He returned to the second floor and moved into the Hall of Wax. Just between the life-size figure of Benjamin Franklin signing the Declaration of Independence and the model of Adam and Eve confronting the serpent (an old garden hose painted to resemble a boa constrictor) was a large air vent. Thomas dislodged its grate easily, as he had many times before, and crawled headfirst into the walls.
Thomas inched forward on his stomach, until he reached the air duct that fed directly into Mr. Dumfrey’s chambers. Using his hands and feet for purchase, he shimmied up the narrow metal tube, feeling, as always, a little bit like a chunk of food that was going the wrong way through someone’s throat. He could hear the rumble of voices through the metal and knew he was getting close.
The air duct flattened out again, and he eased forward, pressing his nose against a small metal grate that was situated directly above Mr. Dumfrey’s overflowing desk. Lying on his stomach, nose squashed against the grate, he could see the shiny dome of Mr. Dumfrey’s head and the wisps of hair combed across it; he could see, too, the battered top of Assistant Chief Inspector Hardaway’s hat, which passed in and out of view, as Hardaway paced back and forth.
“It looks bad for you, Dumfrey,” he was saying. “First your little group of freaks is sniffing around—”
“They’re not freaks,” Mr. Dumfrey said sharply. “They’re extraordinary. And they weren’t sniffing around. I sent them to Mr. Anderson’s to conduct some business for me.”
Thomas felt a surge of guilt. Mr. Dumfrey was covering for him—for all of them.
“Business,” Hardaway repeated disdainfully, as though it were a dirty word. Thomas saw Hardaway lean forward over Dumfrey’s desk. “What kind of business, Dumfrey? Were they cleaning up some of your mess? Finishing what you started? Pocketing the evidence?”
“Evidence?” Mr. Dumfrey jerked backward. “What— How dare you— What are you insinuating?”
Hardaway reached into the pocket of his trench coat. A second later, he slammed a leather-bound appointment book on Mr. Dumfrey’s desk.
“Mr. Anderson died on Tuesday, April twenty-third, between five and seven o’clock. The medical examiner can tell us these things, Dumfrey. It looks as though he wasn’t alone. He was expecting a visitor. See for yourself.”
Hardaway opened the book and flipped forward a few pages.
“‘Four thirty p.m., Tuesday, April twenty-third. Appointment with D.’ What do you have to say about that?”
“I have nothing to say,” Mr. Dumfrey said. “I haven’t seen Mr. Anderson in several weeks. An initial means nothing.”
“I can’t say as I agree with you, Mr. D.,” Hardaway said, putting a faint and unpleasant emphasis on the letter. “And the commissioner don’t agree with you neither.”
“Then he is mistaken,” Mr. Dumfrey said. “You both are. I can’t imagine it’s the first time.”
“Now listen up,” Hardaway said, practically growling. “I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing, in this—this—this . . .” Hardaway gestured helplessly around him, obviously at a loss for words.
“House of Wonders?” Mr. Dumfrey suggested. “Museum of Marvels?”
“This freak show!” Hardaway exploded. “This flophouse! This dump of depravity!”
“Dump of depravity,” Dumfrey murmured. “I like that.”
Hardaway jabbed a finger at Mr. Dumfrey’s chest. “I know what you types are like. You circus types. Weirdos, losers, and—and unnaturals! If it was up to me, you’d all be put in a cage—especially these so-called children. Little monsters, each and every one of them!”
Thomas realized he was shaking. There was a sick taste in his mouth. Of course he had always known he was different. In his darkest moments, he had even wondered whether that was why his parents had abandoned him.
But mostly he had never thought of different as a bad thing. He had thought of it as being special—like rolling snake eyes with a pair of dice, or finding four maraschino cherries in a dish of fruit cocktail.
But in that instant, he had a whole other vision. It was as though Hardaway’s words had lifted a veil, and he saw Hugo and Phoebe and Danny and the rest of them as Hardaway saw them: Disgusting. Deformed. Abnormal.
What did that make him? What did that make Max, Pippa, and Sam? They were the freakiest of all the freaks.
Anger rose in his throat, choking him.
Hardaway was still talking. “I pay my taxes, Dumfrey. I work for the state. I got a wife and kids. I’m normal.”
“Get to your point,” Mr. Dumfrey said, his voice quivering with anger.
“My point,” Hardaway said, “is I don’t like freaks, and I don’t like you.”
Mr. Dumfrey stood up. “Are you accusing me of anything?”
There was a short pause. Hardaway said grudgingly, “No. Not yet.”
“Then I suggest you leave. Immediately.” Dumfrey moved around his desk and out of Thomas’s view. Thomas heard the door creak open.
Hardaway rammed his hat even more firmly on his head. “I’m warning you, Dumfrey. If I get one whiff of something foul—one sprinkle of funny business from you or any of your collection of freaks—”
“They. Are. Not. Freaks. They are marvels.”
“I’ll haul you into the clink faster than you can say—”