NIGHTINGALE, SING
Karsten Knight
NIGHTINGALE, SING.
Text copyright © 2016 by Karsten Knight.
All rights reserved, including reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
First edition: March 2016
www.karstenknightbooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. References to real events, people, and locales, past or present, are used fictitiously. All other elements are products of the author’s imagination.
Cover image: “Between the Waves” by Ivan Konstantinovich Aivazovsky.
Table of Contents
THE SERENGETI SAPPHIRE
SABRA TIDES
PERSONAL EFFECTS
DEN OF SIN
POSTCARDS FROM THE DEAD
THE ELEVENTH GREEN
HOME INVASION
CARRION
THE DOLLHOUSE
WHERE GRIFFINS GAZE
SONG OF ORPHEUS
OVERDOSE
SMALL COMFORTS
THE BLACK SPOT
FLOODS AND SPARKS
STORMING THE HILL
GHOST TOWN
PREDATOR, PREY
BURNING GAUNTLET
WITCHING HOUR
THE LADY IN BLACK
PRISONERS OF THE SEA
BACKWOODS RETRIBUTION
SLASH AND BURN
TIMBER
THE HOLLOW
THE FINAL THORN
PYRRHIC VICTORY
“The tree of liberty must be
refreshed from time to time
with the blood of
patriots and tyrants.”
-Thomas Jefferson, 1787
Within the hallowed green walls of Fenway Park, forty thousand Red Sox fans rose to their feet. They held their collective breath as a monstrous hit from Gabriel Carrera climbed higher, higher, until the tiny white meteor began its descent toward the right-field fence. When the baseball sailed just clear of the foul pole, the explosive cheers from the stadium could be heard as far away as the Charles River.
Three blocks east, Jack Tides fled through the dark community gardens. With a postcard clutched in one hand and a knife in the other, he was trying to get to a mailbox before the men in the black van found him.
Nox’s boys were coming to kill him tonight.
In the darkness, Jack blindly smashed into a lawn chair and nearly skewered himself on his own blade as he fell. He landed hard in a zucchini patch and briefly lay there dazed, listening to the sounds of the Boston night, searching for any traces of his pursuers. For now, he could only hear the distant commotion from Fenway and the occasional car rushing down Park Drive.
That didn’t mean they weren’t still out there.
If it were anyone else after him, Jack might make a run for the stadium. After all, who would dare execute him in front of thousands of witnesses?
But this was Horace Nox, the nightclub owner, the gangster, the one man in Boston you did not fuck with.
And Jack had stolen from him the one thing he treasured most.
Jack gazed off in the direction of Back Bay, where the imposing fifty-two-story Prudential Tower loomed over the tree line. If he made a run for a populated area, like downtown or the stadium, they’d gun him down just the same. If he went to the police, Nox had men on his payroll there, too. And if he tried to hide in the gardens until morning …
He heard the hounds.
There were two of them, barking with feral delight. He could imagine them straining at their leashes, snouts low to the ground as they dragged one of Nox’s men ever closer. They must have picked up his trail where he’d escaped from the museum.
From the sound of it, they’d converge on him in less than a minute.
It was now or never. Jack picked himself up off the dirt and sprinted through the gardens, jumping over makeshift wooden fences, ducking under trellises, and trampling any crops in his way. He clambered up the hillside, and when he stumbled out from between the trees onto Park Drive, that’s when he saw it:
A mailbox. A beacon of hope, its blue paint flaking off in chips, in front of an aging brick apartment building.
Jack took off across the street. A car blared its horn as it swerved to avoid him, but he thundered on, until at last, with a trembling hand, he dropped the crumpled postcard down the mailbox’s gullet.
The metal mouth snapped shut with a resounding clang as it swallowed his little sister’s last chance for survival.
Jack turned back to the road as a taxi came around the bend. He tucked his knife into the waistband of his jeans and waved frantically from the curbside, but the cab was already full with passengers and never even slowed.
Tires screeched behind Jack, as the familiar black van barreled down the street. He prayed that they’d mistake him for an innocent pedestrian, but it was too late—the van accelerated toward him. Jack turned on his heel and sprinted for the bridge.
As he took the corner, his lungs burned and he knew that even though he was giving it everything he had left, the van would catch up in seconds. The decisions he made now, during this short window while he was obscured from view by a cluster of trees, could mean the difference between life and death. So as he reached the crest of the stone bridge that passed over the marshy water of the Fens, he did the only thing he could think of.
He jumped off the bridge.
The fall was quick. One moment he was hurdling over the railing, barely clearing the stone lip. The next he flopped face-first into the murky river below.
As Jack resurfaced, he resisted the urge to gag on the foul-smelling waters, which reeked like a compost pile. He sought refuge beneath the bridge’s arch as quietly as he could, keeping all but his head submerged in the cold, slimy stream. It wasn’t a second too soon. The van came to an abrupt stop directly overhead. Not long after that, the barking of the dogs rose to a crescendo. Their handler silenced them with a gruff “Heel!” Jack could hear the click of their nails on the pavement as they milled about.
The van door slammed with unnecessary force. “How the hell did we lose Tides again?” the driver raved. Jack recognized his voice as belonging to Drumm, the former NFL-linebacker-turned-enforcer.
“He’s a slippery bastard, for sure,” said a man with a Southern drawl and a voice that sounded like the croak of a bullfrog—Pearce, the dog-handler. “The hounds’ll pick up his scent soon enough. Where’d our gal Aries wander off to?”
“The hell if I know,” Drumm replied. “That junkie creeps me out.” He must have flicked his cigarette off the bridge, because the smoldering butt of it landed in the water a few feet from where Jack was concealed. It hissed before the embers died in the murk.
“All right, you circle around the Fens with the van until you spot Tides. I’ll sweep toward Berklee to see if the boys pick up his stink again.”
Moments later, the vehicle peeled away. The hounds resumed their barking, searching in frustration for the fugitive’s scent.
Pressed against the bridge’s stone underbelly, Jack waited until he judged that Nox’s men must be far enough away. Then he cautiously edged out from his hiding place and scrambled up the embankment.
He never saw the wooden croquet mallet coming until it smashed into his knee.
With a sharp cry, he reached for his battered leg, but the mallet whipped around again. This time it collided with his cheekbone.
Jack dropped limply into the marsh waters. As he lay there, half-floating, he was momentarily confused as to which way was up and which way was down.
A figure stepped into view overhead. Jack’s vision was still swimming from the blow to his face, but he could make out the silhouette:
A woman with ram’s horns spiraling out of either side of her head.
&n
bsp; The horned woman crouched closer, until Jack could see that she was no demon—in fact, she couldn’t be much older than her early twenties. Her ram’s horns were actually metal prostheses fastened to her skull somewhere beneath the nest of her spiked hair.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Jack Tides,” Aries said in a husky Latin accent. She pressed the shaft of her croquet mallet into Jack’s windpipe. He let out a hollow wheeze and grabbed ahold of the stick, trying to keep his head from being forced under the water. Was this it? Was he going to drown in the Fens, his last minute on earth spent choking on putrid water while his brain died from oxygen deprivation?
“Enough,” Drumm growled from somewhere behind Aries. “Boss wants him alive … for now.”
Grudgingly, she relented and the two mercenaries hauled Jack up by his shoulders. He bellowed as his weight came down on his mangled knee. Next thing he knew, he was tossed like a dishrag into the back of a van. The Boston night disappeared behind the sliding door.
The Seaport
It wasn’t that Jack didn’t fight back. But with his injured leg struggling to support his weight and his knife lost in the Fenway marsh, he proved a less than formidable opponent as Drumm and Aries forcibly removed him from the van. With each of them securing one of his elbows, they carried him down the dimly lit alley.
A second vehicle arrived behind the brick building—it was Pearce, whose Rhodesian ridgebacks barked feverishly in the cab of his pickup, smelling that their prey was near. Pearce’s comb-over glistened with sweat, which he wiped off with two fingers and flicked contemptuously at Jack’s face. Then he cast open the building’s two massive cellar doors and Jack’s captors dragged him down into a dank basement.
Aries slammed him onto a wooden table, holding him down while Drumm used a length of rope to tie him in place. Jack tried to wriggle free, but the taut cords had him pinned at the shoulders. He hadn’t been sure where they were taking him while he was in the windowless van, but between the briny smell of the harbor and the muffled melody of a big band orchestra playing one story above them, he now realized exactly where he was.
He was beneath the Nightingale.
On the other side of the basement, the elevator droned an ominous “ding” and the doors parted.
Horace Nox had arrived.
Horror-struck, Jack picked his aching head as far off the table as he could to get a good look at the man. Jack had worked at the Nightingale for over a month before he’d even met Nox, at first only observing the gangster from afar as he walked around the nightclub like a god amongst men. But when word of Jack’s bottomless knowledge of local New England history had gotten around—a seed that Jack had intentionally sowed himself—Nox had offered him a new job. “A promotion,” he had called it. He needed Jack’s historical expertise in solving a 150-year-old trail of riddles, scribbled on the pages of an antique Civil War journal. Riddles that, according to myth, would lead to an object of immeasurable value.
So Jack had helped him unearth the second riddle. Then the third, and the fourth, and the fifth.
The last time Jack had seen Nox was a week ago, when they’d followed the clues in the sixth riddle to Block Island. There, they’d excavated a chest from a bluff overlooking the ocean, only to find it completely empty.
Because twenty-four hours prior, unbeknownst to Nox, Jack had dug up the seventh riddle for himself.
Nox walked unhurriedly across the cellar floor, a half-empty glass of scotch in one hand. When he reached Jack, he noisily dragged a stool up beside the table and peered quietly down at his captive. Nox was the kind of man who, from a distance, seemed to be well-preserved for his age. His long, luxuriant hair had prematurely turned pewter, but his face was smooth, his blue eyes shrewd and arrogant in the way he took in the room. He wore an expensive three-piece suit, crisply pressed and tailored to his muscular contours. Yes, from a distance he looked closer to eighteen than thirty.
But up this close, Jack could see where the illusion ended. Somewhere beneath the youthful, energetic veneer, there was a deep and penetrating sickness. Not just of the mind, but of the body as well. His vulpine face was pulled too tight, too thin, the angles of it harsh and exact, like the woodcut features of a ventriloquist dummy.
Horace Nox was dying.
Nox drained the last remnants of his drink in one long gulp, then tapped the glass with his manicured fingernail—ting, ting, ting. “Get me another Blood and Sand, Drumm,” he said in his baritone rasp. Even his vocal cords seemed to be stretched to their limits, a victim of wartime shrapnel. A scar still bisected his Adam’s apple.
His giant manservant obediently snatched the tumbler from Nox’s hand and disappeared.
“You know,” Nox said, finally addressing Jack, “in my line of business, you have to be paranoid. It’s the only way to survive, really. Day in and day out, I find myself dealing with gamblers and gangsters and drug dealers”—He jerked his thumb back toward where Aries was polishing one of her ram’s horns in front of a dirty mirror—“and disreputable sorts of all varieties. Yet of all the creeps on my payroll, I would have never guessed that you would be the one to steal from me.” He let out an exasperated laugh. “You! My fucking busboy! The ungrateful history nerd who ripped me off after I gave him the opportunity of a lifetime. You’re the one who took what was rightfully mine?”
“Opportunity of a lifetime?” Jack echoed. “Golly, Pop, thanks for the minimum wage job scrubbing your dishes and doing your homework.”
Nox tsk-tsked. “We both know you didn’t do this for the money.”
“You know nothing about me, Horace.”
“Is that so?” Nox snapped his fingers and Pearce handed him a folder. He licked his thumb and leafed through the papers inside. “Jack Tides,” he read aloud. “Age: eighteen. Graduated valedictorian of Dorchester High School and is now a freshman at Boston University majoring in American studies.” Nox placed a hand over his heart. “How patriotic of you.”
As Nox continued reading, he paced around the table. “Son of Calista and Jack Tides Senior, who goes by ‘Buck’ amongst his associates. Calista is an immigrant by way of Cyprus, who worked her way through nursing school and has been employed at Children’s Hospital for the last twenty years. Shortly after she came to America in the early nineties, she met and married your degenerate father. Buck is old-city Irish and was a subway car driver for many years, but is currently locked away at Cedar Junction Correctional, serving a fifteen-year sentence for armed robbery. Chance of early parole for good behavior: unlikely.” Nox raised his eyebrows. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the thieving tree.”
“Enough,” Jack growled.
Nox pursed his lips. “Oh, I haven’t even gotten to the juicy parts yet. You have two sisters. Sabra, seventeen, just started her senior year at Dorchester High.” He laughed lecherously and punched Jack on the arm. “Irish Twins, huh, only a year apart? I guess Mom and Old Buck couldn’t wait another minute to get back in the sack after you popped out.”
In his mind, Jack pictured himself snapping free of his restraints and ripping Nox’s malformed larynx right out of his throat.
“Sabra spends her evenings making a little extra cash as a pedicab driver in Boston, which means her report cards don’t tend to live up to those of her overachieving brother. And finally, there’s little Echo, age eight, who if I’m doing the math correctly, must have been conceived right before the Boston Police caught your father trying to roll over a warehouse—one of my warehouses, no less—with a semiautomatic. And according to my meticulous research …” Nox dropped the file and leaned over Jack. “… your eight-year-old sister is currently at Children’s Hospital in the oncology ward, being treated for stage-three Hodgkin’s lymphoma.”
Jack’s eye brimmed with tears at the mention of Echo. “I said enough, you asshole.”
Drumm returned with Nox’s cocktail. Nox swilled the sanguine liquid around, ruminating. “I’m not a heartless bastard like you probably think. Hell, I get it
. Your little sister’s dying of cancer. So you worm your way into my organization. You give me the slip, you steal a page from the journal, and you take up the quest for yourself. You thought you could find the Serengeti Sapphire on your own and then use it to save Echo.” Nox broke off into a vile, wet cough. He plucked a white handkerchief from the pocket of his suit jacket and hacked explosively into it. When the convulsions finally ceased, he held the cloth up for Jack to see. It was speckled with blood. “But illness affects all of us, Jack. The Sapphire is destined to save me, not Echo.”
“She’s just a kid, Horace,” Jack pleaded, choking on the words. “She is everything to me. And she is suffering. You of all people know what it’s like to waste away your childhood in constant agony.” He desperately searched Nox’s face for any sign that he was getting through to him. “So please, let’s put all this behind us and work together. There’s still time for us to give her the miracle that she deserves, before it’s too late.”
There was a strange glint in Nox’s eye as he stared down into his drink, and Jack briefly hoped that he might have struck a chord. But then Nox asked, “Do you know what the difference is between me and Echo?” He tapped the area over his heart. “I’m a fighter. A survivor. After thirty years battling my way back from death’s threshold, I’ve earned my stripes. So I’ll be damned if I’m going to just pass off my ticket to a healthy life to some toddling slum rat who doesn’t have the guts not to give up.”
That last part pushed Jack so far over the edge that his lips took on a life of their own. “Thirty years? All I see is the same cowering, sick little boy who never grew up—”
Jack was blindsided when Nox drilled a fist into his injured knee. His vision seared white. “Where is the seventh page of the journal?” Nox screamed into his face. “Where is it, you little maggot?” The gangster hammered Jack’s mangled knee a second time, this time eliciting a pained scream from the boy. “I know you found it, so where is it? In the museum?”
Jack offered nothing. He would protect Echo until his last breath.
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