Spirits in the Park (4 page)

“No!” Soka replied. “Mother told us not to trust Tackapausha, especially with Rory.” She grabbed Rory's arm protectively, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Well, she is wrong,” Tammand insisted. “And I will not bow to family over my sachem any longer. You are coming with me, Sabbeleu.”

Despite Soka's grip on his arm, Rory had no illusions about her protection. Tammand was bigger and stonger than he was, and Rory knew he was in a lot of trouble. He should have listened to Sooleawa's warning, he thought as Tammand reached out to grab his other arm. She'd been right after all.

And that was when the ground began to shake.

Rory fell backward, wrenching out of the grip of both Munsees as he fell to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two siblings stumble as well, reaching for the elm to steady themselves as the ground vibrated like the floor of a fun house. Screams floated by from elsewhere in the park as the world continued to move. A crack and a crash sounded behind him, but Rory didn't turn to look. He gritted his teeth and waited for the shaking to pass.

And pass it did, finally, leaving Rory shaken but unhurt. Glancing around, he caught sight of the origin of the crash; the large elm had toppled to the ground. If it had tilted in a different direction, he realized with a shudder, it would have landed right on top of him. Rory pushed himself to his feet and staggered over to Soka, who remained kneeling where she fell. Tammand lay nearby, stunned.

“Are you all right?” Rory asked, still trying to catch his breath. Looking up with wild eyes, Soka climbed unsteadily to her feet, clinging to him for balance.

“Go!” she hissed in his ear. “You must! Before Tammand gets his wits about him again.” Her lips were so close it almost felt like a kiss. Rory glanced guiltily over at Tammand; the older boy was staggering to his feet, slowly regaining his balance. Rory touched the cheek where her breath had caressed him, imagining that the skin felt warmer there. Then he shook himself out of his stupor.

“Good-bye,” he said, backing away. Soka watched him retreat, already regaining her composure as she waved a hand in farewell, while her brother finally found his footing. Seizing the last of his moment, Rory turned before Tammand could stop him and dove through the brush, trying to get away as fast as he could.

T
he man in the fedora climbed up out of the manhole, brushing the dirt off his nicely tailored suit. The earthquake had surprised even him, but he knew what it meant. They were just about out of time. He'd designed the Trap to be opened, and opened it must be. What happened after, that was the worry now. He had hoped to avoid resorting to drastic measures, but circumstances pushed him. He'd wanted to spare Rory; they all did. But he no longer had a choice.

The man in the fedora began to stroll down the street, surrounded by the confusion left in the earthquake's wake. He prayed the Light was strong enough for what was to come. He could only hope that one day Rory would find it in his heart to forgive him for what he was about to do.

I'm sorry, kiddo, he thought, then pushed the regret out of his head. He had work to do, and little time to do it.

Rory burst out onto the path, running full speed toward the street entrance. Leaves covered the walkway, and fallen branches blocked his path as he ran. Finally, the exit came into view. Breathing a sigh of relief, he swept through the opening in the wall and out onto the street. But that relief was short-lived as he took in the crazy scene around him.

Cars had run up onto the sidewalks all along Central Park West, slamming into street signs and lampposts, and one another. Smoke rose steadily from their ruined, still-sputtering engines. People were pouring out of the buildings, looking bewildered and frightened. Tree branches lay strewn all over the sidewalks, as did pieces of stone fallen from the buildings lining the street. Everywhere Rory looked confusion reigned. Big earthquakes were supposed to happen to Los Angeles and San Francisco, not New York City.

A loud bark warned him to brace himself before Tucket barreled into him, jumping up to try to lick his face. Then the tawny dog noticed something near Rory's feet and his tail began to wag at supersonic speed.

“Keep that monster away from me!” a voice cried. Glancing down, Rory spied a gigantic cockroach by his feet, trying to hide behind his ankle. A shiver ran down his spine, even as he recognized the battle roach. A huge insect will do that to you.

“Sergeant Kiffer?” Rory bent over to give the battle roach a hand to escape into. He had to resist his instinctual urge to fling the roach into the bushes. Tucket tried to leap up and lick the roach, and Rory had to fight to keep the spirit dog down. “Have you been following me?”

“What did you think, we'd let the last Light on Manhattan Island run around willy-nilly?” The roach's voice dripped with disdain. “What kind of protectors of the future of Mannahatta would we be if did that? We know that you've been hiding in Central Park. I don't know why Fritz allows it. I tell him over and over that you'll be a spoiled brat with no discipline if he keeps babying you like this. But he never listens . . .”

“Babying me?” Rory didn't know what the large roach was talking about. He'd met Sergeant Kiffer and the other members of Fritz's patrol a few times over the last month, but he didn't know any of them particularly well. “What do you mean?”

“Look, once you're safe, then we can gab all night long like two schoolgirls if you want,” Kiffer said. “But right now I'm gonna take you to McCool's.”

Rory shook his head. “No, I've got to go home and check on my sister and my mom.”

“And how will you get home? The subways must be closed. And look at the streets. No bus or cab will be running for a while, trust me.”

“Then I'll walk.”

“It's too dangerous. We have to get you off the streets and MacCool's is the closest friendly place. I don't know why the world almost shook itself to death, but chances are it has something to do with you, and I won't be the roach who lets you get killed on his watch, you hear me? We need to get you to a safe place, right now.”

“I know they're looking for me,” Rory said. “But is it really that bad? They haven't gotten close yet, right?”

“We've taken down at least ten assassins in the past month,” Sergeant Kiffer replied. “The last few came a hairbreadth from doing their jobs. If not for the M'Garoth patrol boys, you'd be dead right now.”

Rory was shocked. He'd really been that close to death? And he'd thought he was so clever, hiding in the park. He was shaken, badly, and Sergeant Kiffer seemed to notice.

“Come on, kid,” Kiffer said, softer this time. “Let's get you inside.”

The earthquake shocked Manhattan from its heat-induced daze. Frightened people wandered the streets, taking in the fallen masonry and downed lampposts with bewilderment. Sirens rang throughout the streets as fires sprang up all over the city. There were people pinned under fallen rubble and people trapped in unstable old buildings and people just terrified because the shifting ground had destroyed the illusion of permanence they'd enjoyed all their lives.

On one street corner, a five-car pileup had attracted a large, frightened crowd. The fire trucks were on their way, the people were told, though the damage across the city had spread the firefighters far too thin to rely on them for a prompt response. Most of the victims had been pulled away from the crash, but the car on the bottom was compressed so much that no one could get the doors open. A woman and her young child pressed against the car window, frantically beating against their jammed door, desperate for rescue. The people around the car tried to help, but they were running out of time; it would take only one spark to light the gas currently dripping from four gas tanks. A small fire had already sprung up; it was only a matter of time before the pool of gas forming beneath lit up like a Roman candle.

And then the figure appeared, shrouded in a hooded sweatshirt, leaping through the crowd to dive into the fire.

Through the smoke, onlookers could see the figure yanking at the door to the car that held the mother and daughter prisoner. They peered in intently, trying to catch a glimpse of a face. But the smoke was too thick, enveloping the figure in secrecy.

Suddenly, to everyone's shock, the figure somehow tore the car door off its hinges entirely. Reaching in, the figure helped pull the mother and daughter out of the car, carrying them through the fire to safety, where they collapsed into each other's arms. Then the figure was gone, disappearing into the cloud of smoke. No one had caught a good look at the rescuer; but some of the folks on the edges of the crowd thought they heard a voice as the figure raced by.

“I'd like to see Barbie do that!”

McCool's proved to be a small wooden structure nestled in the midst of towering skyscrapers. Smoke wafted from a rusted iron pipe in the roof, and the sound of animated conversation drifted out from inside. Rory had just reached his relieved mother on her cell via pay phone and he'd promised to meet her at home; she was slowly making her way up Broadway and he'd much rather be walking north with her than entering into this broken-down shack. But acknowledging that he did not know everything that was going on, he bit his tongue and followed Sergeant Kiffer inside.

The interior made good on the exterior's promises; this place was a dive. Dimly lit by oil lamps on the wall, the old tavern was filled with shoddy, broken-down tables and chairs and dominated by one long bar that looked as if it hadn't been cleaned since the War of 1812. Behind the bar, manned by a large fellow with red hair and redder cheeks, sat barrels of whiskey with tubes coming out of the spigots. These tubes carried the whiskey directly into the mouths of the customers at the bar. Why waste money on glasses, Sergeant Kiffer explained, when they'd only get thrown at the bartender anyway.

Every seat in the place was filled, and then some, by the most disreputable spirits in all of Mannahatta. Nineteenth-century gang members in top hats and dirty jackets, members of the fire brigades of two centuries earlier, notorious for fighting among themselves for the right to fight the fire, while the buildings in jeapordy merrily burned down around them, and shady sailors on shore leave from the clippers that sailed into the mist beyond the harbor. They all turned to watch as Rory entered, throwing him evil, calculating looks before returning to their conversations.

“Friendly place?” Rory muttered to Kiffer. “This place couldn't be any seedier if it sold orphans.”

“What are you talking about?” Sergeant Kiffer scoffed. “These are my boys! Big Mickey!”

The bartender, whom Kiffer introduced as Big Mickey Connolly, owner of McCool's, gave Kiffer a nod of welcome.

“Need anything, just holler,” Big Mickey told Rory before moving down the bar to tend to his customers. He stopped to speak to a group of brightly dressed sailors led by a short man whose deep brown skin was covered in colorful tattoos. The tattooed man noticed Rory watching him and gave him a knowing wink and a smile. Rory quickly looked away, disturbed.

“I think we should go,” Rory whispered to Kiffer.

“I already sent word to Fritz that we'd wait here, so we're gonna sit tight till he shows up,” Kiffer said, yanking on his helmet. “Stupid helmet must have been dented in the fight this morning. Ah! There we are!”

Sergeant Kiffer finally managed to free his helmet, lifting it off with a relieved sigh. Rory had seen this before, but he still had to stifle a laugh. Though Kiffer's armor was giant, the roach inside was actually no bigger than any other battle roach. The small human head on the huge body gave the effect of two very different-size action figures glued together by a sadistic third grader. Rory tried to be subtle.