Angel of Vengeance

5

Present Day

Proctor regained consciousness slowly. His first sensation was of being horizontal, on a hard floor of concrete. His second was of pain.

He did not move. Instinct and training had taught him that when in unexpected danger of this sort, consciousness should not be betrayed until one had gathered as much situational awareness as possible.

He used the pain as a tool to take his measure. He ran his tongue gingerly around the inside of his mouth, tasting blood and dirt. A tooth was chipped, and his nose felt like it might be broken.

Without betraying any perceptible movement, he stiffened his limbs, one at a time, from elbows to fingertips and from hips to toes. He appeared to be fully functional; nothing seemed broken other than his nose and, perhaps, the zygomatic arch of one cheek.

Now, slowly, he drew in a deep breath. No pneumothorax.

Even more slowly, he unshuttered one eye, then the other. Despite being caked in blood, his eyes were fine and his vision unimpaired. The same with his hearing.

He lay without moving for another ten minutes as his senses grew fully alert and his last memories of consciousness returned. Ferenc, that bastard. He’d booby-trapped Proctor’s console with some kind of anesthetic or nerve agent... while the machine was running at full power, its portal open.

He was confident Ferenc was not nearby, that the man had used the machine. The room was still — in fact, all too still, and a foul odor of burnt wiring and scorched electronics hung in the air.

Proctor readied himself. Then he rolled over at speed, balling his fists and tenting up his knees, keeping his head raised slightly off the ground to minimize the pain of his cheek and nose. Nevertheless, the agony of sudden movement was extreme. Ignoring it, he glanced around quickly. No sign of Ferenc.

Now Proctor knew he’d used the machine. Gingerly, he rose to his feet, checked his weapon, and pulled the chair from his worktable into the middle of the room and sat down.

He stared at the machine. It was a smoking ruin.

It did not matter that he’d successfully transported every piece of that machine, in its original configuration, from Savannah to this basement room of the Riverside Drive mansion. It didn’t matter that he’d retrieved a scientist who could repair it — Ferenc — not only convincing him to do the work, but keeping an eye on him until Pendergast and his friend D’Agosta could go through the portal. It didn’t matter, because he had failed his employer. He’d allowed that worm Ferenc to outsmart him, render him unconscious long enough to use the machine.

And because of his failure, Pendergast and the rest were stranded in a parallel universe in the year 1880.

He checked his watch. He’d been out for hours. Why hadn’t Ferenc returned? The machine remained turned up to its highest setting... and beyond. Perhaps the weasel had been delayed on the far side of the portal. Perhaps he’d died. In any case, he couldn’t come back now: the machine had red-lined, overheated, and imploded. Proctor’s knowledge of the device was limited to the controls on its front panels. Ferenc had been the only one to work the guts of the machine, the only one who knew enough to repair it.

Not that repair appeared to be a possibility.

Proctor sat another minute, gaze fixed on the wreckage. Then he stood and — without looking back — made his way to the door, opened it, and disappeared into the dim confines of the mansion’s basement.

6

December 27, 1880

Gosnold returned to the parlor and gave a little bow. “Your Grace, the blue lantern has been placed in the window, as you requested.”

D’Agosta saw Constance’s hand tighten on the little leather notebook. His head now finally clear, he spoke. “So what’s your game, Diogenes?” he asked.

“The stolid policeman gets right to business,” said Diogenes, drawing on the cigarette and leaning his head back to blow the smoke upward. “I’ll recount my activities since arriving; you’ll find them interesting. I watched that hired scientist, Ferenc, as he sprang that half-baked plan of his. He knocked out Proctor and used the machine himself. I was there; I witnessed it all — and on impulse I jumped through the portal after him. That was a rash action I may still regret. I tumbled into Longacre Square and a pile of horse manure — an appropriate welcome to the nineteenth century. And that is when I made a mistake: I did not kill Ferenc on the spot. Instead, I followed him to a bank, where he tried to obtain some rare coins but botched the thing, caused a fuss, and claimed he was from the future. Naturally he was bundled off to Bellevue, where, I regret to say, Leng found him.”

He took another drag on the cigarette.

“Leng took Ferenc out of Bellevue to his lair in the Five Points. One can imagine what happened there. Suffice it to say, the good doctor now knows all your secrets: the machine, the location of the portal, the real reason for your presence here — the works. His first reaction was to race up to Longacre Square and try to use the portal. Without success, I’m glad to say — can you imagine Leng, unleashed on the twenty-first century? That was Ferenc’s only good deed: overtaxing and, apparently, burning out the device so Leng cannot make use of it. Of course, neither can we.”

He gave a dry laugh that made D’Agosta’s skin crawl. He glanced over at Constance and saw on her face a frozen mask.

“You still haven’t explained why you’re here,” said D’Agosta. “Why help us?”

“The truth? Very well. Perhaps my use of the portal was not quite as impulsive as I’ve implied. When, in spying on my brother — my primary pastime these past few years — I saw the marvel of that machine, I also saw a curious opportunity. The world back there—” he flicked ash over his shoulder, as if the future lay in that direction — “is filled with nothing but grotesque memories. Here is a new world, where I am not known and have no history.”

At this, D’Agosta shook his head — gingerly.

“It was only after the fact that I realized I have another purpose in this place — Leng. I wish to remove him. He murdered the sister of one I held dear—” this was said with a glance at Constance — “and kidnapped her doppelganger. On top of that, Leng is the vilest of the Pendergasts, a blot on the family escutcheon. Finally, and I am saddened to point this out, but you, Brother, have failed. Your meddling here has brought disaster and tragedy. It seems only proper I be the one to set things right.”

“So what exactly is your plan?” D’Agosta asked. “He’s got Binky — and any move on him will risk her death. Look what he did to Mary.”

Constance suddenly stood, still clutching the leather notebook. “Gosnold, please bring Joe down here to me.”

The butler left and returned a moment later with Joe. The boy had a scared look in his eyes but was fighting to keep his expression steady. D’Agosta wondered just what he’d heard and seen; he was holding so tightly to himself that it was hard to tell.

Constance knelt in front of the boy, taking his hand. “Joe,” she said quietly, “I can’t explain everything that’s happened — because I still don’t know myself. But you know enough already. Something unexpected, something very bad, has happened. Now I have to put things right. I may be back soon, or... I may be gone for some time.”

She paused. Joe’s face retained its stoical expression.

“These two men—” she gestured toward D’Agosta and Pendergast — “are reliable. You can trust them completely. Féline, too — and Mr. Murphy. These four — and no one else.”

The boy remained expressionless.

“That one’s name is Pendergast. The other one is D’Agosta.”

The boy glanced silently from one to the other.

“Hello, Joe,” said D’Agosta, unsure what else to say. “You can call me Vinnie.”

The boy didn’t react, his jaw merely tightening.

Constance gently grasped his arm with her bandaged hand, and for a moment some iron entered her voice. “Do you understand, Joe? Whatever Pendergast and, ah, Vinnie ask you to do, please obey. They have your best interests at heart.”

Joe nodded curtly.

“And now—” she kissed him on the top of his head — “I must leave. I know you will be strong — for your sister, and for me. Mr. Pendergast was my own guardian... once. He, along with Vinnie, will be your guardians while I’m gone.”

A hesitation, then another nod.

Constance rose. “Gosnold, please get my traveling cloak and send Murphy around with the carriage.” D’Agosta saw her slip the small leather notebook into her pocket.

Gosnold bowed and withdrew, and a moment later returned with a heavy cloak, which she took from him and threw around herself. A few minutes later, the carriage came around from the back, Murphy at the reins. Gosnold held open the door for her.

D’Agosta looked at Pendergast, but the man remained perfectly silent, his face like marble. Why didn’t he say or do anything?

“You’re not going to Leng, are you?” D’Agosta finally asked Constance.

Constance turned to him, eyes smoldering. “Naturally.”

“But his instructions about the lamp... This is crazy.”

“Perhaps.” She exited the outer door with the swirl of her cloak, then descended the steps to the carriage. As Gosnold was shutting the door behind her, D’Agosta heard her call out to Murphy, “The Post Road...”

The door closed.

“What the hell?” D’Agosta turned to Pendergast. “We can’t just let her go like this!”

Pendergast finally spoke. “I’m afraid we’ve got no choice. She’s bringing him the Arcanum.”

D’Agosta looked from Pendergast to Diogenes and back. “You’re both okay with this?”

“No,” said Pendergast.

“But you let her go!”

“Are you under the misapprehension she could be stopped?” Pendergast arched an eyebrow.

At this, Diogenes chuckled. “Frater, you and I know the nature of that woman.”

“But—” D’Agosta swallowed. “After all your careful plans, after all that we’ve... What is she thinking?”

“Vincent,” said Pendergast wearily, “she is not thinking. But we must let this act, however rash and impulsive, play out. We owe her that. It is bound to be unsuccessful. And when she returns — if she returns — she will be in a state none of us can imagine. What happens next will be anyone’s guess.” He took a deep breath. “We must prepare for the storm.”

7

D’Agosta listened with disbelief. His head was pounding again, and he leaned back in his chair to ease the pain. This was insane. How were they, marooned in a strange world, going to handle Constance, save Binky, kill Leng — and then get back home again?

He turned to Diogenes. “You say the time machine was wrecked. How wrecked?”

“You mean, can we use it to return?” Diogenes asked him. “As I said, that fool Ferenc left its levels at maximum when he went through, timed I assume to give him sufficient opportunity to accomplish his scheme and return. The most logical explanation is that the man simply didn’t return in time to ease back the power — and the machine overloaded.”

“So we’re stuck here?”

“Unless Proctor can repair it,” said Pendergast.

“Proctor?” cried D’Agosta. “He’s a chauffeur! How’s he going to fix a time machine?” He felt horror settle in. Laura — he’d never see her again. The twenty-first century, the New York he loved — gone.

“My advice to you, Vincent,” said Pendergast coolly, “is not to ponder such existential questions for the moment.” He rose. “The first thing we must do, before something even more dire occurs, is to get the one entrusted to us safely away and far from here. Gosnold, will you take Joe upstairs while we discuss what is to be done?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can go on my own,” said Joe coldly.

“In that case, pack a bag for yourself, with some warm clothes, a book, and a deck of cards. You’ll be going on a journey.”

Joe turned stiffly and went upstairs.

D’Agosta looked at Pendergast. “What’s to stop Leng from killing Constance after he gets the Arcanum?”

“For one thing, his suspicious nature — if the formula has been tampered with, he might still need her. For another, I believe Constance has a certain amount of leverage over him.”

“What leverage?”

“Constance knows a great deal about Leng — and, what’s more, she knows his future.”

“What I don’t understand,” Diogenes said, “is this: if this world is supposedly identical to our own, except that it’s in the past of 1880, what is that monstrosity I saw being erected at the southern edge of Central Park? Nothing like that ever existed in the past of our world.”

D’Agosta had seen this himself, during a carriage ride on his first trip back here with Pendergast — an ugly tower under construction, like a ten-story chimney. He’d just assumed that it, like so much else built in Manhattan, had vanished with time.

Pendergast made a dismissive gesture. “Consider it a raspberry pip under the dentures of the space-time continuum. We don’t have the luxury to speculate how precisely this world mirrors our own — it’s damned close. It’s Joe’s safety we should be discussing.”

D’Agosta looked over at Pendergast as he leaned forward impatiently. Was it his imagination, or had the agent just cursed?

“Joe is in great danger,” Pendergast continued. “This house is no doubt being watched, and we shall have to be clever.” He turned to the butler. “Gosnold, my man, be so kind as to send a note to the closest funeral home, informing them that we have the body of Mr. Moseley in the house, and that we require a hearse and coffin be sent to pick it up. Make sure they understand that time is of the essence.”

“May I remind you, Mr. Pendergast, sir, that Mr. Moseley is buried in the basement?” said Gosnold, with admirable restraint.

“And there he shall stay. Joe will be in the coffin. Here’s what will happen: on the way to the mortuary, the horse will throw a shoe, which shall necessitate a trip to the nearest livery stable, at which point Joe will be removed and spirited away to a place of safety. The coffin will be delivered empty to the funeral home. Some hefty bribes will be required to make this work — to that end, please help yourself, Gosnold, to as much gold as is required from the safe.”

Gosnold bowed as if this were the most ordinary request in the world. “Anything else, sir?”

“Can we rely on you to help us carry out this bit of prestidigitation with complete discretion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see that Constance chose her household well. That’s all for now; thank you.”

Gosnold retreated with another bow.

Pendergast turned to D’Agosta. “You, Vincent, will be Joe’s protector. After smuggling him out of the livery, you will take him to the Grand Central Depot, where you will buy passage on the New York, Providence, and Boston line. From Boston, you’ll book passage on a steamer to an island far to the north, called Mount Desert. That is your ultimate destination.”

D’Agosta held his hand to his head. The pounding was not going away.

“Pull yourself together, please. Joe is Leng’s next logical victim, and we must immediately remove him from the field. There are reasons to choose Mount Desert Island, which I shall brief you on as soon as I’ve finalized the details.”

“Right, okay,” said D’Agosta, taking a deep breath. “Christ, I need some ibuprofen.”

“There’s no ibuprofen or aspirin. Laudanum is the analgesic of choice in 1880. I would not recommend it.”

“Son of a bitch.” D’Agosta sat up, taking a deep breath. As messed up as this situation was, Pendergast was right: he had to get his shit together.

“You’ll need fresh clothes for the journey — those bloodstains would be noticed and arouse suspicion. It seems to me you are Moseley’s size, more or less. You have no objection to wearing a dead man’s clothes?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“His room will be on the third floor — and no doubt easy to find. Help yourself.”

D’Agosta groaned and rose, steadying himself on the arm of the chair.

Pendergast turned to Diogenes. “Under normal circumstances, I would never make this gesture — but these circumstances are far from normal.” He extended his hand. “Until this matter is resolved for good or ill, can we work together, Brother — without duplicity or malice?”

Diogenes rose and extended his own hand, grasping Pendergast’s.

“Once Joe is safely away,” said Pendergast, “we must shut off Leng’s access to experimental subjects — he will want them more than ever to test the Arcanum Constance is giving him. We must stop the killing. This will have the additional benefit of frustrating him, perhaps even smoking him out.”

“I have some ideas along those lines,” said Diogenes, “involving the Five Points Mission.” They turned away, heads together, and began to murmur.

D’Agosta made his way up the stairs, taking them slowly, one at a time. Just get through this, he said to himself. Just get through it. Then worry about getting home.

In Moseley’s room, D’Agosta found a meager wardrobe of shabby clothing. The tutor’s pants were too tight, so he tossed them aside: his own trousers would have to do. Thankfully, most of the blood was on his shirt. Moseley’s shirts were a little snug but serviceable, as were the frock coat and greatcoat. The old-fashioned tie stumped him, so he just stuffed it in his pocket. He debated whether to take the top hat and decided it would at least keep his head warm.

Mount Desert Island — the name was not encouraging. He was going to need more clothing than this. Rummaging through more drawers turned up some gloves and socks. Pendergast would surely send up warmer clothes at the first opportunity.

Atop the dresser next to a dry sink, he saw a bottle labeled HEZEKIAH’S TINCTURE OF LAUDANUM. It was filled with a murky, reddish-brown liquid. Fucking A, he was hurting so bad, what harm could there be in it? He read the printed label on the back, which called for six to twelve drops dissolved in water. He grasped the bottle, filled up its dropper, poured himself a glass from the nearby water pitcher, and put in ten drops. Then he drank it down, shuddering at the bitter flavor.

Just then he heard a carriage arrive below. Was Constance returning already, or was it the undertaker? He quickly combed his hair with Moseley’s brush, the calming medicine already spreading through his body and easing the pain in his head. This stuff really works, he thought. He began to stuff the bottle into his pocket, thought better of it, then returned it to the dresser and went downstairs.

It was an undertaker, but the exact opposite of what D’Agosta had imagined: a plump, rosy-cheeked fellow with a big grin, yellow teeth, and a restless manner. A coffin made of rough pine — for transport only, it seemed — was carried in the front door by four burly workmen. As they set it on the floor, Joe was brought down from upstairs by Féline, bandaged but with a look on her face almost as determined as Constance’s. The boy carried a leather satchel. Pendergast detached himself to speak to the woman in rapid-fire French.

Gosnold approached the undertaker and his men with a small leather bag. Murmuring instructions, he dispensed several $20 gold pieces.

“This,” said Pendergast, turning back and introducing D’Agosta to the undertaker, “is Mr. Harrison, the boy’s guardian, who will be driving with you in the carriage to the funeral home. He will handle all the details of the transfer. And Mr. Harrison, allow me to introduce Mr. Porlock, the undertaker kind enough to assist us on such short notice.”

“Sir,” said the undertaker, bowing. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Harrison.”

“Likewise,” D’Agosta said. “I’m sure.” He gritted his teeth. Jesus Christ, all of this had to be some kind of karmic joke.

Féline was speaking in a low voice to Joe, leading him over to the coffin. The boy looked into it and took a step back.

How the hell were they going to get the boy into the coffin? He was staring at it, shaking his head.

“Now, young man,” said Pendergast, “I realize this is not the ideal form of transportation, but it will have to do. If you please — get in.”

For all his brilliance, Pendergast had no idea how to talk to a twelve-year-old boy. D’Agosta stepped forward.

“I’ll handle this,” he said, then knelt before the youth. “Joe, here’s the situation, and I’m going to give it to you straight. Man to man. What Constance, I mean the duchess, said is true. Some awful things happened here last night. I don’t know what you saw, or how much you know, but the house is being watched by some very bad people, and we’ve got to smuggle you out of here. You’re going to have to be brave and get in that coffin. It’s a disguise, a trick — nothing else. You’ll be in there for about an hour, and then we’ll get you out. You and I will take a train to a place where they can’t find us. When things are safe again, I’ll bring you home. Okay?”

The boy stared at him with a tight, hostile expression. “Who took Binky?” he asked.

So he knew that Binky had been kidnapped.

“Criminals. The same people who are watching the house. The duchess has gone to get her back. But if things — if things take too long, they’ll try to take you next. That’s why we have to get you out of here.” He held his hand out toward the coffin. “Come on, there’s no time to waste. It’s you and me against the bad guys.”

Joe climbed in without another hesitation. It was a large coffin, and despite its flimsy appearance the inside had been spread with cushions and blankets for the short journey. Small slits had been cut into the sides for air. As Joe made himself comfortable, Féline gave him a little bag of sweets. The boy then lay down and the lid was affixed on top. The four men hoisted it up on their shoulders and headed out the door.

Pendergast came up to D’Agosta and slipped an envelope into his hand. “You will get off in Boston, go to the Dorchester Piers, and take the Bar Harbor Coastal Packet, a steamer, north to Mount Desert Island. You will then go to the address in the envelope — complete instructions are inside.”

He handed D’Agosta a traveling case of rough cloth. “There’s a little more clothing in here, some sandwiches, a few necessaries, and of course money. I will send warmer clothes for you and Joe, along with instructions on how we will communicate. From now on, you’re Mr. George Harrison of Sleepy Hollow, New York.”

“George Harrison?”

“I picked a name you aren’t likely to forget.”

“Jesus.”

“Good luck, my friend.”

D’Agosta left the house and descended the steps as the men were sliding the coffin into the back of the hearse. He got into the passenger seat next to Mr. Porlock, the four men clambering into the back. They started off, the frost on the lampposts glittering in the morning light, the horses blowing steam from their nostrils, hooves clip-clopping on the cobblestones. D’Agosta had the strange feeling of slowly waking from a dream, waiting expectantly for the moment that these surroundings would melt away and he’d wake to find Laura in bed next to him, the sun pouring in through the curtains, the twenty-first century running on as usual outside.

8

The hearse traveled south on Fifth Avenue and was soon caught up in a scrum of carriages, horses, peddlers’ carts, and all manner of conveyances elegant and shabby, mingling with the shouts of drivers, the ringing of iron wheels on cobblestones, and the cracking of whips. The smells of horse sweat and manure filled the air, along with the ever-present stink of burning coal. It occurred to D’Agosta that he was experiencing the nineteenth-century equivalent of a traffic jam.

Mr. Porlock took out a cigar case and offered one to D’Agosta. While he had given up cigars years ago and had promised Laura never to touch them again, he took one now. Why the hell not? She wasn’t even in the same universe. Porlock lit up his and D’Agosta did the same, grateful for the scent of tobacco to dilute the noisome air.

When they reached Forty-Third Street, Porlock gave a histrionic cry, as instructed, and ordered his driver to pull to the side. He got out and together with the driver, made a show of examining the nearer horse’s rear shoe. After a minute the undertaker’s driver picked up the horse’s hoof, messed around with a nail clincher, then said in a loud voice: “Mr. Porlock, we’re going to have to make a quick stop at the livery stables. We’re about to lose a shoe.”

Porlock waved his hand with a show of impatience. “So be it.”

They turned down Forty-Third Street and rode west toward Sixth Avenue, where a sign over a large brick building announced a livery stable and farrier establishment. Wooden gates, manned by two boys, opened to let them into the courtyard, closing immediately behind them.

They were met by another youth, calling loudly and gesticulating. “This way, gents, this way.” Other carriages were parked in a courtyard that was covered with sand and straw, and horses were being led about by stable boys.

The boy led the hearse to a bay, where it was parked. The horses were unharnessed and taken away.

“Mr. Harrison?” said Porlock in a low voice. “Now’s your chance.”

D’Agosta stepped down and went around to the back of the hearse in time to see the four men opening the lid. Joe climbed out. He had the same determined expression on his face, which encouraged D’Agosta. At least he wouldn’t try to run away.

The livery boy holding open the door to the bay stared open-mouthed at what he’d just witnessed — someone roughly his own age climbing out of a coffin.

“Hey, you!” said D’Agosta, stepping over to him and holding out a silver dollar. “Kid, this is to keep your mouth shut. You understand? Not a word, ever.”

“Oh, yes, sir! Yes, sir!” The boy stared at the glittering coin.

“Put it away — and wipe that look off your face.”

The boy stuffed the coin in his pocket and arranged his face into a serious expression.

D’Agosta turned back to the coffin and, as planned, tossed four $10 gold eagles into it — bribes to take care of those in the funeral home who would receive the empty coffin. He nodded at the four men, who quickly sealed the coffin up again. Then, taking Joe by the hand and grasping the bags in the other, he turned to the livery boy.

“Is there a back door to this place?”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“Take us there.”

The boy led D’Agosta and Joe to the rear of the livery, where another wooden door was shut and barred, manned by yet another boy. D’Agosta wondered, a little idly, how many decades it would take for child labor laws to be enacted.

“Open the door for us, young fellow.” He proffered the second boy a silver dollar.

The boy snatched it. “Yes, sir.”

“If anyone should ask — you saw nobody.”

“Right, sir. Nobody.”

The open door led D’Agosta and Joe into an alleyway, dim despite the morning sun. The door shut behind them and was barred with a loud clang of wood and iron. D’Agosta looked in both directions, seeing no one but a group of young men in bowlers and flat caps, lounging on a stack of barrels, smoking cigars.

He tried to orient himself. Grand Central Depot was the precursor to Grand Central Terminal, and that should be roughly two and a half blocks east of where they were. The alleyway ran east to west, and so D’Agosta turned left, still clutching Joe’s hand. They would have to pass by the toughs, who were eyeing them through clouds of cigar smoke. D’Agosta could feel the reassuring weight of the Colt .45 under his arm.

They headed down the cobbles. As they did so, the men slowly stood, hands in their pockets, and sauntered across the alleyway, blocking it.

Jesus, thought D’Agosta. It was only a random street gang — he was sure of that — and he had half a mind to just drop one or two of the bastards. But if they made a scene, it might very well attract the police — or perhaps Leng’s men, who had no doubt been following their carriage.

“I don’t like those men,” said Joe.

“Neither do I.” D’Agosta slid his hand under his arm and removed the .45.

Joe’s eyes went wide. “What kind of a gun is that?” he whispered.

“A loud one.”

“Hullo, guv,” said a hollow-faced, rail-thin young man with pale skin, freckles, and a dented derby hat — apparently the leader. “This here’s our toll booth, like. Come on, post the pony.”

D’Agosta stared at the man. What the hell did that mean? Money, of course.

“What’s the toll?” D’Agosta asked.

The men laughed as they spread out, some sliding long knives out of their shirts.

“As you’re asking — everything, ratbag.”

More knives came out... but no guns. He sure as hell wasn’t going to give these scumbags the gold in his case.

D’Agosta shoved Joe behind him and showed his piece. “You know what the fuck this is?”

A silence. They seemed almost as shocked by the obscenity as by the weapon. “I guess I do, guv,” the leader said.

“Then you know it can blow all your heads into little pink clouds. Want to see?”

“Boyos,” the gang leader said after a moment, “let the gentleman pass.” He slid his knife back into his shirt, held his hands up to shoulder level, and said, “No harm meant, guv.”

The rest of the gang followed his lead, moving aside and putting their knives away.

Was it really going to be this easy? They shuffled aside to let him pass. Would they set on him from behind once he and Joe had gone by? He rotated his gaze back as he walked on, bags tucked under one arm, gun at the ready.

At that moment, he saw — at the far end of the alleyway — a two-horse carriage come to a halt with a squeal of iron brakes. Three men jumped out, carrying iron rods. “Hey!” one yelled to the gang. “Stop that cove!”

Leng’s men, thought D’Agosta. They came charging down the alleyway, still shouting. Thinking quickly, D’Agosta reached into his pocket, pulled out a gold piece, and flipped it to the gang’s leader. “That’s for you — if you beat the hell out of those three men.”

The youth caught it and grinned. “Sure thing, guv!”

D’Agosta turned and, still gripping Joe by the hand, ran on. As they exited the far end of the alleyway, he could hear shouting and bellowing as the fight began.

Grand Central Depot rose above the surrounding city, an unfamiliar monstrosity in brick and limestone. D’Agosta bought first-class tickets on the New York, Providence, and Boston line. They boarded the train just as it was about to depart. A porter led the way to an elegant compartment, which they had to themselves.

D’Agosta took his seat with relief. His headache was starting to come back.

“So is your name George or Vinnie?” asked Joe, looking at him suspiciously.

“From now on, it’s George.”

The train began to chuff and groan as it pulled out of the station.

“Can I see your gun?” Joe asked.

D’Agosta thought for a moment. He had learned how to shoot from his father when he was twelve. Glancing around, he confirmed there was nobody present to see. He got up, latched the compartment, and took the gun out. He freed the cylinder and inspected it. All six chambers were still full of rounds. He shook out the bullets into his palm and flipped the cylinder back into place.

“Two rules. You never, ever point the barrel at a human being.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You never, ever put your finger on the trigger, or inside the trigger guard, until just before you fire.”

“Yes, sir.”

D’Agosta nodded, satisfied. “This is not a toy. You may hold it for a moment and then give it back. Take it by the grips, like this, and keep the barrel pointed down.”

He turned the gun around and offered it to Joe. The boy took it, hefted it. “It’s heavy.”

“Yes, it is. It’s what they call a forty-five caliber.” He waited a moment. “Okay, you can give it back.”

Joe did so, his face flushed with the experience of having held it, even for a moment. Funny thing about boys and guns, thought D’Agosta; something utterly primitive in the reaction. It was probably the same with bows and arrows, or spears, thousands of years ago. Joe seemed brave and resourceful, in many ways more like a small, serious adult than a kid. He must’ve grown up fast, living on the streets and on Blackwell’s Island.

The train finally emerged from the dark tunnels beneath Park Avenue, speeding northward along the coast with a view over marshes to Long Island Sound.

“You got that pack of cards handy?” D’Agosta asked.

Joe nodded.

“Know how to play war?”

He nodded again and fished the pack out, dividing it into two piles. “That’s for you,” he said, pushing one pile over.

D’Agosta took the cards and they began to play. At that moment the porter came by. D’Agosta ordered a sarsaparilla for Joe.

As they played, D’Agosta’s thoughts started to wander. What was it going to be like on Mount Desert Island? He’d never been to Maine in his life, never even heard of Mount Desert. The two years he had spent in Moose Jaw, Canada, as a young man on a failed attempt to write a book had cured him of cold weather and long snowy winters forever.

Mount Desert Island, Maine. End of December 1880. Sounded like hell.

9

The beautifully appointed clarence coach, with a coat of arms on its door and a pair of black Percherons at the reins, passed the Post Road milestone at St. Nicholas Avenue and 116th Street, then turned north. It was dusk; the Hudson River was spread out to the left, glittering in its restless rush to the sea, the ramparts of the Palisades beyond. To the right was a procession of small, well-tended farms, punctuated here and there by country mansions, their broad façades facing the river.

After about a mile, at a whispered word from the occupant, the carriage pulled over at the broad entranceway to one of the mansions, larger than the others, built of dark limestone in the Beaux Arts style. The somewhat grim lines of its bulk were softened by the growing dark and the gas lanterns that illuminated both sides of the lane leading to its front doors. The iron gates yawned wide, barbed points at their tops gleaming wickedly in the failing light.

Now the carriage door opened, and Constance Greene slipped down onto the graveled shoulder. She was dressed in a long, pleated skirt and a top with tapered balloon sleeves, over which had been thrown a wrap to ward off the chill. The edge of a small bandage was just visible under her right cuff. In the shadow of the coach, her clothing looked almost plain — unless one was close enough to see the quality of the material, the fastidious tailoring and stitching, and the small chenille tassels that hung from the silk-and-velvet French wrap. She held a leather notebook in one hand, its cover scuffed and stained.

She walked up to the coachman’s box, where Murphy was seated. “Remember,” she told him. “On no account should you approach, no matter what you see or hear... unless I specifically call for your assistance.”

“But, milady—”

“Please obey my instructions. If I require your help, I’ll let you know: that I promise you.” And with this, she turned and began walking toward the mansion.

As she entered the lane, the rough stones of the Post Road became smooth bricks, carefully interlaid. She walked at a measured pace, taking in the building and its surroundings. Now and then, her eyes flickered in recognition of things long forgotten; otherwise, her expression remained impassive, despite the emotions roiling within.

As she came near the wide front steps, a dozen figures materialized out of the dark topiary and neatly trimmed shrubs decorating the façade. They were dressed in clothes so similar they suggested a uniform: black trousers with suspenders and button flies; dark-gray shirts; jackets of thin leather with broad lapels; bowler hats worn cocked and low over the ears. Silently they lined up, barring her progress. They were young, moving with confidence and physical ease. Each one wore a tiny earring in the left lobe, with gemstones of differing colors.

Having grown up in the streets of the Five Points herself, she recognized this as similar to the street gangs that infested that slum: the Dead Rabbits, the Swamp Angels, and a dozen others. The primary difference was this group looked well fed and satisfied, rather than poor and desperate.

One stepped forward from the rest. The short hair, narrow stature, and delicate features told Constance she was a woman. She had eyebrows shaved to mere arrowheads, and bore on her neck the tattoo of an opium pipe. Her own tiny earring held a colorless diamond, which — along with the confident bellicosity she radiated — made it clear she held a high rank in the gang, perhaps the leader. This was unusual, and it made Constance wary.

“Search her,” the woman said.

One of the young men stepped up and Constance backed away. “You do it,” she told the woman.

“Not keen on a man’s touch, eh?” the woman said with a leer. “Perhaps we’ve a wee bit in common.” She approached Constance and frisked her thoroughly and professionally, finding only the Italian stiletto.

The woman took the knife and turned it over in her hands, admiring the gold workmanship. “Such a dainty little shivvy,” she said mockingly. “A perfect toy for milady’s soft hands.” As she examined the knife, Constance noticed a long scar, purple and imperfectly healed, running across her right palm. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen one like this before.”

“That’s because you’ve never set foot in a museum,” Constance retorted.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. But at that moment, the double doors of the mansion flew open and the figure of Leng appeared, framed in brilliant light.

“The Duchess of Ironclaw!” he said with feigned deference. “What a pleasant surprise — Decla, clear the way, if you please, and let Her Grace pass unmolested.”

Constance stared at the tall figure in the doorway, her hatred of this murderer of her sister so overwhelming she staggered slightly before regaining her composure. If she was to get through this, she had to maintain rigid control of herself.

After an insolent moment the young woman stepped aside — without returning the knife. The others did the same and Constance mounted the broad marble steps. Leng bowed as she passed. As he closed the doors behind them, Constance could see the gang fanning out into the darkness.

Without a word Leng turned, then stepped past her, and she followed him through a long, narrow passageway, lined on both sides with suits of armor, then stopped at the entrance to the grand reception hall. She looked around, taking in the natural history collections, the fossils and butterflies, the meteorites and gemstones and stuffed animals. She felt, acutely, the assault of memory. The hall, like the mansion itself, was deeply familiar — although she had not seen it like this for many, many years.

As they entered the reception hall, she saw the misshapen figure of Munck, watching her intently from beneath the shadow of the main stairway. A hideous cut, fresh and deep, ran across his face from right forehead to left cheekbone. It had been crudely stitched and was partially covered in cotton bandages, still weeping a yellowish discharge.

“You can thank me later,” Constance said as their eyes met.

Munck said nothing. But his expression changed.

Leng motioned her into the room off the right of the reception hall: the library.

She paused at the threshold. She had spent most of her recent years in this room, usually in the silent but affirming presence of Pendergast. Here was her retreat from the world, where she read, did her research and writing, or played the harpsichord. The crackling of its fireplace, the book-perfumed recesses, the baize-covered tables: everything about it had spoken to her of comfort, safety, and intellectual pleasure.

The room she stepped into now, however, was like a mirror image in chilling reverse.

She was careful to keep her expression neutral as her eyes moved across the room’s contents. Here was furniture she hadn’t seen in years, items Pendergast had removed upon taking possession of the mansion. The old furniture squatted in the library like malignant specters from the past: The secrétaire à abattant of flame mahogany, with its little cubbyholes and drawers; the hand-painted Louis XV writing desk, on which Leng kept a large leatherbound notebook; the shadowboxes fronted with Tiffany glass, containing exhibits designed to provoke madness in viewers — and Leng’s most prized acquisition: three completed studies, in oil, for Jan van Eyck’s The Last Judgment, hanging in heavy gilt frames above the shuttered windows at the far end of the room.

“Please sit down,” Leng said.

Constance ignored the invitation and remained standing.

Leng seated himself behind the writing desk. “I hope my welcoming committee met with your approval.”

Constance remained silent.

“Other gangs collect ears. Here, I dole out various gems to signify rank and accomplishments.” He paused. “I did not expect you to beard me like this — the lion, I mean, in his own—”

Abruptly, Constance tossed the weathered notebook at him. Taken by surprise, the man fumbled it, and it fell from his hands to the floor.

Constance did not move.

Leng stared at her and then, after a moment, reached down and picked it up. He paged through it rapidly, now and then stopping to peer intently. Constance remained motionless until he at last closed the notebook and placed it on the desk.

“I went to a great deal of trouble arranging our anticipated meeting, you know,” he told her. “But coming here as your own messenger, in this fashion, you’ve rendered all that unnecessary.”

“You have the Arcanum. Now give me Binky.” She spoke in a flat voice, again making a great effort not to reveal a glimpse of the overwhelming loathing she felt.

“Ah, Binky,” Leng repeated in a singsong, his equilibrium already restored. “Bing-kee. It’s very strange, you know; that Hungarian scientist Ferenc offered up so much information — toward the end, he was desperate to offer more — but he couldn’t say precisely why you were so eager to cross universes to rescue your kin. I can only assume that Mary and Joe must have perished while still young? You, of course, survived — obviously. And you came back to change that tragic outcome?”

Constance ignored this. “I’ve fulfilled my end of your bargain — now you do the same.”

“Ah!” Leng raised a peremptory finger, as if to silence a student giving a wrong answer. “You have brought a formula to me: on that point, we are agreed. But how am I to be sure it is the formula? Perhaps it has been altered slightly, compounding a painful and deadly poison into the mixture? You see—” and here he put his forearms on the desk and interlaced his fingers — “Technically, you have not yet fulfilled your end of the bargain. What were my terms? ‘Give me the formula, true and complete.’ There’s no reason for me to believe either of those corollaries have been proved. And it will take some time to confirm them.”

“That is the formula, as concocted by you... over many long years still to come,” Constance said. “I have no reason to lie. I want Binky — now.”

“Pardon my contradicting, but you have every reason to lie. Among many other interesting things, the nosy Dr. Ferenc told me you returned to this past time, via your infernal machine, specifically to avenge yourself upon me.”

Constance struggled to control her rage. “I won’t ask again. Give her to me.”

“I’m glad to hear you won’t. That would be tiresome.” Leng rose from behind the desk. “Now, now, Your Grace — don’t look at me like that. I am not without compassion. I’d like to think you are telling the truth; that you’ve had a change of heart; that your mad passion to murder me has ebbed. But I can’t be sure. Until I have fully tested your formula, however, here is something — shall we say? — in consideration for the trouble you’ve taken.”

He had begun to move around the library as he spoke: slowly, as if weighed down by thought. But now his hand reached out, grasped something out of sight, and tugged it — a blind, patterned after the fashion of William Morris and blending with the wallpaper. In drawing it up, he allowed her a view out of the library and across to the east wing of the mansion. A single window was illuminated in the uppermost story of that wing, and within it was outlined Binky. When she in turn saw Constance, her eyes widened visibly, and she put up her little hands to the leaded glass, as if trying to escape.

Leng allowed the moment to linger. Nothing else was visible in the room: no furniture, no fireplace, no source of comfort. Then Leng let the blind fall — and Binky was gone.

10

As the blinds closed, and the image of her own younger self vanished, Constance felt a sensation of suffocation overwhelm her. She filled her lungs with air.

Meanwhile, Leng sauntered back to the desk. “There. Now you know not only that your young doppelganger is alive and well — but also that she is residing here... at least temporarily. I think that gesture is more than sufficient, given this formula of yours remains untested.” He flung back the tails of his coat and sat down once again. “And now — it’s getting late, and this stretch of the Post Road isn’t safe after dark. We shall meet again, once I’m certain this Arcanum is the genuine item.”

Constance stared at him, her breathing finally under control. She said, in a tone so low it might have been a whisper: “You will regret this.”

“I do not appreciate being threatened in my own house. As my minion Decla might say — get out.”

But Constance did not get out. She gazed around the room as her heartbeat slowed. Leng had extracted much from Ferenc, but her most important secret was not in his possession. Leng did not know that Constance had once been his own experimental subject. He did not know that he perfected the Arcanum by testing it on her. He did not know she had been raised in this very house. And, most crucially of all, he was unaware she knew his future.

She could not wait for the time when she could reveal those secrets: when her blade was embedded in his heart.

“I see murderous thoughts on your face,” Leng said. “I should point out that any effort to harm me, any attempt on my life, from you or your compatriots, will result in Binky’s instant death. She is my insurance policy as I test the Arcanum. Of course, she is too young to be a guinea pig — have no fear of that.”

Constance said nothing.

The doctor shook his head. “You are overstaying your welcome, Duchess. You are on foreign soil and your revetments are weak. This is my world, and I am well prepared to defend myself in it. Go back to whatever pestilential Pandemonium you call home.”

Another important secret he did not know: the portal was closed, possibly forever.

She finally spoke, in a voice so low Leng had to lean forward to hear. “If you knew what the future holds,” she said, “that would be the last thing you’d ever suggest. Because the next time you saw me, it would be with powers so formidable all your traps and your alley rats would be swept away like chaff. And you would have your own bespoke Room 101.”

“Room 101?” Leng’s brow knitted. “I have no idea what nonsense you speak of.”

She detected, for the first time, a note of uncertainty.

“That ‘nonsense’ will be your doom. Labere in gladio tuo.” And with this, she walked toward the exit. At the doorway to the library, she turned back. “Give Augustus Spragg, of the Natural History Museum’s Ornithology Department, my condolences — I understand the poor man hasn’t long to live.”

Before Leng could respond, Constance walked quickly across the rotunda and through the passage lined with armor. She pushed open the front door, stepped into the chill night, and — tightening the wrap more closely around her shoulders — descended the steps.

The young woman named Decla approached. “Lord blind me, it’s her ladyship!” she said. “You shouldn’t frown at your betters like that — you’ll be after a spanking, I reckon.” She looked around. “Line up for a spanking, boys — I get first go.”

Constance merely put out her hand, ignoring the ripple of mocking laughter that came from the darkness. “I’ll have my weapon back now.”

Decla looked at her in mock surprise. “You mean this?” She withdrew the handle of the stiletto from a vest pocket, so that the worked gold was visible. “It’s mine now — I’ve taken quite a fancy to the little rib-tickler.”

Constance did not reply. Her hand remained outstretched, unmoving. Slowly, Decla’s eyes moved up to hers. For a minute, perhaps more, the two women took the measure of each other. Then Decla broke eye contact. With a smirk, she drew the weapon out from her vest and, palming it, slowly reached out, turned her hand over, and let it drop into the waiting fingers of Constance.

“You can borrow it for a spell,” she said. “I’ll take it back when I’m ready.”

“In that case,” Constance said, “here’s a memento — until you’re ready.” She released the blade and at the same time, with a flick of her wrist, sliced open Decla’s outstretched palm.

The blade was so sharp that, for a moment, there was no blood — and, likely, no pain. As the surprised Decla looked down, however, a long, narrow line of crimson began welling up.

“Now you have a matching set,” Constance said.

There was a rustling sound. Within seconds, she found herself surrounded by the entire gang, weapons at the ready. They moved quickly, expertly tightening the circle. Constance’s eyes remained on Decla’s. For the briefest moment, she saw the woman glance over Constance’s shoulder. That would be the first attack: a stab in the back.

Instantly, she pivoted to find that a hulking gang member had crept up close behind her, knife arm raised. She lunged without hesitation, her blade catching him just below the cage of his larynx. It seemed the weapon, having just tasted blood, was now hungry for more: her hand swept earthward as if directed by it, the dagger point tracing a line of death from the trachea shallowly down the sternum and then plunging into his guts below the xiphoid process before slipping out again on encountering the buckle of his belt. The man made a wheezing, gargling sound, and Constance immediately turned to the youth beside him — armed with a heavy cobbler’s hammer — preparing to kill again.

There was a sudden, sharp clap from the door of the mansion. “Enough!” Leng cried, framed once again in the lighted doorway.

The gang hesitated — even as one of their own collapsed to the ground in ghastly slow motion.

“No more!” Leng continued sharply. “Allow her to pass.”

Decla’s eyes remained on Constance — a searing, feral stare. Constance glanced around at them all, frozen in various attitudes of fear and anger. Then she turned her gaze back to Leng and, raising her blade, placed her thumb and index finger against its finial; slid their tips quickly along from ricasso to point, flicking the accumulated blood from it with a quick, practiced gesture; then licked the two fingers, one after the other, while she sheathed the weapon. She spat in Leng’s direction, then turned and walked into the enveloping night, back to the carriage where Murphy waited impatiently.

11

When Constance returned to the parlor of her Fifth Avenue mansion, the clocks were just striking ten. A fire was blazing on the hearth, its flickering light lending a cruel coziness to the room. Diogenes sat in a wing chair, beside a table holding snifters and a bottle of brandy, idly leafing through a book. Pendergast, meanwhile, was pacing the room, his face a mask of agitation.

Diogenes looked over at the sound of her approach. Then he glanced at his brother.

“You’re back,” Pendergast said, relief evident in his voice.

Constance stepped into the parlor and stood there, without removing her coat. Her fury at Leng had not subsided during the ride back — but it had settled into a cold, calculating rage.

“You gave him the Arcanum?” Pendergast asked, coming forward. “The true formula, with no alteration?”

“Yes.”

“And what of Binky?”

“He would not release her. Not until he’s tested it — or so he says. However, he showed her to me. Briefly.”

“So she’s at the mansion,” Pendergast went on.

Constance nodded. “At least temporarily — those were his words.”

“He wouldn’t put her back in his subterranean works,” Diogenes said. “The Five Points would be too obvious a move. But I’ve no doubt he has other places of concealment.”

“Nevertheless,” Pendergast said, “the Riverside Drive mansion seems a logical place to keep her for the time being. It is well fortified against invasion.”

“Against invasion from those ignorant of its secrets, you mean,” responded Constance.

Pendergast turned to her. “You didn’t reveal anything to him? Perhaps in a moment of anger or frustration?”

Constance did not answer.

“Our knowledge of that mansion’s future, and what you know of Leng’s future, is our hole card.”

“I’m quite aware of that,” Constance said. “I betrayed nothing — because that mansion is where I plan to spend the coming days. I’ll penetrate it, establish a bunker from which I can come and go unobserved... and then search for Binky — as well as probe for a soft underbelly — alone.”

“What else did he say?”

“He spoke only for his own amusement. There’s no point repeating any more of it.”

“So you learned nothing that could be of use to us.”

Constance shook her head. “One of Leng’s gang members... opened himself up to me.”

“And?”

“He had little to offer.” She glanced from Pendergast to Diogenes, who was still seated. “And you two?”

“I, for one, have been conducting research.” He tossed aside the book he’d been perusing. Constance glanced at its spine: Puritanism and the Decline of the Reformation.

She turned back to Pendergast. “Tell me about Joe.”

“I put into motion the arrangements we discussed earlier. At this moment, Vincent and your brother should be approaching the Old Colony Railroad terminal in Boston, on their way to a ‘cottage’ on Mount Desert Island owned by the Rockefeller family. As you know, our family was once linked to them through shared business concerns, and when I hastily reached out to William — William Avery Jr., that is — he proved most cooperative.”

“But he doesn’t know you personally. Can he be trusted?”

“My dear Constance, you are correct to be on your guard. But you should know better than most that there exist certain fraternal bonds and secret societies that transcend time, money — everything except honor.” And, beckoning her closer for a moment, he briefly murmured the details.

Constance, reassured, allowed Diogenes to pour her a glass of brandy. She looked from one brother to the other. It was clear that, whether or not they agreed with her plan, they knew better than to object.

After a silence, Diogenes reached for his brandy. “While you were paying your social call, Aloysius and I spoke at length — and we agreed that a critical way to start undermining Fortress Leng is to cut off his supply of victims.”

“You once told me that, in order to test the new variants of his Arcanum, Leng would use a special, accelerated formulation on his human guinea pigs, in hope of success,” Pendergast said to Constance.

“Correct. Followed by an autopsy.”

“On those guinea pigs where his latest variant was unsuccessful?”

“Whether it was successful or not.”

“What?” Pendergast looked even more horrified.

“Once he stumbled on the working formula, he still dosed, and dissected, half a dozen or so ‘subjects’ — to make sure there were no negative internal effects. Only then did he start taking it himself.”

There was a brief silence before Pendergast spoke again. “I assume he’ll employ this same accelerated formulation on the Arcanum, now in his possession. How long will it take him to be confident the formula works?”

Constance shrugged. “Hard to say.”

“Hard to say?” Diogenes replied, lifting an eyebrow. “You don’t remember?”

“I tried my best to suppress those memories,” Constance said with irritation, “and I don’t appreciate you scolding me for it.”

“Scolding? Merely trying to help.”

“That’s enough,” said Pendergast quietly.

“Perhaps you should remind your ward to be more grateful,” said Diogenes. “I sacrificed myself by coming back here, too — remember?”

“No one asked you to,” Constance said. “No one asked either of you,” she added icily, then took in a deep, shuddering breath. “When a new version of the elixir seemed potentially successful, he allowed two weeks for observation. Sometimes a little more, never less.”

“And for each new formulation — it required vivisecting the cauda equina from a victim each time, as well?”

Constance nodded.

“Then our plan should be sound,” Pendergast went on. “We’ll do our best to cut off his supply of victims, interfere with or destroy his laboratories of operation — at least, those we can find. You’ve said Binky is too young to be used as a test subject — Leng will be desperate for new victims, both as guinea pigs and as resources.” His voice had returned to its normal level, but Constance still detected the faintest quaver of emotion. With surprise, she realized that, beyond his self-recrimination and frustration, he too was angry — angry in a way she had never seen before. Looking at his pale eyes, she could sense the same thirst for blood vengeance that filled herself.

Abruptly, those eyes locked on hers. “Constance, I’m aware you intend to operate independently. But the three of us have the same goals: save Binky — and kill Leng. We can attack the problem as individuals, but we must nevertheless agree on meeting — once, at the very least — to check on the others’ progress and ensure our efforts don’t unintentionally collide. And we must have a means of emergency communication.”

He fell silent, and for a time everyone sat motionless. Then Constance leaned forward, picked up her snifter, drained the brandy, and then, reaching into her handbag, took out a small notebook and wrote something on it with a gold pencil. She tore out the page, folded it, and handed it to Pendergast.

He opened it, read it. “This will suffice.”

Immediately, Constance rose. “In that case, good night. I need rest before I go.” She paused. “Since I presume you two plan on staying, ask Gosnold to put you up somewhere on the third floor.” And she turned to leave.

“Constance,” she heard Diogenes say — and the uncharacteristically serious tone in his voice made her pause. “Let me caution you. You of all people must realize not to push Leng too hard or too far. If we cross his red line... Binky will die.”

Constance’s only response was to remain still a moment, forcing herself to let the truth of this sink in. Then she turned to go upstairs.

As the sounds of her footsteps disappeared, the brothers looked at each other. Pendergast was the first to speak. “I’m glad you said that. I was beginning to wonder if you were really here to help us — or just goad her and stir up mischief.”

“That’s rich, coming from the person who’s made a hash of everything — hiring that idiot Ferenc, for starters. Why didn’t you just leave her here, unmolested? She was doing all right.”

“She was not. She was allowing passion to govern her reason. Leng was already taking advantage of it, toying with her. She would have been doomed.”

“You don’t know that. Clever as we think ourselves, there are times she’s surprised both of us. Besides, look at this place!” He waved his hand, indicating the room. “It’s the first palace I’ve seen that actually has taste. And her carriage! I thought Leng’s was impressive. Why, it’s got the loveliest... the finest...” He stopped, at a loss for words. “I don’t yet have the knowledge to articulate my admiration, but something I never expected has happened: I’ve developed carriage envy.”

Pendergast leaned forward. “This badinage is pointless. You know why I returned. For the very same reason you did.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Diogenes rose.

“Are you going to scare up Gosnold?” Pendergast asked him. “His rooms are just off the back kitchen.”

Diogenes shook his head. “No, Brother — I’m off.”

“Where?”

“That’s my business. Did you think Constance the only one who values her secrets? Now, good night; I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.” He paused. “I quite like the sound of that. Perhaps I’ll construct a poem around those lines.”

“I never took you for a plagiarist.”

“One can’t steal words that have yet to be written. Besides, Frater, plagiarism is the last thing you should fear when it comes to this new, or rather old, world of sin now open before me. I find myself looking at it with wild surmise and wondering: can so many unanticipated temptations be resisted?” He shrugged into his greatcoat, lit another salmon-colored cigarette, put on his hat. “I’ll use the front door on my way out,” he said as he strode into the entryway. “That will be a novelty.”

“Diogenes—”

“I know. Sweet dreams to you, too.” He opened the inner, then the outer door, and then — with a bow, and a slight doff of his hat — he strode off into the night.

12

Miss Editha Mallow Crean — grimacing as she picked her way among piles of ordure — crossed the area formed by Park, Baxter, and Worth Streets, the intersection that gave the area its name: the Five Points. Her own set of rooms on Mott Street, in a boardinghouse for ladies, was not many blocks away yet in another, more pleasant world. She always made her commute in haste, so as to be assailed by the vile sights and sounds of the slum as briefly as possible.

Turning west down Baxter, she fell under the looming shadow of the House of Industry. She made her way to its front door, unlocked it with a large iron key, then closed and locked it behind her, exchanging the offending odors from without for those equally disagreeable within.

She turned away from the door to see Royds, the attendant. He was in his usual place, on the far side of the reception room beyond the hinged wooden counter. There was an expression on his face that instantly alarmed her.

“He’s waiting in your office, mum,” Royds said.

“Who?”

But Royds did not answer. He just stood there, cringing behind the railing, looking as if he’d seen the devil himself. After a moment, Nurse Crean turned away and, opening the door in the wall to the right, stepped through it.

A short passage led past the scullery and a bookless library, terminating in the door to her private office, which was closed. She opened it, stepped in — then halted in surprise. She’d expected a distraught parent or an unwelcome messenger from the board of governors. But instead, she found herself confronted by a thin man dressed in a severe double-breasted cassock reaching to his ankles, along with a black waistcoat, starched white collar, and broad-brimmed cappello romano. He was standing beside her desk, rummaging through one of the drawers, and at the sound of her entry he straightened. He wore a tinted pince-nez and, at full height, was unexpectedly tall.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” she demanded.

He remained motionless as the echo of her question died away. Nurse Crean was not a woman to be easily rattled, and she returned his supercilious expression with a fierce one of her own. He was a clergyman of high rank, to judge by the garb. From time to time, church delegations had sent representatives to observe the daily workings of the Mission and House of Industry... and she knew how to deal with them. Her biggest concern was that, someday, she would be replaced by a graduate of the “Nightingale schools” — institutions for training nurses that in the past decade had sprouted up at Bellevue and in New Haven. Her own training may not have been formal, but it was the kind no girl could learn in a schoolroom: rather, in the Civil War, where doctors were scarce and surgeons even scarcer. She’d plied her trade at Fredericksburg and Cold Harbor, where she learned to amputate ruined limbs with a speed that made hardened veterans blanch — and later at Andersonville, after it was liberated in 1864, where nearly half the Union prisoners died of dysentery, typhus, or starvation.

But from the looks of this man’s well-tailored garb and stiff expression, she doubted he had seen bloodshed. He appeared the kind of cleric who’d spent most of his life in a seminary, and she was surprised he’d braved the Five Points long enough to reach her office. But here he was — rooting through her private papers like a sow in a corncrib.

“Well?” she said.

He moved behind the desk, pushed the drawer closed, fastidiously dusted off the chair — her chair — then sat down in it and looked at her through his spectacles before speaking.

“Two months ago,” he said, “the Elders’ Council met at the yearly conclave.” The man had a plummy, arrogant voice that could only come from generations of inbreeding among the British gentry. “At said conclave, the subject of the Five Points Mission and House of Industry came up. It was generally recognized that the Mission’s founding objective — to house, protect, and educate orphaned girls — has been sadly neglected of late.”

Miss Crean felt her corded hands tightening. This was no mere representative sent to observe. Here was someone sent to interfere.

The man went on, his voice filling the room. “As a last resort, the elders contacted my superiors in Canterbury — who in turn sent me from England to this... place.” He pursed his lips. “In the spirit of Luther and Wesley, I have completed numerous reformations in Methodist schools and orphanages across England — and now I shall do that here.”

“We’re doing just fine, sir!” Miss Crean said. “You have no right!” This was unheard of. And with no warning whatsoever. She’d worked her fingers to the bone for those ungrateful, wretched girls — with rarely even a peep of displeasure from the Mission board or the Elders’ Council.

“I have every right, Miss Crean.” The cleric stood up again. “Forgive my not introducing myself. I am the Right Reverend Percy Considine. And now that I’ve explained the situation, I hope you’ll excuse me. I have a great deal to do.” He stopped. “I’ll permit you five minutes to gather your things.” He came around the desk, as if to afford her access to it.

“Do you mean...,” she began, halting and sputtering, “does this mean I’m being discharged? With no recourse, no warning? I shall demand a hearing with the board!”

“On your way out, Royds will see you get two weeks’ pay. We are a generous church.”

The holier-than-thou smugness radiating from this man was almost as maddening as the idea he could simply waltz in here and toss her out on the street. “But you can’t do this. You can’t!”

“On the contrary — I most certainly can.”

“Outrageous! I demand to see your credentials!”

With this, he reached into his vest pocket and retrieved a leather packet, which he undid and handed to her. She snatched it and went through it. It was full of official documentation from the Wesleyan Brotherhood Council — the body who oversaw the Mission and House of Industry — giving the reverend Dr. Considine full power to enact improvements and reforms as he saw fit, with no need for review or approval by the elders.

He plucked the envelope and its contents back as she was still absorbing their implications for her own future.

“This is impossible. Some devilry must be afoot.” She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “What do you know about running an orphanage and workhouse for girls?”

“A great deal. As governess in charge, you are supposed to set a standard for all the rest. Sadly, it seems you have done precisely the opposite.”

He turned to the desk and picked up a small book he must have brought with him, which he raised with a sniff and held up to her.

“The Book of Discipline,” he said. “Edition of 1858. As you know, or should know, this sets out the doctrines of our Methodist sect.” He opened the book and read in a haughty manner. “In the latter end of the year 1739, eight or ten persons came to Mr. Wesley—” here his eyes swept briefly heavenward — “in London, who appeared to be deeply convinced of sin, and earnestly groaning for redemption. They desired that he advise them how to flee from the wrath to come.” He lowered the book. “I would at least have expected you, Miss Crean, to follow the Discipline and flee the wrath to come. But it seems you have done precisely the opposite. You, daughter of Crean, are no less a daughter of Satan.”

Nurse Crean’s rising anger and outrage topped out at this accusation. “I... I am what?”

“Silence! I shall number, from our own holy book, the ways you have desecrated your mission on earth.” He opened the book again. “Do no evil of any kind, such as taking the name of God in vain, or profaning the day of the Lord; or by drunkenness. I would say to you, spawn of evil, that you have turned this godly House of Industry into a House of Drunkenness and Profanation.”

She stepped forward, livid with rage, her knuckles — already clenched — turning white. “I’ve never touched a drop of liquor in my life! I, a spawn of evil? It is you who malign this place with such lies!”

“Still you deny your sins? I should have thought that — confronted with them — you would be glad enough to flee into ignominy and obscurity, with the money I’ve offered you. But perhaps I should have expected this: as my private inquiries have already shown, you continue to pile wickedness upon wickedness, crime upon unimaginable crime... including even satisfying your own bestial appetites on the virgin bodies of these poor young wretches under your care. Get thee behind me, Satan!” And, lifting the book once again, he turned to a fresh page: “When you look them in the face, you should break forth into tears, as the prophet did when he looked upon Hazael...”

Goaded nearly to madness by his words, Nurse Crean rushed at him, raising her hand to strike the man. To her vast surprise, Reverend Considine — displaying remarkable speed and dexterity — grabbed her left hand and wrenched it behind her back; gripped her raised right hand, forcing it down and around the letter opener atop the table; and then — his eyes fixed upon hers — maneuvered its point against her belly.

“It’s impolite to interrupt a minister while he’s reciting Holy Writ,” he said. “Where was I? What cause have we to bleed before the Lord, that we have so long neglected this good work!”

With the grace of a dancer, he pivoted the two of them around so her back was to the desk. Then he pressed her against it, covering her mouth with his free hand, and plunged the letter opener deep into her peritoneal cavity. Her eyes widened white; she struggled with stifled screams.

“These letter openers are so often dull,” Diogenes whispered in her ear. “Terribly sorry.”

And then he thrust still deeper, turning the point upward, hooking into the abdominal aorta.

“There were many hindrances,” he quoted loudly, covering the muffled sounds. “And so there always will be. But the greatest hindrance is in ourselves — and in our littleness of faith and love.”

Then, letting her free, he leapt to one side as she collapsed onto the dusty floor, emitting a final whimper of denial as she did so, bleeding out in a crimson flood.

13

Diogenes examined his clothes. There were a few splatters of blood on his cassock, but they had missed the magenta piping and were easily rubbed into invisibility in the heavy black cloth.

“Royds!” he cried. “Great heavens! Come here!”

He glanced around rapidly, taking in the state of the office, then waited until he heard the step of Royds approaching down the hall before kneeling in front of the body.

Royds knocked.

“Come in, man, come in! Something terrible has happened!”

He came in and halted, seeing the body sprawled in a growing pool of blood, made a strange noise between a whimper and a warble, and shrank back, covering his mouth with his palm.

“God’s retribution works in mysterious ways,” Diogenes said. “The shock of the council’s decision unhinged her. I couldn’t stop her from the wicked deed.”

“She did this—?” Royds began, backing up farther.

Diogenes stepped fastidiously away from the body to avoid soiling his shoes on the spreading blood.

“Yes,” he said. “She preferred to end her own life rather than live in shame.” He shook his head. “It’s as I told you when I first introduced myself this morning: It would have been wiser for the General Council to give her some warning this might be coming. But they felt — especially Reverend Leeds — that were she given advance notice, her actions might be unpredictable.” He paused. “And so they have proven to be.” He sighed deeply. “This, alas, is precisely why I was called in. How I long to be back in Africa, delivering souls into the hands of the Lord. But it seems reforming church institutions that have strayed — a calling I never wished for — is my cross to bear.”

Royds nodded shakily. Earlier, Diogenes had thoroughly impressed him with the various papers he had brought, most quite real, with the exception of one excellent forgery allegedly from the English Council, which he had presented to the head of the Council of Greater New York the day before. How convenient it was, Diogenes thought, that transatlantic communications were so primitive in the year 1880. And now the Right Reverend Considine was in full charge of the House of Industry — at least until, if ever, the New York Council confirmed his appointment with the church back in England.

“She was a right cruel taskmistress, she was — begging your pardon, sir,” Royds said, looking down at the body.

“Indeed, Royds,” said Diogenes.

“As hard-hearted to human suffering as any person I ever met... but as pious as you please when it came to herself. So glad to see the Mission in better hands, Reverend.”

Diogenes was faintly repelled by this Uriah Heep already ingratiating himself with his new master — with the previous one still warm on the floor. “Her sadistic proclivities were known beyond these walls... And so were her vices — although ‘vices’ is too mild a term for her depraved peccadilloes.”

“‘Depraved,’ you say?” Royds’s shocked and frightened eyes took on a sheen of lurid curiosity.

“Some of the darkest, most vile acts a human could commit, even in this den of iniquity.” Diogenes spread his hands to include the entire Five Points. “The most distinct category of vice will have its own foul subclasses. So it was with Miss Crean, too. She was cruel, she was heartless; both labels are apt. But to her everlasting damnation, the evil lusts she hid beneath that hypocritical veil would make the most hardened sailor blanch.”

“It would?” Royds said. Then: “I always knowed it.”

“I can trust you, Royds. And I know you’re a man of character. Which is why I’m going to give you greater authority here than you enjoyed before, raising your salary to match — you’ve suffered under the lash long enough. But I also know of your sound moral qualities... which is why, if I mention to you just a few of the acts Miss Crean perpetrated on the helpless young women of this institution, you will be horrified — and understand why her replacement had to be undertaken in so swift a manner. You must be strong, Royds — with your new position comes new responsibility.”

“Yes, Reverend, sir,” said Royds.

Going back behind the desk and sitting down, Diogenes crooked a finger at Royds. The attendant came over eagerly — making a wide detour around the bloody form on the floor — and bent his head forward as Diogenes briefly whispered in his ear. Two or three horrors perpetrated by Crean upon the girls in her charge, hinted at without clarity, were sufficient to whet, but perhaps not fully satisfy, Royds’s unhealthy imagination.

“Your first responsibility, Royds, is to fetch a heavy blanket to wrap this body in for disposal. We mustn’t allow the church to be sullied by scandal.”

Royds returned, and Diogenes helped roll up the nurse’s body and place it in a handcart. He then gave Royds a generous advance on his new position, with extra funds, and sent him off with instructions on how to dispose of the corpse. Diogenes watched through the window as Royds disappeared down the street with the remains, heading for a certain private cartage he had identified not long after his arrival, known for handling unusual disposal problems.

Now was the time, Diogenes thought, to assert his role. He rang the bell for the head girl.

She arrived and halted in confusion, then gave a hasty curtsy.

“I am the master now,” said Considine. “Miss Crean has left.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get two other girls with mops and buckets and clean this mess up,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “Scrub it down to the boards; leave no trace.”

“Yes, sir.” She stared at the bloodstain, eyes wide, but no questions asked. The brutal Miss Crean had cowed them well, thought Diogenes.

“And then, when you’re done,” he added, “gather the girls in the chapel. I should like to introduce myself as the new director of the Mission and House of Industry.”

14

Through the half-open door of his office, Warburton Seely, chief inspector of buildings for the City of New-York, eyed the man who had just stepped into his outer chamber. He was dressed in the latest style: an expensive herringbone tweed sack suit with a wingtip collar and four-in-hand tie, low brogues with spatterdashes, a green vest, and a heavy gold watch chain, the ensemble completed with a formal top hat and Malacca cane. He would have been the very picture of a prosperous banker or financier, save for the fact it appeared he’d bought the clothes that very morning.

Then there were his peculiar features. The man had a hideous scar across his pale face. He was unshaven; his hair was long and greasy, fingernails cracked and dirty. Seely could hear the man’s voice as he engaged in conversation with the clerk — a high-pitched, whiny voice with a western drawl so pronounced it was almost a foreign language. He had arrived without an appointment, and it was a wonder he’d managed to get past the municipal police who guarded the inner sanctum of city hall.

“I’m a-here to see Mr. Seely,” the man was saying. “The name is Pendergast. Aloysius X.” He spoke his name as pompously as an English lord, the effect ruined by the ridiculous twang.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I do not. But I ’spect he’ll want to see me.”

“Mr. Seely does not receive visitors without an appointment,” said the clerk, voice laced with contempt. “Now, if you’d care to leave your card—”

“I’m newly arrived from Leadville, Colorado, and they tell me this here Mr. Seely is the man to see if you have—” he coughed with a ludicrous attempt of delicacy — “money to invest in real estate.”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but an appointment is necessary. I’ll have an officer see you out.”

Leadville, Seely thought. Wasn’t that where the gigantic silver strike had been made last year?

He rose from his desk and leaned out the half-open door. “Mr. Charles? I think I can find a moment for the gentleman now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thankee,” said the man, shuffling into the office, hat in hand, the ruddy scar across his pale face like a streak of blood on marble. After a hesitation, Seely held out his hand. “Good day, Mr....?”

“Pendergast.”

“Of course. May I offer you a cigar?” As he proffered the box, he closed the door to the outer office.

“Most obliging of you, sir,” said the visitor, taking up a cigar. Seely selected another, lit the man’s cigar, then his own. He gestured to a seat in front of his large desk. “Please sit down.”

The man did so. Seely, settling back into his own chair, could smell the newness of his clothes.

“Now, I understand that you’re from Colorado. May I ask what business you’re in?”

“Well, sir, I was in the mining business. Silver.”

Seely nodded.

“Yessir. God has been good to me, very good to me, when it come to silver. You heard of the Belle Gulch Mine? Twenty-four million troy ounces, not to mention lead, zinc, and bismuth. Well, that there Belle Gulch was my claim.”

“How fortunate for you, Mr., ah...” What was that damned name again?

“Pendergast. Now, Mr. Seely, I’m not one to milk a prized cow dry: I cashed out my claims when the opportunity was ripe, and now I’m here to invest the proceeds. City’s growing. Property is the future. They told me you’re the man to see.”

“Ah, of course. Of course.” Seely wasn’t sure exactly where this was headed, but he had a tingling sense there was going to be money in it for him — maybe lots of it. This bumpkin and his wealth would be quickly separated in New York, and Seely figured there was no reason he shouldn’t be present for the division.

He let his instinct guide the conversation. “As I am the chief building inspector of the city, I don’t actually have real estate for sale... Was there some other way I could be of help?”

“That’s exactly right, Mr. Chief Inspector — you can most certainly help a feller out. Since arriving, I’ve spent my time, well... doing prospecting of a different sort.” He seemed to find this privately amusing. “There’s a brewery up by Longacre Square. Called Hockelmann’s Brewery. Main entrance on Forty-First Street, back gate down Smee’s Alley. You know it?”

Seely did not.

“Good strong ale. Prosperous enterprise, too. The brewery has bought up the block and is emptying out the tenements for development. That Longacre Square is going to be some valuable property, sir, as the city grows — I’m from Leadville, like I said, and I’ve watched a dozen towns spring up in the territories. I saw which ones boomed, which went bust... and why. New York here may be a mite bigger, but business is business, as sure as men are men. And I’ve learned to sniff out an opportunity like a stallion sniffs out a mare.”

Seely nodded, his hands folded, waiting.

“Well, that’s the property I want. Them empty tenements.”

“And you’ve tried to purchase it?”

“No, sir. I’m too smart for that. I inquired around first. The devil who owns it won’t sell. He’s turned down many offers. Can’t see past his flourishing beer business enough to realize there are other things like to flourish more. Thing is—” and he leaned closer — “I was talking to this friend of mine, lives over the Stonewall Inn, and he told me I had one shot at getting them buildings. One shot, and one only — and that was to get the property condemned.” He leaned back again. “I understand you’re the man who can do that.”

“Who might have told you such a thing?” Seely felt a slight twinge of alarm at the thought his name was being bandied about in this way. It was true, he’d condemned two, maybe three, buildings — that were unfit to live in, of course — for certain considerations. But he had his reputation to consider. On the other hand, twenty-four million ounces of silver, at a dollar an ounce... Thoughts of reputation fell away as he realized this Pendergast must be as rich as Croesus — and a lot wilier in business matters than his rube-like appearance implied. Looking closer, Seely saw that the man’s silvery eyes were positively glittering with greed and cunning.

“A friend,” was his only response. He drew a line on his cheek with his thumb and followed it with an exaggerated wink.

“I see,” said Seely. He thought for a moment about how this might be done in such a way that, if it ever came out, there’d be deniability. As he was ruminating, the man, Pendergast, spoke up again, his voice falling to a hush.

“Mr. Seely, I got it all worked out. You loan me one of them badges, make me into an inspector. I take it up to Hockelmann. He don’t know me from Adam, and I scare him with it. Soften him up. I won’t actually condemn nothing, because then it’d be on record. I’ll just do an inspection, find a passel of things wrong, and make a lot of noise. Ain’t no harm in that, is there?”

Seely was careful not to let his expression betray his thoughts. It actually seemed like a sound plan — and it had deniability baked in.

“And while I’m here,” Pendergast said, “I’d like to take a squint at the construction plats of them tenements. I believe they’re filed with your office?”

Seely tented his fingers. There was a reason this man had grown so rich — and it wasn’t just stumbling on a silver lode. As he waited for the offer, he told himself not to judge strangers too rashly in the future.

“You do this for me, Mr. Seely — just loan me the badge for a couple of days and give me some papers. You know, the kind with fancy stamps and seals on them.”

Seely again waited.

“You do that for me, friend, and I’ll see you right.”

Seely raised his eyebrows, indicating his interest.

“Five hundred dollars now, five hundred when I return the badge.”

A thousand dollars — this was at least five times what Seely had been expecting. Stunned, he managed to control himself, even fashion a little frown on his face, and allowed his silence to drag on.

“One thousand dollars now,” Pendergast said.

More silence.

“Damn it, man!” Pendergast urged.

“Fifteen hundred. All up front.”

“Twelve hundred.”

“Thirteen hundred.”

Pendergast scowled. “All right. Give me whatever I need to put a scare into that damned brewmeister, and I’ll give you the money. But I’m going to need the badge for at least a week, maybe more.”

It was as easy to enlist a false inspector as it was a real one — even easier — and Seely had all the necessary accoutrements at hand. He went to his closet, unlocked it, took out a badge and a portfolio of embossed leather. He brought them over to his desk, filled out several lines here and there, then showed them to Pendergast. “I’ve put an alias on the paperwork — Mr. Alphonse Billington. I’ll have my clerk bring up the plats for you to look at — not, however, to take with you. I’ll give you the credentials when you bring me the funds.”

The man reached into his suit, extracted a slim packet of $100 banknotes, peeled off thirteen, and placed them on the desk. Seely felt his heart accelerate, even as he noted with dismay there were still quite a few left — he could have done even better. But thirteen hundred was a gigantic backhander, and the risk was negligible. If Hockelmann ever followed up with a complaint, Seely would simply deny all knowledge of the miner and his scheme; “Alphonse Billington” would be just a man with a stolen badge and forged papers.

“Mr. Pendergast, may I give you some advice?” he said on impulse.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t arrive dressed like that. No building inspector would wear such an outfit. You will need much more conservative attire: frock coat, vest buttoned high but open below, string tie, and above all, workingman’s brogues without spatterdashes. And a derby hat — that top hat’s too formal.”

The plats arrived and Pendergast spread them out, glanced them over rapidly, then stepped away. “That is all. I thankee, sir,” he said with a bow, taking up the badge and portfolio. “I will return these in a week’s time.”

“No. Don’t return them. Burn everything made of paper, and make sure the badge gets lodged at the bottom of the East River.” He paused. “But within a week, mind — after that, I’ll have the badge number removed from active service.”

Seely rose, opened the door for the prospector, and saw him into the outer office, where he murmured to his clerk. Nodding, Mr. Charles saw the visitor out.

Seely then retired once again to his inner office and eased the door shut. He placed his hand on the pocket of his suit coat, feeling the crinkle of the banknotes nested within. Thirteen hundred dollars — three months’ salary. Not a bad morning’s work.

15

The “cottage” rose above the spruce trees like a gigantic, shingled castle, its eaves shagged with icicles, the windows shuttered and mysterious. The distant Atlantic stretched out beyond and below the mansion, a gray heaving surface smoking in the bitterly cold air. D’Agosta, holding Joe’s hand — the only warm thing anywhere — could hear the distant sound of surf crashing on the rocks. The steamship ride from Boston had been brutal — he was sick as a dog on the rough winter seas — then followed by a ride in an actual horse-drawn sleigh with jingling bells, which might have been interesting if he hadn’t just about frozen his junk. Not until he’d spent these last several days in this strange universe did it occur to him just how many twenty-first-century conveniences he took for granted. On top of that, the train ride had given him way too much time to mull over the idea that he was trapped in this world; that he’d never see his wife, Laura, again, have another beer with his work buddy Coldmoon... or even drive a car.

At first, D’Agosta had felt the silent Joe to be a millstone around his neck — one he resented being saddled with. How was he going to keep this kid occupied? Would there be a school on the island? There was so much Pendergast hadn’t told him. But he and Joe had both enjoyed playing cards — the kid was a determined and clever player. While clearly anxious, he was a tough kid, not prone to showing emotion, and for that at least D’Agosta was grateful. Nothing, in fact, seemed to faze him. On the contrary, it was D’Agosta who was put out by the whole assignment. And then, on the steamship to Bar Harbor, Joe had refused to leave his side even as he fled to the windswept, frozen deck to puke his guts out. And when they were back inside the cabin, Joe had fetched him, without being prompted, a pot of hot tea. The kid didn’t talk much — except when asking directions at the station and elsewhere. D’Agosta himself had tried to keep silent, thinking his manner of speech might cause suspicion. At heart, Joe was a steady, reliable kid, and might surprisingly enough even become a comfort to D’Agosta, overwhelmed by this absurd situation and the horrible thought he might never get home again.

Initially, he’d wondered if Joe might bolt at the first opportunity. Pendergast had briefed him on the boy’s background and disposition. Only recently sprung from prison, Joe had just gone through a terrible spasm of violence that had torn his family apart and left him alone with a strange man to boot. But it seemed, somehow, the boy was smart enough to sense D’Agosta was an ally and friend, someone he could depend on and even look up to.

His presence had stirred up memories of D’Agosta’s son from his first marriage. At twelve, Vinnie Jr. had also been reserved and stubborn — a tall, serious boy. He had kept his stalwart nature even at eighteen, as he was dying of acute myeloid leukemia. D’Agosta knew Joe must have suffered a lot in Blackwell’s prison and as a homeless kid on the streets, but he faced it just as Vinnie had faced his illness — with stoic bravery and silence.

“That’s big,” said Joe matter-of-factly, staring up at the mansion.

It was gigantic. D’Agosta wasn’t sure he had ever seen a bigger house. “Yeah, sure is,” he said, trying to put some cheer in his voice.

“I thought it was a cottage.”

“Apparently, that’s what the very rich call their summer homes — no matter how large they are.”

“Right this way, sir,” said the sleigh driver, as he came around and directed them toward the porte cochere. “Right this way.”

“I’ll bet there’s a ghost,” said Joe.

D’Agosta was startled; he’d been thinking the same thing as he stared up at the dark bulk, with its steep roofs, square towers, gables, and eyebrow dormers. The place looked forbidding, if not downright menacing. “I’ll bet it just looks scarier than it is,” he said. “Anyway, it’ll be nice and warm inside.”

The driver hustled up to the door and, fumbling with his gloves, removed a key and inserted it into the lock. The door swung back to reveal an entryway opening into a vast salon, the windows showing a few cracks of light through the shutters. Far from being warm, the mansion felt even colder inside than without. All the furniture and paintings were draped in white sheets, the carpets rolled up, the tables covered. Even the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling were tied up in sheets, floating overhead like great shapeless apparitions.

“The heated part of the house is through here,” said the driver, bustling across the salon to a passageway. After several windings through chill corridors, they came to a stout door, which the man opened. Out poured the yellow light of kerosene lanterns and a welcome flow of warmth. They entered a cozy set of rooms: small and plain, apparently the kitchen and scullery of the servants’ quarters. Perhaps this would feel more familiar to Joe, less alien. In any case, it was warm, gloriously warm, the heat radiating from an iron stove at the end of the room, on which a pot of coffee exuded a welcome scent.

Two people, a man and a woman, sat on either side of the stove. The woman was knitting while the man nursed a cup of coffee. She set down her work and rose to greet them. They made a funny pair, D’Agosta thought — both in their fifties, the woman big and bosomy and cheerful, with a red face and curly orange hair, and the man thin as a rail, stooped and dour, with droopy mustaches. He did not rise. He didn’t even look up.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cookson,” the driver said. “Caretakers.”

Mrs. Cookson enveloped D’Agosta’s hand in hers with a beaming smile. “Mr. Harrison, welcome to Norumbega,” she said.

Norumbega? D’Agosta felt a momentary confusion.

“That’s Mr. Rockefeller’s name for the house,” Mrs. Cookson said. “It was a mythical land of gold and pearls that the early English explorers looked for around these parts but never found — of course.”

“I see. Thanks for the explanation.”

“And who is the young master?” Mrs. Cookson turned toward Joe and bent down to take his hand.

“Joe,” the youth said gravely.

“Very nice to meet you, Joe. How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“That’s a fine age.”

Joe, in his typical silent fashion, merely nodded.

“Will you stay for a cup of coffee?” she asked the carriage driver.

“I’d best be off afore sunset,” he replied. Then he wrapped his scarf back around his neck and disappeared out into the main house, closing the door behind him with a gust of frigid air.

“Coffee?” Mrs. Cookson asked D’Agosta.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“And for you, young man? Hot chocolate?”

Joe nodded.

“Have a seat.” She fetched D’Agosta a mug of coffee. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Mr. Rockefeller is concerned about security, and at our age we’re just not able to keep up as we should. The house is full of valuable things, of course. I know your presence will be such a reassurance to Mr. Rockefeller — you being an ex-policeman and all.”

D’Agosta wondered who might rob a house in the dead of winter on a remote island in Maine. Even more to the point, he wondered how Pendergast had gotten an in with the Rockefellers on such short notice, let alone arranged for him to be hired on as extra security for the premises. But it was useless to speculate: he’d long ago given up trying to figure out Pendergast’s inscrutable methods or trace his wide-ranging connections. The important thing was the place, being at the ends of the earth, seemed safe from Leng and his henchmen.

“I was sorry to hear of the loss of your wife,” went on Mrs. Cookson, apparently in a talkative mood — and no wonder, with a husband as taciturn as hers. “I hope you’ll find the peace and quiet up here to your liking.”

Loss of his wife. D’Agosta, aka George Harrison, was playing the part of a grieving widower with a child — that was part of the hasty biographical sketch Pendergast had provided as he bundled them off. But the phrase hit home: if he couldn’t find a way to return, Laura truly would be lost to him.

Mr. Cookson got up from his seat, fetched two sticks of wood from a pile beyond the warm kitchen, inserted them into the stove, and sat down again. Mrs. Cookson refilled his mug as if by habit.

“As you can imagine,” Mrs. Cookson said, “the island’s quiet during the winter. There’s a small year-round community of lobstermen, a two-room schoolhouse for Joe and the other children, a one-horse fire station, and a church. Of course it all changes in the summertime, with all the wealthy folk arriving, dances and theatricals, lawn parties and boating and the Lord knows what else. What church do you attend, Mr. Harrison?”

D’Agosta couldn’t remember Pendergast’s instructions on this point, or even if there had been some, and he stammered: “We’re, uh, we’re Catholic.”

This statement caused even Mr. Cookson to look up briefly.

“Oh dear,” the woman said. “Roman Catholic? We’ve not got a church of that persuasion on the island.”

D’Agosta hesitated. He really didn’t go to church anymore, to be honest, but he sensed that Mrs. Cookson would not be happy to hear that. “I’m sure God won’t mind if we attend your church while we’re here.”

“Very good. I think we’re going to get along well.” She eyed the two newcomers for a moment. “Mr. Harrison, I was warned you and Joe might not come prepared for a Maine winter. I can already see that to be the case. Mr. Rockefeller instructed me to make sure you are both properly dressed, and he offered some of his secondhand family clothing. I shall have Mr. Cookson bring some down from the attic.” She cocked her head. “You’re a trifle stout, but I’m a good seamstress and we’ll be able to accommodate.”

“Thank you. I’m not used to this kind of cold.”

“That will change soon enough.” She smiled, looking like an oracle. “Now — Mr. Harrison, Joe — let me show you to your rooms.”

D’Agosta started to follow her, then paused at the staircase, turned back to Joe, and leaned down conspiratorially. “If there is some old ghost, we’ll give him what for — what do you say?” And he mimed a gun with his thumb and index finger.

Joe’s eyes lit up in a way D’Agosta hadn’t seen before. “We will, by jingo!” he whispered back almost fiercely. “He’ll get such a thrashing he’ll just have to go haunt somewhere else.”

And the two shook on it.

16

Pendergast sauntered down to the seaport, where a huge board fence had been erected around a construction site on the East River. The fence was painted green and had been up long enough to be plastered with many layers of playbills and announcements. Slots had been cut in the boards so that passersby could view the activity beyond, and there were quite a few availing themselves of the opportunity.

Pendergast made use of one of these slots. Peering through it, he saw a massive site crawling with hundreds of workers. There were great piles of cut stone, steel, cranes, steam shovels, huge metal caissons. A monstrous cut had been made into the bedrock of Manhattan Island along the river’s margin, mostly filled with concrete, stone, and steel. A half-built tower of granite and limestone rose up from the river itself, and a second could be seen in the distance, near the far shore.

The Brooklyn Bridge was nearing completion.

After observing the activity for some minutes, Pendergast strode alongside the fence until he came to a gate manned by a guardhouse. He offered his inspector’s badge and papers and was allowed to enter. He walked down to a large staging area near the tower just in time to hear the noon whistle blow.

Not long afterward, men began to emerge from the top of the gigantic caisson at the base of the tower, their faces and work clothes black with muck. These were the sandhogs, the men who removed mud and rock from beneath the riverbed, replacing it with massive granite blocks as they sank the foundations of the bridge into the bedrock below.

Pendergast positioned himself strategically, inspecting the filthy, exhausted men as they filed past on their way to clock out. The sandhogs were the toughest construction workers in the city, and many had died — and more would still — before the bridge was completed.

The men paid no attention to him, but he paid keen attention to them. As they lined up at the exit, Pendergast strolled down the line and tapped the shoulders of ten men in particular, including one of the foremen, motioning them to step out, while at the same time opening his coat to display his badge. They did so, looking apprehensively at the badge, while the foreman eyed Pendergast suspiciously.

“What’s this all about, sir?”

“Inspection,” said Pendergast. “Perfectly routine. Not to worry — nobody has done anything wrong.”

The foreman nodded dubiously. Pendergast turned to the men, who eyed him, unsmiling, exhausted — wanting nothing more than to go home.

“Gentlemen,” said Pendergast with a smile, “I understand you are earning two dollars a day down in the caissons. And you, sir,” he said, turning to the foreman, “make three.”

They shuffled nervously.

Pendergast lowered his voice. “My name is Alphonse Billington, and I’m here to offer you an overnight job. One night only. The pay is ten dollars each.”

At this, a gleam of interest shone in the men’s faces.

“Go home, gentlemen, clean up, change, get some rest — and then meet me in Smee’s Alley off Longacre Square at nine o’clock sharp. As a gesture of my sincerity, I’m offering a signing bonus of one dollar, right now.” He put his hand into his pocket and went down the line, slipping a coin into each filthy hand, along with a freshly printed card.

As the men turned to leave, he stayed the foreman with a hand to the elbow. “I’ll just need a moment more with you, sir. Mr. Otto Bloom, is it not?”

The foreman looked surprised and suspicious all over again. “How did you know my name?” he asked in a thick German accent.

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Bloom. Now, I’m placing you in charge of this group of men — which means you’ll receive double wages.” Pendergast pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Here is a list of supplies I will need you to bring to Smee’s Alley an hour before the other men arrive. That means you might need to be quick with your purchases. Hire a wagon for transport, and spare no expense.”

Bloom took the list and stared at it. “Explosives, sir?”

“A trifling amount. I understand that as foreman you have the requisite license.”

“I don’t want to be involved in any funny business.”

“It is all perfectly legal, I can assure you, if a bit unorthodox.” Pendergast dipped into his pocket and took out an envelope. “Here are the funds you’ll require. And your full remuneration of twenty dollars — in advance. I shall be offering bonuses upon successful completion of the job.”

The man hesitated, then took the envelope.

“I’m an honest man, Mr. Bloom, and I believe you to be one as well,” said Pendergast in a pleasant voice. “Should you prove otherwise, it would be most unfortunate — for you, I mean.”

“Yes, sir.” Bloom touched his forehead with the envelope, then slid it into his jacket pocket. “Eight o’clock, Longacre Square.”

17

On occasion, Dr. Enoch Leng enjoyed taking the reins of his four-in-hand barouche himself, feeling the power of the fine horses under his own hands. This evening, he headed across Chatham Square and angled down Chatham Street at a fast trot, Munck sitting beside him. Not far past the square, he was obliged to stop, due to a commotion in front of Fatty Walsh’s Saloon. This was often the case in the slums of the Five Points. Leng watched with interest as a superannuated whore was chased from the saloon by a group of drunken ruffians shouting catcalls and abuse. A crowd of gawkers had also gathered, temporarily blocking Leng’s progress as they watched the pursuit of the prostitute who, weeping, tried to escape her harassers. Such displays of human cruelty only further confirmed his deepening sense of Weltschmerz.

Soon the commotion had passed southward into the Fourth Ward, and Leng was able to proceed, turning right onto Baxter and then left onto Park Street. Midway down the block rose the forbidding, four-story brick façade of the House of Industry. He pulled the carriage up to the arched portal and turned the reins over to Munck, then alighted, clapped on his top hat, and pulled the visitor-announcement chain on the door. A moment later, the door opened half a dozen inches and the rubbery face of Royds appeared in the gap, creased with anxiety. Leng expected the man to open it the moment he was recognized, but instead Royds began to stammer.

“Dr. Leng, good to see you, Professor, very good indeed, sir...” His voice seized up.

“Is something the matter, Royds?” Leng asked.

“Well, Dr. Leng, sir, there’s been a terrible tragedy...” Again he seemed to freeze, at a loss for words.

“What sort of tragedy? Are you going to admit me, man, or just stand there gaping?”

Leng heard a voice sound out from the darkness beyond. “Who is that?”

“Ah, sir, it’s the Mission doctor, sir—”

“Open the door so I can see him.”

Royds eased open the door, and the light from outside revealed an extraordinary figure — a thin man, imperious, clothed in clerical severity, with reddish hair and a short beard, staring down at Leng with glittering eyes: one green, the other milky blue.

“Who are you, sir?” the man demanded.

Stepping farther into the entrance hall, Leng lost none of his composure despite this odd turn of events, arranging his face into an agreeable expression and removing his top hat. “Dr. Enoch Leng, at your service. May I enter?”

“Please do, Doctor. I am the Right Reverend Percy Considine. Come to my office and we shall discuss your business, whatever it may be.”

At this, the reverend turned on his heel with a swirl of his black cassock and retreated into the darkness, Leng following. Royds, he noted, scurried away as soon as he could.

The reverend led him out of the entrance hall, down the east corridor, and into Miss Crean’s office, where he seated himself behind her desk with a flourish and held out his hand to indicate where Leng was to sit.

“Now, Dr. Leng, you may not know this,” the man said, “but tragedy has visited the House of Industry.”

Leng kept his features arranged in as pleasant an expression as possible. “I had not heard.”

“The details are strictly confidential — for the present. Suffice it to say, Miss Crean passed away quite suddenly, and I am her replacement, appointed by the Methodist Judicial Council. You can imagine, Dr. Leng, that I am still getting acquainted with the particular affairs of this mission. I regret to say I’m not familiar with you or your business here.” He clasped his large hands. “So tell me, Doctor: what can I do for you?”

“Thank you, Reverend Considine,” said Leng. “I am very sorry to hear of Miss Crean’s passing, and I offer you my condolences.”

“No such condolences are necessary. As it happens, I was here to replace her.”

Leng was taken aback. “Indeed? May I inquire as to what happened?”

“You may not. It is church business, and as such must remain private.”

“I see. Well then, allow me to congratulate you on your assuming the duties of director.” Leng paused. “I am a doctor of, if I may say, excellent repute, who offers his therapeutic services pro bono to the unfortunate girls of the Mission. I am credentialed at Bellevue Hospital and am an adjunct at Columbia, with advanced medical degrees from Heidelberg and Oxford, specializing in mental alienation and psychosurgery. I would be most happy to present you with my credentials.”

“That won’t be necessary, Doctor. I naturally accept your word.”

“Thank you. In my private clinic, I sometimes offer treatment to a very few patients from the Mission and House of Industry. In addition to Bellevue, of course.”

“And you are here today, sir, on what purpose?”

“My hope today is — as has been my practice of some time now, as indicated — to tour the wards, examine any new arrivals, and if necessary transfer to my clinic any worthy Christian girl in urgent need of medical attention. As you know, many of the impoverished inmates rescued from the streets bring with them mental and physical diseases in need of management — especially epidemic diseases that can spread quickly.”

Considine frowned. “Do you have a contract with the Mission?”

“No, Reverend. It was all handled informally, since no payments or obligations were involved — and since, to put it plainly, the Mission has little money to spend on medical care. This has been a way for me, as a devout Methodist of the Wesleyan Church, to offer such talents as God has given me. To live my life, as the Discipline instructs us, ‘to continue to evidence the desire for salvation.’”

“And you believe that removing these lost, sinful souls from the House of Industry, where they are put to hard work in service of the Lord, and in hopes of redemption from their wicked ways, will somehow bring them to salvation?”

“Naturally. By healing their bodies and their minds, I can help them on their journey toward becoming good Christian ladies. And, if I may say so, I have seen the effects of such healing — through my observation of the results.” He smiled piously, carefully hiding his growing disdain of this cleric.

“You mean to say, sir, that by overindulging them, by offering them luxury, by providing them soft beds and medicines and fine food, that somehow you are preparing them for redemption?”

“I would not go so far as to call their hospital quarters luxurious, or their food fine. But as the body is the temple of the soul, then: yes, Reverend, I do believe I am doing God’s work.”

“Sir, I take exception! Rather, what we must do is give them ‘a desire to flee from the wrath to come, and to be saved from their sins,’ as is stated in the same Book of Discipline you have just quoted. Doctor, cosseting these wicked women only leads them farther down the path to perdition. Why, the only charitable, Christian thing I can perceive Nurse Crean to have done in her tenure is to move the Mission offices here — to the House of Industry — where we can keep a closer eye on their labor!” Considine’s voice was rising in volume. “Doctor, I have only been here a day, but it took me far less time than that to observe these women are used to wallowing in depravity and sin — Sabbath-breaking, gaiety of apparel, profanation, brawling and quarreling, and worst of all — worst of all — the accursed thing... You know that of which I speak!”

Leng remained quite still, gazing into the reverend Considine’s face. Clearly, he had suffered some injury to the dead, milky eye; he wondered what it might have been, and whether it was the source of the man’s fanatical nature.

The reverend was now in full throat. “As the Discipline instructs us: Look round and see how many of them are still in apparent Danger! And how can you walk, and talk, and be merry with such People? Methinks you should set on them with the most vehement Exhortations!”

He rose from his chair. “Now, Dr. Leng, prithee get thee hence! I doubt not that your intentions are honorable, but I fear your practice is sadly misguided. Ponder my words and, above all, read and study the Discipline. Because verily, verily, I say unto you: no longer shall this mission be a place from which depraved souls shall be permitted to wantonly fly to sanctuaries for mollycoddling of the body — while their minds remain fettered by filth and wickedness!”

Leng understood that no argument he could muster would move this sanctimonious creature, especially now that he was roused into self-righteous fury. There was nothing for it but to rise stiffly and offer his hand. “You have explained your position, Reverend. I wish you good day.”

Considine stood across the desk, cassock and vestments wrapped around him like a shroud, his face pale and beaded with sweat. He looked down at the hand and, seeming to recollect himself, took it in his own, clammy and wet, and gave it a limp squeeze. “Dominus vobiscum, Doctor.”

18

Leng exited the house of Industry, his face cool and placid, but he was raging within. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the reverend’s loathsome exudations from his hand. Stepping out into Park Street, he saw his carriage parked at the corner of Pearl, where a small group of guttersnipes were fawning over it. Munck, seeing Leng emerge, immediately shook the reins, and the carriage moved forward.

What a damnable thing to happen, Leng thought, just when he was in greater need than ever of experimental subjects on which to test the Arcanum. He could, of course, take the matter up with the Mission elders or the council — but that would take too much time. It would be preferable to simply kill the insufferable ecclesiastic. But before he arranged for this mental cataleptic to meet a tragic end, it would be prudent to learn precisely what had happened to Miss Crean and where precisely Considine had come from. Removing the cleric prematurely might possibly lead to an even more objectionable result. At some time in the very near future, he would need to have a conversation with the unctuous Royds.

He climbed in the cab. “You drive,” he said curtly to Munck.

“Yes, Doctor.”

The coach pulled away from the curb, Leng deep in thought. The more he considered this, the more disastrous the development appeared. There were at present no young females at Bellevue of the right age and health to be suitable — he had run through all of them. On top of that, he could not afford to appear too eager for more, especially since Dr. Cawley, the medical director, was showing annoyance at Leng’s having spirited Ferenc off so quickly. It was within the bounds of his Bellevue credentials to do so, of course, but the patient had been sufficiently intriguing that the hospital was eager to examine him themselves. Indeed, they were asking when they could expect Ferenc back.

As Munck headed northward on the Bowery, Leng eased his mind by considering the most appropriate way in which the Right Reverend could meet a dreadful end. After a few minutes, his attention shifted to the view outside his window. They were just passing a crowd in front of the Bowery Theater.

As he gazed, an idea came to him. “Take a left on Canal, then another on Mott,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

The carriage made the requested turns, which brought it back into the slums of the Sixth Ward and then once again toward the Five Points. As they moved south on Mott, a town house, more elegant than its neighbors, rose up ahead. Several young dandies loitered about in front: Bridget McCarty’s brothel. His eye swept the group, and he decided taking a victim here would be unnecessarily dangerous — he should seek someone who would not be missed.

“Munck, turn right on Bayard, please. When you reach Centre Street, slow down.”

They came out on Centre Street. In the middle of the block was a low limestone structure that — with its squat columns and narrow windows — had an ironic resemblance to an Egyptian temple. This was the ancient, infamous prison known as the Tombs.

Munck, seemingly anticipating his master’s thoughts, expertly slowed the horses down to a walk, while Leng peered at the street through a gap in the carriage curtains. A woman had just come out of the Tombs: one whose thinness, rags, and filth could not entirely hide her youth. It appeared she had just been released. She looked dazed, squinting into the hazy lamplight, struggling to wrap a threadbare shawl around her shoulders.

“Stop.”

The carriage came to a halt along the curb, beyond the woman. As she drew alongside, Leng opened the carriage door and swept off his hat. “Miss? May I have a word?”

“I’m not in that business no more,” said the woman, quickening her step.

Leng sprang out of the carriage and paced her. “No, no, miss, you misunderstand. Allow me to introduce myself — Dr. Enoch Leng of the Five Points Mission. My business is saving souls, and I’ve found the surest way to do that is by feeding souls. Now, I have some grapes and sweetmeats in the carriage — if you’d care to step inside?”

The woman stopped and looked at him, her face grimy and drawn, a few locks of blond hair straying out from under a bonnet. “I know what you’re after — sir. You don’t fool me.”

Leng paused. “Well, perhaps you do know what I want. But I’m a good clean gentleman, miss, and I’ve a fine place where you can take a hot bath, have a good dinner, and be given a fresh change of clothes. And where, I might add, you’ll be treated with respect.”

She gazed into his face with an expression of resignation mingled with exhaustion. She resumed walking.

“Where are you going to spend the night, dear girl?” Leng added as she moved away. “It’s bound to be a cold one. And it appears you’ve been cold a long time. Prison is no place for a fragile creature like yourself.”

She hesitated, slowing her pace.

“A fine saddle of beef and potatoes drowned in butter await.”

She halted. Munck had eased the carriage forward to where Leng was now standing, and as she looked back, he held its door open invitingly. A long moment passed. And then, with something like self-disgust, she turned and climbed inside.

“What is your name, dear?” Leng asked.

“Daisy.”

Leng reached for a small lacquered carrying case affixed to the inside of the carriage, opened it, and withdrew a small porcelain box, within which were nestled candied apricots. “Would you care for one?”

The girl hesitated, then reached out and took one, cramming it into her mouth.

“Have another.”

She took another.

“Take them all, my dear Daisy. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the journey to my home.”

19

Loitering in the shadows of Longacre Square, Pendergast saw the loaded wagon approaching, drawn by a pair of stout Clydesdales driven by Bloom. He waved to the foreman and had him pull up to the curb near the entrance to Smee’s Alley.

“All in order?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s have a look at those explosives.”

Bloom got out, went around to the back, and pulled aside the canvas flap. He lit a small lantern and Pendergast quickly surveyed the interior. Everything looked to be in good order: wooden planks and braces for scaffolding; a neat stack of bricks; some bags of dry cement, sand, and aggregate; tools, nails, and spikes. To one side, cushioned between sacks of lime, was a small wooden box. Bloom slid it out and opened the lid, revealing four sticks of dynamite with fuses and a clock apparatus. Pendergast took one, hefted it, took another, and then slid each into interior pockets of his frock coat, along with the clock.

“Now, Mr. Bloom, kindly wait with the wagon. I am going into Hockelmann’s Brewery to pay the owner a visit.”

Pendergast strolled along Seventh Avenue, then turned into Smee’s Alley, where he paused. The shimmering portal was still nowhere to be seen: just dirt, horse manure, and peeling playbills on the brick walls. The cul-de-sac had a single entrance into the tenements on the right side. At the end stood a wooden gate that, Pendergast knew, was the back entrance to the brewery’s courtyard. Even at this hour the brewery was going strong, coining money for the owner, Heinrich Hockelmann, who in turn was busily buying up and emptying the surrounding tenements in preparation for expansion.

Pendergast walked to the end of the cul-de-sac and noted the padlock on the wooden gate. He grasped the lock in his hand and, using a metal pick, gave it a twist. The lock fell open. He let himself into the courtyard beyond, where two burly men were rolling barrels of beer up a ramp into the back of a wagon. A strong smell of fermenting barley and hops drifted in the air.

The two saw him and halted their work. “Who might you be?” one yelled out.

Pendergast opened his frock coat to display his badge. “Building inspector, here to see Mr. Hockelmann.”

“A moment, sir.” The workman murmured a word to his companion before heading into the brewery itself. Without waiting, Pendergast followed the man inside.

The brewery was a remarkable example of nineteenth-century industry: huge oaken fermenting barrels, twenty feet tall, lined one wall, with a welter of copper pipes going every which way. At the far end, a great iron cauldron of boiling mash sat on a fire, fed by a group of men shoveling coal, the flames casting a reddish glow across the dim space.

After a moment, the burly man returned with a short, fat fellow hustling along behind him on stumpy legs, with a white beard, flushed face, and red button nose, looking very much like an alcoholic Santa Claus.

“What’s going on here?” the man demanded, coming up to Pendergast. “A building inspector? At this time of night?” His voice was thick with beer. He stared at Pendergast’s badge. “What’s your name? I want to see your bona fides.”

“Alphonse Billington, at your service.” Pendergast removed the portfolio from his case.

Hockelmann opened it, looked over the credentials within, grunted, and handed it back. “So what might you want here? Everything’s in order!”

Pendergast let an uncomfortable silence build. “The brewery may be in order,” he intoned at last, “but your tenements are certainly not.”

“What d’ye mean? Those tenements are mostly empty.”

“I am aware of that. I’m here to inspect them.” Pendergast brushed past and, working from his memory of the plats in the building inspector’s office, walked briskly through the huge space and down a corridor, the brewmaster skipping and hopping to keep up. He stopped at a heavy door in the east wall of the building and, apparently just brushing his hand over the lock, opened it.

“Hold on here — I’m telling you, sir, that building beyond is empty.”

Pendergast stepped into a passway through two adjacent walls and found himself in the ground floor of a tenement building: a dark, foul passage illuminated by a single gaslight that led past a row of stinking garbage containers and leftover construction materials. He knew Hockelmann had been mercilessly evicting the immigrant tenants, intent on using the buildings for his growing business.

He charged along, turned a corner, and halted at an alcove containing a stack of old lumber. “This, Mr. Hockelmann, is a serious fire hazard.”

“But there are no tenants in this building—”

“A fire endangers the entire city.” Pendergast was in motion again. He paused at a brick wall, stopped, took out a tiny ball-peen hammer, and tapped the wall with it. He tapped again, putting his ear close to the masonry. Tap tap tap.

“Oh, dear,” he murmured.

Tap tap tap.

“Gracious me.”

Hockelmann waited, face red.

He straightened. “This is a bearing wall, is it not, my good man?”

An exasperated sigh. “It’s the outer wall of the building, yes.”

“Just as I thought. Substandard. Unstable. Shoddy construction. It could collapse at any moment.”

“Wh—?” Hockelmann began to splutter. “This is preposterous!”

They continued on, Pendergast pausing now and then to tap on the walls, his frown deepening. At one point, two rats broke away from a heap of construction trash.

“Vermin,” Pendergast observed. “Uncontained trash. Dangerous storage of paint and oils, leading to possible spontaneous combustion. Extraordinary to think that people live in this environment.”

“But I keep telling you, the building is unoccupied—!”

“Violations are violations, whether there are presently tenants or not.”

It was almost comical how Hockelmann huffed in his attempts to keep up with Pendergast, while simultaneously trying to vent his surprise and indignation.

“What is behind this door?” Pendergast suddenly cried in a suspicious voice, turning a knob and finding it locked.

“An empty apartment,” said Hockelmann. “Like all the others.”

The door suddenly opened as Pendergast pushed against it, and he fell into the darkened space beyond, the door slamming behind him: a bit of business so well executed that a vaudevillian actor would have admired it. Hockelmann tried to follow, but the door had somehow locked itself.

“Let me out!” came Pendergast’s muffled voice. He banged on the door. “This is intolerable!” He rattled the knob and, a moment later, flung the door open, looking alarmed and disheveled. “This door is dangerous and requires immediate attention!”

He slammed it behind him and, tugging his jacket straight, continued on. In a matter of minutes he had made a complete circuit of the ground-floor hallways of the tenement building that fronted Forty-Second Street, and they were back at the door they had initially passed through. Pendergast stepped once again into the brewery, Hockelmann at his heels.

“These are immigrant tenements that I acquired as is,” Hockelmann said, gasping for breath. “You know perfectly well, sir, no tenement landlord ever follows building regulations!”

“Never follows building regulations? I don’t see how that could hold up in court, sir.”

“Court?” Hockelmann’s eyes briefly went glassy as he considered a potential chain of future events.

“The city is up to its neck in lax and irresponsible landlords. Do you think I’m out here, at this time of night, conducting inspections for my health?”

With a mighty effort, Hockelmann held his temper in check. “No, sir, I don’t.”

“Or that I enjoy performing them with the owners at my heels, complaining and insulting me from start to finish?”

Hockelmann said nothing.

“Recall that I have examined only one of the tenement buildings that overlook Smee’s Alley — the other, fronting Forty-First Street, has yet to be examined. Need we conduct this same exercise again?”

Hockelmann took a deep breath, shook his head. “What — what is your recommendation?”

“That you see to it these grossly negligent violations are attended to — and posthaste.”

“I shall do so immediately, Mr. Billington.”

“In that case, having given you this warning — I shall take my leave.” And with a supercilious little bow, he turned away, walked out of the brewery into the courtyard, and approached the gate leading to Smee’s Alley — but not before hearing the words “Bloody scoundrel!” shouted in a voice so loud that it echoed even over the noise of horseshoes and the shoveling of coal.

20

Daisy woke up and for a moment was in a panic, uncertain where she was. She sat bolt upright as her memory came flooding back. The doctor had taken her to his grand mansion, given her a bath, fresh clothes, and a dinner of beef and potatoes, just as promised. There had been no demand for sexual favors as she’d expected — the man had not so much as put a hand on her. Instead, weary beyond all measure, it seemed she’d been allowed to fall asleep right there at the dinner table — only to wake up in this unfamiliar place.

She looked around. The room was spare, with a narrow but comfortable bed, a chair, and a bedside table with some books. The walls were of windowless stone. A riveted iron door stood at the far end, with a grated window, into which was set a small panel, also shut. A single taper burned on a table by her bedside. It was warm and dry — not at all like the Tombs — yet it had the feeling of a prison chamber.

Daisy tried to shake off the feeling of sleepiness. She felt grateful the man had not pressed himself upon her, but it also made her wonder: what was he after, if not that? She rose from the bed and went to the iron door; the handle was, as she expected, locked.

She went back to the bed and sat down. For the first time in months she was neither cold nor hungry. The clothes he’d given her were of good quality, a cotton dress and woolen shawl, along with clean, warm undergarments, stockings, and slippers.

She idly picked up one of the books on the bedside table and squinted at the title. The Light Princess, by George MacDonald. With a shock, she recognized it as a book her father had read to her as a child, about a princess who had no weight and floated everywhere. The unexpected sight of the book was like a knife twisting in her heart, and back flooded all the memories that, for five years now, she’d tried to suppress: her father, killed in the factory; her mother, dead of consumption; her little sister, dead of hunger — and herself now part of the lost sisterhood, forced like so many other penniless women to walk the streets in order to stay alive. She didn’t know what this man — this doctor — wanted, but he hadn’t tried to interfere with her; he’d promised to treat her with respect, and in fact he had, calling her “dear” and making sure she was warm and well fed.

She opened the book with a trembling hand.

Reading was difficult and slow — it had been so long since she’d had anything of interest to read — and she found herself sounding the words out aloud as she went along. As she did so, more recollections came back — of her mother, teaching her to read. She felt so old and worthless now, so vile, even though she was only eighteen. If her father hadn’t been drawn into the machinery, they’d still be living in their three rooms down on Peck’s Slip at the bottom of Ferry, with the steamers coming and going and blowing their whistles, and maybe her with a seamstress job on Pearl Street and a young suitor bringing flowers—

She put the book down. What time was it? She got up from the bed again and went to the door. She knocked politely.

Nothing.

She knocked again, louder this time. “Hello? Dr. Leng?”

Again, nothing.

“Hello?”

She felt a twinge of alarm. What did he want? Despite his nice talk and the fancy meal and clean clothes, he seemed a strange, cold man, and thinking of him made her shiver.

Then she heard footsteps outside the door. She held her breath.

There was a grating of metal on metal, and the panel in the window grate slid open. The light beyond was dim, but she could see the doctor’s wet lips glisten as he spoke.

“Please do not discompose yourself,” he crooned. “All this will be over shortly. Forgive me for not playing the host at the present moment, but I have some pressing business to take care of. I assure you that, in the near future, I will be able to give you the benefit of my undivided attention.”

“But, Doctor, sir—?” Daisy began, then stopped when she noticed the little panel had already shut with a rusty scraping sound.

21

Pendergast waited with Bloom on the seat of the large wagon, parked on Broadway across Longacre Square from Smee’s Alley. A winter wind blew across the empty intersection, bringing with it the smell of coal smoke and horse manure. The gas lanterns cast pools of yellow light at regular intervals in the sea of darkness.

Held out in Pendergast’s hand was a gold pocket watch, which both men examined closely. At one minute to nine precisely, Bloom nodded at Pendergast. A moment later a muffled explosion came from across the street, followed by the sound of collapsing brickwork. A great cloud of dust issued from the mouth of Smee’s Alley.

Pendergast turned to his companion. “Mr. Bloom, if you are as good at construction as you are at demolition, I shall be the first to cross the Brooklyn Bridge upon its completion.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, would you be so kind as to block the alleyway?”

Bloom urged the horses across the square and stopped directly before the alley, the horse prancing nervously as dust from the explosion billowed around them. The air, full of pulverized brick, slowly cleared — revealing that a portion of an empty tenement’s outer wall had collapsed into the alley, bricks strewn about.

On cue, the nine sandhogs converged on the scene, as if drawn by the noise.

“Gentlemen!” Pendergast called out. “You’ve come just in time. There’s been an accident — a wall of this tenement has collapsed, as you can see. Shoddy construction, naturally — unfortunate, but hardly uncommon. I want this alleyway permanently blocked off. In the wagon you will find all the tools and materials needed to erect scaffolding, shore up the walls, and begin repairs. We have no time to lose! Mr. Bloom, please see to it that the work is done correctly.”

“Yes, sir,” Bloom said, hopping off the wagon and crying out orders to the men. The sandhogs immediately began unloading. Pendergast also alighted to watch the process, drawing his greatcoat around his narrow frame.

Within ten minutes there came the sound of horns and motors, and then a firewagon arrived: pulled by four stout horses, uniformed men hanging off the sides. They came to a halt and leapt off, bell clanging.

“Over here, fellows!” Pendergast cried, approaching and waving his badge. “Alphonse Billington, at your service. I commend you on responding so promptly. I happened to be passing, and it was my great luck to enlist the workers that you see here to put things temporarily aright. Nothing to worry about — the collapse of a wall of an alley tenement. I have inspected, and there’s no fire or further danger of instability, thank the Lord.”

“All the same, we’d like to take a look, sir,” said the fire chief.

“I’d be relieved if you would.” Pendergast led the man around the wagon and halfway down the alley, where a five-by-ten-foot hole could be seen in the tenement wall, the bricks spilling into the street. The sandhogs were already bracing the ragged opening with timbers and jacks.

The chief peered inside the hole for a few moments, then nodded. “Very good, sir.”

From the corner of his eye, Pendergast saw Hockelmann burst from the wooden gate at the end of the cul-de-sac and come charging up on stumpy legs, evidently drunk on his own wares.

“What’s this?” he cried. Then he spotted Pendergast. “Damn your eyes, man, you’re behind all this devilment!” he huffed as he approached.

“You’re drunk, for one thing, and talking rubbish for a second.” Pendergast took a step back and viewed him disdainfully. “Did I not tell you the wall was shoddy and prone to collapse?”

“That is all part of your japery somehow, you — you — mountebank!”

“Mountebank, is it?” Pendergast assumed an offended expression. “Perhaps we should inspect more tenements of yours, Mr. Hockelmann, now that we have an excellent team here to look for fire violations... as well as the other signs of neglect by an irresponsible landlord.” He glanced at the fire chief, who stepped up beside him.

This pulled Hockelmann up short. “More inspections? Haven’t you done enough?”

“Enough? I should say not! Here we have proof of dangerous, substandard construction. In fact, given your unwarranted resistance and insulting behavior, we should inspect all these buildings!”

Hockelmann swallowed, looked from Pendergast to the fire chief and back again, and then rearranged his facial features with considerable effort. “My sincere apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to cast aspersions—”

Pendergast raised a hand to stop this flow of words. “I possess a tough hide, sir; I’ve had more than my share of landlords climb out of their beds to insult my person. Perhaps we needn’t inspect them all... at this time of night. But due to the dangerous conditions in the alley, we’re going to have to temporarily padlock this gate to prevent any ingress or egress. You shall be obliged to make do with your main entrance on Forty-First Street.”

Hockelmann, face once again growing dark with fury, retreated back down the alley, slamming the wooden gate behind him.

Pendergast turned to the fire chief. “Thank you for the swift response,” Pendergast told him, shaking the man’s hand firmly. “I shall be sure to take special note of your efficiency in my report.”

“Much appreciated, sir.” The fire chief climbed back aboard his conveyance, then yelled to his men, and — with greatly diminished clamor — the wagon began making its way down Seventh Avenue.

22

Just after one AM, a skiff detached itself from the thicket of wharves and moorings that jutted into the Hudson around the terminus of the Christopher Street ferry. Although the West Side of Manhattan wouldn’t truly bristle with piers and transatlantic liners for another forty years, there was nevertheless some river traffic even at this late hour; but the skiff blended into it easily, calling no attention to itself.

Constance Greene sat aft, rowing upriver on the incoming tide, to the faint creak of oarlocks and the splashes of oars. She wore a man’s outfit, that of a supercargo, cap set low over her short-cropped hair. A large bundle in the bow, covered with an oilcloth, served as more than just counterweight: beneath the canvas lay clothing, food, tools, and weapons.

The skiff’s shallow draft allowed it to skim across the water’s surface, while the planking, hand-notched and pegged, rendered its frame sturdy enough to weather a heavy sea without foundering.

Constance rowed easily, keeping her gaze on the glow that lit up the southern tip of Manhattan. As the glow faded, she piloted the skiff in a little closer to land.

It was a cold, cloudless night, and under the stars the natural features of Manhattan stood out to her practiced eye. Continuing with even strokes, she passed “Mount Tom,” the outcropping where Edgar Allan Poe had once enjoyed taking in the view. Farther north, the island’s bedrock began forcing its way upward into bluffs, leaving only the West Side Line of the New York Central at sea level — along with the ruins of shanties abandoned a decade earlier, during the land condemnation that would prepare the ground for Riverside Park.

The tiers of graded land forming the park were soon visible between patches of bare trees, and here Constance briefly shipped oars and drifted with the tide, looking carefully at the landscape to make sure of her bearings. The park’s outlines, still under construction, ended around 125th Street. Her own destination was a mere dozen blocks farther on.

She looked over her shoulder, using the dim cliffs of Washington Heights for triangulation. Then she took up oars again and brought the skiff still nearer to shore. There she continued with easy strokes, examining the twisted trees along the shoreline with care.

Once, she thought she’d found what she was looking for — but when she angled the skiff in toward land, it grounded on a muddy bank thick with undergrowth, and she quickly used an oar to push back into the river again.

A second attempt, minutes later, was more successful. She knew it before she reached it: the brace of bare plane trees, standing athwart a tangle of scrub, dead weeds, and hanging ivy. More cautiously this time, she approached the spot, expertly bringing the skiff about and letting its bow pierce the prickly curtain of winter undergrowth.

It was thicker than she remembered, however, and for a moment she was surrounded by a mass of vegetation and branches. But then the skiff broke through the mantle of undergrowth, which swung back into place with a dry rustle, sealing the gap and giving no indication it had been disturbed.

Constance shipped oars once again and let the skiff glide freely. Her nocturnal vision was acute, but under this vegetative canopy it was so dark her senses of smell and hearing became equally important. No sound but a faint lapping; no smell but that of briny, icy water and dead foliage.

Reaching forward, she retrieved a dark lantern from beneath the oilcloth and lit it, turning up the wick just enough to faintly illuminate her surroundings. This was the place: the slight opening in the rock just ahead, a familiar outcropping shaped like a moonshine jug both confirmed this was the natural water cave the pirate king who once owned this land had used to access his lair from below ground level. As her skiff entered the stony tunnel, her lantern illuminated centuries-old patterns of smoke on the granite ceiling.

More quickly now, she took hold of the oars and maneuvered the boat around the bend in the grotto. The skiff bumped against the worn rocks at the far end, and she stepped out, knelt to test the ancient bronze ring driven into the nearby bedrock, then tied the painter to it. Reassured by the silence, she straightened up and took a deep breath, shining the lantern around and refamiliarizing herself with the space.

She knew that Leng had purchased the mansion above this cave five years before. At this early point, he had not yet discovered the hidden cellar entrance to the extensive and dangerous sub-basements below, infected with damp and encrusted with niter. And it would be several more years before he discovered this secret water-level access that they ultimately led to. The last person to use this passage to the river had been the one to discover it in the first place: the pirate himself, an Englishman named Nathaniel Bell. “Bloody Bell” had established this stronghold not long after the English acquired New Amsterdam from the Dutch, and he operated as a privateer with a wink and a nod from the new English rulers, who were happy to see him prey on the annual Spanish treasure fleet. After he’d left on what turned out to be his final, fatal sea voyage, no treasure was discovered. Bloody Bell had buried it somewhere — speculation pointed to most likely the Maritimes, probably on Oak Island off the coast of Nova Scotia.

Constance held her lantern close to the walls, moving her fingers lightly over the stones that made up the far end of the grotto, occasionally applying pressure. At last she stopped before a rock face that was smoother than those around it but showed no signs of a doorway. Unsheathing her stiletto, she used the edge of its blade to lightly probe along the rock face, encountering mud and niter. On the fourth try, the blade sank deep. Carefully, she exerted downward pressure — and the blade began tracing a vertical incision without obstacle.

Constance removed the knife. Now that she’d located it, the task of unsealing the hidden door could wait temporarily. She turned back to the skiff, pulled aside the oilcloth, and — quietly, but with haste — unloaded the contents from the bow and arranged them along the damp stones nearby.

23

A cold dawn was just breaking over Longacre Square as the sandhogs finished their work. Pendergast looked it over with no little satisfaction. These men were the best of the best at such tasks; they had done all he asked and more. Smee’s Alley was now completely secure. The mouth of the alley was thoroughly blocked off, the tenements surrounding it offering no access; the hole in the wall caused by the dynamite was boarded over, and the brewery gate at the far end of the alley had been reinforced and padlocked. Just inside the alley’s Seventh Avenue entrance, a sturdy, two-story guard station had been built into the temporary joists, beams, and supports, ready to watch over this small — but critical — alleyway.

Pendergast understood only too well that, if the portal were ever to be opened again, it was vital to control the surrounding space and — even more vital — to prevent Leng from using it. If he ever passed through the portal and gained control of the machine from the twenty-first century of Pendergast’s home universe... the results would be unthinkable.

“Mr. Bloom,” he said, turning to the foreman. “Please assemble your men.”

Bloom quickly lined up the nine members of his crew. They stood straight in their motley work clothes and heavy boots, faces smudged with concrete dust and dirt.

Pendergast eyed them and, after a few words of fulsome praise, reached into his pocket and took out a fistful of $10 gold eagles. He walked down the line, dropping one into each outstretched hand. The expressions on the faces of the men at the sight of the gold were remarkable indeed.

“You,” said Pendergast, tapping one man on the chest. “What is your name?”

“Patrick McGonigle, sir.”

“Do you have any squeamishness regarding fisticuffs or acts of violence?”

“Squeam? I don’t have the clap or the coughing sickness, if that’s what you mean. As for violence, I can handle myself with fists or me shillelagh.”

“Very good. Step over there.”

Pendergast paused at another man. “And your name?”

“Tony Bellagamba, sir.”

“I can see where you got that moniker. Step over there.”

He placed his hands behind his back and turned, strolling once again along the line of ragged men, who were all trying to stand as straight as possible.

“And you?”

“Emil Krauss.”

“Where did you get that scar on your cheek?”

“In a duel, sir.”

“A duel! How marvelous. With what type of weapon?”

“A Korbschläger, sir. Back in Prussia.”

“And what happened to your opponent?”

“I spared his life, sir.”

“Why?”

“Humiliation is worse than death.”

“Excellent, most excellent. Please join the others.”

One final turn along the line. “And you, my good fellow?” He paused before a giant of a man.

“Francis Smith, sir.”

“What did you do before starting work on the Brooklyn Bridge?”

“I was in the iron mines, sir. In the Adirondacks.”

“Can you read and write?”

“No, sir.”

“Step over there, if you please.”

Pendergast questioned one other — a man of rather mysterious pedigree but obvious lethality named Perigord — then nodded with satisfaction. “Please join the others. The rest of you, thank you for your good work. You may go.”

After the others had left, just Bloom and five of his band remained. Pendergast waited until they were alone, then turned to address the group.

“You men now work for me. The pay is six dollars a day. The hours will be irregular, and you will be on call at a moment’s notice, any time of the day or night. You may well have to take up temporary residence within these buildings, but I will see to it you’re made comfortable. Any objections?”

No, there were no objections — just vigorous nodding and muffled expressions of satisfaction.

“Mr. Smith, you will stay here and occupy the guardhouse for the initial watch. Mr. Perigord, please patrol the surrounding tenements — and keep an eye on that brewery and its owner. It is of the utmost importance that no one enters the alley or surrounding buildings, now empty. Consider this our territory, not to be intruded upon. If either of you sees anything odd occur in the alley, such as strange lights or colors, you will stay where you are, remain calm, and get a message to me. The rest of you I’ll expect at this address at five PM this evening.” He handed out cards to each of them. “And now, Mr. Bloom, let us take a few minutes to finalize, to our satisfaction, the duties and responsibilities of your most excellent brigade.”

24

The sprawling bulk of the Drury Hippodrome — the largest entertainment and theater complex in New York City — occupied an entire block of Fourteenth Street. By eight PM on a Saturday night, it resembled an anthill of activity. Within, the various entertainments, from concert saloons to circus performers to geek shows, were in full swing, and the pavement outside was busy with patrons coming and going.

Due to the variety of spectacles and the need to collect separate tickets for each, the building had been subdivided into many venues. Short alleyways led into the enormous beflagged bulk of the complex from various streets, serving as admission for the public as well as backstage entrances for performers, stagehands, and vendors. The Hippodrome was a miniature city so labyrinthine that no one, it was said, fully knew its byways, corridors, tunnels, and catwalks.

In the midst of the chaos, between a dressing area and a repair shop for theater sets, was a room kept locked at all times. Its heavy door held no sign, and it was ignored by passing workers as just another storage or maintenance area. This room, with its thick walls and lack of windows, belonged to Leng: one of the more unusual of many bolt-holes he used for his hydra-headed enterprises. While it might seem incongruent to situate a retreat in one of the busiest places in all New York City, it was precisely such busyness that rendered it anonymous. This was where he gathered his “crew.”

Decla stood beside the door, with a bandaged hand, restlessly tossing a bowie knife into the air, catching it by the tip, and flipping it into the air again. Looking at her, Leng almost smiled. Despite their differences in class, education, and age, she was his favorite, the one he relied on for pragmatic, streetwise advice. They first met when she’d tried to pick his pocket on the Bowery, eighteen months before. He’d turned at speed and seized her hand, preparing to sever her carotid artery with a scalpel, then push her away to bleed out while he blended into the crowd. But something had stopped him: something in her eyes that showed — instead of fear — calculation, even resignation.

And so an unusual partnership had begun. She was the leader of the Milk Drinkers — a gang whose very name was a contemptuous challenge to the Plug Uglies, the Slaughterhousers, the Roach Guards, and the other gangs who ruled New York’s nastiest slums. The Milk Drinkers were a small, tightly knit gang, feared for both their secrecy and their lethality. Unlike others, the Milk Drinkers had no turf to hold and battle over; they came and went where they pleased. Leng had taken Decla not exactly under his wing — she would never stand for that — but into an alliance of sorts, one that he financed himself. In return, she’d agreed to let him thin the gang’s ranks of deadwood until it was as lean, mobile, and dangerous as humanly possible. The Milk Drinkers were his bodyguards, his night agents, his messengers of death — and in return he allowed them not only sanctuary and unlimited funds, but the freedom to work independently, maintaining their position atop the gang hierarchy and performing tasks of their own hatched up by Decla’s clever, feral mind.

Right now, she was unhappy — the confrontation with Constance Greene had put her out. Leng knew she would never be satisfied until she’d finished it. Decla viewed female gangs with particular hatred, and over time she had arranged for the murder or neutralization of every member of the Sow Maidens, who had dressed like stevedores and filed their teeth to points. Watching her, Leng felt it only proper to give her satisfaction with the fake duchess... when the time was right.

He looked around the room. Some two dozen figures were in attendance, slouching in chairs or lounging on packing crates, motionless, waiting. There were just a few more to come — blending with the throngs of visitors and attracting no attention as they made their way to the room through the myriad routes that, in an emergency, also served as multiple exits.

While they all looked tough, he could read their faces like a book. They feared him; they respected him; they called him “Doctor.” Of course, they knew nothing of what he was really about. He kept his true, overarching work — the harvesting of cauda equina, the elixir he was seeking, his grand project — a secret known only by Munck. Instead, he had given them the vague impression he was a sophisticated gangland boss like no other, dealing in the most dangerous, remunerative black-market operations and illegal activities — and that he functioned behind the scenes sub rosa, as their guardian angel... or perhaps demon would be the more appropriate term.

A series of low raps sounded a brief tattoo on the door. Decla cracked it open, then allowed the last two outstanding members — Sloopy and Wolfteat — to enter. As they took seats, Decla locked the door and Leng rose to address the assembly.

“My dear friends,” he said, gazing around. “Welcome.”

Nods, murmurs.

“I regret to say I have a little problem. It involves Smee’s Alley, off Longacre Square. Do any of you know it?”

No one did — it was too far uptown.

“This man I’ve spoken to you about, Pendergast, has blocked it off. I want access.”

Nobody asked him why. They knew only too well that to show curiosity about his private matters was not a salubrious practice.

“Search for a secret way in — underground; through a skylight; as a member of the crew presently guarding it. I don’t need to tell you how; just let me know when it’s done.”

He paced for a few seconds. The gang was well aware of his need for young women, his “jammiest bits of jam” — and the speed with which he went through them — even if the particular nature of that need remained his secret. He let them assume the usual.

And this led to the next topic on the agenda. “A new cleric has been installed at the Mission,” he said. “He’s forbidding me access to the inmates. No longer am I able to take select girls for necessary medical treatment at my clinic.”

At this, several smirks were traded among the assembly.

“I can gather no useful information from that mooncalf at the Mission, Royds, on either the details of Miss Crean’s death or background on the cleric himself. The man so precisely hinders me that, initially, I wondered if it might be some sort of plot — but his papers are in order and, in short, it’s clear the man must be genuine and not a fraud.”

“Let us take care of the cleric for you, Doctor,” came a voice. “The river’s always thirsty for more bodies.” A low chuckle arose.

Leng nodded slowly. “Precisely my thinking. Decla, please give this job some thought and let me know your recommendations.”

At this the pout left her face, to be replaced by a slow smile. Plotting murder was one of her favorite pastimes. “Scrape here will have him grinning in the muck of the East River in no time.”

Leng nodded again. “Very well. Just let me know when it’s done. And take nothing for granted with this one — be on the lookout for unexpected outcomes.”

“Why not do this mutton-shunter Pendergast at the same time?” another voice asked, to murmurs of agreement. “Get him out of the way along with the cleric.”

“I’m afraid he’s too wily for that. Trying to get the drop on him would only reduce the size of your crew. Rather, I think a breadcrumb gambit might be of better success.” He paused, thinking. “Yes... a double-breadcrumb gambit, perhaps.”

Even as he spoke, the idea was formulating in his head. A man as clever as Pendergast might, in fact, be too clever by half — that would prove his downfall.

Leng glanced at his watch; twenty minutes had passed since he’d first arrived, and he preferred to keep these gatherings short. “Just one more item of business. Humblecut, you have something to report?”

There was a brief stirring in the rear of the room, gray against black. Then a taciturn-looking man, who’d been leaning back in his chair, eased himself forward. He was older than the rest, midforties perhaps, and instead of the gray shirts, suspenders, and bowler hats, he wore a long, double-breasted trench coat of fine black leather. His eyes were hidden beneath the brim of a homburg, but he had a waxed handlebar mustache that he smoothed faintly with the tips of his fingers before he spoke.

“Thank you, Doctor. The boy, Joe, was spirited out of the house using a hearse and coffin as a ruse,” he said in a quiet, almost melodic voice. “It was meant to hold the body of his tutor. Instead, the boy was placed in the coffin and switched out when the hearse stopped briefly to mend a horseshoe — a contrivance, of course. From there, he and his policeman escort made their way to the train station. We didn’t cotton on to it until the last minute, and we were hindered in following.”

“Go on,” said Leng.

“We ultimately learned they had purchased tickets to Boston.”

“I see.” Leng thought a moment. That portal from the future, through which these adversaries had come — if he could only determine when it would reappear, access it... the results would be almost incalculable. Constance Greene had used its mere existence to threaten him: If you knew what the future holds... The next time you saw me, it would be with powers so formidable all your traps and your alley rats would be swept away like chaff.

My God, he thought. The great project that he’d always assumed would take decades, even a century, to complete could perhaps be accomplished in a matter of months, even less. What he needed was more information about the portal itself; information that only those who had used it would know. And he needed knowledge of the future century from which Ferenc and the rest had come. Once again, he bitterly regretted pushing Ferenc over the edge. That left only three.

“We can kill that meddlesome cleric, but Pendergast and the policeman — I want them alive for now.” He paused. “That is all. Thank you, my friends. Mind how you go. And remember — keep it dry.”

He lifted an index finger to his lips. The group began shuffling to their feet, preparing to leave the Hippodrome by their various routes.

Leng waited until his detective, Humblecut, approached. Then he motioned the man aside and — while Decla stood guard at the exit — began giving him further instructions in a low, urgent whisper.

25

Pendergast stood in Catherine Street, gazing past the oyster cellars and cheap lodging houses toward an imposing brick building with granite cornices that dominated the corner: Shottum’s Cabinet of Curiosities. A cold winter mist drifted along the street, tinged a reddish orange from the gas lamps of the establishments lining both sides. The air smelled of old fish and urine, and he could hear the distant sound of drunken singing, the clatter of hooves, and the whistle of a steamship on the East River.

Dressed as a late-night grogshop patron in a shabby greatcoat and dirty spats, Pendergast made his way down the lane, weaving slightly. It was nearly three o’clock, there were few people in the street, and no one paid him any attention. Nearing the corner, he lurched into an alleyway that ran behind Shottum’s, bending over as if to vomit. When a quick glance around indicated he was alone and unobserved, he straightened and leapt up a wrought iron fence at the end of the alley, quickly hoisting himself over and down onto the other side. There was a service door here into Shottum’s Cabinet, padlocked — but the padlock seemed to prove no greater obstacle than an unlocked door. He slipped inside, easing the door shut behind him.

All the gaslights inside were off and it was pitch black. New odors assaulted his senses — formaldehyde and mothballs, overlaid with the faint odor of suppuration. Pendergast removed the stub of a candle from his pocket and lit it, casting a feeble glow. He was in one of the exhibition halls. Bizarre and, supposedly, authentic displays loomed out of the shadows, which he viewed with detached amusement: a rearing “man-eating” grizzly bear with a fake arm clenched in its jaws; a mummified orangutan; the skeleton of a French countess executed during the French revolution, appropriately missing its skull. Crossing the hall, he passed through an archway marked Gallery of Unnatural Monstrosities and into a narrow corridor sporting such additional grotesqueries as a dog with a cat’s head and a hideous brown mass identified as the liver of a woolly mammoth, found frozen in a Siberian glacier. At last the corridor bisected at the display of a second-rank western outlaw, hanged by the neck until dead.

The passage to the left ended in a curtained alcove. Pendergast drew these back to expose a wooden wall. He pressed a small knothole and the rear of the cul-de-sac opened inward. A closet with a padlocked metal door lay beyond. Once again, this padlock seemed to melt open in his hands. The metal door led to a small landing, with a staircase both ascending and descending into blackness. Downstairs, he knew, was the basement coal tunnel. The staircase upward led to Leng’s first laboratory.

Before Leng had begun acquiring victims from Bellevue and the House of Industry, he had used this cul-de-sac in the Cabinet as a snatching point for victims. He would lie in wait, like a trapdoor spider, and seize an appropriate victim, smothering her with a chloroform-soaked rag and dragging her behind the wall. He sought out young women, poor, alone, often prostitutes — those who could disappear and never be missed. Shottum’s Cabinet was in fact frequented by many such women, as it was one of the few popular amusements available in the Five Points, and — at a cost of only a few pennies — a momentary respite from their hardscrabble lives.

Pendergast had learned there were currently no patients at Bellevue Hospital that met Leng’s particular needs. That meant Leng, having also had his flow of victims at the Mission and House of Industry shut off by Diogenes, might turn back to this scheme for acquiring victims — and he was determined to shut it off, as well.

Candle wavering, he ascended the staircase to the floor above. Leng had abandoned this laboratory when one of his dying victims had been discovered up there by the landlord, Shottum himself. What Leng had done with the man after killing him, Pendergast was unsure; this was another purpose of his visit.

He came to the third-floor landing, picked the lock and opened the door, and paused to survey the large, partitioned space beyond. Its vaulted roof lay under the eaves of the building, and one side contained several black soapstone tables, displaying the remains of partially stripped and abandoned chemistry apparatus and other scientific detritus. There was a strange smell here, not unlike a cured ham that had, perhaps, been left in the sun too long. The smell came from behind a heavy oilcloth curtain at the far end of the room.

Pendergast made his way past the tables to this partition and drew it aside.

There, on a marble gurney, lay two long wooden crates, each containing a human corpse. As Pendergast held the candle out to provide illumination, he saw the cadavers had been packed in coarse salt and what looked like natron as a preservative. Even though the features were distorted by shriveling and curing, one of these corpses could only be Shottum. The other probably belonged to Tinbury McFadden, a curator at the Natural History Museum to whom — Pendergast knew from old letters and journals — Shottum had conveyed his suspicions about Leng. No doubt the unfortunate gentlemen had been a little too curious about Leng’s doings on his rented third floor of the Cabinet. The salt was obviously how Leng had kept the bodies from possible discovery until — in Pendergast’s own timeline — Leng had ultimately burned Shottum’s Cabinet to the ground, leaving no trace. They were now of course in an alternate timeline, and anything could happen. Pendergast had contemplated burning Shottum’s himself but discarded that notion as being too risky to innocent lives in the crowded slum.

He had been in the Cabinet before — first as a construct of his own intellect, and later in person — and this would be his final visit. He was now satisfied as to the fate of Shottum, but he had further business down below, in the coal cellar, where Leng’s vivisected victims had been walled up in empty alcoves.

Leaving the laboratory, Pendergast padlocked the door and descended as far as the basement. At the bottom of the stairs, he paused to listen. He knew Munck was probably nearby, but he could hear no sound beyond the dripping of water. A coal tunnel ran away to the left, and to the right, another tunnel led deep into Leng’s underground complex.

Pendergast stepped into the coal tunnel, the candle’s glow feeble but sufficient for his sharp eyes. A number of alcoves had already been sealed up; extra bricks and mortar were stacked nearby, along with trowels and a wheelbarrow, ready for Munck to entomb future victims of Leng’s search for his elixir.

After the preparations for the structural collapse in Smee’s Alley, Pendergast had asked Bloom to purchase several more crates of dynamite and store them on the premises, against the need for possible future use. From his greatcoat, Pendergast removed three wrapped sticks of dynamite, attached to a ten-minute fuse — prepared separately for him by Bloom. Now, examining the structural pillars and arches, Pendergast identified the point of greatest weakness. He placed the dynamite against its base and uncoiled the long, waterproof fuse, stringing it along the stone floor for several dozen feet. Then, crouching, he lit the end with his candle.

With a hiss, it caught and began to burn. Straightening, Pendergast moved rapidly out of the coal tunnel and up the stairs to the landing, entered the Cabinet proper, exited the alcove, walked past the gruesome exhibits, then went out the side door and back into the alleyway. It was still deserted. He relocked the door and climbed over the wrought iron fence, dropping down into Catherine Street. It was now close to four, and the street was just as he left it. Back in the guise of a grogshop drunk, he made his way down the street. A lady of the night, standing in a doorway with her dress raised to display one ankle, called out to him as he staggered past. He politely declined her companionship.

At the corner, he paused. Moments later, a deep, hollow boom sounded, followed by a brief vibration beneath his feet. A cat, startled, shot out of a corner; a dog barked somewhere; the drunken singing paused. But it took only a few minutes for the street to grow silent once again.

26

Edwin Humblecut stood in the dark fastness of Boston’s Old Colony Terminal, a location fragrant with the odors of tobacco juice, stale urine, and rotting fish. He’d taken the same train that the policeman and Joe Greene had ridden just a few days before. There was a good chance most, if not all, of the same employees were at work today, as well.

Humblecut had been untethered from Leng’s other operatives and left to accomplish this task on his own — which was the way he liked it. The Milk Drinkers were excellent at striking fear into adversaries and following through on threats, but Humblecut did not enjoy time spent in their company. Leng kept him on retainer for jobs that were more sophisticated, refined — and secret.

He glanced up and down the platforms, once more going over what he knew. He did not know the name of the policeman, though that hardly mattered — no doubt both he and the boy would be traveling under pseudonyms, most likely as father and son. Munck, however, had been able to provide a decent enough description of him. Leng had told him to assume the man “would appear to be somewhat unfamiliar with this time and place” — precisely what that meant Humblecut wasn’t sure, but it led him to believe the boy would be the one who’d do most of the talking and other necessary business. And it had been the boy, in fact, who’d purchased the tickets to Boston.

The manner in which they’d left the mansion — the trick with the coffin — was clever, but it also had the whiff of having been planned in a rush. This was understandable, of course... but it was also useful to Humblecut. This nemesis of Leng’s, Pendergast — who was probably involved in the planning — had been given very little time to work between Munck’s kidnapping of the girl and the policeman slipping Joe out of the house, no doubt to keep him away from Leng. This rush would work in Humblecut’s favor, because the getaway plans would have been necessarily simple and straightforward. A place, somehow, had been hastily arranged for them to hole up in; any elaborations to or additional precautions for the plan would follow later.

From what he had learned and observed, Humblecut now moved on to speculation. The two might have gotten off at one of the numerous stops; if he found no further trail in Boston, he would backtrack. But instinct told him that the same urgency employed to get Joe out of New York would also send them as far as possible — perhaps even beyond Boston — without making a return too onerous.

The policeman was a stranger, and the boy — while street smart — was young and would have no practice throwing a hunter off the scent. Humblecut had little problem putting himself into either of their shoes and then running through the various actions they might have taken from this terminal.

Straightening his homburg and smoothing down the polished black leather of his long overcoat, he ambled over to the ticket booths, adjusting his hold on his valise so it appeared more like a gift than a traveling case. None of the ticket agents on duty, however, remembered selling tickets to or speaking with anyone that fit Joe’s description.

This did not trouble Humblecut. In fact, even though a single inquiry such as this could not cover every ticket agent who worked at the terminal, it fit the mental picture he was putting together. On the run as they were... however they proceeded from this train station, it would almost certainly be by a different kind of conveyance. That jibed with plans being made in haste.

He looked around slowly, taking in the long wooden benches, the newsstands, the row of ticket booths, the food concessions. Mentally, he put himself in Joe’s position: young, excited by what was probably his first long train ride, but scared at the thought he might be followed... Where would he go next?

Now Humblecut made his way over to the large, ornate gentlemen’s comfort rooms, where shaves, haircuts, facials, nail polishing, shoeshines, emergency tailoring, and numerous other services were available beyond the mere satisfying of the urges of nature. Many and varied attendants were on duty there, and Humblecut was rewarded, after half a dozen unsuccessful queries, with a barber who recalled a stout-looking man fitting D’Agosta’s description who had come in to use the facilities the day before yesterday; his son had asked the barber for directions to the New Commonwealth Dock.

Humblecut thanked the man and returned to the main waiting room, sitting down on one of the long benches to think.

New Commonwealth Dock was in South Boston, not far from Dorchester Heights. The city was a major port; if one no longer wished to travel by train, Boston held many opportunities for traveling by water instead.

Local ferries used the closer wharves on Atlantic Avenue; New Commonwealth Dock was the departure point for more distant realms.

Humblecut was too taciturn to smile, even to himself, but he allowed a small glow of satisfaction to briefly warm his vitals.

Another person might have gone scuttling off immediately. But Humblecut knew there was no rush. It was too late in the day for any ferries — to Cuttyhunk, Martha’s Vineyard, or elsewhere — to set off. Joe and his minder would have spent a night in one of a handful of ramshackle inns near the South Boston docks, probably on Congress Avenue, which Humblecut knew well enough. That gave him plenty of time to visit these establishments, make casual inquiries, and determine the next — and perhaps ultimate — destination.

He put down the traveling valise beside him. The hunt itself was his second-favorite part of this kind of job. Originally, he’d been a member of the New York City Metropolitan Police, but they had always been more interested in fighting rival law enforcement agencies like the Municipals than in catching criminals. After a few years he left to join the Pinkerton Detective Agency, rising quickly in those early days, working directly with Allan Pinkerton and becoming part of Abraham Lincoln’s personal security detail from 1862 through 1864. But the same personal characteristics that made him so good at investigation — Pinkerton himself called them “unhealthy” — had another, darker side that prompted him to leave the agency and become a journeyman. And it was not long after that he found Leng. Or perhaps Leng had found him; Humblecut, for all his perspicacity, had never been quite sure.

Now he rose from the bench, picked up his valise, and made for the nearest exit. One thing he was sure of: Leng did not harbor any priggish reservations about his methods. Nor did he get in the way of what, for Humblecut, was the best part of jobs such as this: leeway to proceed as he saw fit — once the quarry was caught.

It might, perhaps, have been useful if he’d maintained a contact or two at Pinkerton’s — the detective agency was busy assembling the largest collection of what were termed “mug” shots in the country. But Blackwell’s Island would never have bothered to take a picture of young Joe. Besides, Humblecut had very subtly gained two descriptions of the boy — one from the ticket agent, another from the barber — and in their own way, they were better than a photograph.

He left the station and headed for South Boston, his step now slightly brisker.

27

“Is the resource fully prepared?” Leng asked as he stepped into the subterranean room, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves.

“Yes, Doctor,” said Munck, turning toward him. The short, powerfully built man was breathing heavily from exertion, and a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, stopping at the fresh scar that served as reminder of Constance Greene’s fury.

“Excellent.” Leng directed his gaze around the operating chamber to ensure all was prepared. Obtaining this resource off the street, where such an action could easily be witnessed, was dangerous, and he wanted to make sure the extraction process went like clockwork. Until that sanctimonious cleric was dealt with, he would have to undergo an excess of risk to obtain resources. But he was confident the Right Reverend Considine would soon be hastened to his reward in the next world and he could return to obtaining resources from the Mission: a far safer and easier method.

He finished his survey, satisfied everything was in order. That spectral companion to the duchess, Pendergast, had breached his tunnels, no doubt in fury after finding the corpse of Ferenc. What a lovely surprise that must have been; Leng was sorry he hadn’t been there to see the man’s face. But though the fellow’s explosives now prevented his gathering future resources from the site, the pale detective did not know of this hidden operating theater of his, located in a walled-off section of the old Stuyvesant aqueduct underneath Shottum’s Cabinet. He could not help but be struck by the contrast of the weeping brick archways of the aqueduct with the gleaming metal walls that sealed this most modern and advanced of operating rooms situated within it. It gave him comfort to view the trays covered with glittering steel instruments that Munck had sharpened to perfection, the latest oak surgical table covered with oilcloth, the brilliant electrical light and reflector that ran from his own custom-made voltaic pile.

The extraction of the cauda equina had to be as precise and antiseptic as possible.

The cauda equina — “horse’s tail” in Latin — was the bundle of nerves that diverged at the base of the spine into hundreds of gossamer-like strands. This miraculous biological structure was the very foundation of his Arcanum. Its extraction was only possible if postoperative recovery was not an issue. But the processing of the cauda equina into the Arcanum — the elixir of life extension for which he searched — required a chemical process of great complexity and precision, procedures and titrations that had so far eluded him. Perhaps that book the duchess had given him, seemingly written in his own future hand, had the answers. Perhaps not.

An additional problem was the resource itself. As he gazed down at the surgical table, he felt a twinge of dissatisfaction. This one was on the lean side, malnourished, pale. He would prefer to have had the time to fatten it up, but he was in a hurry. A tremendous hurry. It would have to do.

The resource — he’d already forgotten her name — was lying facedown on the oilcloth atop the surgical table. One of innumerable sad cases: abandoned, desperate — more proof (as if it were needed) of the worthlessness and suffering of the human species. She was covered with a crisp white sheet, hands and feet securely strapped, a thick wad of chloroform-doused cotton over her mouth and nose, held in place by gauze wound around her head. Leng knew that in Munck he had an assistant who took pleasure in preparing the resources — he himself found the inevitable struggling, screams, and pleas a tiresome prologue.

He gave a sharp nod, and Munck drew back the sheet, exposing the naked body.

A faint moan sounded. The chloroform was a minor sedative only, but it was all he could risk using. He had learned it was important to keep the resource conscious as long as possible, in order to harvest the nerves in an active state.

Now he approached the table, taking a last glance at the instrument tray to make sure all was in readiness. Munck stepped back, clutching the white sheet between his hands, eyes shining. Picking up a surgical scalpel, Leng expertly palpated the lower back with his fingers and thumb, locating each vertebra and mentally identifying them: T12, L1, L2. Then, with a single, decisive swipe, he severed the longissimus thoracis and other “true” muscles of the lower back. There was more noise now, but Leng did not notice: he was engrossed in his work and pleased with the start he’d made. Only a true surgeon would appreciate the skill it took to transect all four layers of deep back muscle with one stroke.

Using retractors, he exposed the laminae of the vertebrae, the curved sections of bone that made up the rear of the protective spinal ring. A medical chisel was sufficient to chip these away, along with the vertebral arches. After plucking away bits of interspinous ligaments with a forceps, he picked up a finer-bladed scalpel and opened the dura, clamped it away on both sides with retractors, and — scalpel in one hand, forceps in the other — probed the meninges of the spinal cord, looking for the precise place to cut.

...And there it was. He nodded to Munck, who presented a glass jar, partially filled with sterile water tinctured with a mild preservative. With the resource now motionless Leng made the final cuts, exposing his prize, freeing it from the peripheral nerves, and extracting it carefully with the forceps.

The anatomical perfection of the structure, its delicacy and intricacy, never ceased to impress him. How amazing were the works of God!

He submerged it with infinite care in the beaker, and Munck sealed the top and placed it in a small portable icebox kept for that purpose. Leng stepped back, then pulled off his mask and gloves while Munck turned his efforts to packing the open wound with gauze and covering the resource — now spent — with the sheet.

How amazing indeed, he thought again, were the works of God. But it seemed the Supreme Being cared too much for his creation — Leng could think of no other reason why such a destructive creature as man would be permitted to remain on earth. But that, in essence, was the foundation of his life’s work.

What a kind and merciful God did not have the heart to do, Leng would do for Him.

28

Otto Bloom unrolled the soiled plat on the dining room table of the Park Avenue dwelling and pinned down the corners with lead weights. Three of his sandhogs looked on, dressed in work clothes and exceedingly ill at ease in the opulent surroundings. Bloom himself felt intimidated by the extreme wealth, as well as the way Alphonse Billington threw around huge sums of money for all kinds of crazy things.

“Well,” he said, glancing up at his new employer, who was examining the plat with glittering eyes, “this is quite some plan of yours. I have to warn you: there will be rats.”

“They are practically Manhattan’s mascot.”

“I’m talking about a lot of rats. When we unseal the reservoir of the old Collect Pond here, and its water floods the underground tunnels, the rats are going to flee in the only direction left to them — up.”

“How interesting,” said Billington.

Bloom shook his head. He wondered again what he’d gotten himself into, tangled up with this strange, pale man and his peculiar tasks. But the pay was high, and the work was preferable to the brutal and dangerous caissons of the Brooklyn Bridge, where dozens of his comrades had died. He was keenly aware that Billington had not told him all, or even most, of what he was doing, nor had he explained the spiritual gobbledygook that motivated his brother, whom Billington had mentioned but Bloom had yet to meet. Yet despite all the secrecy and unfathomable dealings, Bloom’s instincts told him that Billington was a person of goodwill and integrity — and had ways to ensure the work they did, lawful or not, would appear to be so.

“Are you confident, Mr. Billington, that there’s no one down in those old tunnels? Once the water comes, they won’t be able to escape. I don’t want to be responsible for... you know, drowning anyone.”

“Bloom, the truth is there is probably one person, perhaps two, down there. But you can trust me when I tell you they are guilty of heinous crimes against humanity. A side effect of this operation is, in fact, to rid the world of their presence.”

Bloom nodded. He did trust the man — although he didn’t know exactly why. His men seemed to, as well.

Billington rubbed his hands together. “Now, Bloom, please tell me the plan you’ve devised.”

Bloom smoothed down the plat with his calloused palms. “Just to warn you, sir: it was difficult to get this plat, and I’m not sure it’s entirely accurate. The Collect Pond was drained and filled in about sixty years ago, but much of the water remains trapped in these reservoir canals, kept filled by underground springs. To stop the water from spreading, these holding canals were sealed off from the rest of the old aqueduct complex, which is now free of water. That’s what we’re going to flood — these tunnels, here and here. There may be — in fact, there certainly are — other tunnels and abandoned spaces down there, not recorded on the plat, that may also be flooded.”

“I hope to flood them all. But is there any danger the water might rise above ground level?”

“No. The water won’t rise farther than its natural level, which is well below the street and most of the current basements in the area.”

“Where will you put your charges?”

“The way I’ve worked it out, my men will enter at these access points. Three charges will be set: here, here, and here, each timed to detonate more or less simultaneously. Once these connections have been blown, the water will issue from these transverse aqueducts, meet in the middle, then spread out to flood the rest of the old reservoir tunnels.”

“Excellent. And how long do you estimate this will take?”

“Not long at all. Ten minutes, perhaps.” He glanced at the three men, who were eyeing the plat with furrowed brows. “These are reliable men, and they’ve been thoroughly briefed.”

The men shuffled awkwardly at the praise. Billington straightened up and turned to them. “You’re clear on what to do?”

“Yes, sir,” they said.

“You will all be handsomely rewarded.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It goes without saying,” Billington went on, “that everything we do here, as at Smee’s Alley, is totally confidential. The consequences of idle chatter, barroom bragging, and so forth would be severe, if not fatal.”

None of Bloom’s men were under any illusion that this work was ordinary, or even legal, and they all nodded their understanding.

Billington withdrew a gold watch, glanced at it, then turned to Bloom. “Midnight is approaching. Mr. Bloom, I wait upon your leisure.”

29

H. P. Munck removed his soiled steel-toed boots, leaving them outside the iron door of the room, and tiptoed inside in bare feet. The plush Persian carpet tickled his toes — horned with calluses — in a most luxurious way. Holding up his kerosene lantern, he paused to take in the opulence. It still smelled slightly foul — the recent corpse of that man, Ferenc — but he was not one to find such a natural stench off-putting. Quite the contrary.

He took several more steps into the room. The bed, piled with rich coverings and overtopped with a satin puff, had not been made since he’d removed the corpse, but it nevertheless looked inviting, the clammy air of the room merely adding to the coziness. Taking a small taper from his pocket, he lit it from the lantern, then applied the flame to the many candles that had been placed about the room, filling it with a warm, flickering light.

Ahhhh, thought Munck. This was delightful. He was tired — very tired. Master had kept him especially busy of late, and Munck hadn’t had any time to himself in weeks. Until this morning.

The candles having been lit, he approached the bed and crawled in feetfirst, and then drew the covers up to his chin. As he lay, feeling the cold sheets warm up, he thought about how perfect this moment of privacy promised to be. The smells, the knowledge of what had taken place here — all that was missing was... Wait! Just as he was turning his head on the pillows and closing his eyes, he made out a few droplets of dried blood. They must have oozed from Ferenc’s ear after his death but still been fresh when his body was laid here: a present for the Pale One.

For a Hämophile such as Munck, this was now truly perfection. As he grew nice and toasty, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a silver flask, raising it to his lips to take a long pull on the contents — raw, unfiltered vodka from his native village of Elkhotovo, rare and expensive, available only in the small Russian ghetto of Hamilton Heights, a mile or so east of the master’s mansion.

As the liquid burned its way down his throat, old memories came back — the days of his youth, before Russia’s almost total extermination of his native Circassian lands — and the depravity and carnage he’d witnessed. But it was not the violence and bloodshed of Tsarist Russia that he dwelt on, but rather scenes of depravity and carnage he’d committed on his own, hidden for the most part by the greater genocide going on all around him. Another sip of the harsh liquid, and the memories grew still more vivid. Eyes closed, he murmured words in a strange tongue as he nuzzled against the bloody pillow.

Abruptly, his mind snapped back to the present. He’d heard a noise: a distant crump! followed by two more in rapid succession. Crump, crump! With each, a faint shudder had passed through the stone walls.

What was that?

He listened intently, but no more sounds came to his ears. It had been distant — and as the silence stretched on, he decided it was nothing to be concerned about. He once again drew up the covers and closed his eyes, his mind returning to a particularly arousing incident in which he had taken a long — but again, his stream of bloody reveries was interrupted. This time, it had been by a faint breeze stirring his greasy hair.

A breeze, down here? He didn’t recollect ever noticing one before. How was that possible?

And then another sound reached him, very different this time: like the whispering of a distant storm, mingled with a strange chorus of squeaking and squealing. It was drawing closer — and growing rapidly in intensity.

Munck sat bolt upright. He recognized the squeaking. It was rats: many, many rats. He had no idea what the whispering was, except it was rising fast — and coming his way.

He got out of bed, went to the half-open iron door of the room, and stuck out his head. The wind in the tunnel was, incredibly, not only strong, but increasing, carrying with it the commotion of the rats. And underneath that horrible chorus of squealing, that other sound was growing louder: not so much a whisper as it was like the continuous reverberation of surf.

He stepped partway outside, holding his lantern up to cast light farther along the tunnel, and saw an astonishing sight: hundreds — thousands — of tiny glowing eyes jittering and bobbing toward him. It was a multitude, an army, of rats — running his way in frenzied panic.

Just as they reached him, he jumped back into the room to avoid being overwhelmed. But none of them had any interest in swarming his chamber. Instead, they just streamed past as he watched, their coarsely bristled tails glistening pink, their bodies mangy, filling the corridor with their squeal and stink.

Munck had a most vivid imagination, but even he could not begin to guess what was happening, or why. He stood, dumbfounded, until the stampede had finally passed, leaving only a few crippled or sick animals in their wake. He’d been so dumbstruck at the sight of the leaping, crawling rodents that at first he didn’t notice that the wind had continued to rise and, along with it, that other sound — growing in volume until it was a deafening roar, loud as an approaching train.

Suddenly, Munck understood: water. Not just water: a subterranean flood. He quickly pivoted away from the sound, intending to flee down the corridor in the same direction as the rats, but he was too late. With a roar, a wall of black water came barreling down the tunnel, moving like a living thing, the force of it knocking him back into the room and pushing the iron door shut. Munck scrambled to his feet in a panic: the door, he knew, was designed to lock itself from the outside.

He was trapped.

The door shook from the force of the water, torrents of foul viscous liquid squirting from under the sill and pouring out of a feeding slot in the door, the pressure of its gush quickly covering the floor.

“No!” Munck cried as he tried to slide the feeding slot shut, but the pressure of the water made it impossible. More gushes were surging in from beneath the door.

Water was now filling the room with astonishing rapidity, icy cold and horribly greasy, swirling around his ankles and surging upward, first to his calves, then his thighs. He cried and pounded on the iron door, but he knew no one could hear him — let alone save him. Even if he could open the door himself, he would be drowned in the rush of water beyond. The water swirled about, and as it rose it formed a violent whirlpool that circled the room and began snuffing out the candles. This flood couldn’t keep up, the water couldn’t keep rising... and yet it did. Munck placed the lantern as high over his head as he could, atop a bureau, then climbed into the bed that smelled of death and pulled the covers up above his head, wrapping himself in a resignation of abject terror. Even though he shut his eyes tightly, he felt the water top the level of the mattress and flood into the sheets, churning around and invading his cocoon; he felt it rise and rise, flooding him until he was choking and spitting. Then it rose above his head and he found himself floating, his mind collapsing in confusion as the clothes and blankets dragged him down from the roiling surface. When his head slipped beneath it and he could no longer take in air, he held his breath until he could hold it no more — then, in an automatic and unstoppable physical reaction, breathed in the frigid black liquid, and that was the end.

30

Comfortable within the recesses of his coach, curtains partially drawn, Murphy at the reins, Pendergast waited. They stood on the corner of Little Water Street and Anthony Street, as deep into the heart of the Five Points as Murphy would go, the horses wearing heavy blinders and their bits tight under the reins. Around the coach were decrepit tenements, with strings of laundry hanging over the street, itself piled with uncollected garbage and coal ash, prowled by emaciated cats and furtive, abandoned children. His gold watch was in his hand. Even though half past nine on a Monday morning was normally a relatively tranquil time in the slum, Pendergast’s carriage might nevertheless have been overwhelmed by curious residents, save for the underground explosions that had occurred as they pulled up, exactly three minutes before.

“Jesus!” Murphy abruptly yelled. And then a moment later, as if finishing an equation, he added: “Mary and Joseph!”

Pendergast drew back the curtain and peered outside.

He had seen many incredible sights in his life, wondrous and terrible, ghastly and awe inspiring — but he had never seen anything quite like a cityscape becoming suddenly engulfed in rats. They poured out of every drain, every cellar hole, every ditch and manhole and crack and hollow: a streaming horde of wild, insane, gibbering rats, all tumbling over each other, biting and thrashing, accompanied by a deafening chorus of squealing and squeaking. Pendergast had never seen so many rats; he’d had no idea so many rats could exist in one place. They poured through the streets and alleyways, tributaries into rivers into deltas and then, at last, into a living ocean of brown and pink, frantically seeking escape or cover, streaming past and underneath the carriage, some trying to climb its wheels or scrabble up its slick, varnished sides. The entire floor of the city seemed to shudder and rock.

Despite their expert training, the horses began to prance and stamp in fear. Murphy wielded his whip, expertly flicking off one rat after another as they tried to climb aboard. “Sir!” he cried, a note of panic in his voice. “Sir, we better be moving on!”

“Stay just a bit longer, please. It will be over soon, I promise.”

As the rats slowly began to thin out, a growing hiss could be heard over their shrieks — the sound of pressurized air being forced from the same holes, vents, and openings the rats had come, blowing out bits of trash and effluence with it. And then came an unfamiliar noise, but one Pendergast presumed was the hollow sound of water swilling in caves, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The few people in the street had fled in terror at the invasion. Now, with a rhythmic sloshing, the sounds gradually died away until, ten minutes later, all had grown still once more. A most unusual silence fell on Little Water Street, now empty of both rats and people, the winter mists settling down again as if nothing had happened — only a sticky layer of short, matted, brownish-black hairs, clinging knee-high to every surface, to show where the flood of rats had passed.

“Thank you for indulging me, Murphy,” said Pendergast, with a rap of his cane on the carriage roof. “You may drive on.”

31

Pieter De Jong scraped marmalade over his toast with the same slow, methodical deliberation he employed in all things. The toast was just to his liking: baked on the hearth that morning, a faint burst of steam rising with a crackle of crust as the cook first sliced it; the marmalade was made by his maiden aunt and shipped to him from Delft. Every bite reminded him of his childhood.

Although it was winter, the sun was out — and not all work on the farm could wait for spring. He heard the bleating of sheep in the ten-acre bottomland, and the calls of William, his factotum, to the sheepdog as he kept them from straying. Just a few years ago, New York City had carved its latest borough, the Bronx, out of the western edge of Westchester, which included his farm. This did not trouble him; the area remained rural, and his thirty acres — surrounded as they were by other dairy farms — would not be encroached upon. The road had been somewhat improved, and that had been a godsend: it allowed him to transport his prize cheeses across Hell Gate and south, to the eagerly waiting grocers and restaurateurs of Manhattan.

“Some more toast, Master De Jong?” asked Clara, the housekeeper.

“No, thank you, Clara. Please tell the cook she hasn’t lost her touch with the bread.”

“I’ll do that, sir.” Clara curtsied and left the breakfast room.

With a contented sigh, De Jong returned his attention to the New York Star, perusing it from front to back, occasionally grunting in approval or displeasure as one article or another caught his eye. He didn’t get out to the farm often enough, and he enjoyed the relaxed, pastoral air. But at last he took out his pocket watch and peered at it. Ten o’clock: time to get busy with chores.

Enoch Leng had created several identities with meticulous care, of which Pieter De Jong was one. Some, like the good doctor Leng himself, required frequent curation, while others — such as this pastoral Dutch farmer in Whitlock Dell, West Farms, New York — needed only infrequent effort. Each of his identities was of unimpeachable pedigree and could stand a thorough background check. He was equally careful in choosing his staff. In this regard, the insane ward at Bellevue had proved a veritable cornucopia of potential talent. William, for example, out tending the flock — he’d been locked up for expressing a strong desire to eat his older brother. After several examinations and interviews, Leng decided this request was not as outrageous as it seemed on the surface; the brother, a vile person, had abused William abominably as a child. Leng intuited that William would be forever grateful if given the opportunity to achieve his heart’s desire. This Leng was able to arrange without much difficulty. After the repast was complete, Leng took on the appreciative — and quite handy — William as farm help. Clara, on the other hand, had the occasional need to burn down a building. As long as she was given a day off once or twice a year to do so, and assisted in locating a suitable target, she was the best of housekeepers. Several others had required the use of a surgical device of Leng’s own design, which resembled an icepick; this device was inserted into the brain through the lower edge of the orbital socket and then given a very specific up-and-down wiping motion. The operation worked wonders, turning the most refractory patients docile and obedient — and, under Leng’s grooming, fanatically loyal, with none of the normal ethical constraints that might encumber ordinary servants.

Leng passed through the rooms of the large old farmhouse, exited through a side door, then crossed snow-encrusted stubble to a wedge-shaped structure with two metal doors rearing out of the ground: the cheese cellar. He removed the padlock with a key, pocketed it, and pulled one of the heavy doors wide with a grunt. Stone steps led down into darkness. A kerosene lamp hung on a peg nearby and, lighting it, he began to descend.

The cellar was deep — thirty steps into the earth. One reason his cheeses were in such demand at the city’s finest restaurants was the hay, wildflowers, and pasture grasses unique to the soil of his farm; another was the cellar itself. Carved deep into the pink feldspar of the land’s substratum, it afforded the ideal, constant temperature and humidity for his cheeses to deepen in flavor and complexity as they aged.

Reaching the bottom landing, he moved down a long corridor whose stone walls curved into a groined archway overhead. As he passed, he glanced over the rows of cheese stacked on both sides, sitting on wooden shelves and marble trestles, observing the progress of their aging. A number were now ready for sale: his finest crumbly sharp cheddars, aged up to three years; a nutty Gruyère that he found needed fifteen months to bring out its natural firmness; and the pride of the De Jong cellars — grana Padano, an Italian cheese no one else in America knew the secret of — voluptuous yet fine-grained, with a faintly sweet flavor.

Reaching the end of the storage area, he descended a few more steps to another, heavier door, which he unlocked. In the room beyond, he turned up the lamps until what was obviously a laboratory became visible.

On one table sat a tray of test tubes in a centrifuge ring full of liquid. This marvelous device had been invented less than a decade earlier for separating milk from cream. Leng had found a more important use for it. He picked up one of the test tubes and held it to his eye, examining it for both color and viscosity.

Perfect. He knew from prior research this light saffron color was the hallmark of a properly prepared elixir, but he had never before achieved such clarity and uniformity. Perhaps Constance had given him the true Arcanum after all. Time would tell.

He reached into a drawer, pulled out a syringe of metal and glass, and filled it from the tube. Then he returned the tube to its rack, dimmed the lights of the laboratory, and — keeping the syringe behind his back — unlocked and entered a door at the rear of the lab.

Beyond was a small, spartan room, with a bed, a desk, a clothes hanger, and an armchair. None of these, nor the single print on the wall, helped alleviate the cell-like claustrophobia. The room was lit by a single lamp, set high on one wall. There was a chamber pot under the bed, and a tray of plates covered with half-eaten food on the desk.

A girl in her late teens lay on the bed, dozing fitfully. Rousing herself at the sound of his entry, she sat up.

“Dr. Leng!” she said.

“Hello, my dear,” Leng answered, in a gentle voice, as he approached.

“I’m so frightened. You said you’d explain everything — ouch, what’s this?”

He smoothly injected the fluid into her plump arm.

“Just some vitamins.” He glanced disapprovingly at the half-eaten food. “You really need to eat more — it’s important to keep up your strength. Clara will bring you some fresh oranges.”

“How can I eat while stuck in this cell, Doctor?”

Leng sat down on the bed and took her hand in his. “I did explain everything, you know... Perhaps you don’t remember. Quite understandable. There was an outbreak of smallpox, and I had to move you from the hospital before we were all quarantined.” He paused. “It’s a severe outbreak, a true pestilence; had we stayed, I fear it would have done you mischief.”

“But what about my brother, my—”

“Everyone is fine. You just have to be patient,” Dr. Leng said, patting her hand, then releasing it and rising again. “I’ll have Clara bring you fresh sheets and bathwater with the oranges — you’ll feel better afterward. And you won’t have to wait much longer down here — I understand the pestilence is beginning to subside.”

Leng moved quickly toward the door and grasped the handle. “Just a week, perhaps a little more. I promise.”

She looked at him. “Promise?”

“Yes, Mary. I promise.”