by Scott Mebus
“I needed to make sure,” Rory mumbled. Why did he keep chasing his dad when he knew he should just leave him be? It only left him feeling foolish, like he did right now.
“Are you sure yet?” Hex said, smirking. “Maybe you should worry about real things, like the earthquake that almost buried me under this cursed barn. Did I not say it from the beginning, Rory? Did I not say the Trap had to be opened or we would all suffer?”
“You haven’t been particularly helpful since then,” Fritz said. “You haven’t answered a single question about what happened during the making of the Trap.”
“Nor will I,” Hex replied.
“But people will be hurt,” Rory pleaded with him.
“People like your mother?” Hex stared at him intently. “Your sister? Or does she still run around in that paper shell? I hope you warned her of the dangers. I’d hate for her to go mad.”
“Like Toy went mad?” Rory shot back. Hex locked eyes with him for a moment before nodding.
“Yes, like Jason,” he said quietly. “You had your chance, Rory. You let it slip through your fingers. There is nothing more I can, or will, say to help you.”
“But the island . . .” Fritz said.
“All of Manhattan can shake itself to pieces for all I care,” Hex shouted, disturbing some birds in the rafters.
The barn gradually settled back into silence. Sighing, Fritz turned to Rory and shook his head.
“I think we’re done here,” the battle roach said. Rory nodded, his heart heavy, and glanced down at the photo. His father looked back at him, as inscrutable as ever. Sighing, he turned to go.
“Can I see it?” Hex called after him. “The photo in your hand?”
Rory ignored him, heading for the door.
“Hey, city killer!” Hex yelled. “Can I see the picture of the famous man who left his family to fend for itself? Just out of curiosity.”
Rory turned back to face him.
“Didn’t you see him in my mind?”
“I didn’t see an image. I only picked up that you’d thought you’d seen him. I wouldn’t mind taking a look at this guy, if I could.”
“One might think you don’t want to be left alone again,” Fritz said, giving the prisoner a knowing glance.
“I’m just curious,” Hex answered innocently.
Fritz shrugged, not sure what to say. So Rory walked back and handed the photo to Hex, who took one look and froze. He leaned in, gazing intently at the picture in front of him. And then, softly, he began to laugh.
“What . . . ?” Rory said, confused. “Why are you laughing? Do you recognize him or something?”
Hex laughed louder, until tears came to his eyes, gazing down at the picture of the elder Hennessy.
“STOP LAUGHING!” Rory shouted. Hex wiped his streaming eyes. He looked up at Rory, still grinning, and began to speak.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely up front with you, Rory,” he said, his eyes dancing with joy. “Let me make it up to you with a little story. I’m sure you’ve heard that Mayor Alexander Hamilton used to be the best friend the Munsees ever had. It’s true. There was no one the Munsees trusted more. Especially Tackapausha. Those two were like peas in a pod. We all believed our struggles would be worked out with the two of them tackling the problem. And who knows what might have happened. Maybe the Munsees would be as much a part of Mannahatta, and Manhattan, as the rest of us. But then, one night, Mayor Hamilton went into a room with two men. When he emerged, he was livid, and he gave Kieft the authority to immediately commission the Trap. I worked out all the details, though the nuts and bolts of how the thing actually operated came from Caesar Prince—”
“What!” Rory blurted out.
“Oh yes,” Hex said. “Caesar is as much responsible for that Trap as I. My idea, his execution. And the rest is history. Hamilton went from being the Munsees’ best friend to their worst enemy, overnight. It’s often run through my mind. What happened in that room that night? No one knows but Hamilton and those two men. One was Willem Kieft, of course. And the other was someone I had seen before, but knew little about. He did odd jobs for some of the gods. He also spent a lot of time with the Indians, though I don’t think anyone, us or them, really knew much about him. And soon after that meeting, he disappeared. His name was Harry Meester.”
“What!” Fritz cried. “You filthy liar, you said you never knew anything about him.”
“I know what I said,” Hex replied, still smiling. “But I’ve changed my mind. The truth is just too delicious to lie about anymore. See, after that night, I never saw him again . . . until now. I’m looking at him in this photo here. That man was your father.”
Rory’s jaw dropped as Fritz gasped. Hex smiled at the reaction his pronouncement had received.
“It would seem, Rory,” Hex continued, his eyes glinting yellow in the darkness of the barn, “that you really don’t know who your daddy is at all, do you?”
10
GOING UNDERGROUND
The news spread throughout Mannahatta; Walt Whitman was ill, deathly ill one would say if there were any worry of him dying. He slipped in and out of consciousness, hardly lucid at all. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the same affliction had struck Mrs. Parker, Hamilton Fish, Frederick Douglass, James Bennett, Zelda Fitzgerald; the list went on and on. The pillars of the community were being struck down, people whispered. Was this the next stage in the Munsees’ plan? they asked. After all, it couldn’t be a coincidence so soon after the earthquake . . .
Tweed worked overtime to make sure no one believed it could be coincidence, sending whispers up and down the taverns and halls of the spirit city. The rumors were a rousing success, pushing Mannahatta to the brink of hysteria. Only two blights marred his work. For one, Peter Stuyvesant remained hale and hearty. The paranoid old fool wouldn’t eat anything not prepared by his own wife. Such a lack of trust was a crying shame. Tweed would have to try harder to get some of Mary’s home cooking to the god’s lips.
The other worry on his mind was the whereabouts of Bill the Butcher. The criminal had failed in his duty to kidnap the Light, and now he’d gone missing. Both the killer and the boy had disappeared off the face of the island.
Ow!”
Bridget banged her head on the ceiling of the cramped space she and Rory, along with a heavily panting Tucket and her papier-mâché body, were stashed inside. She felt like one of the dice in a Yahtzee cup right before the toss as she rattled around the inside of the secret compartment. Their ceiling, she knew, was actually the false floor of a wagon Nicholas’s dad used around his farm. They’d lain down into the secret space, the floor had been closed on top of them, and then, voilà! The Hennessy kids had disappeared from the face of the earth, like magic.
The wagon itself was ancient; typical of the early eighteenth century, Alexa had explained, and it was drawn by a really smelly horse. Horses were overrated, she decided. She didn’t know why all her friends at school gushed over them (probably brainwashing or mercury poisoning or tumors). A Stuyvesant farmhand named Diedrich drove the wagon to wherever they were going; no one had seen fit to tell her where they’d be hiding. It burned Bridget to be kept in the dark, about anything, and the painful way the wagon bounced along only made her more PO’d. When she complained to Rory about the roughness of the ride, he explained absently about how they didn’t have rubber tires back in the old days. She scoffed; people in olden times were not the brightest, she decided.
Of course none of these minor annoyances could cover up the real reason she was all out of sorts.
“It must be some kind of mistake,” she repeated for the umpteenth time.
“Shh!” Rory whispered back, putting a finger to his lips. She made a face at him. He seemed to think the bad guys were running right alongside them with their ears pressed against the side of the wagon. Didn’t he know how loud New York could be?
“You wanted Dad to be a bad guy,” she continued, undeterred. “You’re probably making
what he did sound worse ’cause you want him to be a traitor or something. You’re still mad at him for leaving, so you’re making up all this stuff about Dad being Harry Meester. You know what, I think Hex wasn’t even in that barn at all! I think you were talking to a cow the whole time!” She crossed her arms defiantly to show she knew she was right.
“Don’t be stupid,” Rory answered, his voice tired. “Our dad is the infamous Harry Meester, we just have to accept it. He was a bad guy.”
“But that was a hundred and fifty years ago,” Bridget pointed out. “Is he a god or spirit or something? Wouldn’t that make us spirits? I don’t feel like a spirit. No one at school had any trouble seeing me when Julie Menendez pantsed me in gym class. Hex has the wrong guy.”
“I don’t know what Dad is. But I know I saw him on the Half Moon. And Verrazano recognized him in my face. So it isn’t just Hex I’m listening to. It’s all the facts.”
“They’re stupid facts.” Bridget felt herself choking up. Tears came unbidden to her eyes. “And even if he was this Harry Meester guy, I’m sure he had a reason to do what he did. Maybe he was a double agent. Or maybe there was blackmail. Or maybe Bucky was really a bad guy and we just don’t realize it. Or maybe—”
Rory cut her off. “There are a million maybes, Bridge. Maybe you’re right. We’re gonna track him down and find out. You’re gonna get your wish after all.”
“But he could be anywhere! Out to sea, underground, anywhere!” As she made excuses for why they wouldn’t be finding their father anytime soon, Bridget realized that she didn’t want to see him under these circumstances. She was afraid of what he might say. “We should just follow the necklace and find Olathe. I bet she knows more than Dad!”
“I’m sorry, Bridget.”
Suddenly the wagon pulled up short, sending their heads banging into the ceiling again. Light streamed in as the false floor lifted away to reveal Diedrich’s concerned face.
“Are you two all right?” he asked.
Bridget gave him her most withering glare. “I may never see straight again!” she announced. She pulled herself unsteadily to her feet, grabbing the papier-mâché version of herself for support. Diedrich helped her from the wagon, then turned back to assist her brother.
“Where are we?” Rory asked as he dropped to the sidewalk. They stood on a quiet street corner. The area felt secluded; not many cars passed by and the cozy street itself ran only six blocks or so before it ended in a small, gated park. Beautiful brownstones and ornate stone apartment buildings lined the sidewalk, with some well-maintained carriage houses mixed in. She spied a street sign that read IRVING PLACE, which would make the small park at the end of the street the exclusive Gramercy Park, for which you had to have a key to enter (which had never sounded very fair to her). All of Irving Place felt as if it hadn’t changed in decades, and Bridget found herself wishing she could live on such a beautiful, peaceful street.
Their destination waited directly in front of them, a small brick building on the corner of Irving and 17th Street, red in color with a black wrought-iron fence around the base. On the 17th Street side next to a big bay window, a stone stoop led up to the front door, which had opened to reveal Alexa, Simon at her side.
“Come in! Quick!” she hissed. “We didn’t sneak you all the way here to have you be discovered on the sidewalk. Come on!”
Rory ran up the steps, Tucket trotting right behind him. Bridget lifted her paper body and climbed after them. Halfway up the stairs, she saw an old plaque built into the outside wall. It featured a bronzed portrait of a handsome man with unruly hair, surrounded by scenes of people riding horses through the woods and holding muskets. It read: THIS HOUSE WAS ONCE THE HOME OF WASHINGTON IRVING.
So it was with little surprise that Bridget found herself, just moments later, being introduced to the man of the house, the great Washington Irving himself.
“Hello, hello!” Irving said, beaming with delight at his guests. He looked just like his bronze portrait, with his messy hair swept forward onto his forehead. “Wonderful to see you, simply wonderful. I’m happy to be home to accommodate you, as I’ve only just returned from a voyage deep into the mists, where I discovered a rare plant that enables all who consume it to speak any language they wish. Sadly, I’ve just eaten the last of it, but it was horrible-tasting, I can assure you! Waggo uncho licgitum! That’s ‘welcome to my home!’ in Swahili!”
Rory’s eyes narrowed.
“I don’t believe you,” he said suspiciously.
“Rory!” Bridget was horrified. That was no way to treat a possible benefactor.
Alexa burst out laughing. “Mr. Irving is the God of Tall Tales,” she explained, eyes twinkling merrily.
“Indeed I am, indeed I am,” Irving admitted, smiling un-apologetically. “Certainly you could tell the story of my recent travels another way. You could say I went to the market and bought some string beans from an Italian gentleman who taught me how to say thank you by saying ‘grazie!’ But I’ve already put you to sleep with that version.”
“So you don’t tell the truth?” Rory asked, not looking happy about that at all.
“Of course I do,” Irving replied blithely, unfazed by Rory’s rudeness. “I just dress it up a bit. Make it more interesting. The plain old truth is so dull, isn’t it? And rarely as ‘true’ as most people insist.”
Bridget knew right then that she’d found a friend.
“I feel the same way,” she said fervently, and was rewarded with a huge smile.
“Do you?” Irving said. “Then we will get along fine. Ice cream?”
“Don’t mind if I do!” Bridget replied, sweeping past a glowering Rory without glancing at him.
Minutes later, Bridget was happily licking away at a bowl of chocolate ice cream in the kitchen while Rory glowered nearby. Irving sat down next to her with a smile.
“Happy?” he asked.
“Very! I love your house.”
Irving exchanged a wry look with Alexa, who had sat down with an open satchel in front of her, rifling through the contents which consisted of all her old papers from the past two hundred years. She shook her head with a smile before returning to her bag.
“What is it?” Rory asked, suspicious. The boy can’t relax for a minute, Bridget thought to herself.
“This actually isn’t my house at all,” Irving admitted.
“What do you mean?” Bridget asked, helping herself to another bite. “I saw the sign outside.”
“Ah, the sign.” Irving sighed. “That sign is the bane of my existence. I’ve resided in many places in Manhattan, but never here.”
“Then why is there a plaque outside saying you did?” Rory asked. “Isn’t this, like, a historical-landmark street and everything?”
“At the end of the nineteenth century, two women lived here,” Irving explained. “One was a famous interior designer, the other one of the world’s first literary agents. So let’s just say they knew something about the power of a good story. They began to tell people that I had lived in their home, to generate publicity for themselves. It didn’t matter that my nieces and nephews all wrote in to angrily denounce the tale. They knew I had never set foot in this place. But in the end, the story won.
“Eventually someone stuck that plaque out front, and now everyone thinks I lived here. And what’s worse, because they all believe it, now I have to live here. Ironic, no? That the great storyteller is trapped by a story. I’m not angry, anymore. Frankly, I’m impressed. Sometimes you just have to tip your cap.”
“If you like a good story, you should check out the scorcher in that necklace of theirs,” Simon said.
“I’m intrigued,” Irving said, his eyebrow raised. But further discussion was interrupted by a cry from the corner.
“I knew it!” Alexa exclaimed as she pulled an ornate card out of her bag. “I knew I heard it somewhere!”
“Whoa, calm down.” Simon threw up his hands to ward off the crazy. “Heard what?”
&n
bsp; “Harry Meester!”
Bridget glanced at her brother, but he looked away. Alexa didn’t notice, too busy with her find. “Look, it’s an invite,” she said, waving the card. “It was given to me by Jane van Cortlandt and Robert de Vries, back when we were friends.”
“You were friends with them?” Simon asked, shocked. “They don’t exactly seem like your kind of crowd.”
“They were different in those days. More hopeful. But you know how hard it is for the children of the gods. It’s tough to hold on to hope when you’re trapped between immortality and divinity. I mean, even Nicholas was a hopeless layabout when I met him. He used to spend all his time with Teddy and Martha, drinking and gambling.”
“Nicholas was friends with Martha Jay!” Simon exclaimed. “She’s horrible!”
“Yeah, well, now Jane and Robert are horrible, too. But fun at parties, right?” Alexa looked pained. “Sometimes I feel like Martha and I exchanged friends. But I’m nowhere near as fun as she is.”
“No, you’re not,” Simon agreed. “That’s part of your charm.” Alexa made a face at him.
“What about my dad?” Bridget cut in, exasperated.
“Right,” Alexa replied, getting back on track. “It was the last conversation I had with them before we went our separate ways, that’s why I remember it so well. They said they were going to a party and gave me this invite. I wanted them to stay away from that crowd. But they didn’t listen and ever since they’ve been with Martha and her cronies.”
“And . . .” Simon encouraged her. She handed the card over.
“Look who hosted the party,” she said.
“Harry Meester,” Simon read aloud. He passed the card to Bridget. There it was, in intricate script, her father’s other name.
“I need to talk to them, tonight,” Alexa continued. “Maybe they know something.” Simon suddenly started to laugh. “What?” she asked, annoyed.
“I know where they are tonight,” Simon gasped, turning red with mirth. “But you’re not going to like it. It’s the start of the season.”
