Paradise Park

by L Mad Hildebrandt

  “Stop!” Muldoon yelled.

  Kavanagh scooped up the oil can and flung it at Muldoon. Pain screamed through his arm as it hit. He doubled over, then quickly drew the gun upward again. But not before the crazed man grabbed the Colonel’s shackled wrist. Twisting it painfully, he bared the tattoo, and set the blade an inch above the black dots. Expertly avoiding tendons and veins, he peeled back the flesh, and cleanly removed a little square. The Colonel screamed, and collapsed heavily against the column.

  “For my dice… ” Kavanagh said, a heavy rasping sound as smoke filled their lungs. He coughed a laugh as he slid behind the kneeling man and held the knife to his throat. “Throw down the gun,” he yelled.

  Muldoon wavered.

  “Now,” Kavanagh roared. “Kick it over here.”

  Muldoon dropped it, and kicked it lightly away. The moment the gun slid off, Kavanagh sprinted toward Muldoon and slammed hard into him.

  “Oooof,” Muldoon grabbed hold of him with his good hand, even as pain exploded from his broken ribs. He raised his right arm high, deflected the other man’s knife off his wooden splint. Behind him, flames spread out onto the landing, eagerly seeking new fuel. Alva stood silhouetted by the fire, eyes widened in horror. No, he thought. Get out! Quickly she ripped the fragile fabric of her dress, stepped free from its encumbrance, and dropped the heavy hoops to the floor. Wearing only her chemise and pantaloons, she ran toward him and leaped on Kavanagh’s back. She wrapped her legs about his waist, fingers digging into the flesh of his face, screaming wildly in his ear.

  Kavanagh spun about, and smashed the girl into Muldoon’s side. Tearing pain ripped through his body, and he fell to his knees gasping for breath. She loosened her grip, and dropped into a heap on the floor. Kavanagh screamed, then stumbled from the room, his fists balled into empty sockets, trying to stop the bleeding. He disappeared onto the flame enveloped staircase.

  “I… I,” said Alva, staring at her bloody hands. “His eyes.”

  They didn’t have time for her to think about it. Muldoon grabbed her wrist, made her loosen her fingers from their gory treasure, and dragged her to the Colonel’s side. The man pulled frantically at the shackle, and tried urgently to slide his hand from its tight prison. He gazed wildly at Muldoon. The raging fire burned around them. The air burnt their lungs, sweat streamed from the heat, and their clothing clung damply to their skin. Muldoon yanked at the manacle, but he couldn’t find the key. He pushed against the pillar trying to break it, but it withstood his might… his injured body didn’t have the strength.

  “Cut it,” the Colonel said, flatly.

  Muldoon grabbed a sword from a rack a few steps away, but let go quickly. It had already heated up from the flames. Swiftly, he pulled the sling over his head and wrapped it around the hilt, then pulled the weapon from the rack.

  “No!” Alva backed away as the sword swung down, and the Colonel’s trapped hand fell with a thud.

  The older man screamed, and nearly lost consciousness. Alva grabbed hold of him, and pulled him to his feet. She ripped a piece off her pantaloon and quickly tied it tightly around the arm to slow his bleeding. Muldoon thrust the blade into the fire, heating it. He placed its heat against the raw flesh, cauterizing it to stem the bleeding.

  They rushed onto the landing, but flames fully engulfed the stairs.

  “This way,” Colonel Hamm grated through clenched teeth, and led them to the left. Muldoon pushed the heavy door open, they burst through, and he shut the door on the heat and flames behind them. They were in the servant’s quarters. Smoke curled under the door, the only sign of the inferno on the other side. A thin staircase rose behind what seemed to be a closet door. Tucked in behind it, a second flight of steps dropped in a tight, incredibly steep spiral. This was the servants’ staircase, meant for speed, not comfort.

  The Colonel ran swiftly down the steps, followed more carefully by Alva. Muldoon brought up the rear, afraid he wouldn’t fit around the tighter corners. As they passed the next landing, he could see flames where the servants’ quarters blazed. Above him came the report of a gun as the forgotten revolver was engulfed in flame.

  “Aaaargh!” Muldoon roared, as pain ripped through his leg. The heavy weight of a body crashed into him from the second-floor landing! He reached down to grab the knife where Kavanagh had shoved it deep into his thigh. He was quick, and caught the man’s hand while it still held the knife’s hilt. He squeezed tight, until he could feel the crunch of thin wrist bones. Kavanagh screamed and let go of the knife. He shifted his hand to the man’s collar and grabbed a fistful of fabric. Leaning back, he supported himself against the near-perpendicular steps. He pulled the man from the landing, and held him, writhing, above the empty recess below. Then he snapped his head back, then forth, and slammed his forehead hard against Kavanagh’s. Blood splattered across the space, streaming from Muldoon’s scalp as his stitches ripped free. The man went limp.

  He thrust Kavanagh away from him, flung him like a rag doll back into the hallway. The limp body skidded across the floor and banged to a stop as he hit the wall. Grabbing the hilt, Muldoon yanked the knife from his thigh, and staunched the flow of blood with his one good hand. Above him timbers crashed. Without a thought, he sat and slid down the steps as he’d done as a child. But, before he reached the bottom, he heard the wail of a man, caught in the conflagration above.

  ✶ ✶ ✶

  Muldoon

  stood outside, supported by Alva Smith. Smoke poured from the once-stately mansion, billowing into the afternoon sky. Colonel Hamm sat on the grass staring dismally at his burning home. He cradled his handless arm as though it were a child. His wife stood behind him, eyes hollow with shock.

  “I never did sell any of it, you know… the treasure,” he said. “I couldn’t.”

  CHAPTER 47

  The

  strains of an Irish lullaby helped clear Muldoon’s mind as Meg McAllister sang quietly in her sitting room. He rested in a big chair Mrs. Dunn had brought down from the attic and had positioned in front of his fireplace.

  “William?” Meg stopped singing and peeked through the open door between apartments.

  “Hmmm?”

  “May I speak with you?” She came around to the front of the chair. “I… you’re… ”

  She dropped to the floor and knelt before him, both hands on his knee as if in supplication. Clearing her throat, she began again. “You’ve done so much for me. I’ll never forget it. You… you’ve saved my boy.”

  “Not soon enough, Ma.” He shook his head slightly. “If only I’d figured things out sooner.”

  “No, you did everything you could.”

  If only, he thought. This world is full of ‘if only’s.’ If only he’d saved those women and children from the burning house in Pensacola. If only he hadn’t gone to war in the first place, then he’d have been home when his own house had burned. Then, maybe his parents would still be alive. And maybe Patrick Ryan wouldn’t have disappeared on Santa Rosa Island. If only he’d known Kavanagh was bent on murder, then Kelly McAllister could have got out of the Tombs sooner. Poor Kelly, he thought. If only he’d had a doctor look at him after the bout, then maybe the kid would still be able to walk. But he hadn’t. Now Kelly lay in his bed and might never walk again.

  “I’ll take care of him, Ma. You have my word,” he said.

  “I know you will. You’re a good boy.”

  She reached up and traced the tips of her fingers along the side of his cheek. “So serious, William. You’re always so serious. I wish you would smile.”

  He gave a half-hearted attempt, and she smiled in return.

  “I hope someday your smile returns to you.” She stood and began to turn away, but her hand reached back toward him, and she paused. “And not that crooked one… ”

  She turned away, and then back again. He could see a change in her bearing.

  “You must tell me, Billy,” she said in the husky voice that wasn’t quite her own. “Tell me what ha
ppened.”

  His Irish blood ran cold.

  “Who were the three? Who were the first to die?” she asked.

  “Karl Schneider, Margaret Hamm, and her maid.”

  She nodded, but still faced away. “And the two by your hand?”

  He hadn’t thought of it that way.

  “Collins and Kavanagh. But that’s only five. Your prophecy is wrong.”

  Her head tipped to the side, almost as if trying to hear some far away sound. “Wasn’t there one before?” she asked.

  “No.” He thought back over the case. “Yes. Kavanagh’s partner. The one who swung in Andersonville Prison.”

  “Six.” She spun around and fixed him with her stare. “Did you find the man with the cane?”

  “Kavanagh.”

  “No, an older cane,” she said.

  He shrugged, avoiding her eyes.

  “Then he’ll return for more. He’s a bloodthirsty one, and his thirst is unquenchable.”

  Her hand dropped, and the dark veil lifted from her eyes. She smiled weakly, and went back to her own room, pulling the door nearly closed behind her.

  No, he thought, I don’t believe in it. The prophecy was wrong, it had to be. He believed in an ordered, scientific world. One in which men had motivations, and studying the clues would reveal their mistakes, and ultimately lead him to the criminals.

  Pain stabbed through his body as he stood up and moved over to the fireplace. He rested his forearm on the mantle, and stared into the embers that glowed on the grate. He tried to think of nothing, to still his mind, but he couldn’t. His curled fingers rubbed the polished wood, and then tapped against something that skittered unevenly across the mantle and dropped to the floor.

  It was a single die, the number six on top. He bent painfully and picked it up. Somebody had carefully carved a wooden block, and then covered it with rawhide. Six tiny leather squares were stitched neatly together, and stretched tightly over the cube. He turned it over. Each square of flesh had been tattooed with a single dot, two dots, then three, four, five, and six. Some had been marked long ago, the ink faded to gray. Others were newly marked. But they were tattooed, not printed. The ink had been injected into the skin. As he turned it over, the number six stood out… it was dark brown.

  He’d seen a similar, unfinished die on the windowsill in Kavanagh’s apartment. Was this the same one? How had it got on his mantle?

  His mind turned to Biggs and his evil gang. They weren’t involved with Kavanagh and his crimes, but they were still up to something. Perhaps something even bigger. He would have to keep an eye on them.

  He set the die back on the mantle and returned to his seat. The sputtering fire had caught again, and a small flame leapt and danced, hungrily devouring what fuel it found. Muldoon’s hand strayed to a glass on the table next to him. The doctor had left it there. Half-full. It would make the pain tolerable, he’d said. Muldoon picked it up, and swirled the amber liquid.

  Author’s Note

  I stumbled upon William Muldoon while at the University of Maine. I was researching the history of wrestling, and became intrigued with the idea of a champion wrestler and police officer as the central character in an historic novel. Muldoon was, in truth, both of these in the later 1800s. I moved to New Jersey, and spent long hours in New York City, walking through the neighborhoods Muldoon once lived in. The Five Points no longer exists. It was demolished as a way to get rid of NYC’s most notorious criminal center of its time. Paradise Park was at the juncture of Cross Street, Orange Street, and Anthony Street. Today, Orange Street is now Baxter Street, Anthony Street became Worth Street, and Cross Street is gone. The Park’s location (and the Five Points, from which the district took its name) can be found today at the intersection of Baxter and Worth. The approximate district borders are Broadway, White, Bowery, and slightly south of where Pearl crosses Park Row.

  Most of the details of the city are accurate. Some street names, in addition to those mentioned above, have changed. For instance, Chatham became Park Row. Police Headquarters was located at 300 Mulberry Street, Harry Hill’s was on Houston Street, The Black and Tan was on Bleecker St. Other actual locations include The Tombs, Billy McGlory’s Armory Hall, McSorley’s Saloon, the hospital, prison, and asylum on Blackwell Island, and Sister’s Row. The various neighborhoods all existed, and most can still be found, though in slightly different incarnations.

  Of the cast of characters, like William Muldoon, many of them actually lived in 1867 New York City. I have taken some liberties, including making some of them older than they actually were. Alva Smith was rather younger, and probably never met Muldoon. She would later become Alva Belmont, an important leader of the Woman Movement. Bob Gamble was the coroner. Frank Stephenson was proprietor of the Black and Tan. William Tweed, was indeed, “Boss” of New York City’s Democratic machine. Billy McGlory owned McGlory’s. Harry Hill discovered Muldoon as a wrestler, and was owner of Harry Hill’s. Dick Fox was editor of the Police Gazette, and Ada Everleigh was the mistress of The Seven Sister’s. In addition, the Andersonville Raiders were a prisoner-of-war gang at Andersonville Prison and were hanged for their criminal activities during their captivity. Also, the election of April 23, 1867 was to select delegates to the New York Constitutional Convention for discussion and ratification of the 14th Amendment.

  William Muldoon was in the Civil War as part of the 6th New York Infantry. They fought at Fort Pickens, on the island of Santa Rosa, just off of Pensacola. While the account of the battle on October 9, 1861 is fictionalized, it is loosely based on real events. Like the characters listed above, real soldiers include Colonel William Wilson, Major Vogdes, Captain Hildt, and Jimmy Dolan. The military strategies in this novel were used in the actual battle. Today, Fort Pickens can be approached by foot, by bicycle, or by boat. The island, and fort, took a lot of damage from recent hurricanes, including Ivan and Katrina. Like my forays into New York City, I spent time in Pensacola, Florida and at Fort Pickens.

  Among the many works I utilized in researching the characters and locations of this novel perhaps my favorite is The Historic Shops & Restaurants of New York by Ellen Williams and Steve Radlauer. This little book is pocket-sized, though rather too fat to fit in a pocket. It was my traveling companion as I toured the city, helping me locate historic buildings, especially those where I could get a drink or a bite to eat! My primary inspiration was the Police Gazette with its wonderful tales of ‘blood sport,’ and ‘horrid murder.’

  About the Author

  L. Mad Hildebrandt is a writer and scholar of history and a writer of historic thriller-mysteries, fantasy, and science fiction. She has degrees in history from Columbia College and a Master's degree in history from San Francisco State University. She received her Ph.D. in history from the University of Maine. Mad is a member of Phi Alpha Theta (the History Honor Society) as well as Golden Key International. She is an adjunct professor of history at Rowan College in Pemberton, NJ. She has also taught courses at the University of Maine, College of the Atlantic, Albuquerque TVI, Camden County College, Humboldt State University, and College of the Redwoods. She is a veteran of the United States Coast Guard. Born in Denver, CO, Mad currently lives in New Mexico.