The more he thought about it the more disturbing his hypotheses got. Was it all a scam, with fake waifs brought in to fool donors and state agencies? Or were the inmates real, being exploited? Was she using them as slave labor? Smuggling them out as part of some kind of trafficking operation? He remembered how Lucas had encouraged him to dig into Miss Elizabeth’s affairs, and the smug way he’d been sure Sam would find something to make him want to kill her.
Sam resolved to get into the Waifs’ Home and see just what was going on. If he didn’t, he’d probably drive himself nuts with wondering.
He spent a week getting ready. During the day he spied on the building by drone and explored the vicinity on foot in his reflective vest disguise. At night he called up and bound spirits, getting himself as magically powered up as he could manage. And he spent one evening in a very shady joint on Hunts Point Avenue buying a Taiwan-made knockoff of a Glock 19 pistol.
D-day for the operation was a Friday—actually the Thursday evening before, which counted as part of Friday for magical purposes as soon as the Sun went down. Spirits of protection were weakest on Fridays. Of course, Sam’s own protective spirits would also be less potent, but he hoped to make this a smooth in-and-out job, just gathering information, leaving no traces.
The day of his intrusion Sam parked a spare getaway car on Edgecombe, just a couple of spaces down from the Waifs’ Home. The feeling of repulsion didn’t extend past the sidewalk, and it took more than hostile magic to keep New Yorkers out of unmetered parking spaces, but he managed to find a legal spot for his rented ZipCar.
He locked it up, walked up to the subway station at 145th Street, and rode back to his apartment. There he made some final preparations and waited until sunset, then drove a second rental car down to Bradhurst Avenue, on the other side of the block holding the Waifs’ Home. At that time of day Sam had a lot more trouble finding a parking spot, so he finally had to resort to a garage a block away.
Sam tried to remain inconspicuous as he walked down Bradhurst and crossed over to the building directly behind the Waifs’ Home. He wore cargo pants with lots of pockets, and a jacket concealing the Glock holster, with a day pack for magical materials. His outfit practically screamed “drug dealer,” but he hoped that would just help him blend in.
In addition to the Glock he was packing a fair amount of magical firepower—his iron ring holding a sleep spirit, the brass gremlin key, and a Mexican fire opal ring with a salamander bound into it. He’d acquired the salamander to replace his destroyed duppy.
The key let him into the building behind the Waifs’ Home, and he went confidently down the stairs to the basement as if he knew exactly where he was going. The basement proved to be a warren of little storage rooms made of plywood partitions a six-year-old could tear apart bare-handed, secured with locks so big and heavy they were pulling the hasps out of the wood by sheer weight.
At the back of the basement he found a laundry room, where a heavyset woman sat reading a day-old copy of the Post. “Can I help you?” she said when she saw Sam, in the tone of a person with her hand on a canister of pepper spray who has been wondering what happens when you actually use it on someone.
He could see the door he was looking for: an iron hatch set into the wall of the basement, blocked by one of the washing machines. Just brazen it out, he decided. “Safety inspection,” he said.
Without waiting for her answer he began to disconnect the washer blocking the iron door. Fortunately it had been installed by a cheapskate who used hoses rather than actual pipes, so he could unfasten the connections with his Leatherman tool. Some water got on the floor, making a clean spot, but there was no help for that.
Sam dragged the washer out from the wall and attacked the door. He used his body to block the woman’s view as he tapped the old deadbolt lock with his gremlin key, then turned it with his Leatherman’s screwdriver head. With the lock undone, all he had to do was unfasten the two latches—using his entire weight to turn the handles and break multiple coats of paint—and then get the door open.
His flashlight revealed an old brick tunnel about four feet high, with an inch or two of nasty-looking standing water on the floor. It smelled of rat droppings and rot.
Sam hesitated, then went ahead. He could always buy another pair of shoes. The high-top sneakers he’d worn with the idea of moving quietly inside the Waifs’ Home quickly soaked through, and he forced himself not to think about what might be in the water.
Halfway along the passage the puddle ended, so that Sam was just squelching along a dirty brick floor. The far end of the tunnel was secured by another iron door, also locked with a deadbolt.
Before tackling this door, Sam concentrated and viewed the door with his Inner Eye. Once again, nothing. No spirits watching, no magical protections. Miss Elizabeth had secured the Waifs’ Home against mundane intrusion, but evidently she had no fear of other Apkallu at all. Evidently none of her magical rivals cared what happened inside the Waifs’ Home, but Miss Elizabeth really didn’t want the subur to know about it.
He took a deep breath, made sure his protective spirit was still present, and then tapped the lock with his enchanted key. The gremlin unlocked it, and Sam turned the latch handles easily—no layers of paint on this end. He turned off his flashlight and opened the door.
He could see a bare bulb at the end of a narrow passage. So far, it all matched the old plans. The passage should lead to a corridor running down the middle of the basement, with windowless waif rooms on this side and big tiled workrooms on the other.
Sam crept forward, pausing often to listen. He could hear a faint sound, but only when he reached the end of the passage could he identify it.
He’d been sixteen, and drunk for the first time. Three of them had been at a party in North Bridgeport where the “punch” was Everclear and Hawaiian Punch mix. The only good decision they’d made that night had been to walk home instead of trying to drive. For some reason it had seemed incredibly important to avoid making noise, except that his buddy Carl had decided to serenade the neighborhood with his own rendition of “Born in the U.S.A.” Sam and—what was that other kid’s name?—had tried to stifle Carl, finally stuffing Sam’s knit hat into his mouth.
That was the sound Sam heard in the basement: someone trying to shout through a gag.
He turned into the main corridor and paused again to listen. The gagged cries came from somewhere to his right. Sam reached into his jacket and took out the pseudo-Glock. The spirits he carried were probably more lethal, but the weight of the pistol in his hands reassured him. Holding it in a proper two-handed grip, muzzle toward the floor, he moved as quietly as he could down the corridor.
The noise was coming from the “workroom” in the middle of the basement. Sam paused just outside the doorway and listened. He could hear the gagged cries from inside, the sound of traffic outside, and…yes, a television upstairs somewhere. Which meant someone else was in the building.
Sam’s mouth was dry. He took a deep breath and pushed the door of the workroom open with his foot, raising the pistol and putting his finger on the trigger as he stepped inside.
The only light came from the bulbs hanging in the corridor behind him, but Sam could make out a hospital gurney in the middle of the room, with a couple of tables arranged around it, and a small human figure lying on the bare foam mattress on top.
The kid on the gurney started thrashing around when he saw Sam, but his arms and legs were tied to the side rails. He looked Asian, maybe about ten, wearing only a dirty pair of briefs. Why was he—?
And then Sam saw the dark red tube taped to the kid’s arm, leading down to a plastic pouch on a low table next to the gurney. Sam had donated blood before, and recognized the setup. Except that blood drives didn’t usually involve underage kids in restraints.
His eyes met the boy’s, and Sam abandoned his plan for just a simple reconnaissance expedition. He pocketed the pistol and shut the door, then turned on his flashlight.
/> “Can you understand me?” he whispered to the kid, who nodded. “Good. We’ve got to keep quiet, okay? I’ll get you out of here. I’m going to take this off of you—but don’t yell or anything. They might hear and come down here. Understand?”
The kid nodded again, so Sam unfastened the ball gag buckled onto his head. The fact that someone was using bondage-fantasy gear for this just made it creepier.
As soon as the gag came off Sam put his finger to his lips. “Whisper. What’s your name?”
“Huey,” the boy whispered back.
“My name’s Sam. Who else is in the building?”
“There’s a lady, and an old fat guy.”
“Okay. Let’s get you disconnected. Hold still.” Sam found a roll of tape and some gauze on one of the tables, then pulled off the strips of tape anchoring the plastic tube to Huey’s arm. Holding the flashlight in his mouth he pulled out the needle and pressed a folded gauze pad on the oozing hole as hard as he could, before taping it down. The kid’s arm was a mass of bruises and half-healed sites. It was a sloppy job but he didn’t want to waste a second. The pouch on the table was almost full—which meant someone would be along any minute to check on Huey.
He took the flashlight out of his mouth. “How many times have they done this?”
“Every day.”
“Can you walk?” Sam cut the restraints holding Huey to the gurney, and lifted the boy. He was shockingly light. Sam set him down, supporting him until he was sure the boy could stand on his own. “Are there any other kids here?”
“I don’t think so. There was a girl. She was named Becky. I haven’t seen her for a long time. I think they put her in the furnace.”
“Okay. We’ve got to get you out of here.” Sam’s eye fell on the pouch of blood and the tubing now making a spreading puddle on the floor. “Crap. What do they do with the blood they take? Where do they put it?”
“In there.” Huey pointed to the far wall, where a perfectly ordinary kitchen fridge stood humming quietly.
“Okay. I’ve got to do something to keep you safe. It’s going to look kind of strange.” He found a roll of paper towels and did his best to mop up all the blood on the floor, then took all the bloodstained towels to the fridge. Inside he could see half a dozen blood pouches and some plastic food-storage containers. All were neatly labeled—VIRGIN BOY’S BLOOD, MAIDEN’S SKIN, HEART OF A CHILD. Sam didn’t pause to take a complete inventory.
He opened the fridge door wide, tossed in the bloodstained towels, and touched his fire opal ring. “Su-izi-bar,” he said, and gestured at the open refrigerator. “Izi-be-la.” Purify it. And then he gestured around at the entire room, the entire building. “Izi-u-ur-re-la!” Purify all of it.
The bound salamander sprang from the ring and Sam could feel its fierce joy. It raced to the refrigerator, a yellow snake of bright fire leaving a scorched trail across the floor. The plastic and paint of the fridge burst into flame at its touch, and the salamander grew as it absorbed the new flames. It wrapped itself around the refrigerator like a python, and Sam could see the metal sag and blacken as it squeezed. Blood bags spilled onto the floor, expanding and bursting as they boiled. The blood foamed, dried, and blackened in seconds.
Sam hustled to the doorway to the corridor and looked out, then beckoned to Huey. The smoke in the room made his eyes sting, and he had to fight to keep from coughing. Then he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He drew the gun again.
“Oh, shit!” said a harsh woman’s voice in the hallway. “Marvin! Get down here!” she shouted.
When she pushed open the door Sam punched her in the face with his left hand. “Are there any other kids in the building?”
The woman gaped at him. She was bony and pale, and he had knocked her wig off.
He aimed the pistol between her eyes. “Answer me!”
She shook her head.
The urge to just squeeze the trigger was very strong, but Sam resisted. It would make too much noise. Instead he shoved her out of the way and led Huey down the hall. Behind him he heard a deep whoosh and felt a blast of heat as the salamander finished with the workroom and swept out into the corridor. The paint on the walls began smoking. The bony woman shrieked and fled up the stairs.
He led Huey down the narrow passage to the iron door, then holstered his gun and carried the boy through the tunnel. When he emerged into the laundry room the heavyset woman was still there, along with a man wearing coveralls and a tool belt who looked like the building super.
“The orphanage is on fire!” Sam shouted. “Call 911!”
No magic needed: The smell of smoke and an injured child shocked both of them into action. The man with the tool belt slammed the iron door shut and latched it, while the woman dug out a phone and stabbed at the touch screen with shaking fingers.
Sam carried Huey out of the basement, then paused in the building entryway. “Where’s your family?”
“My father went back to China. A DCS lady took me away from Mama.”
No, Sam said to himself. No. Just leave him. He’ll be okay. No. “What’s your full name?” he asked the boy.
“Huey Song.”
“Eresikin Huey Song iginudug Ruax. Forget you ever saw me, forget my name. Tell anyone who asks that you got out of there by yourself. Segah.” He set the boy down and hurried out to the street, not daring to look back.
When the fire engines arrived Sam stood in the crowd of spectators on Edgecombe Avenue. He admired the firemen for their determination: Despite the magical barriers making them want to avoid the building, they broke open the front doors and checked the burning structure for survivors.
Sam saw them bring out a tremendously fat old black man, but saw no sign of the bony woman he had punched in the face. Maybe she had gotten out on her own, maybe the salamander had set her on fire. The only reason Sam cared at all was that she might describe him to Miss Elizabeth.
The salamander did its purifying work well. Even with two whole fire companies fighting the blaze, the Waifs’ Home was utterly gutted. Only when nothing remained but brick and iron did the fire finally die down.
As he watched, Sam thought about what to do next. His little reconnaissance mission had turned into something very different. He had learned nothing he could use against Miss Elizabeth, but he had made a very blatant attack on her. Like it or not, he was now utterly committed to destroying her. Lucas had been right about that.
Sam abandoned both of his getaway cars—one was hemmed in by the fire engines, the other was too close to the building in the next block where someone might recognize him. Yet another credit card he’d have to get rid of. A quote from Walt Whitman crossed his mind: “I am large; I contain multitudes.” All those names: which was the real one? Would the Sam Arquero of four years ago recognize him now?
He got back to his apartment near dawn, and before he could even collapse into bed he got two phone calls. The first was brief, from Lucas. “An impressive attempt, but you seem to have missed your target.”
“Has she really been…harvesting children for a hundred years?”
“Longer than that. The Waifs’ Home just made subjects easier to acquire. Instead of hiring needle-men to snatch strays she could let well-meaning city agencies do all her dirty work instead. We live in the age of bureaucracy, after all.”
“But why? Why so many?”
“Do you think it’s easy for a woman centuries old to stay young and healthy? Poor Elizabeth has to work very hard to retain her youthful sparkle.”
“I see,” said Sam. He could see the outlines of a new plan, but it would require more research.
One of his other phones buzzed. “Bye,” he told Lucas and then answered the other one.
It was Moreno. “You heard?”
“About what?”
“Somebody torched a building up in Harlem—one of Miss Elizabeth’s operations. She’s royally pissed.”
“Who did it?”
“No idea. Could be one of White’s pals
, or even a leftover servant of the Count’s.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t an accident? Buildings do catch fire.”
“I’ve got a witness. Some old gal Miss Elizabeth had running the place. I got her ghost.”
Shit, thought Sam. Shit, shit, shit. The ghost would recognize him. He had to make sure he was never around if Moreno decided to call her up again. Or find a way to bind her and hide her someplace.
“What do you need me to do?” he asked, trying to sound efficient.
“There’s a live one I need you to take care of. He’s up at Harlem Hospital. Get over there and make him forget everything. His full name’s Marvin Divine Williams.”
“I’m on it. So…what kind of operation was it?”
He heard Moreno sigh. “Miss Elizabeth used the place for magical workings. This guy was one of her servitors. Just make him forget all about it.”
“No problem. I’ll get right over there.”
Sam didn’t say anything, and Moreno didn’t say anything. Finally Sam just said “Bye” and turned off that phone.
Moreno had lied to him. Well, not exactly lied—but he certainly hadn’t told Sam the full truth. Was this just normal secrecy? “Need to know” and all that? Or was Moreno ashamed to admit what Miss Elizabeth did in the Waifs’ Home? Sam couldn’t believe Moreno didn’t know.
Time to find out what Marvin Divine Williams knew, before commanding him to forget all of it. Sam decided to do it right away, especially since Miss Elizabeth might decide to simplify matters by just killing her servant. He got into his official-looking dark suit and brought along the State Police ID.
He thought for a couple of minutes before leaving the Glock behind.
Chapter 22
Visiting the hospital early in the morning reminded Sam of his parents. Both had died in places like this, full of well-meaning professionals and beige plastic gadgets with rounded corners. He navigated the maze to Marvin Williams’s room in the chest-and-lung section. To his mild surprise he encountered no guard on duty. Apparently the authorities didn’t consider the fire suspicious, and none of the firemen had seen anything damning inside the Waifs’ Home.
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