Therefore shalt thou fall in the day, and the pro[ph]et also shall fall with the[e] in the night, and I will destroy thy [m]other. Hos[e]a 4:5
And say, What is thy mother? A lioness: she [l]ay down among lions, she nourished her whelps among young lions. Ezekiel 19:2
Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a ro[a]ring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour. 1 Peter 5:8
And when the morning a[r]ose, then the angels hastened Lot, saying, [A]rise, take thy wife, and thy tw[o] daughter[s], which are here; lest thou be consumed in the iniquity of the city. Genesis 19:15
Teasing out the missing letters, Maggie put together:
[s] [a] [k] [k] [r] [i] [f] [I] [c] [e] [m] [e] [c] [a] [ph] [e] [m] [e] [l] [a] [r] [A] [o] [s]
The omitted letters spelled out:
sakkrificemecaphemelaraos
With proper spelling and spacing, it read:
Sacrifice me
Café Mela Rossa
The café in Clerkenwell, Maggie realized.
“What on God’s green earth are you doing, Major Hope?” the Warden blustered.
“Café Mela Rossa,” Maggie breathed. “The Red Apple Café. Where is it?”
“How should I know?”
“Do you have a telephone book, sir?” The Colonel opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a thick tome. “May I have it, please?” Maggie looked, flipping the thin pages, ink smudging on her fingers, until she found the right section.
Café Mela Rossa, she wrote. 138 Clerkenwell Road.
“Here,” she said, as she dropped the telephone directory to the floor. “Please telephone DCI Durgin. Have him and his men meet me at this address. As soon as possible. Sir.”
“Major?”
Maggie turned in the doorframe. “I believe it’s the address of Jimmy—make that Jenny—Greenteeth.”
“Major Hope?”
She thought of Milo. Is he still alive? “Please, sir—a man’s life is in danger!”
The Colonel said, “May I at least offer you a ride?”
“Thanks—but I can make better time on my motorbike.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Enough time had passed that Milo regained consciousness and some movement in his arms and legs. With an enormous amount of effort, he was able to roll over and then, gingerly, push himself up to a sitting position against a rough stone wall. He looked around: dim light pierced the damp shadows from high windows, thin as arrow slits. Even if he could climb up to them, he wasn’t thin enough to pass through. He thought of breaking one and calling for help, but he couldn’t seem to move his hands.
He took in the rest of the cellar. A rickety wooden staircase led up to the door. He had heard the bolt slide into place and knew it was now locked. There was the sound of a rat skittering in a corner, and he shuddered. Outside, the mother pig and her piglets snorted, frolicking in the mud.
There wasn’t much else: a coal bin, two large and deep sinks. A furnace, reminiscent of the witch’s oven in “Hansel and Gretel.” A long table, made of porcelain. It took a bit, but Milo finally realized what it was: a draining table, set over an open pipe leading to the sewers. He looked up. Hung on the walls were an array of surgical saws in various sizes. Above them, on shelves, were boxes of caustic soda. A human skull, clean and white, had been placed on one end of the shelf, a death’s head overseeing operations. There were dark stains on the floor, and the wet air smelled of mold and old pennies.
And there was a box. Open. Milo could just make out the white feathers piled inside before he slumped back to the floor, unconscious.
* * *
—
When Maggie arrived in Clerkenwell, it was nearly unrecognizable, its streets streaming with celebrants of Carnevale, the festive Britalian holiday blending pagan and Catholic traditions. Despite the threat of imminent rain, people had donned colorful costumes and elaborate masks: there were multiple sad Pierrots with dripping tears painted on their cheeks, as well as beautiful Columbinas.
The most recognizable of the masks were the Volto, androgynous and white, and the Medico della peste, with its long birdlike beak doctors once used to protect themselves from plague. There were two-faced Janus masks, as well as bauta, moretta, gnaga, pantalone, and arlecchino disguises—some grotesque, others beautiful and adorned with flowers and feathers. Along with the masks, people wore costumes and long capes.
The crowd swarmed, increasing in size, while musicians played violins and accordions and people beat pots and pans with spoons. The air was rich with the smell of frittelle, sticky-sweet fried dough sold from pushcarts, as well as sausages, roasted almonds, and sanguinaccio.
There were shouts and peals of laughter as a mob of masked figures brandished long-handled hammers, threatening to bring them down indiscriminately on the heads of those passing by. Victims did their best to respond in kind, often chasing down assailants through the milling crowd. There were no police officers present, no sign of order at all.
Nicolette was in the kitchen of a family a few blocks away from Café Mela Rossa, where the music and shouting from the parade could be heard faintly in the distance. She’d set the little girl’s leg using a stripped tree branch as a splint, then wrapped it in gauze. The girl, about seven, watched with serious dark eyes. “There, that should keep everything in place while it heals,” Nicolette told the girl. Then, to her mother, who was nursing a newborn: “Just don’t let her put any weight on it.”
“For how long?” asked the mother in heavily accented English over the wails of crying children.
“Four, even six weeks,” Nicolette responded.
“Impossible—I need her help around the house.”
“She has use of her arms.”
“I need her to look after the younger children!”
Nicolette smiled. “Give her something to throw at them. That will make them mind. Or tell them stories about evil witches who will come and bite them in their sleep.” She looked up at the clock. “This took longer than expected and I need to get back home. I’ll check up on her tomorrow, all right?”
“Thank you, Ward Sister Quinn,” the mother said. “And please come by tonight for dinner. It is Carnevale, after all—I’ll make all our best meat dishes for you.”
“Thank you so much. You know, the piglets are almost weaned. When they’re old enough, I’ll let you have the mother.”
“Oh, fantastico,” the mother said. “Your pigs are always so fat and juicy. Whatever do you feed them?”
“Table scraps,” Nicolette assured her.
* * *
—
Maggie tried to ride her motorbike on the hilly streets of the Quarter but soon realized it was too dangerous—unattended children in costume ran about with hoops and sticks, screaming with laughter. She tried another route, but a parade with allegorical floats covered in papier-mâché flowers crawled down Old Street. On one float, an oversize Dionysus held up red grapes, while on another a giant dragon belched real smoke. Next in line, a giant papier-mâché pirate brandished a knife.
Maggie stopped her motorbike and surveyed the seething mass of humanity. She knew she couldn’t ride through without risking hurting someone. And there wasn’t any way she could leave the bike and assume it wouldn’t be stolen. “Here,” she said to one of the revelers, in a devil’s mask with horns and a beard. “It’s yours,” she said, as she took off the helmet. The devil accepted the gifts and marched on, pushing the bike alongside him.
Fighting her way against the merry crowd, Maggie finally reached Café Mela Rossa, which was closed for the holiday. She looked around to make sure she wasn’t being watched, and then pulled a bobby pin from her hair. She picked the lock on the entrance for the flats above and let herself in. Inside, it was dim and relatively quiet, the celebration noises mu
ffled. She listened at the door of the garden apartment but didn’t hear anything. Once again she used a bobby pin on the lock. When that didn’t work, she took a few steps back and kicked the door in.
Inside the airless apartment, there was a musty apple smell. Maggie turned on the lights. There was an entryway with a coatrack, which led to a cramped parlor, filled with heavy, graceless Victorian furniture upholstered in pink. It was dark and empty, the blackout curtains still closed.
“Hello?” Maggie tried all the doors in the narrow, shadowy hallway. There was the main bedroom, a room of pale ruffles and lace. An oversize tinted photograph in an ornate black frame dominated the room. The woman who peered out with tiny eyes looked threatening, her lips pressed and hard despite the chubby, rose-tinted cheeks. Reitter’s grandmother?
In the spare bedroom, there was a pile of men’s clothing on the bed: suits, shirts, sweaters, overcoats, and pajamas, as well as belts, hats, handkerchiefs, socks, underwear, and wallets. Several pairs of eyeglasses were jumbled on the low, doily-covered dresser, along with cigarette cases, twinkling cuff links, combs, and several razors. Clothing from the men who became skeletons?
At the very back of the dresser was a framed photograph: what looked like a young Reitter and a woman who appeared to be his mother. And on a low bench was a black leather violin case. Giacomo Genovese’s Stradivarius? Frankie? But there was no time to stop and check.
There was nothing in the small bathroom, which reeked of bleach. Nothing in the kitchen, other than a bouquet of wilted flowers, stems rotting in the unchanged water on the wooden table. Maggie saw the cellar door, dead-bolted and padlocked.
The lock was too big to pick with only a hairpin. She rummaged through the kitchen drawers to try to find a knife. With it, she opened the lock, pulling on a string to turn on the fluorescent lightbulb before picking her way down the rickety wooden stairs, the metallic scent of blood growing stronger with each step. Her stomach lurched, but there was no time to be sick. The steam pipes clanked, and she jumped.
Oh God—Milo! She found him slumped against the wall at the foot of the stairs, unconscious, but with a thready pulse. He’s alive, she thought. Thank God he’s alive. Gently, she sat him up. He seemed unharmed. She cupped his cheek. “Milo? Milo, can you hear me?”
Milo’s eyes fluttered open. There was the sound of a chain being pulled and then a blinding light. A long shadow appeared at the top of the stairs. As Maggie squinted and struggled to rise, the figure—a woman, she could see that now, in a red dress with a silver circle pin on the collar—lifted a bone saw, a simpering smile on her face, sweet as poisoned candy.
Maggie rose and stepped in front of Milo. “Stay away from him,” she called up to the woman. “The police are on their way. The only chance you have is to surrender.”
The woman dropped the saw and fled.
* * *
—
Maggie gave chase: up the stairs, through the flat, then out into the street, where rain was just starting to fall. The woman ripped a mask off a bystander and slipped it over her head, but Maggie could still see her running in her red dress. She ran down an alley and then into the doorway of another limestone apartment building. Maggie ducked and wove around costumed celebrants to keep her in sight—she was younger, but the other woman had a head start and clearly knew the neighborhood. The building was bomb-damaged and condemned, painted with graffiti—Ti amo sempre, the Italian flag, and a cartoon of Mussolini being hanged.
Maggie ran after her, breath harsh in her ears, legs burning. On a landing, she passed a couple embracing against a wall, still wearing masks. She paid them no mind and followed the woman up the staircase until she reached the upright ladder to the roof. The woman slammed the door on her. Maggie kept going. She popped the door open and climbed up into the gray light. Down below, the parade was winding past, with the sounds of children’s shouts and organ grinders. The raindrops were falling steadily now.
The woman in the red dress ran to the edge of the rooftop, only a waist-high wall protecting her from falling over. A wooden plank connected one building to the next. She climbed onto the wall, making her way unsteadily on the slippery piece of wood to the next building, arms flailing to keep her balance, as Maggie tried to overtake her.
Damn cigarettes, Maggie thought as she struggled to catch her breath at the wall. The woman leapt to the other roof and gave the wide wooden plank a vicious shove. It tumbled down into the alley and smashed to the ground. She turned and kept running.
Maggie knew she would have to jump. It wasn’t too far between buildings, but they were five flights up, and if she missed…
Still, the roof was tar-papered, and the wind was behind her. She took a few steps back, then made a running start with big steps, muscle memory from long-ago training taking over.
She jumped.
Wind rushed in her ears, rain drenched her hair, and there was a long moment of perfect weightlessness before she hit the opposite roof, then tucked and rolled on the landing.
She scrambled to her feet and kept going. The woman was now nowhere to be seen. Maggie kept going, past chimneys, air vents, and skylights. She was almost to the far edge when the woman emerged; she’d changed clothes and she was holding a gun. Her mask was off. Maggie could see the resemblance between her and her son.
“I found—I found everything in the letters you sent your son, Imelda,” Maggie called through the rain, panting, her heart thudding in her chest. She raised her hands. “The police are on their way.” Indeed, even over the clamor of the parade, sirens could be heard. “There’s nowhere for you to go.”
“Nicholas is the apple of my eye—but he’s a weak, scared little boy,” Imelda Reitter replied, her hands steady on the gun. “I tried to give him a way out—to offer me up—but he wouldn’t take it. Too proud.”
“You were trying to outdo him.”
“I was trying to give him something to bargain with,” Imelda corrected. “Information on a new killer. I thought he could use it to postpone the execution—or even get a life sentence.”
“So you created ‘Jimmy Greenteeth.’ ”
The woman took a few steps toward Maggie. “On your knees, bitch.”
Looking around for something, anything, to fight with and finding nothing, Maggie sank to her knees, hands in the air.
“Killing me will only add to your problems once you’re arrested.”
“No, killing you will be sweet justice—since you’re the bitch who shot my son’s face off. And whose testimony is what got him the death penalty.”
For a startling second, Maggie matched the eyes in front of her with those of the woman at the courthouse, the one with the black hat and pink trim, with the circle pin. “I remember you. From the sentencing.”
“You should. I was there every day of the trial. And I wanted you. I figured the best way was to go after those conchies you’re so chummy with.”
“The white feathers,” Maggie realized.
“I paid some neighborhood girls to give them out to the COs, to prey on their guilt and fear.”
Maggie nodded. Keep her talking. “How did you get them to come to you?”
“I offered them a way out of England. For a price, they thought they could escape to South America.”
“And why the suitcases?”
“The bodies were too heavy to lift, but I could manage the bones. And they always brought their own suitcases anyway.” Imelda clicked the gun’s safety. “Even if they kill him, even if they kill me—I’ll die knowing I killed you first.”
There was no way out. Maggie closed her eyes as rain splattered her face. She heard the shot fired.
A mighty clang sounded behind her as the bullet hit a metal chimney pipe, making her flinch. She opened her eyes and looked up to see a figure tackling Imelda. She fell to the ground, and her assailant grabbed her gun. Wearing
a Carnevale mask painted half black and half white and wrapped in a black cloak, the figure stared at Maggie for a moment, then trained the gun at Imelda.
“Who are you?” Maggie called, wiping raindrops from her eyes.
“I think you know,” a woman’s voice answered. Maggie had the strangest feeling she’d heard her accent—or lack thereof—before. It made her wonder if the speaker was foreign and had learned English as a second language.
“The woman…the woman from the theater?”
“This is Nicolette Quinn. She’s a Ward Sister at Fitzroy Square Hospital,” the masked woman said. “Check the medical records. She’s been killing countless patients with impunity there for years.” She looked down to Imelda, who was shaking and had started to moan.
Maggie stared, paralyzed, not sure what she was seeing through the rain. “Get out of here!” the woman shouted at her. Nicolette—Imelda—tried to rise, but the other woman slapped her face, hard. “I’ll take care of her.”
She could see the eyes despite the mask. They were blue. And while one was focused, one turned slightly out to the side.
Mother? The rush of blood hit her face. “Clara? Clara Hess?” Maggie’s heart beat erratically. The cold rain soaked through her hair and clothes, and she found she couldn’t move.
“Go!” The woman appraised Maggie for a moment. Then, “Go, now—before I shoot you, too.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Maggie rode in the ambulance with Milo, sirens screeching. Outside, thunder rumbled and rain pounded the roof. “Eighteen-year-old male,” one of the medics was saying. “Respirs eight. Pulse thready at one sixty. Blood pressure seventy over forty.” The medic was a lanky young man, with almond-shaped eyes and straw-colored hair. Maggie took comfort in the fact that his eyes looked kind. She watched as he worked on Milo, threading an IV into the crook of his elbow. “We need to get him hydrated.” Maggie looked closely at his uniform. The patch said, THE FRIENDS AMBULANCE UNIT. He’s a CO, too.
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