by Kat Ross
We hurried along without speaking for a few minutes. The wind picked up, shaking the branches of the Dutch elms lining the path. It was only about four o’clock but a murky twilight descended. Lightning forked overhead, followed immediately by loud rumble of thunder. Moran stopped dead.
“Come on,” I said impatiently, struggling with the wildly flapping umbrella. “We’re halfway across—”
“There’s no way in hell I’m prancing through Central Park in the middle of a lightning storm, Pell,” he snarled.
“Then what do you propose?”
“The Boathouse isn’t far.” He shook a lock of wet hair from his eyes. “We’ll wait it out there.”
Moran was already making for the deserted pavilion at the edge of the lake. The rain intensified as we ducked underneath the eaves and I had to admit I was glad for the shelter. My stockings were soaked. I shook the tattered umbrella and leaned it against the wall. Moran stood with his hands stuffed in his pockets, watching the trees bend and sway in the wind. The boaters had fled at the first sign of rain. Whitecaps ruffled the surface of the lake and bobbed the skiffs where they floated at anchor.
Long minutes passed and the storm only grew worse. Moran had gone broody again. I watched him deftly roll a quarter across his knuckles and thought he might have made a decent magician.
“Cashel’s stutter going away,” I said. “All of a sudden. Strange, don’t you think?”
Moran caught my eye and gave a brief nod. “He never had it when he talked to me, but I heard it plenty of times at school, especially when one of the professors would put him on the spot.” He shook his head in disgust. “The sadistic bastards. It’s like his mother said. The poor sod sounded like he was choking on a fishbone.”
“If twisting the odds is part of this, maybe there’s a way we can test your luck,” I said. “With that coin.”
Moran made the quarter vanish into his fist. “What the deuce would that prove?”
“Never mind. If you’re scared, there’s no need—”
He laughed. “Oh, Pell, you’re so transparent. But if you insist.” He tossed the quarter into the air and snatched it up, then slapped it down on the back of his other hand.
“Tails,” I noted. “Now try it again.”
Moran repeated the process.
“Tails. Do it again.”
His face grew hard as he unveiled the third consecutive tails. And the fourth. And the fifth.
“What are the odds of that?” I wondered.
“Half to the power of five,” he replied. “About a three percent chance.”
We looked at each other.
“Keep going,” I said softly, rubbing my arms.
His hands shook slightly as he performed the trick fifteen more times. “Jesus Christ,” Moran muttered. “One-half to the power of n, with an inverse probability of two to the power of n minus one divided by 2n.”
“English, please.”
He swallowed. “If I flipped this coin a million times, I’d have a thirty-eight percent chance of getting twenty tails in a row.”
I frowned. “That’s fairly high.”
“If I flipped it a million times. If I flipped it, oh, let’s say five thousand times, the chances are. . . .” His eyes grew distant for a few seconds. “Approximately .00237281 percent.”
“Give it to me,” I said. “We need a control subject.”
He handed the coin over. I threw it into the air and caught it, then opened my palm.
“Heads,” he said with a hollow laugh. “So if you thought I was having you on with a rummy coin—”
“I didn’t think that.”
Thunder boomed and he visibly flinched. “Do you know the odds of getting struck by lightning, Pell?”
I shook my head.
“About one in seven hundred thousand.” He gazed out at the dense woods of the Ramble. “But in my case, I get the feeling they’re a lot higher.”
I resisted the sudden urge to take a step back. “Listen, Moran. Whatever this is, it might not intentionally be trying to kill you. Although I’ll grant that does seem to be the usual outcome.”
“Maybe I should go down to the Bronze Door and hit the faro tables like Danny,” he said acidly. “For all the good it did him!”
“Don’t be an ass, that’s not what I’m suggesting—”
His black eyes narrowed, his voice sinking to that dangerously low register. “It’s all just a fascinating little puzzle to you, isn’t it? A curiosity you can write up and file away when it’s over and you move on to the next challenge.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” I protested. “I didn’t even want it! You begged us to help you.”
Moran seemed not to hear. “I’ll be dead, horribly mangled most likely, the funeral will have to be a closed casket affair—”
“Oh, shut up,” I muttered, crossing my arms. The temperature was dropping and I felt chilled to the bone. Rain drummed incessantly on the sloping mansard roof. The ground beyond was a muddy mess and I wished I had my rubber sewer boots. How much longer would the storm continue?
From the corner of my eye, I sensed him studying me. “What?” I snapped.
“You’re prettier than her.”
I didn’t need to ask who he meant. “Don’t waste your time with flattery,” I replied scornfully.
“It’s not flattery, simply a fact. And here’s another fact. She’s smarter.”
I scowled and Moran gave me a crooked little smile. “But not by much.”
I stared out at the hissing rain, which had raised a fine mist above the lake. I thought about Cash and Danny. The mud man and the Pythagoras Society. None of it quite fit together, though I had that ticklish sense that I already knew the answer if only I could see it clearly.
A bee flew past, droning loudly above the drip, drip, drip of water. The gusting wind had twisted the ribs of my poor umbrella into mangled batwings. I was trying to straighten them out when I noticed a blur of movement under the trees. A man walked slowly along the edge of the lake, hat tipped low over his eyes, the brim streaming with rainwater. He had his collar turned up. Next to me, Moran was playing with the quarter again, rolling it across his knuckles as he gazed ruminatively at the rain.
The figure came closer and something about it seemed familiar. Then it looked up and I drew a sharp breath. Black eyes, broad cheekbones and a sharply defined mouth, full, bloodless lips curved in a grin.
The face was my companion’s in every detail, except that it looked faded somehow, like a corpse.
The double held my gaze for only an instant. Then its attention moved past my shoulder and I knew it was staring at Moran.
“Come on!” I urged, tugging his sleeve, but the real Moran stood rooted to the spot.
I acted without thought, dropping my umbrella and dashing toward it. Fear dried my mouth, but this otherworldly creature held the keys to the mystery, so I pelted across the wet grass in pursuit. A clump of oaks came between us and when I reached the other side, the phantom had vanished.
I skidded to a stop in the middle of the bridle path and turned in a slow circle, scanning the park. The figure was gone.
A moment later, Moran himself came running up. He’d turned a sickly color and his chest heaved, but he’d managed to overcome his own paralysis. “Do you believe me now?” he whispered hoarsely.
I nodded. A hard, convulsive shiver ran through me and I rubbed the sudden goosebumps on my arms. “Moran—”
I spun at the sudden clatter of wheels. A carriage careened towards us down the lane, the horse wild-eyed and galloping full tilt in its traces. The driver’s bench was empty. I gave Moran a violent shove. He stumbled out of its path an instant before the carriage hurtled through the space he’d just occupied. The trembling beast halted fifty feet away and the driver came running up, an older fellow with sparse white side whiskers and thinning grey hair plastered to his head.
“I’m so sorry, sir, are ye all right?” he gasped.
Moran ha
d landed in a large puddle. He shook off the man’s efforts to help and got to his feet.
“Molly was stung on the ear by a bee.” The driver shook his head in wonder. “In this weather! She bolted and I couldn’t stop her, sir.” He crushed his tweed cap between large, calloused hands. “I’m awful sorry, sir. Yer coat is ruined.”
Moran looked down at himself in a daze. “Not your fault,” he managed.
The cabbie went after his wayward horse and departed with a last stream of apologies. I walked over to Moran, who had taken out a handkerchief to wipe the mud off his face.
“Thank you for that,” he muttered.
The rain was easing to a drizzle now, the sky starting to lighten. I gave my arms a brisk rub again, remembering the bee that had flown past just before his double appeared.
“Listen, Moran. I think there are signs. Small signs. If you can only learn to recognize them, it might keep you alive a bit longer.”
He was silent for a moment. “I sensed it coming. Like an oppressive weight to the air. But I didn’t know what it would be.”
“What about bodyguards? You have boys at your disposal—”
Moran vehemently shook his head. “And what exactly do I tell them? No, I can’t allow this to get out. I have flesh and blood enemies, too, Pell. They’d be leaping for my throat at the first sign of weakness.”
“All right, but you must be sensible,” I admonished. “It’s foolish not to utilize the S.P.R.’s full resources. I need to speak with the investigators working the case. They might have learned something useful.”
His thick brows knit together. “No! I told you—”
“You don’t want me to reveal your identity. I understand that. But there’s another way.” I explained to him what I had in mind and Moran nodded slowly.
“How much time do you think I have left?” he asked, his face impassive.
“I don’t know. You must stay alert. Listen to your instincts.”
He gave a hollow laugh. “I doubt I’ll sleep again until this is over, one way or another.” Moran turned away. “I’ll have my lawyer draw it up—”
“No need,” I replied. “I’m familiar with the language.”
We crossed the park without further incident. Once at Moran’s mansion, he led me straight up to the room with the grand piano and sat down at his desk, writing in a flowing hand while I dictated. I signed the document and tucked it into my pocket.
“I’ll take this down to Pearl Street,” I said. “Mr. Kaylock won’t be happy, but I’m willing to risk his wrath. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
As we passed the downstairs drawing room, a high, sweet voice drifted out.
“James? Is that you?”
He froze, an odd expression stealing over his features. It struck me as embarrassment and tenderness in equal measure. A blonde woman reclined on the sofa, one of the dogs curled on the carpet at her feet. I recognized her from the portrait next to the fireplace, though thinner and a decade older. She beckoned at us to come inside. Moran sighed and led me into the drawing room.
“Miss Pell,” he said, his jaw tight. “Allow me to introduce my mother.”
10
Tamsin Moran was a wraithlike woman with skin so white it was almost translucent.
She wore a light blue dressing gown and her thick blonde hair was the most robust part of her. The rest looked like it would blow away in a stiff breeze. She bore such scant resemblance to her son I had the fanciful notion that Moran was a changeling left by wicked fairies in the cradle. Her blue eyes were glassy, the pupils tiny pinpricks, and I realized immediately that she was on some sort of opioid.
“Fearing Pell,” Mrs. Moran said languidly. “I know that name.”
“My grandfather was Harrison Fearing Pell, the author,” I replied. “I’m named for him.”
“Ah yes, of course.” Mrs. Moran studied me, her gaze lingering on my fair hair. “Scotch-Irish. Take after your mother’s side, don’t you?” She didn’t glance at her son, but I wondered if the dig had been intentional.
“So they say, ma’am.”
“Miss Pell was just leaving,” Moran said, clearly desperate to get rid of me.
His mother reached down and stroked the dog’s head. “You’re all muddy, James. What have you two been up to?”
“A carriage splashed me in the park.”
“Well, do go change before you track it through the whole house.”
Moran steered me for the door just as his aunt Emmeline came down the stairs. She wore a simple white dress that highlighted her olive complexion and rosy lips. With the delicate cleft in her chin and masses of black hair, Miss Bayard was a rather stunning creature.
“Tamsin, whatever are you doing out of your room?” she asked gently.
“I wanted a glass of milk,” Mrs. Moran replied.
Emma threw a protective arm around her sister’s waist. She cast a quick glance at Moran.
“I’ll get it for you,” she said. “James, perhaps you’d help me.”
He frowned, but went obediently to her side. Tamsin took his hand and twined their fingers together. “Darling James,” she murmured. “What would we do without you?”
The two of them excused themselves and went off to the kitchen. I stood by the door, feeling awkward. Tamsin seemed lost in a drug-induced reverie and I thought she’d forgotten I was there until she patted the couch. “Come, child. Sit down. One ought not to hover.”
I sat down and folded my hands in my lap, wondering what was taking the others so long.
“You’re a friend of James?”
“Yes, Mrs. Moran.”
“Is he courting you?”
I suppressed a laugh. “It’s not like that. We’re simply acquaintances.”
She turned her blue eyes on me and they didn’t seem so fuzzy anymore. “Then why are you here?” she asked bluntly.
I opened my mouth and closed it again. What was it about this woman that made me tongue-tied? She was even smaller than I was and probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet. But a darkness lurked around her eyes, as if she’d seen things. Bad things.
“I’m looking into the deaths of your son’s friends,” I said. “Someone must have mentioned it. Daniel Cherney. Francis Bates. Cashel O’Sullivan.” I swallowed. “Or perhaps you didn’t know.”
She gazed at me with such blankness that I feared I’d just imparted gruesome news in the clumsiest way. Then she tilted her head. “Those poor boys,” she said. “Such a terrible thing. But what do you expect to find?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied, more or less honestly. “But I do have experience in such matters—”
“What matters?” Her voice rose a notch. “What are you talking about?”
I’d gone and put my foot in it. Mrs. Moran was hard to read, childlike one moment and sharp the next. I tried to frame a reply that wouldn’t get me in trouble with Moran when I was saved by his return, bearing a tray with a glass of milk on it.
Emma trailed behind him, looking anxious. Moran gave his mother the glass and adjusted the blanket over her legs. “Do you need anything else?” he asked in a kind tone.
She patted his cheek. “Not right now, James, thank you.”
I rose to my feet. “I ought to be leaving. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Moran.”
She nodded absently, cradling the milk with her pale, blue-veined hands.
Emma brushed a bit of dried mud from the lapel of his coat and stepped back. As Moran walked me to the door, I heard the two sisters speaking softly in the drawing room. The whole scene was so uncomfortable, I could hardly meet his eye.
“I’ll let you know what I learn at Pearl Street,” I said. “It might be best if you don’t go down to the Avalon tonight.”
“Safer, you mean?” His voice had a derisive edge, but I knew him well enough now to understand that this was due to his own tension. “I doubt that.”
I gave him a weak smile. �
��Just stay away from sharp objects and open windows.”
Moran didn’t laugh.
The sun was setting by the time I stepped off a street car on Broadway and walked the few short blocks to the S.P.R. offices. I told the butler it was urgent and he led me upstairs to Kaylock’s study.
“What is it, Miss Pell?” he asked crisply. “I told you, I’m afraid I don’t have any new assignments just yet.”
“May I sit down, sir?”
He gestured absently to a chair. “Have you discovered something new regarding the golem?” Kaylock inquired, his pen scratching away in a ledger.
“In a way, sir. The two cases are connected after all.”
Kaylock arched a brow. “Let’s hear it.”
I drew a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. “Two days before he died, Daniel Cherney and a friend named Joseph Allen White went out for a night of gambling and drinking at a club in the Tenderloin. I believe that Danny was already being stalked by the double at that point. Joseph reported that he seemed frightened of something.”
“You interviewed this man?” He frowned. “Need I remind you that this is not your case, Miss Pell?”
I cleared my throat. “I’m aware of that, sir. And I didn’t speak to Mr. White myself. I . . . I overheard him talking about it.”
“How?”
“I’ll come to that later.” Kaylock opened his mouth to object, but I plowed onward. “In any event, Danny won big that night. So big the manager of the club thought he was cheating. The boys were ejected. They went to Central Park and continued drinking. Then Danny had the idea of making a golem out of mud.”
Kaylock looked puzzled. “And it worked?”
“It worked, sir, there’s no doubt of that, but I think I know why. Before they died, the accident victims twisted chance in some way. They made their own luck, good and bad, to an extreme degree.”
“And how do you know all this?”
Here came the part he would hate. “Because I’ve been hired by an individual with a strong personal interest in seeing it resolved.”
“You’ve been hired,” Kaylock repeated, his voice dangerously soft.
“Yes, sir.”