《The Diviners (The Diviners #1)》


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    A LATE-SUMMER EVENING


    In a town house at a fashionable address on Manhattan¡¯s Upper East Side, every lamp blazes. There¡¯s a party going on¡ªthe last of the summer. Out on the terrace overlooking Manhattan¡¯s incandescent skyline, the orchestra takes a much-needed break. It¡¯s ten thirty. The party has been on since eight o¡¯clock, and already the guests are bored. Fashionable debutantes in pastel chiffon party dresses wilt into leather club chairs like frosted petits fours melting under the July sun. A cocky Princeton sophomore wants his friends to head down to Greenwich Village with him, to a speakeasy he heard about from a friend of a friend.


    The hostess, a pretty and spoiled young thing, notes her guests¡¯ restlessness with a sense of alarm. It is her eighteenth birthday, and if she doesn¡¯t do something to raise this party from the dead, it will be the talk for days to come that her gathering was as dull as a church social.


    Raising from the dead.


    The weekend before, she¡¯d been forced to go antiquing upstate with her mother¡ªan absolutely hideous chore, until they came upon an old Ouija board. Ouija boards are all the rage; psychics have claimed to receive messages and warnings from the other side using Mr. Fuld¡¯s ¡°talking board.¡± The antiques dealer fed her mother a line about how it had come to him under mysterious circumstances.


    ¡°They say it¡¯s still haunted by restless spirits. But perhaps you and your sister could tame it?¡± he¡¯d said with over-the-top flattery; naturally, her mother lapped it up, which resulted in her paying too much for the thing. Well, she¡¯d make her mother¡¯s mistake pay off for her now.


    The hostess races for the hall closet and signals to the maid. ¡°Do be a darling and get that down for me.¡±


    The maid retrieves the board with a shake of her head. ¡°You oughtn¡¯t to be messing with this board, Miss.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be silly. That¡¯s primitive.¡±


    With a zippy twirl worthy of Clara Bow, the hostess bursts into the formal living room holding the Ouija board. ¡°Who wants to commune with the spirits?¡± She giggles to show that she doesn¡¯t take it seriously in the least. After all, she¡¯s a thoroughly modern girl¡ªa flapper, through and through.


    The wilted girls spring up from their club chairs. ¡°What¡¯ve you got there? Is that a wee-gee board?¡± one of them asks.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it darling? Mother bought it for me. It¡¯s supposed to be haunted,¡± the hostess says and laughs. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t believe that, naturally.¡± The hostess places the heart-shaped planchette in the middle of the board. ¡°Let¡¯s conjure up some fun, shall we?¡±


    Everyone gathers ¡¯round. George angles himself into the spot beside her. He¡¯s a Yale man and a junior. Many nights, she¡¯s lain awake in her bedroom, imagining her future with him. ¡°Who wants to start?¡± she asks, positioning her fingers close to his.


    ¡°I will,¡± a boy in a ridiculous fez announces. She can¡¯t remember his name, but she¡¯s heard he has a habit of inviting girls into his rumble seat for a petting party. He closes his eyes and places his fingers on the scryer. ¡°A question for the ages: Is the lady to my right madly in love with me?¡±


    The girls squeal and the boys laugh as the planchette slowly spells out Y-E-S.


    ¡°Liar!¡± the lady in question scolds the heart-shaped scrying piece with its clear glass oracle.


    ¡°Don¡¯t fight it, darling. I could be yours on the cheap,¡± the boy says.


    Now spirits are high; the questions grow bolder. They¡¯re drunk on gin and good times and the silly distraction of the fortune-telling. Every mornin¡¯, every evenin¡¯, ain¡¯t we got fun?


    ¡°Say, let¡¯s summon a real spirit,¡± George challenges.


    A knot of excitement and unease twists in the hostess¡¯s gut. The antiques dealer had cautioned against doing just this. He warned that spirits called forth must also be put back to rest by breaking the connection, saying good-bye. But he was out to make a buck with a story, and besides, it¡¯s 1926¡ªwho believes in haunts and hobgoblins when there are motorcars and aeroplanes and the Cotton Club and men like Jake Marlowe making America first through industry?


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re scared.¡± George smirks. He has a cruel mouth. It makes him all the more desirable.


    ¡°Scared of what?¡±


    ¡°That we¡¯ll run out of gin!¡± the boy in the fez jokes, and everyone laughs.


    George whispers low in her ear, ¡°I¡¯ll keep you safe.¡± His hand is on her back.


    Oh, surely this is the most glorious night in existence!

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    ¡°We summon now the spirit of this board to heed our call and tell us our fortunes true!¡± the hostess says with great intonation broken by giggles. ¡°You must obey, spirit!¡±


    There is a moment¡¯s pause, and then the planchette begins its slow migration across the scarred board¡¯s gothic black alphabet, spelling out a word.


    H-E-L-L-O


    ¡°That¡¯s the spirit,¡± someone quips.


    ¡°What is your name, o great spirit?¡± the hostess insists.


    The planchette moves quickly.


    N-A-U-G-H-T-Y-J-O-H-N


    George raises an eyebrow mischievously. ¡°Say, I like the sound of that. What makes you so naughty, old sport?¡±


    Y-O-U-L-L-S-E-E


    ¡°See what? What are you up to, o naughty one?¡±


    Stillness.


    ¡°I want to dance! Let¡¯s go uptown to the Moonglow,¡± one of the girls, a pouty drunk, slurs. ¡°When¡¯s the band comin¡¯ back, anyway?¡±


    ¡°In a minute. Don¡¯t have kittens,¡± the hostess says with a smile and a laugh, but there¡¯s warning in both. ¡°Let¡¯s try another question. Do you have any prophecy for us, Naughty John? Any fortune-telling?¡± She casts a sly glance at George.


    The scryer remains still.


    ¡°Do tell us something else, won¡¯t you?¡±


    Finally, there is movement on the board. ¡°I¡­ will¡­ teach¡­ you¡­ fear,¡± the hostess reads aloud.


    ¡°Sounds like the headmaster at Choate,¡± the boy in the fez teases. ¡°How will you do that, old sport?¡±


    I-S-T-A-N-D-A-T-T-H-E-D-O-O-R-A-N-D-K-N-O-C-K


    I-A-M-T-H-E-B-E-A-S-T


    T-H-E-D-R-A-G-O-N-O-F-O-L-D


    ¡°What does that mean?¡± the drunken girl whispers. She backs away slightly.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t mean anything. It¡¯s gibberish.¡± The hostess scolds her guest, but she feels afraid. She turns on the boy with the reputation for trouble. ¡°You¡¯re making it say that!¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t. I swear!¡± he says, crossing his heart with his index finger.


    ¡°Why are you here, old sport?¡± George asks the board.


    The planchette moves so quickly they can barely keep up.


    I-H-O-L-D-T-H-E-K-E-Y-S-O-F-H-E-L-L-A-N-D-D-E-A-T-H


    W-R-A-T-H-I-S-C-O-M-E-A-R-M-A-G-E-D-D-O-N-B-A-B-Y-L-O-N-W-H-O-R-E


    ¡°Stop it this instant!¡± the hostess shouts.


    W-H-O-R-E-W-H-O-R-E-W-H-O-R-E the piece repeats. The bright young things remove their fingers, but the piece continues to move.


    ¡°Make it stop, make it stop!¡± one girl screeches, and even the jaded boys pale and move back.


    ¡°Stop, spirit! I said stop!¡± the hostess shouts.


    The planchette falls still. The party guests glance at one another with wild eyes. In the other room, the band members return to their instruments and strike up a hot dance number.


    ¡°Oh, hallelujah! Come on, baby. I¡¯ll teach you to dance the Black Bottom.¡± The drunken girl struggles to her feet and pulls the boy in the fez after her.


    ¡°Wait! We have to spell out good-bye on the board! That¡¯s the proper ritual!¡± the hostess pleads as her guests desert her.


    George slips his arm around her waist. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re afraid of Naughty John.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡­¡±


    ¡°You know it was the old boy,¡± he says, his breath tickling her ear sweetly. ¡°He has his tricks. You know how that sort is.¡±


    She does know how that sort is. It was probably that wretched boy all along, playing them for fools. Well, she is nobody¡¯s fool. She is eighteen now. Life will be an endless swirl of parties and dances. Night or daytime, it¡¯s all playtime. Ain¡¯t we got fun? Her earlier fears have been put to bed. Her party looks like it will rage into the night. The carpets have been rolled up, and her guests dance full out. Long strands of pearls bounce against drop-waist dresses. Spats strike defiantly at the wood floors. Arms thrust out, pushing against the air¡ªall of it like some feverish Dadaist painting come to life.


    The hostess stashes the board in the cupboard, where it will soon be forgotten, and races toward the parlor with its bright electric lights¡ªMr. Edison¡¯s modern marvel¡ªand joins the last party of the summer without a care.


    Outside, the wind lingers for a moment at those lighted windows; then, with a gusty burst of energy, it takes its leave and scuttles down the sidewalks. It twines itself briefly around the cloche hats of two fashionable young ladies gossiping about the tragic death of Rudolph Valentino as they walk a poodle along the East River. It moves on, down neon-drenched canyons, over the elevated train as it rattles above Second Avenue, shaking the windows of the poor souls trying to sleep before morning comes¡ªmorning with its taxi horns, trolley cars, and trains; the bootblacks buffing the wingtips of businessmen in Union Square; the newsies hawking the day¡¯s headlines in Times Square; the telephone operators gazing longingly at the new shawl-collar coats tempting them from store windows; the majestic skyscrapers rising over it all like gleaming steel, brick, and glass gods.

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    The wind idles briefly before a jazz club, listening to this new music punctuating the night. It thrills to the bleat of horns, the percussive piano strides born of blues and ragtime, the syncopated rhythms that echo the jagged excitement of the city¡¯s skyline.


    On the Bowery, in the ornate carcass of a formerly grand vaudeville theater, a dance marathon limps along. The contestants, young girls and their fellas, hold one another up, determined to make their mark, to bite back at the dreams sold to them in newspaper advertisements and on the radio. They have sores on their feet but stars in their eyes. Farther uptown, the Great White Way, named for the blinding incandescence of its theater lights, empties of its patrons. Some stage-door Johnnies wait in the alleys, hoping for a glimpse of the glamorous chorus girls or for a chance at an autograph from one of Broadway¡¯s many stars. It is a time of celebrity, of fame and fortune and grasping, and the young burn with secret ambition.


    The wind takes it all in with indifference. It is only the wind. It will not become a radio star or a captain of industry. It will not run for office or fall in love with Douglas Fairbanks or sing the songs of Tin Pan Alley, songs of longing and regret and good times (ain¡¯t we got fun?). And so it travels on, past the slaughterhouses on Fourteenth Street, past the unfortunates selling themselves in darkened alleys. Nearby, Lady Liberty hoists her torch in the harbor, a beacon to all who come to these shores to escape persecution or famine or hopelessness. For this is the land of dreams.


    The wind swoops over the tenements on Orchard Street, where some of those starry-eyed dreams have died and yet other dreams are being born into squalor and poverty, an uphill climb. It gives a slap to the laundry stretched on lines between tenements, over dirty, broken streets where, even at this hour, hungry children scour the bins for food. The wind has existed forever. It has seen much in this country of dreams and soap ads, old horrors and bloodshed. It has played mute witness to its burning witches, and has walked along a Trail of Tears; it has seen the slave ships release their human cargo, blinking and afraid, into the ports, their only possession a grief they can never lose. The wind was there when President Lincoln fell to an assassin¡¯s bullet. It smelled of gunpowder at Antietam. It ran with the buffalo and touched tentative fingers to the tall black hats of Puritans. It has carried shouts of love, and it has dried tears to salt tracks on more faces than it can number.


    The wind skitters down the Bowery and swoops up the West Side, home of Irish gangs like the Dummy Boys, who ride horseback along Ninth Avenue to warn the bootleggers. It swoops along the mighty Hudson River, past the vibrant nightlife of Harlem with its great thinkers, writers, and musicians, until it comes to rest outside the ruin of an old mansion. Moldering boards cover the broken windows. Rubbish clogs the gutter out front. Once upon a time, the house was home to an unspeakable evil. Now it is a relic of a bygone era, forgotten in the shadow of the city¡¯s growth and prosperity.


    The door creaks on its hinges. The wind enters cautiously. It creeps down narrow hallways that twist and turn in dizzying fashion. Diseased rooms, rotted with neglect, branch off left and right. Doors open onto brick walls. A trapdoor gives way to a chute that empties into a vast subterranean chamber of horrors and an even more terrifying room. It stinks still: of blood, urine, evil, and a fear so dark it has become as much a part of the house as the wood and nails and rot.


    Something stirs in the deep shadows, something terrible, and the wind, which knows evil well, shrinks from this place. It flees toward the safety of those magnificent tall buildings that promise the blue skies, nothing but blue skies, of the future, of industry and prosperity; the future, which does not believe in the evil of the past. If the wind were a sentinel, it would send up the alarm. It would cry out a warning of terrors to come. But it is only the wind, and it knows well that no one listens to its cries.


    Deep in the cellar of the dilapidated house, a furnace comes to life with a death rattle like the last bitter cough of a dying man laughing contemptuously at his fate. A faint glow emanates from that dark, foul-smelling earthen tomb. Yes, something moves again in the shadows. A harbinger of much greater evil to come. Naughty John has come home. And he has work to do.


    EVIE O¡¯NEILL, ZENITH, OHIO


    Evie O¡¯Neill pressed the sagging ice bag to her throbbing forehead and cursed the hour. It was noon, but it might as well be six in the morning for the pounding in her skull. For the past twenty minutes, her father had been beating his gums at her about last night¡¯s party at the Zenith Hotel. Her drinking had been mentioned several times, along with the unfortunate frolic in the town fountain. And the trouble that came between, of course. It was gonna be a real beast of a day, and how. Her head beat out requirements: Water. Aspirin. Please stop talking.

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    ¡°Your mother and I do not approve of drinking. Have you not heard of the Eighteenth Amendment?¡±


    ¡°Prohibition? I drink to its health whenever I can.¡±


    ¡°Evangeline Mary O¡¯Neill!¡± her mother snapped.


    ¡°Your mother is secretary of the Zenith Women¡¯s Temperance Society. Did you think about that? Did you think about how it might look if her daughter were found carousing drunk in the streets?¡±


    Evie slid her bruised eyeballs in her mother¡¯s direction. Her mother sat stiff-backed and thin-lipped, her long hair coiled at the nape of her neck. A pair of spectacles¡ª¡°cheaters,¡± the flappers called them¡ªsat at the end of her nose. The Fitzgerald women were all petite, blue-eyed, blond, and hopelessly nearsighted.


    ¡°Well?¡± her father thundered. ¡°Do you have something to say?¡±


    ¡°Gee, I hope I won¡¯t need cheaters someday,¡± Evie muttered.


    Evie¡¯s mother responded with a weary sigh. She¡¯d grown smaller and more worn since James¡¯s death, as if that long-ago telegram from the war office had stolen her soul the moment she had opened it.


    ¡°You young people seem to treat everything like a joke, don¡¯t you?¡± Her father was off and running¡ªresponsibility, civic duty, acting your age, thinking beyond tomorrow. She knew the refrain well. What Evie needed was a little hair of the dog, but her parents had confiscated her hip flask. It was a swell flask, too¡ªsilver, with the initials of Charles Warren etched into it. Good old Charlie, the dear. She¡¯d promised to be his girl. That lasted a week. Charlie was a darling, but also a thudding bore. His idea of petting was to place a hand stiffly on a girl¡¯s chest like a starched doily on some maiden aunt¡¯s side table while pecking, birdlike, at her mouth. Quelle trag¨¦die.


    ¡°Evie, are you listening to me?¡± Her father¡¯s face was grim.


    She managed a smile. ¡°Always, Daddy.¡±


    ¡°Why did you say those terrible things about Harold Brodie?¡±


    For the first time, Evie frowned. ¡°He had it coming.¡±


    ¡°You accused him of¡­ of¡­¡± Her father¡¯s face colored as he stammered.


    ¡°Of knocking up that poor girl?¡±


    ¡°Evangeline!¡± Her mother gasped.


    ¡°Pardon me. ¡®Of taking advantage of her and leaving her in the family way.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°Why couldn¡¯t you be more like¡­¡± Her mother trailed off, but Evie could finish the sentence: Why couldn¡¯t you be more like James?


    ¡°You mean, dead?¡± she shot back.


    Her mother¡¯s face crumpled, and in that moment, Evie hated herself a little.


    ¡°That¡¯s enough, Evangeline,¡± her father warned.


    Evie bowed her throbbing head. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°I think you should know that unless you offer a public apology, the Brodies have threatened to sue for slander.¡±


    ¡°What? I will not apologize!¡± She stood so quickly that her head doubled its pounding and she had to sit again. ¡°I told the truth.¡±


    ¡°You were playing a game¡ª¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t a game!¡±


    ¡°A game that has gotten you into trouble¡ª¡±


    ¡°Harold Brodie is a louse and a lothario who cheats at cards and has a different girl in his rumble seat every week. That coupe of his is pos-i-tute-ly a petting palace. And he¡¯s a terrible kisser to boot.¡±


    Evie¡¯s parents stared in stunned silence.


    ¡°Or so I¡¯ve heard.¡±


    ¡°Can you prove your accusations?¡± her father pressed.


    She couldn¡¯t. Not without telling them her secret, and she couldn¡¯t risk that. ¡°I will not apologize.¡±


    Evie¡¯s mother cleared her throat. ¡°There is another option.¡±


    Evie glanced from her mother to her father and back. ¡°I won¡¯t breeze to military school, either.¡±


    ¡°No military school would have you,¡± her father muttered. ¡°How would you like to go to New York for a bit, to stay with your Uncle Will?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ ah¡­ as in, Manhattan?¡±


    ¡°We assumed you¡¯d say no to the apology,¡± her mother said, getting in her last dig. ¡°I spoke to my brother this morning. He would take you.¡±


    He would take you. A burden lifted. An act of charity. Uncle Will must have been defenseless against her mother¡¯s guilt-ladling.


    ¡°Just for a few months,¡± her father continued. ¡°Until this whole situation has sorted itself out.¡±


    New York City. Speakeasies and shopping. Broadway plays and movie palaces. At night, she¡¯d dance at the Cotton Club. Days she¡¯d spend with Mabel Rose, dear old Mabesie, who lived in her uncle Will¡¯s building. She and Evie had met when they were nine and Evie and her mother had gone to New York for a few days. Ever since, the girls had been pen pals. In the last year, Evie¡¯s correspondence had dwindled to a note here and there, though Mabel continued to send letters consistently, mostly about Uncle Will¡¯s handsome assistant, Jericho, who was alternately ¡°painted by the brushstrokes of angels¡± and ¡°a distant shore upon which I hope to land.¡± Yes, Mabel needed her. And Evie needed New York. In New York, she could reinvent herself. She could be somebody.

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    She was tempted to blurt out a hasty yes, but she knew her mother well. If Evie didn¡¯t make it seem like a punishment to be endured, like she had ¡°learned her lesson well,¡± she¡¯d be stuck in Zenith, apologizing to Harold Brodie after all.


    She sighed and worked up just the right amount of tears¡ªtoo much and they might relent. ¡°I suppose that would be a sensible course. Though I don¡¯t know what I¡¯ll do in Manhattan with an old bachelor uncle as chaperone and all my dear friends back here in Zenith.¡±


    ¡°You should have thought of that before,¡± her mother said, her mouth set in a gloating smile of moral triumph.


    Evie suppressed a grin. Like shooting fish in a barrel, she thought.


    Her father checked his watch. ¡°There¡¯s a train at five o¡¯clock. I expect you¡¯d better start packing.¡±


    Evie and her father rode to the station in silence. Normally, riding in her father¡¯s Lincoln Boattail Roadster was a point of pride. It was the only convertible in Zenith, the pick of the lot at her father¡¯s motorcar dealership. But today she didn¡¯t want to be seen. She wished she were as inconsequential as the ghosts in her dreams. Sometimes, after drinking, she felt this way¡ªthe shame over her latest stunt twining with the clamped-down anger at the way these petty, small-town people always made her feel: ¡°Oh, Evie, you¡¯re just too much,¡± they¡¯d say with a polite smile. It was not a compliment.


    She was too much¡ªfor Zenith, Ohio. She¡¯d tried at times to make herself smaller, to fit neatly into the ordered lines of expectation. But somehow, she always managed to say or do something outrageous¡ªshe¡¯d accept a dare to climb a flagpole, or make a slightly risqu¨¦ joke, or go riding in cars with boys¡ªand suddenly she was ¡°that awful O¡¯Neill girl¡± all over again.


    Instinctively, her fingers wandered to the coin around her neck. It was a half-dollar her brother had sent from ¡°over there¡± during the war, a gift for her ninth birthday, the day he¡¯d died. She remembered the telegram from the war department, delivered by poor Mr. Smith from the telegram office, who mumbled an apology as he handed it over. She remembered her mother uttering the smallest strangled cry as she sank to the floor, still clutching the yellowed paper with the heartless black type. She remembered her father sitting in his study in the dark long after he should have been in bed, a forbidden bottle of Scotch open on his desk. Evie had read the telegram later: REGRET TO INFORM YOU¡­ PRIVATE JAMES XAVIER O¡¯NEILL¡­ KILLED IN ACTION IN GERMANY¡­ SUDDEN ATTACK AT DAWN¡­ GAVE HIS LIFE IN SERVICE TO OUR COUNTRY¡­ SECRETARY OF WAR ASKS THAT I CONVEY HIS DEEPEST SYMPATHIES ON THE LOSS OF YOUR SON¡­.


    They passed a horse and buggy on its way to one of the farms just outside town. It seemed quaint and out of place. Or maybe she was the thing that was out of place here.


    ¡°Evie,¡± her father said in his soft voice. ¡°What happened at the party, pet?¡±


    The party. It had been swell at first. She and Louise and Dottie in their finery. Dottie had lent Evie her rhinestone headache band, and it looked so spiffy resting across Evie¡¯s soft curls. They¡¯d enjoyed a spirited but meaningless debate about the trial of Mr. Scopes in Tennessee the year before and the whole idea that the lot of humanity was descended from apes. ¡°I don¡¯t find it hard to believe in the slightest,¡± Evie had said, cutting her eyes flirtatiously at the college boys who¡¯d just sung a rousing twelfth round of ¡°The Sweetheart of Sigma Chi.¡± Everyone was drunk and happy. And Harold came around with his flattery.


    ¡°Hello, ma baby; hello, ma honey; hello ma Evie gal,¡± he sang and bowed at her feet.


    Harry was handsome and terribly charming and, despite what she¡¯d said earlier, a swell kisser. If Harry liked a girl, that girl got noticed. Evie liked being noticed, especially when she was drinking. Harry was engaged-to-be-engaged to Norma Wallingford. He wasn¡¯t in love with Norma¡ªEvie knew that¡ªbut he was in love with her bank account, and everyone knew they¡¯d marry when he graduated from college. Still, he wasn¡¯t married yet.


    ¡°Did I tell you that I have special powers?¡± Evie had asked after her third drink.


    Harry smiled. ¡°I can see that.¡±


    ¡°I am quite serious,¡± she slurred, too tipsy not to take his dare. ¡°I can tell your secrets simply by holding an object dear to you and concentrating on it.¡± There were polite chuckles among the partygoers. Evie fixed them with a defiant stare, her blue eyes glittering under heavily kohled lashes. ¡°I am pos-i-tute-ly serious.¡±

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    ¡°You¡¯re pos-i-tute-ly lit, is what you are, Evie O¡¯Neill,¡± Dottie shouted.


    ¡°I¡¯ll prove it. Norma, give me something¡ªscarf, hat pin, glove.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not giving you anything. I might not get it back.¡± Norma laughed.


    Evie narrowed her eyes. ¡°Yes, how smart you are, Norma. I am starting a collection of only right-hand gloves. It¡¯s ever so bourgeois to have two.¡±


    ¡°Well, you certainly wouldn¡¯t want to do anything ordinary, would you, Evie?¡± Norma said, showing her teeth. Everyone laughed, and Evie¡¯s cheeks went hot.


    ¡°No, I leave that to you, Norma.¡± Evie brushed her hair away from her face, but it sprang back into her eyes. ¡°Come to think of it, your secrets would probably put us to sleep.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± Harold had said before things could get really heated. ¡°Here¡¯s my class ring. Tell me my deep, dark secrets, Madame O¡¯Neill.¡±


    ¡°Brave man, giving a girl like Evie your ring-ski,¡± someone shouted.


    ¡°Quiet, s¡¯il vous pla?t-ski!¡± Evie commanded with a dramatic flair to her voice. She concentrated, waiting for the object to warm in her hands. Sometimes it happened and sometimes it did not, and she hoped on the soul of Rudolph Valentino that this would be one of those times it took. Later, she¡¯d have a headache from the effort¡ªthat was the downside to her little gift¡ªbut that¡¯s what gin was for. She¡¯d numbed herself a bit already, anyway. Evie opened one eye a slit. They were all watching her. They were watching, and nothing was happening.


    Chuckling, Harry reached for his ring. ¡°All right, old girl. You¡¯ve had your fun. Time for a little sobering up.¡±


    She wrenched her hands away. ¡°I will uncover your secrets¡ªjust you wait and see!¡± There were few things worse than being ordinary, in Evie¡¯s opinion. Ordinary was for suckers. Evie wanted to be special. A bright star. She didn¡¯t care if she got the most awful headache in the history of skull-bangers. Shutting her eyes tightly, she pressed the ring against her palms. It grew much warmer, unlocking its secrets for her. Her smile spread. She opened her eyes.


    ¡°Harry, you naughty boy¡­¡±


    Everyone pressed closer, interested.


    Harold laughed uncomfortably. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Room twenty-two at the hotel. That pretty chambermaid¡­ L¡­ El¡­ Ella! Ella! You gave her a big wad of kale and told her to take care of it.¡±


    Norma moved closer. ¡°What¡¯s this about, Harry?¡±


    Harry¡¯s mouth was tight. ¡°I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about, Evangeline. Show¡¯s over. I¡¯ll have my ring back now.¡±


    If Evie had been sober, she might have stopped. But the gin made her foolishly brave. She tsk-tsked him with her fingers. ¡°You knocked her up, you bad boy.¡±


    ¡°Harold, is that true?¡±


    Harold Brodie¡¯s face was red. ¡°That¡¯s enough, Evie! This isn¡¯t funny any longer.¡±


    ¡°Harold?¡± Norma Wallingford.


    ¡°She¡¯s lying, sweetheart.¡± Harold, reassuring.


    Evie stood and did a little Charleston on the table. ¡°That¡¯s not what your ring says, pal.¡±


    Harold grabbed for Evie and she squeaked out of reach, grabbing a tumbler from someone¡¯s hand. ¡°Holy moly! It¡¯s a raid! A Harold Brodie raid! Run for your lives!¡±


    Dottie had grabbed the ring and given it back to Harry. Then she and Louise had practically dragged Evie outside. ¡°Sister, you are blotto. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    ¡°I remain unflapper-able in the face of advuss¡­ advarse¡­ trouble. Oh, we¡¯re moving. Wheee! Where are we going?¡±


    ¡°To sober you up,¡± Dottie said, tossing Evie into the freezing fountain.


    Later, after several cups of coffee, Evie lay shivering in her wet party dress under a blanket in a darkened corner of the ladies¡¯ lounge. Dottie and Louise had gone to find her some aspirin, and, alone and hidden, she eavesdropped as two girls stood before the gilt-framed mirrors gossiping about the row Harold and Norma had gotten into.


    ¡°It¡¯s all that awful Evie O¡¯Neill¡¯s fault. You know how she is.¡±


    ¡°She never knows when to let well enough alone.¡±


    ¡°Well, she¡¯s really done it this time. She¡¯s finished in this town. Norma will see to that.¡±


    Evie waited till she heard them leave, then moved to the mirror. Her mascara had left big black splotches under her eyes, and her damp curls drooped. Her wretched headache was really kicking up its heels in earnest. She looked as messy as she felt. She wished she could cry, but crying wouldn¡¯t help anything.

 Page 7

    Harold burst in, closing the door behind him and holding it shut. ¡°How did you find out?¡± he growled, grabbing her arm.


    ¡°I t-told you. I g-got it from your¡ª¡±


    His hand tightened around her arm. ¡°Stop fooling around and tell me how you know! Norma¡¯s threatening to leave me thanks to your little party trick. I demand a public apology to clear my name.¡±


    She felt woozy and sick, the aftereffects of her object reading. It was like a mean drunk followed by the worst hangover you could imagine. Harold Brodie wasn¡¯t a charming, good-time playboy, she now realized. He was a cad and a coward. The last thing she was going to do was apologize to somebody like that.


    ¡°G-go chase yourself, Harry.¡±


    Dottie and Louise pounded on the door from the other side. ¡°Evie? Evie! Open up!¡±


    Harold let go of her arm. Evie could feel a bruise starting. ¡°This isn¡¯t over, Evangeline. Your father owes his business to my father. You might want to reconsider that apology.¡±


    Evie threw up all over Harold Brodie.


    ¡°Evie?¡± her father prompted now, bringing her back to the moment.


    She rubbed her aching head. ¡°It was nothing, Pop. I¡¯m sorry you caught hell for it.¡±


    He didn¡¯t take her to task for saying hell.


    At the station, her father left the engine idling long enough to see her to the platform. He tipped the porter to take her trunks, and made sure they would be delivered to her uncle¡¯s apartment in New York. Evie carried only her small plaid valise and a beaded handbag.


    ¡°Well,¡± her father said, glancing down at the idling convertible. He passed her a ten-spot, which Evie tucked into the ribbon of her gray felt cloche. ¡°Just a little pin money.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Pop.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m no good with good-byes. You know that.¡±


    Evie forced a devil-may-care smile. ¡°Sure. It¡¯s jake, Pop. I¡¯m seventeen, not seven. I¡¯ll be just fine.¡±


    ¡°Well.¡±


    They stood awkwardly on the wooden platform.


    ¡°Better not let the breezer leave without you,¡± she said, nodding toward the convertible.


    Her father kissed her lightly on the forehead and, with a final admonishment to the porter, drove away. As the Lincoln shrank to a point down the road, Evie felt a pang of sadness, and something else. Dread. That was the word. Some unknowable, unnameable fear. She¡¯d been feeling it for months, ever since the dreams began.


    ¡°Man, I got those heebie jeebie blues,¡± Evie said softly and shivered.


    A pair of Blue Noses on the next bench glared their disapproval at Evie¡¯s knee-length dress. Evie decided to give them a real show. She hiked her skirt and, humming jauntily, rolled down her stockings, exposing her legs. It had the desired effect on the Blue Noses, who moved down the platform, clucking about the ¡°disgrace of the young.¡± She would not miss this place.


    A cream coupe swerved dangerously up the road and came to a stop below, just narrowly missing the platform. Two smartly dressed girls stepped out. Evie grinned and waved wildly. ¡°Dottie! Louise!¡±


    ¡°We heard you were leaving and wanted to come see you off,¡± Louise said, climbing over the railing.


    ¡°Good news travels fast.¡±


    ¡°In this town? Like lightning.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s swell. I¡¯m too big for Zenith, Ohio, anyway. In New York, they¡¯ll understand me. I¡¯m going to be written up in all the papers and get invited to the Fitzgeralds¡¯ flat for cocktails. After all, my mother¡¯s a Fitzgerald. We must be related somewhere.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of cocktails¡­¡± Grinning, Dottie retrieved what looked like an innocent aspirin bottle from her pocketbook. It was half-filled with clear liquid. ¡°Here. Just a little giggle water to see you through. Sorry it couldn¡¯t be more, but my father marks the bottles now.¡±


    ¡°Oh, and a copy of Photoplay from the beauty parlor. Aunt Mildred won¡¯t miss it,¡± Louise added.


    Evie¡¯s eyes pricked with tears. ¡°You don¡¯t mind being seen with the town pariah?¡±


    Louise and Dottie managed weak smiles¡ªconfirmation that Evie was the town pariah, but still, they¡¯d come.


    ¡°You are absolute angels of the first order. If I were Pope, I¡¯d canonize you.¡±


    ¡°The Pope would probably love to turn a cannon on you!¡±


    ¡°New York City!¡± Louise twirled her long rope of beads. ¡°Norma Wallingford will eat herself to bits with envy. She¡¯s sore as hell about your little stunt.¡± Dottie giggled. ¡°Spill: How¡¯d you really find out about Harold and the chambermaid?¡±

 Page 8

    Evie¡¯s smile faltered for a moment. ¡°Just a lucky guess.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, look! Here comes the train,¡± Evie said, cutting off any further inquiry. She hugged them tightly, grateful for this last kindness. ¡°Next time you see me, I¡¯ll be famous! And I¡¯ll drive you all over Zenith in my chauffeured sedan.¡±


    ¡°Next time we see you, you¡¯ll be on trial for some ingenious crime!¡± Dottie said with a laugh.


    Evie grinned. ¡°Just as long as they know my name.¡±


    A blue-uniformed porter hurried people aboard. Evie settled into her compartment. It was stuffy, and she stood on the seat in her green silk-satin Mary Janes to open the window.


    ¡°Help you with that, Miss?¡± another porter, a younger man, offered.


    Evie looked up at him through lashes she had tinted with cake mascara that morning and offered him the full power of her Coty-red smile. ¡°Oh, would you, honey? That¡¯d be swell.¡±


    ¡°You heading to New York, Miss?¡±


    ¡°Mm-hmm, that¡¯s right. I won a Miss Bathing Beauty contest, and now I¡¯m going to New York to be photographed for Vanity Fair.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that something?¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it, just?¡± Evie fluttered her eyelashes. ¡°The window?¡±


    The young man released the latches and slid the window down easily. ¡°There you are!¡±


    ¡°Why, thank you,¡± Evie purred. She was on her way. In New York, she could be anyone she chose to be. It was a big city¡ªjust the place for big dreamers who needed to shine brightly.


    Evie angled her head out the train window and waved to Louise and Dottie. Her bobbed curls blew about her face as the sleepy town slowly moved behind her. For a second, she wished she could run back to the safety of her parents¡¯ house. But that was like the fog of her dreams. It was a dead house¡ªhad been for years. No. She wouldn¡¯t be sad. She would be grand and glittering. A real star. A bright light of New York. ¡°See you soon-ski!¡± she yelled.


    ¡°You bet-ski!¡±


    Her friends were shrinking to small dots of color in the smoke-hazed distance. Evie blew kisses and tried not to cry. She waved slowly to the passing rooftops of Zenith, Ohio, where people liked to feel safe and snug and smug, where they handled objects every day in the most ordinary of ways and never once caught glimpses into other people¡¯s secrets that should not be known or had terrible nightmares of dead brothers. She envied them just a bit.


    ¡°You gonna stay up there the whole ride, Miss?¡± the porter asked.


    ¡°Just wanna say a proper good-bye,¡± Evie answered. She turned her hand in a last benediction, waving to the houses like a queen. ¡°So long, suckers! You¡¯re all wet!¡±


    MEMPHIS CAMPBELL, HARLEM, NEW YORK CITY


    It was morning in Harlem, and mornings belonged to the numbers runners. From 130th Street north to 160th Street, from Amsterdam Avenue on the West Side clear over to Park Avenue on the east, scores of runners staked out their turf, ready to write out slips for their customers and race those hopeful number combinations back to their bankers, operating from the back rooms of cigar stores and barbershops, speakeasies and brownstone basements. It all had to happen before ten AM, when the clearinghouse down on Wall Street published the daily financial number, and somebody beat the thousand-to-one odds and struck it big or, more likely, struck out. It rarely worked out in Harlem¡¯s favor, but they played the game anyway, on the chance that someday their luck would change.


    Memphis Campbell, seventeen, perched beneath the street lamp in his spot on the corner of Lenox Avenue and 135th Street, near the subway entrance, catching his customers as they headed off to work. He kept an eye out for cops as he wrote out slip after slip: ¡°Yes, Miss Jackson, fifteen cents on the washerwoman¡¯s gig.¡± ¡°Forty-four, eleven, twenty-two. Got it.¡± ¡°A dollar on the death gig, though I¡¯m sorry to hear that your aunt¡¯s cousin passed.¡± ¡°Well, if you saw it in a dream, you¡¯d be a fool not to play that number, sir.¡±


    The numbers were all around them, patterns waiting to be discovered and turned into riches, luck pulled from thin air¡ªfrom hymnals, billboards, weddings, funerals, births, boxing matches, horse races, trains, professions, fraternal orders, and dreams. Especially dreams.


    Memphis didn¡¯t like thinking about his dreams. Not lately.


    When the work rush cleared, he took orders in apartment-building lobbies, stuffing the slips into a leather pouch he kept in his sock in case he got shaken down. He stopped in at the DeLuxe Beauty Shop, which was doing a brisk business in hair and gossip.

 Page 9

    ¡°So I told her, I may be a scalp specialist, but I am no miracle worker!¡± the owner, Mrs. Jordan, regaled the chuckling women in the shop. ¡°Hey there, Memphis. How you?¡±


    The ladies sat up straighter.


    ¡°Lord, that boy is handsome as Pharaoh,¡± one of the young women clucked, fanning herself with a magazine. ¡°Honey, you got yourself a girl?¡±


    ¡°On every block!¡± Mrs. Jordan laughed.


    Memphis knew he was handsome. He was six feet tall and broad-shouldered, with high cheekbones thanks to some Taino blood down the line. Floyd at Floyd¡¯s Barbershop kept Memphis¡¯s hair close-cropped and oiled sweet, and Mr. Levine, the tailor, made sure his suits were sharp. But it was Memphis¡¯s smile everyone noticed first. When Memphis Campbell decided to turn on the full power of his charm, it always started with the smile: shy at first, then wide and blindingly bright, accompanied by a puppy-dog look that got even his aunt Octavia to relent sometimes.


    Memphis employed the smile now. ¡°Getting late, ladies.¡±


    ¡°So it is.¡± Mrs. Jordan kept her hot comb working, straightening the hair of the woman in her chair. ¡°Put me down for my usual gig. Got those numbers from Aunt Sally¡¯s Policy Players Dream Book. Gonna make me rich someday.¡±


    ¡°Gonna make you broke someday,¡± a large woman reading a copy of the New Amsterdam News announced with a snort.


    Mrs. Jordan pointed the hot comb at her. ¡°It¡¯s going to pay off. You¡¯ll see. Right, Memphis?¡±


    Memphis nodded. ¡°Just last week, I heard of a man playing the same gig for a year. Won big,¡± he said. Memphis thought again of his disquieting dream. Maybe it meant something after all. Maybe it was a portent of good luck, not bad. ¡°Say, Mrs. Jordan, does Aunt Sally¡¯s book say anything about a crossroads or a storm?¡±


    ¡°Oh, a storm means money coming in, I think. Storm is fifty-four.¡±


    ¡°Is not, either! A storm means a death coming. And it¡¯s eleven you play for that.¡±


    The ladies set to squabbling about the various interpretations of dreams and possible number combinations. No one could ever agree on any one right answer. That¡¯s part of what made the game so exciting¡ªall those possibilities.


    ¡°What about an eye with a lightning bolt underneath?¡± Memphis asked.


    Mrs. Jordan paused, the hot comb still in her customer¡¯s hair. ¡°I don¡¯t rightly know. But somebody else might could tell you. Why you ask, honey?¡±


    Memphis realized he was frowning. He relaxed again into that charming smile people had come to expect from him. ¡°Oh, just something I saw in a dream is all.¡±


    The customer in the chair bristled. ¡°Ow! Fifi, you about to burn my scalp off with that hot comb!¡±


    ¡°I am not! You¡¯re just too tender-headed is your trouble.¡±


    ¡°Good day to you, ladies. I hope your number comes in,¡± Memphis said and beat a hasty retreat.


    Above Harlem, the morning¡¯s gray clouds frayed into thin wisps, revealing a perfect blue sky as Memphis passed the Lenox Drugstore, where he and his little brother, Isaiah, liked to stop in for hamburgers and talk with the owner, Mr. Reggie. He crossed the street to avoid the Merrick Funeral Home, but he could not sweep away the memory. It crept up from deep inside, still with the power to squeeze the breath out of him:


    His mother lying up front in the open casket covered with lily of the valley, her hands crossed over her chest. Isaiah asking, ¡°When Mama¡¯s gonna wake up, Memphis? She¡¯s missing the party, and all these people here to see her, too.¡± His father sitting on the cane-back chair, staring down into his big, trumpet-playing hands while mourners cried and hollered and somebody sang, ¡°Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.¡± The feel of the dirt in Memphis¡¯s fingers as he dropped clods of it onto the grave. The soft thud as it hit the top of the coffin, the finality of the sound. He remembered his father packing up their apartment off 145th Street and sending Memphis and Isaiah to share the cramped back room of Aunt Octavia¡¯s place a few blocks farther uptown while he went off to Chicago to look for work. He¡¯d promised to send for them when he was settled. That had been two years, ten months, and fifteen days ago, and they were still sharing the back room at Octavia¡¯s.


    Memphis swiped a milk bottle from a stoop and took a big swig, as if he could chase away the past. His skin itched with restlessness, a feeling that the world was about to be ripped wide open. And he was sure it had to do with the dream.


    For two weeks running, it had been the same: The crossroads. The crow flying to him from the field. The darkening sky, and the dust clouds rising on the road just ahead of whatever was coming. And the symbol¡ªalways the symbol. It was getting to where he was afraid to sleep.

 Page 10

    A phrase came to him quickly. Memphis knew that if he didn¡¯t write it down, it would be gone later, when he was ready to write. So he stopped and jotted this new bit of poetry in his head onto two blank numbers slips, then shoved them into a different pocket. Later, when he could head up to the graveyard, where he liked to write, he¡¯d copy them into the brown leather notebook that held his poems and stories.


    Memphis turned the corner. Blind Bill Johnson sat on a stoop with his guitar. His upturned hat lay at his feet, a collection of small change scattered across the hat¡¯s worn lining. ¡°Met a man on a dark road, he had a mark upon his hand,¡± the bluesman sang in his gravelly whisper of a voice. ¡°Met a man on a dark road, he had a mark upon his hand. Said the storm¡¯s a-comin¡¯, rain down hard upon the land.¡± As Memphis passed, Blind Bill called, ¡°Mr. Campbell! Mr. Campbell! ¡¯Zat you?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir. How¡¯d you know?¡±


    The old man wrinkled up his nose. ¡°Floyd¡¯s good with the scissors, but that oil he use could wake a dead man.¡± He broke into a hard, raspy laugh. His fingers sought the collection of change in the hat, touching each coin until he had two dimes. ¡°Put twenty cents on my number, Mr. Campbell. One, seven, nine. Go on now, and put that in. Put it in for old Blind Bill,¡± he said with urgency.


    Memphis wanted to tell him he should save his money for other things. Everybody knew Bill lived over in the Salvation Army mission, and sometimes on the streets, when the weather was decent. But it wasn¡¯t his place to say anything, so he pocketed the coins and wrote out a slip. ¡°Yes, sir. I¡¯ll put it in.¡±


    ¡°I just need a change of luck is all.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t we all,¡± Memphis said and moved on.


    Behind him, the bluesman took up his guitar again, singing about shadowy men on dark roads and bargains struck under moonless skies, and though they were in the heart of the city with its rumbling trains and bustling sidewalks, Memphis felt a strange twisting in his gut.


    ¡°Memphis!¡± another runner called from down the street. ¡°You better get to it! It¡¯s almost ten o¡¯clock!¡±


    Memphis forgot about his bad dreams. He tossed the empty milk bottle into a rubbish bin, shouldered his knapsack, and ran down the street toward the Hotsy Totsy to wait for the day¡¯s number to come in.


    On a street lamp, a crow cawed. Blind Bill stopped his song and tensed, listening. The bird cawed once more. Then it flapped its shiny wings and shadowed Memphis Campbell¡¯s steps.


    THE MUSEUM OF THE CREEPY CRAWLIES


    Evie disembarked from the train with a wave to the porters and conductors with whom she had played poker from Pittsburgh to Pennsylvania Station. She was now in possession of twenty dollars, three new addresses in her brown leather journal, and a porter¡¯s hat, which she wore upon her golden head at a rakish angle.


    ¡°So long, fellas! It¡¯s been swell.¡±


    The conductor, a young man of twenty-two, leaned out from the train¡¯s stairwell. ¡°You¡¯ll be sure to write me, won¡¯t ya, sweetheart?¡±


    ¡°And how. Just as soon as I practice my penmanship,¡± Evie lied. ¡°My aunt will be waiting. She¡¯s legally blind, so I¡¯d better fly to her side. Poor dear Aunt Martha.¡±


    ¡°I thought her name was Gertrude.¡±


    ¡°Gertrude and Martha. They¡¯re twins, and both blind, the poor, poor dears. Farewell!¡± Her heart thumping, Evie rushed up the stairs from the platform. New York City¡ªat last!


    Uncle Will¡¯s telegram had been quite specific: She was to hail a taxi outside Pennsylvania Station on Eighth Avenue and tell the driver to take her to the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult on Sixty-eighth Street, off Central Park West. She had been sure it would be no trouble at all. Now, in the hubbub of Pennsylvania Station, she felt more than a little lost. She went the wrong way twice and finally found herself in the enormous main room, with its floor-to-ceiling arched windows and the giant, center-placed clock whose filigreed arms reminded passengers that time was fleeting¡ªas were trains.


    Nearby, a very glamorous woman wearing a full-length Russian sable despite the heat was drawing an ever-thickening crowd of followers and shutterbugs. ¡°Who is that?¡± Evie whispered urgently to one of the admirers.


    He shrugged. ¡°Don¡¯t know. But her press agent paid me a dollar to stand around and gape like she was Gloria Swanson. Easiest buck I ever made.¡±


    Evie scurried to keep up with the hustle and bustle of the crowd and nearly wiped out a newsboy hawking the Daily News. ¡°Valentino poisoned? Read all about it! Anarchists¡¯ bomb plot goes bust! Teacher goes ape for evolution! All the news right here, right here! Only two cents! Paper, Miss?¡±

 Page 11

    ¡°No, thank you.¡±


    ¡°Nice topper.¡± He winked and Evie remembered the porter¡¯s hat.


    A mirror hung in the window of a druggist¡¯s shop, and Evie stopped to fix her hair and replace the porter¡¯s hat with her own brimless gray cloche, turning her head left and right to make sure she was at her best. She took the twenty-dollar bill she¡¯d won playing poker and, after a moment of deliberation, stuffed it into the pocket of her red, summer-weight traveling coat.


    ¡°I can¡¯t say I blame you for taking in the view. I¡¯ve been looking for a while.¡±


    The voice was male, and a little gravelly. Evie caught his reflection in the mirror. Thick, dark hair with a longer piece in front that refused to stay swept back. Amber eyes and dark brows. His smile could only be described as wolfish.


    Evie turned slowly. ¡°Do I know you?¡±


    ¡°Not yet. But I hope to remedy that.¡± He stuck out a hand. ¡°Sam Lloyd.¡±


    Evie curtsied. ¡°Miss Evangeline O¡¯Neill of the Zenith O¡¯Neills.¡±


    ¡°The Zenith O¡¯Neills? Now I feel underdressed. Let me just get my dinner jacket.¡± He grinned again, and Evie felt a little off balance. He was of medium height and compact build. His shirtsleeves had been rolled to his elbows; his trousers were worn at the knees. Faint black smudges stained the tips of his fingers, as if he¡¯d been shining shoes. A pair of aviator¡¯s goggles hung around his neck. Her first New York admirer was a bit rough around the edges.


    ¡°Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Lloyd, but I¡¯d better¡ª¡±


    ¡°Sam.¡± He picked up her case so quickly she didn¡¯t even see his hand move. ¡°Let me carry that for you.¡±


    ¡°Really. I can¡ª¡± She made a swipe for her case but he held it up.


    ¡°I insist. My mother would skin me for being so unchivalrous.¡±


    ¡°Well¡±¡ªEvie looked around nervously¡ª¡°just as far as the door, then.¡±


    ¡°Where ya headed?¡±


    ¡°My, you ask a lot of questions.¡±


    ¡°Let me guess: You¡¯re a Ziegfeld girl?¡±


    Evie shook her head.


    ¡°Model? Actress? Princess? You¡¯re too pretty to be just anybody.¡±


    ¡°Are you on the level?¡±


    ¡°Me? I¡¯m so on the level I can¡¯t get off it.¡±


    He was flattering her, but she was enjoying it. She loved attention. It was like a glass of the best champagne¡ªbubbly and intoxicating¡ªand as with champagne, she always wanted more of it. Still, she didn¡¯t want to seem like an easy mark.


    ¡°If you must know, I¡¯ve come to join a convent,¡± Evie said, testing him.


    Sam Lloyd looked her over and shook his head. ¡°Seems a waste to me. Pretty girl like you.¡±


    ¡°Serving our lord is never a waste.¡±


    ¡°Oh, sure. Of course, they say now that we¡¯ve got Freud and the motorcar, God is dead.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not dead; just very tired.¡±


    The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement, and Evie felt the warmth bubble up again. He thought her clever, this Sam Lloyd with his knowing grin.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s a big job,¡± he shot back. ¡°All that smiting and begetting. Say, which convent you heading to?¡±


    ¡°The one with all the ladies in black and white.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the name? Maybe I know it.¡± Sam bowed his head. ¡°I¡¯m very devout.¡±


    Evie held back a small ha! ¡°It¡¯s¡­ St. Mary¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°Of course. Which St. Mary¡¯s?¡±


    ¡°The absolute most St. Mary¡¯s you can think of.¡±


    ¡°Listen, before you commit your life to Christ, maybe you¡¯d let me show you around the city? I know all the hot spots. I¡¯m a swell tour guide.¡± He took her hand in his, and Evie felt both excited and unnerved. She hadn¡¯t been in the city for even five minutes, and already some young man¡ªsome admittedly quite attractive young man¡ªwas trying to get her to go off alone with him. It was thrilling. And a little terrifying.


    ¡°Listen, I have to tell you a secret¡±¡ªhe looked around¡ª¡°I am a scout for some of the biggest names in this town. Ziegfeld. The Shuberts. Mr. White. I know ¡¯em all. They would string me up if I didn¡¯t introduce a talent like you.¡±


    ¡°You think I¡¯m talented?¡±


    ¡°I know you are. I can tell. I have a sense about these things.¡±


    Evie raised one eyebrow. ¡°I can¡¯t sing. I can¡¯t dance. I can¡¯t act.¡±


    ¡°See? A real triple threat.¡± He grinned. ¡°Well, there goes the St. Mary¡¯s talent show.¡±

 Page 12

    Evie laughed in spite of herself. ¡°All right, then. You with your keen observations¡ªwhat, exactly, do you find special about me?¡± she asked coyly, glancing up at him through her lashes the way she¡¯d seen Colleen Moore do in We Moderns.


    ¡°There¡¯s just something about you,¡± he said without really saying anything at all, which disappointed her. Sam rested his hand on the wall above her head, leaning closer. Evie¡¯s stomach fluttered. It wasn¡¯t that she didn¡¯t know her way around the fellas, but this was a New York City fella. She didn¡¯t want to make a scene and come off as a complete rube. She was a girl who could take care of herself. Besides, if her parents heard about this, they¡¯d yank her straight back to Ohio.


    Instead, Evie looped under the handsome Sam Lloyd¡¯s arm and snatched her valise back. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I have to go now. I believe I see the, um, top nun going into the ladies¡¯ lounge.¡±


    ¡°Top nun? Do you mean the Mother Superior?¡±


    ¡°And how! Sister¡­ Sister, um¡­¡±


    ¡°Sister Benito Mussolini Fascisti?¡±


    ¡°Exactly!¡±


    Sam Lloyd smirked. ¡°Benito Mussolini is prime minister of Italy. And a fascist.¡±


    ¡°I knew that,¡± Evie said, her cheeks flushing.


    ¡°Of course you did.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­¡± Evie stood uncertainly for a few seconds. She stuck out her hand for a shake. With a smirk, Sam Lloyd drew her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth. She heard the shoe-shine men chuckling as she pulled away, red-faced and disoriented. Should she slap him? He deserved a slap. But was that what sophisticated Manhattan moderns did? Or did they shrug it off like an old joke they were too tired to laugh at?


    ¡°You can¡¯t blame a fella for kissing the prettiest girl in New York, can you, sister?¡± Sam¡¯s grin was anything but apologetic.


    Evie brought up her knee quickly and decisively, and he dropped to the floor like a grain sack. ¡°You can¡¯t blame a girl for her quick reflexes now, can you, pal?¡±


    She turned and hurried toward the exit. In a pained voice, Sam Lloyd called after her: ¡°Best of luck to the nuns. The good sisters of St. Mary¡¯s don¡¯t know what they¡¯re in for!¡±


    Evie wiped the kiss from her mouth with the back of her hand and pushed her way out onto Eighth Avenue, but when she saw the majesty of the city, all thoughts of Sam Lloyd were forgotten. A trolley jostled down the center of the avenue on steel tracks. Motorcars swerved around the throngs of people and one another with the furious grace of a corps de ballet. She craned her neck to take in the full view. Far above the busy streets, men balanced daringly on beams of steel, erecting new buildings like the ones whose tops already pierced the clouds, as if even the sky couldn¡¯t hold back the ambition of their spires. A sleek dirigible sailed past, a smear of silver in the blue. It was like a dreamscape that could change in the blink of an eye. A taxi careened to the corner and Evie got inside.


    ¡°Where to, Miss?¡± the cabbie asked, flipping his meter on.


    ¡°The Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult, please.¡±


    ¡°Oh. The Museum of the Creepy Crawlies.¡± The cabbie chuckled. ¡°Good thing you¡¯re goin¡¯ to see it while you can.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°They say the place is in arrears on its taxes. The city¡¯s had its sights set on that spot for years. They want to put some apartment buildings there.¡±


    ¡°Oh, dear.¡± Evie examined the photograph her mother had given her. It was a picture of Uncle Will¡ªtall, lanky, fair-haired¡ªstanding in front of the museum, a grand Victorian mansion complete with turrets and stained-glass windows and bordered by a wrought-iron fence.


    ¡°Can¡¯t happen soon enough, if you ask me. That place makes people uncomfortable¡ªall those crazy objects s¡¯posed to be fulla hocus-pocus.¡±


    Objects. Magic. Evie drummed her fingers against the door.


    ¡°You know about the fella that runs the place, don¡¯t ya?¡±


    Evie stopped drumming. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Odd fella. He was a conscie.¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°Conscientious objector,¡± the cabbie said, spitting the words out like poison. ¡°During the war. Refused to fight.¡± He shook his head. ¡°I hear he might be one of them Bolsheviks, too.¡±


    ¡°Well, if so, he never mentioned it to me,¡± Evie said, pulling the wrinkles from her glove.


    The cabbie caught her eye in the mirror. ¡°You know him? What¡¯s a nice girl like you doing with a fella like that?¡±

 Page 13

    ¡°He¡¯s my uncle.¡±


    At that, the cabbie fell blessedly quiet.


    At last the taxi turned onto a side street near Central Park and pulled up to the museum. Tucked away among the grit and steel of Manhattan, the museum itself seemed a relic, a building out of time and place, its limestone facade long since grimed by age, soot, and vines. Evie glanced from the sad, dingy shadow before her to the beautiful house in her photograph. ¡°You sure this is the joint?¡±


    ¡°This is the place. Museum of the Creepy Crawlies. That¡¯ll be one dollar and ten cents.¡±


    Evie reached into her pocket and pulled out nothing but the lining. With mounting alarm, she searched all her pockets.


    ¡°Whatsa matter?¡± The cabbie eyed her suspiciously.


    ¡°My money! It¡¯s gone! I had twenty dollars right in this pocket and¡­ and it¡¯s gone!¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°Mighta known. Probably a Bolshevik, like your uncle. Well, little lady, I¡¯ve had three fare jumpers in the past week. Not this time. You owe me one dollar and ten cents, or you can tell your story to a cop.¡± The cabbie signaled to a policeman on horseback down the block.


    Evie closed her eyes and retraced her steps: The tracks. The druggist¡¯s window. Sam Lloyd. Sam¡­ Lloyd. Evie¡¯s eyes snapped open as she recalled his sudden passionate kiss. There¡¯s just something about you¡­. There sure was¡ªtwenty dollars. Not an hour in the city and already she¡¯d been taken for a ride.


    ¡°That son of a¡­¡± Evie swore hard and fast, stunning the cabbie into silence. Furious, she pulled her emergency ten-dollar bill from her cloche, waited for the change, and then slammed the taxi door behind her.


    ¡°Hey,¡± the cabbie yelled. ¡°How¡¯s about a tip?¡±


    ¡°You bet-ski,¡± Evie said, heading toward the old Victorian mansion, her long silk scarf trailing behind her. ¡°Don¡¯t kiss strange men in Penn Station.¡±


    Evie rapped the brass eagle¡¯s-head door knocker and waited. A plaque beside the museum¡¯s massive oak doors read HERE BE THE HOPES AND DREAMS OF A NATION, BUILT UPON THE BACKS OF MEN AND LIFTED BY THE WINGS OF ANGELS. But neither men nor angels answered her knock, so she let herself in. The entry was ornate: black-and-white marble floors, wood-paneled walls dimly lit by gilded sconces. High above, the pale blue ceiling boasted a mural of angels watching over a field of Revolutionary soldiers. The building smelled of dust and age. Evie¡¯s heels echoed on the marble as she made her way down the long hall. ¡°Hello?¡± she called. ¡°Uncle Will?¡±


    A wide, elaborately carved staircase wound up to a second-floor landing lit by a large stained-glass window, and then curved out of sight. To Evie¡¯s left was a gloomy sitting room with its drapes drawn. To her right, pocket doors opened onto a musty dining hall whose long wooden table and thirteen damask-covered chairs looked as if they hadn¡¯t been used in years.


    ¡°Holy smokes. Who died?¡± Evie muttered. She wandered till she came to a long room that housed a collection of objects displayed behind glass.


    ¡° ¡®The Museum of the Creepy Crawlies,¡¯ I presume.¡±


    Evie passed from display to display, reading the typewritten cards placed beneath:


    GRIS GRIS BAG AND VOUDON DOLL,


    NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA


    BONE FRAGMENT FROM CHINESE RAILROAD


    WORKER AND REPUTED CONJURER,


    NORTHERN CALIFORNIA, GOLD RUSH PERIOD


    CRYSTAL BALL USED IN S¨¦ANCES OF


    MRS. BERNICE FOXWORTHY DURING


    AMERICAN SPIRITUALISM PERIOD, C. 1848,


    TROY, NEW YORK


    OJIBWAY TALISMAN OF PROTECTION,


    GREAT LAKES REGION


    ROOT WORKER¡¯S CUTTINGS,


    BATON ROUGE, LOUISIANA


    FREEMASON¡¯S TOOLS AND BOOKS, C. 1776,


    PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA


    There was a series of spirit photographs populated with faint figures, gauzy as lace curtains in a wind. Poppet dolls. A ventriloquist¡¯s dummy. A leather-bound grimoire. Books on alchemy, astrology, numerology, root workers, voudon, spirit mediums, and healers, and several volumes of accounts of ghostly sightings in the Americas starting in the 1600s.


    The Diary of a Mercy Prowd lay open on a table. Evie turned her head sideways, trying to make sense of the seventeenth-century handwriting. ¡°I see spirits of the dead. For this they hath branded me a witch¡­.¡±


    ¡°They hanged her. She was only seventeen.¡±


    Evie turned, startled. The speaker stepped from the shadows. He was tall and broad-shouldered and had ash-blond hair. For a moment, with the light from the old chandelier shining down on him, he seemed like some severe angel from a Renaissance painting, come to life.

 Page 14

    ¡°What crime did she commit?¡± Evie said, finding her voice again. ¡°Did she turn the gin to water?¡±


    ¡°She was different. That was her sin.¡± He offered his hand for a quick shake. ¡°I¡¯m Jericho Jones. I work for your uncle. He asked me if I could keep you company while he teaches his class.¡±


    So this was the famous Jericho with whom Mabel was so besotted. ¡°Why, I¡¯ve heard so much about you!¡± Evie blurted out. Mabel would kill her for being so indiscreet. ¡°That is, I hear Uncle Will would be lost without¡­ whatever it is that you do.¡±


    Jericho looked away. ¡°I highly doubt that. Would you like to see the museum?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯d be swell,¡± Evie lied.


    Jericho led her up and down staircases and into preserved, musty rooms holding more collections of dull, dusty relics, while Evie fought to keep a polite smile.


    ¡°Last but not least, here is the place where we spend most of our time: the library.¡± Jericho opened a set of mahogany pocket doors, and Evie let out a whistle. She¡¯d never seen such a room. It was as if it had been transported here from some spooky fairy-tale castle. An enormous limestone fireplace took up the whole of the far wall. The furnishings weren¡¯t much¡ªbrown leather club chairs worn to stuffing in places, a dotting of old wooden tables, bankers¡¯ lamps dimmed to a faint green glow at each. A second-floor gallery crammed with bookcases circled the entire room. Evie craned her head to take in the full view. The ceiling had to be twenty feet high, and what a ceiling it was! Spread across its expanse was a panorama of American history: Black-hatted Puritans condemning a cluster of women. An Indian shaman staring into a fire. A healer grasping snakes in one hand while placing the other on the forehead of a sick man. Gray-wigged founding fathers signing the Declaration of Independence. A slave woman holding a mandrake root aloft. Painted angels and demons hovered above the historical scene, watching. Waiting.


    ¡°What do you think?¡± Jericho asked.


    ¡°I think he should have fired his decorator.¡± Evie plopped into one of the chairs and adjusted a seam on her stockings. She was itching to get out and see Mabel and explore the city. ¡°Will Unc be long?¡±


    Jericho shrugged. He sat at the long table and retrieved a book from a tall stack. ¡°This is an excellent history of eighteenth-century mysticism in the colonies if you¡¯d care to pass the time with a book.¡±


    ¡°No, thanks,¡± Evie said, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. She didn¡¯t know what Mabel saw in this fella. He was going to take work; that was for sure. ¡°Say¡±¡ªEvie lowered her voice¡ª¡°I don¡¯t suppose you have any giggle water on you?¡±


    ¡°Giggle water?¡± Jericho repeated.


    ¡°You know, coffin varnish? Panther sweat? Hooch?¡± Evie tried. ¡°Gin?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not particular. Bourbon¡¯ll do just as well.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t drink.¡±


    ¡°You must get awfully thirsty then.¡± Evie laughed. Jericho did not.


    ¡°Well, I should get back to the museum,¡± he said, walking quickly toward the doors. ¡°Make yourself comfortable. Your uncle should be with you shortly.¡±


    Evie turned to the stuffed grizzly looming beside the fireplace. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯ve got any hooch? No? Maybe later.¡±


    Other than Jericho, she hadn¡¯t seen a single soul in the museum. She was hungry and thirsty and a little put out that she¡¯d been left all on her own without so much as a hello from her uncle. If she was going to live in New York, she¡¯d have to start fending for herself.


    Evie patted the bear¡¯s matted fur. ¡°Sorry, old sport, you¡¯re on your own,¡± she said, and left the library in search of food. She heard male voices and followed the sound to a large room in the back of the museum where Uncle Will, in gray trousers, waistcoat, and blue tie, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, stood lecturing. His hair had darkened to a dirty blond over the years, and he sported a trim mustache.


    ¡°The presence of evil is a conundrum that has taxed the minds of philosophers and theologians alike¡­.¡± he was saying.


    Evie peeked around the corner to take in the whole of the room. A class of college boys sat taking notes on Will¡¯s lecture.


    ¡°Now we¡¯re cookin¡¯,¡± Evie whispered. ¡°Sorry I¡¯m late!¡± she called as she breezed into the room. The college boys¡¯ heads swiveled in Evie¡¯s direction as she scraped a chair across the floor to join them. Uncle Will regarded her over the tops of his round tortoiseshell glasses.

 Page 15

    ¡°Go on, Uncle Will. Don¡¯t mind me.¡± Evie perched on the edge of the chair beside one of the College Joes and did her best to look interested.


    ¡°Yes¡­¡± For a moment, Uncle Will¡¯s bewildered expression threatened to become permanent. But then he found his stride again and began pacing the room with his hands behind his back. ¡°As I said, how does one explain the presence of evil?¡±


    The boys all looked to one another to see who would answer.


    ¡°Man makes evil through his choices,¡± someone said.


    ¡°It¡¯s God and the Devil, fighting it out. That¡¯s what the Bible says, at least,¡± another boy argued.


    ¡°How can there be a Devil if there is a God?¡± a boy in golf knickers asked. ¡°I¡¯ve always wondered that.¡±


    Uncle Will waved a finger, making a point. ¡°Ah. Theodicy.¡±


    ¡°Is that a cross between theology and idiocy?¡±


    Will allowed a small smile. ¡°Not exactly. Theodicy is a branch of theology concerned with the defense of God in the face of the existence of evil. It brings about a conundrum: If God is an all-knowing, all-powerful deity, how can he allow evil to exist? Either he is not the omnipotent god we¡¯ve been told, or he is all-powerful and all-knowing, and also cruel, because he allows evil to exist and does nothing to stop it.¡±


    ¡°Well, that certainly explains Prohibition,¡± Evie quipped.


    The college boys laughed appreciatively. Again Uncle Will looked at Evie as if she were a subject he had yet to classify.


    ¡°Any good world would allow for us to have free will, yes?¡± he continued. ¡°Can we agree to this point? But once human beings have free will, they also have the ability to make choices¡ªand commit evil. Thus, this very good thing, free will, allows the possibility of evil into our fine world.¡± The room was silent. ¡°One to ponder. But, if I may continue with our earlier discussion¡­¡±


    The boys sat up straight, ready to take notes as Will paced and talked. ¡°America has a rich history of beliefs, a tapestry woven together by threads from different cultures. Our history is rife with the supernatural, the unexplained, the mystical. The earliest settlers came here for religious freedom. The immigrants who followed introduced their hopes and haunts, from the vampire legend of Eastern Europe to the ¡®hungry ghosts¡¯ of China. The original Americans believed in shamans and spirits. The slaves of West Africa and the Caribbean, stripped of all they had, still carried with them their customs and beliefs. We are not only a melting pot of cultures, but also of spirits and superstitions. Yes?¡±


    A boy in a navy blazer raised his hand. ¡°Do you believe in the supernatural, Dr. Fitzgerald?¡±


    ¡°Ah. It would seem illogical, wouldn¡¯t it? After all, we live in the modern age. It¡¯s difficult enough to get people even to believe in Methodism.¡± Will smiled as the boys chuckled. ¡°And yet, there are mysteries. How does one explain the stories of people who exhibit unusual powers?¡±


    Evie felt a tingle down her spine.


    ¡°Powers?¡± a boy repeated in a skeptical tone bordering on contempt.


    ¡°People who claim to be able to speak to the dead, such as psychics or spiritual mediums. People who say they have been healed by the laying on of hands. Who can see glimpses of the future or know a card before it is played. The early records of the Americas talk of Indian spirit walkers. The Puritans knew of cunning folk. And during the American Revolution, Benjamin Franklin wrote of prophetic dreams that influenced the course of the war and shaped the nation. What do you say to that?¡±


    ¡°Those people need the services of a psychiatrist¡ªthough I¡¯ll make an exception for Mr. Franklin.¡±


    Another round of chuckles followed, and Evie joined in, though she was still discomfited. Uncle Will waited for the laughing to subside.


    ¡°This very museum, as you may know, was constructed by Cornelius Rathbone, who amassed his fortune building railroads. How did he know that the age of steel was coming?¡± Will paused at the lectern and waited. When no one answered, he continued pacing, his hands behind his back. ¡°He claimed he knew because of the prophetic visions of his sister, Liberty Anne. When Cornelius and Liberty were young, they spent hours in the woods playing at all sorts of games. One day, Liberty went into the forest and was lost for two full days. The men of the town searched but could find no trace of her. When she emerged at last, her hair had gone completely white. She was only eleven. Liberty Anne claimed she had met a man there, ¡®a strange, tall man, skinny as a scarecrow, in a stovepipe hat and whose coat opened to show the wonders and frights of the world.¡¯ She fell ill with a fever. The doctor was sent for, but there was nothing he could do. For the next month, she lay in a dream trance, spouting prophecy, which her worried brother transcribed in his diary. These prophecies were astonishing in their accuracy. She claimed to see ¡®the great man from Illinois taken from us while visiting our American cousin¡¯¡ªa reference to the assassination of President Lincoln in the balcony of Ford¡¯s Theatre while he watched a production of the play Our American Cousin. She spoke of ¡®a great steel dragon criss-crossing the land, belching black smoke,¡¯ which most interpret to mean the Transcontinental Railroad. She predicted the Emancipation Proclamation, the Great War, the Bolshevik revolution, and the invention of the motorcar and the aeroplane. She even spoke of the fall of our banks and the subsequent collapse of our economy.¡±

 Page 16

    ¡°Clearly, she couldn¡¯t see everything,¡± the boy in the golf trousers said. ¡°That will never happen.¡±


    Will rapped his knuckles on the desk. ¡°Knock wood, as they say.¡± Will grinned and the College Joes laughed at his superstitious joke. He fidgeted with a silver lighter, turning it end over end, occasionally flicking his thumb across the flint wheel so that it sparked. ¡°Liberty Anne died a month to the day after she emerged from the woods. Toward the end, her prophecies became quite dark. She talked of ¡®a coming storm,¡¯ a treacherous time when the Diviners would be needed.¡±


    ¡°Diviners?¡± Evie repeated.


    ¡°That was her name for people with powers like her own.¡±


    ¡°And what would these Diviners do?¡± the boy in the golf pants asked.


    Will shrugged. ¡°If she knew, she didn¡¯t say. She died shortly after making the prophecy, leaving her brother, Cornelius, bereft. He became obsessed with good and evil, and with the idea that this was a country haunted by ghosts. That there was something beyond what we see. He spent his life¡ªand his fortune¡ªtrying to prove it.¡±


    The boys fell into heated discussion until one of them shouted over the others. ¡°Yes, but Professor, do you yourself actually believe that there is another world beyond this one, and that the entities from that world can act to help or hurt us? Do you believe that our actions here¡ªgood or bad¡ªcan create an external evil? Do you believe there are ghosts and demons and Diviners among us?¡±


    Uncle Will took a cloth from his pocket and wiped the lenses of his spectacles. ¡° ¡®There are more things between heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,¡¯ ¡± Will said, hooking the spectacles over his ears again. ¡°That quote is from William Shakespeare, who seemed to know a thing or two about both humanity and the supernatural. But for your examinations, you will need to know the following concrete information¡­.¡±


    The boys groaned as Will fired off a dizzying plethora of information and their pencils struggled to keep up.


    Evie slipped out and went to wait for Will in his office. The steady click of the mantel clock kept her company as she took a look around. His desktop was awash in newspaper clippings and perilous-looking stacks of books. Bored, Evie leafed through the newspaper clippings. They were reports from towns across the country of ghost sightings, hauntings, and such strange goings-on as dead relatives appearing for seconds in a favorite chair and red-eyed ¡°demon¡± dogs who frightened the caretaker of a junkyard in upstate New York. Some of the clippings were two or three years old, but most were recent¡ªfrom the past year. Evie started reading an article about a girl who claimed to be able to speak to the dead and who had been warned by ¡°kind spirits¡± of trouble to come. She¡¯d just gotten to the part about the girl¡¯s sudden disappearance when Uncle Will announced his presence with a soft clearing of his throat.


    Evie shuffled the clippings to one side. ¡°Hello, Unc.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s my desk.¡±


    ¡°So it is,¡± Evie said brightly. ¡°And a tidy one it is, too.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Well. I suppose it¡¯s fine this time,¡± Uncle Will murmured. He took a cigarette from a small silver case in his breast pocket. ¡°You¡¯re looking well.¡± Will lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. ¡°Did Jericho show you the museum?¡±


    ¡°Yes, he did. It¡¯s very¡­ interesting.¡±


    ¡°Was your trip comfortable?¡±


    ¡°Swell, although I was pickpocketed at Penn Station,¡± Evie said, and then wished she hadn¡¯t. What if Will decided she couldn¡¯t look after herself and sent her back to Ohio?


    Uncle Will raised an eyebrow. ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°A hideous young man named Sam Lloyd. Well, that was the name he gave me before he kissed me and stole my twenty dollars.¡±


    Will squinted. ¡°He what?¡±


    ¡°But don¡¯t worry. I can take care of myself. If I ever see that fella again, he¡¯ll wish he¡¯d never tangled with me,¡± Evie said.


    Will blew out a plume of smoke. It hung thickly in the air. ¡°Your mother has told me that you were in a spot of trouble back home. A prank of some sort.¡±


    ¡°A prank,¡± Evie muttered.


    ¡°And you¡¯re to stay until October?¡±


    ¡°December, if possible. Until the coast is clear back home.¡±


    ¡°Hmm.¡± Will¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°Your mother has petitioned for you to attend the Sarah Snidewell School for Girls. They are overburdened at present, so your schooling, it would appear, falls to me. I¡¯ll provide you with books, and, of course, you are free to attend my lectures. I suggest you make use of our many fine museums and lectures through the Society for Ethical Culture and whatnot.¡±

 Page 17

    It dawned on Evie that she was free from the tedium of school. The day just kept getting better.


    Uncle Will thumbed absently through a book. ¡°You¡¯re seventeen, is it?¡±


    ¡°According to my last birthday.¡±


    ¡°Well. Seventeen¡¯s certainly old enough to do mostly as you please. I won¡¯t keep you on a leash as long as you keep out of trouble. Do we have a deal?¡±


    ¡°Deal,¡± Evie said, astonished. ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re related to my mother? There wasn¡¯t a mix-up in the nursery?¡±


    Will¡¯s smile flickered for a second and disappeared. ¡°Your mother has never quite recovered from your brother¡¯s death.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s not the only one who misses James.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s different for her.¡±


    ¡°So they say.¡± Evie swallowed down her anger. ¡°That bit you were talking about back there¡ªpeople who could see the future or¡­¡± She took a breath. ¡°Read objects. Diviners. Do you know anyone like that?¡±


    ¡°Not personally, no. Why do you ask?¡±


    ¡°Oh, no reason,¡± Evie said quickly. ¡°I suppose if there were Diviners, they¡¯d be all over the papers and radio, wouldn¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°Or, if history is any indication, they¡¯d be burned at the stake.¡± Will gestured to the many bookcases surrounding them. ¡°We¡¯ve an entire library devoted to such stories if you¡¯d like to read more about America¡¯s supernatural beliefs.¡± He stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m running a bit behind, and I¡¯m sure you¡¯d like to unpack and freshen up. The Bennington isn¡¯t far from here¡ªten blocks. Shall I have Jericho walk you over?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Evie said. Even a ten-block walk with stoic Jericho would probably be painfully dull. ¡°I¡¯ll be jake on my own.¡±


    ¡°Pardon?¡±


    ¡°Jake. Swell. Um, fine. I¡¯ll be fine. I¡¯ll go find Mabel. You remember Mabel Rose? My pen pal?¡±


    ¡°Mmm,¡± Will said, distracted by another book. ¡°Very well. Here is your key. There¡¯s a dining room just off the Bennington¡¯s lobby. Help yourself to something to eat, and ask them to put it on my bill. Jericho and I should be home by half past six at the latest.¡±


    Evie slipped the key into her handbag. She hadn¡¯t had a key back in Zenith; her every move had been monitored by her parents. Things would be different here. Things would be perfect. She went to hug Uncle Will, who stuck out his hand for a shake.


    ¡°Welcome to New York, Evie.¡±


    IT¡¯S JUST THE BENNINGTON, DEAR


    ¡°Mabel!¡± Evie embraced her friend and waltzed her around the lobby of the Bennington, drawing stares from the denizens of the apartment building. ¡°Oh, I¡¯m so happy to see you!¡±


    ¡°Golly, you¡¯ve changed,¡± Mabel said, taking in Evie¡¯s stylishly curled short hairdo and her flapper fashion¡ªthe drop-waisted nautical dress and red coat with its poppy-embroidered capelet at the back.


    ¡°You haven¡¯t. Still the same old Mabel. Let me look at you!¡± With a dramatic flair, Evie stepped back to take in the sight of Mabel¡¯s drab, ill-fitting dress with a hemline that landed well below her knees. It was funereal. Actually, it was a dress that needed a good burial. ¡°Mabel, you still haven¡¯t bobbed your hair?¡±


    Mabel ran a hand over her long, thick, auburn curls, which were softly coiled and pinned at the back of her neck. ¡°I am exercising my individualism.¡±


    ¡°You certainly are. And so is the good old Bennington.¡± Evie let out a low whistle, startling a man retrieving his mail from the brass mailboxes set into the wall. The Bennington had the shabby beauty of a formerly fashionable address. The marble floors had chipped corners, the furniture was worn, and the paint was dingy, but to Evie, these quirks only made it all the more charming.


    ¡°Be it ever so humble,¡± Mabel said.


    ¡°Can you believe it? You and me and Manhattan? We¡¯ll be the queens of the city!¡±


    As Evie began to lay out their plans, starting with a shopping trip to Bergdorf¡¯s, an absolutely stunning girl strode into the lobby. She wore men¡¯s pajamas under a man¡¯s blue silk bathrobe, and her jet-black hair had been cut into a Louise Brooks shingle bob with bangs. Her dark eyes were smeared with traces of the previous night¡¯s mascara and kohl. A silk sleep mask had been pushed down around her neck.


    ¡°Who is that?¡± Evie whispered.


    ¡°That is Theta Knight. She¡¯s a Ziegfeld girl.¡±

 Page 18

    ¡°Holy smokes. A friend of yours?¡±


    Mabel shook her head. ¡°She terrifies me. I¡¯ve never worked up the nerve to say more than hello and ¡®Isn¡¯t it a nice day?¡¯ She lives here with her brother.¡± Mabel pursed her lips knowingly. ¡°Well, she says he¡¯s her brother. They don¡¯t look a thing alike.¡±


    ¡°Her lover?¡± Evie whispered, excited.


    Mabel shrugged. ¡°How should I know?¡±


    ¡°These came for you, Miss Knight.¡± The doorman handed over a dozen long-stemmed red roses. Theta stifled a yawn as she ripped open the envelope on the card.


    ¡° ¡®A rose for a rose. With my dearest affections, Clarence M. Potts.¡¯ Oh, brother!¡± Theta shoved the flowers back at him. ¡°Give these to your girl, Eddie. Just toss the card first, or you¡¯ll be in hot water.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you can¡¯t throw those roses away. They¡¯re the bee¡¯s knees!¡± Evie blurted.


    Theta squinted at her. ¡°These stems? They¡¯re from creepy Mr. Potts. He¡¯s forty-eight, and he¡¯s had four wives. I¡¯m only seventeen, and I¡¯m not looking to walk the middle aisle and be wife number five. I know plenty of chorus girls who¡¯re regular gold diggers, but not me, sister. I got plans.¡± She nodded to Mabel. ¡°Heya. Madge, right?¡±


    ¡°Mabel. Mabel Rose.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet ya, Mabel.¡± Theta fixed her liquid gaze on Evie. ¡°And you are?¡±


    ¡°Evangeline O¡¯Neill. But everyone calls me Evie.¡±


    ¡°Theta Knight. You can call me anything¡ªjust not before noon.¡± She produced a cigarette from her pajama pocket and waited for the doorman to light it, which he did. ¡°Thanks, Eddie.¡±


    ¡°Evie¡¯s staying with her uncle, Mr. Fitzgerald,¡± Mabel explained. ¡°She¡¯s from Ohio.¡±


    ¡°Sorry,¡± Theta deadpanned.


    ¡°You said it¡ªand how! Are you from New York?¡±


    Theta arched a thread-thin eyebrow. ¡°Everybody in New York¡¯s from someplace else.¡±


    Evie decided she liked Theta. It was hard not to be taken by her glamour. She¡¯d never known anyone in Ohio who lived on her own terms, wore silk men¡¯s pajamas into a public lobby, and could toss a dozen roses like they were a cup of Automat coffee. ¡°Are you really a Ziegfeld girl?¡±


    ¡°Guilty.¡±


    ¡°That must be terribly exciting!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a living,¡± Theta said on a stream of smoke. ¡°You should come to the show some night.¡±


    Evie thrilled at the thought. A Ziegfeld show! ¡°I¡¯d love to.¡±


    ¡°Swell. Name your night and I¡¯ll leave a coupla tickets for you both. Well, I¡¯d love to stay and beat my gums, but if I¡¯m gonna hit on all sixes later, I gotta grab my beauty sleep. Swell to meet ya, Evil.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Evie.¡±


    ¡°Not anymore,¡± Theta called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the elevator.


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you¡¯re really here,¡± Mabel said. She and Evie were seated in the Bennington¡¯s down-at-heel dining room having a couple of club sandwiches and Coca-Colas. ¡°What did you do to get drummed out of Ohio so quickly?¡±


    Evie toyed with the ice in her glass. ¡°Remember that little trick I told you about a few months ago? Well¡­¡± Evie told Mabel the story of Harold Brodie¡¯s ring. ¡°And the terrible thing is that I¡¯m right, and he comes off looking like the wronged party, the hypocrite!¡±


    ¡°Gee whiz,¡± Mabel said.


    Evie studied Mabel¡¯s face carefully. ¡°Oh, Mabesie. You believe me, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Of course I do.¡±


    ¡°And you don¡¯t think I¡¯m some sort of sideshow act?¡±


    ¡°Never.¡± Mabel swirled the ice in her glass, thinking. ¡°But I wonder why you¡¯re suddenly able to do it. You didn¡¯t fall and hit your head or something, did you?¡±


    Evie arched a brow. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t mean anything by it! I just thought there might be a medical reason. A scientific reason,¡± Mabel said hastily. ¡°Did you tell your uncle about it?¡±


    Evie shook her head emphatically. ¡°I¡¯m not rocking the boat. Everything¡¯s copacetic with Unc right now, and I want it to stay that way.¡±


    Mabel bit her lip. ¡°And did you meet Jericho?¡±


    ¡°I did indeed,¡± Evie said, finishing her Coca-Cola.


    ¡°What did you think?¡± Mabel asked, leaning in.


    ¡°Very¡­ solid.¡±


    Mabel let out a small squeak. ¡°Isn¡¯t he beautiful?¡±

 Page 19

    Evie thought about the Jericho she¡¯d just met¡ªquiet, serious, sober Jericho. There was nothing remotely seductive about him. ¡°He is to you, and that¡¯s what matters. So what have you done about this situation?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ last Friday, when we were both standing at the mailboxes?¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡± Evie wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.


    ¡°I stood very close to him¡­.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh.¡±


    ¡°And I said, just like this, ¡®Nice day, isn¡¯t it?¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°And that was it. Well, he said yes. So we were both in agreement about the weather.¡±


    Evie collapsed against the banquette. ¡°Holy smokes. It¡¯s like a party without any confetti. What we need is a plan, old girl. A romantic assault of epic proportions. We will shake the walls of Jericho! That boy won¡¯t know what hit him.¡±


    Mabel perked up. ¡°Swell! What¡¯s the plan?¡±


    Evie shrugged. ¡°Beats me. I just know we need one.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Mabel said.


    ¡°Oh, Mabesie, sugar. Don¡¯t worry about that. I¡¯ll think of something. In the meantime, we¡¯ll visit the shops, go see Theta in ¡®No Foolin¡¯ ¡¯ at the Follies¡ªI¡¯ll bet she knows all the hot spots¡ªCharleston till we drop. We are going to live, kiddo! I intend to make this the most exciting four months of our lives. And, if I play my cards right, I¡¯ll stay on.¡± Evie danced in her seat. ¡°So where are your folks tonight?¡±


    Mabel flushed. ¡°Oh. There¡¯s a rally for the appeal of Sacco and Vanzetti downtown. My mother and father are representing The Proletariat,¡± she said, reminding Evie of the name of the socialist newspaper Mabel¡¯s parents operated and distributed. ¡°I¡¯d be there but, well, I couldn¡¯t not see you on your first night in town!¡±


    ¡°Well, I suppose I¡¯ll see them tomorrow.¡±


    Mabel¡¯s face clouded. She shook her head. ¡°My mother will be speaking to the women¡¯s garment workers union. And Papa¡¯s got the newspaper to see to. They do so much for so many.¡±


    Mabel¡¯s letters were filled with stories of her parents¡¯ crusading efforts in the city. It was clear that she was very proud of them. It was also clear that their causes left them with little time or energy for their daughter.


    Evie patted Mabel¡¯s hand. ¡°It¡¯s just as well. Parents get in the way. My mother is impossible since she caught the disease.¡±


    Mabel looked stricken. ¡°Oh, dear. What¡¯s she got?¡±


    A slow smile stretched the corners of Evie¡¯s lips. ¡°Temperance. In the extreme.¡±


    Their laughter was interrupted by the approach of two elderly ladies. ¡°That is not how young ladies behave in the social sphere, Miss Rose. This carrying-on is most unseemly.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Miss Proctor,¡± Mabel said, chastened. Evie made a face that only Mabel could see, and Mabel had to bite her lip to keep from laughing again. ¡°Miss Lillian, Miss Adelaide, may I present Miss Evie O¡¯Neill. Miss O¡¯Neill is staying with her uncle, Mr. Fitzgerald, for a time.¡± Under the table, Mabel¡¯s foot pressed Evie¡¯s in warning.


    Miss Lillian smiled. ¡°Oh, how lovely. And what a sweet face. Doesn¡¯t she have a sweet face, Addie?¡±


    ¡°Very sweet, indeed.¡±


    The Misses Proctor wore their long gray hair curled like turn-of-the-century schoolgirls. The effect was odd and disconcerting, like porcelain dolls who had aged and wrinkled.


    ¡°Welcome to the Bennington. It¡¯s a grand old place. Once upon a time, it was considered one of the very best addresses in the city,¡± Miss Lillian continued.


    ¡°It¡¯s swell. Um, lovely. A lovely place.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Sometimes you might hear odd sounds in the night. But you mustn¡¯t be frightened. This city has its ghosts, you see.¡±


    ¡°All the best places do,¡± Evie said with mock-seriousness.


    Mabel choked on her Coca-Cola, but Miss Lillian did not take note. ¡°In the seventeen hundreds, this patch of land was home to those suffering from the fever. Those poor, tragic souls moaning in their tents, jaundiced and bleeding, their vomitus the color of black night!¡±


    Evie pushed her sandwich away. ¡°How hideously fascinating. I was just saying to Mabel¡ªMiss Rose¡ªthat we don¡¯t talk enough about black vomit.¡± Under the table, Mabel¡¯s foot threatened to push Evie¡¯s through the floor.


    ¡°After the time of the fever, they buried paupers and the mentally insane here,¡± Miss Lillian continued as if she hadn¡¯t heard. ¡°They were exhumed before the Bennington was built, of course¡ªor so they said. Though if you ask me, I don¡¯t see how they could possibly have found all those bodies.¡±

 Page 20

    ¡°Dead bodies are such trouble,¡± Evie said with a little sigh, and Mabel had to turn her head away so as not to laugh.


    ¡°Indeed,¡± Miss Lillian clucked. ¡°When the Bennington was built, in 1872, it was said that the architect, who had descended from a long line of witches, fashioned the building on ancient occult principles so that it would always be a sort of magnet for the otherworldly. So as I said, don¡¯t pay any mind to the odd sounds or sights you might experience. It¡¯s just the Bennington, dear.¡±


    Miss Lillian attempted a smile. A blot of red lipstick marked her teeth like a bloodstain. At her side, Miss Addie smiled into the distance and nodded as if greeting unseen guests.


    ¡°Please do excuse us, but we must retire,¡± Miss Lillian said. ¡°We¡¯re expecting company soon, and we must prepare. You will do us the honor of calling one evening, won¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°How could I not?¡± Evie answered.


    Miss Addie turned suddenly to Evie, as if truly seeing her for the first time. Her expression was grim. ¡°You¡¯re one of them, aren¡¯t you, dear?¡±


    ¡°Miss O¡¯Neill is Mr. Fitzgerald¡¯s niece,¡± Mabel supplied.


    ¡°No. One of them,¡± Miss Addie said in an urgent whisper that sent a shiver up Evie¡¯s spine.


    ¡°Now, now, Addie, let¡¯s leave these girls to their dinner. We¡¯ve work to do. Adieu!¡±


    The Proctor sisters were barely out of the dining room when Mabel convulsed in a fit of giggling. ¡° ¡®After the fever, there were the paupers,¡¯ ¡± she mimicked, still laughing.


    ¡°What do you suppose she meant, ¡®You¡¯re one of them¡¯? Does she say that to everyone she meets?¡± Evie asked, hoping she didn¡¯t sound as unsettled as she felt.


    Mabel shrugged. ¡°Sometimes Miss Addie wanders the floors in her nightgown. My father¡¯s had to return her to her flat a few times.¡± Mabel tapped her index finger against the side of her head. ¡°Not all there. She probably meant you¡¯re one of those flappers, and she does not approve,¡± she teased, wagging her finger like a schoolmarm. ¡°Oh, this really is going to be the best time of our lives, isn¡¯t it?¡± she said with such enthusiasm that Evie put Miss Addie¡¯s upsetting comment out of her mind.


    ¡°Pos-i-tute-ly!¡± Evie said, raising her glass. ¡°To the Bennington and its ghosts!¡±


    ¡°To us!¡± Mabel added. They clinked their glasses to the future.


    Evie and Mabel spent the afternoon catching up, and by the time Evie returned to Uncle Will¡¯s apartment it was nearly seven, and Will and Jericho had returned. The apartment was larger than she remembered, and surprisingly homey for a bachelor flat. A grand bay window looked out onto the leafy glory of Central Park. A settee and two chairs flanked a large radio cabinet, and Evie breathed a sigh of relief. There was a tidy kitchenette, which looked as if it rarely saw use. The bathroom boasted a tub perfect for soaking, but devoid of even the simplest luxuries. She¡¯d soon fix that. Three bedrooms and a small office completed the suite. Jericho showed her to a narrow room with a bed, a desk, and a chifforobe. The bed squeaked, but it was comfortable.


    ¡°That goes to the roof,¡± Jericho said, pointing to a fire escape outside her window. ¡°You can see most of the city from up there.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Evie managed to reply. ¡°Swell.¡± She intended to do more than watch the city from the roof. She would be in the thick of it. Her trunk had arrived, and she unpacked, filling the empty drawers and wardrobe with her painted stockings, hats, gloves, dresses, and coats. Her long strands of pearls she draped from the posts of her bed. The one item she did not put away was her coin pendant from James. When she¡¯d finished, Evie sat with Jericho and Uncle Will in the parlor as the men finished a supper of cold sandwiches in wax paper bought from the delicatessen on the corner.


    ¡°How did you come to be in the employ of my uncle?¡± Evie asked Jericho with theatrical seriousness. Jericho looked to Uncle Will, whose mouth was full. Neither said a word. ¡°Well. It¡¯s a regular mystery, I guess,¡± Evie went on. ¡°Where¡¯s Agatha Christie when you need her? I¡¯ll just have to make up stories about you. Let¡¯s see¡­ you, Jericho, are a duke who has forfeited his duchy¡ªfunny word, duchy¡ªand Unc is hiding you from hostile forces in your native country who would have your head.¡±


    ¡°Your uncle was my legal guardian until I turned eighteen this year. Now I¡¯m working for him, as his assistant curator.¡±


    The men continued eating their sandwiches, leaving Evie¡¯s curiosity unsatisfied. ¡°Okay. I¡¯ll bite. How did Unc¡ª¡±

 Page 21

    ¡°Must you call me that?¡±


    Evie considered it. ¡°Yes. I believe I must. How did Unc become your guardian?¡±


    ¡°Jericho was an orphan in the Children¡¯s Hospital.¡±


    ¡°Gee, I¡¯m sorry. But how¡ª¡±


    ¡°I believe the question has been answered,¡± Uncle Will said. ¡°If Jericho wishes to tell you more, he will on his own terms and in his own time.¡±


    Evie wanted to say something snappy back, but she was a guest here, so she changed the subject. ¡°Is the museum always that empty?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Uncle Will asked.


    ¡°Empty, as in devoid of human beings.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a little slow just now.¡±


    ¡°Slow? It¡¯s a morgue! You need bodies in there, or you¡¯re going to go under. What we need is some advertising.¡±


    Will looked at Evie funny. ¡°Advertising?¡±


    ¡°Yes. You¡¯ve heard of it, haven¡¯t you? Swell modern invention. It lets people know about something they need. Soap, lipstick, radios¡ªor your museum, for instance. We could start with a catchy slogan, like, ¡®The Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult¡ªwe¡¯ve got the spirit!¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°Things are fine as they are,¡± Will said, as if that settled the matter.


    Evie whistled low. ¡°Not from what I saw. Is it true the city¡¯s trying to take it for back taxes?¡±


    Will squinted over the top of his slipping spectacles. ¡°Who told you that?¡±


    ¡°The cabbie. He also said you were a conscie, and probably a Bolshevik. Not that it matters to me. It¡¯s just that I was thinking I could help you spruce the place up. Get some bodies in there. Make a mint.¡±


    Jericho glanced from Will to Evie and back again. He cleared his throat. ¡°Mind if I turn on the radio?¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± Will answered.


    The announcer¡¯s voice burbled over the wires: ¡°And now, the Paul Whiteman Orchestra, playing ¡®Wang Wang Blues.¡¯ ¡± The orchestra launched into a swinging tune, and Evie hummed along.


    CITY OF DREAMS


    The girl was exhausted and angry. For seventy-eight straight hours, she and her beau, Jacek, had loped through the dance marathon with hopes of winning the big prize, but Jacek had fallen asleep at last, nearly toppling her. The emcee had tapped them on the shoulder, signaling the end of the contest, and with it their dreams.


    ¡°Why¡¯d ya have to go and fall asleep, you big potato!¡± She punched him in the arm as they left the contest and he staggered, barely able to stay awake.


    ¡°Me? I held you up four different times. And you kept stepping on my feet with those boats o¡¯ yours.¡±


    ¡°Boats!¡± Tears stung at her eyes. She swung at him and stumbled, exhausted by the effort.


    ¡°Come on, Ruta. Don¡¯t be that way. Let¡¯s go home.¡±


    ¡°I ain¡¯t going nowhere with you. You¡¯re a bum.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t mean that. Here. Sit with me on this step. We can catch the train in the morning.¡±


    The exhaustion she¡¯d fought for so long finally caught up with her. ¡°I ain¡¯t goin¡¯ back like this, with everybody laughing at us like I ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ special and never will be!¡± she half sobbed. But Jacek didn¡¯t hear. He¡¯d already fallen asleep on the stoop of a flophouse. ¡°You can live there for all I care!¡± she shouted.


    The tracks of the Third Avenue El formed a cage over Ruta¡¯s head as she walked south on the Bowery looking for an El entrance where there weren¡¯t bums lying on the rickety stairs, just waiting. With each exhausted step, she felt the bitter disappointment of returning empty-handed to Greenpoint, Brooklyn, where her family lived in a two-room apartment in a crumbling building on a street where nearly everyone spoke Polish and the old men smoked cigarettes in front of store windows draped with fat strands of kielbasa. It was a world away from the bright lights of Manhattan. She looked uptown, toward the distant, hazy glow of Park Avenue, where the rich people lived. She just wanted her piece of it. None of this answering the telephone switchboard at a second-rate law office every day, making barely enough to go to the pictures. Ruta was only nineteen years old, and what she knew most was want¡ªa constant longing for the good life she saw all around her.


    Ruta Badowski. Ruta. She hated that name. It was so Polish, brought over by her parents, but she¡¯d been born here, in Brooklyn, New York, U.S.A. She¡¯d change her name to something more American, like Ruthie or Ruby. Ruby was good. Ruby¡­ Bates. Tomorrow, Ruta Badowski would quit her job at the switchboard and Ruby Bates would take the bus to Mr. Ziegfeld¡¯s theater and audition to be a chorus girl. One day, her name would be in lights, and Jacek and the rest could watch her from the cheap seats and go chase themselves.

 Page 22

    ¡°Good evening.¡±


    Ruta gasped; the voice startled her. She squinted in the gloom. ¡°Who¡¯s there? You better get lost. My brother¡¯s a cop.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve always had a great appreciation for the law.¡± The stranger stepped from the shadows.


    Her eyes must¡¯ve been playing tricks on her, because the man seemed almost like a ghost in the light. His clothes were funny¡ªhopelessly out of date: a tweed suit even though it was warm, a vest and suit jacket, and a bowler hat. He carried a walking stick with the silver head of a wolf at the top. The wolf¡¯s face was set in a snarl and its eyes were red like rubies. Ruby¡ªha! That gave her a small shudder, though she couldn¡¯t say why. It occurred to her that she wasn¡¯t in a safe place. These dance marathons were usually held in bad neighborhoods, where they wouldn¡¯t draw too much attention from the city.


    ¡°This is a dreadful place for a young lady to be walking alone,¡± the stranger said, as if he¡¯d read her thoughts. He offered his arm. ¡°Might I be of assistance?¡±


    Ruby Bates might be on her way to being a glamorous star, but Ruta Badowski had grown up on the streets. ¡°Thanks all the same, mister, but I don¡¯t need help,¡± she said crisply. When she turned to go, her ankle gave way, and she winced in pain.


    The stranger¡¯s voice was deep and soothing. ¡°My sister and I run an establishment nearby, a grand boardinghouse with a kitchen. Perhaps you¡¯d care to wait there? We¡¯ve a telephone if you wish to call your family. My sister, Bryda, has likely made paczki and coffee.¡±


    ¡°Paczki?¡± Ruta repeated. ¡°You¡¯re Polish?¡±


    The stranger smiled. ¡°I guess we¡¯re all just dreamers trying to find our way in this extraordinary country, aren¡¯t we, Miss¡­?¡±


    ¡°Ruta¡ªRuby. Ruby Bates.¡±


    ¡°Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Bates. My name is Mr. Hobbes.¡± He tipped his hat. ¡°But my friends call me John.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Mr. Hobbes,¡± Ruta answered. She swooned slightly from exhaustion.


    ¡°I have smelling salts, which might aid you now.¡± The man doused his handkerchief and held it out for her. Ruta inhaled. The scent was pungent and made her nose burn a little. But she did feel peppier. The stranger offered his arm again, and this time she took it. From the outside, he seemed a big man, but his arm was thin as a matchstick beneath his heavy coat. Something about that arm made Ruta cold inside, and she withdrew her own quickly.


    ¡°I¡¯m good now. Them salts helped. I¡¯ll take you up on that cuppa Joe, though.¡±


    He gave her a courtly little bow. ¡°As you wish.¡±


    They walked, the stranger¡¯s silver-tipped stick thudding a hollow rhythm against the cobblestones. He hummed a tune she didn¡¯t recognize.


    ¡°What¡¯s that song? I ain¡¯t heard it on the radio before.¡±


    ¡°No. I expect you haven¡¯t,¡± the stranger answered.


    With his left arm, he gestured to the broken-down Bowery, with its Christian missions and flophouses, fleabag hotels and tattoo parlors, restaurant-supply stores and rinky-dink manufacturers.


    ¡° ¡®Babylon is fallen, is fallen, that great city.¡¯ ¡±


    He pointed to where a couple of drunks slept on the stoop of a flophouse. ¡°Terrible. Someone should clean up this sort of riffraff, turn them back at the borders. They¡¯re not like you and me, Miss Bates. Clean. Good citizens. People with ambitions. Contributors to this shining city on the hill.¡±


    Ruta hadn¡¯t ever thought about it before, but she found herself nodding. She looked at those men with a new disgust. They were different from her family. Foreign.


    ¡°Not our kind.¡± The stranger shook his head. ¡°Once upon a time, the Bowery was home to the most stupendous restaurants and theaters. The Bowery Theatre¡ªthat great American theater, which was a sock in the eye to the elitist European theaters. The great thespian J. B. Booth, father of John Wilkes Booth, trod its boards. Are you a patron of the arts, Miss Bates?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I mean, yes. I am. I¡¯m an actress.¡± For some reason, Ruta felt a little giddy. The streets had a pretty glow to them.


    ¡°But of course! Pretty girl such as you. There¡¯s something quite special about you, isn¡¯t there, Miss Bates? I can tell that you have a very important destiny to fulfill, indeed. ¡®And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet and decked with gold and precious stones¡­.¡¯ ¡±


    The stranger smiled. In spite of the late hour, the strangeness of the circumstances, and the aching in her legs, Ruta smiled, too. The stranger¡ªno, he wasn¡¯t a stranger at all, was he? He was Mr. Hobbes. Such a nice man. Such a smart man¡ªclassy, too. Mr. Hobbes thought she was special. He could see what no one else could. It was what her grandmother would call a wr¨®z.ba, an omen. She wanted to cry with gratitude.

 Page 23

    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said softly.


    ¡° ¡®And upon her forehead was written a name of mystery,¡¯ ¡± the stranger said, and his face was alight with a strange fire.


    ¡°You a preacher or something?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you must be eager to call your family,¡± Mr. Hobbes said in answer. ¡°No doubt they¡¯ll be worried?¡±


    Ruta thought of her family¡¯s cramped apartment in Greenpoint and tried not to laugh. Her father would be awake next to her mother, coughing off the damp and the cigarettes and the factory dust in his lungs. Her four brothers and sisters would be crammed together in the next room, snoring. She wouldn¡¯t be missed. And she wasn¡¯t in a hurry to return.


    ¡°I don¡¯t wanna wake ¡¯em,¡± she said, and Mr. Hobbes smiled.


    They walked a dizzying number of side streets, until Ruta felt quite lost. The Manhattan Bridge loomed in the distance like the gate to an underworld. A light drizzle fell. ¡°Hey¡ªhey, Mr. Hobbes, is it gonna be much farther?¡±


    ¡°Here we are. Your chariot awaits,¡± he said, and Ruta saw a broken-down wagon, the old-fashioned kind, drawn by an old nag.


    ¡°I thought you said it was nearby.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯re tired. I¡¯ll drive us the rest of the way.¡±


    Ruta climbed into the buggy, and its gentle swaying rhythm and the clopping of the horse rocked her to sleep. When the old buggy stopped, all she saw was a hulking ruin of an old mansion on a hill surrounded by weedy vacant lots.


    Ruta shrank back. ¡°I thought you said you had a boardinghouse. Ain¡¯t nothing here but a wreck.¡±


    ¡°My dear, your eyes play tricks on you. Look again,¡± Mr. Hobbes whispered low.


    He waved his arm, and this time she saw a charming block of attached row houses, warm and homey, and at the end, a fancy mansion like the kind millionaires lived in, people with names like Carnegie and Rockefeller. Why, this Mr. Hobbes fella might even be a millionaire himself! The light drizzle turned to rain. Her velvet beaded shoes with the rhinestone buckles¡ªher prized possession, worth a week¡¯s pay¡ªwould be ruined, so she followed the man across the street toward shelter. A black cat crossed her path, startling her, and she laughed nervously. She was getting as bad as her superstitious aunt Pela, who saw evil omens everywhere. The door screamed shut on its hinges behind her and Ruta jumped. The man smiled beneath his heavy mustache, but the smile brought little warmth to his piercing blue eyes. This thought occurred to her fleetingly, but she dismissed it as silly. She was out of the rain, and in a minute she could sit and rest her bone-weary legs.


    The place smelled wrong, though. Like damp and rot and something else she couldn¡¯t put her finger on, but it unsettled her stomach. She put a hand to her nose.


    ¡°Alas, a poor unfortunate cat was lost in the walls. His aroma, I¡¯m afraid, lingers,¡± Mr. Hobbes said. ¡°But you¡¯re cold and tired. Come sit. I¡¯ll make a fire.¡±


    Ruta followed the man into another room. Squinting against the dark, she could see the outline of a fireplace. She stumbled and put out a hand to steady herself. The wall felt wet and sticky against her flesh. She yanked her hand away quickly and wiped it on her dress, shuddering.


    Mr. Hobbes stepped in front of the cold, blackened fireplace, and in the next moment a roaring fire appeared. Ruta tried to make sense of the sudden flames licking inside the chimney. No, she told herself. He had put in wood and struck a match. Of course he had. She couldn¡¯t remember it, but that¡¯s what must have happened. Boy, that marathon had done a number on her head.


    ¡°I-I think I oughta ring my folks after all. They¡¯ll be pretty sore if I don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Of course, my dear. I¡¯ll wake my sister. But first, I promised coffee.¡±


    Suddenly, the cup was in her hand.


    ¡°Drink. I won¡¯t be a moment.¡±


    With a bow and a tip of his funny hat, the big man disappeared from view. She could hear him humming, though, and she decided she didn¡¯t like that song. It made her skin crawl for some reason. The coffee was strong and hot. It had a bitter aftertaste, but it filled her empty stomach, and Ruta drank it down. Still, it was no match for her exhaustion. Her eyelids fluttered as she watched the fire. Heavier and heavier¡­


    Ruta woke with a snap of her head and a chalky taste on her tongue. The fire was out. How long had she slept? Had she called her family? No. She hadn¡¯t. Where was Mr. Hobbes? What about his sister? A rat skittered across her shoe. Ruta screamed and leaped up, noticing that she felt oddly watched, as if the room itself were alive. She could swear the walls were breathing. But that was impossible!

 Page 24

    ¡°Mr. Hobbes?¡± she called. ¡°Mr. Hobbes!¡±


    He didn¡¯t answer. Where was he? Where was she? Why had she gone with him? She was smarter than that¡ªrunning off with a complete stranger. No, he wasn¡¯t a stranger, she reminded herself. He was Mr. Hobbes, kindly Mr. Hobbes who thought she was pretty and special. Mr. Hobbes who might be related to millionaires. Who might be her ticket to the big time.


    So why did her breath catch so?


    Around her, the house seemed alive with some evil. There. She¡¯d said it. Evil. This word occurred to her just as she passed the lone gas lamp. Its sputtering flame cast doubt on the true nature of the walls. One minute, they were a rich golden hue. The next, Ruta stared at filthy paper peeling away from the plaster in ragged strips. Long streaks smudged across a spot illuminated beneath the lamp. She looked closer and saw dirty fingerprints. No. Not dirt. Blood. A bloody handprint. Four. Only four fingerprints. One was missing.


    Ruta¡¯s heart fluttered wildly and her legs jellied. This had been a terrible mistake. She would leave at once. Ruta turned and watched in horror as the last of the illusion crumbled and the house transformed before her eyes into a dark, rotting hole, the rot crawling up the walls to meet her. The smell hit her like a punch, making her gag. And there were rats. Oh, god, how she hated rats. With a little cry, Ruta stumbled forward, as if she could outrun the dark coming to get her. Where was the door? It was nowhere to be found! Almost as if the house were keeping it from her. As if it wanted to keep her here.


    ¡° ¡®And upon her forehead was a name written in Mystery: Babylon the Great, the Harlot¡­¡¯ ¡±


    She couldn¡¯t see the stranger but she could hear him, now whistling that god-awful song of his. There had to be another way out of here! A window off to her right looked promising, and she raced to it. Through the wooden slats nailed there, she could see a bum stumbling into the vacant lot across the street to take a piss.


    ¡°Hey! Hey, mister, help me! Please help me!¡± she shouted. When he didn¡¯t hear her, she beat her palms against the wood. She tore at the immovable planks until her nails were bloodied, her palms crosshatched with splinters. Outside, the oblivious drunk finished his business and wandered off into the night, and Ruta sank to the filthy floor, sobbing.


    When Ruta was three, her mother had locked her in a trunk so the landlord wouldn¡¯t find out they¡¯d had another baby and kick them out on the street. She¡¯d sat there alone, cramped, quiet in the dark, and utterly terrified. It seemed like hours before they let her out, and ever since, any feeling of being trapped made her feel like a scared child again. Panic emptied her mind of logic. She wandered the sprawling house in desperation. Mazelike hallways funneled her into squalid rooms; doors opened onto brick walls. All around her, she heard the man¡¯s terrible whistling. At last she spied a door she hadn¡¯t tried. She put her hand on the knob. The floor gave way beneath her, and she plummeted down a long chute into a foul, forgotten hole of a basement. Her ankle throbbed where it had bent beneath her weight and she cried out with the pain. She tried to take a step but it was agony, and she crashed back to the hard, cold dirt floor.


    The floors above her creaked. She could hear the stranger¡¯s distant whistling. Her mind emptied of everything but thoughts of survival. She blinked in the darkness, forcing her eyes to adjust. She had fallen quite a ways; the cellar was very deep, probably twenty feet below street level. She was sure she could scream all day and not be heard. What she needed was a weapon. She dragged herself by inches, feeling with her hand for something, anything she could use. Finally, her hand came to rest on a smooth stick. It was lightweight, but applied with enough force against an eye or a throat, it could wound. She held the stick tightly to her chest and waited. Far above her, a door clanged open, allowing the thinnest shaft of light to penetrate. She could see a staircase behind a wall, but there was no way she could manage it in her current state. The stick was her best shot. She might have to do more than wound.


    Mr. Hobbes closed the door and the light vanished. She was plunged into total darkness again, just like in the trunk. Ruta struggled to keep her breathing quiet when she wanted to scream with all her might. The stranger¡¯s footsteps drummed dully but evenly toward her, and she realized he no longer had his cane. His song echoed in the cellar. This time, he added words: ¡°Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on. Cuts your throat and takes your bones, sells ¡¯em off for a coupla stones.¡±


    The saliva caught in the back of Ruta¡¯s throat; she was too frightened to swallow. The old furnace flared suddenly to life, filling the room with an orange light that cast macabre shadows.

 Page 25

    Ruta scuttled behind the gauzy ruin of a curtain hanging on a forgotten clothesline and watched through the grainy fabric. She couldn¡¯t see Mr. Hobbes, but she could still hear him.


    ¡° ¡®¡­ Babylon the Great, the Harlot Adorned and Cast upon the Sea, the Abomination of the Earth. And this was the fifth offering as commanded by the Lord God.¡¯ ¡±


    Ruta¡¯s tongue was heavy in her mouth. Disquieting things skittered at the edges of her vision, but when she turned her head, they had vanished. Her left leg had gone numb.


    ¡° ¡®And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God.¡¯ Are you listening, Ruby?¡±


    Ruta held fast to her stick and was silent.


    The man fed something into the furnace and it flared. ¡° ¡®And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely. He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son.¡¯ ¡±


    The man walked the perimeter of the room as he spoke. ¡° ¡®But the unbelieving, and the abominable, the whoremongers and idolaters shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone. For only the chosen shall rise with the Beast. And the world fall to ash.¡¯ ¡±


    He was on the far side of the room; she could tell by his voice. Ruta¡¯s vision blurred and her stomach roiled. With horror, she realized she could not move her legs at all. What was happening to her? She thought back to the doused handkerchief and the coffee she¡¯d drunk, and her heart beat wildly. What had been in them? She looked again at the stick in her hand and saw that it was a bone. Ruta cried out and dropped it in revulsion. The curtain shot back. Mr. Hobbes loomed over her like a fiery god.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be put off by my appearance, my dear. I am only beginning to manifest.¡±


    His arms and neck had been branded with strange tattoos, symbols she didn¡¯t understand. The symbols rippled and bulged. His flesh moved as if something slithered just underneath. The fear could only find voice in her first language, and so she whispered the prayers in Polish.


    The man frowned. ¡°Prayers? I thought you were a modern girl for a modern age.¡±


    Backlit by the furnace, the stranger was a dark demon. The numbness had reached her arms now. Ruta¡¯s teeth chattered. ¡°P-please. Please. I w-won¡¯t tell nobody.¡±


    ¡°But you will.¡± The stranger dragged Ruta by her useless arm. ¡°I told you that you had an important destiny to fulfill, and so you shall: You, Ruby Bates, are the beginning of the end. Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on¡­.¡±


    When he reached the wall just behind the furnace, he felt along it with his bone-pale fingers. A hidden door opened, revealing another, secret room inside.


    ¡°Nie, nie, nie,¡± Ruta whispered, as if she could will the door to stay closed.


    ¡° ¡®I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, amen; and have the keys of hell and of death.¡¯ ¡±


    He smiled at her, and in his eyes she saw the fire and the endless swirling black, and her bladder let go.


    ¡°The ritual begins again,¡± the stranger said. He pulled Ruta into the hidden room, and all she could do was scream.


    PASSING STRANGER


    ¡°New York City¡¯s famous Hotsy Totsy Club presents the Count Carruthers Orchestra and the beautiful Hotsy Totsy Girls!¡±


    In the wings, Memphis Campbell watched as the scantily clad chorines launched into a high-energy dance number. The club was on fire tonight. Gabe¡¯s trumpet wailed, and the Count¡¯s fingers tore up all eighty-eight keys on the piano. Gabe played a bit from ¡°America the Beautiful,¡± turning it briefly into a dirge and letting his trumpet slide into despair before picking up the beat again. The white folks in the audience didn¡¯t get it, but smiles broke out on the faces of the black folks.


    Gabe hit his last piercing note. The audience applauded as the chorines bowed and sashayed offstage laughing and talking. A curvaceous girl named Jo stroked Memphis¡¯s cheek as she walked past. ¡°Hey, Memphis.¡±


    ¡°Hey, yourself.¡±


    Memphis¡¯s pal Alma rolled her eyes as she adjusted the front of her costume. ¡°You making money or making time tonight, Memphis?¡±

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    ¡°Both, I hope.¡±


    Jo giggled and tickled her fingers up his arm. Memphis employed the smile with Jo. ¡° ¡®PASSING stranger!¡¯ ¡± he said, putting his hand to his heart. ¡° ¡®You do not know how longingly I look upon you/You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking (it comes to me as of a dream)/I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you¡­¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°You write that, baby?¡± Jo purred.


    Memphis shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s Walt Whitman. ¡®To a Stranger.¡¯ You ever read his poems?¡±


    ¡°She doesn¡¯t read anything other than the gossip columns,¡± Alma said. Jo gave her a murderous glance.


    ¡°You¡¯re missing out,¡± Memphis said, aiming his full-wattage smile at Jo.


    ¡°This boy lives at the library over on 135th Street. Wants to be the next Langston Hughes,¡± Alma informed everyone.


    ¡°That so?¡± Jo asked.


    ¡°I could read some poems to you sometime.¡±


    ¡°How ¡¯bout Sunday?¡± Jo said. She licked her lips.


    ¡°Sundays always were my lucky days.¡±


    Alma rolled her eyes again and pulled Jo back into line. ¡°Come on, girls. We don¡¯t have time for foolishness. We need to get changed for the moon number.¡±


    ¡°Bye, baby.¡± Jo blew Memphis a kiss and he pretended to catch it.


    ¡°Memphis!¡± the stage manager bellowed around the cigar clenched between his teeth. ¡°I¡¯m not paying you to play with the girls. Papa Charles wants you. Hop to.¡±


    In the narrow hallway, Memphis passed Gabe and the Count, who were on their way out back.


    ¡°Hey, boss,¡± Gabe said, gripping Memphis¡¯s hand. ¡°We going to that rent party on Saturday? Plenty of flossy chicks and whiskey.¡±


    ¡°Whose whiskey? Don¡¯t get some coffin varnish off someone you don¡¯t know and put us both in the morgue.¡± It was a fact that disreputable bootleggers sometimes mixed the booze with kerosene or gasoline.


    Gabe spread his hands wide and grinned. ¡°Leave it to Gabe, brother.¡±


    Memphis laughed. Other than Isaiah, Gabe had been the one constant in his life. They¡¯d met in the fourth grade, when Gabe had gotten into trouble with the principal for selling cigarettes behind the school and Memphis had been assigned to be his buddy and set him straight. It set the tone of their friendship: Memphis was still there to get Gabe out of trouble, and Gabe was there to help Memphis get into it. The one thing Gabe was serious about was music. He was one of the hottest trumpet players in town. Word was definitely spreading about the skinny kid with the big sound. Even Duke Ellington had come to hear Gabe play. It was one of the reasons Papa Charles kept him on. Gabe was a prankster and a troublemaker, but once he started playing that horn, it was all worth it.


    ¡°Going out for a smoke. You want some mezz?¡± Gabe asked. His eyes were already a little red.


    Memphis shook his head. ¡°Gotta keep a clear head, Gabe.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself, Grandma.¡±


    ¡°I usually do,¡± Memphis said. He swiped a hand across the overhead light, feeling the warmth of the bulb, and then passed through a tunnel into the building next door where all the offices were. Several secretaries sat at long tables, counting money from the morning¡¯s numbers racket. Memphis tipped his cap to them and slipped into Papa Charles¡¯s office. From his seat behind a mahogany desk, Papa Charles waved Memphis toward a waiting chair while he finished his telephone call.


    Papa Charles was the undisputed king of Harlem. He controlled the numbers racket, the horse races and boxing matches. He ran the bootlegging and fixed things with the cops. If you needed a loan, you went to Papa Charles. When a church needed a new building, Papa Charles gave them the money. Schools, fraternal organizations, and even Harlem¡¯s professional basketball team, the New York Renaissance, or Rens, were financed in part by Papa Charles, the Dapper Gentleman. And at several clubs and speakeasies, like the Hotsy Totsy, he showcased some of the best musicians and dancers in town.


    ¡°Well, as long as I¡¯m running the numbers in Harlem, it¡¯ll stay black,¡± Papa Charles said firmly into the telephone, ¡°and you can tell Dutch Schultz and his associates that I say so.¡± He hung up forcefully and opened the lid on a silver box, selecting a cigar. He bit off the end and spat it into his wastebasket. Memphis lit the cigar¡¯s tip, trying not to cough as the first puffs of smoke billowed out.


    ¡°Trouble?¡±


    Papa Charles waved the thought and the smoke away. ¡°White bootleggers want to run the Harlem rackets now. I don¡¯t intend to let them. But they¡¯re working hard at it. Heard the police raided one of Queenie¡¯s joints last night.¡±

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    ¡°I thought she paid off the police.¡±


    ¡°She does.¡± He let that land while he drew on the cigar, turning the air thick and spicy. ¡°The white folks¡¯ll lose interest in our games. They¡¯ve got bootlegging to keep them busy. Still, might want to be extra careful out there. I¡¯m telling all my runners. How¡¯s your aunt Octavia doing?¡±


    ¡°Fine, sir.¡±


    ¡°And Isaiah? He getting along all right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°Good, good. And on the streets?¡±


    ¡°Smooth as Gabe¡¯s licks.¡±


    Papa Charles smiled. ¡°Best way to learn the business is from the streets up. Someday, you can be working right here next to me.¡±


    Memphis didn¡¯t want to work for Papa Charles. He wanted to read his poetry at one of Miss A¡¯Lelia Walker¡¯s salons, alongside Countee Cullen, Zora Neale Hurston, and Jean Toomer¡ªmaybe even beside Mr. Hughes himself.


    ¡°You all right, son? Something the matter?¡±


    Memphis found his smile. ¡°You know me, sir. I don¡¯t wear worry.¡±


    Papa Charles smiled around his cigar. ¡°That¡¯s the Memphis I know.¡±


    Good old Memphis. Reliable Memphis. Charming, easygoing Memphis. Look-after-your-brother Memphis. Memphis had been the star once. The miracle man. And it had ended in sorrow. He wouldn¡¯t ever risk that again. These days, he kept his feelings confined to the pages of his notebook.


    ¡°It¡¯s time to collect the gratuities from our grateful friends,¡± Papa Charles said¡ªcode for the protection money every business paid to the Dapper Gentleman if they wanted to stay in business and have his protection. The city ran on corruption as much as on electricity.


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°Memphis, you sure you all right?¡±


    Memphis offered up the smile again. ¡°Never better, sir.¡±


    On the way out of the club, Memphis nodded at Papa Charles¡¯s chauffeur, who stood guard beside a brand-new Chrysler Imperial before blending into the crowds out for a good time on Lenox Avenue. He hit up the various nightclubs Papa Charles ran¡ªthe Yeah Man, the Tomb of the Fallen Angels, and the Whoopee¡ªalong with smaller speakeasies hidden in brownstone basements on tree-lined side streets. Memphis followed big men through back rooms gray with cigarette smoke where people sat at green felt tables playing cards, hustling pool, or rolling craps. The women would cup his chin, call him handsome, ask him to dance. He¡¯d beg off, using the smile to smooth the rejection. Sometimes the club owners offered him a drink or let him listen in on the jazz or watch the revue girls dance. Other times, they made him wait upstairs in a dimly lit office, where Memphis was never sure if they¡¯d be coming back with money or a Tommy gun. In the neat columns of the ledger, he wrote down the amount paid, dodging questions about whether Papa Charles knew if the fix was in for this fight or that game.


    ¡°I¡¯m just a runner,¡± he¡¯d say and use the smile.


    On the streets, he kept an eye out for plainclothes cops. If he got arrested, Papa Charles would have him out in a few hours, but he still didn¡¯t want to take the chance.


    It was well after eleven when Memphis returned to the Hotsy Totsy. Gabe came running up to him. ¡°Where you been, boss man?¡±


    ¡°Out on business. Why?¡±


    ¡°Come quick! It¡¯s Jo. She fell and hurt herself.¡±


    ¡°Then call a doctor.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s asking for you, Memphis.¡±


    Jo sat at the bottom of the stage stairs, crying, surrounded by concerned chorines. Through the crack in the curtain, Memphis could see the audience getting restless. It was time for the next number to start, and already Jo¡¯s ankle was swelling up. ¡°Caught my heel on the second step and turned it,¡± she burbled through her tears. ¡°Oh, please, Lord, don¡¯t let it be broken.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d better tell Francine she¡¯s on,¡± one of the chorines said.


    Jo shook her head. ¡°I gotta go on tonight. I need the money!¡± She looked up at Memphis, her eyes hopeful. ¡°I remembered about you. What you could do. Please, can you help me, Memphis?¡±


    Memphis¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°I can¡¯t do that anymore.¡±


    Jo sobbed and Gabe put a hand on Memphis¡¯s arm. ¡°Come on, brother. Just try¡­.¡±


    ¡°I told you, I can¡¯t!¡± Memphis shook off Gabe¡¯s hand and stormed down the stairs as the stage manager cradled Jo in his arms and carried the miserable girl away. Onstage, the emcee announced the next number, the Black Bottom, and the other girls plus Francine scampered out wearing smiles and very little else. Memphis deposited the money he¡¯d collected on his rounds with the secretaries. He pushed out into the night again, his mind troubled by memories of a time when he was someone else, a golden boy with healing hands: Miracle Memphis, the Harlem Healer.

 Page 28

    The healing power had come on Memphis suddenly after an illness when he was fourteen. For days, he¡¯d lain in a state of semiconsciousness, seeing the strangest sights as the fever burned through his body. His mother never left his side. When he recovered, they went straight to church to give thanks. On that Sunday morning at the old Mother AME Zion Church, Memphis healed for the first time. His seven-year-old brother, Isaiah, had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. The bone stuck up under the skin at a terrible angle. Memphis was only trying to quiet his screaming brother when he put his hands on him. He never expected the intense warmth that built suddenly between Isaiah¡¯s skin and his own hands. The trance came on him hard and fast. His eyes rolled back and he felt as if he had left his body and was trapped inside a waking dream. He saw things in that strange empty space he inhabited for those long seconds, things that he didn¡¯t understand: faces in the mist, spectral shadows, and a funny man in a tall hat whose coat seemed to be made of the land itself. There was a bright light and a fluttering of wings, and when Memphis came to, shaking, a crowd had gathered around him in the churchyard. Isaiah had weaseled out from under his brother¡¯s touch and was swinging his arm around in perfect circles. ¡°You fixed it, Memphis. How¡¯d you do that?¡±


    ¡°I-I don¡¯t know.¡± Despite the New York summer heat soaking the collar on his Sunday best, Memphis shivered.


    ¡°It¡¯s a miracle,¡± someone said. ¡°Praise Jesus!¡±


    Memphis saw his mother standing at the edge of the awestruck congregation, one hand pressed to her mouth, and was afraid she might slap him for what he¡¯d done. Instead, she hugged him close. When she stepped back, there were tears in her eyes. ¡°My son is a healer,¡± she whispered, cupping his face.


    ¡°You hear that? This boy¡¯s a healer,¡± someone shouted. ¡°Let us pray.¡±


    They bowed their heads and reached out for him, and as Memphis felt their hands blessing his head and shoulders, his mother¡¯s fingers clasped in his, his fear turned to exultation. I did that, he thought in wonder. How did I do that?


    Only Aunt Octavia was skeptical. ¡°Why would the good Lord give that gift to a boy?¡± she¡¯d asked his mother later, in the house on 145th Street. They were in the front parlor sitting beside the radio and snapping beans for the next day¡¯s supper. It had been too hot to sleep well, and Memphis had gotten up for a cup of water. When he heard them talking, he hid in the darkened hallway, listening. ¡°Sometimes a gift is really a curse in disguise, Viola. A test from the Good Lord. Might be the Devil himself in that boy.¡±


    ¡°Hush up, Octavia,¡± his mother had said. She rarely stood up to her older sister, and Memphis felt proud of her even as Octavia¡¯s words sowed doubt under his skin. ¡°My boy is something special. You¡¯ll see.¡±


    ¡°Well, I hope you¡¯re right, Vi,¡± Octavia had said after a pause, and then there was nothing but the sharp snip, snip, snip of string beans being broken into halves and dropped into a bowl.


    News of Memphis¡¯s powers quickly spread through the Harlem churches. When Pastor Brown balked at using Memphis¡¯s gift during services at Mother AME Zion¡ª¡°We¡¯re not that sort of religion, Viola¡±¡ªMemphis¡¯s mother had taken him to the various Pentecostal and Spiritualist storefront churches, over Octavia¡¯s objections: ¡°Low-class holy rollers¡ªand some of ¡¯em talk to the dead, Vi. Nothing good¡¯s gonna come of this, mark me.¡±


    There, on the fourth Sunday of every month, for eight months running, Memphis stood beside the pulpit looking out at faces both hopeful and skeptical. While the choir sang ¡°Wade in the Water,¡± and people prayed and sometimes shouted out to God, congregants would come forward with their ailments and Memphis would lay hands on them, feeling the warmth build under his palms, seeing into that other place in his mind, the place of vague faces in the mist. Miracle Memphis. And then, when it had mattered most, the miracle had failed him. No, not just failed¡ªturned on him.


    From time to time, he¡¯d catch Octavia eyeing him from the doorway, wearing an expression somewhere between contempt and fear. ¡°Doesn¡¯t take much for the Devil to get inside, Memphis John. You remember that.¡±


    Memphis usually thought his aunt¡¯s obsessive thoughts about the Devil were crazy. But what if she was right? What if there was something terribly wrong, a shadow side to him that was biding its time, waiting? The thought was like his dream¡ªunsettling and unreadable.


    The trouble with Jo back at the club had left Memphis rattled, and so, his business taken care of for the evening, he hopped the double-decker Fifth Avenue Coach Company bus going uptown and got off around 155th Street. He walked several blocks north, then west toward the river, where the houses thinned out, until he came to a small African graveyard on a bluff, the final resting spot of freed slaves and black soldiers. There, in the peace and quiet of possible ancestors, Memphis liked to sit and write. Memphis found the lantern he kept secreted inside the knothole of a sheltering oak. He struck a match from the book he¡¯d pocketed at the Yeah Man club. The flame inside the lantern gave off a comforting glow. Memphis perched on the cool ground and opened his notebook. In its way, writing was like healing: a cure for the loneliness he felt. Sometimes the cure took; other times, it didn¡¯t. But he kept trying. He bent his head over his notebook, writing by lantern light, chasing after words like trying to grab the tails of comets. All around him, Harlem was alive with writers, musicians, poets, and thinkers. They were changing the world. Memphis wanted to be part of that change.

 Page 29

    He was startled from his concentration by the cawing of a crow perched on a headstone nearby. Memphis¡¯s mother had told him that birds were heralds. Warnings. It was silly, of course¡ªnothing more than some leftover African superstition. Birds were just birds. He was reminded for just a moment of the crows in his dream, but the thought was fleeting. The hour was late and Memphis¡¯s eyes burned with exhaustion. There would be no more words tonight. He blew out the lantern, bundled everything into his knapsack, and headed down the empty street with its lonely gas lamp. The moon sat full and gold above the ruin of the old house on the hill, the former Knowles mansion, now dwarfed by the rows of apartment buildings in the distance. No one had lived there in all the time Memphis had been going to the graveyard. The house gave Memphis the creeps, and he usually walked down the center of the street, far from it.


    Cold light washed over the boarded-up windows and refuse-strewn lawn. It pooled on the marble limbs of a broken angel statue and made the dead trees seem alive. Memphis glanced quickly at the house and stopped. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement. Something about the house was different, though he couldn¡¯t say what.


    The bothersome crow flitted past, making Memphis jump, and he hurried on his way. Once back on the crowded streets of Harlem, Memphis shook his head and laughed softly at his skittishness. He took comfort in the neon signs, the wild strands of jazz creeping out of clubs whenever happy swells of people pushed through the doors in their finery. Blind Bill Johnson shuffled up the street, his cane testing the path ahead of him. Memphis didn¡¯t feel like talking to the old man, so he dodged down a side street and raced on. It felt good to run in the warm September night. He had his notebook of poems, his books, and a pocket full of money. What was there to be worried about? It was time to stop worrying and get on with living. With his world slung on his back, Memphis walked the rest of the way back to Harlem. He passed the brownstones of Sugar Hill, peering from afar into the warm amber light of windows and lives he hoped would someday be his, and headed for home.


    His brother, Isaiah, was asleep in the narrow bed by the window in the back room. Memphis took off his shoes, undressed, and slipped into his own bed as quietly as possible. Isaiah sat up and Memphis held his breath, hoping his brother would roll over and fall back to sleep. He hoped he hadn¡¯t woken him.


    Isaiah sat very still, staring into the dark. ¡°I am the dragon. The beast of old,¡± he said.


    Memphis raised himself onto his elbows. ¡°Ice Man? You all right?¡±


    Isaiah didn¡¯t move. ¡°I stand at the door and knock.¡±


    A few seconds later, he fell back on the pillow, fast asleep. Memphis felt his brother¡¯s forehead, but it was cool. Nightmare, he guessed. Memphis sure knew about those. He rolled onto his side and let his body go limp. His eyelids grew heavy and sleep overtook him.


    In the dream, Memphis stood on a dusty road bordered by cornfields. Overhead, the clouds tangled into dark, angry clumps. In the distance sat a farmhouse, a red barn, and a gnarled tree stripped of leaves. A crow cawed from a mailbox on a wooden post. The crow flew to the fields and perched on the shoulder of a tall man in a funny hat. His skin was as gray as the sky, his eyes black and shining. The half moons of his nails were caked with dirt, and every finger wore a ring. ¡°The time is now,¡± the man said, though Memphis did not see his lips move.


    The dream shifted. Memphis stood in a long corridor. At the end was a metal door, and on the door was the symbol: the eye surrounded by the sun¡¯s rays, a lightning bolt directly beneath it like a long zigzag of a tear. He heard the soft flutter of wings, and then he was lost in heavy fog, and his mother¡¯s voice called to him: ¡°Oh, my son, my son¡­¡±


    Memphis was not aware of the tears damp on his own cheeks. He moaned softly in his sleep, rolled over, and was lost to a different dream, of pretty chorus girls waving fans of feathers who blew sweet kisses and promised him the world.


    EVIE¡¯S DREAM


    Evie¡¯s dream began as it often did, with fog and the snow and the forest. James stood on the edge of the wood in his crisp khaki uniform, pale and grim. Evie¡¯s lips formed his name in her sleep, but inside the dream, there was no sound. With one arm, James motioned to her to follow.


    The trees grew sparser as they came to a small clearing filled with soldiers. A boy in sergeant¡¯s stripes began shouting orders, and the camp blurred with sudden movement¡ªcigarettes tamped under boots, tin coffee mugs abandoned, gas masks donned, positions taken, every man alert and waiting. Dark clouds swirled overhead. Flashes of lightning broke the gloom like a charge¡ªone, two, three! Someone was pulling her down into a deep trench, and Evie slid along the earthen, tomblike walls, hiding from an enemy she could not see. There was a haunting silence, like the world holding its breath, and then Evie watched in awe as a fierce wave of bruising light spread across the sky, followed seconds later by a violent force that knocked her to the ground like the punch of an invisible giant.

 Page 30

    The air swirled with smoke and ash. Evie climbed out of the trench and fell onto a soldier whose bones shattered into dust. It was as if he¡¯d been hollowed out completely. His eyes were gone, his mouth stretched into a hideous grin. Bloody tears scarred his shriveled, sunken cheeks. Evie screamed and scrambled forward across the scorched ground, where soldiers¡¯ strewn bodies lay like trampled wildflowers. The beautiful trees were no more than blackened wisps now. Here and there, she caught glimpses of ghostly soldiers on the field¡¯s misty edges, but when she turned her head, they were gone. Evie called for James, and there he was on the path up ahead, safe! She ran to him, but his expression was one of warning. He was saying something, but she couldn¡¯t hear it. His eyes. Something was happening to his eyes. James stretched out his arms and threw back his head. There was another blinding flash.


    Evie woke, biting off the start of a scream. The little fan beside her bed whirred, but she was drenched with sweat. With trembling fingers, she felt for the lamp switch, then blinked against the sudden light. The unfamiliarity of the new room made her jittery. She needed to breathe. She climbed onto the rickety fire escape and up to the roof, where it was cool and open. Jericho was right¡ªthe view was great from up there. Manhattan unfurled before her like a jeweler¡¯s velvet adorned with diamonds. The trains still rattled over the tracks, even at this hour. The city was as restless as she was. On the ledge, a pigeon cooed and pecked at scraps of bread.


    ¡°You and me, kiddo, we¡¯re gonna take this town by storm,¡± Evie joked even as she wiped away the tears that blurred the skyline into fractured light. ¡°Don¡¯t be a sap, old girl,¡± she scolded. ¡°Buck up.¡±


    Evie let the wind kiss her cheeks. She opened her arms as if to embrace Manhattan. Starting tomorrow, she told herself, things would be different. There would be shopping, a picture show with Mabel. On Saturday, they could take the subway out to Coney Island, dip their toes in the Atlantic, and ride the Thunderbolt roller coaster. In the evening, she¡¯d find a party and dance as if there were no dead brothers or terrible dreams. It was all going to be the berries.


    Evie brought her arms back to hug herself. She rubbed her nose on her sleeve and crooned in a soft voice, ¡°The city¡¯s bustle cannot destroy the dreams of a girl and boy. I¡¯ll turn Manhattan into an isle of joy.¡±


    The train rattled past, startling the pigeon into flight.


    In the blazing canyons of brick and neon, the city carried on. People met and parted, hurried and idled. Subways rumbled. Car horns bleated. Traffic lights cycled from green to yellow to red and back again.


    In Harlem, Blind Bill Johnson lay on his cot in the long room of other cots inside the YMCA and waited on sleep. It was warm in the room, like the press of sun on the back of his neck when he used to work the cotton fields back in Mississippi. He could see that butter-thin sun of memory now, the way it had broken through rain clouds and glinted off the dark car that carried the shadow men.


    Mabel Rose read Tolstoy by lamplight and tried to block out the sound of her parents¡¯ arguing in the other room. At last, she rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling and imagining that a few floors above, Jericho lay in his bed, also awake, thinking only of her.


    In the African graveyard, leaves scuttled across long-quiet graves and onto the lawn of the house on the hill. The broken angel statue did not feel the cool of the long shadow passing over the yard. Its sightless eyes took no notice of the stranger wiping the blood from his hands as he took in the majesty of the starry sky. And its deaf ears did not hear the chilling whistle of the tune from long ago as it idled briefly on the wind before being lost to the frantic, yearning jazz of the city.


    Miss Addie stood at her large bay window looking out at the Central Park Reservoir and Belvedere Castle, bathed in the slightly orange glow of the moon. She rocked gently on her heels and sang a song she had known since childhood.


    ¡°Tea¡¯s almost ready,¡± Miss Lillian said, joining her at the window. ¡°Ah. Look how the moon hits the Belvedere. Beautiful.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡± Miss Addie put a hand to the glass, as if she could hold the castle in her palm. ¡°Do you feel the change, sister?¡±


    Miss Lillian nodded solemnly. ¡°Yes, sister.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re coming.¡± Miss Addie turned her eyes back to the park, keeping watch over the night until the moon paled against the early dawn sky and the untouched tea had gone ice-cold in its cup.


    THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE


    Evie¡¯s first week in New York City had proved to be every bit as exciting as she¡¯d hoped. In the afternoons, she and Mabel took the El to the movie palace to watch Douglas Fairbanks, Buster Keaton, and Charlie Chaplin, and one particularly warm day they¡¯d ridden the Culver Avenue Line out to Coney Island. There, they dipped their toes in the cold surf of the Atlantic and strolled past the penny arcades and carnival-like amusements, pretending not to notice the calls of the Boardwalk Romeos who begged for their attention. When Mabel had finished with her schoolwork and Evie with her recommended reading from Will, they window-shopped at Gimbels, trying on shawl-collar coats trimmed in fur and brimless cloche hats that made them feel like movie stars. After, they¡¯d buy freshly roasted peanuts at Chock Full O¡¯Nuts or stop for a sandwich at the Horn & Hardart Automat, where Evie thrilled at retrieving her food from the little glass compartment after she¡¯d deposited her coin and pushed the button.

 Page 31

    Evenings, Evie and Mabel went downstairs to the Bennington¡¯s shabby dining room and sat beneath its sputtering lights to drink egg creams and plot their great Manhattan adventures. When Mabel had to help her parents at a workers¡¯ rally one evening, Evie took the liberty of calling on Theta and Henry in their flat. Henry had met her at the door wearing a smoking jacket over a pair of baggy Moroccan pants worn with an unbuttoned tuxedo shirt. It was clear at a glance that he and Theta couldn¡¯t be related¡ªhis freckled fairness was a stark contrast to her dark, smoky looks¡ªbut it was also clear by the way they were with each other that they were not lovers, only dear friends. Henry had raised an eyebrow at Evie as he leaned against the door frame and said, in his long, slow drawl, ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯ve come about the leak under the sink?¡± Evie had laughed and promised to chew enough Doublemint gum to fix it and Henry had swung the door open wide with a grand ¡°Entrez, mademoiselle!¡± Theta lay on a velvet fainting couch wearing her silk men¡¯s pajamas, a peacock-patterned scarf tied dramatically around her head. ¡°Oh. Hiya, Evil. What¡¯s doing?¡± The three of them had knocked back shots of gin stolen from a party Theta had been to at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel and made up silly songs that Henry picked out on the ukulele, and no one complained that Evie was completely tone-deaf. Then they played cards until the wee hours, and Evie crawled home to Will¡¯s apartment just ahead of the morning sun with the feeling that everything was possible in Manhattan and that a great adventure lay ahead of her¡ªjust as soon as she slept off the night.


    Now the first hints of red and gold limned the treetops in Central Park and an Indian-summer sun shone over Manhattan. Evie, Mabel, and Theta, outfitted in their fashionable best, boarded the crowded trolley for an afternoon jaunt to the movies. The three of them raced to the back and squeezed into a double seat, talking excitedly.


    ¡°Evie, how is Jericho these days?¡± Mabel asked and bit her lip. She tried to seem casual about it, but she had absolutely no poker face, and Evie knew she must be dying inside.


    ¡°Who¡¯s Jericho?¡± Theta asked.


    ¡°My uncle¡¯s assistant,¡± Evie explained. ¡°The big blond fellow.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s absolute perfection,¡± Mabel said, and both of Theta¡¯s pencil-thin eyebrows shot up.


    ¡°You goofy for him?¡±


    ¡°And how,¡± Evie confirmed. ¡°It is my solemn mission to join together these two lovebirds. We¡¯re off to a slow start, but I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll pick up steam for Operation Jericho now.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡± Theta appraised Mabel coolly. ¡°What you need is a visit to the barber, kiddo.¡±


    Mabel clamped a hand protectively over the braid coiled at the back of her neck. ¡°Oh. Oh, I don¡¯t think I could.¡±


    ¡°Well, of course, if you¡¯re scared¡­¡± Theta winked at Evie.


    ¡°Yes, of course. Not all of us can be brave,¡± Evie tutted, patting Mabel¡¯s hand.


    ¡°I could bob my hair anytime I wanted to,¡± Mabel protested.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to, Pie Face,¡± Evie said, batting her lashes.


    ¡°Not if you¡¯re scared,¡± Theta teased.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have you know I¡¯ve faced down angry mobs at my mother¡¯s political rallies and walked on picket lines. I¡¯m certainly not afraid of the barber!¡± Mabel sniffed.


    ¡°Fine. Let¡¯s put some dough on it. I¡¯ll pony up a buck if you bob your hair today.¡±


    ¡°Two dollars,¡± Evie chimed.


    Mabel paled. But then she tilted her chin just like her society-born mother. ¡°Fine!¡± she said and signaled the trolley driver to stop.


    Mabel glanced nervously at the Esquire Barbershop window, with its ad proclaiming WE BOB HAIR! LOOK LIKE THE STARS OF STAGE AND SCREEN! along with a drawing of a beautiful flapper in a feathered headdress.


    ¡°Mabesie, that style would be swell on you,¡± Evie said. ¡°Jericho would adore it.¡±


    ¡°Jericho is a deep thinker and a scholar. He doesn¡¯t pay attention to hairstyles,¡± Mabel said, but she sounded terrified.


    Theta touched up her lipstick in a store window. ¡°Even a scholar¡¯s got eyes, kid.¡±


    Evie brushed her hand across an imaginary screen. ¡°Just picture it: You breeze into the museum as a whole new Mabel¡ªMabel the Enchantress! Mabel the Flapper! Mabel the Hot Jazz Baby!¡±


    ¡°Mabel Who Better Make Up Her Mind or We¡¯ll Miss the Picture,¡± Theta added.


    ¡°I¡¯ll do it.¡±


    ¡°Attagirl!¡± Evie said. She pushed Mabel toward the barbershop. Evie and Theta hurried to the windows and pressed their faces to the glass to watch. Mabel spoke to the barber, who ushered her into a chair. She looked nervously in the girls¡¯ direction. Evie waved and gave her a winning smile.

 Page 32

    ¡°She won¡¯t do it,¡± Theta said.


    ¡°I say she will.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Let¡¯s up the ante on it. Ten dollars.¡±


    Ten dollars was a princely sum, but Evie wasn¡¯t about to back down.


    ¡°Done!¡±


    They shook on it and put their faces back to the window. Inside, Mabel sat in the barber¡¯s chair and let him wrap an apron around her neck.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to buy the swankiest stockings with your ten dollars, Theta.¡±


    Theta smirked. ¡°Ain¡¯t over yet, kiddo.¡±


    Mabel gripped the padded armrests of the barber¡¯s chair as he pumped the foot pedal, lifting her higher. He brought his scissors toward Mabel¡¯s hair. Her eyes widened and she jumped from the chair, threw down the apron, and bolted for the door, setting the bell over it tinkling like Santa¡¯s sleigh.


    ¡°Ah, applesauce!¡± Evie hissed.


    Theta held out her palm. ¡°I¡¯m gonna enjoy those stockings, Evil.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I-I just couldn¡¯t,¡± Mabel stammered as the girls made their way toward Times Square. ¡°I saw those scissors and I thought I¡¯d faint!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all right, Mabesie. Not everybody can be a Zelda,¡± Evie said, linking arms with her pal.


    ¡°If I¡¯m going to win Jericho, I have to win him as I am.¡±


    ¡°And you shall!¡± Evie reassured her. ¡°Somehow.¡±


    At Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue, they waved to the policeman perched in the glass enclosure atop the traffic tower with its red, green, and yellow signals. He tipped his hat and the girls laughed, buoyed by the crowds crossing amid the motorcars and double-decker buses. Steam pulsed up through sewer grates, as if the city and its bustling people were but part of a great mechanism powered by unseen machinery. As they waited to cross the street, a ragged man in a rickety wheelchair rattled his tin cup at them. He was dressed in a filthy army uniform; his legs were missing below the knees. ¡°A bit of charity for one who served,¡± he rasped.


    Evie reached into her coin purse and retrieved a dollar, which she stuffed into his cup. ¡°There you are.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he said. He looked at Evie and muttered softly, ¡°The time is now; the time is now; the time is now. Careful¡­ careful¡­¡±


    ¡°If you fall for every sob story on the street, you¡¯ll be broke by next week, Evil,¡± Theta cautioned as they crossed to the other side of the street.


    ¡°My brother served. He didn¡¯t come back.¡±


    ¡°Oh, gee, kiddo. I¡¯m sorry,¡± Theta said.


    ¡°It was a long time ago,¡± Evie said. She didn¡¯t want to start their friendship on such a sour note. ¡°Oh, look at that woman¡¯s dress, will you? It¡¯s the cat¡¯s particulars!¡±


    When they reached the Strand movie palace, the girls bought twenty-five-cent tickets and a white-gloved, red-suited usher showed them to their seats in the balcony overlooking the enormous gilded stage with its gold curtain. Evie had never seen anything so grand. The seats were plush velvet. Friezes and murals decorated the walls. Marble columns reached up to ornately decorated boxes and balconies. In the corner, a man played a Wurlitzer organ, and down below sat a pit for a full orchestra.


    The house lights dimmed. The light from the projectionist¡¯s booth played across the slowly opening curtain. Evie could hear the clack of the film as it moved through its paces. Flickering words filled the screen: PATHE NEWS. GENEVA, SWITZERLAND. THE 7TH GENERAL ASSEMBLY OF THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS MEETS. Official-looking men in suits and hats stood before a beautiful building. THE ASSEMBLY WELCOMES GERMANY TO THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS.


    ¡°We want Rudy!¡± Evie shouted at the screen. Mabel¡¯s eyes widened in alarm, but Theta smirked, and Evie felt a small thrill that her rebelliousness had hit the mark. A man four seats down shushed her. ¡°Get a job, Father Time,¡± she muttered, and the girls tried to stifle their giggles.


    On-screen, a movie-star-handsome man inspected a factory and shook the hands of workers. The screen cut to white words on a black background: AMERICAN BUSINESSMAN AND INVENTOR JAKE MARLOWE SETS NEW RECORD IN INDUSTRIAL PRODUCTION.


    ¡°That Jake Marlowe sure is a Sheik,¡± Evie murmured appreciatively.


    ¡°My parents don¡¯t like him,¡± Mabel whispered from beside her.


    ¡°Your parents don¡¯t like anybody who¡¯s rich,¡± Evie said.


    ¡°They say he won¡¯t let his workers unionize.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s his company. Why shouldn¡¯t he do as he sees fit?¡± Evie said.


    The disgruntled man waved for an usher. The girls immediately quieted and tried to look innocent. The newsreel ended and the picture began. Metro presents Rex Ingram¡¯s production of Vincent Blasco Iba?ez¡¯s literary masterpiece THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE flashed upon the screen and they fell silent, held rapt by the screen¡¯s glow and Rudolph Valentino¡¯s beauty. Evie imagined herself on the silver screen kissing someone like Valentino, her picture in Photoplay magazine. Maybe she¡¯d live in a Moorish-style mansion in the Hollywood Hills, complete with tiger-skin rugs. That was what Evie loved best about going to the pictures: the chance to dream herself into a different, more glamorous life. But then the film came to the scenes of war. Evie stared at the soldiers in the trenches, the young men crawling across the rain-soaked no-man¡¯s-land of the battlefield, falling to explosions. She felt dizzy, thinking of James and her terrible dreams. Why did they haunt her? When would they stop? Why did James never speak to her in them? She¡¯d give anything just to hear his voice.

 Page 33

    By the end of the picture, they were all misty-eyed¡ªMabel and Theta cried for the dead movie star; Evie for her brother.


    ¡°There¡¯ll never be another like Rudy,¡± Mabel said, blowing her nose.


    ¡°You said it, sister,¡± Theta purred as they stepped out into the late-afternoon sun. She stopped when she saw Evie¡¯s angry face. ¡°Whatsa matter, Evil?¡±


    ¡°Sam. Lloyd,¡± Evie growled. She took off at a clip toward a cluster of people who were watching a three-card monte game.


    ¡°Who¡¯s Sam Lloyd?¡± Mabel asked Theta.


    ¡°Don¡¯t know,¡± Theta said. ¡°But I¡¯m pretty sure he¡¯s a dead man.¡±


    ¡°Watch the Queen of Hearts, folks. She¡¯s the money card.¡± Sam arranged three cards on top of a cardboard box, moving them around so quickly they were a blur. ¡°Now, sir, sir¡ªyes, you. Would you care to wager a guess? There¡¯s no charge for this first round. Just to show you it¡¯s an honest game I¡¯m running.¡±


    Evie turned the box over, upsetting the cards and the money. ¡°Remember me, Casanova?¡±


    It took Sam a minute, but then he smiled. ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t my favorite nun. How¡¯s the Mother Superior, sister?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you ¡®sister¡¯ me. You stole my money.¡±


    ¡°Who, me? Do I look like a thief?¡±


    ¡°And how!¡±


    The crowd watched the argument with interest, and Sam looked around nervously. He snugged his Greek fisherman¡¯s cap low over his brow. ¡°Doll, I¡¯m sorry you got fleeced, but it wasn¡¯t me.¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t want me to call a cop over here right this second and tell him you just tried to take advantage of me, you will give me my twenty dollars.¡±


    ¡°Now, sister, you wouldn¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°I pos-i-tute-ly would! Do you know the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I know it, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°You can find me there. You¡¯d better bring me my twenty bucks if you know what¡¯s good for you.¡±


    ¡°Or what?¡± Sam taunted.


    Evie spied Sam¡¯s jacket draped across a fire hydrant. She swiped it and slipped her arms through the sleeves.


    ¡°Give that back!¡± Sam growled.


    ¡°Twenty bucks and it¡¯s all yours. The museum. See you soon-ski!¡± Laughing, Evie ran down the block.


    ¡°Who is that?¡± Mabel asked once she¡¯d caught up and they¡¯d ducked into a cafeteria.


    ¡°Sam Lloyd.¡± Evie nearly spat the name. She told them about her encounter with him at Pennsylvania Station, about how he¡¯d kissed her and picked her pocket.


    Theta sipped her coffee, leaving a perfect red Cupid¡¯s bow mark on the white ceramic cup. ¡°He looks like he could make off with more than just your twenty dollars, if you catch my drift. You better keep an eye on that one, Evil.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have enough eyes to keep on that one,¡± Evie grumbled.


    ¡°Go through his pockets. See if you can find your money,¡± Mabel suggested.


    ¡°Why, Mabel. What a spiffing idea! Is that what the progressive education of Little Red Schoolhouse has taught you?¡± Evie rifled through the jacket¡¯s many pockets, but she found nothing except a collection of lint, half a roll of Lifesavers, and a colored-pencil postcard of mountains and tall trees. Something had been scrawled in Russian on the back of it. She knew she could try to read any of the objects to find out more about Sam Lloyd, but it wasn¡¯t worth the headache. She¡¯d trust that he¡¯d come looking for the coat. It was September, and the weather would turn soon enough.


    When Evie returned to the museum, Uncle Will and Jericho sat at the table talking to a barrel-chested gentleman with the sort of sad brown eyes one saw on pet-store puppies not chosen for Christmas and a nose that looked to have been on the wrong end of a few fights. A detective¡¯s badge was pinned to his suit.


    ¡°Unc! What¡¯d they get you for? You need bail?¡±


    ¡°Terrence, this is my niece, Evie O¡¯Neill. Evie, this is Detective Malloy.¡±


    Despite the sad eyes, Detective Malloy had a warm smile. He offered his hand. ¡°I¡¯m an old friend from the days when your uncle worked for the government.¡±


    ¡°Oh? When was that, Unc?¡± Evie asked.


    Will ignored her. ¡°I know I said we¡¯d go to Chinatown for dinner, but I¡¯m afraid I have to go downtown with Detective Malloy for a bit.¡±


    ¡°So you do need bail,¡± Evie said to Will.


    ¡°No, I do not. The police have asked for my help. There¡¯s been a murder.¡±

 Page 34

    ¡°A murder! Oh, my. Let me just change my shoes,¡± Evie said excitedly. ¡°I won¡¯t be a minute.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not coming,¡± Uncle Will said.


    Evie hopped on one foot while removing her shoes and putting on her new oxfords. ¡°Miss a real-life murder scene? Not on your life.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s ugly, Miss. Not meant for a lady,¡± Detective Malloy said.


    ¡°I don¡¯t scare so easily. I promise I¡¯ll be as tough as Al Capone.¡± Evie laced up the first shoe.


    ¡°You¡¯re staying here.¡± Will turned his back, dismissing her.


    ¡°Unc, you promised to take Jericho and me to Chinatown for dinner. No sense coming back uptown for me.¡±


    ¡°Evangeline¡­¡±


    ¡°I promise I¡¯ll be no trouble at all. I¡¯ll sit in the back of the car and wait until you¡¯ve finished,¡± Evie promised.


    Will sighed. ¡°All right by you, Terrence?¡±


    ¡°Okay by me.¡± The detective held the door for her. ¡°But don¡¯t complain to me if you have nightmares after, Miss O¡¯Neill.¡±


    Evie stifled a gallows laugh at that.


    THE HARLOT ADORNED ON THE SEA


    The Manhattan Bridge grew bigger as they pulled onto Pike Street. In front of the tenements, a swarm of kids played stickball. As the car moved through, they watched it with narrow-eyed suspicion.


    ¡°Future hooligans,¡± Detective Malloy said as he parked the police car at the end of the street. ¡°Any of you little sh¡ª¡± He glanced at Evie. ¡°Little brats touch this car, I promise you they¡¯ll be dragging the river for your teeth.¡±


    The men stepped out of the car, and Evie followed.


    ¡°You were to wait in the car,¡± Will reminded her.


    Evie had finagled her way down here. She wasn¡¯t about to get this far and not see the actual murder scene. A murder in Manhattan! Already she imagined writing to Dottie and Louise about her adventures: ¡°Dearest darlings, you won¡¯t believe what I saw today¡­. Naturally, like any modern girl, I wasn¡¯t afraid¡­.¡± It would be just like the Agatha Christie novels she adored. But only if she could get closer.


    ¡°Oh, Uncle Will, but anything could happen to a girl waiting in the car.¡± Evie glanced meaningfully at the kids playing stickball. ¡°What would my mother say?¡±


    She mustered up a face of pure innocence.


    ¡°Then Jericho can wait with you.¡±


    Evie glanced quickly at Jericho. ¡°I¡¯d feel better staying with you, Uncle Will. I promise I¡¯ll stay out of the way. And you don¡¯t need to worry that I¡¯m one of those Fainting Frannys who goes goofy at the sight of blood. Why, last year, when Betty Hornsby nearly cut her finger clean off trying to juggle steak knives at a party, I was the only one who didn¡¯t wilt on the spot seeing all that blood everywhere. It was a real mess but I was ab-so-lute-ly like a stone. Promise.¡±


    She did her best to look completely nonplussed, as if she saw dead bodies all the time. Uncle Will started to object, but Detective Malloy shrugged. ¡°As long as she promises not to faint, it¡¯s fine by me. But this is no mystery novel, Miss O¡¯Neill. I¡¯m giving you fair warning.¡±


    At the pier, a crowd of onlookers had gathered. Cops in blue uniforms with brass buttons shooed them back. Three oyster houseboats bobbed at the end of the pier where they were tied with hawsers.


    ¡°Body¡¯s over here,¡± Malloy said. ¡°Was some fishermen that found her. The body was dumped here sometime in the past day or so, near as we can tell. It was hidden by a heap of oyster shells, which is why nobody saw it earlier. You okay, Fitz?¡±


    Uncle Will had paled. ¡°I hate the smell of fish.¡±


    ¡°Cheer up. What you¡¯re gonna see will make you forget about the smell. Body¡¯s a real mess.¡± Malloy glanced at Evie. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. ¡°Got some kind of weird mumbo-jumbo with it, too, which is why I came for you. I¡¯m telling you, Fitz, I¡¯ve never seen anything like it.¡±


    Malloy led them to a spot piled high with shucked oyster shells, pink-white in the evening sun. A police photographer had set up his tripod. The flash lamp in his hand went off, blinding Evie with its brightness. The lamp¡¯s magnesium powder scorched the air, leaving a sharp tang on Evie¡¯s tongue. As they drew closer, the smells of fish, urine, and rotting flesh overpowered Evie. A violent heaving washed up inside her, which she willed back down. She breathed surreptitiously through her mouth. Black flies swarmed the spot, and Evie waved them away from her face.


    ¡°This is as far as you go, Miss,¡± Detective Malloy said, and it was clear it was an order. He nodded at Jericho in some unspoken male code that indicated Jericho should stay with Evie, which only irritated her further.

 Page 35

    Detective Malloy led Will around the wall of oyster shells and she watched her uncle¡¯s face go even paler, saw him put a hand to his mouth to hold back a shout or vomit. He turned away for a minute and bent over to breathe, and Evie saw her chance.


    ¡°Unc, are you all right?¡± she said, rushing at him.


    ¡°Evie¡­¡± he started, but it was too late. Evie had turned around.


    The only time she could recall ever feeling so punched clean of breath was the day the telegram from the war department arrived. It took a moment for her mind to register that what lay sprawled on the old wooden pier had been a human being. She took it in by degrees: A shoe half-off. The filthy, shredded stockings pooling around swollen, blackened ankles. The torn dress and bruised limbs. The skin of her eyelids slack and sunken around empty sockets.


    Her eyes. The killer had taken her eyes.


    Dizziness whooshed up and over Evie as if someone had swung a hammer hard against a carnival bell. She dug her fingernails into her palms to keep herself alert.


    The girl¡¯s battered body had been arranged on the pier with her arms and legs stretched out. Her head was shorn of all hair except for a few tufts the scissors had missed. Cheap five-and-dime-store pearls ringed her neck, and toy rings encircled her fingers. Her blood-drained face was made up in garish fashion¡ªheavy powder and rouge. A red slash of lipstick barely disguised the blue of her dead lips. HARLOT had been scrawled across her forehead.


    A policeman had offered Will smelling salts and he stood, a little woozy. Evie hadn¡¯t moved an inch. Back at the apartment, it had seemed very exciting¡ªa real murder scene, something to tell new friends about. But now, looking at the violated corpse, Evie doubted she¡¯d ever want to discuss this. She wished she could unsee it. A single tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it quickly away and stared down at her shoes.


    ¡°She¡¯s been dead about a week, give or take,¡± Detective Malloy said. His voice seemed to come to Evie through a tunnel. ¡°Pocketbook has a tag inside with a name and address. Ruta Badowski of Brooklyn. Nineteen years old. Family¡¯s been contacted. A little over a week ago, Ruta went to one of those crazy dance marathons with her steady fella, Jacek Kowalski. We pulled him in for questioning, got nothing. He claims he slept on a stoop and went to work at the brick factory the next morning. Boss confirms it.¡±


    Evie chanced another peek at the girl¡¯s disfigured face. Nineteen. Only two years older than Evie. She¡¯d been out dancing. Now she was dead.


    ¡°This is what I wanted you to see.¡± Malloy opened the girl¡¯s dress. On her chest, above her dingy brassiere, was a large brand of a five-pointed star encircled by a snake eating its tail.


    ¡°What is that, Fitz, some kind of voodoo charm?¡± Malloy asked.


    ¡°It has nothing to do with voodoo. And voudon is simply West African and Caribbean spiritualism, which is nature based,¡± Uncle Will said with impatience.


    Malloy made a gesture of apology. ¡°Okay, okay. Don¡¯t get sore, Fitz. What is it, then?¡±


    Will crouched low to get a better look. Evie didn¡¯t know how he could do it without screaming. ¡°It¡¯s a pentacle, a symbol of the universe,¡± Will explained. ¡°Many religions and orders use them¡ªpagans, Gnostics, Eastern religions, ancient Christians, Freemasons. The Seal of Solomon is the most famous such symbol. It¡¯s often used as a form of protection.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t help her much,¡± Malloy said.


    Uncle Will walked around the body. ¡°This one is inverted.¡± Will gestured to the two points up and the one down. ¡°I¡¯ve heard it said that the inverted pentagram suggests a lack of balance, the triumph of the material over the spiritual. Some claim that such a pentagram can be used for darker purposes, for sorcery or forbidden magic¡ªto call forth demons or angels.¡± Will stood up and faced away for a minute, taking three big gulps of air and blowing them out again. ¡°Fish. Hate the smell of fish.¡±


    ¡°Here, Unc,¡± Evie said, passing him a tiny compact of solid perfume from her purse. Will gave it a sniff and passed it back. Evie held it up to her nose as well. She felt faint again, and she forced herself to look up at the magnificent span of steel arching across the river to Brooklyn.


    ¡°Could the murderer work in a factory, or with cattle?¡± Jericho said, breaking his silence. She hadn¡¯t even noticed that he¡¯d come to stand beside her.


    ¡°We¡¯ve already checked around the city to see if the brand looks familiar. Nothing so far,¡± Malloy said. ¡°There¡¯s something else.¡±


    Malloy signaled for one of the flat foots, who brought him a yellowed scrap of paper, which he handed to Will. Evie inched next to her uncle, reading from just behind.

 Page 36

    ¡° ¡®The Harlot, the Whore of Babylon, was adorned in gold and jewels and worldly treasures, and she did look upon the glory of the Beast in all his raiment and cried out, for now her eyes were opened and she knew the wickedness of the world which must be redeemed through blood and sacrifice. And the Beast took her eyes and cast the Harlot Adorned upon the eternal sea within the Mark. This was the fifth offering.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°That from the Bible?¡±


    ¡°Not any Bible I¡¯ve read.¡± Will drew in his notebook and jotted down notes.


    Evie pointed to a series of symbols drawn along the bottom of the paper. ¡°What are those?¡± Her voice sounded foreign to her ears.


    Will turned the paper sideways and back. ¡°Not sure yet. Sigils of some sort, I would guess. Terrence, I¡¯d like to ask you some questions. Privately, if you please.¡±


    The men moved away to a windy spot down the pier to talk. Evie looked again at the girl¡¯s body, focusing on her shoes. They were water-damaged and worn, but Evie could tell they were special, probably the girl¡¯s best pair. One rhinestone buckle remained, hanging loose from the strap. It was a final indignity and Evie wanted to right it. She tried to clip it back on, but it wouldn¡¯t stick.


    ¡°Oh, please,¡± she whispered, near tears.


    With renewed determination, she gripped it tightly. The object opened its secrets so quickly that Evie had no time to react. The images were fleeting, like a film sped up: A strip of peeling yellow wallpaper. Furnace. Butcher¡¯s apron. A lock turning. The brand. Blue eyes rimmed in red. Terrible eyes, windows into hell. Whistling¡ªa jaunty little tune horribly out of place, like a lullaby on a battlefield. And then her head was filled with screams.


    Gasping, Evie dropped the buckle. She staggered to the edge of the pier and vomited up her pie from the Automat. Behind her, the policemen laughed. ¡°No place for a girl,¡± one said. Someone was handing her a handkerchief.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said, mortified.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± Jericho said and let her clean up in peace.


    On the river, a ferry cut the gray water into undulating peaks that rippled out into smoothness again. Evie watched the ferry chug along and tried to make sense of what she¡¯d just seen. Those horrible pictures in her head were probably clues. But how could she possibly tell anyone how she¡¯d come to know them? What if they didn¡¯t believe her? What if they did believe her and made her hold that buckle and look again into that nightmare? She couldn¡¯t face that. No one had to know about what she¡¯d seen. Uncle Will would sort this out. There was no need for her to say anything.


    ¡°Evie. Time to go,¡± Uncle Will called.


    ¡°Coming,¡± Evie said, forcing strength into her voice.


    A strong wind blew off the East River. It caught the edge of the dead girl¡¯s beige scarf, pulling it up like a hand reaching for help. Evie turned and went around the long way, avoiding the sight of her altogether.


    KEEPING AWAY THE GHOSTS


    ¡°I told you it wasn¡¯t a good idea,¡± Uncle Will said. They were sitting in a restaurant in Chinatown. Evie¡¯s headache had begun in earnest. All she could do was chase the glistening dumplings in her soup bowl with her spoon.


    ¡°Who would do something like that?¡± Evie asked finally.


    ¡°Given the course of human history, the more accurate question is, why don¡¯t more people do things of that nature?¡± Will said. He expertly navigated a piece of beef to his mouth with his chopsticks.


    ¡°It could be a gang killing. Maybe her family owed money to someone,¡± Jericho suggested.


    ¡°But why go to all that trouble, then?¡± Will mused. ¡°Why make it seem occult in nature¡ªand oddly occult at that?¡±


    Will and Jericho considered various ideas, rejecting most of them. Evie remained silent. She was desperate for a drink.


    ¡°Is it taken from the Book of Revelation?¡± Jericho asked. ¡°The harlot. The Whore of Babylon.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I thought that, too. Revelation does mention the Whore of Babylon. But the harlot adorned¡­ It¡¯s a very specific phrase. I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ve heard that before.¡± He shook his head and took another bite of his food. ¡°At least it¡¯s not coming to mind.¡±


    Evie stared into her bowl and thought of the terrible things she¡¯d seen while holding Ruta Badowski¡¯s shoe buckle. What if they were important? ¡°Have¡­ have you ever heard this tune?¡± Evie asked, then whistled the song she¡¯d heard while under.


    Will pursed his lips, thinking it over. ¡°What is it, something from a radio program? If you guess it you win a prize from Pears soap or some such?¡±

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    Evie shook her head. It hurt to do so. ¡°Just a silly song I heard the other day. I wondered if it might mean something and¡­¡± What? What could she say that made any sort of sense? ¡°It¡¯s nothing.¡±


    ¡°As you say. Would you like to try the duck?¡±


    Evie fought a wave of nausea as she waved the chopsticks and offending food away. But she felt a sense of relief, too. Perhaps the disconcerting images she¡¯d seen and the song she¡¯d heard had nothing to do with the girl¡¯s murder. They could have been anything, really. Anything at all.


    A quiet commotion up front drew Evie¡¯s attention. The hostess, a girl in a red dress, about Evie¡¯s age, shoved a bundle at a young man, speaking to him in Chinese. Her voice carried the tone of an order not to be contradicted. Under the girl¡¯s penetrating gaze, the young man slunk away, letting the door to the kitchen bang behind him. The girl in the red dress appeared at their table with a silver tray of small fortune tea cakes. Evie noted her pale green eyes. ¡°Will there be anything else?¡± she asked with a hint of polite annoyance.


    ¡°No, thank you.¡± Uncle Will paid the check while Evie extracted the slip of paper from a tea cake.


    ¡°What does it say?¡± Jericho asked.


    ¡° ¡®Your life will soon change.¡¯ ¡± Evie tossed it aside. ¡°I was hoping for ¡®You will meet a tall, dark stranger.¡¯ What does yours say, Jericho?¡±


    ¡° ¡®To gain trust you must risk secrets.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°Intriguing. Unc?¡±


    Will left his untouched on the tray. ¡°I never read fortunes if I can help it.¡±


    They exited onto the narrow, winding cobblestones of Doyers Street, known as ¡°the bloody angle¡± for its bend and the large number of gangland murders committed there. But that night, the street was peaceful. Across the narrow crooked strip of cobblestone, a crowd of men were lighting candles inside small white lanterns and watching them float up into the dusky sky. The smell of incense wafted into the street.


    ¡°Mid-Autumn Festival,¡± Uncle Will explained. ¡°It is an important cultural tradition, a celebration of harvest.¡±


    Farther down, paper lanterns adorned the front of a shop: Mee Tung Co., Importers. They fluttered in the evening breeze. Pieces of paper with Chinese lettering had been pasted on a brick wall beside the shop. Men on the street gave the postings a surreptitious glance as they passed by.


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Evie whispered.


    ¡°Listings of which businesses are not aligned with the Tongs.¡±


    ¡°Those silver things for putting ice in gin?¡± Evie mimed with her fingers. ¡°Adore them!¡±


    ¡°Tongs are brotherhoods or governing associations, and there are two in Chinatown¡ªHip Sing Tong and On Leong Tong. They¡¯ve run Chinatown for decades and, from time to time, they¡¯ve also engaged in bloody warfare. The businessmen put up these postings as a plea of neutrality, so that they will be left out of the violence.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s going on there?¡± Evie asked. A light shone in the window of a shop where a line of men had gathered.


    ¡°Sending letters home to their wives, most likely.¡±


    ¡°Their wives don¡¯t live here with them?¡±


    ¡°The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882.¡± Uncle Will stared at her, waiting for a response. ¡°What do they teach in schools these days? We¡¯re going to have a nation of creationists with no grasp of history.¡±


    ¡°Then I suppose it¡¯s lucky you¡¯re tutoring me.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Well,¡± Will said uncertainly before settling into lecturing mode. ¡°The Chinese Exclusion Act was a law designed to keep more Chinese from coming here once they¡¯d finished building our railroads. They couldn¡¯t bring their families over. They weren¡¯t protected by our laws. They were on their own.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t sound terribly American.¡±


    ¡°On the contrary, it¡¯s very American,¡± Will said bitterly.


    They¡¯d passed around the back of the Tea House and saw the boy who¡¯d been browbeaten by the hostess in the restaurant. He was kneeling before a small bowl of fire, feeding thin sheets of colored paper into it.


    ¡°What is he doing?¡± Evie said.


    ¡°Keeping the ghosts away,¡± Uncle Will said. He did not offer further explanation.


    A PLACE IN THE WORLD


    In the back parlor of Sister Walker¡¯s brownstone, Memphis waited on the pristine blue sofa while his brother, Isaiah, sat at the dining room table concentrating on a spread of downturned cards. Sister Walker held one in her hand so that only she could see the face of it. ¡°What card am I holding, Isaiah?¡±

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    ¡°The Ace of Clubs,¡± Isaiah said.


    Sister Walker smiled. ¡°Very good. You got nineteen out of twenty. Very good, indeed, Isaiah. You may help yourself to the candy dish.¡±


    ¡°Next time, I¡¯ma get all twenty, Sister.¡± Isaiah reached into the candy dish sitting on the lace doily in the center of Sister Walker¡¯s freshly waxed dining room table, fished out two Bit-O-Honeys, and tore off the candy¡¯s blue and red waxed paper.


    ¡°Well, we¡¯ll see, but you did a fine job today. And you feel fine, Isaiah?¡±


    ¡°Yessh, ma¡¯am,¡± Isaiah slurred around the candy.


    ¡°Don¡¯t talk with food in your mouth,¡± Memphis chided.


    ¡°Well, how¡¯m I ¡¯posed to answer? Only got one mouth,¡± Isaiah said, glowering. It didn¡¯t take much to make him hot under the collar, Memphis knew.


    ¡°Thank you, Sister,¡± Memphis said pointedly, looking at Isaiah, who was ignoring him.


    ¡°Of course. Now, Isaiah, you remember what to tell your aunt Octavia, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°You were helping me with my ¡¯rithmetic.¡±


    ¡°Which I did, so it¡¯s not lying. You remember that it¡¯s best you not tell your auntie about the other work we do with the cards.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Memphis said. ¡°We won¡¯t, will we, little man?¡±


    ¡°I wish I could tell ever¡¯body, so they¡¯d know I¡¯m something,¡± Isaiah crowed.


    ¡°You are something, Isaiah,¡± Sister Walker said and handed him another Bit-O-Honey.


    ¡°Something else,¡± Memphis teased. He put his hand on Isaiah¡¯s head and moved it around. ¡°Got a head like a football. Bumpy, too.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s my brains!¡± Isaiah twisted under Memphis¡¯s head-vise grip.


    ¡°Is that what it is? Thought you¡¯d been hiding candy up there all this time.¡±


    Isaiah took a swipe at Memphis. Laughing, Memphis dodged it and Isaiah charged again, nearly toppling a lamp.


    Sister Walker shooed them both toward the door. ¡°All right now, gentlemen, please take your foolishness outside and leave my house in one piece.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, Sister,¡± Memphis said. Isaiah was already pulling him out onto the stoop. ¡°See you next week.¡±


    Aunt Octavia was waiting for them in the dusky parlor when they returned. She had on her apron, and she did not look happy. ¡°Where you two been? You know supper¡¯s at six fifteen, and if you¡¯re late, you don¡¯t eat.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, Auntie. Sister Walker wanted to be sure that Isaiah understood his arithmetic,¡± Memphis said, shooting Isaiah a warning look.


    ¡°Margaret Walker,¡± Octavia harrumphed. She pointed a serving spoon at them. ¡°I don¡¯t know if I want you to keep associating with that woman. I¡¯ve been hearing some things lately about her that don¡¯t set well with me.¡±


    ¡°Like what?¡± Isaiah pressed.


    ¡°She doesn¡¯t go to church, for one.¡±


    ¡°She does, too! She¡¯s a member at Abyssinian Baptist.¡±


    ¡°Ha!¡± Octavia snorted. ¡°Selma Johnson goes to Abyssinian and says Margaret Walker hardly ever crosses that threshold. The Lord wouldn¡¯t know her if you showed him a picture. You¡¯re more likely to find that crazy old Blind Bill Johnson in church than you are Miss Margaret Walker.¡±


    Memphis hoped he could divert his aunt from what sounded like the beginnings of a tear. She went on tirades sometimes about people for perceived slights and imagined injuries¡ª¡° The Lord wouldn¡¯t know Miss So-and-So if you showed Him a picture.¡± ¡°Barnabas Damson hasn¡¯t got the sense God gave an animal cracker, if you ask me.¡± ¡°Corinne Collins doesn¡¯t have any business teaching Sunday school. Why, she can¡¯t even keep up with her own children, who run around like a bunch of fools in a foolyard.¡± ¡°Do you know I saw Swoosie Terell at the grocer¡¯s, and she acted high-hat, and after I made her a plum pie when her mother was sick.¡± He wondered what trivial sin Sister Walker had committed that had set Octavia off.


    ¡°They say Margaret Walker got up to some trouble years back,¡± Octavia continued. ¡°She was in prison and moved here to start a new life. If she weren¡¯t an old friend of your mama¡¯s, I wouldn¡¯t give her the time of day.¡±


    ¡°Sister Walker was a jailbird?¡± Isaiah¡¯s eyes were huge.


    ¡°You don¡¯t know that¡¯s true, so don¡¯t go repeating it, Ice Man,¡± Memphis warned.


    ¡°You don¡¯t know everything, Memphis John!¡± Aunt Octavia was in his face. ¡°Ida Hampton told me, and I expect she knows a lot more about what¡¯s what than you do.¡±

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    Memphis wondered if Ida Hampton bothered to tell anyone what was what about her little gambling habit.


    ¡°I hear she gets up to all manner of things that ain¡¯t right.¡±


    Aren¡¯t, Memphis silently corrected.


    ¡°She might even be into voodoo.¡±


    ¡°Sister Walker is not practicing voodoo. She¡¯s helping Isaiah with his counting and computing.¡±


    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s right for you to be associating with her.¡± Aunt Octavia turned to Isaiah with her hands on her hips, like she meant business. ¡°She do anything like that with you, Isaiah? Make you do magic with cards or put your hands on a crystal ball and talk to spirits? Anything like that?¡±


    Memphis tried to give his little brother a warning with his eyes: Don¡¯t say anything¡­.


    ¡°No, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°You look me in my face when you say that. Look me right in my eyes and tell me again.¡± Isaiah¡¯s head moved just slightly as he tried to peek around Octavia and keep Memphis in sight, but his aunt got wise and moved over, blocking his view. ¡°Don¡¯t you look at your brother. I¡¯m the one asking. You look at me.¡±


    Memphis held his breath. He could hear his blood pounding against his skull.


    ¡°She helps me with my ¡¯rithmetic,¡± Isaiah said.


    Aunt Octavia stood for a minute. ¡°Well. You be careful around her, you hear me?¡±


    Memphis let out his breath in a small whoosh. ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± he and Isaiah said as one.


    ¡°Memphis, I know you wouldn¡¯t get your brother mixed up in the Devil¡¯s business,¡± Octavia said, fixing him with a stare. ¡°Not after all this family¡¯s been through.¡±


    Memphis¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°No, Auntie. I wouldn¡¯t.¡±


    Octavia held his gaze for a few seconds longer, then poured iced tea into their glasses. ¡°I promised your mama I¡¯d look after you. I couldn¡¯t live with myself if something happened to either one of you.¡± Octavia cupped Isaiah¡¯s cheeks in her palms and kissed the top of his head. ¡°Go wash yourself up for supper. Memphis, you say grace tonight. And after dinner, you can get the Bible from the china cabinet for Bible study.¡± When Memphis didn¡¯t answer, Octavia called loudly from the kitchen, ¡°Did you hear me, Memphis John Campbell?¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± Memphis grumbled. One day, he¡¯d get the two of them out of his aunt¡¯s house.


    When they were washed to Octavia¡¯s satisfaction, they sat around the old wooden table that their grandfather, a carpenter, had made as a wedding present to his young wife, their heads bowed.


    ¡°Dear Lord, we thank you for this bounty which we are about to receive¡­.¡± Memphis said the words without feeling. He wasn¡¯t thinking of being grateful for supper, but of the bounty he hoped to receive for himself. He prayed for his place in the world: his own words in a book and a reading at a salon on Striver¡¯s Row, a place at the table with Whitman and Cullen and Mr. Hughes.


    ¡°¡­ In Jesus¡¯s name we pray. Amen.¡±


    Octavia passed a casserole dish of baked sweet potatoes.


    ¡°I want you two to be very careful out there. You hear about that business down under the bridge?¡±


    The boys shook their heads.


    ¡°I expect not. I heard it from Bessie Watkins, who got it from Delilah Robinson, whose husband works down at the docks. He called her just a little while ago. Woman got herself carved up by a madman.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s inappropriate dinner talk!¡± Isaiah said through a mouthful of potatoes.


    ¡°Take your elbows off the table. And don¡¯t talk with food in your mouth. That¡¯s what¡¯s inappropriate.¡± Octavia shook her head as she buttered a piece of bread. ¡°Don¡¯t know what this world¡¯s coming to. Feels like it¡¯s all spinning too fast toward Judgment Day.¡±


    Memphis hated it when his aunt talked this way. She never missed a chance to worry that the end was nigh¡ªand she never missed a chance to worry everybody else with her thoughts.


    ¡°Well, all the same, I want you to be careful. Isaiah, I don¡¯t want you going anywhere after dark by yourself. Memphis, you see to it, now.¡±


    Memphis swallowed down his mouthful of potatoes. ¡°Me? Marvin left you in charge, didn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t use that tone with me. And don¡¯t call your father Marvin.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s his name, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°As a matter of fact, I got a letter from your father today.¡±


    ¡°Is he coming back?¡± Isaiah said.

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    Octavia put her let-¡¯em-down-easy smile on, and Memphis knew what was in the letter without even reading it.


    ¡°Not yet, baby. He¡¯s still getting settled.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s been getting settled for nearly three years,¡± Memphis said, dropping an unwieldy spoonful of beans onto his plate.


    ¡°The man¡¯s working hard and sending back money for the two of you. You don¡¯t know everything, Memphis John.¡±


    ¡°What happened to the lady under the bridge?¡± Isaiah asked, and Memphis shot his aunt a dirty look.


    ¡°Never mind about that, now. Eat your beans. And drink your milk or you won¡¯t grow.¡±


    ¡°And then we¡¯ll have to call you Shrimpy. Old Shrimpy Campbell,¡± Memphis teased, trying to distract his brother. ¡°So puny, folks had to carry him around on a piece of toast. So small he wore a hat made from a tooth. So incredibly stunted that even the tadpoles felt sorry for him.¡±


    Isaiah blurbled up some milk, laughing. Octavia started to reprimand them both, but even she couldn¡¯t keep from giggling. So Memphis kept the story going, spinning it out wildly, as if it could weave them all together and keep them there in that moment with strings of words.


    In the quiet of her kitchen, Sister Walker turned on the radio. It hummed and hissed, then came to life with a man¡¯s voice promising the benefits of the Parker Dental System. She left it on. That nagging cough was back, and she fished a lozenge from a tin near the sugar canister, then lit a match under the kettle for tea. The work with Isaiah was promising. Very promising. It had been a long time since she¡¯d seen anybody like him. But she cautioned herself against too much excitement. She knew well that such a promise could flare, then dim and fall away entirely, like she¡¯d heard it had with Memphis.


    Sister Walker stepped back into the parlor and turned on a lamp. The bulb chased the evening shadows from the room. She lifted a painting of Paris from its hook and rested it against the wall by her feet. Behind the painting, a small, faint square had been cut into the plaster. She lifted the square and from the space inside the wall retrieved a thick portfolio. Sitting on the pristine sofa, she flipped through the files, reading over the material, looking for anything she might have missed. In the kitchen, the teakettle screamed. Sister Walker startled, then laughed at her own skittishness. She secured the files and sealed the wall, centering the picture again. The tea was hot; it soothed the rattle in her chest as she riffled through the newspaper clippings she¡¯d been accumulating.


    If she was right about Isaiah Campbell, the power was coming back. What did that mean? How many others like him were there? What were they capable of?


    And how long before they were found?


    THE HEARTS OF MEN


    It was late when Evie, Will, and Jericho returned to the museum. Up in the tall stacks of the library, Uncle Will pushed from shelf to shelf on the rolling ladder, running a finger along weathered spines, handing things to Jericho. He shouted down to Evie, ¡°See if you can locate a Bible. You should find one in the collections room.¡±


    Evie didn¡¯t relish going into that room, especially at night. ¡°Can¡¯t Jericho do it? He knows the museum better than I do.¡±


    ¡°Jericho is assisting me, and as far as I can tell, you¡¯re capable of walking. You did insist on coming today, did you not?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°Then make yourself useful.¡±


    Evie stepped quickly through the rooms of the museum, switching on lamps as she went. She didn¡¯t care if the electric bill was enormous; she wanted it as bright as the Great White Way. At the doorway of the collections room, Evie paused, searching with her eyes only, in the hope that she¡¯d locate what she needed without having to actually walk around in that cavernous space filled with mysterious objects. When it was clear she¡¯d have to go in, she cranked up the old Victrola to keep her company and chase away the shivers. It was a tinny recording of someone playing ragtime piano. The jaunty tune helped ease her jitters as she got on with her search of the room. In the corner by the fireplace, she tripped over something under the Persian rug. Lifting a corner, she saw an iron ring in the floor for a small door, like a storm cellar. It was too heavy to lift and looked as though it hadn¡¯t been touched in years. She patted the rug back down. On a side table, Evie spied a Bible holding up a potted fern. ¡°And Mother says I¡¯m a heathen.¡±


    The music had stopped. The record hissed with a few seconds of silence, and then a man on the record began talking. ¡°Been able to see the dead all my life,¡± he drawled. ¡°Some of ¡¯em just wants peace and rest. Not all of ¡¯em, though. Not by a long shot. There¡¯s evil in this world, evil in the hearts of men, evil that live on¡ª¡± Evie scraped the needle across the record and ran from the room without turning out the lights.

 Page 41

    ¡°What took you so long?¡± Will asked when Evie came panting into the room. He and Jericho had assembled a stack of books, which they were tucking into Will¡¯s attach¨¦ case.


    ¡°I walked to Jerusalem for the Bible. I knew you¡¯d want an original,¡± Evie snapped. ¡°Did you know there¡¯s a door in the floor?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Will answered.


    ¡°Well, where does it go?¡± Evie asked with irritation.


    ¡°There are stairs to a secret cellar and a tunnel. This was a stop on the Underground Railroad. Sojourner Truth herself hid former slaves below,¡± Will explained. He took the Bible and put it in his case. ¡°It¡¯s probably only home to rats and dust now. Shall we?¡±


    Evie and Jericho waited on the long, wide front steps as Uncle Will locked the museum. The lamps had come on, giving Central Park an eerie glow. Out of the corner of her eye, Evie caught sight of something that drew her gaze back.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Jericho asked. He followed Evie¡¯s gaze into the park.


    ¡°I thought I saw someone watching us,¡± Evie said, scanning the park. She saw nothing there now. ¡°I must¡¯ve been mistaken.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been a very long day,¡± Jericho said gently. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if your eyes played tricks on you.¡±


    ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right,¡± Evie said, but she had the nagging feeling she¡¯d seen Sam Lloyd, of all people. She had a vague impression of him leaning against a tree in that overconfident posture that annoyed her so. But Jericho was right¡ªthere was no one there now, only the lamppost and the park.


    Sam stayed hidden behind a jagged slope of rock until they were gone. She¡¯d seen him. Just for a second, but it was enough. What was it about that girl that made him lose his street smarts? He¡¯d come to the museum hoping to sweet-talk her into giving him back his jacket, but then he¡¯d seen the detective and decided to return when the museum was empty to steal the jacket¡ªand anything else he might need.


    Sam had bided his time in the hustle and bustle of Times Square. He¡¯d spotted his mark in a sailor idling uncertainly on the corner of Broadway and Forty-third Street. The streets had been crowded with people heading home from work. Most pickpockets considered this a good time to ply their trade, when folks were distracted. But Sam had a little something extra on his side: an eerie ability to move among people unnoticed. It wasn¡¯t that he was invisible; more that he could redirect people¡¯s thoughts elsewhere so that their eyes simply didn¡¯t register him. He had only to think, Don¡¯t see me, and the person wouldn¡¯t. He was quick, too, moving with catlike speed. In those moments, all he heard was his own rhythmic breathing as he extricated a wallet from a pocket, snatched a purse from a restaurant table, or stole bread from a store shelf. He didn¡¯t know why it worked, or how¡ªonly that it did. It was how he had survived on his own for the past two years.


    He had a clear memory of the first time it had happened. He¡¯d been young¡ªten or eleven, maybe; it was sometime after his mother had left. His father had a watch, which had belonged to Sam¡¯s grandfather. Sam had been told not to touch it, and it was precisely that edict that made the watch so appealing. One day he¡¯d sneaked it out of his father¡¯s drawer and smuggled the treasure in his coat to show the other boys in the schoolyard in the hope that they would understand its value and stop teasing him for his accent, his clothes, his smallness. Instead, they¡¯d ridiculed him. ¡°This? It¡¯s just a cheap watch,¡± the leader said, and he smashed it on the ground. Sam had been afraid to go home and face his father. As he sat on the sofa waiting, he wished for a place to hide. When his father came home, Sam¡¯s fear was so great that he felt like a small child again, imagining that he could simply close his eyes in a game of hide-and-seek and the other person wouldn¡¯t see him. He heard his father¡¯s footsteps coming closer, heard him calling Sam¡¯s name. Don¡¯t see me, Sam thought. ¡°Don¡¯t see me,¡± he whispered over and over, like a prayer. And then, oddly, his father looked right at him and kept walking, calling his name as if he were a ghost.


    Sam was at a loss to explain it. He remembered something strange his mother had said to him once. They were in the bathroom, and she was cleaning the scrapes he¡¯d gotten after the school bullies chased him home and pushed him down on the street. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, lyubimiy. You have gifts they do not.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± he¡¯d asked, wincing as she pressed a damp cloth to his scraped chin. ¡°In time, you will see.¡± In time, he did see, but he wondered if that was what she had meant after all and, if so, how she could have known.

 Page 42

    Trying to keep warm in the slight chill, Sam had watched the sailor carefully and thought of his jacket. It wasn¡¯t the wool peacoat itself but the postcard hidden inside his pocket that mattered. It wouldn¡¯t seem like much to anyone else¡ªjust a worn drawing of majestic, snow-capped mountains and tall trees. No helpful postmark accompanied it. On the back were three words scrawled in Russian. That postcard was the only thing Sam had brought with him from his father¡¯s house in Chicago when he ran away, taking refuge in a traveling circus heading east. In the six months since he¡¯d arrived in New York, he¡¯d barely been able to survive. But fortunes could change quickly. The papers were full of stories of self-made men, like Henry Ford and Jake Marlowe. Sam, too, would make his fortune, and then he¡¯d find the place in the postcard. He¡¯d find her.


    Evie, her uncle, and the Teutonic giant had obviously left for good, so Sam flicked open his Swiss Army knife and easily picked the lock on the museum¡¯s door. For an egghead, that professor was pretty dumb about safeguarding his treasures. Street light pressed against the museum¡¯s stained-glass windows. It gave the gloom inside a warm amber glow. Sam waited for his eyes to adjust, then slipped through the quiet old mansion looking for his jacket. This whole affair could¡¯ve been avoided if he¡¯d used his skill on Evie O¡¯Neill back at Penn Station. But for some reason, he¡¯d wanted her to see him. He¡¯d wanted to talk to her. And when the time came, he¡¯d wanted to kiss her as much as he¡¯d wanted her money. That had been his undoing. Now here he was in the Museum of the Creepy Crawlies, searching in the dim light for his jacket.


    It had been so much simpler with the sailor. The man had idled on the corner, confused about whether to go forward or turn right or left, and in that moment, Sam had read the poor chump perfectly. When the sailor had finally crossed the street, Sam had come from the other direction. Don¡¯t see me, he¡¯d thought, and even when someone looked in his direction, it was with a hazy, unfocused glance. Sam moved seamlessly through the crowd and lifted the sailor¡¯s wallet from his pants pocket with ease, then walked away without being noticed.


    Where was his jacket? Sam chanced turning on a desk lamp. The light fell onto a stack of newspaper clippings a good two inches thick. He riffled through the stories, dismissing them with a smirk. Ghost stories. Spooky tales invented by folks who were afraid of living. Or who wanted attention. He knew the type. Then Sam¡¯s smirk faded as his eyes fell on a small article from a Kansas paper that told of a fifteen-year-old girl who fell ill with the sleeping sickness. Just before she died, she repeated a phrase that baffled her family. It was only the same two words, over and over: Project Buffalo.


    Sam returned the article to the stack with suddenly shaking hands. If this Professor Fitzgerald knew something about it, then he needed to find a way to stick close to him, maybe by staying cozy with his niece, which sounded like a pretty swell proposition. Unless she killed him in a fit of pique. She certainly seemed like the sort of doll who could do it. Sam smiled at the thought; he liked a challenge. And that one was definitely a challenge. All he needed was a way in.


    He spied it hanging on the wall in the collections room: CEREMONIAL MASONIC KNIGHTS TEMPLAR DAGGER AND SCABBARD OWNED BY CORNELIUS T. RATHBONE, D. 1855. That ought to do it, Sam thought, tucking it into his shirt. He left the museum as he¡¯d found it. By this time tomorrow, he¡¯d have his jacket, and maybe a little reward money, too.


    THINGS NOT SAID


    Evie went straight to Mabel¡¯s apartment and the girls scooted past the cigarette smoke¨Cfilled parlor, where Mabel¡¯s parents were hosting a political meeting. As they shut the door to Mabel¡¯s bedroom, they could hear the adults arguing about workers¡¯ rights over cups of coffee.


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter? You look terrible,¡± Mabel said.


    ¡°It¡¯s been a real lulu of a day, old girl.¡± Evie told Mabel about Ruta Badowski¡¯s grisly murder, leaving out the part about the shoe buckle. She knew Mabel¡ªshe was as much of a crusader as her parents. She¡¯d probably march Evie down to the police station and make her confess. But Evie didn¡¯t want to relive a minute of the terrible things she¡¯d seen.


    ¡°How awful! Do you think your uncle Will can help them find the killer?¡±


    ¡°If anyone can, it¡¯s Unc. He¡¯s a genius.¡±


    ¡°Are you going to help?¡±


    Evie shuddered. ¡°Not on your life-ski.¡±


    In the other room, the arguments escalated into shouting. Someone pounded the table and yelled, ¡°We must do more!¡± while Mrs. Rose shushed and soothed.

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    ¡°Mabel, could I sleep here tonight?¡±


    Mabel¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°You want to sleep through that?¡±


    Evie nodded. She needed the noise. It might be enough to drown out the nightmares.


    Mabel shrugged. ¡°Suit yourself. Here, have a nightgown.¡±


    Evie held up the chaste, high-necked gown, examining it with a scowl. ¡°If I should die in the night, please remove this.¡±


    ¡°Could you please remind me why we¡¯re friends?¡±


    ¡°Because you need me.¡±


    ¡°I think you have that reversed, Evie O¡¯Neill.¡±


    ¡°Probably.¡± Evie kissed Mabel¡¯s cheek. ¡°You are an absolute doll of a pal, Mabesie, my girl.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you forget it.¡±


    They crawled into Mabel¡¯s bed and watched the light make patterns on the ceiling in the dark. They talked of Operation Jericho and poor dead Rudolph Valentino, and they talked, too, of their futures, as if they could shape the glittering course of their destinies with secret confessions offered like prayers to the room¡¯s benevolent hush. They talked until their words grew sparse with their drowsiness.


    ¡°Have you ever known something that you were afraid to tell?¡± Evie asked. She was more tired than she ever remembered being.


    ¡°Whaddaya mean?¡± Mabel slurred.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± Evie murmured. She wanted to say more, but wasn¡¯t sure how to begin, and Mabel was already fast asleep.


    Under a crumbling eave in the old house, a spider waited and watched as a hapless fly ventured into its web. When it became clear that the fly was hopelessly trapped, the spider scuttled forward, entombing the creature in a shroud of silk.


    Like the spider, the house was also watching. Waiting. It had waited for many years, through the deaths of presidents and the fighting of wars. It had waited as the first motorcar roared down dirt roads and the aeroplane defied gravity. Now the wait was over.


    Deep in the bowels of the old cellar, the furnace flame coughed to life. Behind the furnace lay a secret passageway to a hidden room whose walls glimmered faintly with symbols painted long ago in preparation. The stranger turned a crank and, high above, a metal grate, rusty with neglect, screeched open to reveal a night sky untouched by the phosphorescence of city lights. It was the perfect place to watch listless clouds drift by. To gaze at the stars. Or to catch the full glory of a prophecied comet as it burned past. The stranger stood naked beneath that sky. His shimmering skin was also a tapestry of symbols. He placed the eyes upon the altar and bowed his head, waiting, like the spider, like the house.


    Whispers filled the room, soft at first, then louder, like the sound of a thousand devils loosed upon a desert. The gloom moved. The shadows surged, pressing against the stranger and the offering while the cold distant stars looked away.


    OMENS


    The morning¡¯s Daily News sold the story of Ruta Badowski¡¯s death with a three-inch headline¡ªMURDER IN MANHATTAN!¡ªatop a grainy photograph of her grieving parents. Evie read the accounts in every newspaper while she waited for Will to come back from the police precinct. The stories mentioned that it was a ritual murder and that the killer had left a note with a Bible quotation and occult symbols, but didn¡¯t divulge what the symbols were. Detective Malloy had obviously held back details. Evie wished she didn¡¯t know the details. She¡¯d woken with that terrible whistling melody in her head.


    None of the newspaper accounts mentioned that Will had been consulted, and Evie wished that they had. It was terrible, she knew, but there was no such thing as bad publicity, and a mention of Uncle Will in connection to a murder investigation might bring people to the museum. It was nearly one o¡¯clock. They¡¯d been open since half past ten, and the only visitor they¡¯d had was a man from Texas who¡¯d really wanted to sell them cemetery plots. Evie had seen the bills piling up on Uncle Will¡¯s desk, along with the letter from the tax office and another from a realty company. If they didn¡¯t start getting a steady flow of visitors, they¡¯d all be out on the streets. And Evie would be back in Ohio.


    ¡°It is always like this?¡± Evie asked Jericho, who was absorbed in some religious text that smelled of dust.


    Jericho looked up, puzzled. ¡°Always like what?¡±


    ¡°Dead.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a little slow,¡± Jericho allowed.


    Evie couldn¡¯t do much about the museum just then, but she could do something about Operation Jericho. She scooted her chair closer to him and put on her best pensive face.


    ¡°Do you know who would be pos-i-tute-ly wonderful at this sort of thing? Mabel.¡±

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    ¡°Mabel?¡± Jericho¡¯s eyes had the faraway look of a man trying to place something.


    ¡°Mabel Rose! Lives downstairs in the Bennington?¡± Evie prompted. Jericho still looked lost. ¡°Often comes to visit and speaks aloud in whole sentences. You¡¯ve heard her voice. Try to remember.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that Mabel.¡±


    ¡°Right. Now that we¡¯ve sorted out our Mabels, what do you think of her? I think she¡¯s a swell girl. And so bright! Did you know that she can read Latin? She can conjugate while she cogitates!¡± Evie laughed.


    ¡°Who?¡± Jericho said, turning a page.


    ¡°Mabel!¡± Evie said with irritation. ¡°And she has an adorable figure. Granted, it¡¯s hidden beneath the most tragic dresses, but that figure is there, I tell you.¡±


    ¡°Do you mean Mabel from sixteen-E?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I do!¡±


    Jericho shrugged. ¡°She seems a nice enough sort of girl.¡±


    Evie brightened. ¡°Yes, she does, doesn¡¯t she? Very, very nice. Why don¡¯t the three of us have dinner together some evening?¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± Jericho said absently.


    Evie smiled. At least Operation Jericho was off to a rousing start. She¡¯d figure out a plan for the museum later.


    ¡°What you gonna do, writer man?¡±


    Gabe stood between Memphis and the net, arms spread, fingers ready for the steal. Their shoes squeaked on the wooden floors of the church¡¯s gymnasium. Overhead, ceiling fans whirred, but they couldn¡¯t keep up with the boys¡¯ sweat. Memphis wiped a forearm across his eyes, planning his move.


    ¡°Gonna stay there all day?¡± Gabe taunted.


    Memphis faked to his left. Gabe took the bait and lunged, allowing Memphis to surge past him on the right. Fast and sweet, he moved down the court and sank the ball with ease.


    Gabe fell to the floor. ¡°I surrender.¡±


    Memphis helped him up. ¡°Good game.¡±


    Gabe laughed as they walked off the court. ¡° ¡¯Course it was a good game for you. You won.¡±


    They dressed and headed to the drugstore for a snack.


    Gabe cleared his throat. ¡°I hear Jo¡¯s ankle is only sprained.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good,¡± Memphis said. He didn¡¯t want to get into it.


    ¡°Still, she¡¯s out of work for another two weeks.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a shame.¡±


    ¡°That all you got to say?¡±


    ¡°What else should I say?¡±


    ¡°You ever just try¡ª¡±


    Memphis stopped cold. ¡°I told you. I can¡¯t do it anymore. Not since my mother.¡±


    Gabe put up his hands. ¡°Okay, okay. Don¡¯t get hot. If you can¡¯t, you can¡¯t.¡±


    They walked a block in silence. Memphis saw a crow flitting from post to post, keeping pace. ¡°I swear that bird is following me,¡± he said.


    Gabe laughed and twirled his lucky rabbit¡¯s foot, which hung by its chain from his finger. He swore it was his good-luck charm, and he never played a gig without it. ¡°I told you, Casanova, you¡¯ve got to stop giving those birds candy and flowers. Then they never leave you alone.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not kidding. I¡¯ve seen it every day for the past two weeks.¡±


    Gabe raised his eyebrows and his lips pulled into a smile. ¡°And you know it¡¯s the same crow? She got a name? Alice, maybe. Or Berenice! Yes, sir, looks like a Berenice to me.¡±


    Memphis could see that this would be a joke for Gabe for weeks to come.


    ¡°Memphis¡ªit¡¯s just a bird. Birds fly around, brother. It¡¯s what they do. It¡¯s not following you, and it¡¯s not a sign. Unless you really did give it candy and flowers, in which case you are one strange brother.¡±


    Memphis laughed, shrugging off the bad feeling like an unneeded coat. Gabe was right¡ªhe was letting himself get spooked for nothing. It was that crazy dream that wouldn¡¯t let him alone. No wonder he saw omens around every corner.


    They settled into a booth at Mr. Reggie¡¯s and ordered sandwiches and coffee.


    ¡°I wrote a new poem last night,¡± Memphis said.


    ¡°When¡¯re you gonna show those poems to somebody other than the dead folks up in the graveyard?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re not good enough yet.¡±


    Gabe reached across the table and took the pickle from Memphis¡¯s plate. ¡°How do you know, if nobody¡¯s read ¡¯em? One of these days, you just need to walk yourself right up to Miss A¡¯Lelia Walker¡¯s town house and say, ¡®How do you do, ma¡¯am? I¡¯m Memphis Campbell, and I¡¯d be much obliged if you¡¯d read my work.¡¯ ¡± Gabe finished the pickle and wiped his hands on Memphis¡¯s napkin. ¡°Life don¡¯t come to you, Memphis. You gotta take it. We have to take it. Because ain¡¯t nobody handing it to us. You understand? Now¡±¡ªGabe leaned back against the back of the small booth and spread his arms¡ª¡°ask me why I¡¯m grinning,¡±

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    Memphis rolled his eyes. ¡°Why are you grinning, Gabe?¡±


    ¡°Guess who¡¯s playing trumpet on Mamie Smith¡¯s new record?¡±


    ¡°Hey, brother!¡±


    ¡°Heard from Clarence Williams at Okeh Records last night in the club. They want me to come in tomorrow.¡± Gabe shook his head. ¡°Me, playing for Miss Mamie Smith.¡±


    ¡°What about Mamie Smith?¡± Alma dropped into the seat next to Gabe and helped herself to some of his potato salad.


    ¡°Did I invite you?¡± Gabe teased.


    ¡°I invited myself. Thought this table needed some class.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Gabriel Rolly Johnson here is now a recording artist for Okeh Records, blowing his horn for none other than Miss Mamie Smith.¡±


    Alma let out a little squeal of excitement and threw her arms around Gabe. ¡°You know what this means, baby?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°It means you can buy my lunch. Hey, Mr. Reggie!¡± she shouted. ¡°I¡¯ll take a meat-loaf sandwich, and you can put it on Gabe¡¯s tab. And add a milk shake!¡± She squinted at Memphis. ¡°What¡¯s eating you?¡±


    ¡°Just haven¡¯t been sleeping much.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Alma said and pursed her lips playfully. ¡°What¡¯s her name?¡±


    ¡°Her name is Berenice, and she¡¯s a very persistent bird,¡± Gabe joked, breaking himself up. He slapped the table, making the rabbit¡¯s foot jump.


    ¡°There¡¯s nobody,¡± Memphis said quickly.


    ¡°That¡¯s your trouble, brother,¡± Gabe said, wiping his eyes. He doused his sandwich with hot salt-and-pepper pickles that made Memphis¡¯s nose run. ¡°You need to get your head out of that notebook and come with me to the club Saturday night. We¡¯ll find you a girl.¡±


    Alma made a face. ¡°How can you eat that, Gabriel?¡±


    ¡°Helps me keep my pucker, baby.¡±


    Memphis stirred the tiny mound of sugar at the bottom of his coffee cup. ¡°Don¡¯t want a girl. I want the girl.¡±


    Alma put her pinkie in the air and tilted her chin up. ¡°Oh. The girl.¡±


    Gabe matched her imperious tone. ¡°I say, old boy. Do give her my best.¡±


    Alma and Gabe fell into a routine, mocking Memphis like he was high-hat. Memphis knew better than to let on that he was irritated by their teasing, so he put on the big smile and grabbed his knapsack. ¡°Gotta go to San Juan Hill and see about some business for Papa Charles. Oh, and thank you for lunch, Gabriel.¡±


    He could hear Gabe saying, ¡°Hey, now!¡± as he walked out the door and left him with the check.


    ¡°Hey, hey¡ªMr. Campbell! ¡¯Zat you?¡± Blind Bill called from a chair in front of Floyd¡¯s Barbershop. Sometimes Floyd put out an old chair and let him sit and play for the customers, or just soak up the sun. ¡°I know it¡¯s you. Don¡¯t play with old Bill now. My number come in today?¡±


    ¡°No, sir. Sorry. Better luck next time.¡±


    ¡°Heard people got them some numbers they playing for that murder down under the bridge.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir. Some people do have a gig for it.¡±


    ¡°Hmph.¡± Blind Bill spat. ¡°Nothin¡¯ good can come from that. You don¡¯t play a number on a murder, if you want my opinion.¡±


    ¡°I just write the slips.¡±


    ¡°I keep seeing this number. In my dreams, you know. I see a house, and there¡¯s a number, but I cain¡¯t never make it out.¡±


    Memphis had never thought about the dreams of the blind. How could old Bill see a house and a number if he couldn¡¯t see at all? But there were rumors about Bill: He¡¯d lost his sight when he got some bad whiskey. He¡¯d been beaten and left for dead over an unpaid gambling debt. He¡¯d done a woman wrong and she¡¯d gotten her revenge with a curse. Some people said he¡¯d lost his sight in a card game with the Devil and now he was on the run to keep his soul. People said all kinds of things.


    The crow chattered again. Blind Bill angled his ear toward it. ¡°Got ourselves a messenger, seem like. Question is, who¡¯d it come for, you or me?¡±


    Bill laughed his big, gravelly laugh. It threaded with the crow¡¯s insistent caw, a discordant symphony.


    Theta blew into the Globe Theatre with her leopard-spot coat hanging from one shoulder and a cigarette dangling from her painted lips. She kept her sunglasses on, feeling her way down the aisle through the rows of seats. The rest of the company was in mid-rehearsal for the Geisha Girl number, which Theta thought was one of the stupidest, most insulting routines they¡¯d ever done¡ªand there had been plenty of stupid, insulting numbers.

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    The stage manager glared. ¡°Well, well, well. If it isn¡¯t Her Highness, come to grace us with her presence at last. You¡¯re an hour late, Theta!¡±


    ¡°Keep your shirt on, Wally. I¡¯m here.¡± Theta exchanged a furtive glance with Henry at the piano. He shook his head and she shrugged.


    ¡°She thinks she¡¯s better than everybody else,¡± one of the chorines, a dim little witch named Daisy, griped.


    Theta ignored her. She dropped her coat in the front row, doused her cigarette in the stage manager¡¯s cup of coffee, and took her place onstage.


    ¡°One of these days, Theta,¡± he fumed. ¡°You¡¯re going to do something even Flo Ziegfeld won¡¯t tolerate, and it will be my pleasure to toss you out on your¡ª¡±


    ¡°You gonna beat your gums all day, or are we gonna work?¡± Theta snapped.


    Theta executed her steps perfectly. She could do the number in her sleep. For good measure, though, she bumped into Daisy, just to rattle her. Daisy was sore because Theta had gotten a nice write-up in the papers for a number that was supposed to be Daisy¡¯s. ¡°That was my specialty dance,¡± Daisy had fumed in the dressing room the next night. ¡°And you stole it out from under me.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t steal what you don¡¯t own,¡± Theta had said, and Daisy had hurled a pot of cold cream, missing Theta by a mile¡ªher aim being as questionable as her dancing. As usual, Daisy had gone with her sob story to Flo, who had broken down and given her the spotlight for the Worship of Ba¡¯al number that closed the show. Theta was tired of standing in somebody else¡¯s shadow¡ªespecially when that somebody was half the performer Theta was.


    They broke for five, and Theta sat on the piano bench next to Henry. ¡°You look like you ran away from a prep school,¡± she teased. He was wearing a cardigan and a straw boater.


    ¡°It¡¯s all about the style, darlin¡¯.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re both bigger than this lousy show, Hen.¡±


    Henry played softly, almost reflexively. He was always happiest with his fingers on the keys and some song pouring out of him. ¡°Agreed, darlin¡¯. But we still gotta pay rent.¡±


    Theta adjusted the seam on her stockings so it ran straight. ¡°How¡¯d it go when you gave Flo your new tune?¡±


    Henry¡¯s perpetual smirk turned to a frown. He plunked out a sour chord and stopped. ¡°About how I ¡¯spected it would.¡±


    Theta tugged on the boater¡¯s brim. ¡°The Ziegfeld only likes ¡¯em dumb and hummable, kiddo.¡±


    ¡° ¡®The people pay to be entertained, kid,¡¯ ¡± Henry said in perfect imitation of the great showman. ¡° ¡®They want to leave happy and humming. Above all, they don¡¯t want to think too hard!¡¯ ¡± He sighed. ¡°I swear I could write a song about constipation, and as long as it rhymed girl with pearl, Mr. Ziegfeld would like it.¡± Henry struck up a jaunty melody on the keys. He sang with exaggerated romantic bravado in his soft, sweet tenor. ¡°Darling girl, I¡¯d be your fool, if I could only pass this stool, oh the curse of CON-STI-PAAAA-TION!¡±


    Theta dissolved into laughter.


    ¡°What¡¯s so funny?¡± Daisy loomed over them.


    ¡°I just got a joke Henry told me last Wednesday.¡± Theta cupped a match to her cigarette and blew the smoke toward Daisy, who didn¡¯t take the hint.


    ¡°Whatcha reading?¡± The chorine sneered at Theta¡¯s copy of The Weary Blues, which sat on top of her bag. ¡°Negro poetry?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t expect you to get it, Daisy. You don¡¯t look at anything besides Photoplay¡ªand even then somebody¡¯s gotta explain the pictures to you.¡±


    Daisy¡¯s mouth hung open in outrage. ¡°Well, I never!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s what you tell all your fellas, but the rest of us aren¡¯t buying it. Go away, now, Daisy. Shoo, little fly!¡± Theta flicked her fingers dismissively at Daisy, who stormed off and started dishing out an earful about how high-hat Theta was to any of the dancers who would listen.


    Henry¡¯s fingers found their place on the keys again. ¡°You sure know how to make pals, honey.¡±


    ¡°Not interested in making pals. I already got a best pal,¡± she said, patting his knee. She reached into her brassiere and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, which she tucked into Henry¡¯s shirt pocket. ¡°Here. For the piano fund.¡±


    ¡°I told you to forget that.¡±


    Theta¡¯s voice went soft. ¡°I never forget a favor. You know that.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯d you get that kale?¡±


    ¡°Some Wall Street broker with more money than sense. He bought me a fur just to be seen with him at dinner. And that¡¯s all he got¡ªdinner company.¡±

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    ¡°They all wanna marry you.¡±


    ¡°Just once I¡¯d like to meet a fella who isn¡¯t a phony. Somebody who doesn¡¯t wanna buy me a fur so he can show me off to his boys.¡±


    ¡°When you meet that fella, see if he¡¯s got a brother,¡± Henry joked.


    ¡°I thought you were carrying a torch for Lionel?¡± Theta teased.


    Henry grimaced. ¡°More like a matchstick. He giggles when I kiss him.¡±


    ¡°So maybe you kiss funny.¡± Theta smirked. She loved the way Henry always found some picky reason to send his beaus packing.


    ¡°I met you on the street in Ohio. We were married at the Kansas state fair. You left me lonely in Florida. Now I¡¯m in a state of despair¡­.¡± Henry sang.


    ¡°Someday, Henry DuBois, you¡¯re gonna meet a fella who sends you, and you won¡¯t know what to do,¡± Theta teased.


    The stage manager reappeared, clapping for attention. ¡°All right, everyone. The Ba¡¯al number from the top. Places, please. Miss Knight, that means you, too.¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t miss it for the world, Wally.¡± She smiled as sweetly as a show poster for the glorified, all-American Ziegfeld girl just before dumping her second cigarette into Wally¡¯s fresh cup of coffee.


    THE ETERNAL RECURRENCE


    Evie and Jericho sat at a long table with stacks of books, police reports, drawings, and assorted papers before them. Jericho had lit a fire in the library¡¯s massive stone fireplace. It crackled and spit as it bit into the dry wood. They¡¯d been at it for an hour, searching through musty books for some clue that might shed light on the baffling occult nature of the murder. Evie was tired and irritable. She didn¡¯t want to think about what she¡¯d seen the day before, much less wallow in it. But Will showed no sign of stopping. As he spoke, he walked the perimeter of the room, trailing ash from his cigarette.


    ¡°Right. Let¡¯s review: What do we know so far?¡± Will asked.


    ¡°The killer has a fascination with the occult and with religion, possibly the Book of Revelation,¡± Jericho answered from his perch at the head of the table.


    ¡°How do we know this?¡±


    ¡°His note mentions the Harlot, the Whore of Babylon, and the Beast, possibly a reference to the anti-Christ.¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± Will said. ¡°But the passage is only partially from the Bible. They don¡¯t correspond neatly.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re close,¡± Jericho said.


    ¡°Any librarian or scholar will tell you: Close is not the same as accurate. And don¡¯t forget that there are sigils as well. That¡¯s more indicative of some ceremonial magic or mysticism than of Christianity.¡± Will indicated the scribblings running around the edges of the note. To Evie they just looked like scribbles¡ªstylized crosses, squiggles, fancy letters, and geometric patterns.


    ¡°Now¡­¡± Will stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and immediately reached into his silver cigarette case for another without breaking his stride. ¡°We have a symbol, do we not?¡±


    ¡°A pentacle,¡± Evie answered.


    ¡°Yes. I¡¯ve no artistic skill. Evie, could you¡­?¡± Will handed her a nub of chalk fished from an old cigar box full of odds and ends. It took Evie a moment to understand that he expected her to draw the symbol on the slate. ¡°No, you¡¯ve drawn it right side up. Inverted, please.¡±


    With a sigh, Evie erased her five-pointed star and drew it again with the two points up and the one down. ¡°What¡¯s the difference?¡± she grumbled.


    ¡°I¡¯ve told you: Inverted means matter over God. Spirit becoming flesh rather than the other way ¡¯round. And now the snake, if you would, please.¡±


    Evie finished off the sketch. It was a rather nice likeness of a snake, if she did say so herself. Not that Will said thank you. Evie brushed the chalk dust from her hands. ¡°What is the meaning of the snake?¡±


    ¡°Ah. That is a very old symbol, indeed. The snake devouring its tail, no beginning and no end. It exists across time and cultures. We see it in the Norse Jormungandr, the Greek Ouroboros, Gnosticism, the Ashanti, the Egyptian. It represents cycles, the idea that the universe is neither created nor destroyed but returns infinitely, to be played out again and again.¡±


    ¡°The eternal recurrence, Nietzsche calls it,¡± Jericho said.


    ¡°Does that mean I¡¯ll be forced to live through this afternoon again?¡± Evie joked. No one laughed, and she occupied herself by chalking in a fashionable hat on the snake¡¯s head.


    Will grabbed a handful of mints from a dish and jiggled them in his palm as he resumed his pacing, the cigarette still in his other hand. ¡°We may assume, then, that our killer has some passing knowledge of the occult, of magical and religious symbolism, most likely the Book of Revelation. But he references the Whore of Babylon as the ¡®Harlot Adorned upon the Sea.¡¯ ¡± Will paused for a second. ¡°Strange phrase, that. Baffling. Possibly from a religion of the killer¡¯s own making.¡±

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    ¡°How do you invent a religion?¡± Evie asked.


    Will looked over the top of his spectacles. ¡°You say, ¡®God told me the following,¡¯ and then wait for people to sign up.¡±


    Evie hadn¡¯t given religion much thought before. Her parents were Catholics turned Episcopalian. They attended services on Sunday, but it was all pretty rote, like brushing your teeth and bathing. Just something you did because it was expected. Evie hadn¡¯t always felt that way. For a year after James had died, she¡¯d cupped his half-dollar pendant between her pressed palms and prayed fervently for a miracle, for a telegram that would say GOOD NEWS! IT WAS A TERRIBLE MISTAKE, AND PRIVATE JAMES XAVIER O¡¯NEILL HAS BEEN FOUND, SAFE, IN A FARMHOUSE IN FRANCE. But no such telegram ever arrived, and whatever possible faith might have bloomed in Evie withered and died. Now she saw it as just another advertisement for a life that belonged to a previous generation and held no meaning for hers.


    ¡°We haven¡¯t answered the most basic question of all: Why? What purpose is served by these murders?¡± Jericho asked, jolting Evie from her thoughts.


    ¡°He¡¯s a monster,¡± Evie said. ¡°Isn¡¯t he?¡±


    Will reached into a bowl of bridge mix. He juggled the candies in his hand without eating them. ¡°Indeed. But that¡¯s a what, not a why. Nothing is done without purpose, however twisted that purpose may be.¡±


    ¡°Why did he take her eyes?¡± Evie asked.


    ¡°He might be keeping them as souvenirs.¡±


    Evie made a face. ¡°A pinwheel from Coney Island is a souvenir, Unc.¡±


    ¡°To us, yes. To a madman? Perhaps not. But he might need them in some way for the ritual. Some cultures believe that ingesting the flesh of your victims makes you immortal. The Aghori of India eat the flesh of the dead in the belief that it confers supernatural powers, whereas members of the Algonquin tribe believe that anyone who eats human flesh will become a demonic spirit called the Wendigo.¡±


    Evie¡¯s stomach turned. ¡°Well, there¡¯s nothing in the Bible about holy cannibalism.¡±


    ¡°Transubstantiation?¡± Jericho said. ¡° ¡®Eat of my body, drink of my blood¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± Evie conceded. ¡°I¡¯ll certainly never feel the same way about Communion again.¡±


    ¡°As I¡¯ve said before¡ªAmerica is a young country comprising all sorts of people. Beliefs converge and become something new all the time.¡± Will finished his second cigarette and Evie could see his fingers twitching for a third, which, thankfully, he resisted. The cigarette smoke hung thickly in the air as it was.


    ¡°There¡¯s something I don¡¯t understand. The note¡­¡± Evie searched through the mess of papers on the table and retrieved the photograph of the note left with Ruta¡¯s body. ¡°The note says, ¡®This was the fifth offering.¡¯ Why the fifth? Why not the first?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Troubling.¡± Will paced around the table, his cigarette case still clutched in his palm. ¡°Jericho, could you telephone Detective Malloy and ask if there are any unsolved murders that might be similar in nature?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you think he would have mentioned that?¡± Evie said.


    ¡°Never assume,¡± Uncle Will said, and it was clear that it was his final word on the matter.


    ¡°It¡¯s almost time for your lecture at the Women¡¯s Association¡¯s Ancient Order of the Phoenix club,¡± Jericho reminded Will.


    Will squinted at the mantel clock as if he meant to rebuke it for displaying the wrong time, then gave two curt nods, like a headmaster finally accepting a student¡¯s scholarly argument in class. ¡°So it is. I¡¯d best gather my lecture notes.¡±


    ¡°You left them upstairs,¡± Jericho said.


    ¡°Ah. Good. Good.¡± Will paused for a moment longer, his eyes scanning the room. ¡°I can¡¯t help feeling that there¡¯s something we¡¯re missing here. Something important.¡±


    The fire cast Will¡¯s face in shadows. He shook off his misgiving and was gone.


    There was a knock at the door. Finally, a customer! Jericho was up first. From the way he bolted, Evie figured she wasn¡¯t the only person worried about the museum. She heard voices, and a moment later Jericho returned with none other than Sam Lloyd in tow.


    Evie¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Well, well, well. I suppose you¡¯ve got my twenty bucks.¡±


    Jericho glanced from Evie to Sam and back again. ¡°Do you two know each other?¡±


    ¡°Actually, I¡¯ve come to see Mr. William Fitzgerald. Is he here?¡± Sam craned his neck.


    ¡°Dr. Fitzgerald. And what business do you have with my uncle?¡±

 Page 49

    ¡°Your¡­ your uncle?¡± Sam smiled in surprise. ¡°You don¡¯t say! Now, isn¡¯t that a coincidence.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t what a coincidence?¡± Uncle Will said, stepping into the room. He wore his hat and carried his briefcase. An umbrella hung from his left arm even though it was a sunny day.


    Sam marched forward and shook Will¡¯s hand with gusto. ¡°How do you do, sir? Sam Lloyd. I have something I believe belongs to you.¡±


    ¡°Indeed?¡±


    ¡°Well, sir, I¡¯m afraid it¡¯s a story that won¡¯t make me look like too swell of a fella. See, I was at the pawnbroker¡¯s last night, hoping to get a few rubes for my watch¡ªtimes are a bit hard. And I hear this fella saying he¡¯s got some merchandise to sell. Rare treasures from the Museum of the Creepy Crawlies.¡± Sam gave an apologetic shrug. ¡°That¡¯s just what they call it, Professor.¡±


    ¡°Go on,¡± Uncle Will said. If he was put out, he didn¡¯t show it.


    Sam opened his bag and retrieved Cornelius Rathbone¡¯s Masonic dagger. Will held it up to the light and peered at it. ¡°That¡¯s ours, all right.¡±


    ¡°I offered the fella my last twenty bucks for it, and he took it, seeing as the pawnbroker wasn¡¯t too keen on taking it for more than ten. I didn¡¯t know if there might be a reward for its safe return.¡± Sam paused, glancing quickly up at Will, then back down at his hands. ¡°I just thought, well, it¡¯s one thing to take what you need so¡¯s you can eat, or to pinch from a bootlegger. It¡¯s another thing to steal treasures from a museum. Why, that¡¯s just bad form.¡±


    Evie stared, her mouth hanging slightly open. Sam winked and said, ¡°Hey, sister, careful there¡ªwouldn¡¯t want your tongue to fall out.¡±


    Evie glared. ¡°If my tongue goes missing I¡¯ll know whose pockets to check first! Of all the cockeyed stories! Unc, you need to give him the bum¡¯s rush. He¡¯s a cheat, a liar, a thief, a liar¡ª¡±


    ¡°You said that already,¡± Sam noted.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m saying it again! This is the son of a bitch who stole my twenty dollars in Penn Station!¡±


    ¡°Evangeline, not everyone is accustomed to your gangland charm,¡± Uncle Will chided after a pause. ¡°Is that true, young man?¡±


    Sam offered a reassuring smile. ¡°Now, see, that¡¯s all a big mix-up, Professor.¡±


    ¡°So¡¯s your old man,¡± Evie spat out.


    Sam adopted a pained expression. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to say this and get the young lady in trouble, but she stole my coat.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re not getting it back until I have my twenty dollars.¡±


    Jericho came to stand beside Evie, looming over Sam.


    ¡°Hi there, big fella. You her brother?¡± Sam asked.


    ¡°No.¡±


    Sam glanced from Jericho to Evie. ¡°You married?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Evie and Jericho said, but not before Sam noted the blush creeping into Jericho¡¯s cheeks.


    ¡°Listen, sister, I don¡¯t know what kind of situation you¡¯ve got going on here. I¡¯m not the judging type. I¡¯m glad to see you¡¯re safe and sound here with your uncle and your¡±¡ªhe nodded to Jericho¡ª¡°large friend. I was only trying to do a good deed, but I see that no good deed goes unpunished. So if you¡¯ll just hand over my coat, we¡¯ll call it even and I¡¯ll beat it. I won¡¯t even charge you with stealing my property.¡±


    Evie sputtered for a second, then took off after Sam, chasing him around the long table, knocking over stacks of books as she did. ¡°I¡¯m going to kill him. Who wants to watch?¡±


    Jericho raised his hand.


    Will stepped into Evie¡¯s path, stopping her. ¡°Pardon me, but I¡¯m rather confused, and I am also¡±¡ªWill checked his watch again¡ª¡°six and a half minutes late for my lecture. I don¡¯t mind thieves, but I do abhor liars and people who keep me from conducting my affairs in an efficient manner. Now. Did you, in fact, steal her twenty dollars? Answer carefully, young man.¡±


    For the first time, Sam appeared nervous, raking a hand through his hair and inching just a bit closer to the door. ¡°Well, sir, a great man once said, ¡®Subjectivity is truth; truth is subjectivity.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°Kierkegaard,¡± Will said, surprised. His tone softened. ¡°Still. Facts are facts.¡±


    Sam looked down at his shoes. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I was planning on paying her back when I saw that fella at the pawnbroker¡¯s and gave him my last dime to get that knife back. I thought maybe it could be a peace offering.¡±

 Page 50

    ¡°Oh, dry up,¡± Evie muttered. ¡°He probably stole it himself.¡±


    Sam forced himself not to look up. ¡°I¡¯m so broke I had to jump the turnstile to take the train. You can call a cop if you want to. In fact, I wouldn¡¯t blame you a bit. But I¡¯m as honest as a senator about finding your fenced goods, sir. I hope that counts for something.¡±


    ¡°I hear they feed you in Sing Sing,¡± Evie muttered. ¡°Three squares a day.¡±


    ¡°Evangeline,¡± Will said with a sigh. ¡°Charity begins at home.¡±


    ¡°So does mental illness.¡±


    Will drummed his fingers on the back of a chair. ¡°It was wrong to take Evangeline¡¯s money, no matter how dire your straits at the time. However, you acted quite nobly in returning the museum¡¯s property when you didn¡¯t have to. I¡¯d never thought about security for the museum before.¡± Will scratched his head, looking around at the precious books.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t mind my saying, sir, you can¡¯t be too careful these days.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll say.¡± Evie glared at Sam.


    Will nodded, thinking it over. ¡°Very well. How would you like an honest job at the museum? There¡¯s plenty to be done, and you could stay here at night to thwart any unwanted thieves.¡±


    Evie whirled around to face Will. ¡°Unc! He¡¯s a thief!¡±


    ¡°Yes. So he is. Are you a good thief, Sam?¡±


    Sam smiled. ¡°The best, sir.¡±


    ¡°A good thief in need of a job,¡± Will mused. ¡°I suppose you may start right away.¡±


    ¡°Will, Evie¡¯s right. You don¡¯t know him, and he¡¯ll only be in the way,¡± Jericho said quietly. ¡°I could keep watch if you need me to.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s wise, Jericho,¡± Will answered quietly. Evie didn¡¯t know what he meant by that, but Jericho¡¯s face went stony. ¡°We can always use an extra hand, especially now that we¡¯re investigating a murder.¡±


    ¡°A murder?¡± Sam said. ¡°Sounds exciting.¡±


    ¡°They might be investigating yours pretty soon, pal,¡± Evie warned.


    ¡°Yes, well, I do hope you¡¯re not averse to hard work,¡± Will said.


    ¡°Nothing better than an honest day¡¯s work, I always say, sir.¡±


    Will checked his watch again. ¡°I am now nine minutes late. Jericho, could you return Mr. Lloyd¡¯s coat and show him to the filing, please?¡±


    A thoroughly irritated Jericho retrieved Sam¡¯s coat from the closet and handed it over a bit roughly.


    ¡°He is enormous,¡± Sam whispered to Evie. ¡°What do you feed him?¡±


    Evie leaned close. ¡°I¡¯m on to you, pal. You so much as whistle off-key and I promise I will personally give you the bum¡¯s rush. You won¡¯t even have time to grab your hat.¡±


    ¡°Well.¡± Sam nodded, slipping on the coat. ¡°I am pretty fond of this hat. Nice to see you again, Sister.¡±


    ¡°The pleasure was all yours,¡± Evie said and ran to catch Will. Behind her, she could hear Sam whistling ¡°Am I Wasting My Time on You?¡± He was whistling off-key, and Evie had the distinct impression he was doing it deliberately.


    ¡°Unc!¡± Evie called. She caught up with Will at the front door.


    ¡°Evie, can this wait? The ladies of the Ancient Order of the whatever-it-is¡ª¡±


    ¡°Phoenix,¡± Evie supplied.


    ¡°Phoenix are expecting me, and if I can¡¯t hail a taxicab, I¡¯ll go from being forgivably late to being egregiously late.¡±


    ¡°Unc, you can¡¯t let Sam Lloyd work here. Not with all those priceless artifacts! He¡¯s likely to rob you blind.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s precisely those qualities that could prove useful.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°From time to time, the museum has to be¡­ clever in ferreting out objects, stories, and people before anyone else gets there. It¡¯s delicate.¡±


    ¡°You expect me to believe that there are other people who want those creepy things?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be surprised.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s still a thief.¡±


    ¡°A thief who reads Kierkegaard is an interesting thief, indeed.¡±


    ¡°But Unc¡ª¡±


    ¡°Evangeline, not everyone starts life in a comfortable house on a comfortable street in Ohio,¡± Will said pointedly.


    The comment stung. Why was Will defending Sam Lloyd, a common criminal, over her? After all, Sam was a stranger; she was family. Weren¡¯t family supposed to protect their own? But he¡¯d sided with the opponent, just like her father and mother had sided with Harold Brodie instead of defending their own daughter. If Uncle Will wanted to be foolish, well, that was his affair. She¡¯d been stupid to try to intervene.

 Page 51

    ¡°I hope you¡¯re right about him,¡± Evie said and went back to the library. She glowered at Sam once for good measure and then settled in at the long table, checking through stacks of newspaper reports and books, searching for anything that might shed light on the strange murder of Ruta Badowski.


    When she¡¯d had enough, she sneaked out her copy of Photoplay.


    ¡°So, is Clara Bow running away with Charlie Chaplin?¡± Sam read over her shoulder.


    Evie did not look up. ¡°Why don¡¯t you take it and read it for yourself? You seem to be skilled at taking things. In fact, why don¡¯t you carry it with you on your way out?¡±


    Sam snickered. ¡°Now, why would I leave such a sweet deal? Besides, I¡¯d hate for you to miss me, sister.¡±


    ¡°Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Let¡¯s put that phrase to the test, shall we? I¡¯ll get your hat.¡±


    ¡°No can do. Your uncle needs my help. Look at all this stuff¡ªwho knew there were so many superstitious charms? Like this¡ªlove charm of the Hopi. Oh, I better not let you hold this, sister. You might get goofy for me.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯ll be the day.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m counting on that day.¡±


    ¡°I hope you can count pretty high, then,¡± Evie said.


    He leaned in a little closer. Evie could see the flecks of amber in his eyes. ¡°Admit it¡ªyou liked that kiss.¡±


    ¡°You owe me twenty dollars.¡±


    ¡°Cash or check?¡± he said cheekily. Even the dullest Ohio girls knew that bit of lingo: Kiss now or kiss later?


    ¡°Bank¡¯s closed, pal.¡±


    Sam nodded. ¡°Check, then.¡± Whistling, he headed for the library doors. Evie followed him up the wide, curving staircase that led to the museum¡¯s second floor.


    ¡°Can I help you, sister?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m making sure you don¡¯t leave with half the museum.¡±


    ¡°Just have to iron my shoelaces,¡± he said, nodding toward the men¡¯s room at the top of the stairs. When he reached the men¡¯s room door, Evie stood outside, her arms folded across her chest.


    ¡°Honestly, I¡¯d invite you in, but I¡¯ve managed to avoid getting arrested for petty theft. I¡¯d hate to go to the Tombs for perversion.¡±


    ¡°Whatever it takes to get you out of my uncle¡¯s museum,¡± Evie quipped. ¡°I¡¯ll wait.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself, doll.¡±


    In the museum¡¯s musty lavatory, Sam washed his hands and left the tap running. Whistling, he sat on the cracked tile floor and watched the shadow of Evie¡¯s feet under the slit of the door as she paced. She¡¯d get bored eventually. He opened Jericho¡¯s wallet, which he had lifted while the blond giant was occupied in the stacks. Trusting fella. That was a dangerous habit¡ªtrust. Sam removed a five-dollar bill, replacing it with two singles. It was the oldest trick in the book: If you stole the Abe¡¯s cabe outright, the other fella could make you for a thief. But if you took a large bill and left some singles, the mark would think he¡¯d spent the big dough and just didn¡¯t remember getting change.


    From his jacket pockets, Sam removed two small silver ashtrays, which he¡¯d managed to take from the library unnoticed. These he hoped to sell later to a disreputable pawnbroker on the Bowery for a few bucks. For now, he wrapped them in one of the bathroom¡¯s hand towels and hid them behind the toilet bowl. He had big plans, and plans took time and money.


    Evie¡¯s shadow disappeared. Sam opened the door a crack and saw that the hallway was empty. He closed the men¡¯s room door again, turned off the tap, and stared at his reflection in the tall wooden mirror. Two shocks of his dark hair hung down on either side of his gold-flecked eyes. The devil-may-care expression was gone, and in its place was one of hard determination.


    ¡°Nice to meet you. I¡¯m Sam Lloyd. Tell me where she is, or¡­¡±


    Sam stopped. Though he¡¯d played the scene over in his mind many times, he was never really sure what he would say when that day came. He only knew that he wouldn¡¯t be going in blind. Sam pulled up his pants leg and removed the gun strapped there, turning it over in his hands, examining the barrel, feeling the tension in the trigger. He opened the chamber and spun it around. There were no bullets yet. The ashtrays would bring enough for those. This job at the museum had been a stroke of good luck, easier than hustling magic tricks on the streets of Times Square. All he had to do was hold on for a little while¡ªlong enough to find out who needed to pay for what had happened to his family. And they would pay.


    In the mirror, Sam was scowling. He looked older than his seventeen years. He straightened his collar, eased the scowl into a hard smile, and raised the gun, taking aim at his reflection.

 Page 52

    ¡°Nice to meet you. I¡¯m Sam Lloyd. Tell me where she is, and I might let you live.¡±


    Sam heard footsteps and hurriedly replaced the gun in its holster. The door swung open and Jericho came in. Sam made a show of washing his hands. ¡°Something the matter?¡±


    ¡°I seem to have lost my wallet.¡±


    ¡°Aw, gee. Tough break, pal,¡± Sam said. ¡°Want me to help you look?¡±


    Jericho squinted at Sam, evaluating the offer. ¡°Thanks.¡±


    Sam accompanied Jericho through the museum, making a show of looking, pointing out spots where a wallet could possibly hide. When they reached the library, he shook it free from his pants leg near one of the many bookcases. It wouldn¡¯t do for Sam to suddenly find the wallet; he needed to make Jericho think he¡¯d found it himself.


    ¡°Did you look up here, big fella?¡±


    Jericho frowned at the phrase big fella. He took the spiral staircase to the second floor and walked the stacks until he spied his wallet on the floor. ¡°I found it,¡± he called. He opened the wallet and frowned. ¡°I could¡¯ve sworn I had five dollars. But there¡¯s only two here.¡±


    ¡°Gee, that¡¯s rough. Better hold on to those rubes,¡± Sam said evenly.


    Evie skimmed the pages of a book titled Religious Fervor and Fanaticism in the Burned-Over District. The author appeared to have written the book with the express purpose of putting his audience to sleep, and Evie had difficulty retaining anything she read. She resorted to skimming the pages, stopping suddenly when she came to an illustration near the back. There was the same symbol used in the murder. The inscription read THE PENTACLE OF THE BRETHREN, BRETHREN, NY, C. 1832.


    The telephone rang, echoing through the empty museum. Evie turned down the corner of the page to show Will later and ran for the phone.


    ¡°Hold a moment. I¡¯ll connect you,¡± the operator said. There was a click and a hiss, and then Theta¡¯s voice crackled over the wires.


    ¡°Hiya, Evil. It¡¯s Theta. Listen, you still want to catch the show?¡±


    ¡°And how!¡±


    ¡°Swell. I¡¯ll leave a pair of tickets for you and Mabel at the theater for tonight¡¯s show. There¡¯s a party in Greenwich Village after, if it¡¯s not past your bedtime.¡±


    ¡°I never go to bed before dawn.¡±


    ¡°Attagirl! And Evil, wear your best glad rags.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll be the gladdest rags you ever saw.¡±


    In the privacy of Will¡¯s office, Evie jumped up and down. Finally! Tonight, she and Mabel would be out with Theta and her smart set. She danced back into the library, humming a jazzy number.


    ¡°What just happened to you? You win the Miss America contest or something?¡± Sam said. He gathered Evie¡¯s book into a tall stack of volumes to be reshelved.


    ¡°I will be the guest of Miss Theta Knight at the Globe Theatre for Mr. Ziegfeld¡¯s latest revue tonight, and at a private party afterward.¡±


    ¡°Swanky. Need a date?¡±


    ¡°Private party!¡± Evie sang out. She reached up and grabbed her scarf and hat from the giant stuffed bear¡¯s paw, where she¡¯d hung them earlier.


    ¡°Say, I was wondering, either of you know anything about this?¡± He pointed to the newspaper clipping on top of the stack, about the girl with the sleeping sickness.


    Evie glanced at it as she tied the scarf into a loose bow at her neck. ¡°It¡¯s one of Unc¡¯s strange scraps. He collects these odd little ghost stories. That¡¯s his job, I suppose. Why do you ask?¡± Evie said.


    Sam forced a smile. ¡°No reason. Just trying to keep up.¡±


    Evie patted his cheek. ¡°Good luck, Lloyd.¡±


    Evie left the museum and walked along Central Park West. Ten blocks farther up, she could see the gothic spires of the Bennington peeking above the roofs and trees. It was a pleasant late afternoon, and a sudden optimism seized Evie¡ªthe feeling that all good things were possible, and that she could pull her deepest wishes from the air like a magician with a coin.


    At a newsstand, a young boy hawked the late-edition paper by calling out the headlines, but Evie was too preoccupied with thoughts of the perfect evening awaiting her to pay any attention. Dreaming of what she would wear, she passed harried mothers corralling children on the edges of the park as well as an organ-grinder who was accompanied by a tiny monkey dressed as a bellhop. It clicked its teeth and screeched at passersby until they rewarded him with pennies for his small tin cup. Two girls in matching capes advertising a nightclub offered her a flyer.


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± Evie asked.


    ¡°For the Nighthawks Club. We¡¯re having a Solomon¡¯s Comet party!¡±

 Page 53

    ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°Jeepers, the comet?¡± the taller of the girls said in a thick New York accent. ¡°It¡¯s comin¡¯ t¡¯rough New York in a coupla weeks. It comes once every fifty years or somethin¡¯. ¡¯Posed to be a¡ªwhaddaya call it, Bess?¡±


    ¡°Event of heavenly significance,¡± the other girl enunciated carefully. ¡°Like magic or something. All them magicians and holy rollers thought it was a sign. Anyhow, the club¡¯s having a real swell party for it. You should come. Oh, your coat is the cat¡¯s meow!¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Evie said, pleased. She looked over the flyer. It was a caricature drawing of a flapper dancing up a storm, her cocktail glass sloshing its contents. Above her, a magnificent comet arced over the skyline of New York City. The artist had given the comet a face, and it smiled down at the fetching girl. Its fiery tail showered sparkles on the city.


    ¡°You don¡¯t wanna miss out on the most magical night of the year, do you?¡± the taller girl asked.


    ¡°Not on your life-ski,¡± Evie said.


    Solomon¡¯s Comet. An event of heavenly significance. Perhaps it would bring her luck. At any rate, it was a dandy reason for a party, and thinking of the night ahead and the nights to come, she went merrily on her way, clutching the flyer. At the corner, she waited for the traffic cop to signal the all clear with his white-gloved hands. He blew his whistle, spurring the crowd into action again, and Evie turned toward home.


    Behind her, the newsboy held the late-edition paper aloft, shouting the headline to anyone who might have a nickel. ¡°Extra! Extra! Madman threatens to kill again!¡±


    SMOKE AND MIRRORS


    Outside the Globe Theatre on Forty-second Street, the lighted marquee blazed FLORENZ ZIEGFELD PRESENTS NO FOOLIN¡¯: A MUSICAL REVUE GLORIFYING THE AMERICAN GIRL in tall letters. People in eveningwear drifted into the grand beaux arts theater, excited to see stars like Fanny Brice, Will Rogers, and W. C. Fields, along with the talented singing, dancing chorines and the celebrated Ziegfeld girls, beautiful models who crossed the stage in elaborate headdresses and elegant, barely-there costumes. It was the epitome of glamour, and Evie could scarcely believe they were taking their very own seats up in the curved balcony beside all the swells in their furs and jewels.


    Evie nudged Mabel. ¡°Oh, look, there¡¯s Gloria Swanson.¡± She nodded toward the lower level, where the seductive motion-picture starlet, draped in ermine and velvet, enjoyed the stares of admirers. ¡°She is the elephant¡¯s eyebrows,¡± Evie whispered appreciatively. ¡°Those jewels! How her neck must ache.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why Bayer makes aspirin,¡± Mabel whispered back, and Evie smiled, knowing that even a socialist wasn¡¯t immune to the dazzle of a movie star.


    The lights dimmed and the girls squeezed each other¡¯s hands in excitement. The conductor lifted his baton and a rousing opening song rose from the orchestra pit. The curtains opened, and a bevy of smiling chorus girls in brightly colored bathing suits tap danced in perfect synchronization while a tuxedo-clad gentleman sang of beautiful girls. Evie had never been so excited. She loved everything about the show, from the funny yodeling number set in the Alps to the swirling dance that took place in the harem of a sheik of Araby. She wished it would never end, but she could see from the program that they had come to the finale. It was said that Mr. Ziegfeld always saved the most spectacular number for last. The lights flickered to suggest lightning. From the orchestra pit came the crash of cymbals and the sharp shriek of violins against a violent drumbeat. Smoke pooled near the footlights and crept out into the audience. Onstage, barefoot, skimpily dressed girls wearing tall, beaded headdresses writhed suggestively below a replica of a golden altar. A blond beauty draped provocatively in golden silk stood on top of the altar. She danced as if in a trance while the music swelled and the lightning flashed. The beauty sang sweetly, begging the spirit world not to take her as a sacrifice to the golden idol. Along a catwalk, elegant Ziegfeld girls promenaded like ghosts. It was mesmerizing, and Evie sat forward, rapt.


    ¡°There¡¯s Theta,¡± Mabel whispered. From her lap, she gestured discreetly to a chorus girl, second from the right. Even though she was dressed and made up to look like all the other girls, there was something special about Theta, Evie thought. The other dancers¡¯ placid expressions suggested they were thinking about nothing more exciting than washing out their stockings after the show. But Theta made you believe she was a worshipper of Ba¡¯al, lost to the frenzy.


    Just as the action reached a fever pitch and the priest was about to plunge the knife into the heart of the sacrificial blond, the hero rushed the altar, fighting off the worshippers. He knocked the priest back, smashed the idol, and carried the bewitched girl down the lighted steps to safety. A bevy of chorus girls glissaded across the stage with huge feather fans, and suddenly the scene transformed into a wedding. The dancing girls tossed red rose petals as the now husband and wife, clad in virtuous white, sang to each other a pledge of eternal love before the curtains snapped shut on the whole affair and the show was ended.

 Page 54

    ¡°You were wonderful,¡± Evie exclaimed a short while later, as the four of them¡ªEvie, Mabel, Theta, and Henry¡ªwalked the tree-shaded, narrow bend of Bedford Street in Greenwich Village on their way to a party one of the girls was hosting.


    ¡°Yeah. ¡®Second girl from stage left¡¯ is my specialty,¡± Theta deadpanned.


    Henry took her arm in his. ¡°Keep working, darlin¡¯, and you just might be ¡®first girl from stage left.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°Well, I thought you were the duck¡¯s quack,¡± Evie said. ¡°Mabel and I noticed you right away. Didn¡¯t we, Mabesie?¡±


    ¡°And how!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re sweet to say so, kid. This is the joint, here.¡±


    They¡¯d stopped at a redbrick building. The party had spilled out onto the stoop, where a girl in a feather boa, a long cigarette holder angled between two fingers, was already drunk. She blocked their way with her leg. ¡°What¡¯s the password?¡±


    ¡°Long Island,¡± Henry said.


    ¡°You have to say it like this: Lawn Guy-land,¡± she instructed.


    ¡°Lawn Guy-land,¡± they all said.


    ¡°Entrez!¡± The girl let her leg drop with a thump and the four of them pushed their way into the foyer and up three flights of stairs dotted with birdlike clusters of people till they came to an apartment whose door was propped open by an ice bucket. Inside, the radio played a jazzy number. The hostess shimmied past them with a loud ¡°You¡¯ve arrived!¡± before disappearing into another room as if riding an unseen tide. There was a lamp on the floor, and a bust of Thomas Jefferson topped by someone¡¯s cloche gazed at the four of them from one of the burners on the tiny kitchen¡¯s even tinier stove. A fella crooned ¡°I¡¯ll Take Manhattan¡± for a few of the chorus girls and their friends, who sat at his feet singing along.


    Mabel tugged on Evie¡¯s sleeve. ¡°I¡¯m not really dressed for this party.¡±


    ¡°Nothing we can¡¯t fix with a little smoke and mirrors, Pie Face,¡± Evie said. With a sigh, she removed her rhinestone headband with the peacock feathers and placed it on Mabel¡¯s head. ¡°Here, you go, Mabesie. You look like the Christmas windows at Gimbels. And who doesn¡¯t love those?¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Evie.¡±


    ¡°Bottom¡¯s up,¡± Theta said, handing them each a drink.


    Mabel stared at hers. ¡°I don¡¯t really drink.¡±


    ¡°First sip¡¯s the roughest,¡± Henry advised.


    She took a sip and winced. ¡°That¡¯s awful.¡±


    ¡°The drunker you get, the better it tastes.¡±


    Evie was so nervous that she downed her cocktail in two stiff swigs, then refilled her glass.


    Henry arched an eyebrow. ¡°A pro, I see.¡±


    ¡°What else is there to do in Ohio?¡±


    An argument was heating up in the parlor, and a woman¡¯s shrill voice rang out. ¡°If you don¡¯t pipe down about that, I¡¯m going to call that occult killer myself and ask him to do you in, Freddie!¡±


    Everyone began chattering about the murder under the bridge and the latest warning.


    ¡°A pal of mine who has a cousin who¡¯s a cop told me it was a sex crime.¡±


    ¡°I heard it¡¯s a beef between the Italians and the Irish mobsters, and she was somebody¡¯s moll who got too friendly with the wrong fella.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s definitely some kind of old-country hoodoo. They shouldn¡¯t keep letting these foreigners into the country. This is what happens.¡±


    ¡°Evil¡¯s uncle is helping the bulls try to find the killer,¡± Theta informed them.


    Everyone crowded around Evie, badgering her with questions: Did they have any suspects? Had the victim lost her eyes, like the papers said? Was it true the girl who¡¯d been murdered was a prostitute? Evie had barely had a chance to answer even one of their questions when a girl shouted from the doorway, ¡°Ronnie¡¯s got the ukulele out! Boop-boop-a-deet-deet-doh-doh-da!¡±


    And just like that, they were on to the next thing, from one thrill to the next with no time to stop. Evie felt small and dull beside their wattage. They were all so glamorous and exciting. Theater people who could sing and dance and act, who knew bankers and high rollers. What could Evie do? What talents did she have that made her stand out?


    Evie was vaguely aware that she had one toe over the line of drunk. A tiny, urgent voice of reason told her to slow down and keep quiet. That what she was about to do was probably a bad idea. But since when had she ever listened to reason? Reason was for suckers and Presbyterians. Evie downed the rest of her martini and slithered closer to the smart set singing along with the ukulele.

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    ¡°You¡¯ll never guess what I can do,¡± Evie said brightly as they finished a round of ¡°If You Knew Susie.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll give you a hint: It¡¯s like a magic trick, only better.¡± Ronnie paused his fingers on the strings of the ukulele. She had their attention now, and she liked it. ¡°I can read secrets from just any old thing. Boop-boop-a-ding-dong¡­ ding-dong.¡±


    Theta swiped Evie¡¯s glass and sniffed it.


    ¡°Really, I can! Here.¡± She reached over and grabbed a girl¡¯s earring, ignoring her protests. For dramatic effect, Evie pressed the earring against her forehead. For a moment she hesitated¡ªwhat if she heard that horrible whistling, like she had with Ruta Badowski? But the second she thought that, the more determined she was to take that image from under the bridge right out of her mind, and soon the earring gave up its confessions. ¡°Your real name is Bertha. You changed it to Billie before you moved here from¡­ Delaware?¡±


    The girl¡¯s mouth opened. She clapped in glee. ¡°Well, isn¡¯t that just the berries! Oh, do something of Ronnie¡¯s!¡±


    Evie went from person to person, grabbing up little tidbits, getting better as she went. ¡°Your birthday is June first and your best girl¡¯s name is Mae.¡± ¡°For dinner, you went to Sardi¡¯s and had the corned beef.¡± ¡°You have a parakeet named Gladys.¡±


    ¡°Say, that¡¯s swell¡ªyou oughta have an act, kid!¡± Ronnie the ukulele player said.


    ¡°I will have an act!¡± Evie said loudly, letting the gin do the talking. ¡°I¡¯ll turn my living room into a salon, and every night, people will come up and I¡¯ll tell them what they had to eat. All the columns will write me up. I¡¯ll be the Sandwich Swami.¡±


    Everyone laughed, and their laughter tucked itself around Evie like the warmest of blankets. This was the best city in the world, and Evie was diving right into the thick of it now. Within the hour, she¡¯d gotten a read from about a dozen objects, and she was positively woozy. The hour was late¡ªor early, depending on how you read it. Some fella had wrapped his striped tie around her head and tied it off in a half bow. Mabel had fallen asleep on the sofa. The hostess had left a tray of sandwiches balanced on Mabel¡¯s stomach, and from time to time a partygoer would stagger by and steal one. Near her feet, a passionate couple embraced in a never-ending lip-lock.


    Henry settled next to Evie. ¡°Say, sugar, that¡¯s some party trick you¡¯ve got. Tell me the truth: You were a magician¡¯s assistant.¡±


    ¡°Uh-uh,¡± Evie said, grinning.


    ¡°Well, how did you learn how to do that?¡± Henry pressed. ¡°Have you always been able to¡­¡± He put his fingers on her forehead and mimed reading her thoughts, making Evie laugh. She was drunk enough to tell him the truth, but some tiny voice inside told her not to. The evening had been so perfect. What if it turned sour, like the last party?


    ¡°A lady never tells,¡± Evie slurred.


    Henry seemed like he was on the verge of asking her something else. Evie could feel it. But then he got that smirk again. ¡°Of course she doesn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Do you want me to tell you your secrets, Henry?¡±


    ¡°No thanks, darlin¡¯. I love living in suspense. Besides, if I told myself all my secrets, I¡¯d lose my mystery.¡± He raised one eyebrow and pursed his lips like John Barrymore in Don Juan, and Evie felt she¡¯d made the right call.


    She giggled. ¡°I like you, Henry.¡±


    ¡°I like you, too, Evil.¡±


    ¡°Are we pals-ski?¡±


    ¡°You bet-ski.¡±


    Theta crashed next to them on the thick zebra-skin rug. ¡°I¡¯m embalmed.¡±


    ¡°Potted and splificated?¡±


    ¡°Ossified to the gills. Time for night-night.¡±


    ¡°Whatever you say, baby vamp.¡±


    ¡°Theta.¡± Evie waved a finger in Theta¡¯s general direction. ¡°You didn¡¯t let me tell your secrets.¡±


    Theta wavered for a minute, but she was too drunk to say no. ¡°Here ya go, Evil,¡± she said, passing over an onyx bracelet shaped like a jaguar. ¡°My birthday is February twenty-third, and I had one of those limp sandwiches in the kitchen for dinner a million hours ago.¡±


    Evie squeezed the bracelet and felt an overpowering sensation of sadness, and a trace of fear. She saw Theta running in the dead of night, her dress torn and her face a wreck. Theta was afraid, so very afraid.


    Evie had to let go. When she opened her eyes, Theta was looking at her strangely, and all Evie could see was the other Theta, the scared girl running for her life. ¡°S-sorry. I couldn¡¯t get anything,¡± Evie lied.

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    ¡°Just as well,¡± Theta said, taking the bracelet back. But she gave Evie a wary glance, and Evie hoped she hadn¡¯t gone too far. Maybe it was best to keep her party trick under wraps for now.


    A vase flew just over their heads and smashed against a wall, thrown by the blond from the Ba¡¯al number. Daisy somebody. Now she was shouting. ¡°Nobody ¡¯preciates what I do for the show! Not Flo, not anybody! I¡¯m a star and I could go out to Hollywood and be in the pictures anytime I wanted!¡±


    ¡°Good old Daisy,¡± Henry said knowingly.


    ¡°Time to blow,¡± Theta said.


    Evie roused the sleepy Mabel, and Henry grabbed their coats. Evie kept diving for her sleeve with her left arm but missed it each time, and Henry finally had to put the coat on her.


    Evie patted his face. ¡°Send me the bill for your services, Henry.¡±


    ¡°Free of charge.¡±


    Arm in arm, the four of them wound through the bohemian streets of Greenwich Village, past the tiny nightclubs and artists¡¯ garrets. As they did, they sang a song Henry had made up, a ridiculous ditty that rhymed ¡°she sat her fanny on a boy named Danny,¡± which broke Theta up every time. The first tentacles of a monstrous headache were creeping up the back of Evie¡¯s neck, tightening across her skull and making her eyes hurt. She couldn¡¯t quite shake what she¡¯d experienced while holding Theta¡¯s bracelet. She didn¡¯t know what terror Theta had been running from, and she wasn¡¯t sure she wanted to know, so she sang louder to drown out the voices in her head. At the edge of Washington Square Park, Henry stopped and hopped onto a park bench.


    ¡°Did you know this used to be a potter¡¯s field? There are thousands of bodies buried under this land.¡±


    ¡°I might be one of ¡¯em soon,¡± Theta said on a yawn.


    ¡°Look at that,¡± Henry said, gazing up at the golden moon bleeding its pale light into the inky spread of sky over the Washington Square arch. They tipped their heads back to take in the full beauty of it.


    ¡°Pretty,¡± Evie said.


    ¡°You said it,¡± Theta agreed.


    ¡°Oh, god,¡± Mabel whined. She turned toward the gutter and threw up.


    GRIEF LIKE FEATHERS


    Memphis sat in the graveyard, near a headstone that read EZEKIEL TIMOTHY. BORN 1821. DIED FREE 1892. He took his lantern from its hiding place, and beside its yellow glow, he set to work on a new poem. She wears her grief like a coat of feathers too heavy for flight. He crossed out heavy, wrote weighted instead, then decided that was downright pretentious and put heavy back in. Out on the Hudson, a boat skimmed the surface, trailing streamers of light. Memphis watched it for a while, gathering inspiration, but he was tired, and at last he rested his head on his arms and fell asleep.


    In the familiar dream, Memphis stood at a crossroads. The land was flat and golden brown. On the road ahead, the dust kicked up into a brumous wall that turned the day dark. There were a farmhouse and a barn and a tree. A windmill turned wildly with the billowing dust. The crow called from the field and beat its frantic wings just ahead of the tall, spindly man bending the wheat into ash with his every step.


    Memphis jolted awake. The candle in his lantern had burned out. It was very dark. He put the lantern back in its secret tree hold, gathered his things, and walked past the house on the hill. Don¡¯t look; keep walking past, Memphis thought as he reached the gate. Now, why had he thought that? Why were his arms breaking out into goose pimples? Superstition. Dumb, backward superstition. He wasn¡¯t having it, and as if to challenge himself, to separate himself from a long line of fearful ancestors, he purposely walked through the gate and stood on the cracked, weed-choked path that led to the ruined mansion. He willed himself to walk, drawing closer and closer to the scarred front doors. Maybe he¡¯d even go inside, put this foolishness to rest once and for all. He was nearly there. Only five more steps. Four. Three¡­


    The doors swung open, releasing a sound Memphis could only describe as a hellish groan. Memphis fell back, scrambled to his feet, and set off running at full speed, not slowing until he reached the bright lights of Harlem.


    It was the wind; that was all, Memphis reasoned as he crept into Octavia¡¯s house. He¡¯d allowed himself to be spooked by a gust of wind. He shook his head at his softness, then stifled a yelp as he came upon Isaiah standing in the doorway to their room. ¡°Lord almighty, Ice Man!¡± he whispered. ¡°You almost gave me a heart attack. What¡¯re you doing out of bed? You need a glass of water?¡±


    Isaiah stared straight ahead. ¡°Anoint thy flesh and prepare ye the walls of your houses. The Lord will brook no weakness in his chosen.¡±

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    ¡°Ice Man?¡±


    ¡°And the sixth offering shall be an offering of obedience.¡±


    A chill skipped up Memphis¡¯s arms and neck. He didn¡¯t recognize what Isaiah was saying. It was almost like he was receiving those words. Memphis wasn¡¯t sure what to do. If he went to Octavia, she¡¯d drag Isaiah and Memphis down to church and keep them there all day and night praying.


    Sister Walker. Maybe Sister Walker would know. He¡¯d ask her about it tomorrow. Memphis took Isaiah¡¯s hand and led him back to bed. The boy was still staring into the distance.


    ¡°The time is now. They are coming,¡± Isaiah said, drifting back into dreams, his last word barely a whisper: ¡°Diviners.¡± And then he was asleep.


    A RIND OF MOONLIGHT


    Several blocks and a thousand years from the city¡¯s ritzy nightclubs and theaters, a rind of moon sweated in the sky, but its glow did not reach the gloom of the tenements along Tenth Avenue, where Tommy Duffy and his friends welcomed the feel of the cool night air as they swaggered through Hell¡¯s Kitchen. They called themselves the Street Kings, for they were rulers of the rubble piles and the railyards. Makers of mischief. Sultans of the goddamned West Side.


    ¡°¡­ I heard dere¡¯s a cellar ¡¯round here where dey take snitches,¡± one of the boys crowed. ¡°I heard ¡¯a floors is covered wit teeth ¡¯at you can pry da gold right outta and sell it over to da pawnbroker on Eighth and Forty.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re as full of it as yer old man.¡±


    ¡°You take back what you said about my da.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, the only thing his old man¡¯s full of is Owney¡¯s whiskey!¡±


    The two boys fell on each other with fists and curses, more out of habit than a sense of honor, until Paddy Holleran broke them apart.


    ¡°Save it,¡± he ordered. ¡°We might need our knuckles for what we¡¯re doin¡¯ tonight.¡±


    Paddy was fourteen and already running some small rackets for Owney Madden¡¯s gang, so the boys followed him without question, shouting ¡°Street Kings!¡± and toppling garbage cans and throwing rocks at windows. No one could touch them. This was what it meant to be in a gang. Without your boys, you were nothing. A chump. A nobody.


    When they reached the empty yards along the Hudson where the warehouses stood sentry, Paddy shushed them. ¡°Gotta be looking out. Dey got a guard dog, a big German shepherd with teeth a foot long dat keeps watch. He¡¯ll eat your face off.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the plan, Paddy?¡± Tommy asked. He was only twelve and looked up to the older boy.


    ¡°See dat warehouse at the end? I heard Luciano¡¯s men got their whiskey from Canada hidden in there. Got a distillery in dere, too. We steal some whiskey, bust up the still, I bet Owney¡¯d be chuffed. Bet we¡¯d look good to him. We¡¯ll let dem Italian bastards know we Irish was here first.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t Columbus discover America?¡± Tommy said. He¡¯d learned that in school, before he¡¯d quit in fifth grade.


    Paddy thumped Tommy¡¯s nose. ¡°Whatsa matter wit you? You wanna run wit the Italians now? Is ¡¯at it?¡±


    ¡°N-no.¡±


    ¡°Hey! Tommy Gun here wants to be Italian! He¡¯s too good for us!¡±


    ¡°Am not!¡± Tommy shouted over their insults.


    ¡°Yeah? Prove it.¡± Paddy had a mean glint in his eye. ¡°You go in first. Stay in for five minutes, then come out with somethin¡¯ and we¡¯ll believe you.¡±


    Tommy glanced down toward the shadowy end of the yards, where the warehouse sat. Winos slept there. Perverts, too. Sometimes rival gangs patrolled with lead pipes. And there was the threat of the guard dog Paddy had mentioned. Tommy¡¯s stomach knotted in fear.


    ¡°Do it or you ain¡¯t part of the Street Kings no more.¡±


    There was no worse fate. Even the thought of some geezer showing his bits was better than being left out of the gang, a nobody.


    ¡°Okay, okay,¡± Tommy said. He walked on shaky legs toward the looming warehouse on the river. Feral cats slunk through the weeds, carrying things in their teeth. One hissed, its eyes gone to glass in the dark. King of the Streets, King of the Streets, Tommy chanted to himself. At the warehouse¡¯s big doors, he hesitated for a second. It wasn¡¯t padlocked. There was only a wooden bar looped through the handles. One of the boys howled like a dog and Tommy¡¯s heart beat fast at the thought of what might be on the other side of those doors.


    King of the Streets¡­


    Tommy slipped inside and saw at once that it was not a secret distillery but a slaughterhouse. The place had a terrible smell of river water and dead flesh. Behind him, Tommy heard the wooden bar being slipped back through the handles. He fell against the doors, pounding with his fists. ¡°Lemme out! I¡¯ll kill youse!¡±

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    ¡°Give our regards to the Italians, chump,¡± Paddy yelled from the other side, and the other boys joined in with their own insults. Tommy could hear their laughter moving away from the warehouse, along with their quick footsteps. Tommy threw himself against the doors, with no luck. Unless he could find another way out, he was stuck there till somebody came. That somebody might be one of Lucky Luciano¡¯s men, which was a scarier thought than spending the night alone in the old warehouse. From the riverside, the moon pushed through the building¡¯s high, narrow windows. Its fractured light fell first on the chains and hooks suspended from the ceiling, then across the pale carcasses of the pigs hanging in a long line to the back of the warehouse. A rat scuttled across his foot and he shouted.


    ¡°Big fellow, wasn¡¯t he?¡± a man¡¯s voice said.


    Tommy whipped around. ¡°Who¡¯s there? Who said that?¡±


    The man stepped out of the shadows. He was as big as a boxer, and he looked important and out of place in his full suit and bowler hat. Tommy swallowed hard. What if this man was one of Lucky Luciano¡¯s goons?


    ¡°It was a dare. M-my friends locked me in,¡± Tommy managed to say. ¡°I swear, mister. I don¡¯t want no trouble.¡±


    ¡°What is your name?¡± the man asked.


    ¡°Tommy.¡±


    ¡°Tommy,¡± the man said, tasting the name. There was something about his eyes that didn¡¯t seem right. Tommy chalked it up to the weak moonlight. ¡°Thomas the disciple. Doubting Thomas, who had to be shown before he could believe.¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡±


    The stranger smiled. It was an unsettling smile, but Tommy felt drawn to it. ¡°Since you seem to be in a bargaining mood, Thomas, I will also make you a bargain. Tonight is the sort of night in which men of great daring can be made. But you will have to put your doubts aside, Thomas.¡±


    The man pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket and snapped it taut between fingers blue-black with markings. Tommy¡¯s eyes widened.


    ¡°Whaddoo I gotta do?¡± he asked warily.


    ¡°All you have to do is walk to the far end of the warehouse and retrieve my walking stick. It has a silver tip.¡±


    The man waved his hand and Tommy saw the walking stick¡¯s silver knob glinting in the distance on the other side of the pigs.


    ¡°What¡¯s the catch?¡±


    ¡°Ah. That would be telling, wouldn¡¯t it? Life is a game of chance for men of daring, Thomas. You must be willing to risk in order to be rewarded. What say you?¡±


    Tommy thought it over. In his brief life, he¡¯d found that most bargains weren¡¯t bargains at all. And the thought of walking through those pale dead pig bodies to get to the stick at the far end seemed daunting. Then he remembered that he was there because his so-called friends had locked him in for laughs. He would not show up without that hundred dollars to rub in their faces.


    ¡°Okay, mister. I¡¯ll do it.¡±


    The man smiled his discomfiting smile. ¡°A man of daring after all. May I see your hands?¡±


    Tommy frowned. ¡°What for?¡±


    ¡°A man in my position must take precautions. Hands, please.¡±


    Tommy held out his hands, turning them palms up, then palms down. The stranger¡¯s eyes gleamed.


    ¡°You may put them down now.¡± The man reached into his pocket and produced a leather pouch, shaking what looked like dust into his palm. He blew it into Tommy¡¯s face.


    ¡°Wha-what¡¯d you do that for?¡± Tommy sputtered, wiping at his nose and mouth.


    ¡°Upping the ante,¡± the stranger said, holding the hundred-dollar bill between his second and third fingers like an offering. ¡°Game of chance. Men of daring.¡±


    Tommy snatched the bill from the man¡¯s fingers and stuffed it into his own pocket. The man¡¯s eyes seemed to burn with a strange fire, and Tommy looked away quickly. He focused instead on the walking stick at the far end of the warehouse. He took a deep breath and entered the long, dark tunnel between the butchered pigs. All those dangling dead bodies, the eyes fixed and staring, the mouths open in a final silent scream, made him feel a little sick and woozy, and he struggled to keep his own eyes on the silver tip, which seemed a million miles away. Tommy chanted to himself quietly, King of the Streets, King of the Streets, King of the Streets.


    ¡°That¡¯s it, Thomas. Keep walking. You¡¯re doing very well. Soon you¡¯ll put all those doubts to rest.¡±


    Tommy kept moving. A hundred bucks was a world of money. When he showed up at Paddy¡¯s in new clothes, his hair freshly oiled and green in his pocket, he¡¯d show the others who was really the chump. Nobody¡¯d be locking him in a warehouse again.

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    The stranger sang an unnerving song: ¡°Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on¡­.¡±


    The song made Tommy break out in a cold sweat and he took the last few steps at a clip till he reached the stick. It had been shoved into the ground like a sword. Beside it was a pamphlet for something called The Good something or other¡ªthe last word started with C, but Tommy had always had a hard time reading; the letters got mixed up in his head. Tommy gripped the stick with both hands and tugged, but it would not yank free, and the stranger¡¯s song was starting to work on his nerves. It seemed to come from everywhere, and under the melody he could swear he heard, very faintly, terrible growls and hisses, like voices released from the very depths of hell. He had the money in his pocket. He could run. But something told him he¡¯d better see this through. Tommy positioned himself over the stick, wiped his hands on his filthy trousers, and tried again. It wouldn¡¯t budge. He made a third attempt, pulling so hard that he fell backward into the wood shavings. It was wet where he fell, and a drop of something hit his cheek, followed by another. Tommy wiped at his face. His hand came away smeared with blood. Still on his back, he looked up to see a German shepherd dangling on the hook above him, the kill so fresh the animal still twitched. Its belly had been slit open and its insides pulled out.


    Tommy scrambled quickly to his feet. The stranger¡¯s laughter startled him. He was suddenly right there in front of Tommy, who backed into one of the pigs and sent it swinging against the others. With shaking hands, Tommy patted the dead pig into stillness, as if he could bring order to this nightmarish turn of events. The stranger was right there. How is that possible? How could he have gotten all the way over here?


    ¡°I¡­ I can¡¯t get it out,¡± Tommy whispered. He was not aware that he was backing up.


    ¡°Shame. Maybe he could help you?¡± the stranger said, nodding gently toward the dead dog. Then he frowned playfully. ¡°No. I suppose not.¡± He drew the stick from the ground without effort.


    Tommy felt his head swim. He wasn¡¯t seeing so clearly anymore. The pigs¡¯ legs jerked like marionettes. They were moving, writhing on their hooks and squealing till Tommy, too, was screaming. The man¡¯s eyes burned with a terrible fire and he seemed to be even bigger than before.


    ¡°Game of chance, my boy. You¡¯ve already rolled your dice.¡±


    ¡°Paddy! Liam!¡± Tommy screamed. ¡°Johnny! I¡¯m in here!¡±


    ¡°Your friends have deserted you.¡±


    Tommy cut his eyes in the direction of the barred door at the other end of the warehouse, which was now slightly ajar. How far was it from here to there? Two hundred yards? Three hundred?


    ¡°Ah, one last game, I see,¡± the stranger said, as if reading Tommy¡¯s thoughts. ¡°Go on, then, Thomas. Place your bets. Roll the dice.¡± His voice echoed in the cavernous slaughterhouse. ¡°Run!¡±


    Tommy was off. His knees moved like pistons, his elbows jabbing back against the dead air. The door bounced in his vision as his legs gobbled ground. It was known that he was the fastest boy on Tenth Avenue. He¡¯d outrun cops, priests, gangs, and his own mother, who was quick with a belt when he made her angry, which was most of the time. A hanging chain clanged into him and he batted it away, feeling the sting as it hit his wrist, but he did not slow down. Far behind him, he could hear the stranger¡¯s voice ringing out above the clang of the slaughterhouse chains. ¡° ¡®And the sixth offering was an offering of obedience¡­.¡¯ ¡±


    Tommy could see the door. It was maybe sixty yards away, and still there was no sign of the stranger. A frantic chorus pounded in Tommy¡¯s head as he cleared the last carcass: King of the Streets, King of the Streets, King of the Streets! Fifty yards. Forty. Beautiful moonlight peeked through the crack where the door was slightly open. Tommy didn¡¯t stop to ask himself how it had been opened. All he could think about was pushing through it to freedom, racing for the shortcut to Thirty-ninth Street.


    Thirty yards. Twenty¡­


    Tommy no longer saw the door. One minute it had been within reach, and now it was gone. Instead, the stranger stood before him. It took Tommy a moment to slow down, for his brain to signal to his legs that there was trouble ahead¡ªa cliff¡¯s edge in the shape of a man with burning eyes. He had run in the wrong direction. How was that possible? How had he gotten so turned around? Nothing looked right to him anymore. Tommy turned the other way and saw hideous shadows crawling along the walls and ceiling of the slaughterhouse, as if devouring it whole, the stranger walking just ahead of the movement like a carnival barker leading a parade of darkness.

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    How? Tommy thought. He dashed left, fighting through the smothering pigs only to find himself facing a brick wall that surely hadn¡¯t been there a minute ago. He went right, and there was another wall. When he faced forward again, the stranger was once more before him, standing in a patch of terrible moonlight. He was stripped to the waist, and Tommy stared at the glowing skin, the tattoos like brands, crawling across the man¡¯s flesh and underneath it as well, as if his skin were a false one and the thing underneath was waiting to come out.


    ¡°You lose, Thomas.¡±


    Devilish growls filled the warehouse. The darkness swirled behind the stranger, blotting out the walls and any hope of escape.


    ¡° ¡®I am he, the Great Beast, the Dragon of Old. And all will look upon me and tremble¡­.¡¯ ¡±


    The stranger kept talking, but Tommy was beyond hearing. He kept his eyes on the moving dark and the unspeakable things inside it, on the changing form of the stranger who loomed above him.


    ¡°P-please¡­¡± he croaked.


    The stranger only smiled.


    ¡°Such perfect hands,¡± he said as the darkness descended.


    AND DEATH SHALL FLEE


    Evie sat in the tub, two fat cucumber slices placed over her swollen eyes, and sang in contempt of her throbbing head. ¡°We¡¯ll have Manhattan, the Bronx and Staten Island, too¡­. I had Manhattan, all right,¡± Evie mumbled. ¡°And it¡­ had¡­ me.¡± She slipped under the water and let it carry her until a fierce pounding made her surface.


    ¡°I¡¯m bathing,¡± she yelled.


    ¡°Will you be long?¡± Jericho answered.


    Evie let a prune-ish toe play at the hot-water tap. ¡°Hard to say.¡±


    ¡°I need the¡­ the, ah¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh, applesauce,¡± Evie said on a sigh. ¡°Okay, okay. I don¡¯t want you to die of peritonitis like Valentino. Just a minute.¡± Evie rinsed the cucumber slices under the tap and popped them into her mouth. She pulled the plug and let the water swirl down the drain while she slipped on her robe and opened the door with a flourish. ¡°All yours,¡± she said as Jericho pushed past her.


    In the kitchen, Evie squeezed an orange into a glass, fished out the seeds, and gulped down the precious juice along with two aspirin. ¡°Oh, sweet Mary.¡±


    A moment later, Jericho emerged from the bathroom, scowling.


    ¡°What¡¯s eating you?¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    He sat on the couch and quietly laced up a shoe, but his disapproval hung in the room like the lingering scent of Evie¡¯s perfumed bath salts. Evie didn¡¯t mind yelling, but she hated feeling judged. It got under her skin and made her feel small and ugly and unfixable. She sang cheerily in rebuke of both Jericho and her throbbing skull. ¡°You¡¯re the berries, my bowl of cream, a dream come true, dear¡­¡±


    ¡°I was only wondering if this is going to be your usual routine,¡± Jericho said at last.


    ¡°Usual routine. Hmm, well, I might add a trained monkey. Everyone loves those.¡±


    ¡°Is that all this is to you? One big party?¡±


    Evie was angry now. At least she wasn¡¯t afraid to get out and live. Jericho didn¡¯t seem to know life beyond the pages of a musty old book, and he didn¡¯t seem interested in knowing anything beyond that, either.


    ¡°It¡¯s better than spending every night brooding like Byron¡¯s long-lost brother. Don¡¯t make that injured face¡ªyou are a brooder! And what good does it do you? You¡¯re eighteen, not eighty, kiddo. Live a little.¡±


    Jericho got up from the couch. ¡°Live a little? Live a little!¡± He let out a bitter ha! ¡°If you only knew¡­¡± He stopped suddenly, and Evie could see him force an almost mechanical calm to descend. ¡°Never mind. You wouldn¡¯t understand. I have to get to the museum.¡± He grabbed his dog-eared copy of Nietzsche and slammed the door behind him.


    Evie sat on Mabel¡¯s bed. The aspirin hadn¡¯t helped much, but like a true modern girl, she wasn¡¯t about to lie in bed all day, unlike poor Mabel, who had succumbed to a terrible hangover. She lay curled in her bed, clutching a bowl in case she felt the need to vomit.


    ¡°Hot off the presses, today¡¯s headlines: The love of your life does not approve of my wanton flapper ways,¡± Evie said in a voice of affected mystery. ¡°Really, Mabesie. You might want to reconsider¡ªhe is a bit of a killjoy.¡±


    ¡°My stomach doesn¡¯t approve of our wanton ways, either,¡± Mabel said miserably. She hadn¡¯t lifted her head from her pillow. ¡°I am never drinking again.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what they all say, Pie Face.¡±

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    Mabel moaned. ¡°I mean it. I feel dreadful. I am ending my association with liquor.¡± She raised her right hand. ¡°You may be the notary public to this announcement.¡±


    ¡°Noted. Public¡¯d.¡±


    Mabel dropped her hand, her face screwed into an expression of fresh misery. Evie jumped off the bed.


    ¡°What is it? Are you about to blow?¡±


    Mabel reached under her bed and pulled out what was left of Evie¡¯s headache band. It was bent in the middle, where someone had obviously stepped on it. Several of the rhinestones were missing, and the peacock feathers drooped like spent chorus girls. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­¡± Evie swallowed down a curse word. Mabel¡¯s mouth twitched and Evie could tell she was on the verge of a legendary weep. She tossed the headache band aside as if it were rubbish. ¡°That old thing? I was tired of it, anyway. You¡¯ve done me a favor, old girl, putting it out of its misery like that.¡±


    Mabel cocked an eyebrow. ¡°You¡¯re lying, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Just to make me feel better?¡±


    ¡°No. To make me feel better. Otherwise I¡¯ll cry.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡± Mabel managed a weak smile. She crooked her pinkie. ¡°Pals for life-ski?¡±


    Evie hooked her pinkie with Mabel¡¯s. ¡°For life-ski.¡± Evie kissed Mabel¡¯s forehead and turned off the bedside lamp. ¡°Get some sleep, Pie Face.¡±


    Evie left the Bennington and walked down Broadway, past the shops. A radio store played its latest model, letting the sound drift out onto the sidewalks to entice customers. Evie idled for a moment, listening as she painted her lips in the window¡¯s reflection.


    ¡°¡­ This is Cedric Donaldson, reporting from Roosevelt Field, Long Island, where just moments ago Jake Marlowe landed his American Flyer, an aeroplane of his own invention. You can hear the enthusiasm of the crowds who¡¯ve gathered here on this fine autumn day to give the millionaire inventor and industrialist a hero¡¯s welcome! And here is the Bayside High School marching band playing ¡®The Stars and Stripes Forever.¡¯ ¡±


    The man in the shop peered disapprovingly at Evie through the glass. She pumped her arms and legs up and down in imitation of a marching band, gave the man a salute, and continued her meandering walk to the museum. At the newsstand, Evie stopped cold. The front page of the New York Daily Mirror trumpeted MADMAN OF MANHATTAN STRIKES AGAIN! She grabbed the paper and flipped past a store advertisement for Solomon¡¯s Comet binoculars to the story on page two.


    ¡°Hey, doll, you gonna pay for that?¡± The newspaperman held out his palm.


    Evie tossed him a nickel and, clutching the paper, ran the rest of the way to the museum.


    Will was sitting in the library with Sam and Jericho. He looked pale.


    ¡°I¡­ I just heard¡­.¡± Evie said, out of breath. She held up the newspaper.


    ¡°Tommy Duffy. Twelve years old,¡± Will said quietly. ¡°The killer took his hands.¡±


    The horror of it made Evie¡¯s stomach roil. ¡°Is it the same killer?¡±


    Will nodded. ¡°First he posted a warning note to the papers.¡±


    Jericho opened the previous evening¡¯s late-edition Daily News. ¡° ¡®And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them. For the Beast will rise when the comet flies.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°He seems to like attention, this fellow,¡± Will said. ¡°He left another note with the body.¡±


    Evie unscrolled the thin parchment, which resembled the first, with strange sigils along the bottom.


    ¡°Careful with that¡ªit¡¯s on loan from Detective Malloy,¡± Will explained.


    ¡° ¡®And in those times, the young were idle. Their hands were absent from their plows and they did not raise them in prayer and praise to the Lord our God. And the Lord was angry and commanded of the Beast a sixth offering, an offering of obedience.¡¯ ¡± Evie read. ¡°The hands. With Ruta, he took the eyes, and with Tommy Duffy, the hands. Why?¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t make any sense,¡± Will agreed.


    ¡°The murder of a child could never make sense.¡±


    ¡°I meant the symbology.¡± Will was up and pacing the room. ¡°Tommy Duffy was posed. He was hung upside down with one leg bent. That¡¯s not a Christian symbol. It¡¯s pagan. The Hanged Man, as seen on the tarot. It hints at magic or mysticism. Yet, this was found shoved into the boy¡¯s back pocket.¡±


    Will slapped a pamphlet down on the table. On its cover, a man in white robes and a pointed hat stood below an open Bible and a cross, ringing a liberty bell, while the ghostly face of George Washington looked on in approval.

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    ¡°The Good Citizen,¡± Evie read. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°It is a monthly publication of the Pillar of Fire Church,¡± Will said. ¡°It¡¯s also a strong endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan.¡±


    ¡°You think the Klan might have killed that boy?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s possible. Of course, it¡¯s also possible it was on the scene before the murder. However, it¡¯s worth nothing that Tommy Duffy was Irish. Ruta Badowski was Polish. The killer could harbor a hatred of foreigners.¡±


    ¡°He could be anti-Catholic,¡± Jericho said.


    ¡°They don¡¯t need much reason,¡± Sam grumbled.


    There were men back in Zenith who were Klansmen, Evie knew. People like Harold Brodie¡¯s father supported them. But Evie¡¯s father and mother had been Catholic once. The Irish O¡¯Neills. And her father had repeatedly railed against the Klan and the thuggish bigotry for which they stood.


    ¡°When do we leave?¡± Evie asked.


    ¡°Leave for what, doll?¡± Sam said.


    ¡°We are going to this Pillar of Fire Church to sniff around, aren¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± Will said. ¡°I once helped bring charges against the Grand Dragon of the Klan out there. I¡¯m known to them.¡±


    ¡°What about Detective Malloy?¡± Jericho asked.


    Will let out a long sigh. ¡°He sent some men out this morning, but I understand that they were stonewalled. Alma Bridwell White, the bishop of Pillar of Fire, threatens a lawsuit anytime someone breathes a word against her church.¡±


    Evie sat up. ¡°What if Jericho and I posed as newlyweds interested in joining the church? Then we could snoop around and see what we could find.¡±


    Jericho looked up. ¡°You¡­ and me?¡±


    ¡°You pulling my leg?¡± Sam said. ¡°Frederick the Giant here will get eaten alive.¡±


    ¡°I can handle myself just fine, thanks.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t get sore, Freddy. You¡¯re a fine fella. But what you need on this is somebody who can work the angles. You need a con man. Besides, somebody¡¯s gotta drive.¡±


    ¡°I can drive,¡± Evie said.


    ¡°Evie can drive,¡± Jericho said. There was challenge in his stare.


    ¡°Fine. We¡¯ll all go,¡± Sam said. ¡°But if I get us a car, I get the wheel.¡±


    ¡°As you wish,¡± Will said. ¡°Evie, may I see you for a moment in my study, please?¡±


    ¡°No one ever lets me drive. I¡¯m a fine driver,¡± Evie grumbled as she followed Will into the study. He retrieved a silver flask from a desk drawer and took a belt from it. ¡°So you do have hooch,¡± Evie said.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to disappoint you; this is Phillips¡¯ Milk of Magnesia. My stomach is unsettled¡ªnot surprisingly, after what I witnessed this morning. You needn¡¯t sit. I shall be brief. Evangeline, I am not your mother, but that doesn¡¯t mean I have no standards of behavior. Coming home intoxicated at all hours will no longer be tolerated.¡± Will looked directly at her. It occurred to Evie that she had never been looked at with such scrutiny before.


    ¡°But Unc¡ª¡±


    Will held up a hand to stop her protest before it could gather steam. ¡°I might remind you that the trains travel in both directions between New York and Ohio, Evangeline. Is that understood?¡±


    Evie swallowed hard. ¡°I¡¯m on the trolley.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t mind if you enjoy what New York has to offer, but I do think you should be smart and safe. After all, there is a killer loose in our city.¡±


    Evie suddenly remembered the page she¡¯d marked to show Will the previous day. ¡°Applesauce! I meant to tell you¡ªI think I found our symbol in a book in the library. Something about a religious order¡ªthe Brothers, the Brotherhood¡­ oh, what was it?¡±


    Back in the library, Evie searched the stacks, making a mess of Jericho¡¯s careful work as he moved behind her, righting things.


    ¡°Here it is!¡± Evie raced down the spiral staircase. ¡°Religious Fervor and Fanaticism in the Burned-Over District. The book is pos-i-tute-ly a cure for insomnia, but it does have this.¡± She opened to the page with the drawing of the pentacle-and-snake emblem. ¡°The Brethren! That¡¯s it! Do you know what this is?¡±


    ¡°No, but I know someone who might: Dr. Georg Poblocki at Columbia University. He¡¯s a professor of religion, and an old friend. I¡¯ll telephone him right away,¡± Will said, walking briskly from the library.


    Jericho cleared his throat. ¡°Would you like to take first shift, or shall I?¡± he asked, as if at any moment they¡¯d be flooded with visitors.

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    ¡°Where¡¯s Sam?¡± Evie asked.


    ¡°He went to call a friend about a motorcar.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll bet he did,¡± Evie scoffed.


    ¡°I could take first shift, if you like,¡± Jericho offered.


    ¡°No, I will,¡± Evie said. She was still miffed about Jericho¡¯s little lecture that morning and wasn¡¯t about to let him take the martyr points.


    Evie wandered the rooms of the museum, thinking about the murder as well as the previous night¡¯s party. She probably shouldn¡¯t have been so public about her object-reading. What if they expected her to do that every time? What if, in the sober light of day, they thought of her as strange or frightening, somebody who might be able to divine the secrets they¡¯d worked hard to hide? She made a vow that she¡¯d be more careful in the future.


    But she was curious about the Diviners Will had mentioned on her first day at the museum, so she sought out Liberty Anne Rathbone¡¯s book and curled up by the woodstove in the collections room to read it.


    The Prophecies of Liberty Anne Rathbone, as recorded by her brother and faithful servant, Cornelius T. Rathbone.


    To-day, sweet Liberty Anne lay in that same state of which she has been bewitched since her walk into the woods. A¡¯times, she speaks in soft awe at the wonders she beholds; other times, she is troubled and murmurs warnings of terrible things to come. It is as if she sees into that vast, heavenly abyss of which only the angels and the all-seeing eye of Providence are visitors. I have recorded her words forthwith.


    ¡°We are the Diviners. We have been and we will be. It is a power that comes from the great energy of the land and its people, a realm shared for a spell, for as long as is needed. We see the dead. We speak to restless spirits. We walk in dreams. We read meaning from every held thing. The future unfolds for us like the navigator¡¯s map, showing seas we have yet to travel.¡±


    Evie turned the pages excitedly.


    ¡°There can be no security at the cost of liberty. The heart of the union will not abide¡­. The skies alight with strange fire. The eternal door is opened. The man in the stovepipe hat will come again with the storm¡­. The eye cannot see.¡±


    At the bottom of the page was a small sketch of an eye surrounded by the rays of the sun, with a lightning bolt beneath it.


    ¡°The Diviners must stand, or all shall fall.¡±


    Evie closed the book and put it aside. Cornelius Rathbone had obviously loved his sister. Did he dream of her when she was gone, as Evie dreamed of James? Her hand sought the comfort of her half-dollar pendant. She was exhausted from her late evening. The afternoon sun beat through the windows, and combined with the warmth from the woodstove turned the room stuffy. Evie rested her head on her arms and fell asleep.


    She dreamed of the city. The canyonlike streets were empty, the setting sun turning the windows orange, but in the distance, a mass of dark clouds threatened. She called out, but there was no one. Newspapers swept across the street and skittered up the sides of the quiet buildings. She became aware of others. Shades just out of sight. Shadow people. She¡¯d turn her head just in time to see them retreat into the growing gloom. Whispering, ¡°She¡¯s one. She¡¯s one of them. You can¡¯t stop us. Nothing can stop us.¡±


    Evie turned a corner and was surprised to see Henry also walking the streets, as if looking for someone. His eyes widened when he saw her. ¡°Evie, what are you doing here? Don¡¯t remember me,¡± he said, and when she looked again, he was gone. But someone else was running toward her, and Evie found she couldn¡¯t move at all. She was paralyzed with fear. The figure came closer. It was a girl with shining black hair and bottle-green eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about the girl; Evie could swear they¡¯d met before. Then it came to her¡ªthe hostess from the restaurant in Chinatown. The girl carried a strange dagger in one hand. She looked angry, alarmed, as she shouted, ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be here! Wake up!¡±


    ¡°Evie, wake up!¡± Sam was shaking her shoulder. Evie blinked awake in the museum. Sunlight still streamed through the stained-glass windows of the collections room. ¡°You were dreaming.¡±


    ¡°I was?¡± Evie said, stretching. Her heart still beat fast.


    ¡°Must¡¯ve been a real lulu of a dream. You called out.¡±


    Evie nodded. ¡°A real nightmare.¡±


    ¡°Aw, doll. Not surprising with all this murder talk. Tell your pal Sam all about it. I¡¯ll keep you safe.¡± Sam moved into the chair beside her. He brushed a curl out of her eyes gently, but his smile had that same wolfish quality she¡¯d first seen in Penn Station.

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    Evie gave him the big, innocent peepers. ¡°Well, I dreamed I was in New York, all alone¡­.¡±


    ¡°Poor baby.¡± Sam put his arm around her shoulders.


    ¡°I walked the streets searching for people¡­ but there was no one¡­.¡±


    ¡°Terrible¡­¡± Sam was so close she could smell the musk of him.


    ¡°Suddenly, I found myself in Penn Station¡­.¡± Evie paused. ¡°And the most terrible thing happened next.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that, doll?¡± Sam purred.


    ¡°Some absolute louse stole my twenty dollars.¡± She pushed hard against Sam¡¯s chest. He nearly toppled backward but righted himself at the last minute.


    Sam smirked. ¡°Well, that¡¯s a fine thank-you to the fella who just got you a spiffy wash for the ball.¡±


    Evie gave him a little bow.


    ¡°I just came back to tell you that we¡¯ve got a real live paying customer in the joint who wants a tour.¡±


    ¡°Send Jericho,¡± Evie said, stretching.


    ¡°This fella asked for your uncle, but I told him you were in charge, Your Highness.¡± Sam returned the bow.


    Evie replied with an eye-roll. ¡°Do you think you can manage to not steal anything while I¡¯m gone?¡±


    ¡°The only thing I¡¯m trying to steal is your heart, doll.¡± Sam smirked.


    ¡°You¡¯re not that talented a thief, Sam Lloyd.¡±


    Evie arrived in the foyer to find a young man in a rumpled suit standing by the front doors, twirling his hat in his hands. A notebook peeked out of his breast pocket.


    ¡°Can I help you?¡± Evie said, giving her friendliest smile.


    The man stopped twirling his hat and stuck out his hand like a salesman. ¡°How do you do? Harry Snyder. I¡¯m visiting from Wisconsin. Heard about your museum and just had to take a look for myself. I can¡¯t wait to tell the folks back home all about it.¡±


    If Harry Snyder was from Wisconsin, Evie would eat her hat. If his name was Harry Snyder, she¡¯d eat a second hat.


    ¡°Welcome to the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult, Mr. Snyder,¡± Evie said, stretching out his last name. ¡°Right this way, please.¡±


    Evie led the man from room to room, explaining the various objects, giving the historical spiel she¡¯d heard from Will numerous times and adding a few of her own flourishes. All the while the man took notes in his notepad and looked around as if he expected some spirit to manifest at any moment.


    ¡°I hear from a friend that you folks are helping the police with that murder investigation¡ªthat Madman in Manhattan business. Sounds awful. Do you have any clues?¡± he asked. He picked up a rare figurine from the seventeenth century as if it were a saltshaker.


    Evie took it from his hands and placed it back on the table.


    ¡°Has your uncle told you anything about it? Is the killer really carrying out a diabolical occult ritual? What¡¯s his angle?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m sworn to secrecy under the orders of Detective Malloy.¡±


    The man moved closer. ¡°I couldn¡¯t help noticing that the good Officer Malloy isn¡¯t here. Say, what did the killer do with that poor girl¡¯s peepers? Somebody said he mailed ¡¯em to the police with a note. That true?¡±


    Evie narrowed her eyes. ¡°Who are you really?¡±


    ¡°Harry Snyder, from¡ª¡±


    ¡°Dry up!¡± Evie snapped.


    The man grinned. He wagged a finger at her playfully. ¡°You¡¯ve got me.¡± He pumped her hand in a firm shake. ¡°I¡¯m T. S. Woodhouse, reporter for the Daily News? I¡¯ve been trying to get your uncle to comment on the case for us, but he¡¯s tighter with a quote than Calvin Coolidge. But, ah, maybe I¡¯ve been barking up the wrong family member?¡± T. S. Woodhouse¡¯s pencil hovered expectantly above his notepad.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad I took your money up front, Mr. Woodhouse. I¡¯ll show you the way out.¡± She marched toward the door, her heels clicking on the marble. Mr. Woodhouse ran alongside her.


    ¡°Call me T.S., please. Come on, wouldn¡¯t you like to see your name in the papers? Show all your friends back home? We could even put your picture in, pretty girl like you. Why, you¡¯d be the toast of Manhattan.¡±


    Evie paused. With all the work they were doing, why shouldn¡¯t they get the credit and the reward? Why shouldn¡¯t they be famous for it? Still, if Uncle Will found out, he¡¯d be furious. She¡¯d already promised she wouldn¡¯t get into any more trouble. This was courting trouble for sure.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Mr. Woodhouse. I can¡¯t.¡±

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    T. S. Woodhouse cradled his hat to his chest. ¡°Listen, I¡¯m going to level with you, Miss O¡¯Neill. I need this story. This could be my ticket to the big time. Did you ever want something that badly?¡±


    T. S. Woodhouse reminded Evie of an overgrown, wayward schoolboy. He was tall and skinny, full of a palpable coiled energy; his face was sharp-planed but freckled, and beneath his mop of unruly brown hair and straight brows, his narrow blue eyes seemed to be constantly observing, recording. But there was a determination in those eyes that Evie understood all too well.


    ¡°That isn¡¯t my concern.¡±


    ¡°It could be.¡± Those blue eyes focused directly on her. ¡°What do you want? Name it. You want to be written up in all the gossip pages? You want column inches saying that millionaires are fighting to marry you? I can make that happen.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t even make this story happen, Mr. Woodhouse. How will you help me?¡±


    ¡°I hit it big with this story, give the Daily News some exclusive dope, I¡¯ll be in a position to give you what you need. A favor for a favor. On the level¡ªa square deal.¡±


    He stuck out his hand again. Evie ignored it.


    ¡°Pretty quiet around here,¡± Mr. Woodhouse said, and there was no mistaking the implication.


    ¡°It¡¯s just an afternoon lull.¡±


    T. S. Woodhouse reshaped his hat as if doing so were his only concern. ¡°From what I hear, there¡¯s a lot of lull time. In fact, I hear the city might shut this place down come spring. Unless, of course, it starts turning a profit.¡±


    Evie bit her lip, thinking it over. She¡¯d been wondering how they could make the museum a big deal, and now the opportunity had just fallen into her lap. Will was a genius, but he wasn¡¯t much of a businessman. It was clear that if someone was going to save the joint, it was going to have to be Evie. She¡¯d help the museum¡ªand if she helped herself along the way, well, what was the matter with that?


    ¡°I¡¯ll make a deal with you, Mr. Woodhouse. We need bodies in this joint. I¡¯ll tell you what I know¡ªas an anonymous source¡ªand you keep writing about how swell the museum is, how everybody who¡¯s anybody comes here. Of course, you can mention that Uncle Will is being helped in the investigation of these heinous murders by his niece, Miss Evie O¡¯Neill. And if my picture just happened to make it into the papers, too, well, I couldn¡¯t help that, could I?¡±


    ¡°No. Of course not.¡± Mr. Woodhouse smiled broadly and dropped his hat onto the back of his head. ¡°It¡¯s a known fact that newspapers sell better when pretty girls grace their pages.¡±


    ¡°We have a deal, then?¡±


    ¡°We have a deal.¡± They shook on it. T. S. Woodhouse¡¯s pencil hovered over his notepad once again. ¡°Ready when you are. We know the killer leaves occult symbols. What are they?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a pentacle surrounded by a snake that¡¯s eating its tail. The killer brands it onto their bodies. And he leaves religious notes. Unc thinks it might have to do with the Book of Revelation.¡±


    T. S. Woodhouse¡¯s pencil scribbled across the notepad. ¡°That¡¯s good. Revelations Killer! I like it.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t know if that¡¯s true yet¡­.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter.¡± T. S. Woodhouse¡¯s expression was all grim determination. ¡°I¡¯m the press. I¡¯ll make it true. What else?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s all for now. I¡¯ll expect that story, Mr. Woodhouse.¡±


    T. S. Woodhouse stuck his pencil behind his ear, shoved the notepad into his suit pocket, and pumped Evie¡¯s hand again. ¡°You¡¯ve been swell, Evie. Don¡¯t worry¡ªI always keep my promises.¡±


    Evie hoped that was true. If Will couldn¡¯t make the museum into a destination, perhaps she could. And if she wanted to stay in Manhattan when her three months were up, she needed to start making a place and a name for herself now. Having a friend like T. S. Woodhouse could be very helpful.


    FUNNY HOW THINGS WORK OUT


    Henry woke from his dream with a gasp. He¡¯d gone in with the hope of finding Louis. Instead, he¡¯d seen Evie¡ªand she had clearly seen him. That was odd, and Henry knew from odd. He¡¯d been walking in dreams for two years now, and that had never happened.


    Henry went to the cracked washstand. He slapped water on his face from the bowl and smoothed his hair back with his wet hands. Then he put the old straw boater back on his head and stared at his pale reflection in the mirror. He rested his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes.


    ¡°Louis, where are you?¡± he asked the empty room, not expecting an answer.

 Page 66

    ¡°Sister,¡± Memphis said quietly. ¡°Could I ask you something? Privately?¡±


    ¡°You talking about me?¡± Isaiah piped up from Sister Walker¡¯s dining room table, where he was adding sums now that his work with Sister Walker and the cards was finished for the day. Memphis was always amazed by his little brother¡¯s talent for picking up on just which conversations were none of his business.


    ¡°Now, why would I be talking about you? Sister and I have more important things to talk about.¡±


    Isaiah scowled. ¡°I am too important!¡±


    ¡°Yes, you are,¡± Sister Walker assured him. ¡°Why don¡¯t you help yourself to another piece of candy, Isaiah? Memphis, let¡¯s step out to the kitchen.¡±


    Memphis followed Sister Walker to the back of the railroad flat into a small, cheerful kitchen with flowered curtains framing a window that looked out into a common courtyard strung with laundry. She offered him a cookie as she took a seat across from him at the table. Memphis nibbled at the cookie. Sister wasn¡¯t much of a baker; her cookies were always too dry and not sweet enough, but he took them out of politeness.


    ¡°Something on your mind, Memphis?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m worried about Isaiah.¡±


    ¡°Has something happened?¡±


    Memphis wasn¡¯t sure how much he should say. What if Sister Walker didn¡¯t want to work with Isaiah anymore? Isaiah would be crushed. Still, if something wasn¡¯t right, he needed to let somebody know, and he certainly couldn¡¯t tell Octavia.


    ¡°He¡¯s been waking up in the night. It¡¯s like he¡¯s in a trance. And he¡¯s saying strange things.¡±


    Sister Walker¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°What sorts of things?¡±


    ¡° ¡®I am the Beast. The Dragon of Old.¡¯ And something that sounded like scripture, but nothing I was familiar with.¡±


    ¡° ¡®I am the Beast, the Dragon of Old,¡¯ ¡± Sister Walker repeated. ¡°That¡¯s from Revelation, if I recall my Sunday school. I don¡¯t like to cast aspersions, but might it be Octavia?¡± she offered kindly.


    Memphis frowned. It would be just like Octavia to scare Isaiah with visions of God¡¯s judgment.


    ¡°He said something else curious. Just one word over and over: Diviners.¡±


    The warmth went out of Sister Walker¡¯s face and Memphis was afraid he¡¯d said something wrong.


    ¡°What is it? Is it something bad?¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t heard that word used in a long time,¡± she said, and Memphis thought she sounded a bit sad. ¡°It¡¯s a name for people with rare gifts.¡±


    ¡°Gifts like Isaiah¡¯s?¡±


    Sister Walker gave a small shrug. ¡°It depends on what you believe, I suppose. But yes, some people would call Isaiah a Diviner.¡±


    Memphis broke the cookie into smaller bits. ¡°But where would he hear that?¡±


    ¡°Children hear all sorts of things, I suppose.¡± Sister Walker swirled the ice in her glass of water ever so slowly. ¡°The name comes from the accounts of a seer from the eighteen hundreds, Liberty Anne Rathbone. Just a girl, really. Her brother, Cornelius, built a big mansion over near Central Park. Now it¡¯s the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult. Some folks call it the Museum of the Creepy Crawlies.¡±


    ¡°Oh. I¡¯ve heard of it. But why would Isaiah know about these Diviners?¡±


    Sister Walker stepped into the other room and returned with the day¡¯s newspaper, which she spread out on the table. ¡°The murders. The man who runs the museum, Dr. Fitzgerald, is helping the police try to find the killer. I¡¯ll bet Isaiah heard people talking about it. Probably terrified him, too, and he took that right into his sleep. It¡¯s not uncommon for children to sleepwalk or talk in their sleep when they¡¯re frightened by something during the day. And Isaiah¡¯s gifts make him even more sensitive. He¡¯s almost like a radio, picking up signals from everywhere.¡±


    There had been a lot of talk in the neighborhood about the killings, and even Aunt Octavia had brought it up. Memphis wanted to believe that was the case, but what Isaiah had said was so oddly specific, and the way he went trancelike¡­ it was unsettling. But he¡¯d already taken up too much of Sister Walker¡¯s time and he didn¡¯t want to bother her with vague notions of things not being right.


    ¡°I¡¯ll bet that¡¯s what it is. Thank you, Sister Walker.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t do much. Is there anything else?¡±


    Memphis thought of his own recurring dream, but he couldn¡¯t bring himself to tell Sister Walker about it. It seemed so silly, not at all the sort of thing someone who was grown should be asking about.

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    ¡°No, ma¡¯am. Nothing else.¡±


    Sister Walker nodded slowly. ¡°All right, then. Memphis, how old are you, again?¡±


    ¡°Seventeen.¡±


    ¡°Seventeen,¡± Sister Walker said, as if it meant something, though Memphis couldn¡¯t imagine what that would be. ¡°And have you ever been able to read cards like Isaiah? Anything like that?¡±


    Memphis wasn¡¯t sure if Sister Walker knew about his past as a healer. They¡¯d never discussed it, and he couldn¡¯t see the sense in telling her now. It wasn¡¯t the same as Isaiah¡¯s talents, and besides, it was gone. ¡°No, ma¡¯am. I guess all the gifts went to Isaiah,¡± he said without bitterness, just as a statement of fact. ¡°Thank you for the cookie.¡±


    Sister Walker laughed. ¡°Memphis, it doesn¡¯t take a Diviner to tell me you didn¡¯t like that cookie one bit.¡±


    ¡°Just not very hungry, ma¡¯am. That¡¯s all.¡± Memphis gave her the smile even though he was pretty sure Sister Walker could see through that, too.


    Back in the dining room, Memphis rubbed the top of Isaiah¡¯s head and said, ¡°Time to get going, Shrimpy.¡±


    ¡°Isaiah,¡± Sister Walker called. ¡°You been having any interesting dreams lately?¡± She gave Memphis a surreptitious wink.


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am! I dreamed I caught a frog. It was the biggest frog you ever seen, and it let me ride on its back¡ªjust me and nobody else!¡±


    Sister Walker gave Memphis a look as if to say, You see? Nothing to worry about. ¡°Well, it¡¯s a shame that frog isn¡¯t here to give you a ride home. Oh, don¡¯t forget your book, now.¡±


    She handed Isaiah the book and gave his narrow shoulders a gentle squeeze. Isaiah took her hands in his and looked up at her in worry. ¡°You should be careful with that chair, Sister.¡±


    ¡°What chair is that?¡±


    ¡°The kitchen chair.¡±


    ¡°Isaiah, let¡¯s go.¡± Memphis yanked on his brother¡¯s sleeve.


    ¡°All right, then. I¡¯ll be careful. You go on home now, before you get us into trouble with your auntie.¡±


    Sister Walker waved in farewell as she watched the boys walking away, arguing about silly things the way brothers do. Memphis was hiding something from her; she could sense it. The old Margaret would¡¯ve been able to find out what it was without too much trouble. But that was the past, and she was concerned with the future. When she¡¯d come to Harlem six months ago, hunting for Memphis Campbell, she¡¯d thought he was that future. Funny how things worked out. But now she had Isaiah. And if she was right about what lay ahead, she needed to prepare him for what was coming.


    Much later, she went to retrieve a dish she needed from the tall cabinet, pulling the kitchen chair over so that she could reach it. As she stood reaching, the leg gave way and she crashed to the kitchen floor, banging her shoulder and knee. She was fine¡ªjust shaky and sore¡ªbut the chair was ruined. And with a chill, she remembered Isaiah¡¯s words to her: You should be careful with that chair, Sister.


    THE GOOD CITIZEN


    The Pillar of Fire Church was situated on eighty bucolic acres of former farmland in Zarephath, New Jersey. Evangelist Alma Bridwell White had established a community there along the Millstone River, far from what she saw as the corrupting influence of the world. Her followers had all they needed¡ªcommunal living, a college, and a church. Outsiders were discouraged.


    Sam drove up a long dirt driveway bordered by neat, fat rows of firs, which gave way to a cluster of white two-story buildings on a pretty, parklike campus. Men and women in modest clothing walked about, greeting one another with pleasant smiles.


    ¡°They don¡¯t look much like killers,¡± Evie remarked.


    ¡°They never do,¡± Sam muttered.


    They were met at the administration building by a Mr. Adkins, a beefy, balding man with a square jaw and a very firm handshake. ¡°The Pillar of Fire Church welcomes you.¡± Jericho and Evie introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and Sam was Mr. Smith, Jericho¡¯s cousin who had graciously offered to drive them in his car.


    ¡°What a fine family,¡± Mr. Adkins said. ¡°Just our sort of people.¡±


    He led them briefly around the grounds and took them through the church with its enormous pipe organ. Back in the administration building, they passed through a dining hall, where several ladies in identical blue skirts and white blouses sat at a long table assembling pamphlets. They smiled and waved as if it were a church supper and Evie, Sam, and Jericho were their invited guests, and Evie couldn¡¯t help imagining those same welcoming faces illuminated by the flames of a burning cross in the night. A bead of sweat trickled down her back under her dress.

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    Mr. Adkins ushered them into a small, spare office. A simple cross-stitched panel hung on the wall: ETERNAL VIGILANCE IS THE PRICE OF FREEDOM. Evie perched on the very edge of an offered chair. Jericho sat beside her. Sam stood behind them, his hands in his pockets, his eyes searching.


    ¡°What may the Pillar of Fire Church do for you today, Mr. and Mrs. Jones?¡±


    ¡°Mr. Jones and I are so very impressed with your godly way of life. We¡¯re thinking of moving away from Manhattan, what with those terrible murders going on.¡± Evie shuddered for effect. ¡°We just don¡¯t feel safe, do we, Mr. Jones?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ uh¡­¡±


    Evie patted his hand. ¡°We don¡¯t. Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s simply awful, Mr. Adkins?¡±


    ¡°Indeed I do. But I can¡¯t say I¡¯m surprised. It¡¯s this foreign element coming in, you know¡ªit¡¯s polluting our white race and way of life. The Jewish anarchists. The Bolsheviks. The Italians and Irish Catholics. The Negroes, with their music and dancing. They don¡¯t hold to our same moral code. They don¡¯t share our American values. We believe in one hundred percent Americanism.¡±


    ¡°Which tribe?¡± Sam said under his breath.


    Evie faked a coughing fit. She made it sound as if she were losing a lung. ¡°Mr. Adkins, could I have a glass of water, please?¡± Evie coughed again for effect.


    ¡°Certainly. I¡¯ll, uh, I¡¯ll have to go to the kitchen for it. I won¡¯t be but a minute. Please make yourselves at home.¡±


    As soon as he was gone, Evie leaped up. ¡°That¡¯s just what I intend to do. You fellas search this room. I¡¯m snooping around.¡±


    Jericho shook his head. ¡°That isn¡¯t a good idea, Evie. What if he comes back?¡±


    ¡°Tell him I went to the lavatory,¡± Evie said with a roll of her eyes. ¡°Men are pos-i-tute-ly paralyzed by the mention of females in lavatories.¡±


    Evie sneaked down the hall, opening doors, searching for anything that might be a clue. A new batch of Good Citizen pamphlets sat in a stack on a table by the staircase. The cover image showed the same hooded man hanging a Catholic upside down in the way that Tommy Duffy¡¯s body had been posed. Evie pocketed the pamphlet to show to Will later.


    ¡°Psst!¡± Sam hissed at Evie from the doorway of an office.


    ¡°Sam! What are you doing?¡± Evie whispered.


    ¡°Same thing you are. Snooping around.¡±


    Evie ran to the end of the hall. Seeing no one, she hurried inside the office and shut the door. ¡°You were supposed to stay with Jericho!¡±


    ¡°You should know by now, doll, that I never do what I¡¯m supposed to do.¡±


    ¡°Never mind that. Did you find anything?¡±


    ¡°Not yet. I¡¯ll look here. You look over there.¡±


    Evie searched the drawers of an end table and glanced at a bookcase but found nothing of value. She moved on to the closet. Inside, white robes and hoods hung from hooks like the hollowed skins of ghosts. Evie shut the door quickly and ran to Sam, who was opening drawers in a large oak rolltop desk.


    ¡°Check the bottom drawers,¡± he said. Sam pulled open the right-side drawer, which was a mishmash of papers and letters. He lifted a notice about a meeting of the American Eugenics Society. Beneath it lay a photograph of a grand castle shrouded in fog. Something about the castle was familiar to Sam, though he couldn¡¯t say why. He shoved the photograph into his pocket just as the door opened with a click.


    A tall, rangy man stood uncertainly in the doorway. He wore a dark hat, farmer¡¯s coveralls, and a denim work shirt. From his neck hung a flat, round pendant on a strip of leather.


    ¡°Looking for Missus White,¡± the man said in a clipped tone. ¡°You seen her?¡±


    Carefully, Evie slid the drawer closed. ¡°Whom shall I say is calling?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Brother Jacob Call.¡± The man took two tentative steps into the room. Evie¡¯s gaze was drawn to the pendant: a five-pointed star encircled by a snake eating its tail. Her heart raced. Behind her back, she signaled to Sam. He squeezed her fingers in response.


    ¡°My, that¡¯s an interesting pendant you¡¯re wearing. Is it very old?¡±


    The man placed a palm over it. ¡°It¡¯s the Lord¡¯s mark. A protection to his people in the time of the Beast.¡±


    A cold tickle crept from Evie¡¯s neck down her arm. The pendant, the mention of the Beast¡ªit was very possible she and Sam were in a room with the Pentacle Killer.


    ¡°Wh-what did you say your name was again?¡± Evie asked.


    The man looked suddenly suspicious. He turned away briskly, nearly upending a big-boned woman in a sober black dress who gaped at Sam and Evie from behind wire-rimmed glasses.

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    ¡°What on earth are you doing in here?¡± the woman demanded. Her voice was pulpit-worthy.


    ¡°Who wants to know, sister?¡± Sam challenged.


    The woman¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°I am Mrs. Alma Bridwell White. Head of the Pillar of Fire Church. And you are in my office, uninvited.¡±


    She summoned two large, unhappy men to escort Evie and Sam rather roughly back to Mr. Adkins¡¯s office, where Jericho still sat. His eyes widened and Evie shot him a warning glance to keep quiet.


    ¡°Mr. Adkins, can you explain what these two interlopers were doing in my office, uninvited and unsupervised?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Mrs. White. They came to ask about membership. I went to get Mrs. Jones a glass of water, and when I got back, Mr. Jones told me both she and Mr. Smith there had gone to the lavatory.¡±


    ¡°Spies! That¡¯s what they are. What, pray tell, were you two doing in my office?¡± Mrs. White pressed. ¡°I demand an answer!¡±


    A few men had pushed into the room. All of them looked ready for a fight. Evie swallowed hard. If they couldn¡¯t think of something, they were done for.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to do this, but the lies have gone on long enough,¡± Sam said suddenly. Evie could tell by the way his hand shook the change in his pocket that he was nervous.


    ¡°They¡­ they have?¡± Evie searched his face for some clue about what game they were playing now.


    ¡°Yes, they have. I can¡¯t hide anymore, Honey Pie.¡± Sam put his arm around Evie¡¯s shoulder, pulling her close. He kissed her on the cheek while Jericho looked on, astonished. ¡°I¡¯m sorry that this is the way you had to find out, cousin. We went into that office to be alone. I¡¯m gone for her, and she¡¯s got it bad for me. Don¡¯tcha, doll face? We¡¯re going to Reno for the annulment, and then we¡¯re getting hitched. Why, I wouldn¡¯t blame you if you socked me right here and now for what I¡¯ve done.¡±


    Murmurs of astonishment and judgment rippled through the assembled Pillar of Fire crowd. Hidden by the largeness of Jericho, Sam made a small fist motion, hoping that Jericho would take the hint.


    Finally, Jericho¡¯s eyes widened in understanding. ¡°Well, that¡¯s my wife, and you can¡¯t have her,¡± he announced awkwardly. He pulled back and socked Sam, catching him across the jaw and bottom lip. Sam tottered and sank to his knees, his mouth bloody.


    ¡°Son of a¡ª¡± Sam croaked.


    ¡°Oh, Sam!¡± Evie dropped beside Sam. She put her handkerchief to his mouth. ¡°I never wanted this to happen.¡±


    Mrs. White was steely-eyed. ¡°I think you¡¯d best leave. We are an honorable organization and want no part of your sordid city affairs.¡±


    ¡°An ¡®honorable organization,¡¯ ¡± Sam scoffed from behind the wheel as they made their way down the long drive. A welt was already rising on his cheek, and there was dried blood on his shirt. Evie dabbed at his wound and he winced. ¡°Ow.¡±


    ¡°Sorry for that,¡± Jericho said from the backseat, but he looked pretty pleased with himself.


    ¡°That punch got us out of there. Good work, Freddie. Though next time, go easy on me, not-so-gentle giant.¡±


    At the bottom of the drive, a group of men stood across the road, blocking their escape. Evie gripped the door handle as the men surrounded the car. Sam¡¯s hands remained fixed on the wheel, and for the second time, Evie wished she were driving.


    A broad-chested man in a straw hat leaned both arms on Evie¡¯s open window. ¡°You people from the city, we know what you get up to over there, and we don¡¯t want any part of it. You understand?¡±


    Evie nodded gravely. Her heart pounded in her chest. She kept her eyes on the road ahead.


    ¡°Don¡¯t come back here no more. We don¡¯t need your kind.¡±


    One of the men angled his face close to Jericho¡¯s. He smiled at him in a convivial way, as if they were two old friends on a fishing trip, one giving advice to the other. ¡°If it were me, son, I¡¯d take that one out to the woods and show him what happens to fellas what try to take what¡¯s rightfully yours.¡± He took a book of matches from his pocket and struck one, watching it flare into an orange diamond, then flicked it into the front seat at Sam. Evie gave a small shriek as it landed on his pants, but he patted it out quickly. He looked terrified, though. The usual Sam swagger was nowhere to be seen. The men stepped back. The fellow in front took his hand off the hood, and Sam jerked the car forward, spraying small pebbles from the back tires as he drove. They came around the next bend so quickly that they didn¡¯t see the man until they were nearly upon him.

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    ¡°Sam, watch out!¡± Evie yelled.


    Sam hit the brakes and the car shuddered to a stop and quit. In front of them, Brother Jacob Call had both hands up, as if waiting to be hit. He pointed a long finger at them.


    ¡°What was started long ago will now be finished when the fire burns in the sky,¡± he said. ¡°Repent, for the Beast is come.¡±


    Then he turned away, walking up the hill in long, quick strides.


    It was afternoon by the time Evie, Jericho, and Sam returned to the museum and told Will of their narrow escape from the Pillar of Fire Church and their curious encounter with Brother Jacob Call.


    ¡°Do you think he could be our killer?¡± Jericho asked.


    ¡°I¡¯ll certainly report it to Detective Malloy right away,¡± Will answered. ¡°You did very well. This may be the break we¡¯ve needed.¡±


    ¡°He said something else very curious.¡± Evie rested her stocking feet on a stack of books on the floor. ¡°He said something about ¡®what was started long ago would now be finished.¡¯ What was started long ago? When?¡±


    The phone rang and Will answered it. ¡°William Fitzgerald. I see. Whom may I say is calling, please? Just a moment.¡± Will held out the receiver. ¡°It¡¯s for you, Evie. A Mr. Daily Newsenhauser?¡±


    Evie took the phone and said, ¡°I don¡¯t need an Electrolux, and I¡¯m already a Colgate customer, so unless you¡¯re giving away a mink, I¡¯m afraid¡ª¡±


    ¡°Heya, Sheba. How¡¯s the Creepy Crawly?¡± T. S. Woodhouse said.


    Evie turned her back on Will and the boys. ¡°Spiffing. Mr. Lincoln¡¯s ghost just asked me to tea. I do love a polite ghost. Clever moniker.¡±


    ¡°Daily Newsenhauser? I thought so.¡±


    Evie placed a hand over the receiver. ¡°An order I placed with a salesman at B. Altman. I won¡¯t be a minute.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like your appropriating the museum¡¯s telephone for personal calls, Evangeline,¡± Will said, but he didn¡¯t look up from his stack of clippings.


    ¡°I take it you can¡¯t speak freely?¡± Woodhouse said.


    ¡°You¡¯re on the trolley.¡±


    ¡°Maybe we could meet.¡±


    ¡°Not likely.¡±


    ¡°Come on, Sheba. Play along with your old pal T.S. Got anything for me?¡±


    ¡°That depends. What do you have for me?¡±


    ¡°A story about the museum in tomorrow¡¯s papers. A mention of one Miss Evie O¡¯Neill. The very comely Miss O¡¯Neill.¡±


    Evie smiled. ¡°Hold on a minute. Jericho,¡± she called. ¡°I need to order unmentionables. Be a dear and hang this one up for me, and I¡¯ll take it in Will¡¯s office.¡± Evie scurried past Sam, who waggled his eyebrows in response to the word unmentionables. Evie gave him an irritated eye-roll and raced to the phone in Will¡¯s office. ¡°I¡¯ve got it, Jericho dear.¡± She waited for the telltale click, then spoke in a hushed voice. ¡°They think the killer might be involved with the Klan. A copy of The Good Citizen was found with Tommy Duffy¡¯s body.¡±


    ¡°No kidding? Wouldn¡¯t put it past those pond scum.¡±


    ¡°I know. Why, they¡¯re even worse than reporters.¡±


    ¡°I like you, Sheba.¡±


    ¡°And I like what you can do for me, Mr. Woodhouse.¡±


    ¡°What else?¡±


    ¡°Nothing doing. I¡¯ll expect that article first.¡±


    ¡°Evie, please do say good-bye,¡± Will instructed from the doorway.


    Evie spoke cheerfully and loudly into the receiver. ¡°Get yourself a mustard plaster and stay in bed, Mabesie darling, and you¡¯ll be as good as new! I have to dash now. Ta!¡± Evie put the phone back in its cradle and turned to Will with a heavy sigh. ¡°Poor lamb would simply be lost without me.¡±


    Will looked puzzled. ¡°I thought you were speaking to a salesman at B. Altman.¡±


    ¡°There were two calls!¡± Evie lied, smiling brightly. ¡°Oh, Unc, honestly! Didn¡¯t you hear it ring the second time? The sound in these old mansions isn¡¯t what it could be, I suppose. Well, no matter. I heard it. What did you want, Unc?¡±


    Will threaded his arms through the sleeves of his trench coat and put on his hat. ¡°I¡¯ve just received word from my colleague Dr. Poblocki at Columbia. That page you discovered has proved helpful. He¡¯s found something significant after all. Well?¡±


    Evie grabbed her coat.


    THE ELEVEN OFFERINGS


    Evie and Will crossed the long green of Columbia, heading toward the Low Memorial Library, an enormous marble building whose ionic columns gave it the countenance of a Greek temple. To their right, the crooked-tooth rooftops of the apartment buildings of Morningside Heights stood in relief against the gray autumnal sky. Somewhere, a church bell tolled. The day was blustery, but students still sat on the library steps leading up from the green. Heads turned as Evie passed. She allowed herself to think it was because she was devastatingly pretty in her rose silk dress and peacock-patterned stockings, and not because she was one of the only girls on campus.

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    Dr. Georg Poblocki¡¯s office sat at the end of a long hall in a building that smelled of old books and yearning. Dr. Poblocki himself was a large man with craggy cheeks and puffy eyes overshadowed by unruly brows that Evie had the urge to trim.


    ¡°The full story behind that drawing you sent was rather hard to find, William,¡± Dr. Poblocki said in a faint German accent. He smiled with an almost mischievous glee. ¡°But find it I did.¡±


    He drew a book from a stack and opened it to a marked page showing the familiar star-encircled-by-a-snake emblem. ¡°Behold: the Pentacle of the Beast.¡±


    ¡°The police should have consulted you instead of me, Georg.¡±


    Dr. Poblocki shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t have a museum.¡± To Evie he said, ¡°Your uncle was my student at Yale before he started working for the government.¡±


    ¡°That was a long time ago.¡± Will tapped the page. ¡°Tell me more about this Pentacle of the Beast, Georg. What is it? What does it mean?¡±


    ¡°It is the sacred emblem of the Brethren, a vanished religious cult in upstate New York.¡±


    ¡°I forget New York even has an upstate. Seems unnecessary after Manhattan,¡± Evie quipped.


    ¡°Delightful!¡± Dr. Poblocki smiled. ¡°I like this one.¡±


    ¡°The Brethren?¡± Will prompted as if waiting out an unruly student.


    ¡°The Most Holy Covenant of the Brethren of God. They were formed during the Second Great Awakening, in the early nineteenth century.¡±


    ¡°The second what?¡± Evie asked.


    ¡°The Second Great Awakening was a time when religious fervor gripped the nation. Preachers would cross the country giving fiery sermons about hellfire and damnation, warning of the Devil¡¯s temptations while saving souls during revivals and tent meetings,¡± Dr. Poblocki said, slipping into the sort of lecturing mode Evie imagined he used with his students. ¡°It gave rise to new religions such as the Church of Latter-Day Saints, the Church of Christ, and the Seventh-Day Adventists, as well as this one.¡± Dr. Poblocki tapped the book with his finger. ¡°The Brethren was formed by a young preacher named John Joseph Algoode. Reverend Algoode was tending sheep¡ªvery biblical, that¡ªwhen he saw a great fire in the sky. It was Solomon¡¯s Comet coming through the northern hemisphere.¡±


    Evie suddenly remembered the two girls handing her the flyer on the street. ¡°The same Solomon¡¯s Comet¡­¡±


    ¡°On its way to us now in its fifty-year return. Indeed.¡± Dr. Poblocki finished. He settled into a chair, wincing as he did so. ¡°This dreadful knee of mine. Old age comes for us all, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be old before you tell us the story, Georg,¡± Will pressed, and Evie felt a bit embarrassed by his rudeness.


    ¡°Your uncle. He could never wait for anything. That impatience will cost you in the end, I fear, William,¡± Dr. Poblocki said, peering up at Will darkly, and it seemed to Evie that her uncle looked just a bit chastened. ¡°Pastor Algoode claimed to have had a vision: that the old churches of Europe were a corruption of God¡¯s word. There needed to be a new American faith, he said. Only this great experiment of a country could produce believers pure and devout enough to submit wholly to God¡¯s word and judgment. The Brethren would be that faith. They would rule the new America. The true America. They would fulfill its great promise.¡± Dr. Poblocki removed his glasses, fogging the lenses with his breath and wiping them clean with a cloth until he was satisfied, then settled the hooks of them over his ears again. ¡°Pastor Algoode brought his small flock to the Catskill Mountains in 1832. They settled on fifteen acres and built a church in an old barn, where they would meet each evening for prayers by candlelight and all day on Sundays. They painted their homes and church with religious signs in accordance with their holy book, and they farmed their land. They had an odd belief system, cobbled together from the Bible¡ªparticularly Revelation¡ªand the occult. Their Book of the Holy Brethren was believed to be part religious doctrine, part grimoire.¡±


    ¡°Grimoire?¡± Evie said.


    ¡°A book of sorcery,¡± Dr. Poblocki explained.


    ¡°That explains the sigils, I suppose,¡± Will mused.


    Dr. Poblocki nodded. ¡°Indeed. There were rumors, as there always are in such cases, that the Brethren practiced everything from unsavory sexual practices to cannibalism and human sacrifice. It¡¯s one of the reasons they were so insular and lived up in the mountains¡ªto escape persecution. They did have extensive knowledge of hallucinogens, most likely learned from native tribes who used such things in their religious worship to achieve transcendence. The account of a French-Canadian fur trapper visiting the area tells of ¡®a magnificent smoke and a sweet wine which, when consumed, cause the mind to imagine all sorts of angels and devils.¡¯ Now. The Brethren were an eschatology cult.¡±

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    ¡°Is that even legal?¡± Evie said.


    ¡°Charming lady!¡± Dr. Poblocki laughed and patted Evie¡¯s hand. ¡°Are you certain you¡¯re related to that one?¡± He nodded at Will, and Evie had to fight the urge to giggle.


    ¡°Eschatology,¡± Dr. Poblocki continued, ¡°from the Greek eschatos, meaning ¡®the last,¡¯ is about the end of the world and the second coming of Jesus Christ. Ah, but here is where things become quite interesting!¡±


    Evie¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°More interesting than dope and sorcery?¡±


    ¡°Indeed! You see, the Brethren didn¡¯t just believe that the end of the world was nigh; they thought it their God-given duty to help bring it about.¡±


    ¡°How did they plan to do that?¡± Will asked.


    ¡°By raising the anti-Christ. The Beast himself.¡± Dr. Poblocki paused to allow his words time to settle. Evie¡¯s skin prickled with goose bumps.


    ¡°Why would they do that if they were Christians?¡± Evie asked.


    ¡°The line between faith and fanaticism is a constantly shifting one,¡± Dr. Poblocki said. ¡°When does belief become justification? When does right become rationale and crusade become crime?¡±


    ¡°How did they intend to raise the Beast, Georg?¡± Will asked.


    ¡°With this.¡± Dr. Poblocki reached into his pile of books and produced a gnarled, leather-bound volume. ¡°The eleven offerings. It¡¯s a sacrificial ritual, both magical and religious in origin, for manifesting the Beast here on earth.¡±


    The book was very old, and the thin, veined paper felt leathery against Evie¡¯s fingers. It reminded her very much of some macabre illuminated Bible. Each page featured a small, colorful illustration of a ritual murder, accompanied by a scripture-like passage. The same sigils found on the killer¡¯s notes also ran along the edges of the book¡¯s entries.


    Evie read the offerings aloud in order. ¡°The Sacrifice of the Faithful. The Tribute of the Ten Servants of the Master. The Pale Horseman Riding Death Before the Stars. The Death of the Virgin. The Harlot Adorned and Cast upon the Sea¡­¡± The drawing was of a sightless, bejeweled woman arranged on water, surrounded by pearls. Above her head was an eye symbol. ¡°Unc,¡± Evie said, shivering. ¡°It¡¯s just the way Ruta Badowski¡¯s body was found.¡±


    Will reached over Evie and turned to the next page. ¡°The sixth offering, the Sacrifice of the Idle Son¡­¡± The illustration showed a boy hung upside down with one leg bent, like the Hanging Man of the tarot. The boy¡¯s hands were missing, and a pair of hands bent in prayer was the symbol above the drawing. ¡°Tommy Duffy.¡±


    Evie read on. ¡°The seventh offering, the Turning Out of the Deceitful Brethren from the Temple of Solomon.¡± She raised her head, thinking. ¡°It¡¯s a template for the murders.¡± She continued. ¡°The eighth offering, the Veneration of the Angelic Herald. The ninth, the Destruction of the Golden Idol. The tenth, the Lamentation of the Widow. The eleventh offering, the Marriage of the Beast and the Woman Clothed in the Sun.¡±


    The last page was a drawing of a bestial, horned man with the feet of a goat, two enormous wings, and a tail. He sat upon a throne and his eyes burned. In his hand was a dripping heart. At his feet was a woman wearing a golden crown and dress, her chest torn open. The symbol at the bottom was a comet. It made Evie shudder.


    ¡°Does it say how the Beast was supposed to come into this world?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s unclear. It says only that they needed a chosen one.¡±


    ¡°A chosen one to commit the murders?¡± Evie clarified.


    Dr. Poblocki gave a small shrug. ¡°There, I¡¯m afraid, I can only conjecture.¡±


    ¡°What is this?¡± Evie pointed to a page near the back. It showed a man kneeling before another man in dark robes, possibly a minister. The Pentacle of the Beast hung over them both like a sun, and heavenly spirits floated nearby. Piles of kindling had been gathered. The minister placed a pendant around the kneeling man¡¯s neck.


    ¡°That¡¯s just like the pendant Jacob Call was wearing,¡± Evie said. ¡°What is the pendant for?¡±


    ¡°Possibly to signify to others that they are members of the same tribe, much like a cross or a Star of David,¡± Dr. Poblocki said. ¡°Though I cannot say that for certain.¡±


    ¡°What is the next offering?¡± Will asked.


    Evie flipped back. ¡° ¡®The seventh offering: the Turning Out of the Deceitful Brethren from the Temple of Solomon.¡¯ Whatever that means.¡± Evie turned to Dr. Poblocki. ¡°Do you suppose our killer believes the comet is some sort of sign?¡±

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    ¡°Comets were often thought to be holy portents. God¡¯s messengers. When Lucifer, the light-bringer, fell, he streaked through the sky just like a tail of fire, it is said.¡±


    ¡°When will the comet be overhead in New York?¡±


    ¡°October eighth, about midnight,¡± Will said.


    ¡°That¡¯s less than two weeks away.¡± Evie bit her lip, thinking. ¡°You said that the Brethren is a vanished cult. What happened to them?¡±


    ¡°The entire sect burned to death in 1848.¡± Dr. Poblocki opened a groaning file drawer overstuffed with papers. ¡°There had been an outbreak of smallpox, you see. Several of the Brethren died from it. Apparently Pastor Algoode became convinced it was a sign of God¡¯s judgment and that they should prepare themselves to bring on Armageddon. No one knows exactly what happened, but they think that Algoode gathered his followers and doused the meetinghouse in kerosene¡ªa jar of it was found in the ruins. The doors were barred. A hunter nearby saw the flames and smoke. He said you could hear prayers and hymns turning to screams.¡±


    Evie shuddered. ¡°How awful. Did no one survive?¡±


    ¡°Not a soul,¡± he said solemnly. ¡°The town of New Brethren was built in the valley below, about five miles from the original camp on the hill. They say that unquiet spirits still haunt the woods of the original Brethren. They¡¯ve heard terrible sounds and seen lights in the trees up on the mountain. No one ventures there, not even the hunters.¡±


    Evie tried to imagine all those souls locked inside the meetinghouse, singing and praying, the mothers clutching their children while the flames raged. ¡°Burned to death. Why would they do such a thing?¡±


    ¡°Why does anyone do anything? Belief. A belief that they are right and just in their actions. Abraham was willing to sacrifice his son, Isaac, because he believed that God had commanded it. To kill your son is unthinkable. A crime. But if you are acting in the belief that your God, your supreme deity whom you must obey, has demanded it of you, is it still a crime?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Will said.


    Dr. Poblocki smiled. ¡°I know you do not believe, Will. But imagine for a moment that you believe fervently that this is truth. In this framework, your actions are justified. Glorified, even. They are inculpatus¡ªwithout blame. If this is the case with your killer, then he is on a holy mission, and nothing will stop him from seeing it through.¡±


    ¡°What is this?¡± Evie asked. She had turned to the last page in the Book of the Brethren, which had been torn out. Only the ripped edges remained.


    Dr. Poblocki moved in close and peered over the tops of his glasses, squinting. ¡°Ah. That. I can tell you what it is supposed to be. According to the accounts, the Book of the Brethren contained a spell for trapping the spirit of the Beast in an object¡ªa holy relic of some sort¡ªand then destroying the object, casting the Beast back to hell once the mission of the faithful had been accomplished.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± Evie said.


    ¡°It¡¯s like the Arabic jinn, or genie. A spirit or demon can be contained in an object and then destroyed,¡± Will said. He looked troubled.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem like much to hang your hat on,¡± Evie said. ¡°Not that it matters, since the page is missing.¡±


    ¡°Not just missing, but deliberately torn out,¡± Dr. Poblocki reminded her.


    ¡°But who would do that, and why?¡±


    ¡°It seems someone didn¡¯t want the Beast to be destroyed after all.¡±


    ¡°Georg, may I keep this?¡± Will said, holding up the book.


    ¡°Be my guest. Just promise me you won¡¯t start your own doomsday cult with it.¡±


    Engrossed in the book¡¯s illuminated pages, Will didn¡¯t respond.


    ¡°And now, it is high time I joined Mrs. Poblocki for our Sunday repast.¡± Dr. Poblocki gave Evie¡¯s hand a courtly kiss. ¡°I wish you the best with your investigation. Do keep your uncle in line.¡±


    Outside, it had begun to rain. Will opened the day¡¯s paper and offered half to Evie. They cupped the flimsy sheets over their heads and walked quickly across the lawn toward Broadway.


    ¡°If our killer is following the eleven offerings of this Brethren cult, he had to hear about them somehow. Is it possible he¡¯s from that region?¡± Evie gazed at the vast expanse of city. ¡°Don¡¯t you think? Will? Unc, are you listening to me?¡±


    ¡°Hmm? Yes,¡± he answered absently. His brow was furrowed and his eyes looked tired. This case was obviously bothering him far more than he¡¯d let on. ¡°A solid observation, Evie.¡±

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    Evie couldn¡¯t help but smile. From Will, this was quite a compliment.


    ¡°I¡¯ll let Detective Malloy know that we might have a lead, that the killer could be from the New Brethren region. Perhaps they can ask around upstate and see if there has been anything out of the ordinary happening in or around New Brethren. But we do have something on our side now.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Evie asked. The rain was coming down harder now. The newspaper sagged and the back of her neck was wet.


    ¡°If we¡¯re correct and our killer is working from this Book of the Brethren, then his next offering will be the seventh¡ªthe Turning Out of the Deceitful Brethren from the Temple of Solomon.¡±


    ¡°But what does that even mean?¡±


    ¡°It will be our job to try to figure that out in time,¡± Will said.


    A taxi swerved into view and Uncle Will raised his hand for it, edging out two students. ¡°Sorry. My niece is ill,¡± he told them, and Evie thrilled a bit at this small lie. They settled into the taxi just as the clouds unleashed a gully washer.


    Evie leaned her head against the seat and watched the rain come down. ¡°Unc, what happens when the killer has completed all eleven offerings? He isn¡¯t really raising some mythical biblical demon from the deep. So what is he after?¡±


    ¡°But he believes that he is. Such strong belief is a powerful force.¡±


    ¡°Then what sort of powerful belief does it take to stop someone like that?¡±


    ¡°Turn left here, please, and don¡¯t take the avenue,¡± Will instructed the driver, who decided to argue, in true New Yorker fashion, about which route was the best to take at this hour. It wasn¡¯t until well after they¡¯d returned to the museum that Evie realized he had never answered her question.


    ¨¹BERMENSCH


    Jericho sat in the private dining room of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel on Fifth Avenue. He¡¯d noted on the way over that the edges of the leaves were changing from green to a faint red and gold. It reminded Jericho of the farm and harvest. Thinking about that always made him melancholy, so he turned his attention to stirring milk into his tea. A moment later, a white-gloved attendant opened the doors, and Jake Marlowe swept into the room like a benevolent prince.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get up,¡± Marlowe said, taking his seat at the table. He was considered handsome. The papers spilled as much ink on his dark good looks, strong jaw, and tall, athletic build as they did discussing his latest industrial invention or scientific breakthrough. ¡°How are you, Jericho?¡±


    ¡°Fine, sir.¡±


    ¡°Good. That¡¯s good. You look healthy.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    Marlowe pointed to Jericho¡¯s battered volume of Thus Spoke Zarathustra. ¡°Any good?¡±


    ¡°It passes the time.¡±


    ¡°I understand you have a lot of time to pass working at the museum. How is our friend Will?¡±


    ¡°Fine, sir.¡±


    ¡°Good. Will and I may have had our differences, but I¡¯ve always admired him. And I¡¯m concerned about him and his¡­ obsessions.¡±


    The silent attendant in white gloves reappeared and poured coffee into Marlowe¡¯s china cup. ¡°I¡¯ll have the Waldorf salad. Jericho?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have the same, please.¡±


    The attendant nodded, then vanished.


    ¡°How¡¯s business, sir?¡± Jericho asked with no trace of real interest.


    ¡°Business is good. Business is terrific, in fact. We¡¯re doing exciting things at Marlowe Industries. And California¡¯s beautiful¡ªyou¡¯d love it there.¡±


    Jericho bit back the urge to tell Marlowe he had no idea about what Jericho loved.


    ¡°The offer¡¯s open¡ªif you get tired of shelving books on magic and ghosts, you can always come work for me.¡±


    Jericho examined the spoon on his saucer. It was real silver, with the stamp of the hotel on the handle. ¡°I have a job, sir.¡±


    ¡°Yes. You have a job. I¡¯m talking about a profession. A chance to be part of the future, not wither away in some dusty museum.¡±


    ¡°You know that Mr. Fitzgerald is quite brilliant.¡±


    ¡°Once,¡± Marlowe said and let the word linger. ¡°He was never quite the same after what happened with Rotke.¡± Marlowe shook his head. ¡°All that brilliance spent chasing ghost stories. And for what?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s part of our history.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not a country with a past, Jericho. We¡¯re a country of the future. And I mean to shape that future.¡± Marlowe put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, his expression serious. His blue-eyed gaze was penetrating. ¡°How are you, Jericho?¡±

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    ¡°I told you, sir. I¡¯m fine.¡±


    Marlowe lowered his voice. ¡°And you¡¯ve experienced no symptoms?¡±


    ¡°None.¡±


    Marlowe sat back with a satisfied smile. ¡°Well. That¡¯s promising. Very promising.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡± In the spoon, Jericho¡¯s face was distorted.


    Marlowe rose and stood beside one of the tall windows. ¡°Look out there. What a city! And growing all the time. This is the best country in the world, Jericho. A place where a man can be anything he dreams of being. Can you imagine if other countries had the same democratic ideals and freedoms we enjoy? What would that world look like?¡±


    ¡°Idealism is just an escape from reality. There is no utopia.¡±


    Marlowe grinned. ¡°That so? I couldn¡¯t disagree more. Is that Nietzsche talking? Ah, the Germans. We have a factory in Germany, you know. Actually, Germany is a fine example, so let¡¯s take Germany: They were crushed in the Great War. Their debt was staggering. A pound of bread cost nearly three billion Marks! The Reichsmark was practically worthless¡ªyou¡¯d have better luck papering your house with it than trying to buy goods or pay your bills. But Marlowe Industries is going to help them get on their feet. We¡¯re going to change the world.¡± Marlowe smiled brightly, the smile that made the newspapers rhapsodize over his can-do qualities. ¡°You might change the world, Jericho.¡±


    ¡°No one would choose this,¡± Jericho said bitterly.


    ¡°Oh, come now. It isn¡¯t as bad as all that, is it?¡± Marlowe returned to his seat opposite Jericho. ¡°Look at you, Jericho. You¡¯re a walking miracle. The great hope.¡±


    ¡°I am not one of your dreams.¡± Jericho banged his fist on the table, shattering a saucer.


    ¡°Careful,¡± Marlowe said.


    ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m sorry.¡± Jericho began gathering the pieces, but at a gesture from Marlowe the attendant appeared to whisk the table clean with a small hand broom.


    ¡°You have to be careful,¡± Marlowe said again.


    Jericho nodded. Under the table, he clenched his fist, unclenched it. When he felt calmer, he folded his napkin, set it on the table, and rose. ¡°Thank you for the tea, sir. I should be getting back to the museum.¡±


    ¡°Oh, come now. Let¡¯s start this over¡ª¡±


    ¡°I-I have a lot of work to do,¡± Jericho said. He stood, waiting.


    ¡°But you haven¡¯t eaten anything.¡±


    ¡°I should be getting back.¡±


    ¡°Certainly,¡± Marlowe said after a pause. He walked to the other side of the room, where his briefcase sat with his umbrella. He took a small brown bag from inside the case. ¡°You¡¯re sure you¡¯re fine?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    Marlowe handed the brown bag to Jericho, who looked down at the floor.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Jericho mumbled. He hated this. Hated that once a year, he had to submit to this ritual. Had to pretend to be grateful for what Marlowe had done for him. To him.


    Marlowe clapped a hand on his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m glad to see you¡¯re doing so well, Jericho.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡± He shook off Marlowe¡¯s hand and left him standing there.


    Alone in the hallway, Jericho made a fist with his right hand, then flexed his fingers, open, closed, open, closed. They moved flawlessly. He unsealed the bag Marlowe had given him. Inside was a brown glass bottle of pills marked MARLOWE INDUSTRIES VITAMIN TONIC. Nestled beside it was a silver case loaded with ten vials of a bright blue serum. For a moment, he imagined dropping the bag into the nearest wastebasket and walking away. Instead, he slid the silver case into his inside jacket pocket for safekeeping and settled the vitamin tonic into his outside pocket. He tucked Nietzsche¡¯s Zarathustra under his arm and walked out into the cool fall day.


    Mabel had no time to note the grace of the fall leaves as she walked through the crowd assembled in Union Square. She knew she needed to be on her guard¡ªPinkerton Detectives posing as workers would often disrupt a peaceful protest, giving the police an excuse to move in, break it up, and make arrests. Sometimes it turned ugly.


    The rain had stopped, and Mabel¡¯s mother stood on a makeshift speaker¡¯s platform, inspiring the crowd with her commanding oratorical skills and dark-haired beauty. She was born Virginia Newell, daughter of the famous Newell clan, one of New York¡¯s elite families. At twenty, she¡¯d thrown it all away to elope with Mabel¡¯s father, Daniel Rose, a firebrand Jewish journalist and socialist. Her family had cut her off without a cent. But the Newell glamour remained. They called Mabel¡¯s mother the ¡°Social Register Rebel.¡± And in some ways, her mother¡¯s throwing it all away for love had made her even more famous than she ever would have been as a society wife. It was the reason they¡¯d been able to move into the Bennington; no one would refuse a Newell girl¡ªeven a disgraced one.

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    But it was hard for Mabel to live in her mother¡¯s shadow. No one was writing about Mabel in the papers. And to add insult to injury, Mabel had taken after her father in the looks department¡ªthe round face and strong nose, deep brown eyes, and curly, auburn-tinged hair. ¡°You must take after your father,¡± people would say, and there would follow an awkward silence. But when her mother smiled and hugged her and called her ¡°My darling, daring girl!¡± Mabel was suffused with such warmth. And when her mother inevitably got caught up in this cause or that injustice to be righted, Mabel would stand at her side, playing the dutiful daughter, proving just how indispensable she was. People who were helpful and indispensable were loved. Weren¡¯t they?


    The only person who didn¡¯t seem to regard Mabel¡¯s mother with awe was Evie. More than once, Evie had imitated her mother perfectly: ¡°Mabel, daaaahling, how can you complain that you haven¡¯t had dinner when the huddled masses have yet to breathe free!¡± ¡°Mabel, daaaahling, tell me: Which dress says Savior of the Poor and Saint of the Lower East Side to you?¡± And as much as Mabel felt called to chide Evie and defend her mother, she had to admit that it was one of the things she loved about her old friend: No matter what, Evie always took Mabel¡¯s side. ¡°You¡¯re the real star of the Rose family,¡± Evie would insist. ¡°One day, everyone will know your name.¡± She only hoped that Evie could make Jericho see Mabel that way, too.


    Jericho. It embarrassed her how often she thought of him. All those romantic fantasies! She was supposed to be so sensible, but when it came to that boy, she was lost to storybook notions. He was so smart and studious and soulful¡ªnot some drugstore cowboy, like that Sam Lloyd, all flattery and promises to any girl who¡¯d fall for it. No. Jericho¡¯s affections meant something. That was the challenge, wasn¡¯t it? If you could make a fellow like Jericho fall for you, well, didn¡¯t it prove just how desirable you were?


    Mabel thought of all of these things as she moved through Union Square, handing copies of The Proletariat to workers. She waved at the folks manning the table for the Wobblies, but they didn¡¯t notice her, and so she moved on, feeling lost in the crowd. If she decided to disappear, would anyone feel her absence?


    ¡°Who are your leaders?¡± Mabel¡¯s mother called from the platform.


    ¡°We are all leaders!¡± the crowd answered.


    Mabel felt a hand on her arm. She turned to see a young woman holding a baby, accompanied by an older woman in a head scarf.


    The young woman spoke in fractured English. ¡°You are the great Mrs. Rose¡¯s daughter?¡±


    I have a name. It¡¯s Mabel. Mabel Rose. ¡°Yes, I am,¡± she answered irritably.


    ¡°Please, can you help? They took my sister from the factory.¡±


    ¡°Who took her?¡±


    The woman spoke with the grandmotherly woman in Italian before turning back to Mabel.


    ¡°The men,¡± she said.


    ¡°What men? The police?¡±


    The woman looked around to be sure no one was listening, and then said softly, ¡°The men who move like shadows.¡±


    Mabel didn¡¯t understand what the woman meant by that. It was probably a nuance of language that didn¡¯t translate quite right. ¡°Why would someone take your sister? Was she organizing at the factory?¡±


    Again, the girl looked to the older woman, who nodded. ¡°She is¡­ profeta.¡± The girl seemed to search for the right words. ¡°She¡­ talks to the dead. She says they are coming.¡±


    Mabel frowned. ¡°Who is coming?¡±


    The shriek of police whistles sounded on the edges of the park, along with shouts and cries from the crowd. A tear-gas canister landed in the crowd, and the park was subsumed in a chemical fog that burned the eyes and throat. Mabel could hear her mother pleading for calm over the microphone, and then the microphone was cut off. The crowd pushed and shoved. People ran screaming as the police descended on the workers. Someone bumped Mabel hard and sent her newspapers to the ground, where they were immediately trod into bits. Mabel couldn¡¯t see her parents through the gas and surging crowd. Coughing and disoriented, she pushed her way through the chaotic crowd and took off running, coming face-to-face with a policeman.


    ¡°Gotcha!¡± he said.


    Panicked, Mabel darted up Fifteenth Street toward Irving Place, the policeman¡¯s whistle blasting to alert others. There were easily five cops chasing her now. She started toward the iron gates of Gramercy, but strong hands yanked her into a service doorway behind a restaurant. She started to yell, and a hand clapped over her mouth.


    ¡°Not that way, Miss. It¡¯s crawling with cops,¡± a man¡¯s voice whispered in her ear, and Mabel quieted. A moment later the police marched past, clubs drawn. She watched from her hiding place as they gave up and headed back to Union Square.

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    ¡°Thank you,¡± Mabel said. She looked at her savior for the first time. He was young¡ªnot much older than she was.


    He shepherded her away. ¡°You¡¯re the Roses¡¯ daughter, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Even here she couldn¡¯t escape it. ¡°My name is Mabel,¡± she said, as if daring him to contradict her.


    ¡°Mabel. Mabel Rose. I won¡¯t forget it.¡± He gave her hand a firm shake. ¡°Well, Mabel Rose. Get home safely.¡±


    An explosion came from somewhere nearby. ¡°Go now,¡± her mysterious savior said and ran swiftly down the alley, vaulting up the fire escape and disappearing over the rooftops.


    Back at the Bennington, Mabel took the elevator to the sixth floor. Two of the hallway lamps had burned out ages ago, casting the passage in constant shadows, which always gave Mabel a bit of the heebie-jeebies. Mabel heard whispering at the far end of the darkened corridor and froze. What if the police had followed her after all?


    Against her better judgment, she crept forward. Miss Addie stood at the narrow window in her nightgown. Her long gray hair hung in tangles. She cradled a bag of salt, which she was pouring out onto the windowsill in a fat line. Salt seeped from a hole in the bag and pooled on the carpet below.


    ¡°Miss Addie? What are you doing?¡±


    ¡°I have to keep them out,¡± Miss Addie said without looking up.


    ¡°Keep who out?¡±


    ¡°There are awful events unfolding. Something unholy is at hand.¡±


    ¡°Do you mean the murders?¡± Mabel asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s begun. I can feel it. In my dreams, I have seen the man in the tall hat with his coat of crows. A terrible choice is at hand.¡± Miss Addie¡¯s hand fluttered about her face like a wounded bird. She seemed confused, like a woman waking from ether. ¡°Where is my door? I can¡¯t find it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re on the sixth floor, Miss Adelaide. You need the tenth. Here, I¡¯ll take you.¡±


    Mabel took the bag of salt from the old woman and helped her into the elevator, securing the troublesome latch on the gate.


    ¡°When the cunning folk stood accused of the ¡¯craft as if it were a game, and our gallows bloomed with the dead, the man was there. When the Choctaw were marched to their ruin on the Trail of Tears, the man was there.¡±


    Mabel counted the floors, willing the elevator to go faster.


    ¡°They say he appeared to Mr. Lincoln upon an evening before the War Between the States. It was as if a hand had come down and pulled out the heart of the nation, and the very rivers bled, and the land¡¯s wounds would not heal.¡± Miss Addie suddenly turned and stared right at Mabel. ¡°Terrible what people can do to one another, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    Mabel hurriedly slid back the gate to let Miss Addie out of the elevator. She knew she should help her to her door, but she was too spooked. ¡°It¡¯s just down the hall on the left, Miss Adelaide.¡±


    ¡°Yes, thank you.¡± Miss Addie took the bag of salt from Mabel and stepped out into the dim hallway. ¡°We¡¯re not safe, you know. Not at all.¡±


    But Mabel had closed the gate and the elevator was already descending.


    ¡°Terrible what people can do,¡± Miss Addie said again.


    From the elevator, Mabel watched the old woman¡¯s bare feet hobbling away, a trail of salt and the lace hem of her nightgown left in her wake like sea foam.


    OPERATION JERICHO


    ¡°Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of our radio audience, and welcome to the Gerard Whittington Hour, brought to you by Marlowe Industries. Yes, Marlowe Industries¡ªBringing You Tomorrow, Today. From the very latest innovations in aviation and security to helpful household appliances for the housewife, Marlowe Industries¡­¡±


    ¡°I still don¡¯t understand,¡± Evie said over the soft croon of the radio. She lay on the sofa with the illustrated book in her hands. ¡°None of this answers the mystery of the first four offerings. If the Pentacle Killer is truly following the rituals in this Book of the Brethren in order to raise some anti-Christ and bring about Armageddon, why start with the fifth offering? It doesn¡¯t make sense.¡±


    ¡°Detective Malloy reports no similar murders prior to the discovery of Ruta Badowski¡¯s body,¡± Jericho said. He was seated at the dining room table with his notes.


    Will, as usual, was pacing. ¡°It is mysterious. But this much we do know: If the killer is following the offerings in the Book of the Brethren, and it certainly seems he is, we may be able to prevent the next attempt¡­.¡±


    Evie read the seventh offering aloud.


    ¡°What does it mean? Who are the deceitful brethren?¡± Will mused. He walked from bay window to kitchenette and back again till Evie thought he would wear a path in the Persian rug.

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    ¡°Maybe we¡¯re going about this the wrong way. What if we find the temple he mentions? That way, the police can be there to stop him,¡± Evie mused. She snapped her fingers. ¡°There¡¯s the Egyptian temple at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.¡±


    ¡°It could mean a synagogue, especially if this is somehow connected to the Klan,¡± Jericho suggested.


    ¡°What about temples of finance¡ªthe stock exchange, or the banks!¡± Evie shouted. It was as if they were playing a strange parlor game, like charades, but with deadly serious stakes.


    ¡°Good, very good,¡± Will said. They discussed it further, making a list of other possible meanings for the temple mentioned in the seventh offering, with Jericho writing each one down.


    ¡°I¡¯ll alert Terrence that our killer may strike at any of those places. Now, Evie, can you see if there is anything in the Hale book about religious iconography?¡± Will commanded from his momentary post near the bay windows.


    The street lamps had come on in Central Park. It was just after eight o¡¯clock. They¡¯d been at the books for some time and had missed dinner entirely. Evie¡¯s stomach grumbled.


    ¡°Unc, I¡¯m starved. Can¡¯t we come back to it?¡± Evie begged.


    Will looked up at the clock, then at the dark outside the windows. His expression was one of complete surprise. ¡°Oh. So you must be. Why don¡¯t you and Jericho go down to the dining room? I¡¯ll fix myself a sandwich here.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll do the same,¡± Jericho said.


    ¡°Then I¡¯ll be all alone,¡± Evie said. ¡°Jericho, it will do us both good to get out of here.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s right, Jericho,¡± Will said. ¡°Go downstairs for a bit.¡±


    Reluctantly, Jericho closed his books and followed Evie to the elevator. She stopped it on the sixth floor and threw open the gate.


    ¡°Why are we stopping here?¡±


    ¡°It just occurred to me that Mabel must be starved! Her parents are at a rally tonight, and the poor dear is all alone.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s probably already had her supper.¡±


    ¡°Oh, no! I know my Mabel. She¡¯s a night owl. Doesn¡¯t eat until late¡ªlike a Parisian. It won¡¯t take a minute-ski.¡±


    Evie knocked her special knock and Mabel threw the door open, wearing her bathrobe and already talking: ¡°I hope you¡¯ve brought me the man of my dreams¡­. Oh.¡±


    Evie cleared her throat. ¡°Good evening, Mabel. Jericho and I were just going to have dinner downstairs, if you¡¯d care to join us.¡± Evie cut her eyes at Jericho beside her.


    ¡°Oh. Oh!¡± Mabel said, looking down at her bathrobe in horror. ¡°Let me just get dressed.¡±


    ¡°Hello, Evie,¡± Mr. Rose called from the kitchen table, where he sat banging out a story on a typewriter. Evie waved back.


    Jericho glowered. ¡°I thought you said they were at a rally.¡±


    ¡°Did I? I must have confused my days. Silly me. Mabesie, darling, do hurry!¡±


    A few minutes later the three of them sat in the dining hall at a banquette under a chandelier that blinked every now and then due to some fault in the wiring. Evie filled Mabel in on the details of the murders and what they¡¯d discovered courtesy of Dr. Poblocki. ¡°This fellow seems to be enacting some sort of strange ancient ritual from a vanished cult. It¡¯s pos-i-tute-ly macabre. What a monster he is!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what happens when society neglects and abuses children,¡± Mabel said, fidgeting with her silverware. ¡°They grow up to be monsters.¡±


    ¡°What an interesting theory! Mabel, you are so clever!¡± Evie said. ¡°Isn¡¯t she smart, Jericho?¡±


    Jericho did not look up from his chicken and dumplings. Across the table, Mabel mouthed an urgent What are you doing?


    Operation Jericho, Evie mouthed back.


    ¡°How do you know that¡¯s what happens?¡± Jericho challenged.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Mabel asked.


    ¡°How do you know that it¡¯s society that makes monsters?¡±


    ¡°Well, my mother says that when¡ª¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t ask what your mother thought,¡± Jericho interrupted. ¡°Everyone who can read a newspaper knows what your mother thinks. I asked how you know that happens.¡±


    Mabel chased the noodles in her cup of soup with a spoon. She¡¯d eaten an hour earlier and wasn¡¯t the slightest bit hungry. ¡°Well, I¡¯ve been to the slums with my mother and father. I¡¯ve seen the horrors wrought by poverty and ignorance.¡±


    ¡°Then how do you account for the poor, abused soul who grows up to achieve greatness?¡±

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    ¡°There are always exceptions.¡±


    ¡°What if that isn¡¯t true at all? What if evil exists? What if it has always existed and will continue to exist, an eternal battle between good and evil, always and forever?¡±


    ¡°You mean, like God and the Devil?¡± Mabel shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t believe in that. I¡¯m an atheist. Religion is the opiate of the masses.¡±


    ¡°Karl Marx,¡± Jericho said. ¡°Also not your own opinion. Do you believe that because you actually believe it, or do you believe it because you heard it from them first?¡±


    ¡°I believe it,¡± Mabel answered. ¡°Evil is a human invention. A choice.¡±


    ¡°Jericho believes we are doomed to repeat our existence,¡± Evie said, waggling her eyebrows to show just how seriously she took this theory. ¡°Nietzsche.¡±


    ¡°I guess I¡¯m not the only one influenced by other people¡¯s opinions.¡± Mabel sniffed.


    Evie tried to hide her laugh with a cough. She glanced at Mabel and tapped the side of her nose surreptitiously, a signal. ¡°Oh, dear!¡± Evie said with mock concern. ¡°I seem to have lost my bracelet.¡±


    ¡°No, you haven¡¯t!¡± Mabel blurted out. She went to kick Evie under the table and got Jericho by mistake.


    ¡°Ow,¡± he said, eyeing her.


    ¡°Sorry.¡± Mabel¡¯s eyes went wide in horror. She looked to Evie with a Please do something quickly expression.


    ¡°Do you know what I believe? I believe we should have pie,¡± Evie announced and signaled for the server.


    They fell into near silence, the only sounds around the table the chewing and slurping of food. Evie tried to have a conversation with Mabel, but everything felt forced and awkward. Afterward, they rode the elevator together in uncomfortable silence, all of them watching its gold arrow tick the floors off one by one.


    Mabel practically leaped from the elevator when the gate opened on her floor. ¡°Good night,¡± she said without turning around, and Evie knew she¡¯d hear all about it later. The first stage of Operation Jericho had been a certified failure.


    When they reached their own floor they found that Uncle Will had tacked a note to the door: Gone to see Malloy¡ªWF. It was pure Uncle Will, from the brevity to the initials. Evie crumpled the note and slammed the apartment door behind her. She glared at Jericho, who had just made himself at home in Will¡¯s chair with his book.


    She moved to the couch and glared at him from there. ¡°You didn¡¯t need to be so rude, you know.¡±


    ¡°I have no idea what you¡¯re talking about,¡± Jericho mumbled.


    ¡°To Mabel! You could at least try to be polite.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not interested in being polite. It¡¯s false. Nietzsche says¡ª¡±


    ¡°Leave Nietzsche out of this. He¡¯s dead, and for all I know he died of rudeness.¡± Evie fumed. ¡°She¡¯s very smart, you know. As smart as you are.¡±


    Jericho deigned to look up from his book. ¡°She¡¯s under her parents¡¯ thumbs. She thinks what they think. What she said tonight about society making monsters¡ªthat was her mother talking.¡±


    ¡°So you were listening!¡±


    ¡°She needs her own opinions. She needs to learn to think for herself, not just parrot what other people say.¡±


    ¡°You mean the way you hang on Uncle Will¡¯s and Nietzsche¡¯s every word?¡± Evie swiped the book away from him.


    ¡°I do not,¡± Jericho said, taking it back. ¡°And why are we having a conversation about Mabel? Why is it so important to you?¡±


    ¡°Because¡­¡± Evie trailed off. She couldn¡¯t very well say, Because Mabel¡¯s goofy over you. Because for the past three years, I¡¯ve gotten letters full of her longing. Because every time you walk into the room, she takes a breath and holds it. ¡°Because she¡¯s my friend. And nobody is rude to my friends. Got it?¡±


    Jericho let out a sigh of irritation. ¡°From now on I will be the picture of politeness to Mabel.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Evie said with a bow. Jericho ignored her.


    LIFE AND DEATH


    Memphis tore out the page from his notebook and crumpled it in disgust. He¡¯d tried working on the poem again, the one about his mother and her coat of grief, but it wouldn¡¯t come, and he wondered if he was doomed to be a failed writer as well as healer.


    The wind whistled through the fall leaves. It had been April when his mother died, the trees budding into flowers like girls turning shyly into young ladies. Spring, when nothing should be dying. Memphis¡¯s father had roused him from sleep. His eyes were shadowed. ¡°It¡¯s time, son,¡± he¡¯d said, and he led the sleepy Memphis through the dark house and into his mother¡¯s room, where a lone candle burned. His mother lay shivering under a thin blanket.

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    ¡°Please, son. You¡¯ve got to do it. You¡¯ve got to keep her here.¡±


    His father, leading him to the bed. Memphis¡¯s mother wasn¡¯t much more than bones, her hair thinned to candy floss. Beneath the blanket, her body was still. She stared up at the ceiling, her eyes tracking something beyond Memphis¡¯s vision. He was fourteen years old.


    ¡°Go on, now, son,¡± his father said, his voice breaking. ¡°Please.¡±


    Memphis was afraid. His mother seemed so close to death that he didn¡¯t see how he could stop it. He¡¯d wanted to heal her before, but she wouldn¡¯t let him. ¡°I won¡¯t have my son responsible for that,¡± she¡¯d said firmly. ¡°What¡¯s meant to be is meant to be, good or bad.¡± But Memphis didn¡¯t want his mother to die. He put his hands on her. His mother¡¯s eyes widened and she tried to shake her head, to duck his hands, but she was too weak.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to help you, Mama.¡±


    His mother parted her cracked lips to speak, but no sound came out. Memphis felt the healing grip take hold, and then he was under, pulled along by currents he couldn¡¯t control and did not understand, the two of them carried out to a larger, unknown sea. In his healing trances, he always felt the presence of the spirits around him. It was a calm, protective presence, and he was never afraid. But it was different this time. The place he found himself was a dark graveyard, heavy with mist. The shades did not feel quite so benevolent as they pressed close to him. A skinny gray man in a tall hat sat upon a rock, his hands made into fists.


    ¡°What would you give me for her, healer?¡± the man asked, and it seemed to Memphis as if the wind itself had whispered the question. The man nodded to his fists. ¡°In one hand is life; in the other, death. Choose. Choose and you might have her back.¡±


    Memphis stepped forward, his finger inching closer. Right or left?


    Suddenly he saw his mother, gaunt and weak, in the graveyard. ¡°You can¡¯t bring me back, Memphis. Don¡¯t ever try to bring back what¡¯s gone!¡±


    The man grinned at her with teeth like tiny daggers. ¡°The choice is his!¡±


    His mother looked frightened, but she did not back down. ¡°He¡¯s just a boy.¡±


    ¡°The choice. Is. His.¡±


    Memphis concentrated on the man¡¯s fists once more. He tapped the right one. The man smiled and opened his palm, and a shiny black baby bird squeaked at him.


    Memphis¡¯s mother shook her head. ¡°Oh, my son, my son. What have you done?¡±


    Memphis had no memory after that. He¡¯d fallen ill with a fever, Octavia told him, and his father had put him to bed. The next morning, he woke to see Octavia covering the mirrors with sheets. His father sat in his chair, his shirt matted to him with sweat. ¡°She¡¯s gone,¡± he whispered, and in his eyes, Memphis saw the accusation: Why couldn¡¯t you save her? All that gift, and you couldn¡¯t save the one person who mattered?


    Now Memphis wiped the graveyard dirt from his hands. He smoothed out the page and stuck it back in his notebook. Then he headed toward home. As he passed the old house on the hill, he thought he heard something. Was that¡­ whistling? Couldn¡¯t be. But yes, there it was, just under the roar of the wind. Or was it only the wind itself? Memphis opened the gate and took two steps on the broken path. How many times he had read ghost stories and thought to himself, Don¡¯t go up those stairs! Stay away from that old house! Yet here he was, standing in the yard of the oldest, most forbidding house he knew, contemplating going inside. The folly of standing at the boarded-over window of a decrepit house suddenly dawned fully on Memphis, and he backed away. He was immediately reminded of the murders taking place in the city. Why had that thought occurred to him now, here? Again he heard the sound of some faint whistling echoing from the empty chambers of the old house. Memphis ran, leaving the front gate screaming on its rusted hinges.


    Back in Harlem, Memphis walked along Lenox Avenue feeling out of step with the people out for a good time. He wandered until he found himself standing across the street from Miss A¡¯Lelia Walker¡¯s grand town house on 136th Street. Several nice cars were parked outside, and a butler stood at the door. The lights were ablaze, and inside, Memphis knew, she was probably hosting one of her famous salons visited by the likes of Harlem¡¯s greatest talents¡ªmusicians, artists, writers, scholars. Memphis imagined himself at one of her parties, reading his poetry to an elegant audience. But the path from the sidewalk where he stood to the lighted salon seemed an impossible distance, and Memphis turned away. He thought about going to the Hotsy Totsy or the Tomb of the Fallen Angels to see what was going on. There was almost always a party somewhere. But instead, he headed toward home, the memory of his mother fresh in his mind. Blind Bill Johnson was sitting on the stoop of a brownstone playing his guitar softly, even though there was no one to hear it. Memphis tried to sneak past.

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    ¡°Who¡¯s there? Who¡¯s walking past old Blind Bill without saying nothing?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Memphis Campbell, sir.¡±


    Bill¡¯s mouth relaxed into a toothy smile. ¡°Good evening, Mr. Campbell. I¡¯m mighty relieved it¡¯s you and not some lou-lou come for me.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a lou-lou?¡±


    ¡°Old Cajun word. What you call it? A bogeyman.¡±


    ¡°No, sir. No bogeyman. Just me.¡±


    Blind Bill pursed his lips like he¡¯d taken a shot of bathtub gin mixed with spit. ¡°Not a good night to be roaming. Can¡¯t you feel that on the back of your neck? The fifolet? Like the swamp gas rising up, the evil spirits following you.¡±


    Between the business up at the house and Blind Bill¡¯s Cajun superstitions, Memphis was feeling spooked. He didn¡¯t want to talk about ghosts and hobgoblins. ¡°My aunt says I¡¯m thick as a brick. I¡¯d be the last person to feel spirits moving.¡±


    Blind Bill turned his face toward Memphis, almost as if he could see him standing there. ¡°Heard me something real interesting over at Floyd¡¯s shop today. Heard you used to be a healer.¡±


    ¡°Once upon a time.¡±


    ¡°You still got the healing spirit in you? Could you put dem hands on old Blind Bill and gimme back my sight?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have that gift anymore.¡± Memphis was suddenly very tired, too tired to keep his words inside. They tumbled out to the old man. ¡°It left me when my mother¡­ She was real sick. And I laid hands on her, and¡­¡± Memphis¡¯s throat ached. He swallowed against the tightness. ¡°She died. She died right there under my hands. And whatever healing I had died with her.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a real sad story, Mr. Campbell,¡± Blind Bill said after a pause.


    Memphis¡¯s nose ran with his tears and he was glad the old man couldn¡¯t see him crying. He didn¡¯t say anything else.


    Blind Bill nodded as if in some private conversation. ¡°But you didn¡¯t do nothin¡¯ to your mama ¡¯cepting try to ease her pain. You hear me? Sometimes, it¡¯s a mercy,¡± he said quietly, and Memphis was grateful for the old man¡¯s kindness. ¡°I¡¯ma give you something.¡±


    Bill rummaged in his pocket and came up with a butterscotch candy. He felt for Memphis¡¯s hand and pressed it into his palm with his dry, scratchy fingers. ¡°Here. You keep that. ¡¯Case you ever need to ask Papa Legba¡¯s protection.¡±


    ¡°Papa who?¡±


    ¡°Papa Legba. He¡¯s the gatekeeper of the Vilokan¡ªthe spirit realm. He stands at the crossroads. If you¡¯re lost, he can help you find your way. Just leave him a little something sweet.¡±


    Aunt Octavia would have a fit if she heard Bill talking that way. Once, she¡¯d made them cross the street to avoid a nearly hidden matchbox of a store whose plate-glass windows were draped in red and black, with candles and figurines of saints with African faces. A small sign advertised CURSES LIFTED AND OBSTACLES TO HAPPINESS REMOVED. ¡°Don¡¯t you go anywhere near that voodoo,¡± she¡¯d said when Isaiah demanded to know why they were going a block out of their way. Under her breath, she¡¯d recited the Lord¡¯s Prayer.


    Memphis held the candy uncertainly. It felt strangely heavy in his palm. ¡°My aunt says you should pray only to Jesus.¡±


    Blind Bill grunted and spat. ¡°You think the white folks¡¯ god is gonna help you? You think he¡¯s on our side?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think anybody¡¯s god is on our side.¡±


    Memphis readied himself for some rebuke. Instead, the old man nodded knowingly, the corners of his mouth twisting into a smile of bitter agreement. ¡°That might be the most honest thing you ever said, Mr. Campbell. Damn sight better than that charm and hair oil you usually putting on.¡± He laughed then¡ªa big, wheezing cough of a laugh¡ªand slapped his leg, and the whole thing¡ªthe conversation, the candy, the earlier adventure at the house¡ªstruck Memphis as so completely ridiculous that he couldn¡¯t stop himself from joining in. The two of them were doubled over like fools.


    ¡°Oh, law, law, law,¡± Blind Bill said, patting his chest. ¡°Ain¡¯t that the way of the world, now? Good luck turns bad. Bad luck turns good. Just a big rolling craps game played between this world and the next, and we the dice getting tossed around. You go on home now, Mr. Campbell. Get you some rest. Live to fight another day. Plenty of time for regrettin¡¯. Go out and have you some good times while you still young.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll do that, sir.¡± He¡¯d changed his mind about going home. Blind Bill was right¡ªMemphis was young, and so was the night. And so he charted his course for the Hotsy Totsy.

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    Bill listened to Memphis Campbell¡¯s footsteps fading away. He wanted to tell Memphis how lucky he was that the gift had left him when it did. What a mercy that was. How grateful he should be that the wrong people hadn¡¯t found out about it. Bill felt in his pocket for some money for a bite to eat. He rubbed the dime and nickel between his fingers. Not much. If only he could stop gambling. But that was his curse; he couldn¡¯t stay away from risk and chance, whether it was cards, the numbers game, craps, cockfighting, or horse racing. But he kept seeing that house in his dreams with the clouds and crossroads. He hadn¡¯t worked out the gig for any of it yet, but he would. There was a number on the side of the house¡¯s mailbox. If only he could see it, he felt sure, that number would be the key to winning big. And once he had his money, he could set about getting revenge.


    THE HOUSE ON THE HILL


    The house sat on the windswept hill like a sentinel. Ivy sprawled across the exterior, spreading like a stain. The windows were shuttered and nailed closed. The engraved cherrywood doors were a dull brown. If anyone could have seen inside, they¡¯d have noted that cobwebs draped from doorways and spiders secreted their web-wrapped prey into crevices. Warped floorboards bowed dangerously in spots.


    In its day, the house had been magnificent. There had been celebrations and dances. On Sundays, carriages had passed by to admire the house¡¯s commanding presence, a symbol of everything that was right and good and hopeful about the country. The house was a dream realized. The man who had built the house, Jacob Knowles, had made his fortune in steel, the very steel used to build the city. He and his wife had only one surviving child, a daughter named Ida, who was their greatest joy. Ida was small and prone to colds, and for this reason, her anxious parents indulged the girl¡¯s every whim. There were piano lessons and pony rides and a small spaniel named Chester. When Ida played tea party on the lawn, servants waited nearby to pour tea for her dolls. Many were the days she pretended to be an Arabian princess surveying her kingdom. She would climb the stairs to the very top room of the house, an attic room with a small terrace. In 1863 she watched the smoke from the Draft Riot fires from there, daydreaming that she looked upon the lairs of distant dragons and not the simmering frustrations of a class and race war erupting into brutal mob violence. While the Civil War raged on, Ida grew into a young woman. She dreamed of marrying some handsome officer so that they might become the next master and mistress of the grand house. Months after the Civil War ended, Union soldiers joined General Grant himself for a party at the house that spilled out onto the lawn for fireworks as the strains of a waltz echoed along the rafters. But Ida had a cold and was confined to her bed with a mustard plaster on her chest, sobbing at her misfortune though her mother patted her cheek and told her not to worry, that there would be another ball and a young man waiting for her, and besides, they were not ready to have their only daughter, their dear Ida, leave them just yet.


    But it was Ida¡¯s mother who was to leave. A year after that ball, Mrs. Knowles fell sick with dysentery and was buried within a week. One year later, Jacob Knowles died of a sudden brain hemorrhage. It fell to twenty-year-old Ida to maintain Knowles¡¯ End. Running a household was a far cry from playing princess, and though a distant cousin admonished Ida to be prudent with her spending, she did not heed his advice. Grief-stricken at the loss of her parents, Ida turned to the new Spiritualism for comfort. She opened Knowles¡¯ End to Theosophists, card readers, and spirit mediums. The most gifted of these mediums was a wealthy widow named Mary White, who had an uncanny ability to put Ida in communication with her relatives on the other side. There was no rapping of the table, nor cheap levitation tricks, as so many attempted. No, Mary White had a genuine gift and a warm demeanor, and Mary and Ida became quite close, with Ida calling her ¡°sister.¡± Once again, the house was filled with activity, and Knowles¡¯ End became a place for spiritual meetings, card readings, s¨¦ances, and all sorts of esoteric and occult gatherings. Ida felt certain it was only a matter of time before Knowles¡¯ End was restored to its former glory. Mary had all but told her that the spirits assured it.


    Mary had a companion in these endeavors, a most charismatic man with transfixing eyes, a Mr. Hobbes. He was, she promised, a prophet. A holy man. Certainly, he spent many hours alone in the library reading, and sometimes, during their s¨¦ances, he fell into strange trances and spoke in words Ida did not comprehend¡ªproof, Mary told her, of his connection to the spirit realm.


    But Ida¡¯s expenses were many¡ªspirit mediums were costly¡ªand the Knowles fortune dwindled quickly. Ida would be socially humiliated if her debts were to become known. It was Mary who offered to buy Knowles¡¯ End and take Ida on as a boarder in order to spare her reputation. Mary agreed to let Ida have her favorite room, the attic room with the view of the city, and told her not to worry, that she would pay the back taxes and Mr. Hobbes would take on the hard work needed to make Knowles¡¯ End, which had fallen into disrepair, beautiful again.

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    That he did. Such a clamor! A crew would work for a week, then be curtly dismissed, only to be replaced by a new crew who would last perhaps five or six days before Mr. Hobbes sent them packing as well. Finally, he himself set about working in the old cellar, building a storeroom for canned goods and supplies¡ªor so he said, for Ida was not allowed below. ¡°Too dangerous,¡± he¡¯d told her with a smile that did not reach his eyes. (His eyes, those cold and mesmerizing eyes.) ¡°Wouldn¡¯t want you to catch your death down there.¡± There were other peculiar changes in the house. Doors that went nowhere. Decorative rosettes that framed holes in the walls which produced a strange smoke that Mr. Hobbes insisted was good for the lungs and necessary for higher spiritual work. A long laundry chute that Mrs. White assured her would help the poor laundress. They were down to only three servants¡ªa laundress, a housemaid, and a groomsman who doubled as a driver. It was disgraceful, and Ida hoped no one knew how bad things were. But then Mary would smile and tell her she¡¯d been visited by the spectral form of Ida¡¯s father, and he was holding rosemary, for remembrance, a sure sign that he was watching over them all, and Ida would feel grateful for this small comfort. For Ida¡¯s nervous state, Mary offered her sweet wine, which sometimes gave Ida the strangest dreams of fire and destruction and the ghostly visages of sober-faced men and women.


    Things began to turn sour. Strange meetings were held late into the night. Once or twice a month, Ida heard music and chanting from downstairs. People came and went.


    ¡°What do you do at these meetings?¡± Ida asked anxiously one evening when they dined. She only picked at her food; the roast beef was far too bloody for her taste.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you join us, my dear?¡± Mrs. White suggested.


    ¡°Babylon, that great city, is fallen. It is time for a cleansing. A rebirth. Wouldn¡¯t you say, Miss Knowles?¡± Mr. Hobbes asked, smiling. His eyes were so very blue that Ida felt quite undone. For a moment, staring at him, she wondered what it would be like to dance with Mr. Hobbes. To feel his kiss. His caress. And as soon as she thought it, she was overcome with revulsion.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t know what you mean,¡± she said. Her hands trembled. The blood from the roast beef formed a small, sickening pool on her plate. ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m not well. If you¡¯ll excuse me, I shall go to bed.¡±


    That night, she heard strange sounds coming from inside the house, the most terrible bestial noises and whispers. She was too afraid to leave her bedroom. She lay awake shivering under her covers till morning.


    In a cabinet in the formal parlor, Mr. Hobbes kept a large leather-bound book, rather like a Bible. But when Ida tried to get at it, she discovered that the cabinet was locked. Her own cabinet in her own house, locked against her! Shaking with anger, she confronted Mrs. White (for she no longer regarded her with the sisterly affection of ¡°Mary.¡±) ¡°I won¡¯t have it, Mrs. White. I won¡¯t,¡± Ida sniped.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t your house any longer, my dear,¡± Mrs. White answered, and her smile was cruel.


    It was a Tuesday when Ida discovered a pile of bloodied clothing scraps that Mr. Hobbes assured her, in as delicate a fashion as was proper, belonged to the laundress and which was due to the girl¡¯s monthly curse. (¡°The poor dear, how embarrassing for her. Of course we offered her fresh clothing and sent her home to rest. The poor, poor dear. I fear she is too overcome by shame to return to us.¡±) Ida wrote a desperate letter to her cousin in Boston, who sent the authorities, but when they came Ida was in such a torpor that Mrs. White told them she was not well but was being cared for, and that she hoped even this effort to descend the stairs and submit to their questions had not put her health in danger. The authorities retreated, mumbling apologies.


    The last remaining servant, Emily, left in the dead of night without so much as a good-bye. She didn¡¯t even stop to collect her wages.


    Ida had had enough. She¡¯d stopped drinking the wine. Her body, though weakened, was strong enough to carry her down the stairs, for she intended to know what was happening in her own home. Yes, her home! It had been built by her father, for their family! She was a Knowles, not like these Johnny-come-latelies with their new money and airs: that charlatan Mrs. White, who had left to conduct a s¨¦ance at the country house of some poor soul with more money than sense. And Mr. Hobbes. Mr. Hobbes, with his cold eyes and arrogant air, his lies and secrets. Wicked man! Ida needed to know what was happening in her house, and she would begin by looking in the forbidden cellar.


    She took the long, narrow staircase down into the dank, dark space. It smelled of earth and something else. Ida gagged at the foulness of it. She¡¯d have a quick look around and, hopefully, she¡¯d find what she needed to go to the authorities and have these horrid people thrown out of her house. Then she¡¯d look for a proper tenant, or even¡ªdare she think it?¡ªa husband. A knight noble who would share her life. Together, they¡¯d make the house glorious again. Host parties attended by decent people, people of consequence and status. Knowles¡¯ End would reign once more.

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    Ida¡¯s hand trembled on the lantern¡¯s handle. Light flickered over the walls and corners. Ida had come for knowledge, and now she knew. Knew beyond a doubt that she faced a terrible evil. There was no scream as the candle sputtered and the whispers began. And just as Ida found the scream she¡¯d held at bay, her candle gave out, and she was plunged into darkness.


    THE HOTSY TOTSY


    It had been a thudding bore of a day; rain had kept Evie inside at the museum, where she amused herself by rearranging the books on one shelf according to a taxonomy only she understood. When she thought she¡¯d lose her mind listening to the rain and plodding through the boredom, she was cheered by the thought that¡ªif she survived the afternoon¡ªshe¡¯d enjoy what promised to be an exciting evening out with her friends. Now the evening had come at last. Evie had bathed, perfumed herself, and gone through every ensemble in her closet before settling on a silver bugle-bead dress that shimmered over her body like rain. She wore a long string of pearls wrapped twice around her neck. On her feet were a pair of gray satin Mary Janes with curved black heels and saucer-shaped rhinestone buckles. She painted her lips deep red, ringed her eyes in black, and topped it all off with a black velvet coat with a fur collar. She slipped twenty dollars of her dwindling reserves into a mesh tile purse, spritzed herself with a blast from her atomizer, and breezed into the parlor. Jericho sat at the kitchen table, painting miniatures for a battle-scene model. Uncle Will sat at his messy desk by the bay windows, surrounded by piles of paper and books.


    Hearing Evie, he raised his head for a second, studied her, and went back to his work. ¡°You¡¯re rather done up.¡±


    Evie pulled on her opera-length, fingerless lace gloves. ¡°I¡¯m going dancing with Theta and Henry at the most darling nightclub.¡±


    ¡°Not tonight, I¡¯m afraid,¡± Will said.


    Evie stopped mid-glove. ¡°But Unc, Theta¡¯s expecting me. If I don¡¯t go, it will pos-i-tute-ly be an insult. She¡¯ll never ask me to do anything again!¡±


    ¡°If you haven¡¯t heard the news, there¡¯s a brutal murderer roaming the streets of Manhattan.¡±


    ¡°But Unc¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Evie. It simply isn¡¯t safe. There¡¯ll be another time. I¡¯m sure Athena will understand.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Theta. And no, she won¡¯t.¡± Evie could feel the tears threatening. She¡¯d spent ages dolling up her eyes, and she blinked hard to keep them from smearing. ¡°Please, Unc.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but my decision is final.¡± Will bowed his head over his book, final judgment, case dismissed.


    On the radio, the announcer extolled the merits of the Parker Dental System, ¡°Because your dental health is too important to leave to chance.¡±


    Jericho cleared his throat. ¡°We could play cards if you like. Or listen to the radio. There¡¯s a new show coming on at nine.¡±


    ¡°Swell,¡± Evie said bitterly, storming back to her room. She slammed the door and threw herself on the bed. Her new faux-pearl headpiece shifted down over her brows and she had to push it back up. Why of all nights had Will chosen this one to act just like, well, like a parent? They couldn¡¯t live in fear behind the walls of the Bennington, never venturing farther than the museum. Evie lay on her back, staring out her window at the world beyond the fire escape.


    The fire escape.


    Evie sat straight up. She blotted at her eyes with her fingers and pulled on her gloves again. She opened her door a crack. ¡°I¡¯m retiring for the evening,¡± she announced. Very carefully, she pushed open her window and stepped out onto the fire escape. If there was one truth Evie had learned in her short life, it was that forgiveness was easier to seek than permission. She didn¡¯t plan to ask for either one.


    Several floors below, Mabel screamed as Evie came in through her bedroom window, saying, ¡°Pipe down. It¡¯s only me.¡±


    ¡°I thought you might be the Pentacle Killer, come to slit my throat.¡±


    ¡°You and Unc. Sorry to disappoint you.¡± Evie smoothed her dress into place.


    ¡°Mabel darling, what¡¯s the matter?¡± Mrs. Rose called from the other side of the door.


    ¡°Nothing, Mother! I thought I saw a spider, but I was mistaken,¡± Mabel yelled. ¡°I thought I was meeting you upstairs,¡± she whispered to Evie.


    ¡°Change of plans. Unc¡¯s forbidden me from going out. I swear, he¡¯s behaving just like a parent!¡± Evie scrutinized Mabel¡¯s plain white organza dress. ¡°Gee whiz, did you lose your sheep, Pie Face?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with it?¡±

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    ¡°You need lipstick.¡±


    ¡°I do not need lipstick.¡±


    Evie shrugged. ¡°Suit yourself, Mabesie. I can¡¯t fight two battles tonight.¡±


    Evie and Mabel tiptoed toward the door. The Roses were hosting another of their political meetings¡ªsomething about the appeal of Sacco and Vanzetti, the anarchists. Mrs. Rose called to them. ¡°Hello, Evangeline.¡±


    ¡°Hello, Mrs. Rose.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s very nice of your uncle to take you girls to a poetry reading. It¡¯s important to tend to your education rather than fritter away time in bourgeois, immoral pastimes such as dancing in nightclubs.¡±


    Evie slid her eyes in Mabel¡¯s direction. She fought hard to keep the smile from her lips.


    ¡°We have to go, Mother. Wouldn¡¯t want to be late for the reading,¡± Mabel said and dragged Evie away.


    ¡°Guess I¡¯m not the only one on the lam tonight,¡± Evie said as they ran for the elevator.


    Mabel grinned. ¡°Guess you¡¯re not.¡±


    ¡°And then I said to him, ¡®The pleasure was all yours.¡¯ I said it just like that, too. I had the last word,¡± Evie said, recounting Sam Lloyd¡¯s first visit to the museum.


    ¡°Sure ya did.¡± Theta laughed. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t let that Sam fella get under your skin.¡±


    ¡°Did I say he was under my skin?¡±


    ¡°No. I can see you¡¯ve really let it go, Evil,¡± Theta said, and Henry smirked.


    The four of them had taken a taxi to Harlem, which Theta had been nice enough to pay for, and they were making their way to a nightclub called the Hotsy Totsy, which was supposed to be the latest thing.


    ¡°It¡¯s over. Finished. The bum¡¯s rush to him,¡± Evie said, brushing away the wind for effect.


    ¡°Good, because we¡¯re here. And I¡¯m pretty sure the password isn¡¯t Sam or Lloyd.¡±


    Henry knocked a quick rhythm¡ªbum-da-BUM-bum¡ªand a moment later, a door cracked open. A man in a white dinner jacket and bow tie smiled. ¡°Evenin¡¯, folks. This is a private residence.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re pals of the Sultan of Siam,¡± Henry said.


    ¡°What is the sultan¡¯s favorite flower?¡±


    ¡°Edelweiss sure is nice.¡±


    A moment later, the door opened wide. ¡°Right this way.¡±


    The tuxedo-clad man led them through a bustling kitchen hot with steam and down a spiral staircase to an underground tunnel. ¡°Connects to the next building,¡± Henry whispered to Evie and Mabel. ¡°That way, if there¡¯s a raid in the club, most of the booze is safe somewhere in this building.¡±


    The tuxedoed man opened another door and ushered them into a room decorated like a sultan¡¯s palace. Enormous ferns spilled over the golden rims of giant pots. Panels of champagne-colored silk draped the ceiling, and the walls had been painted a deep crimson. White damask cloths covered tables topped by small amber lanterns. On the stage, the orchestra played a jazzy number that had the flappers shimmying on the dance floor while the men shouted, ¡°Go, go, GO!¡± and ¡°Get hot!¡± Well-heeled patrons, cocktails in hand, hopped from table to table, waving down the cigarette girls who made their rounds offering Lucky Strikes, Camels, Chesterfields, and Old Golds from enameled trays. A huge sign promised a special Solomon¡¯s Comet¨Cwatching party, and Evie tried not to think about the comet¡¯s more sinister meaning for a madman.


    ¡°This is the cat¡¯s meow,¡± Evie said, taking it all in. This was what she had been waiting for. Clubs like this didn¡¯t exist anywhere outside Manhattan. ¡°And the orchestra is the berries.¡±


    Henry nodded. ¡°They¡¯re the best. I heard ¡¯em play at the Cotton Club once. But I don¡¯t like to go there because they¡¯ve got a color line.¡± Seeing Evie¡¯s confusion, Henry explained. ¡°Down at the Cotton Club, the orchestra could perform for the white folks just fine. But they couldn¡¯t sit at the tables out front and order a drink or mingle. Papa Charles King runs this joint. He serves everybody.¡±


    In the corner, a white woman sat talking with a black man. It never would¡¯ve happened in Ohio, and Evie wondered what her parents would have to say about it. Nothing complimentary, she was pretty sure.


    Theta elbowed Henry. ¡°There¡¯s Jimmy D¡¯Angelo. Go sweet-talk him into letting you sit in.¡±


    Henry excused himself and sauntered toward a table near the stage area where a man in a top hat and monocle sat smoking a cigar, a bright green parrot perched on his tuxedoed shoulder.


    ¡°Henry¡¯s a big talent, but Flo¡ªMr. Ziegfeld¡ªdoesn¡¯t see it,¡± Theta said. ¡°Henry¡¯s sold a few songs to Tin Pan Alley¡ªenough to keep him in socks, and not much more. They¡¯re okay ditties, but his good songs nobody gets. Poor kiddo.¡±

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    ¡°I¡¯d love to hear them,¡± Mabel said.


    ¡°I hope you¡¯ll get to. Kid just needs his lucky break is all.¡± Theta held her wrap on one shoulder. ¡°Showtime, dolls. Give the place a look like you¡¯re too good for the dump. Just follow me.¡±


    Theta sauntered past the tables, not deigning to look at anyone. Heads turned as Theta, Evie, and Mabel followed the host through the crowded tables. They were Shebas in their flapper finery, and they drew appreciative gazes. A few people recognized Theta from the Follies.


    ¡°Must be the duck¡¯s quack to be famous,¡± Evie said.


    Theta shrugged. ¡°They think they know me, but they don¡¯t.¡±


    The host seated them at a table in a corner and handed them menus printed on heavy cream-colored paper. Mabel¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°I can¡¯t believe these prices!¡±


    ¡°Believe it,¡± Theta said. ¡°Make sure you like whatever you order, ¡¯cause you¡¯ll be nursing it all night long.¡±


    ¡°My mother would cast a kitten over the excess,¡± Mabel said guiltily.


    ¡°Your mother isn¡¯t here.¡±


    ¡°Thank heavens for that,¡± Evie muttered.


    A waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne and a silver bucket of ice. ¡°Sorry, pal. We didn¡¯t order bubbly,¡± Theta said.


    ¡°For the ladies. From an appreciative gentleman,¡± the waiter said.


    ¡°Which one?¡± Evie said, craning her neck.


    ¡°Mr. Samson at table fifteen,¡± the waiter said, indicating delicately with a nod.


    ¡°Oh, brother,¡± Theta said.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Evie couldn¡¯t see too well in the dark.


    ¡°See that fella across the way? Don¡¯t be obvious about it.¡±


    The girls peeked over the tops of their menus. Four tables over sat a heavyset man with a very full mustache and the smug air of Wall Street success. ¡°The one who looks like a walrus without a zoo?¡± Evie asked.


    ¡°The same. He¡¯s one of those chumps who wants to feel like he¡¯s young and exciting. Probably got a wife and three brats up in Bedford and thinks we¡¯ll show him a good time. Oh, he¡¯s looking at us. Smile, girls.¡±


    Evie flashed her teeth, and the older man raised his glass. The girls raised theirs in reply. The man blew a kiss and motioned for them to join him.


    ¡°What now?¡± Evie asked through still-smiling teeth.


    ¡°Now it¡¯s really showtime.¡± Theta knocked back her champagne and let loose an enormous belch that drew disgusted stares from people nearby. ¡°Nothing like a good glass of giggle water to help a girl¡¯s insides!¡± Theta said loudly and patted her stomach.


    Across the floor, the older man¡¯s glass hung in midair. He looked quickly away.


    ¡°He¡¯s scandalized!¡± Evie said on a giggle.


    ¡°Now he can go home to his wife in Bedford and we can enjoy his grape juice in peace.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you get so smart?¡±


    ¡°Hard knocks,¡± Theta said. She and Evie toasted and sipped the man¡¯s champagne.


    Mabel signaled for a waiter. ¡°Could I have a Sloe Gin Fizz, without the gin?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the point of that, Miss?¡± the waiter said.


    ¡°Tomorrow morning,¡± Mabel said.


    ¡°If you say so, Miss.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s Henry making out?¡± Theta asked, craning her head. Several tables away, Henry lounged in a chair wearing an expression of beautiful, bored elegance as he listened to the man with the parrot.


    ¡°He¡¯s not really your brother, is he?¡± Evie said.


    Theta smirked. ¡°Now you¡¯ve done it. People will talk.¡±


    Theta was so deadpan that it took Evie a second to realize she was kidding.


    ¡°How did you meet?¡±


    ¡°On the street. I was starving, and he gave me part of his sandwich. He¡¯s a real pal.¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t mind my asking, why didn¡¯t the two of you¡­?¡±


    Theta narrowed her eyes and blew out a thin stream of smoke. It felt to Evie as if she were weighing her answer. ¡°We just didn¡¯t go for each other. He may not be my real brother, but he feels like one to me. I¡¯d do anything for him.¡±


    Henry sauntered toward them and Theta scooted over to make room.


    ¡°What did I miss?¡± he asked. ¡°Say, where did the champagne come from?¡±


    ¡°Lonely walrus,¡± Evie explained and giggled. She was already feeling a little tipsy, more from excitement and optimism than from the champagne. She liked Theta and Henry. They were so sophisticated¡ªnot like anybody she¡¯d known back home. She hoped they liked her, too.

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    ¡°You¡¯re just in time. We¡¯re about to make a toast,¡± Theta said.


    Henry raised his glass. ¡°To what?¡±


    ¡°To us. To the future,¡± Theta said.


    ¡°To the future,¡± Henry, Evie, and Mabel echoed.


    The orchestra segued into a hot, sensual number, and Evie leaned her head against Theta¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t you feel like anything could happen tonight?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Manhattan. Anything can happen at any time.¡±


    ¡°But what if you met the man of your dreams tonight?¡±


    Theta blew out another plume of cigarette smoke. ¡°Not interested. Love¡¯s messy, kiddo. Let those other girls get moony-eyed and goofy. Me? I got plans.¡±


    ¡°What plans?¡± Mabel asked. A waiter had brought pate on toast, which she ate with delight.


    ¡°Pictures. That¡¯s the future. I hear they¡¯re gonna start making talking pictures.¡±


    Evie laughed. ¡°Talking pictures? How awful!¡±


    ¡° ¡¯S gonna be swell. When my contract¡¯s up, I¡¯m heading to California with Henry. Right, Henry?¡±


    ¡°Anything you say, beautiful.¡±


    ¡°I hear they have lemon trees, and you can pick ¡¯em right off and make fresh lemonade. We¡¯ll get a house with a lemon tree in the backyard. Maybe even have a dog. I always wanted a dog.¡±


    Evie wanted to laugh, but Theta seemed so serious, and even a little sad, so she just choked back her drink instead. ¡°Sounds ducky.¡± She clinked glasses with Theta. ¡°To lemon trees and dogs!¡±


    ¡°Lemon trees and dogs,¡± Theta and Henry said, laughing.


    ¡°Lemon trees and dogs,¡± Mabel slurred, her mouth full.


    Evie leaned forward, resting her chin on her upturned palm. ¡°What about you, Henry?¡±


    ¡°Me? I¡¯m going to write songs for the pictures. Real songs. Not that gooey bushwa Flo Ziegfeld likes,¡± Henry drawled.


    ¡°To real songs!¡± Evie toasted. ¡°Mabesie?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to help the poor. But first, I¡¯m going to eat every bit of this.¡± Mabel swooned. ¡°Heavenly.¡±


    Theta cocked her head. ¡°What about you, Evil?¡±


    Evie turned her glass around slowly on the table. What could she say? I¡¯m going to stop having nightmares about my dead brother. I¡¯m going to let the past stop haunting me like a vengeful ghost. I¡¯m going to find my place in the world and show everyone what I¡¯m made of. She¡¯d felt it from the moment she stepped off the train at Penn Station, a sense that she belonged here, that Manhattan was her true home. ¡°This probably sounds silly¡­.¡±


    Henry let out a loud, dramatic laugh, then shrugged. ¡°I just wanted to get it out of the way, darling.¡±


    Evie grinned. Oh, she liked them both so much! ¡°Ever since I got here, I¡¯ve had the craziest feeling of destiny¡ªthat whatever is supposed to happen, whoever it is I¡¯m going to be, is waiting just around the next corner. I want to be ready for it. I want to meet it headlong.¡± Evie raised her glass. ¡°To whatever¡¯s around the next corner.¡±


    ¡°I sure hope it¡¯s not a car bearing down,¡± Mabel joked.


    ¡°To the good stuff just out of sight,¡± Theta echoed.


    ¡°To Evie¡¯s destiny,¡± Henry said and touched his glass to theirs in a satisfying chime.


    Evie paused, her glass in midair. ¡°I don¡¯t believe it. Of all the gall!¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s eating you?¡± Theta asked.


    Evie slammed her glass down, sloshing champagne onto the tablecloth. ¡°Theta, take my purse. It¡¯s got twenty bucks in it. You might need it to bail me out.¡±


    ¡°For the last time, what is it?¡±


    ¡°Sam Lloyd,¡± Evie hissed. She marched over to where he stood, leaning against a marble column, talking up a blond with a red Cupid¡¯s bow mouth.


    ¡°Excuse me, Miss.¡± Evie sandwiched herself between them.


    ¡°Hey!¡± the girl objected, but Evie stood firm.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± she demanded.


    ¡°What am I doing here? I come here all the time. What are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s she¡ªyour mother?¡± the blonde said in a voice so high it could break glass.


    Evie turned. ¡°I¡¯m from the health department. You¡¯ve heard of Typhoid Mary? This fella¡¯s got enough typhoid to start his own colony.¡±


    The girl¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Holy smokes!¡±


    ¡°You said it. Just to be safe, you might want to burn those glad rags you¡¯ve got on. In fact, you might wanna burn them on principle.¡±

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    ¡°Huh?¡±


    Evie raised an eyebrow at Sam. ¡°Why, Sam, she¡¯s charming.¡± Evie turned back to the blonde, leaned in close and whispered, ¡°You see that fella with the mustache over there?¡± Evie pointed to the walrus man. ¡°He¡¯s so rich he could buy Wool and Worth¡¯s and still have enough left over for a steak dinner. Why don¡¯t you go get him to buy you a drink?¡±


    ¡°You on the level?¡±


    ¡°And how. He¡¯s a real Big Cheese. Trust me.¡±


    The girl smiled. ¡°Say, thanks for the tip, honey.¡±


    ¡°We Janes have to stick together.¡±


    The girl looked worried. ¡°You gonna be okay with his¡­ typhoid?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Evie said, glaring at Sam. ¡°I¡¯m immune to what he¡¯s got.¡±


    Sam watched the alluring blond wiggle her way toward the walrus man and shook his head. ¡°Anybody ever tell you your timing is lousy, sister?¡±


    ¡°Where did you get that dinner jacket? It looks expensive.¡±


    Sam grinned. ¡°Back of a chair.¡±


    ¡°You stole it?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s just say I borrowed it for the duration of my stay.¡±


    ¡°I oughta tell Uncle Will.¡±


    ¡°Be my guest. Of course, then you¡¯ve gotta explain what you were doing here at a speakeasy in Harlem at eleven thirty in the PM.¡±


    Evie opened her mouth to give Sam an earful just as the tuxedo-clad emcee stepped to the microphone. His white shirt was so stiff it looked bulletproof. ¡°And now the Hotsy Totsy presents the Famous Hotsy Totsy Girls dancing that forbidden dance, the Black Bottom!¡±


    The orchestra launched into the jazzy, uptempo dance tune. With a loud whoop, the young and beautiful chorines strutted their way across the stage. They swayed their hips and stamped out a hard, quick rhythm with their silver shoes. With each shimmy, the bugle beads on their scandalously revealing costumes swung and shook. It was the sort of display Evie knew her mother would have found appalling¡ªan example of the moral decay of the young generation. It was sexual and dangerous and thrilling, and Evie wanted more of it.


    The piano player called out to the girls, and they shuffled forward, hips first. They crooked their fingers and everyone raced onto the dance floor below the stage, caught up in the dance and the night.


    Theta sat at the table, alone, behind an inscrutable cloud of cigarette smoke, watching. Henry had started up a conversation with a handsome waiter named Billy, and she wondered if he¡¯d be coming home tonight. She watched the spoiled debutantes getting their kicks by coming uptown to hear jazz in forbidden clubs, just to make their mothers fret. She watched the bartenders filling glasses but keeping their eyes on the doors. She watched the lonely hearts mooning over the fellas who, oblivious, mooned over other dolls. She watched a fight break out between a couple who were now sitting in miserable silence. She watched the cigarette girls smiling at each table, extolling the health benefits of Lucky Strikes or Chesterfields, whichever company paid them a little more. She watched the girls dance onstage and wondered how old they¡¯d been when they started. Had they been dragged from town to town on the circuit from the age of four? Had they lain awake on fleabag motel floors, then made the rounds of booking agents the next morning, half-dead from exhaustion? Had any of them made a daring escape from a small town in the middle of the night? Had they changed their names and their looks, becoming someone completely new, someone who couldn¡¯t be found? Did any of them have a power so frightening it had to be kept locked down tight?


    A good-looking fella with a fraternity pin on his lapel stepped in front of Theta¡¯s table, blocking her view. ¡°Mind if I join you?¡±


    Theta stubbed out her cigarette. ¡°Sorry, pal. I was just leaving.¡± She grabbed her wrap and Evie¡¯s purse and went in search of the ladies¡¯ lounge.


    Memphis had finished his rounds for the night. On his way through the Hotsy Totsy¡¯s kitchen, he pocketed a few cookies for Isaiah, then set off to check out the action in the club. A drunk girl whose curls drooped from dancing called to him as he passed: ¡°Oh, boy¡ªget my coat, will ya?¡± She dropped a quarter in his hand.


    ¡°Do I look like I work for you? Get your own damn coat.¡± Memphis tossed the quarter back, and it fell at her feet.


    ¡°Well, I never¡­¡±


    ¡°And you never will,¡± Memphis grumbled. Off the hallway was a sitting room with club chairs and Persian rugs where couples went to neck or smoke. Memphis walked past a petting couple and settled into his favorite chair to read.


    ¡°Do you mind?¡± the man called.

 Page 89

    ¡°A little. But I¡¯ll be just fine,¡± Memphis shot back, along with his widest smile. He opened his book. The man swore under his breath and called him a name Memphis didn¡¯t like. Memphis stayed put, and after a moment, the couple left. Alone in the room, Memphis lost himself to the pleasure of the book.


    ¡°Let¡¯s dance,¡± Sam said.


    ¡°With you?¡± Evie scoffed. ¡°Just so you know, I left my money with Theta for safekeeping.¡±


    ¡°Come on, doll, I¡¯ll be as good as a Boy Scout.¡± He laced his fingers through hers. ¡°Feel that rhythm, kid. Doesn¡¯t it work on you?¡±


    Evie looked in the direction of the dance floor. A crowd of flappers, lost to the booze and the beat, were tearing it up. Evie wanted to be in the thick of it. To let herself go under the lights.


    ¡°One dance,¡± Evie said and dragged him toward the gyrating crowd. Sam pulled Evie into a waltz. His hand was warm at the small of her back.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± she said as they twirled softly in place.


    ¡°Going against the grain,¡± Sam answered.


    ¡°Maybe I like going with the grain.¡±


    ¡°You? I don¡¯t see it.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you don¡¯t know me as well as you think you do,¡± Evie yelled close to his ear. It was hard to hear over the orchestra and the dancers.


    ¡°We could work on that,¡± Sam said, pulling her into a twirl. He was a good dancer. Graceful and quick-footed, he knew how to lead without being overbearing. On the dance floor, at least, they were swell together.


    ¡°You smell good enough to eat,¡± Sam said so close to her ear that it made the skin along her jaw buzz.


    ¡°Just like the Big Bad Wolf,¡± Evie murmured.


    ¡°Say, about that ghost business¡ªdoes your uncle believe in that, or is he just making a buck?¡±


    ¡°How should I know?¡± Evie asked. She didn¡¯t want to think about Will just now. ¡°Why? Do you believe it?¡±


    Sam forced a smile. ¡°Man¡¯s gotta believe in something.¡±


    He twirled Evie around and around under the lights.


    Mabel had gone to the restroom and returned to an empty table. A minute later, she¡¯d been corralled into dancing with a fella named Scotty who had managed to step on both of her feet three times and who insisted on calling her by the wrong name. Now she sat at the table vacated by the others listening to him prattle on about stocks and bonds and finding the right sort of girl to take home to Mother. She guessed the right sort of girl was not the daughter of a Jewish socialist and a society girl turned rabble-rouser.


    ¡°You¡¯re a swell listener, May Belle,¡± Scotty said. His tongue was thick from Scotch.


    ¡°Mabel,¡± she corrected. She squinted in the club¡¯s atmospheric glow and allowed herself to pretend this boring idiot was Jericho. Out on the floor, Evie danced with Sam¡ªand after swearing to deck him.


    ¡°Why, you¡¯re just like¡­¡±


    ¡°A sister,¡± Mabel finished for him.


    ¡°Exactly so!¡±


    ¡°Swell.¡± She sighed. The Scotty fellow continued rambling, making Mabel feel smaller and plainer. Her dress was all wrong; she looked like she was auditioning for a Christmas pageant somewhere. She was tired of being overlooked or compared to someone¡¯s sister or passed off as a sweet, harmless girl, the sort nobody minded but nobody sought out, either. How had she allowed herself to be talked into this misery? It was different for Evie. Evie was born to play the role of carefree flapper. Mabel wasn¡¯t. In nightclubs or at dances, she was out of her element. Just once, she¡¯d like to be the exciting one, the girl somebody wanted.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that right, May Belle?¡± the idiot said, finishing some painful thought about fishing or motorcars, no doubt. He clapped her on the arm a little hard.


    ¡°That¡¯s it,¡± Mabel said, getting up. She tossed her napkin on the table. ¡°No. That is not right. I don¡¯t know what you just said, but whatever it was, I¡¯m pretty certain it was pure hokum. I don¡¯t want to dance. I don¡¯t want to hear about your plans for a summer house. I am not your sister. And if I were your sister, I¡¯d have to tell people you¡¯d been adopted as an act of charity. Please, don¡¯t get up.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t,¡± Scotty said.


    Mabel marched up to Evie and tapped her on the shoulder. ¡°Evie, I want to go home.¡±


    ¡°Oh, Mabel, no. Why, we¡¯re just getting started!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re just getting started. I am finished.¡±


    Evie stepped to the side with Mabel. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, Pie Face?¡±

 Page 90

    ¡°Nobody wants to dance with me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get Sam to dance with you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want you to make someone dance with me. You know perfectly well what I mean. It might be different if Jericho were here.¡±


    ¡°I tried to get him to come, Pie Face, honestly I did. But he¡¯s pos-i-tute-ly allergic to having a good time. Why don¡¯t you order another Orange Juice Jazz Baby?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re five dollars!¡±


    ¡°Come on, Mabesie. Live a little. It won¡¯t kill you. Oh, they¡¯re playing my favorite song!¡± Evie dashed out onto the dance floor before Mabel could stop her. It probably wasn¡¯t her favorite song; she just needed an excuse to get away and avoid Mabel. Sometimes Evie could be so selfish.


    Mabel saw the drunken Scotty lurching toward her with a sloppy ¡°Heyyy, Maybeline, honey,¡± and ran and hid behind an enormous potted fern, plotting all the ways she was going to kill Evie when this evening was finally over.


    Theta walked the corridors of the club, dragging her fur wrap behind her. Some people recognized her with a ¡°Hey, aren¡¯t you¡­?¡± To which Theta would say, ¡°Sorry. You must have me confused with another party.¡±


    Behind her, a man called out ¡°Betty!¡± and Theta turned quickly, her heart beating fast. But he was calling to a redhead, who yelled back, ¡°Hold your horses! I need the little girls¡¯ room.¡±


    Theta had had enough. She didn¡¯t want to go home, but she didn¡¯t want to stay, either. She wasn¡¯t sure what she wanted except something new, something that made her feel anchored to her life. She felt like she could float away at any moment. Sure, she had Henry, wonderful Henry. He was like a brother to her. It was Henry who had saved her life when she¡¯d first come to the city, desperate and starving. And it was Henry who¡¯d saved her life a second time. They¡¯d always be together. But lately, she¡¯d felt a hunger for more. It had the shape of destiny about it, this feeling, though she couldn¡¯t begin to put a name on it.


    A crowd of revelers caromed down the hall, and Theta ducked into the first room she saw. It appeared empty, but as she came around the side of a green wingback chair, she saw that it was occupied by a handsome young man with a book of poems. He was so absorbed in his reading that he didn¡¯t even notice her.


    ¡°Must be some book,¡± she said, startling him.


    Memphis looked up to see a striking girl with jet-black hair smoking a cigarette and watching him.


    ¡°Walt Whitman.¡±


    ¡°Mmm,¡± Theta said.


    ¡°I¡¯m a poet myself,¡± Memphis said. He held up his small leather journal. Theta took it and flipped through the pages, opening to a series of numbers written in the back. She raised an eyebrow. ¡°Doesn¡¯t look like poetry to me. More like a bookie¡¯s tab.¡±


    Quickly, Memphis grabbed the book back. He gave her the full-dazzle smile that worked on chorus girls and jumpy gangsters. ¡°I¡¯m just holding that for a friend.¡±


    ¡°Mm-hmm.¡±


    ¡°My name¡¯s Memphis. Memphis Campbell. And you are?¡±


    ¡°Just a girl in a nightclub.¡± Theta blew out a stream of smoke.


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t smoke those. Sister says they¡¯re poison.¡±


    ¡°Your sister¡¯s a barrel of laughs.¡±


    Memphis laughed. ¡°She¡¯s not my sister. We call her sister. Sister Walker. And she could rival a pickle for pucker.¡± That got a smirk from Theta. It was all the encouragement Memphis needed. ¡°You French? Got a French look to you. Maybe even a little Creole.¡±


    Theta shrugged and tapped the end of her cigarette into a tall silver ashtray. ¡°I look like everybody.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m gonna call you Creole Princess.¡±


    ¡°You can call me whatever you like. Doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯ll answer.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m still gonna keep calling.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re persistent, Memphis Campbell, I¡¯ll give you that. What are you doing here besides reading library books?¡±


    ¡°Oh, you know. A little of this, little of that.¡±


    Theta arched one thin brow. ¡°Sounds like trouble.¡±


    Memphis spread his arms in a gesture of innocence. ¡°Me? I¡¯m the farthest thing from trouble you¡¯ll ever know.¡±


    ¡°Mmm,¡± Theta said, walking around the room.


    ¡°Why aren¡¯t you upstairs in the club?¡±


    Theta shrugged. ¡°I was bored.¡±


    ¡°Bored! That¡¯s a first. Don¡¯t you know the Hotsy Totsy is supposed to be the swankiest club in town?¡±

 Page 91

    Theta shrugged again. ¡°I¡¯ve been to a lot of clubs.¡±


    ¡°That a fact?¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡± She dragged on her cigarette. ¡°Poet, huh? Why don¡¯t you read me something?¡±


    ¡°Whatever you say, Creole Princess.¡± Memphis opened the book and read while Theta once again flipped casually through his journal. He had a nice voice, one well suited to poetry. ¡° ¡®I sing the body electric/The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them/They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them/And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul¡­.¡¯ That¡¯s Mr. Walt Whitman. One of our finest poets.¡±


    Theta had turned another page. Now she stared at the radiant eye-and-lightning bolt symbol somebody had doodled in the corner of the page. Her heart beat faster. ¡°Did you draw this?¡± She tried to keep her voice even.


    ¡°That? Oh, just something I saw in a dream.¡±


    ¡°In¡­ a dream?¡± Theta repeated. She felt hot and dizzy. ¡°What is it? What do you know about it?¡±


    ¡°Nothing. Like I said, just something I saw in a dream.¡±


    The drawing seemed to have upset the girl for some reason. Memphis wanted to ask her why, but he also didn¡¯t want to scare her off. ¡°Here, let me show you around the club.¡± He reached for his notebook, but Theta held on to it. She looked right at him, but she didn¡¯t seem angry; she seemed astonished, maybe even a little scared.


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen that same symbol in my own dreams,¡± she said.


    Memphis didn¡¯t know where to start. ¡°Do you know what it is or where it comes from? Have you seen it somewhere before?¡±


    Theta shook her head. ¡°Only in my dreams.¡±


    ¡°When did it start?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. About six months ago? You?¡±


    ¡° ¡¯Round about then.¡±


    ¡°How often do you dream it?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Twice a week, maybe more. Used to be only here and there, but lately, it¡¯s happening more often.¡±


    Theta nodded. ¡°I¡¯m having it more often, too.¡±


    She dreamed of the same symbol. Memphis dealt with odds every day, and he knew the odds on this were staggering. It had to mean something, didn¡¯t it? ¡°Tell me exactly what you dream.¡±


    Theta sank into a chair. She was shaking. ¡°It¡¯s always the same. I¡¯m somewhere a long way from New York. I don¡¯t know where. No place I know. I¡¯m standing on a road, and the sky¡¯s lousy with storm clouds¡ª¡±


    Memphis could feel his heart thundering in his chest. ¡°Is there a farmhouse? An old white farmhouse with a porch?¡±


    Theta¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Yes,¡± she whispered. ¡°And wheat fields, or corn. Some kind of fields. And in the distance there¡¯s this tree¡ª¡±


    ¡°With no leaves on it. Just a big old gnarled tree, with limbs as thick as a giant¡¯s arms.¡±


    Goose bumps rose on Theta¡¯s back and neck. ¡°And something¡¯s coming on the road¡­.¡±


    ¡°Just behind a wall of dust,¡± Memphis finished for her.


    Theta nodded. She felt cold all over. What was happening? ¡°The worst part is the feeling,¡± she said softly. ¡°Like something terrible is coming. Something I don¡¯t want to see.¡±


    ¡°Something you¡¯ll be called to do something about,¡± Memphis said.


    ¡°What does it mean?¡±


    A loud crash came from above, followed by screams and the sounds of police whistles being blown. Frantic footsteps thudded across the ceiling. Memphis ran to the door and poked his head out, only to see a full squad of policeman barging their way into the kitchen.


    Theta¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Holy smokes! It¡¯s a raid.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t be,¡± Memphis said, throwing his knapsack over his shoulder. He still held the book in his hand. ¡°Papa Charles has the cops in his pocket.¡±


    ¡°That pocket¡¯s got a hole, Poet.¡± The terror of the shared dream was replaced by the real fear of being arrested. ¡°How do I get out of here? I can¡¯t afford to get pinched.¡±


    ¡°This way!¡± Memphis offered his hand. ¡°I know this place like my own skin. I¡¯ll get you out of here. Trust me.¡±


    Theta grabbed his hand and they set off running down the narrow hall.


    Mabel gasped as the doors to the club were broken down and two lines of police stormed the club. One grabbed her by the wrist. She tugged, but his grip was strong.


    ¡°Right this way, Miss. I¡¯ve got a car waiting,¡± the officer said, smiling.

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    ¡°My mother will kill me,¡± Mabel wailed as he dragged her away from the chaos unfolding behind her.


    Theta and Memphis ran. Behind them, the police stormed the place, breaking open walls, knocking chairs over. Two flappers and their beaus screamed and stumbled drunkenly into the wall of cops. A clearly intoxicated man whose face was covered in lipstick pulled out a gun and fired off shots indiscriminately. One of his bullets passed through the book of poetry in Memphis¡¯s hand. Memphis stuck his finger through the hole. ¡°That was a library book,¡± he said, gasping.


    ¡°Poet, we¡¯ve gotta scram!¡±


    Memphis ran with Theta around a corner, where he pulled her into a telephone booth. She looked up through heavy lashes into Memphis¡¯s handsome face. She¡¯d seen plenty of handsome fellas before, but none who wrote poetry and shared the same strange nightmare. Deep down, Theta felt stirrings she¡¯d guarded against since Roy and Kansas and what had happened there.


    ¡°You pull me in here to hide or to neck, Poet?¡± Theta joked, trying to catch her breath.


    ¡°Trust me,¡± Memphis said. He turned the crank on the telephone three times and gave a hard push on the back wall, which opened onto a secret passageway.


    Upstairs in the club, it was chaos as the police stormed the doors. The bartenders moved quickly. They flipped the bar over, sending about two dozen bottles of good hooch down a chute to their untimely end, then pulled a lever on the bar itself, emptying the bottles and glasses there down another chute and wiping the evidence away with rags. Patrons screamed and climbed over tables, knocking one another over in their panic to get out. Some of the flappers continued dancing, thrilled to be arrested and make the papers. ¡°You sure you gents don¡¯t need a drink?¡± the club manager quipped as the cops walked him toward the door. In the midst of the hysteria, Henry walked calmly to the piano, took a seat, and began to play.


    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me, officer. I¡¯m just the piano player,¡± he said, but the man in blue cuffed him anyway.


    In the melee, Sam and Evie were separated. Evie dodged and wove her way toward an exit just as a fresh wave of cops barged in. She doubled back, passing the dim blond from earlier, who was pouring her heart out to the cop arresting her: ¡°These chumps are all the same¡ªone minute they¡¯re trying to get you into the struggle buggy, the next, they¡¯re giving you their typhoid.¡±


    Trapped, Evie dove under a table and hid beneath its white cloth, watching. She reached up just high enough to grab an open bottle of champagne and pull it down with her. It seemed a shame to let good hooch go to waste, and if she was going down, she was going in style. After a few minutes, she peeked out and saw Sam gliding easily out the door, untouched. Or rather, she thought she saw him. He moved so quickly she couldn¡¯t be sure. She only knew she was angry again. She bolted after him, calling his name, but a second wave of policemen rounded the corner. Evie ran back into the club room, keeping low. She spied a dumbwaiter hidden behind the bar and made a break for it, wriggling herself in. Her long necklace caught on the hook, scattering pearls all over the floor, which tripped an officer heading her way. There was no time to mourn the jewels, so she slammed the door shut and hoisted herself toward freedom.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t I tell you to trust me?¡± Memphis said. He and Theta stood in the dank wine cellar beneath the club. A lone worker¡¯s bulb over the door cast dim light across the dirt floor and the barrels stored in the deep room.


    ¡°What is this place?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s where they store the hooch when it comes in from Canada,¡± Memphis explained. ¡°Come on. Be careful¡ªthe steps are tricky.¡±


    ¡°Where to now?¡±


    Memphis stood for a moment, trying to get his bearings. He didn¡¯t spend a lot of time down here, and he wasn¡¯t certain of the room. He only knew there had to be a door somewhere. Up the steps, the doorknob jangled. There were shouts.


    ¡°Cops,¡± Theta whispered.


    ¡°Hold on, hold on,¡± Memphis whispered back. ¡°Let¡¯s see if they go away.¡±


    It was quiet for a spell; all they heard was their own breathing. Then a loud thwack broke the silence, and Theta yelped as a policeman¡¯s ax splintered a slit in the cellar¡¯s big wooden door.


    ¡°Tell me you know a way out of here!¡± Theta said.


    ¡°This way!¡± Memphis said, and hoped he was right. They threaded through barrels of liquor. Behind them, the door gave way, and someone shot into the air, shouting, ¡°Stop right there!¡±


    ¡°Should we¡­?¡± Theta panted.


    ¡°Not on your life, Princess,¡± Memphis said, pulling her on.

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    Footsteps echoed in the cavernous space. The cops had made it in and were gaining on them. Memphis had paid off some of these men for Papa Charles; most would look the other way and let him go. But a few were quick with their clubs, and finding a black man with a white woman in a cellar full of booze didn¡¯t bode well for Memphis¡¯s case. The shouts of ¡°Stop! Stop!¡± came again, this time punctuated by gunfire. Where was the way out?


    Against the far wall, Memphis saw the silhouette of stairs. He followed them up and saw the outline of a door. It had to lead to a fire escape.


    ¡°This way,¡± Memphis gasped out as he half dragged Theta up the rickety staircase.


    ¡°There they are!¡± a cop yelled from below.


    Memphis tried the knob but it was stuck. He threw himself against the door, once, twice, and it finally swung open on rusted hinges. He pushed Theta out onto the fire escape. Down below, two officers stood smoking cigarettes. ¡°Go up!¡± he whispered.


    Theta nodded and started the climb up to the roof. A rotting cafe chair rested against the railing. Memphis lodged it under the doorknob, and while the cops banged against the door, he climbed after Theta. The harsh glare of a neon sign advertising Lucky Strike cigarettes turned the roof into a white haze. They ran to the edge of the roof, stepping over the half wall to the next roof, and then the next, climbing at last down another fire escape into an alley. Memphis jumped first, then helped Theta, enjoying for that brief second the feel of her against his chest. The two of them ran out and joined the nighthawks still walking the city streets.


    The dumbwaiter had reached the top. Grunting, Evie pushed against the door with her fists, then her feet, but it was hopelessly stuck.


    ¡°Hello?¡± she whispered. ¡°Hello? Anybody there?¡±


    A moment later, the door opened. A man¡¯s hand appeared and Evie took it gratefully, slowly unbending her arms and legs and stepping out of the cramped box, still holding fast to the champagne bottle.


    ¡°Oh, swell! Thank you, baby!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome, sweetheart,¡± the policeman said, slapping handcuffs on her. ¡°You¡¯re also under arrest.¡±


    Sam slipped easily through the crowd and back through the corridor into the building next door. Whenever a policeman looked his way, Sam would think that same thought¡ªDon¡¯t see me¡ªand before the cop could figure out what had happened, Sam would have moved on, leaving him to shake his head and chase after someone else. He hoped Evie had managed to escape. He had to hand it to her, she had moxie. He liked girls with moxie. They were trouble. And Sam liked trouble even more than moxie.


    ¡°Did we lose them?¡± Theta panted. Her legs shook and the white fur of her coat was grimed with dirt.


    ¡°I think so.¡± Memphis held up the pulp of the book and sighed. ¡°Mrs. Andrews is gonna kill me.¡±


    ¡°At least you¡¯ll have something to write about,¡± Theta said and laughed. It was a solid bray of a laugh, completely at odds with her jaded demeanor. The cool she¡¯d shown him earlier was gone. Their narrow escape had made them giddy, and they stood on the corner of Seventh Avenue laughing at their good fortune like a couple of kids on Christmas morning. Theta tilted her head back and caught the breeze. In that moment, she was so beautiful that Memphis wished they could keep running.


    ¡°You jake, Poet? You look like someone slipped you a mickey,¡± Theta said.


    Memphis forced a smile and spread his arms wide. ¡°Me? I don¡¯t wear worry.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go sneak a peek.¡±


    They crept down the block and crossed the street to where they had a good lookout for the action at the club. Sirens wailed on the street and police wagons lined the block in a long line. The men in blue pulled patrons from the club while the neighborhood looked on. The press had arrived, and the flashlamps popped; they could smell the burning magnesium in the night air.


    ¡°Papa Charles isn¡¯t gonna like this,¡± Memphis said. ¡°He pays the cops enough not to raid his clubs. I hope your friends got out all right.¡±


    ¡°Me, too,¡± Theta said. She still held Evie¡¯s handbag. ¡°I suppose I¡¯d better blow home and see if they did.¡±


    Memphis felt his heart sink. He didn¡¯t want the evening to end. ¡°I could take you for a cup of coffee first, if you like. I know I could sure use one.¡±


    Theta smiled. It was a sweet smile, almost shy. ¡°Thanks, Poet. But I should get my beauty sleep.¡±


    Memphis started to say something clever¡ª¡°Why? You¡¯re already the best-looking girl in town¡±¡ªbut didn¡¯t. It would seem like charm, and he didn¡¯t want to charm this girl. He wanted to know her. But the magic of their escape couldn¡¯t extend everywhere.

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    ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll see you in my dreams tonight,¡± he said instead. ¡°On that road.¡±


    Theta¡¯s smile faltered just a bit. ¡°I suppose I¡¯d feel less scared if you were there.¡±


    The cops patted the doors of one of the wagons and sent it on its way. The streets were clogged with people now. Theta stuck out her hand. ¡°Thanks for the daring escape, Poet.¡±


    Memphis shook Theta¡¯s hand, marveling at the softness of it. ¡°Anytime, Creole Princess.¡±


    Theta ran toward the subway. At the corner, she turned to see Memphis still watching her. He wasn¡¯t watching her the way that audiences or the occasional fan on the street did. It didn¡¯t make her feel odd or imagined; on the contrary, she had never felt more real. ¡°Hey, Poet!¡± she called back to him. ¡°It¡¯s Theta!¡±


    ¡°Pardon?¡± he shouted.


    ¡°My name. It¡¯s Theta¡ª¡±


    The crowd thickened between them just as someone pulled Memphis into a choke hold from behind. He whipped around, ready for a fight. Laughing, Gabe put his hands up in surrender, backing away. ¡°Easy, brother. Just me. Can you believe they raided the club? Somebody¡¯s putting the squeeze on Papa Charles. I¡¯d gone out back for a smoke or I¡¯d be in one of those wagons, too. Hey, Memphis¡ªyou even listening to me?¡±


    Memphis had turned away from Gabe and was craning his head, searching for some sign of Theta, but she was already gone. How would he find her again? Beside him, Gabe was talking a mile a minute, but Memphis wasn¡¯t listening. Something had shifted in the cosmos. His future seemed to have thinned to a point of destiny, and it had a name: Theta.


    When Memphis let himself into Octavia¡¯s apartment, he found Isaiah standing at the foot of the bed in a pale wash of bluish moonlight. The boy stared into the gloom of the bedroom, his head shaking slightly.


    ¡°Hey, Ice Man. Whatcha doin¡¯ up?¡± The boy didn¡¯t answer. ¡°Isaiah? You all right?¡±


    Isaiah¡¯s eyes rolled back until only the whites were visible. His eyelids fluttered wildly.


    ¡°The seventh offering is vengeance. Turn the heretics from the Temple of Solomon. And their sins shall be purified by blood and fire.¡±


    ¡°Isaiah?¡± Memphis whispered. Hearing these strange words coming out of his brother¡¯s mouth made him cold with fear.


    ¡°Anoint thy flesh and prepare ye the walls of your houses to receive him.¡± Isaiah¡¯s thin body jerked with small spasms.


    Memphis gripped his arms. Should he run for Octavia? The doctor? He didn¡¯t know. ¡°Isaiah, what are you talking about?¡± he whispered urgently.


    ¡°They¡¯re coming. The time is now.¡±


    ¡°Isaiah, wake up now. You¡¯re having a nightmare. Wake up, I say!¡±


    Isaiah went limp and calm in Memphis¡¯s hands. His eyelids closed as if he might drift back to sleep. Suddenly, he stiffened. His eyes snapped wide open. He stared at Memphis as his small body shook. His words were a choked whisper: ¡°Oh, my son, my son. What have you done?¡±


    Isaiah swayed, but Memphis caught him in time and put his little brother into his bed, where he resumed sleeping as if nothing had happened.


    Memphis sat shivering on his own bed. Unable to rest, he watched the rise and fall of his brother¡¯s chest for some time, until early dawn filled the room with a weak, milky light. How could Isaiah have known? No one knew except Memphis. It was what he¡¯d seen when he was under the healing trance in those last moments with their mother on her deathbed. As he¡¯d walked in that other place, a misty land between waking and death, he¡¯d seen her spirit, mournful and afraid, her hands reaching out toward him just before she was swallowed by some vast dark, her last words both a benediction and a warning:


    Oh, my son, my son. What have you done?


    BLOOD AND FIRE


    Eugene Meriwether let himself into the imposing white edifice of the Grand Masonic Lodge on West Twenty-third Street, near the rattling thunder of the Sixth Avenue El, and climbed the steps to a small office on the third floor. He¡¯d enjoyed a dinner out with his Brothers following a meeting on a charity endeavor they hoped to get under way. Now, by the soft glow of his banker¡¯s lamp, he worked up a proposal for the Grand Master to review.


    In the quiet of the office, he opened the jeweler¡¯s box secreted inside his jacket and brushed a finger across the cuff links nestled into the dark velvet. Tomorrow was Edward¡¯s birthday. He smiled, imagining Edward saying, ¡°What is this?¡± as he opened the box and beheld the fine workmanship of the cuff links, which featured a scrolled E, the initial they shared. He could practically feel Edward¡¯s sweet kiss on his lips. Edward, his great love; Edward, his great secret.

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    A sudden sound drew Eugene¡¯s attention¡ªa jovial whistling. He thought with consternation of old Mr. Saunders, who liked to drink and might have stumbled in.


    He called out: ¡°Saunders, old boy, is that you?¡±


    The whistling stopped. Satisfied, Eugene went back to his work. But a few moments later, there it was¡ªan irritating ditty echoing through the empty lodge. More than irritating¡­ uncomfortable. There was a telephone on the desk, and Eugene struggled with whether or not to call the police. How foolish would he feel if it turned out to be old Saunders after all? And how humiliating for Saunders, who was very close friends with the Grand Master himself. Why, Eugene might ruin his own standing in the Brotherhood and never rise above Junior Warden. No, he couldn¡¯t risk the taint of shame or ridicule. He¡¯d like to be Grand Master himself one day. Yes, better to handle this on his own. If he took care of this trouble with Saunders carefully, discreetly, the old man might take a shine to him. This was the sort of opportunity disguised as obstacle the inspirational books talked about! He would meet the challenge head-on. How proud Edward would be when he told him later.


    Again he called out: ¡°Saunders? Can you hear me?¡±


    Nothing but that damned whistling.


    Straightening his tie, Eugene Meriwether left the comfort of his desk and poked his head out of the office. At the far end of the darkened hall, golden, shimmering light spilled out from around the slightly open door of the Gothic Room. Curious, the Mason moved toward it, passing the framed portraits of departed Masonic brothers. As he walked the dim corridor, something in Eugene Meriwether¡¯s belly sounded a silent alarm that pulsed through his blood. Something that snaked back to his primitive ancestors and their need to huddle in caves around fires, the kind of warning that no amount of civilization could ever completely eradicate. He almost wished he had called the police, but his ambition kept him moving forward, toward the glowing room. He grabbed the knob and pushed open the door.


    Fire. The golden glow had come from a fire burning on the center altar. And as he tried to piece together what was happening¡ªA fire? In the Gothic Room? How?¡ªthe door slammed shut behind him. He pulled on the doorknob, his mind whirring with logical explanations: It¡¯s a prank. Some hooligans in need of a lesson. They¡¯ll be very, very sorry for this. Holding this door shut from the outside, they are. Youth today¡ªno respect. Hooligans, all.


    The whistling stopped. A deep, resonant voice echoed in the room. ¡° ¡®For they did not walk in the path of righteousness and lo, was the Lord¡¯s anger sorely provoked.¡¯ ¡±


    A dark shadow passed across the wall. It seemed at first glance to be the long shadow of a man. But as the shadow drew closer, it became clear that whatever lurked behind Eugene Meriwether was far from human.


    ¡° ¡®And for the seventh offering, it was commanded: Turn the heretics from the Temple of Solomon under the watchful eye of God and purify their sins with an offering of blood and fire. For there is no expiation of sin but by blood¡­.¡¯ ¡±


    Eugene Meriwether put a hand to his chest, feeling the furious beating of his heart beneath the small square box meant for Edward. Clinging to thoughts of his love, Eugene slowly turned. And as the walls began to whisper, he lost his footing on the precipice of reason and began the terrible fall into a hell beyond imagining.


    RECKONING


    Evie and Mabel spent the entire night in a cell of the city¡¯s notorious downtown jail, the Tombs, surrounded by drunken flappers, prostitutes, and a large woman who growled like a dog whenever anyone got too near. Mabel¡¯s mother arrived first, sweeping down the hall with her characteristic hauteur. ¡°I do hope you girls have had time to reflect upon your evening,¡± she said, but it was Evie she glared at and it was clear who she thought should shoulder the blame.


    ¡°So long, Evie,¡± Mabel said as her mother escorted her out. She looked like a prisoner being led to the electric chair without a last meal.


    By the time Uncle Will posted bail for Evie, it was just past seven o¡¯clock. They city was rumbling to life, another morning in Manhattan, as she and Will emerged onto White Street.


    ¡°I should have let you sit there longer,¡± Will snapped. He was walking so quickly that Evie could barely keep up. Her head thudded with each step.


    ¡°I¡¯m awfully sorry, Unc.¡±


    ¡°We had an agreement: I give you your freedom, and you keep out of trouble.¡±


    ¡°I know, and I feel like a real Dumb Dora, getting pinched like that.¡±


    Will wagged a finger. ¡°That is not the point, Evangeline. You deliberately disobeyed my quite reasonable request that you stay at home last night. You lied to me.¡±

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    ¡°I didn¡¯t lie, exactly¡­.¡±


    ¡°Sneaking away is lying.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but¡­ could you slow down, please, Unc? My head¡¯s killing me.¡± The morning sun made her eyes feel bruised.


    Uncle Will stopped near a newsstand and ran a hand through his hair. A street urchin waved a newspaper at him and he shooed the boy away. ¡°This was a terrible idea. I¡¯m a bachelor; I haven¡¯t a clue how to be a parent, or even an uncle.¡±


    ¡°That isn¡¯t true. You¡¯re terribly uncle-ish. Why, you¡¯re the most uncle-ish person I know.¡±


    ¡°Uncle-ish isn¡¯t a word.¡±


    ¡°Well, it should be. And it should have your picture beside it in the dictionary.¡±


    ¡°The charm won¡¯t work, Evie. I forbade you from going out last night for a very good reason. Yet, you chose to disregard my reasonable request.¡±


    ¡°Oh, but Unc¡ª¡±


    ¡°And I specifically warned you about getting into trouble, did I not? Well, I believe it¡¯s quite clear that this arrangement will not work.¡±


    ¡°Wh-what do you mean?¡± Evie asked. Her stomach had begun to hurt.


    ¡°It¡¯s best if you return to Ohio. I¡¯ll ring your mother tomorrow¡±¡ªhe looked at his watch¡ª¡°today, and make the arrangements.¡±


    ¡°But¡­ it¡¯s only the first time I¡¯ve been in trouble!¡± As soon as it was out of her mouth, Evie realized how ridiculous an argument it was¡ªalmost a promise of more trouble to come¡ªand she wished she could take it back. ¡°Please, Unc. I¡¯m very sorry. I won¡¯t ever disobey you again.¡±


    Will sagged against a lamppost. He was softening, she could tell, so she kept up her attack. ¡°I¡¯ll do anything. Sweep the floors. Dust the knickknacks. Make sandwiches every night. But please, please, please don¡¯t send me back.¡±


    ¡°I do not intend to have this discussion on White Street with someone who smells like a distillery. I will take you back to the Bennington and you may have a nap, and¡ªI might suggest¡ªa bath.¡±


    Evie gave her coat a sniff and grimaced.


    ¡°I will expect you at the museum at three o¡¯clock. I¡¯ll deliver my verdict then. Don¡¯t be late.¡±


    A long, hot bath washed the stench of the Tombs away, but despite her exhaustion, Evie was too nervous to sleep. Instead, she went to Mabel¡¯s flat and used her special knock.


    ¡°Hey, old girl. I¡¯m in trouble. Unc¡¯s threatening to send me back to Ohio because of last night, and I¡¯ve got to find a way to win him over. I think he was softening up a little, but maybe if you tell him that it was your idea he¡¯ll go easier on me, and yes, I know that¡¯s not entirely true, Pie Face, but this is absolument an emergency of the first order and¡­ gee, Mabesie, aren¡¯t you going to invite me in?¡±


    With a furtive glance into the apartment behind her, Mabel slipped into the hallway and shut the door.


    ¡°Uh-oh. I know that face. What aren¡¯t you telling me? Did somebody die?¡±


    ¡°Mother blames you for my arrest. She¡¯s banned you from the house,¡± Mabel said.


    Evie¡¯s mouth opened in outrage. ¡°Your mother¡¯s been arrested more times than I have!¡±


    ¡°For the cause. She thinks getting arrested for drinking in a nightclub is amoral and a sign of capitalist greed,¡± Mabel whispered. ¡°She says you¡¯re a bad influence.¡±


    ¡°Golly, I hope so. Tell your mother that if it weren¡¯t for me you¡¯d still be wearing black stockings and reading dire Russian novels about doomed aristocrats.¡±


    Mabel lifted her chin. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with Anna Karenina?¡±


    ¡°Everything from A to enina. Oh, look, Pie Face, just let me in, and I¡¯ll charm her.¡±


    ¡°Evie, don¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°Five minutes of a sob story about how I¡¯m a product of middle-class bourgeois values lost in the machinery of a corrupt world and she¡¯ll be organizing a rally on my behalf¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you ever know when to stop?¡± Mabel snapped. ¡°You¡¯re so selfish sometimes, Evie! It¡¯s all a game to you¡ªand you want to rig it in your favor all the time, and damn what anybody else wants.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not true, Mabel!¡±


    ¡°It isn¡¯t? I wanted to leave last night¡­.¡±


    ¡°But then you would¡¯ve missed out on all the fun. And once you got home, you¡¯d grumble that you should¡¯ve stayed. You¡¯d regret it. I know you, Mabesie¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡± Mabel shot back.

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    Evie felt slapped. She¡¯d just wanted Mabel to get out from under her mother¡¯s control and kick up her heels. To live it up like a real swell. Hadn¡¯t she?


    ¡°I¡¯ve had enough, Evie. I¡¯m tired, and I¡¯m going back to bed.¡±


    Evie took in a shaky breath. ¡°Mabesie, I¡­ I didn¡¯t think¡­.¡±


    ¡°You never do. That¡¯s the trouble.¡±


    On the other side of the door, Mrs. Rose¡¯s voice rang out. ¡°Mabel, darling? Where are you?¡±


    ¡°Coming,¡± Mabel called. She went back inside and shut the door.


    Evie stared at the door for a moment longer. She used her secret knock again, but Mabel still didn¡¯t answer, so she left to meet with Will. On the walk to the museum, Evie tried to shrug off her fight with Mabel, but doing so proved impossible. She and Mabel had never had a fight. And Mabel¡¯s words stung. That was what other people, the dim-witted Normas of the world, said about her. But not Mabel. Not her best friend.


    In the museum, Evie heard voices. Jericho was showing a rare couple of visitors the collection in his quiet, scholarly way, a twin of Will. The couple looked bored. ¡°Can these doodads haunt you if you touch them?¡± the woman asked.


    ¡°Oh, no. They¡¯re quite harmless,¡± she heard Jericho answer. It was a missed opportunity. If Evie had been giving the tour, she¡¯d have made up a story they¡¯d never forget, something to keep them coming back.


    Sam breezed past her in the long hallway, on his way to the collections room. He smiled brightly. ¡°Hey, sister, glad to see your uncle sprang you from the clink.¡±


    Evie scowled. ¡°You left me there in that club, you fink. Very unchivalrous of you.¡±


    ¡°You weren¡¯t thinking of me when you shimmied into that dumbwaiter by yourself. Don¡¯t pretend you¡¯re better than I am, Sheba. You got a little thief in you, too.¡±


    Evie slammed the door on Sam and sat in Will¡¯s office awaiting her fate. What if Will really did decide to send her home? She hadn¡¯t allowed herself to really think about it; she just assumed she¡¯d win him over. Now that thought crawled under her skin and left her feeling unsettled.


    At precisely one minute before three o¡¯clock, Will marched in. He hung his hat and coat on the coatrack and took his time taking off his gloves while Evie squirmed in the silence. At last he settled into his wingback chair behind the desk, templed his fingers, and fixed her with a pensive stare. Evie swallowed. The saliva caught in her throat and she suppressed a cough.


    ¡°Your mother was at a luncheon at her club when I telephoned earlier. I¡¯ve left a message that she should ring me back. There¡¯s a train to Zenith tomorrow evening. You will be on it.¡±


    Evie gasped. ¡°Oh, Unc, please. You can¡¯t send me home. Not yet.¡± She could feel the tears burning at the corners of her eyes.


    ¡°What¡¯s done is done.¡± Will rubbed the bridge of his nose. ¡°It was foolish of me to think that I could take this on. I¡¯m an old bachelor, set in my ways.¡±


    ¡°No, you¡¯re not,¡± Evie said, sniffling. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Everything will be the berries. You¡¯ll see. Just give me another chance. Please,¡± Evie¡¯s voice thinned to a whispery pleading.


    ¡°My decision is final, Evangeline,¡± Will said gently, and his sympathy was worse than his anger. ¡°You¡¯ll be better off back at home with your friends.¡±


    ¡°No, I won¡¯t.¡± Evie wiped the backs of her hands across her cheeks, but the tears kept falling.


    Will was making a speech, something about having been young and careless once, the sort of thing old-timers said when they issued a deathblow, as if they thought their sanctimonious ramblings disguised as empathy would be welcomed, but Evie was only half listening. She¡¯d never told him about the object reading, she realized. He didn¡¯t know. He didn¡¯t know what she could do¡ªthat she might be able to use her skills to help him find the Pentacle Killer. After all, she¡¯d gotten a glimpse from Ruta Badowski¡¯s shoe buckle. Maybe what she¡¯d heard wasn¡¯t so irrelevant after all.


    ¡°There¡¯s something I need to tell you,¡± Evie blurted out, interrupting Will¡¯s soliloquy on responsibility. ¡°I never told you what happened back in Zenith. The trouble I got into.¡±


    ¡°Something about a party game and slander,¡± Will said. ¡°Your mother told¡ª¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t a party game.¡±


    ¡°Really, Evie, there¡¯s no need¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, there is. Please.¡±


    Will relented and Evie summoned her courage.

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    ¡°The night of the party, I got into trouble for divining. I believe I may be a Diviner, Unc, like Liberty Anne Rathbone. And if I¡¯m right, I could use my powers to help you solve this case.¡±


    Will stared at her openmouthed, but Evie didn¡¯t give him a chance to say anything just yet.


    ¡°Do you remember at the first murder scene, when I was ill?¡± Evie said, her words coming in a rush. ¡°It wasn¡¯t the sight of that girl, though it was gruesome. There was a buckle that had come loose from her shoe. I simply wanted to put it back, to make something¡­ right. I must have been holding it very tightly¡ªtighter than I meant to¡ªand¡­¡± Evie let out a whoosh of breath. ¡°I saw things. Just from holding something of hers.¡±


    Will¡¯s sympathy had hardened into a tight-lipped disgust. ¡°I suspected this would be a ploy on your part to remain in New York, but I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d stoop so low as to capitalize on the murders of two innocent¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to tell you something important!¡± Evie practically shouted, stunning him into silence. ¡°Please. Just give me five minutes of your time. That¡¯s all I ask.¡±


    Will flipped open his pocket watch. ¡°Very well. You have five minutes of my time, starting¡­ now.¡±


    This was it. If she couldn¡¯t convince Uncle Will, she¡¯d be on the first train back to Ohio. She needed to give him proof.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be quicker if I just show you. Let me have something of yours¡ªa handkerchief or hat. And don¡¯t tell me anything about it.¡±


    ¡°Evie,¡± Uncle Will said with a sigh. Evie knew that sigh. It was often paired with her name and disappointment, and she had to fight the tears that wanted to come. Because why should he take her seriously? The party girl, the flapper with the ready quip and the closet full of rhinestones and embroidered stockings.


    ¡°Please, Unc,¡± she said softly. ¡°Please.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡± Uncle Will looked around before settling on a glove. ¡°Here. You have exactly four and a half minutes left.¡±


    Evie pressed the glove between her palms and concentrated. The tick-tick-tick of the second hand on Will¡¯s watch was distracting. She tried to block it out and concentrate on the glove, but there was nothing, and the first cold fingers of panic seized her.


    ¡°Three minutes,¡± Will said.


    Evie gritted her teeth. She didn¡¯t understand how or why her object reading worked, only that it did¡ªin its own way, and in its own time.


    ¡°Two and a half minutes remaining¡­¡±


    Images unspooled slowly for Evie now. ¡°These were in a bin at Woolworth¡¯s, marked down to seventy-eight cents. It was cold that day and you¡¯d lost one glove of the last pair. You¡¯ve lost the right glove of this one, too. You keep taking it off and forgetting it.¡±


    Evie opened her eyes. Will was still looking at his watch. ¡°That could be a lucky guess. Or cleverness. Gloves at Woolworth¡¯s at that price aren¡¯t uncommon. You often observe me misplacing my right one. Not proof. One minute remaining.¡±


    Evie was tired and desperate and more than a little angry. She closed her eyes again. This time, the scene was strong. She saw a laughing woman with dark hair and eyes, her hands encased in a fur muff. ¡° ¡®That¡¯s you all over, William. Always a glove short,¡¯ ¡± Evie repeated after the woman.


    ¡°Stop,¡± Will said coldly, but Evie was truly there now. She could almost sense the wind. A much younger Will wobbled on ice skates while the pretty woman laughed. Evie smiled unconsciously.


    ¡°I can see her. She¡¯s standing by an ice rink¡­ in a dark green coat¡­ in the snow¡­.¡±


    ¡°Stop, Evie.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s very pretty and¡­ and she¡¯s happy¡­ so very happy¡­ it might be the happiest day of her li¡ª¡±


    Will yanked the glove from Evie¡¯s hands hard, startling her. He loomed over her, red-cheeked and angry. ¡°I said stop!¡± he thundered.


    Evie turned and ran from the museum, ignoring Sam as he called out after her.


    GOD IS DEAD


    Evie walked the streets of the city until she was too tired to continue. In Central Park, she found a bench by the pond and sat to watch a rowboat with two couples in it. They laughed easily, enjoying the day¡¯s sun. They seemed carefree and unbothered, and Evie hated them for it. She¡¯d hoped Uncle Will of all people would understand. Evie wiped her tears with the back of her hand. Ordinarily, she¡¯d go to Mabel for comfort. But that was out of the question, and Evie felt lost and alone.

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    She wandered back to the Bennington and climbed the stairs to the roof, where she sat with the pigeons. She had that coiled tightness ballooning in her chest, like her skin was on too tight. Like she¡¯d come around a blind corner, and every demon she kept at bay had been there waiting. Will lectured about belief in the supernatural, but the only ghosts that frightened Evie were the very real ghosts inside her. Some mornings, she¡¯d wake and vow, Today, I will get it right. I won¡¯t be such an awful mess of a girl. I won¡¯t lose my temper or make unkind remarks. I won¡¯t go too far with a joke and feel the room go quiet with disapproval. I¡¯ll be good and kind and sensible and patient. The sort everyone loves. But by evening, her good intentions would have unraveled. She¡¯d say the wrong thing or talk a little too loudly. She¡¯d take a dare she shouldn¡¯t, just to be noticed. Perhaps Mabel was right, and she was selfish. But what was the point of living so quietly you made no noise at all? ¡°Oh, Evie, you¡¯re too much,¡± people said, and it wasn¡¯t complimentary. Yes, she was too much. She felt like too much inside all the time.


    So why wasn¡¯t she ever enough?


    Evie stared at the long columns of windows cut into the building across the street. So many windows. Who lived behind them? Were they happy? Or did they sometimes sit on a rooftop haunted by a deep loneliness for which there seemed to be no cure?


    The door creaked open on its hinges and Jericho angled his broad shoulders through the opening. ¡°Thought I might find you here. What happened with your uncle Will?¡±


    Evie turned her face away and wiped her eyes. ¡°I stirred the tea counterclockwise.¡±


    Jericho slid down the wall, keeping a respectable distance between them. ¡°You don¡¯t have to tell me.¡±


    Evie said nothing. To the south, the sun glinted off the steel tip of a building. Smoke belched from rooftop chimneys in fat, sooty puffs. A billboard advertised Wrigley¡¯s Spearmint Gum in giant iron letters. On the roof¡¯s edge, the pigeons arched their necks, hunting for food.


    ¡°You asked me about how I came to live with your uncle Will. I didn¡¯t answer you right away,¡± Jericho started. He pulled a heel of bread from his pocket and unwrapped it.


    ¡°No, you didn¡¯t,¡± Evie said. Once, she¡¯d been very curious about that. She couldn¡¯t see that it mattered now, with her expulsion imminent. But she was grateful to Jericho for coming after her, for trying to comfort her in his way. She just wanted him to keep talking. ¡°Will you tell me now?¡±


    He squinted in the sun. ¡°I was raised on a farm in Pennsylvania. Cows and pastures. Rolling farmland. Mornings seem newly born there. It¡¯s about as far from here as you can get.¡±


    ¡°Sounds swell,¡± Evie said, hoping her words didn¡¯t sound as hollow as they felt.


    Jericho waited for a spell, as if gathering words. ¡°There was an epidemic. Infantile paralysis. It took my sister first. And then I woke up with a fever. By the time they got me to the hospital in Philadelphia, I couldn¡¯t feel my legs and arms, and I was having trouble breathing. I was nine.¡±


    As he spoke, Jericho tore the bread into tiny pieces, which he tossed onto the flat tar roof for the birds, who swarmed the food.


    ¡°They put me in a machine, a prototype of something they were working on called an iron lung. It breathes for you. Of course, you¡¯re trapped inside it¡ªlike a metal coffin. I spent whole days staring up at the ceiling, watching the light from the windows behind me shift like a sundial. My mother would come up from Lancaster by horse and wagon every Sunday and pray for me. But there¡¯s a lot to do on a farm, and there were two other children back home and another on the way. Soon it was every other Sunday. Then she just stopped coming.¡± Jericho broke up more of the bread and tossed it into the scrum of squawking birds. ¡°I told myself it was the snow¡ªshe couldn¡¯t possibly get to Philadelphia on the roads. I told myself a hundred lies. Children do that. It¡¯s amazing the sorts of things you¡¯ll make yourself believe.¡±


    Evie wasn¡¯t sure what she should say, so she kept quiet and watched the birds clustering around the food, fighting for it.


    ¡°Then I heard a bird chirping on the windowsill, signaling spring. I knew that if the bird could get there, so could she. I knew the minute I heard that bird outside my window that she wasn¡¯t coming back. Even before the doctors told me my parents had signed the papers that made me a ward of the state, I knew.¡±


    Jericho wiped his hands on his handkerchief.


    ¡°How could your parents just leave you?¡± Evie asked after a while.


    ¡°Invalids don¡¯t grow up to work plows or threshing machines. I was beyond their care. And they had other mouths to feed.¡±

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    ¡°How can you forgive them so easily?¡±


    ¡°What would not forgiving them do for me?¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯re strong and healthy now. How¡­?¡±


    Jericho tossed a small rock from the roof with a baseball player¡¯s power. ¡°They tried something new. I was lucky; it worked. And after some time, I recovered.¡±


    ¡°Why, that¡¯s a miracle!¡±


    ¡°There are no miracles,¡± he said. His face was unreadable. ¡°Will agreed to be my guardian. He needed an assistant, and I needed a home. He¡¯s a good man. Better than most.¡±


    ¡°He only cares about his work and that damned museum,¡± Evie said, not caring that she swore.


    ¡°That isn¡¯t true. I don¡¯t know what happened today, but he was awfully worried. Talk to him, Evie.¡±


    Evie wanted to tell Jericho what had happened, but she couldn¡¯t seem to open herself to scrutiny again.


    ¡°He¡¯s already made up his mind to send me back to Ohio,¡± Evie said. ¡°Perhaps if I were a ghost he¡¯d listen.¡±


    ¡°There are no such things as ghosts, either. But don¡¯t tell your uncle that,¡± Jericho said. It made Evie smile for a moment.


    She knew she should start packing, but she wanted to forestall the inevitable just a little longer, to etch the skyline of the city forever in her mind. It had been a wonderful few weeks. It was a shame it was over.


    Jericho took out his dog-eared book, and Evie nodded to it. ¡°May I?¡±


    Jericho handed it over, and Evie read from the bookmarked page: ¡° ¡®God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?¡¯ ¡± Evie narrowed her eyes at him. ¡°You sure know how to have a good time, don¡¯t you?¡± She handed it back to him. ¡°Will you read to me?¡±


    ¡°You want me to read Nietzsche to you?¡±


    ¡°The way I¡¯m feeling, it couldn¡¯t hurt.¡±


    Jericho cleared his throat and found his place. ¡° ¡®What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: Who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves¡­¡¯ ¡±


    Jericho¡¯s voice lulled Evie. She watched the sun glint off the side of a water tower on the roof of a building to the west. Nearby, the pigeons hopped about in their constant quest for food.


    ¡° ¡®What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°Jericho, have they tried your miracle cure on anyone else?¡±


    ¡°I told you,¡± Jericho said. ¡°There are no miracles.¡±


    A STAY OF EXECUTION


    Will returned home around suppertime and summoned Evie to his office. He sat stiffly in his chair, fidgeting with an unlit cigarette. The radio played softly.


    ¡°Evangeline, I shouldn¡¯t have lost my temper earlier. I apologize.¡±


    Evie shrugged. ¡°Everybody gets sore sometimes.¡±


    ¡°It took me rather by surprise, I¡¯m afraid.¡± Will lit the Chesterfield in his hand. He dragged on it, then blew out a thin stream of smoke. ¡°Tell me more about this talent of yours.¡±


    ¡°It started two years ago, when the dreams about James began.¡±


    ¡°Your brother, James?¡±


    ¡°No. James the doorman,¡± Evie snapped, and instantly regretted it. The last thing she needed to do was to aggravate Will.


    ¡°There was no antecedent. I¡¯m a curator and scholar. I must have sourcing,¡± Will said matter-of-factly. ¡°How did you come to discover it?¡±


    ¡°The first time, it was a brooch of Mother¡¯s. I wanted to wear it, but she wouldn¡¯t let me. She¡¯d left it on her dressing table, and I picked it up, but I couldn¡¯t seem to work up the nerve to pin it to my dress. I kept turning it over in my hands, and I got the funniest feeling. The brooch felt warm. My hands warmed, too, and my palms tingled.¡± Evie paused. She¡¯d wanted to talk about it, but now she felt exposed.


    ¡°Go on. What did you see? Were you privy to only an hour of the object¡¯s history, or could you see back farther? Did it come on you as more of a feeling, a suggestion, or did you feel as if you were with the person, living that moment?¡±


    ¡°So¡­ you believe me?¡±


    Will nodded. ¡°I believe you.¡±


    Evie sat forward, hopeful. ¡°It was just like sitting at the picture show, but a picture show where the projector light isn¡¯t terribly strong. It was only a moment. I could see Mother sitting at her dressing table, and I could feel what she had been feeling when she¡¯d worn the brooch.¡±