Inside the Shadow City

by Kirsten Miller

  In case Kiki Strike made it past the pigeon guard at the Marble Cemetery, DeeDee and I rigged Augustus Quackenbush’s vault with Deadly Device #575. Should Kiki try to pry the lid off his coffin, she would trigger a cloud of noxious gas that would render her unconscious for hours. Before we assembled the booby trap, DeeDee warned me that it would be difficult to deactivate. If the Irregulars wanted to return to the tunnels, we would first have to get our hands on some gas masks. After a moment’s thought, I decided to proceed with the plan. Gas masks or no gas masks, I reminded DeeDee, none of us had time to explore the Shadow City.

  For a week, in the lonely hours between dusk and dawn, I monitored the snowy feed from the cameras and waited for Kiki to appear. The other Irregulars took turns patrolling the entrances to the Shadow City, searching for signs of breaking and entering at the dozens of buildings that were still marked with our logo. When we slept, we dozed with our cell phones next to our ears. Mine never rang, and each morning I left for school dazed and disappointed. Panic and caffeine kept me alert for signs of Kiki during the day, though I fell asleep twice during biology, and my hands shook so badly that the frog I was dissecting looked like he’d had a date with Jack the Ripper.

  Apparently, the Irregulars weren’t the only ones who were worried. One Saturday evening as I guzzled a tumbler of coffee, I saw a man in a dark suit arrive at the Princess’s door. A thunderstorm was making the video from the pigeon cameras sputter and crackle, but I recognized the dapper FBI man who had come to my apartment after the explosion in the tunnels. The following Monday, the Princess was escorted to school by two large bodyguards who, judging by their jailhouse tattoos, had spent their formative years behind bars. After school, they followed the Princess wherever she went, happily shoving menacing senior citizens and dangerous toddlers out of the Princess’s path. I watched the two hulks viciously manhandle enough innocent civilians to realize that even Kiki Strike, kung-fu movie star, would be no match for them.

  According to school gossip, the Princess’s mother had hired the bodyguards to defend her daughter from the danger of stalkers. But the main person they kept at a distance was Naomi Throgmorton. Naomi had been dismissed from The Five the day her father, an accountant to the stars, was arrested for stealing millions from his celebrity clients. It wasn’t the crime that offended the Princess, but rather the fact that the last of Naomi’s fortune had been used to pay her father’s lawyers. A poultry heiress replaced Naomi as the Princess’s new “best friend,” and whenever Naomi tried to cozy up to The Five, the Princess’s bodyguards escorted her back to her proper place.

  Once, just before summer vacation began, I saw Naomi try to speak with the Princess. Ignoring her old friend, the Princess stepped into the Bentley waiting for her outside the school gates and slammed the door. When Naomi tapped on the car window, a bodyguard grabbed her by her designer belt and dropped her into a puddle that reeked of something other than rainwater. Inside the Bentley, the Princess roared with laughter. A scholarship girl tried to help Naomi to her feet, but Naomi angrily pushed the girl’s hand away. Watching her walk down the sidewalk, leaving a trail of sodden footprints behind her, I felt sorry for Naomi. She may have been despicable, but I knew what it felt like to be betrayed by a friend.

  While the Princess’s bodyguards shielded her from social climbers, I continued to keep an eye out for Kiki Strike. By the time summer vacation began, I was starting to wonder if Kiki knew we were watching. Since we had started our search, the robberies had stopped and not a single girl had been kidnapped. As the days passed and my exhaustion grew, I began to see Kiki everywhere. I’d catch a glimpse of her peeking out from between the curtains in a building I passed. Ahead of me on the street, someone in black would duck around a corner. The loud rattle of a Vespa motor followed me, and several times I heard footsteps on the fire escape outside my bedroom. I still don’t know whether any of these phantoms were Kiki Strike, but I could sense her presence wherever I went.

  • • •

  One night, Betty offered to monitor the pigeon cameras while I stepped outside for some fresh air. Strolling through Chinatown, I turned down Doyers Street, a narrow lane that curves in unexpected ways and never lets you see more than a few feet ahead. In the days when gangs ruled Chinatown, Doyers Street had been the scene of countless murders, and it was still an ideal place to ambush an enemy. I was thinking of all the blood that had trickled down that tiny street when I heard someone singing “Ring Around the Rosie.” For a second, I wished I had chosen a different route.

  As I rounded the corner, I saw a girl about my age sitting on the dark stoop of an old building. I hid in a nearby doorway and watched her. Her face was obscured by the shadows, but the girl’s outfit struck me as familiar. She wore a dress smeared with grime and a single stiletto heel. As I inched closer, I saw why she had stopped. She held the other shoe in her hand and was staring at its broken heel, which dangled by a thin strip of leather.

  The girl looked up as I approached. Her face was filthy, and her hair was greasy and matted. She leaned heavily against the stoop’s railing.

  “It’s broken.” Her words came out slurred, as if her tongue were too thick to move. She held out the mangled shoe like a child handing a ruined toy to her parent. The word Italie was stamped on the bottom. “Fix it, Ananka? Please?” she pleaded pathetically. It was Mitzi Mulligan.

  There was no mistaking it. Something was wrong with Mitzi. The pupils of her eyes were the size of dimes. Having watched enough hospital dramas to know that this could be the sign of a serious head wound, I examined her scalp for bumps and cuts. Other than a dead bug or two, there was nothing to be found. I could think of only one other thing that might be responsible for her condition, and at first it seemed too ridiculous to consider. Girls like Mitzi Mulligan did not take drugs. But there she was, petting her ruined shoe and singing mixed-up nursery rhymes.

  “Can you stand up?” I asked her.

  Mitzi giggled. “Of course I can, dummy.” She dragged herself up by the railing and managed to stand for a few seconds before she began to teeter, and then finally slumped back down on the stairs.

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  “Fighting dragons,” she giggled. She reached behind her and grabbed an unfashionably large handbag. She turned it upside down and a heavy metal object and a scrap of golden paper fell out. “See?” Mitzi handed the object to me. It was a bronze five-toed dragon, roughly half a foot in length. “Be careful. It bites,” she warned.

  The dragon’s head wobbled from side to side. I gave it a gentle twist and the head popped off in my hand. The body of the dragon was hollow. A tiny amount of liquid trickled out, and a familiar, sickly-sweet odor rose to my nose.

  “Where did you get this,” I asked Mitzi.

  “Party favor,” she said, swooning. “You weren’t invited.” Her eyes fluttered, and it looked as if she might pass out on the stairs.

  “Come on, Mitzi,” I said, giving her a vigorous shake. “It’s time for rehab.”

  “You’re letting me go?” she asked, looking up at me in surprise.

  The unmistakable rattle of a motor scooter appeared out of nowhere and began to travel slowly down Doyers Street.

  “Get up now!” I demanded, grabbing Mitzi’s arm and dragging her off the stoop. The urgency in my voice brought her around. “Kick off your other shoe,” I ordered. No sane person would walk barefoot through Chinatown, but it was the only way to get Mitzi moving, and I figured she couldn’t get much dirtier. Mitzi draped her arm around my shoulder, and I pulled her into an entrance at 5 Doyers Street. A staircase led to an old underground tunnel lined with tiny shops. Together we made our way toward Chatham Square at the other end of the passage.

  When we emerged, I could still hear the scooter drawing closer. Ten different streets fed into the square, and it was impossible to tell which direction the scooter was coming from. As I fought off a surge of panic, a taxicab swung around Bowery and into the square. I wave
d frantically with my free arm, and it pulled to the side of the street. I shoved Mitzi inside, but before I could jump in beside her, a Vespa appeared on the opposite side of the square. The driver wore a black T-shirt, black leather pants, and a helmet with a visor that concealed her face. A shock of white hair stuck out from beneath the helmet. The Vespa stood motionless, the driver watching me from behind her visor. I bent into the cab and squeezed in beside an unconscious Mitzi.

  “St. Vincent’s Hospital,” I told the driver. “As quickly as possible.” As soon as the cab began to move, I remembered Mitzi’s purse and the bronze dragon. I had left them sitting on the stoop.

  • • •

  Once Mitzi had been wheeled into the emergency room, I settled down to wait for the police. Flipping through an old newspaper, I came across the story of a group of second-grade girls who had captured a mugger. The girls had chased the man into an alley, tied him up with a jump rope, and dragged him to a nearby police station. I smiled at the thought of justice being served and looked up in time to see Mitzi’s father run past me. Shortly afterward, a nurse guided two middle-aged men with thinning hair and protruding beer bellies into the waiting room.

  “Ananka Fishbein?” inquired one of the men in a brusque tone.

  “Yes?” I offered an exaggerated smile to show I wasn’t scared.

  “You the girl who found Mitzi Mulligan?”

  “Are you the police?”

  “FBI, Miss Fishbein. We’re investigating the kidnappings,” the bully’s partner answered. He was the more pleasant of the two. “I’m Agent Baynes, and this is my partner, Agent Bellow.”

  “The nurse said you’re friends with Mitzi Mulligan,” the gruff agent barked.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. We just go to the same school.”

  “Still, it’s some coincidence, don’t you think? What are the odds you’d find her?”

  It suddenly dawned on me that I was the only suspect they had.

  “I couldn’t tell you what the odds are. I’ve never been very good with numbers,” I replied.

  “And just what, may I ask, was a girl your age doing wandering around Chinatown in the middle of the night?”

  “Taking a walk. I assume that’s still legal in New York.”

  “Don’t you know that it’s dangerous for young women to be out alone after dark?” His gruff voice had assumed a fatherly tone that made me want to vomit—preferably on his shoes. I’ve always wondered why strangers feel they have the right to offer this kind of advice to girls—or why they don’t seem to be as concerned about boys. I struggled to reply in a civil tone.

  “It’s dangerous for everyone, sir. Not just young women. Now, if you would stop interrogating me, I’ll be happy to tell you what I know.”

  The two men glanced at each other and decided to adopt a different strategy.

  The good cop took over the questioning. “Okay, Miss Fishbein. Please start at the beginning.”

  Without mentioning Kiki Strike or the Shadow City, I recounted how I had stumbled upon Mitzi Mulligan. I repeated everything that Mitzi had said, and even told them about the dragon I had accidentally left behind.

  “You say Miss Mulligan had been drugged?” asked Agent Bellow.

  “I think so.”

  “And what makes you think she hadn’t taken the drugs voluntarily?”

  “Don’t take my word for it. Ask her yourself.”

  “I’m afraid Miss Mulligan either can’t or won’t tell us anything,” Agent Baynes explained.

  “Mitzi’s the school’s kickboxing champion,” I sighed. “She’s about the last person on Earth who would ever take drugs. Besides, she gets tested before every competition. You can check for yourselves.”

  One of the men scribbled a note.

  “So that’s it?”

  “Pretty much,” I told them.

  “Sure you don’t want to tell us about the person on the scooter?” The bully had been waiting to spring this on me, and he looked quite pleased with himself.

  “Who?” I asked, trying to play dumb.

  “We just spoke with your cabdriver. He told us you were running from someone on a scooter when he picked you up. Mind telling us what that was all about?”

  These guys knew what they were doing.

  “It was someone I know.”

  “Oh, yeah? And who might that be?”

  I thought for a moment before I spoke. I hadn’t intended to turn Kiki in so quickly, but with the FBI sitting right in front of me, it seemed as good a time as any. All I knew was that Kiki needed to be stopped, and I desperately needed some sleep.

  “A girl named Kiki Strike.” I waited for a look of recognition to flash across the agents’ faces, but neither seemed familiar with the name. Something wasn’t right.

  “Should we know this Kiki Strike?” asked Agent Bellow.

  “I thought you already did.”

  “Agent Baynes, why don’t you run that name?” The pleasant agent pulled out a cell phone and turned away while the other continued to grill me. “What makes you think we know her?”

  “I heard a rumor she was in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. I don’t pay attention to gossip,” I said, deciding not to volunteer any more information.

  “Do you think she might be involved in the kidnappings?”

  “No,” I told him, acting on instinct. Why was I protecting Kiki?

  The agent stepped toward me. He was close enough that I could smell his dinner on his breath. Chicken vindaloo, if I recall correctly.

  “You know what I think? I think you’re afraid of this Kiki Strike.”

  “I’m not afraid,” I snapped at him. “I just didn’t want to talk to her.”

  The agent on the cell phone hung up.

  “We don’t have anything on anyone by that name,” he said to his partner.

  “Do you know where this Kiki Strike lives?” asked Agent Bellow.

  I almost laughed. “I wish I knew.”

  “In that case, is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”

  “You know everything I know,” I assured him.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Okay, then, Miss Fishbein. You’re free to go. We know how to reach you.”

  I bent down to pick up my bag and happened to catch a glimpse of the agents’ shoes. Both men wore wingtips that were polished to a shine, but clearly of inferior quality. Their suits, though carefully pressed, had also seen better days. Suddenly, inspiration struck.

  “Do you have a business card?” I asked. “Just in case I remember anything.”

  With Agent Bellow’s card in hand, I hurried out of the hospital. As soon as I was out of sight, I phoned Oona and asked her to meet me at my apartment. When she arrived, I placed two business cards in front of her. The first was Agent Bellow’s. The second belonged to Bob Goodman, the first FBI agent to pay me a visit. Suspecting it would someday come in handy, I had tucked it away inside Glimpses of Gotham.

  “What do you think?” I asked, handing Oona a magnifying glass. She examined the two business cards I’d given her.

  “You’re right, they’re different,” Oona finally said. “I wouldn’t have guessed unless I had the other to compare it to, but this one’s a fake.” She held up the card that the first FBI agent had given me. “The FBI would never pay for paper this fancy, and the ink is far more refined than the stuff they use. But like I said, whoever forged this is a real pro. I don’t know if I could do any better myself.”

  “I should have known,” I muttered.

  “How? Even I couldn’t tell at the time. Anyway, you did have a hunch about Bob Goodman—if that’s even his real name. Remember his shoes?”

  “Yeah, but this changes everything,” I said. “The real FBI isn’t after Kiki. They don’t even know who she is.”

  “What are we going to do?” asked Oona.

  “I have no i
dea,” I told her.

  • • •

  There was only one thing I could do. The next evening, I stopped by St. Vincent’s Hospital during visiting hours to check in on Mitzi Mulligan. I was surprised to find Mitzi freshly showered and shoving her belongings into a plastic bag.

  “I take it you’re feeling better?” I asked. Mitzi jumped at the sound of my voice. There was something different about her and it wasn’t just embarrassment. Mitzi knew something.

  “Hello, Ananka.” Mitzi’s hands were twitching, and she couldn’t meet my eyes.

  “So you’ve been released?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to talk. My dad’s waiting for me in a cab. But thanks for bringing me to the hospital.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I said.

  “I’m sure I acted like an idiot.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I tried to assure her. “You’d been drugged.”

  “It’s still embarrassing.” She grabbed her plastic bag, eager to escape from the room. I stopped her at the door.

  “Mitzi, there’s something I need to know. Can you tell me anything about the people who kidnapped you?” I asked.

  Mitzi’s face went blank. “No,” she announced in a slow, steady voice that sounded rehearsed. “I already told the police everything I know.”

  A nurse popped into the room with an exquisite bouquet of flowers in her arms.

  “Just in time,” she sang, handing the flowers to Mitzi. “Better late than never, they say.”

  Mitzi tore open the envelope that was tucked between two lilies. Inside was another tiny envelope.

  “It has your name on it,” said Mitzi, passing me the envelope with a trembling hand.

  I pulled out the card. There was no signature, but the handwriting was unmistakable.

  350 Fifth Avenue. 86th floor. 21:00, it read.

  I checked my watch. It was eight o’clock.

  • • •

  An hour later, I was standing on the eighty-sixth-floor observation deck of the Empire State Building, looking out over the city. A thunderstorm was rolling in from the south. All the tourists had moved inside, leaving me alone, assaulted by raindrops that pelted my body from every direction. Leaning over the edge, I watched the city lights disappear as dark clouds surrounded the skyscraper. Soon, the observation deck was an island in the sky. Every few seconds, the clouds exploded with light. A gnarled bolt of lightning struck the needle that rose from the tip of the building. For the briefest of moments, it coursed with blue veins of electricity. A bird that had been seeking shelter from the storm fell from the upper reaches of the building. It landed with a thud at my feet, stone dead and faintly smoking.