Like this living mockery of a “surgeon.”
He hated to think of Shane Nightingale wandering around these streets alone, with no one to assure his safety. For an instant, he wondered what would happen if the boy ever ran into a monster like this one. He started to push the thought out of his head. Then it occurred to him that there was another possibility: If the boy’s unusual display of deductive talent in the Sullivan case could be repeated here, he might be the only person who could help Blackburn find The Surgeon.
Vignette figured that most of the people who were up and around after midnight were not the type who would rush to her aid if something bad happened, so she moved at a constant, dogged trot all the way back to St. Adrian’s. She was less than half a block from the front entrance and already looking around for an open window to crawl into, when she heard the big front door open and saw lantern light in the doorway. She pulled against a large tree trunk that was shadowed from the moon and melded her body to its dark form. An instant later, she recognized Friar John as the man carrying the lantern. He was accompanied by a scrawny and ragged-looking boy, a street urchin by the look of him.
Her heart jumped when she realized they were going to walk directly past her. There was no time for her to run off without being spotted, and outside of the shadows there was enough moonlight for Friar John to recognize her. She pushed herself tighter against the tree and willed herself to fade into the night’s background. She even took a deep breath and held it while they passed.
“All right, we’re on our way,” she heard Friar John saying to the boy. “Now you can tell me why Mr. Kimbrough has this ‘emergency’ at this hour.”
“No sir, I can’t.”
“He always comes here to see me. He must have told you something about why he wasn’t coming this time?”
“Nope. Don’t know nothing and that’s the truth,” the boy assured him, perhaps eager for a tip. “Mr. Kimbrough said something about a newspaper. Don’t know what he meant by it.”
The name “Kimbrough” didn’t mean anything to Vignette at first, but when she heard the boy mention a newspaper, the connection clicked into place. She had struggled through the article on Shane after she heard a couple of the Helpers talking about it. They were too busy swapping reminiscences of Shane at St. Adrian’s to notice when she swiped the newspaper and sounded out enough of the wording to get the general idea, and then replaced it before it was missed.
And when the word “newspaper” brought Shane to mind, the rest was plain enough. This Mr. Kimbrough was a slight man with a wiry build whom she had spotted visiting Friar John on more than one occasion over the past years. They always made such a point of meeting in private behind closed doors that she made sure to push her mop close to Friar John’s door one day and watched them through the keyhole. She learned only enough to know that Mr. Kimbrough was there about Shane. It made her curious enough to peek in Shane’s file when Friar John was out, sounding out a few of the words until she got the main idea.
Mr. Tommie Kimbrough was Shane’s older half brother. Shane was a bastard son of the father and some other woman. They just weren’t letting Shane know about it. He had never even heard his own last name. When he arrived as a small boy, he had already been beaten up so badly that he was completely disoriented. He had to relearn the most basic skills. This Mr. Kimbrough made sure that Shane remained at St. Adrian’s with no knowledge of his family and no contact with his brother. Something about that cruel fact twisted her insides.
He doesn’t even know that he has a brother, let alone one who visits in secret. She had stored it for future use, but Shane was suddenly adopted out, one day—whisked away before she could tell him anything at all.
So Mr. Kimbrough had sent a messenger boy to order Friar John to come to him at this hour. Vignette decided that if he was not bringing any Helpers along with him, he must be going in secret. To her it was clear that this had something to do with Shane.
She would follow Friar John. But first she needed to get inside and grab her stuff, and do it quickly enough to get back out and catch up to them before she lost them. She spotted a well-located ground-floor window in the office section. It appeared to be closed, but she knew that they were seldom locked. It never seemed to occur to anyone there to protect against kids trying to get in.
Once she was out in the main hallway, which was darkened for the night, she started toward her end of the girl’s dorm. But her soft leather shoes, so perfect for running along the streets, were too noisy now. She slipped them off and carried them while she tiptoed down the long row of sleeping girls to her bed.
She had left her small cigar box that held her special mementos right out on the nightstand by her bed. It was perfectly safe out in the open like that, and had been ever since the word spread around about the two black eyes she put on a girl who tried to steal it. Vignette’s Helper had searched around for it and found it in the girl’s things, so the girl also got in trouble with the Headmaster. After that, she could have left her box in the middle of the hall and nobody would have touched it.
But in return, she had to bathe after dinner every night for a week, using the bath area during the empty hours when no one else wanted to, so that she did not have to rush. Her Helper did not like it when she rushed. Vignette silently picked up the small cigar box that held her special mementos and set it on the bed. She removed her other pair of long pants from the hook on the wall and slipped them on right over her own, then took down her only coat and put it on. She had one dress, but she left it hanging on its peg. Instead, she picked up her shoes and the box, slipped back down the row of beds, and hurried into the main hallway. Her plan was to go out the front door at a full sprint and disappear into the night. Since she would never be back, there would be no punishment, this time, this one time.
As soon as she reached the heavy front door, she bent to slip her shoes back on and quickly tied up the laces just right for running. It was when she stood back up to reach for the door latch that she felt a huge hand close around the back of her neck.
She smelled his familiar body odor. It identified him so bluntly that she made no attempt to turn and look at his face. His grip was firm, although not as hard as when she was in real trouble.
“You’re supposed to tell me when you want to go out. So I can help cover for you.” His voice was deep and frighteningly gentle.
“I know! I know. I always do. It’s just, tonight I had this emergency, and—”
“Oh, emergency!” He laughed and said in a little girl voice: “She had an emergency, Friar John, that’s all!” Her Helper shook his head. “No, Mary Kathleen. You went and put me in a tough spot this time. ’Cause I’d lose my job for failing to report this. Think of how much risk that is. For me.”
His breath always smelled of sour tobacco and stale coffee. Her stomach lurched when he breathed on her.
“Well, I was hoping that you would do me this favor, this one time, what with the emergency and all—so that I can go on in and take me a long, hot bath. You know, do it now when none of the other kids are in there. So I can take all the time I need to get clean.”
He turned her around to face him and then smiled in appreciation of her negotiating skills. “Hm . . . Maybe this one time,” he cooed as he released her. “You get along to that bath now. It’s good to get clean.”
Her brain raced. How was she to escape, with him nearly on top of her?
Then inspiration struck.
“Uh, okay. I’m just going to go put my stuff away. And take off my clothes. Then it’s off to the bath.”
Her Helper grinned in anticipation, and even as he did so she saw his eyes glaze over and a slack expression cross his face. He turned and headed off toward his office next door to the bathroom, the one with the little hole in the wall behind a flap. He was so eager to get his private performance that he did not mind going ahead and waiting for her to enter. She pretended to head for her bunk area until she saw him turn and step into his o
ffice. Then after a count of three, she spun around and ran back to the front door, yanked it open and flung herself through.
Mary Kathleen disappeared at the doorway of St. Adrian of Canterbury’s Home for Delinquents and Orphans, never to be seen there again.
Vignette hit the front walkway at a dead run.
She only had to keep running for a few minutes before she caught sight of Friar John’s lantern bobbing along up the street ahead. Relieved, she fell in half a block behind them and patiently followed until they reached the Russian Hill District. She figured that they had come two miles or more by the time they reached a fancy, three-story house inside one of the areas untouched by the fires. She could see where the flames had split in two and passed around this one particular hilltop. As if somebody had told them to.
She huddled in the cold shadows and watched while Friar John knocked at a door. When it swung open, the inner light revealed Mr. Kimbrough. He gestured for Friar John and the boy to come in, then he threw a cautious glance around the neighborhood. As soon as the door closed again, the entire front of the house went dark. She had clearly seen the lights inside while the door was open, so Mr. Kimbrough must have had heavy curtains that completely concealed any light at all from the windows. Vignette wondered why anybody would do that. A cold shiver ran up her back.
But at least she had accomplished her tasks for the day. Now she knew where Sergeant Blackburn lived and where Shane’s secret brother lived, too.
With that, she tucked her cigar box a little tighter under her arm and headed off for the Mission Dolores to strengthen her position as Shane’s long-lost sister. She hoped that Shane would be awake when she arrived and that he might have an idea of where they could get something to eat without paying for it. She had already burned through the sourdough loaf, but there had been no chance to check Friar John’s office for spare change. Vignette already knew full well that when your pockets are empty, life runs you around on a short leash.
Tommie waved the friar and the messenger boy into his study. The boy looked nervously around, clearly not happy about being there, but he needed to hang around for his payment. Tommie was confident that the boy’s hope for his coins would keep him silent for a few minutes. That was all the time Tommie needed.
“Sit down, Friar,” he invited.
Friar John perched on the edge of the sofa and impatiently looked back up at him. “Well?”
Tommie could not resist an expression of mock innocence. “What?”
“What? Never in my life have I been summoned in the middle of the night by any but the sick and dying. I have—”
“Horseshit.” Tommie kept his face blank. “The only time you get up in the middle of the night is when you want to visit one of your kiddies.”
Friar John gasped in shock and jumped to his feet. “What in God’s name do you—”
“Joking! Friar, I’m joking!”
“I see no humor at all in—”
“Perfect! Because I see no humor in this.” He slammed down the newspaper article about Shane onto the table. Friar John leaned over, read briefly, and grew pale.
“You friars don’t see a lot of newspapers, do you?”
“I saw it, as a matter of fact. What could I do?”
“Nothing, now!” Tommie shouted. “You double-crossed me. You were never supposed to adopt him out. Never! What the hell have I been paying you for all these years?”
“Your payments don’t keep our doors open, Mr. Kimbrough! And you are actually quite casual about making them. Our expenses are unimaginable! The Nightingales offered a very generous fee for Shane. I have to think of the other children!”
“Not before you think about me, you don’t! I had dealings with that family, you understand? And I never knew anything about Shane being adopted out! To them? To the Nightingales? Are you crazy?”
“You haven’t been to see us for over a year!”
“So what? The checks keep coming, don’t they?”
“No they do not. You are very irregular about—”
“Everybody gets paid eventually! Everybody! What, you’re a friar with no patience?” He leaned in closer and dropped his voice. “I realize, now, that Mr. Nightingale started pushing me to take things on credit right after you adopted Shane out to him. Lots of things. Expensive things. It was almost as if he knew my weakness. Almost as if someone told him how to ensnare me, create a big debt, win a suit, take my home. Take my home from me. You sold that boy to Nightingale and then told Nightingale how to use my weakness against me to steal my home.”
Friar John’s face turned pale.
Tommie abruptly turned to the messenger boy. “You don’t need to see what I’m about to do to him,” he said, nodding toward Friar John. And with that, he snatched up a cast-iron statuette and swung it so hard that the top of the boy’s head was crushed under the force of the blow. Bits of brain and blood streaked a flare across the wall behind him. The boy’s limp body fell to one side.
“God Almighty!” Friar John shouted, staggering backward in shock. He did not move far enough away to save himself.
Tommie took two quick steps closer and then swung again. This time he used less force, so that Friar John only fell unconscious, to be saved for later.
“That’s it?” Shane quietly asked, though the words took him longer. He stood looking at the cigar box that she held out to him.
“Well,” she began, then shrugged. Before Shane could react, she unbuttoned her pants and pulled them down, only to reveal another pair underneath. She held out the spare pair along with the box.
Shane exhaled with a smile and took the pants and the box. He stepped to the wall and put the box up on the top shelf. He hung her pants from one of the tool pegs, turned to her, and smiled.
She smiled back. “See? You can keep my stuff here. There’s no way anybody can tell it belongs to me,” she said. “And those pants would probably fit you. You can wear them, if you want. Give them back, though.”
Shane tried to reply, “That’s all right. People donate clothes here. They let me pick from it, sometimes. I can probably get you another shirt.” But he stalled on the third word and bogged down.
“Wait!” Vignette clapped her hands in glee. “This is when you do it. This is when you write it down first, then read it back to me.”
Shane grabbed his writing pad and pencil and quickly scrawled the words, then held up the pad with a self-conscious grin and read out loud:
“That’s all right. People donate clothes here. They let me pick from it, sometimes. I can probably get you another shirt.” He laughed and shook his head. He had not even stumbled.
“Good!” replied Vignette. “Then I can always keep one set of clothes clean. See? It’s good for me to have a brother already.” She thought for a second and quickly added, “And don’t you worry, having a sister out here will be good for you, too.”
He grinned and sat on the dirt floor, made a motion of writing in the air with his finger.
“How?” he asked. The word came out strong and clear.
“I saw that!” she said. “I saw you do that! You wrote inside of your mind and then you read what you could see. Right?”
He gave her a conspiratorial smile and nodded.
“That could work all the time, you know? I mean, if you could learn to make that a habit.” Her face lit up. “Hey! We worked that one out together, didn’t we? So there you have it. You first big blessing from having a sister! Isn’t that right?”
He seemed to concentrate on the air for a moment, and finally answered, “Right. But you still can’t—can’t—stay here. They’ll cah-catch us.”
Her face fell. “I know. You don’t have to tell me that.”
He concentrated again. “Do you know our last name?”
“Uh, no. No. I thought we could just use yours.”
He turned to her in surprise, thought for a moment, then realized that he liked the feel of the idea. He nodded. “But you can’t be alone out—out—here.
Where will you lih-live?”
This time her voice was much smaller, nearly a whisper. “Oh, I don’t know yet. They would never let a boy and girl stay together here. Usually, anyway. But what about family? They wouldn’t think that anything was wrong with that, would they? Why would they? Even holy men come from families with girls, don’t they?”
Shane laughed and nodded.
“We could just go straight to them and say we’re long-lost family who just found each other after the Great Earthquake. I can work, you know! I can work like the dickens. All I ever did at that stupid place was work.”
“… Yeah. I know.”
“Besides,” she softly went on, “Catholics really like big families, don’t they? We’re just family, that’s all.”
She studied Shane’s face while he looked back at her with a resigned smile. Finally, he got to his feet, brushed himself off, and picked up one of the two sleeping blankets that were folded on the shelf. He tossed the other to her.
“Tomorrow,” he managed to say. “We can tell them. Tonight, if— if—if they come . . .” He gestured toward the outdoors with his blanket.
“You’ll sleep out there tonight in case anyone would find us before they knew you were my brother?”
Shane nodded, then his face darkened with a strange sort of sadness. He rested one hand on her shoulder, but no words came out.
She whispered, “You would take care of me though, right? They’ll see that it’s only right for you to do that, won’t they?”
Shane concentrated for a moment, then looked Vignette straight in the face. “They will. Or we’ll both leave.”
The Last Nightingale Page 16