have to be more precise in their conception, more deliberate if he has a chance of putting them into action. That’s what Henry would say to him. Quit being sentimental. Be productive. Find a solution.
That’s when he sees it up ahead, the light from the watch house window, a spotlight slicing through the snow. He stops at the front door, takes a deep breath, and goes inside.
The lobby swelters. A uniformed man rests his feet on the desk near the entrance, his hands behind his head. Whitman doesn’t recognize him. The man’s breaths are slow and deep as if asleep, but his wide-open eyes follow Walt across the room. “Can I help you?”
“My friend has gone missing. I think he’s been kidnapped”—he pauses—“or killed.” To say the words is different from thinking them, and Walt staggers as if fending off a physical blow.
“Hold on a minute.” The man swings his legs down off the table, and he sits up in his chair. The skin on his face looks double layered, and his nose is riddled with tiny holes that resemble buckshot. “What’s this here about a missing friend? You got to give me more information than that. I’m not a magician.”
Whitman takes a deep breath. “When I arrived to check on him this evening—he’s been sick with a fever—the door was wide-open, the furniture overturned, dishes broken, everything scattered everywhere, and he was gone.”
“With all due respect, mister. An empty room does not mean someone is missing.”
“But someone clearly ransacked his room.”
“Last time you saw him?”
“As I said, when I left him this morning, he had a fever,” Walt says. “If you’re suggesting that he’s out on the town or that he’s decided to move elsewhere, you are mistaken.”
“Easy there, sir. I’m only gathering information,” the man says. “Please sit down. I can see you are very upset, and I’m going to do my best to help you find your friend. There’s a process we have to follow—that’s all I’m doing.” He waits for Walt to sit, and when he does, the officer continues. “Let me ask you a few questions.”
Whitman nods. “Thank you, sir.” The last time Walt was here was a few nights before with Henry, what now feels like weeks ago.
The man stands up. He stretches his long body and moseys to the other side of the room, where several shelves lean against the wall. There, he searches through a stack of papers, finds the one he’s looking for, and returns to his desk. “Like I said, this is procedure. Now, let’s see.” The man drags his finger across the form and then down. He picks up a pencil. “This will only take a few minutes. What is your friend’s name?”
“Henry Saunders.”
The man sets down the pencil and folds his arms. “The Henry Saunders?”
Walt says, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“And you’re the other one, aren’t you? Walt Whitland.”
“Whitman.”
“Excuse me,” the officer says. “This one is above me.”
“What are you talking about?” Walt says, as the man disappears into the staging room. “What about procedure?”
Soon, Sheriff Petty appears in the doorway, staring Walt down. “Mr. Whitman, what brings you out on this snowy evening?”
“Mr. Saunders has gone missing.”
The sheriff sits down and stretches his arms out in front of him. With his right hand, he fiddles with a rifle bullet—he pushes one end against the desk, slides his fingers to the other end, flips the bullet, then does it again. “Missing?”
Walt nods. “I was telling the officer how I arrived to an empty room—”
“Officer Robertson said it was ransacked.”
Walt nods.
“And what time was this?”
“An hour ago.”
“So you really can’t be sure he’s missing.”
“No, I am sure.”
“Maybe he had someone over? Things got out of control. They might still be out somewhere causing mischief. We see it all the time.”
Walt shakes his head. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“Am I going to help you?”
Whitman can only look at the new sheriff. He’s tall and strong where Harris was not, and his face is marked with sharp features—nose, cheekbones, jaw, mouth—his mustache is perfectly groomed, not a whisker out of place. “That’s your job,” Walt says. “To help—”
The sheriff interrupts. “Your article, the one that accused us of hanging the wrong person, has created quite a stir around here.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“Why is it that an individual like yourself, who criticizes the way we do our job, should now demand our assistance?” Petty stops. “That’s what I mean by the word stir.”
“Enough of a stir for you to exonerate Samuel Clement?”
Petty says, “You do keep at it.”
Whitman is desperate now. “Why did Clement’s sister give me your name when I asked where to find her brother?”
“What sister?” Petty says. “What are you talking about?”
Walt presses on. “Yes, Frankie Clement. I went to see her this evening at McCleester’s place, and she didn’t hesitate when I asked her how to find her brother. She said to ask you.” Walt pauses. “So I’m asking: Where can I find Samuel Clement? If I find Clement, I’ll find Henry.”
“You’re taking your cues from a prostitute?”
“When the law doesn’t do its job, the citizenry has to do the best they can.”
“We do our jobs, Mr. Whitman.”
“You didn’t go after Clement, and now he’s taken Mr. Saunders.”
“You’ve done irreparable damage to our reputation with your sensationalist reporting.” Sheriff Petty tosses the bullet to himself. “Sounds to me as if your article hurt both of us. You’d know better than me, but isn’t that poetic justice?”
�
��Are you saying you won’t look for him?”
“Those are your words,” Petty says. “We’ll look for him in the morning if he’s still missing.”
“What if Clement kills him?”
“Have you checked the bars? The theaters?”
“I saw Clement murder your former boss,” Whitman says. “Should I take that information to Tammany Hall?”
“You’re either the smartest or the stupidest person to walk through that door today.” When Sheriff Petty stands up, his knees creak. “I wouldn’t put my money on the smartest.” He pulls his arms back and up over his shoulders in a giant stretch. “Time for bed,” he says as he starts to march back the way he came.
Whitman cuts off the sheriff before he reaches the staging room door.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Walt says, “that you would allow another innocent person to die. Will you blame James Warren for that too?”
Sheriff Petty thrusts his forearm under Whitman’s chin and slams him against the wall, where he studies Walt with a half smile. Walt Whitman is a big man, but Silas Petty has him beat in pounds and inches. “Be careful, Mr. Whitman,” he says. “If they knew who Mr. Saunders is, then they know who you are too.” He presses his forearm into Walt’s throat until it is difficult to breathe.
Whitman forces out the words. “I’m not intimidated by you.”
Petty lets go. “You should be.”
Walt drops to his knees, gasping.
“Now, you can sit here all night as far as I’m concerned, but I’m leaving.”
Walt coughs. “I’ll find Mr. Saunders myself.” He is still trying to catch his breath. “Then I’m going to prove that Samuel Clement framed Lena Stowe for her husband’s murder.”
“You’ve been reading too many books.” The sheriff shakes his head before he disappears into the staging room.
Whitman waits another minute or so before he pulls himself up using the chair next to him. The other officer returns and retakes his place at the desk as if Walt were no longer in the room.
Outside, the snow has stopped, and the moon shines brightly. Walt’s flesh quivers with the bitter coldness of the air. His breath appears like steam, and through it he sees the figure materialize up ahead.
For one ecstatic moment, the figure floating toward Walt Whitman in the night is Henry Saunders, and that moment expands temporally and spatially, exploding outward in every direction until all that exists is Walt and Henry meeting on a cold winter night outside the watch house.
The figure runs toward him, a fleck in the snow that grows bigger with each step until the boy stands in front of Walt, smiling. “Mr. Whitman, I need to speak with you.”
Chapter 22
Walt Whitman is so overjoyed to see Azariah Smith that he lifts the boy’s scrawny frame off the ground and hugs him tight. It is only when Azariah coughs that Walt remembers the bruising, and he quickly sets the boy down. “I forgot, Mr. Smith. My apologies.”
Azariah musters a pained smile. “I’ve come with news of your friend.”
Whitman’s insides turn. “Do you know where Henry is? Is he okay?”
“I don’t know where he is, but I know who has him.”
“Clement?”
Azariah nods. “When Mr. Rynders found out Clement took your friend, he was furious. I’ve never seen him so angry and so he sends for Clement, and when he arrives, the two of them go at it, and I’m worried Mr. Rynders is going to shoot Clement right there.” The boy shakes his head. “If it were anyone else, he would have, but Clement gets away with more.”
“Why?”
“It’s simple. Clement also works for the mayor.”
“Morris?”
Azariah nods. “So they’re arguing about your friend—Mr. Rynders wants to know why in God’s name Mr. Clement abducted him, and Clement says it’s none of his goddamn business and Rynders says that everything Clement does is his goddamn business and then Mr. Rynders demands to know where Mr. Clement is keeping Mr. Saunders, but Clement won’t tell him. Rynders says You’re making this personal and Clement says No, I’m fixing it, and Rynders says I can’t keep protecting you like this. So Clement gets real close to Rynders, and he tells him to piss off. I couldn’t believe it. Before Rynders could say another word, Clement was gone.”
“And you don’t know where Clement works or lives or spends his time?”
Azariah shakes his head, and his eyes water. “I’m sorry.”
Walt puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Where might Clement keep him?”
“Clement moves around a lot. Mr. Rynders is always complaining about not being able to reach him.”
“Hmm.” Whitman is thinking about their next move, perhaps another Aurora article, and then he notices Azariah grimace in pain.
“How are you feeling?”
The boy shrugs.
“I can help you get away from him.”
Azariah smiles, but the edges of the smile turn down as quickly as they form. “You have been kind to me, and that is why I’m here now, but no one can help me when it comes to Mr. Rynders.”
“I can,” Walt says, determination in his voice. “Give me a chance. Stay with me now.” He’s improvising. “I’m on my way to the Aurora as before. We’ll write another article together, stir things up.”
Azariah considers the offer, but Whitman can feel his hesitation.
“You can teach me to build a fire,” Walt says.
Azariah looks up. “I do know what the hell I’m doing.” He smiles. “And I suppose I have time to teach you a thing or two.”
The Aurora office is cold and dark and silent. Walt watches as Azariah builds a fire in the composition room’s large woodstove. The boy leaves its iron door open to let the air in. Walt can’t help but smile that Azariah has learned well.
He allows himself a moment to wonder on Henry’s location, if his fever lingers, if he’s alive—this last thought catches him unaware, and a feeling of profound sadness washes over him. Walt cannot imagine a life without Henry now.
“You’re thinking about your friend, aren’t you?” Azariah has joined him at the composition table.
Whitman nods.
“Mr. Clement said he is still alive. Let’s find him.”
Walt gathers himself, and then explains what they are going to do. “I’ll be writing the article as we typeset it, and—”
“You want me to follow the letters again.”
“I would be grateful,” Whitman says.
Azariah climbs onto the table, kneels over the tray that will hold the article type. “Ready.”
They begin. Walt drops the block letter g into the tray to complete the word missing. The headline stretches all the way from the left side to the right, each block letter in the largest typeface available, three inches high. Nobody who sees the newspaper can miss it.
Last night, Henry Saunders, editor of the Aurora newspaper, was abducted from his room on Centre Street. Saunders, known for his incisive article on the underworld of body snatching, made enemies with the New York law enforcement when he suggested in this newspaper only yesterday that city officials and law enforcement may have hanged the wrong person in Lena Stowe. Now, instead of using Saunders’s disappearance as an opportunity to prove the article wrong, to show the citizens of New York just how committed to justice it is, New York City Law Enforcement has refused to acknowledge Saunders’s disappearance, turning its back on one of its own citizens. Not only is this act dangerous and cavalier, but it speaks to the safety of all New Yorkers. If your loved one goes missing or finds trouble, will the law help you? Tell your family and friends about this injustice. Pressure your local law enforcement to do the right thing, and if you have any information at all about Henry Saunders’s disappearance, please contact this newspaper, your local newspaper, or your alderman.
The article g
oes on to retell Whitman’s account of Clement’s responsibility for the Stowe fiasco and Sheriff Harris’s murder, for which he uses much of the same wording from the day previous, and he even makes the provocative suggestion that Clement is, as Sheriff Harris suggested, Mary Rogers’s murderer.
When Walt is finished, he sits on the table next to his handiwork, and for one moment he appreciates the aesthetic accomplishment of six columns of blocked text. Azariah points out three errors—Whitman misspelled Saunders in two places, and in place of Lena Stowe’s name, he had put Elizabeth Blackwell’s. Walt fixes the errors in under a minute, and he is ready to run the press, when he hears the front door.
“Who is that?” Azariah says.
“No idea.” Walt checks his pocket watch. Ten A.M.
Mr. Ropes pokes his head into the composition room. “Mr. Walt Whitman. Good morning. Is Mr. Saunders around? I’d like to discuss yesterday’s edition with both of you.”
Mr. Ropes notices Azariah, nods his way. “And who is this?”
The boy slides to the floor, shakes Mr. Ropes’s hand. “Azariah Smith, sir. I’m Mr. Whitman’s apprentice.”
“Apprentice? You continue to surprise, Mr. Whitman.” Mr. Ropes pauses. “And Mr. Saunders? Is he here?”
“I’m afraid he’s not feeling well.” Walt moves a few feet to the right to block Mr. Ropes’s view of the typeset edition. “He’s spending the day in bed.”
“I’ll speak with him later, then,” Ropes says. “As for you, Mr. Whitman. Perhaps we should speak alone.”
Azariah understands. “I’ll wait in the office.”
Mr. Ropes waits until the door closes. “As I was saying: The article you wrote and Mr. Saunders published yesterday has caused me a considerable amount of trouble with the mayor’s office.”
“And it has the unfortunate problem of being true,” Walt says. “Every word of it.”
“We are not the Herald, Mr. Whitman.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that sometimes we don’t have the luxury of printing the truth.”
Walt says, “What do we have the luxury of printing, then?”
Speakers of the Dead Page 14
