One of them lunged forward and kicked out Father’s good leg. Seraphine took off into the air as he fell to the street with a loud clatter. I cringed, biting my fist, as the other guard stomped on my father’s arm with his heavy black boot. They stood on each side, pinning his arms wide. People backed away.
Isn’t anyone going to help him? The taller one pushed back his leather coat to reveal a rifle. No! I should’ve let my father shoot them. He shoved the barrel into my father’s face and said something, nodding toward the shop. Whatever my father said must have angered him more. He slammed the gun into my father’s nose; blood spurted out. They said something else and then stepped back, releasing him. As one, they turned on their heels and disappeared into the shadows of the alley, leaving my father bleeding in the street.
By the time I raced down, Mr. Meyer and his young son had helped my father home. When Mr. Meyer spoke, he wouldn’t look me in the eye. It could have been my bare feet and nightgown, but I got the feeling he was scared of us.
“Miss,” he said, “my boy, Abe, will go fetch Doc Walters. I . . . I have to get on home.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, as I hooked my shoulder under my father’s arm. Relieved of his burden, Mr. Meyer scurried away, crunching through the glass on the sidewalk.
Despite his broken arm, now dangling uselessly at his side, and the blood dripping from his nose, my father crushed me to him. “Avery, I thought they’d found you.” He winced with pain between each breath. “When I saw you on the roof . . .” Tears welled in his eyes, but it was the fear in his gaze that unnerved me. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, too.”
At those words, all the hurt and anger I’d felt for the last week melted away, leaving the residue of shame. “I’m fine, Pop, but you need to sit down.” I navigated him through the narrow shop to our small living area in back. Easing him into a chair, I gently extricated myself from his grip, poured water on a towel, and wiped his face. The bleeding had stopped, but his nose was obviously broken and he had a nasty black circle embedded into his cheek from the barrel of the gun.
“What did they say to you?” I looked around at the mess they’d left: furniture overturned, two more clocks smashed. My heart ached at the sight. Father’s clocks defined the life I’d once had like a song from my childhood, and these would never again play their rhythmic staccato tune. They’d ripped down the curtain of my sleeping alcove.
“They asked about you,” he said. “I told them you’d run away with your lover and, last I heard, you were living on a farm down south, making babies.”
My mouth dropped open. “No. You did not say that.”
“Yes, I did. Clearly they didn’t think it was funny.” He smiled. I was relieved to see the twinkle in his eyes. We had a long-running joke about how I was the least ladylike girl he’d ever known, and unlike with other young women my age, getting married and having children was the last thing on my mind.
“How did they find us?” It had been over a week since my escape from the Tombs. I had hoped we were safe.
“I don’t know. They must have put out feelers.”
“Why can’t they leave us alone?” I squeezed my fists.
“Avery, they won’t stop until they lock you up like your mother.” He shifted uncomfortably, holding his injured arm. “When you mentioned Spector’s name to me last Saturday, it sounded familiar. Took me some time, but I figured out why. Open the top drawer of my desk. You’ll find a packet of papers.” I dug them out and set them on the table. “This is the spurious document they gave me when they abducted your mother. Look at the signature.”
I picked up the tattered sheet. Temple of Mind Balance Studies was emblazoned at the top. Scanning the print, I saw involuntary admission . . . hallucinatory degeneration . . . rare psychological condition and term of commitment—indefinite. Right below, in fancy flourished script, was his name: Dr. Ignatius Spector—Executive Director.
“Oh my God. He’s in charge of the Tombs.” I felt momentarily light-headed. To steady myself, I righted a chair that lay on its side and pulled it close to my father. “You said you’d never seen him there when you’d visited her before. I wonder why?”
“When would one run into the executive director of any organization, my girl? I think you got very unlucky, and clearly a young girl visiting alone is uncommon.” My father scratched his jaw. “After I dug up the admission order and saw his name, I had a war buddy ask around. The only things he could tell me were that Dr. Spector became head of the Tombs hospital in 1864, and that he’s from down south somewhere. It wasn’t until around the time they took your mother that anyone started catching sight of his guards. Seems their masks were his idea. Spector must have friends in high places—maybe the police or Tammany Hall. But that doesn’t explain how he can afford his own militia. Someone must be backing him. The man is shrouded in secrecy.” My father looked down at his arm and winced. “What the devil is taking the doctor so long?”
I got up and poured him some water. My whole body was trembling. “Why do you think they wear them, the crow masks?”
“Fear, maybe. I know they scare the dickens out of people. Avery,” he said suddenly, his voice growing solemn. “Promise me you will never go near the Tombs again.”
I dropped my head. How can I promise that? “But Pop—”
“It’s my fault your mother is in there,” he said, cutting me off. “I’d never forgive myself if they took you, too.”
“It’s not your fault, Pop! Please don’t say that.”
“It is.” He paused. “Your mother and I hoped you wouldn’t have visions, like she does. But it is my fault they took her away. This is something I never told you, but I . . . I’m the one who encouraged her to help people, to make her special ability known.” My father’s eyes took on a faraway look as he continued. “When I met your mother, at St. Joseph’s Military Hospital, she was only eighteen, just a couple years older than you are now. I’d lost my leg and I was dying. She nursed my body back to health, but my mind was on the brink of an abyss. She used her gift and somehow helped me heal, after the horrors I’d witnessed. I loved her from the moment we met. But her family, old money New Englanders, had given her away to the Sisters of Charity when she was young, told her the devil was inside her. They told her she should never have children.”
“That’s horrible. Is that why I’ve never met her family?”
He nodded. “It took me a long time to convince her to stop hating herself. After you were born, I suggested she help other people the way she’d helped me. They came to the house. For a time, I thought . . . but I was wrong.”
I laid my hand over his. I wanted to explain the energy to him, what it felt like to see it, but I barely understood it myself. “You did the right thing.” He looked up at me, his eyes searching mine. “Besides.” I smiled. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t saved her from the nunnery.”
The crinkles around his eyes, the ones I loved, deepened. “Avery, I’ll figure out a way to get your mother out. They can’t hold her forever. But right now, you have to hide. It’s not safe for you here.” He glanced down at his useless arm. “They said they’d be back tomorrow. I’m to give you up.”
“What? What about you? You can’t stay here, either.” It was as if the crows were pecking at my heart. “Pop, they’ll hurt you again.”
“Begging your pardon, miss.” My father and I spun around, startled by the deep voice behind us. Dwarfing the shattered doorway was Jeremiah Thorn. “But they’ve got to get to him first.” He let out a robust, rolling laugh. “And they’re sure not getting through me.”
Although Jeremiah Thorn was generous with his devil-may-care demeanor and wide smile, which filled his stubble-shadowed face, the spark in his eye also held a dare, and he moved with the powerful grace of a caged lion.
My father’s face lit up. “Well, well, look who’s here.”
Jeremiah entered, ducking below a clock hanging from the ceiling, military boots rattling the
gadgetry of the shop. His worn leather adventurer’s hat held a pair of old brass goggles at the band, and as he approached, he opened his dusty canvas coat to reveal a small arsenal strapped to his body. “At your service, and as you can see, I come prepared.”
He pulled off his right glove and clasped my father’s hand. A look passed between them that spoke of their history. I knew that under his left glove was a hand made of shiny metal, a streamlined mechanism of meticulous beauty. The gears and cogs and perfectly hinged fingers my father forged for him moved as nimbly as if they were made of flesh and bone.
Putting his glove back on, he said, “Edgar, tell me the other guy looks worse than you.” He laughed again, closing the toggles of his coat. “My cousin saw what happened here, came running to get me. From the looks of this place . . .” He scanned the room. “It’s like we’re back at war. Miss Kohl.” He tipped his hat at me. I liked his easy manner, the way he dissolved the tension in the room.
“Mr. Thorn,” I said.
A head poked out from behind Jeremiah. “Ahem, did one of you summon a doctor?”
Jeremiah stepped aside. Doc Walters was a short round man with spectacles that he regularly pushed up his piglike nose, who always smelled like the peppermint candy he sucked on to cover the smell of alcohol on his breath. Wispy white hair clung to the sides of his bald head as if it knew it was fighting a losing battle. He glanced around at the mess and craned his head to look up at Jeremiah. “Oh my, Mr. Kohl, what has happened here?”
“It’s a long story, Doc. This here’s a war friend and patriot,” my father said. “May I present Officer Thorn, of the United States Colored Troops, Twenty-Ninth Regiment, and rabble-rouser extraordinaire.”
“Ha-ha! Seems to me you’re the one stirring up trouble now,” Jeremiah said.
“Sure does, doesn’t it?” My father turned toward me, his face paling. He shut his eyes and leaned back. “Avery, pour us a little something from that bottle in the cupboard, would you please?”
I retrieved a bottle of Old Tom gin and poured three glasses. Jeremiah picked up two, holding one out to Doc Walters. The doctor’s eyes shone. “Oh, well,” he sputtered. “Normally I don’t imbibe, but I suppose one taste can’t harm.”
My father held his glass in the air. “Here’s to my wife. God, I miss that woman.” He tossed the shot back and sucked air through his gritted teeth. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us, I have to speak with my daughter. Doc, I’ll be using that bed over there.” He pointed to his alcove on the other side of the shop.
“Oh yes, yes, of course.” The doctor placed his empty glass on the table. “I’ll prepare my things.” He waddled over, pushing the curtain aside. Jeremiah strode back to the entrance and stood there, arms folded, scanning the street. He was right. Nothing could get past him.
“Trust me, Avery, they will not catch me off guard again. Now get dressed quickly and pack some things,” my father whispered. “Do you have somewhere you can go?”
“But, Pop.” I couldn’t lose them both. “You can’t. What if they take you?”
“Avery, it’s you they want. It’s this thing you and your mother can do.” A bead of sweat broke out on his forehead. “Please, tell me you have someplace you can stay.”
Where can I go? My mind reeled. I didn’t want to endanger anyone else. Khan lived at the wharf with his grandmother, Leo with his family. I couldn’t put them at risk. Tony was at the halfway house—they’d never allow me entry. I thought about asking Katalina if she could put me up, but I couldn’t do that to my father. It was bad enough I was visiting the Gypsy camp at all.
Then it came to me. I knew exactly where to go. Someplace only I knew.
Chapter Fifteen
Scorpions and Dragonflies
Struggling with my heavy pack, I made my way around to the waterfront on the far side of the navy yard. Every long black coat made my heart skip a beat. The crows could be anywhere. I’d stuffed as much as I could into my father’s canvas knapsack, shuddering as always at its dark stains—blood that wouldn’t wash out. Where I was going, I would need to stay warm. I just hoped I remembered how to get there.
On my left, I passed the Havemeyers & Elder sugar refinery, the largest in America. The huge squat buildings hunched along the East River, awaiting ships to carry sugar to craving people everywhere. The air smelled sickly sweet, like burnt cookies.
I’d once tried to get a job there. I remembered the sticky resin coating the floor, the way it stuck to the bottom of my boots when I was pushed out the door. I’d sought work at many places before I was hired at Cross Street Ironworks. Roland Malice, the only factory owner who would hire a girl, had examined my hands. Said he could tell a good welder by their hands, something about dexterity. And if I was going to dress like a boy, he’d added, I might as well work like a boy.
I spent the next hour traversing the streets. My stomach grumbled; all I’d eaten was a penny pie I’d bought off a cart vendor. Nothing looked familiar. I’d been here once, so I’d thought I’d remember. What if I was wrong?
Backtracking to the corner of First and River, I sat on my pack and pulled out a hunk of bread. I hoped my father was all right. The curtain hadn’t masked the agonizing groans of the bone-setting procedure. Jeremiah Thorn, true to his word, made sure no one came in.
A loud blast from the refinery startled me. If I didn’t find my destination soon, I’d be sleeping on the street. Near the giant coal bins, crammed between the warehouses, were abandoned shipping crates piled two or three high. These wooden boxes had grown into a city for the homeless and destitute. Geeno lived somewhere in there, but I was afraid to ask for directions. From afar, if I kept my head down, I passed for a boy. Girls didn’t wander alone.
I remembered Geeno’s crate being at ground level. Did the inhabitants move about, or claim ownership of their spot? Hopefully, the latter. I walked slowly past each crate. They had makeshift doors and windows cut into the wood, some bedecked with oddly out-of-place lacy curtains. The air, thick with factory smoke, stung my eyes as I tried to peer into the dim interiors. Entire families made homes here. A group of dirty children played jacks in the alley, oblivious to the miserable living conditions. Three men stood around a table, cards laid out on top.
Think, Avery, think. Despite the cold, I began to sweat, the comforting bulge of my knife the only thing keeping me calm. The crates all looked the same. I approached the far end of the row, dreading the thought of starting over. Something crunched under my boot—a hairy spider. I squealed and jumped back, then glanced around, worried someone might have noticed my outburst. Head down, I quickly paced back up the narrow street.
Wait. There was something strange about that spider. I ran back. Stooping down, I flipped it over. It had seven normal legs, but in place of the eighth was a segmented piece of wire connected to three tiny interlocking gears embedded in the larger section of its body. Looking closer, I saw several other partly mechanical dead bugs nearby. I thought of Geeno showing me the scorpion he wanted to “fix.” It had to be him.
The nearest crate was as long as a railroad car and just as dark. I held up the oilcloth flap covering the doorway, as my eyes adjusted. “Geeno?” I whispered. “It’s me, Avery.”
Inside was a narrow room with a cot on one side, a moth-eaten chair, and a box-crate table. It smelled strongly of coffee and I wondered if I was wrong, if someone older lived here. At the far end I noticed a door, half my size. A thin line of light flickered under it along the floor. I crept forward, gripping the hilt of my knife, and knocked.
A flexible metal tube snaked out through a tiny hole in the wood. I drew back as it pointed itself up at my face and then whisked back inside. I heard bolts sliding and locks turning. The door opened to Geeno’s sweet smile. He rushed out and hugged me around the waist.
“Avery! Why you here? How you find me?”
“Geeno!” I hugged him back. “Let me be the first to say, finding you is not easy.” I let out a long sigh. “But that’s wh
y I’m here.”
He made me sit while he built a fire in a small potbelly stove in the corner. A pipe vented smoke through the outside wall of the crate. No wonder he didn’t freeze to death. Quickly, Geeno brewed up some thick black coffee and pressed a cup into my hands. It tasted surprisingly good. Apparently, he lived in a coffee-shipping container, and some cargo came with his home—to the tune of fifteen cases.
I told him as little as I could without fabricating more lies. “So, after someone broke into the shop, my father asked me to find a safe place to stay, in case they return. Is it all right if I stay with you for a while?”
He straightened his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Avery, no one find you here. I guess this means I can’t work with your pa today. I just getting my things ready to go.”
“Thank you, Geeno. And yes, you will have to wait until his arm is healed and we know it’s safe there.” I paused, then blurted out, “I saw Oscar yesterday. He’s terribly ill.”
“I know,” he said. “Leo tell me after they drop him off at the Gypsy camp. I hope they do not chop his leg off.”
“That would be horrible. But I think he’s in good hands. The herb doctor has some secret magic.” I nodded toward the back. “So what’s in the other room?”
Geeno’s face fell. “I try to help some little creatures but . . .” He looked down at the floor. “I kill them. They not at all like clocks.”
I’d never seen him so sad. “Geeno, it’s not your fault. You can’t fix a living thing.”
“But they hurt. They need someone to help them.”
I wondered if Geeno’s desire to help the broken creatures stemmed from his parents’ death and his life alone here. I wished he could go to school, have a mother to take care of him, cook for him. I wished he had a little magic in his life.
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