“And I honored that promise. The case is finished. It’s time to go home,” Will said as gently as he could.
She had helped solve the case. She’d braved the headaches and the bloody battle with John Hobbes and the ghostly congregation of Brethren in that filthy hole. She’d given up the one thing that mattered most to her—the half-dollar talisman and the chance to know what had happened to James—in order to see it through. And this was her reward? It wasn’t fair. Not by a long shot.
“I’ll hate you forever,” she whispered, losing the battle against the tears.
“I know,” Will said softly.
Jericho stuck his head in. He spoke with urgency. “Will. You should see this.”
The press had gathered on the front steps of the museum, their notepads at the ready. They looked mean and bored and ready for a story with blood in it. The Pentacle Killer had been good for business; it must have been hard to let that slip away. At the front was T. S. Woodhouse himself.
“I’ll handle this.” Will walked out and the reporters snapped to attention. “Gentlemen. Ladies. To what do I owe this honor? If you’re dying for a peek at the museum, we’ll open again at ten thirty tomorrow.”
“Mr. Fitzgerald! Hey, Fitz—over here!” The reporters tried to outshout one another.
“Have you recovered from your arrest?”
“Yeah, Professor—why’d they take you to the clubhouse? You bump somebody off?”
“What can you tell us about the Pentacle Killer?”
“Any truth to the rumor that there was some element of the supernatural involved? Some old hocus-pocus?” T. S. Woodhouse asked.
Will held out his hands in appeasement. He attempted a smile that came off as a grimace. “I leave the supernatural to the museum.”
“Was the killer really a ghost?” T. S. Woodhouse persisted. “That’s the rumor floating around, Professor.”
“The police have given a statement. You’ve got your story, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve nothing more to add to it, I’m afraid. I wish you a good evening.”
Woodhouse turned to Evie. “Miss O’Neill? Got a statement for us?”
“Evie. Let’s go inside. It’s cold,” Will said.
Evie stood on the steps, small and pale in the dim lights. She’d left her coat inside and the chilly October wind cut through her dress. Will wanted her to go inside. Then he would send her back to Ohio, where her parents would also tell her to go inside, in effect. She was tired of being told how it was by this generation, who’d botched things so badly. They’d sold their children a pack of lies: God and country. Love your parents. All is fair. And then they’d sent those boys, her brother, off to fight a great monster of a war that maimed and killed and destroyed whatever was inside them. Still they lied, expecting her to mouth the words and play along. Well, she wouldn’t. She knew now that the world was a long way from fair. She knew the monsters were real.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” she said. Her eyes shone with a hard light.
“Evie, don’t,” Uncle Will warned, but already the press had turned and taken note of her. A man in a black fedora snapped a photograph, and Evie blinked from the white-hot glare of it.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Evangeline O’Neill. But my friends call me Evie. Of course, they usually call me from jail.”
The reporters laughed.
“Say, I like this one. She’s a real live wire,” one said. “And a Sheba to boot.”
“Yes, she is,” T. S. Woodhouse murmured appreciatively.
“Miss O’Neill! John Linden with the Gotham Trumpet. How’s about an exclusive for us?”
“Patricia Ready from Hearst, Miss O’Neill. We girls have to stick together, don’t you say?”
“Hey, doll—over here! Smile for me. Attagirl!”
They clamored for her story with shouts of “Miss O’Neill! Miss O’Neill!” Her name called in Manhattan, the center of the world.
“Which one of us gets an exclusive?” a reporter shouted.
“That depends—which one of you has the gin?” Evie shot back, and they roared with laughter.
T. S. Woodhouse tipped his hat back and stepped closer to Evie. “Your old pal, T. S. Woodhouse, Daily News. No hard feelings still, I hope? You know I’ve always got a soft spot for you, Sheba. My pencil’s nice and sharp—almost as sharp as you are. How’s about you giving us the goods, sweetheart?”
Evie glanced back at her uncle and Jericho. Behind them, the museum sat quiet. Above them all, the city glittered with a thousand squares of cold, hard light.
“Miss O’Neill? Evie?” T. S. Woodhouse rested the point of his pencil against his notebook.
“My uncle’s not being entirely truthful. Special powers—I guess you could call them supernatural powers—were employed to crack the case. My powers.”
The reporters fell into chatter and shouts again.
Evie put up her hands. “Since we’re all New Yorkers and not a bunch of chumps, I suppose you’ll want a demonstration. You might finally prove useful, Mr. Woodhouse.”
The reporters laughed and T.S. bowed to her. “Your wish is my command.”
“Swell. Can I have something of yours? A glove, a watch—any sort of object will do, really.”
“She wants your wallet,” a reporter cracked.
“As long as it isn’t your heart, Thomas.”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m a newsman. I haven’t got one of those,” Woodhouse shot back.
Evie held out her hand. “Anything at all will do.”
He pressed his handkerchief into her hand, allowing his fingers to linger an extra moment on hers. At first, there was nothing, and Evie suppressed a jolt of panic. She closed her eyes and concentrated. At last, her Cupid’s bow mouth stretched into a fetching smile. “Mr. Woodhouse, you live in the Bronx, on a street near an Irish bakery called Black Holly’s Biscuits. You owe your bookie fifty clams for the Martin-Burns fight. I’d suggest paying that; he doesn’t strike me as a patient man.”
Woodhouse frowned. “Anybody could know that.”
“A seventeen-year-old girl?” another reported yelled.
Evie pressed harder and the handkerchief yielded its deeper secrets. She bent to whisper those intimate secrets in his ear. His expression of surprise yielded to one of bitter understanding.
“New headline,” he announced to the crowd. “ ‘Sweetheart Seer Tells All, Breaks Murder Case with Mystery Talent.’ ”
The reporters pushed closer, demanding. “What happened, Evie?” “Over here, Evie!” “Heya, Miss O’Neill. Smile—that’s it!”
T. S. Woodhouse held up his pencil. “My lead’s getting cold, sweetheart.”
Evie fixed him with a stare. “For some time now, I’ve had this… gift,” she began.
She told them about how her ability to read objects led to them to the killer. She stuck close to the official story—a troubled man killed by the brave men in blue. She didn’t tell them that there were things to be afraid of, that the ghosts they imagined on dark nights as a chill on the neck were real. She did not mention the coming storm Miss Walker had warned about. Instead, she thrilled them with another demonstration—just a quick flash of fun facts gleaned from a reporter’s notepad. A crowd was gathering. They loved it. They loved her. In the greatest city in the world, at its greatest moment, she was there at the center of it all. Will couldn’t send her home now. There’d be a protest. She’d organize it herself if she had to.
“Miss O’Neill—hey, beautiful! Over here!” The flash powder exploded into tiny claws of light. There was another flash, and another. They dazzled and bruised Evie’s eyes till she was forced to turn her head. She expected to see Will and Jericho, but the steps behind her were empty. Evie turned toward the mob again. Across the street at the edge of the park, Margaret Walker stood perfectly still, watching. The flash popped once more, and when Evie’s eyes cleared, she, too, had gone.
PROJECT BUFFALO
Blind Bill Johnson knocked at the door of Aunt Octavia’s house and waited until the door creaked open and he heard her asking him inside. They sat in the living room while Octavia brought out cups of coffee and a plate of butter cookies.