Spirits in the Park (8 page)

“Right back at ya!” Bridget exclaimed. “I was worried!”

“She's not the only one,” a new voice said.

Rory twirled around to see a rat scamper into the living room. Upon its back, holding a pair of reins like a medieval knight, sat a cockroach. Fritz M'Garoth, battle roach and rat-rider, took off his roach helmet to reveal his pink human face.

“Someone has something to say to you,” Fritz said, nodding behind him. Sergeant Kiffer trudged in, head hung low, holding his helmet between his top hands.

“Kiffer, what do you say?” Fritz prompted him.

“I'm sorry I almost got you kidnapped by pirates,” Kiffer recited, looking miserable.

“It's okay, I got away,” Rory said. Fritz shook his head violently.

“It's not okay. We have to be careful who we trust, and Kiffer was definetly not careful. At least Big Mickey wasn't working for Kieft, or you'd probably be dead.”

“Who was he working for, then?” Rory asked.

“He has a deal with the sailors,” Fritz explained. “It used to happen a lot around the time of the Civil War. Bar owners built those trapdoors into their back rooms in order to hijack a young guy newly arrived in the city. They'd get him drunk, put him in that room to sleep it off, pull the trapdoor, and let an unscrupulous captain's men take him away to their ship, where he'd be wake up so far out to sea he'd have no choice but to work as a sailor. You came this close to waking up on a boat in the middle of the ocean.” He glared at Kiffer, who looked like he wanted to die.

“Well, I'm fine, Fritz,” Rory said, feeling bad for the huge roach. “Oh, stop that!” This last sentence was directed at Tucket, who was whining and trying to hide behind Rory at the sight of Clarence, Fritz's rat. The first time Tucket met Clarence, he tried to play with the rat like a chew toy. One well-timed swipe at his snout had quickly taught the dog to leave a trained fighting rat alone. “Maybe I was meant to end up at sea. Apparently being a sailor runs in the family.”

“What are you talking about?” Bridget asked. “Granddad sold insurance.”

So he told them what he'd learned about his father from Giovanni da Verrazano.

“Do you know who these Two's Boys are?” he asked Fritz.

“Never heard of them,” the battle roach said. “If they were sailors, perhaps the docks are the best place to look.”

Bridget's face had lit up, as Rory feared it would.

“I knew it.” Her eyes were shining. “He's probably lost at sea. We have to go find him!”

“Bridge, we're not running after him just because he's a sailor,” Rory explained, determined to nip his sister's romantic dream in the bud. “It doesn't change anything. Who cares if he's in Mannahatta or Madagascar? He still left us. We have too many other worries. The city is falling to pieces around us.”

“You never want to see him again!” Bridget shouted, stamping her foot in anger. “You think he's as bad as Kieft! Well, you don't know any more about him than I do. At least I want to find out. You stick your head in the sand like a stupid emu!”

“Ostrich,” Rory corrected her. She balled her hands into fists and shook them in frustration as her eyes teared up.

“You're such a know-it-all! You don't know anything!”

“Children, children, enough,” Fritz scolded them. “Look, we'll do some digging, see what we can find out about these Two's Boys down at the port. We won't ignore it, Bridget, I promise. But Rory's got a point: right now we've got bigger problems than your dad. This earthquake may just be the beginning of something really, really bad. I need you both to meet us down at the Dyckman farmhouse tonight. Can you do that?”

They both nodded, not looking at each other. Sergeant Kiffer snorted.

“Try not to kill each other on the walk over.” He smirked.

“Kiffer, shush,” Fritz said, giving him a warning look before turning back to the Hessessy children. “So meet us at midnight . . .”

Suddenly the television flicked off, along with every light in the room. The air conditioner, which had sputtered along in the background all summer long, cut out, covering the room in an eerie blanket of silence. Rory ran to the window and saw that the streetlamps, which should have been turning on with the onset of evening, were all dark. It could only mean one thing . . . a blackout.

Fritz sighed.

“. . . and bring a flashlight.”

DADDY ISSUES

E
verything about William “Boss” Tweed was big. At more than six feet tall, he towered over most of the men of his day. His belly was round, his nose was bulbous, his beard grew long and thick. And then there were his deeds: Boss Tweed lived as big as he looked. At one point, he ran all of nineteenth-century Manhattan as the head of one of the most corrupt political machines in history: Tammany Hall. And no one in Tammany Hall was more corrupt than Boss Tweed. He stole money right from under the noses of the citizens of New York, throwing it around on mansions and extravagant vacations as if daring anyone to catch him. But catch him they did, sending him to prison, where he died, penniless.

So it is understandable that Tweed did not enjoy making his way down the dark corridors of another prison: the infamous Tombs. He cursed as he stumbled along the tiny black hallway, scrunching his big body up to keep from bumping his head on the ceiling or touching the dirty walls as he headed toward the area where the Council of Twelve housed the most dangerous criminals. He wished to be at home in his beautiful mansion, where every comfort awaited him. He was a god, Tweed thought peevishly. The God of Rabble Politics. He sat on the Council of Twelve! He was no errand boy for Kieft to order around. But the First Adviser was hard to refuse; he made it very clear whose side you wanted to be on. Tweed knew the benefits of backing the right horse; he'd made a career of being the right horse. So when one of Kieft's possessed spirits showed up at his office in Five Points, eyes rolling around in terror as the rest of its body did what Kieft told it to, Tweed listened. The spirit, a waiter of some kind by his outfit, had sent him here, to the most notorious prison in the history of New York, and now Tweed hurried past the dank cells holding their forgotten prisoners, hoping to fulfill his task quickly and be home for supper.

Finally, he stopped in front of a cell door, a large slab of iron with a single slit cut out at the height of a man's eyes. Peering in, Tweed spied a dark shape in the corner. He'd have to be careful; he knew this spirit from before, knew what the murdering madman was capable of, and the moment he let his guard down he would regret it. I could be smoking a cigar right now, Tweed thought ruefully, resting in my comfortable den, instead of standing ankle-deep in dirty water about to let a madman loose on the city. The things he did for his “friends” . . .

“Who's out there?” a voice rasped from the corner of the cell. “Declare yourself or I'll rip out yer eyeballs, so help me.”

“As charming as ever, Bill,” Tweed answered drily.

“Tweed? That you?” The dark form stirred, unfolding into a tall figure. “Come to gloat, you fat bastard?”

“Come now, be civil, Bill. I am your friend, and as your friend, I resent that you would believe that of me. I'm here to help.”

“Help me?” The figure's voice was incredulous. “Where was you a hundred years ago, when they buried me down here? Where was you then?”

“Now, Bill, you were caught red-handed cutting the throats of a pair of harmless house spirits.” Tweed shuddered to remember it. Not a pretty sight, what Bill did to those poor things.

“So what?” Bill answered belligerently from the shadows. “They was a pair a' dirty immigrants, not fit to breathe the American air. I was takin' back the city for the true natives!”

You mean the Indians? Tweed thought with a smirk, but he didn't say a word. William Poole's hatred of non-Anglo-Saxon Americans was legendary and not to be trifled with.

“What do you want, anyhow?” Bill continued.

“I have a job for you,” Tweed answered. “In return I'll give you your freedom. Deal?”

“What's the job?” Bill asked suspiciously.

“There's a boy, a special boy. His name is Rory Hennessy. The First Adviser wants the boy kidnapped and brought to him.”

“Can I have my cleavers?” Bill asked hungrily.

“You're not to kill him, Bill!” Tweed admonished. “I won't have you slitting any unauthorized throats, hear me?”

“I won't harm a hair on his Irish head,” Bill promised, though his rough voice didn't sound convincing. “He is Irish, right? Hennessy? Sure sounds it . . .”

“No killing! Just kidnapping. Anyone in his presence, however . . . with them you may have all the fun you wish.”

“Then you'll give me my cleavers, yeah?” Bill stepped eagerly into the light, his gaunt face practically skeletal beneath his large, greased mustache. “I can't do the job without 'em.”

“I have them right here for you,” Tweed promised, though his stomach tightened at the thought of loosing Bill the Butcher onto the city with his cleavers and no one to hold him back. But he'd been told to free William Poole, so free him Tweed would. He could only hope Kieft knew what he was doing.

Tweed unlocked the cell, and Bill stumbled out. Tweed reluctantly handed over several rusty old cleavers, which Bill loving caressed, his greedy eyes shining in the torchlight. Then Tweed stepped aside as Bill swept by him to disappear into the shadows of the tunnel leading to the exit. Tweed watched him go with a heavy heart before turning to walk deeper into the prison. He had one more stop to make before his night was through.

The area of the Tombs he moved through now was even dingier than the rest of the prison, if that were possible. The narrowing passage worried him; what if he reached a point where he could not go farther? Dare he go back to Kieft with only part of his duty discharged? He could not turn back, he knew. Not now.

He finally came upon another iron door. This one sported no eye slit, however. He could not see inside without opening the cell. He hesitated; he feared what lay behind this door far more than he feared Bill the Butcher. Bill's brand of violence was common and familiar. Behind this door . . . the thought of it made him shudder in his boots. But there was no going back now.

“Hello?” he called through the door.

“Who is it?” a sullen, scratchy female voice answered him.

“A friend, Mary,” Tweed replied.

“I didn't do nothing. It was all a setup, I swear to ye.”

“I know it was,” Tweed said, as he'd been coached. “They framed you. If you help me, I'll clear your name.”

Tweed lifted the latch and pushed on the rusty door, which creaked loudly as it was wrenched open. From within, a thin, middle-aged woman stepped tentatively into the light of Kieft's lantern.

“Who are you?” she asked, shielding her tender eyes from the harsh light.

“I am your new friend, Typhoid Mary,” Tweed answered her, even as he backed away.

“Don't call me that awful name,” Mary said, frowning. “It's not true, I told ye. I'm just Mary Mallon. Just a simple cook. I'm innocent.”

“Of course you are,” Tweed said. Typhoid Mary had long maintained her innocence, even as everyone she cooked for died horribly of disease. “I only want you to do what you do best. I want you to cook—for some special people. Can you do that?”

“What special people?” she asked.

Tweed began to explain, ignoring his unease over what he was unleashing on the city. Ah well, he'd crossed the line before and he'd cross it again. It was what you did in order to hold power. In the end, it was an easy choice to make.

Mrs. Hennessy had rushed in soon after Fritz and Sergeant Kiffer left, gathering up her children in an outpouring of relief. It had taken her the better part of the afternoon to reach the apartment, since, with the roads closed to traffic, she'd had to walk the length of the island. Mrs. Hennessy was nervous about the heat harming some of the older people in the building with their air conditioners not able to function, so she, Rory, and Bridget paid visits to the Brignolles downstairs and Mr. Little on the third floor. They made certain that windows were open and everyone had candles to burn. As they hunted for matches in his cluttered apartment, Mr. Little launched into one of his stories about the great blackout of '77, when the city crumbled into riots and looting. Rory hoped the past wouldn't repeat itself this summer.

Mrs. Hennessy sent her children downstairs to clean up while she made Mr. Little some dinner. Rory was happy to wash off the trying day, leaving his clothes strewn about behind him in his hurry to take a cool shower. Afterward, he rummaged through his dresser to find some new clothes. In the process, he stopped to pull out a small box he'd hidden in the back of his sock drawer. Once he finished dressing, he flopped down on his bed and opened it up.