“I think I twisted an ankle,” Thomas said, testing it.
“You could have done much worse than that.” Pippa had regained her composure and was glaring at Thomas in her usual disapproving way. “What were you thinking? How could you slip onto the tracks?”
“Did you know,” he said, ignoring Pippa’s question, “that the probability of accidentally slipping onto a subway track on any given day is one in one-and-a-half million?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Max asked. Her voice was thin and high.
Thomas’s face grew serious. “It means I didn’t slip,” Thomas said simply. “I was pushed.”
They split up to do a sweep of the platform, even though Thomas doubted it would be of any use. He’d felt a hand on his back and a shove, but he hadn’t caught even a glimpse of his attacker. Besides, whoever it was might have easily slipped aboard the train and been halfway to Thirty-Third Street by now.
Still, they combed the crowd, looking for anything or anyone suspicious—someone who looked familiar or someone who stared too long or someone trying not to stare.
Max had reached the far side of the platform, where a broad staircase led up to the street level and people came flowing in from above, when she spotted him. He was standing at the shadowy end of the platform as far from possible as the other commuters, wearing a great coat with its collar pulled halfway up his head. The rest of his face, except for his eyes, was concealed by a big, wide-brimmed slouch hat.
Her heart stopped. A second train had just arrived and he shouldered his way onto a subway car. As the doors slid shut, he turned around to face her. Max ducked, fearing he would see her. When she looked again, the train was moving off into the black mouth of the tunnel.
“Rats,” she said loudly, and a woman shook her head. Max moved at a jog down the platform, scooting between commuters, until she reached the others.
“What is it?” Thomas said, as she approached.
“Hugo.” Saying the name made her feel sick. She liked the elephant man. Her first night at Dumfrey’s, when everyone was busy ignoring her and Pippa was acting like Max was a piece of dried dog turd that had accidentally been dragged inside on someone’s shoe, Hugo had smiled at her and placed one of his massive hands on her shoulders and said, “If there’s anything you need, just ask.” But facts were facts. “I saw him. He got on the train.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Max was uncomfortably aware of the way Sam was staring at her, as though it was her fault. She jammed her hands in her pockets and glared at him, and finally he looked away.
“I can’t believe it,” Pippa said, in a whisper. “Hugo wouldn’t . . . He couldn’t . . .”
“I saw him,” Max said stubbornly.
Sam sighed and raked a hand through his hair. It immediately flopped back over his forehead. “So what should we do?”
They turned instinctively to Thomas. “Nothing,” he said, after a pause. “We stick with the original plan. We go and talk to Reggie. We’ll deal with Hugo later.”
They boarded the next subway but didn’t speak again until they’d reached Brooklyn.
Max had a bad taste in her mouth, as if she’d accidentally swallowed a hunk of moldy cheese. She had the uncomfortable feeling they were farther than ever from the truth. Unconsciously, she squeezed the handle of the knife in her pocket—her oldest, smallest, and best knife. She wished the truth were like a target and she could stake it out, pin it down, as easily as she could put a blade through a bull’s-eye.
She was getting the feeling, however, that the truth was more like a very wriggly fish. Every time she thought she was close to understanding, it slipped from her grasp.
It was after five o’clock when they finally emerged from the subway in Brooklyn, several blocks away from Anderson’s Delights. But they were disappointed when they arrived. The door was locked. A single bit of police tape still fluttered forlornly from the bars of one ground-floor window. A sign hanging on the door said CLOSED.
“Rats,” Max muttered, for the second time in an hour. “What now?”
Before anyone could answer, a voice called out from across the street.
“If you’re looking for the Anderson boy, you won’t find him in there.”
They turned around and saw an old woman, clomping painstakingly down the street, a wooden cane in each hand. Her skin hung in loose folds around her face.
“Try Gary’s on Nevins,” said the old woman. “You’ll have better luck in Gary’s.”
Gary’s was a vast, dark bar, with lots of polished wood everywhere and walls stained from years of smoke to a color resembling the skin of an eggplant. As soon as they stepped inside, Max was assaulted by the smell of old leather shoes. The light was dim. At the bar, various people were slumped over their glasses, practically motionless, looking in the smokiness like large mountains seen from a distance.