“Well, it is called the Hell Gate,” Sam joked.
“From the Dutch hellegat,” Woody said. “It means ‘bright passage.’ Except that it’s not. It’s the most dangerous water in New York City. Those currents are so bad the sailors renamed it: hellhole. Just in case you had any notions about swimming back to Manhattan.”
“And when can I see Luther Clayton?” Evie said.
Mr. Smith’s expression was pained. “Oh, dear. I thought it had been made clear. We can’t allow it. By order of the police.”
“But we’ve come all this way!” Evie said. “I’d only need a few minutes and—and think how much good it would do for Luther to know I forgive him.”
“And it sure would be great for the story,” Woody added. “Just the sort of thing that makes those state boys with the money take notice.”
The warden remained unmoved. “I’m sorry, Miss O’Neill. I wish I could allow it. But rules are rules. Even for radio stars.”
“I’ll bet Sarah Snow could get in,” Evie griped once they’d managed to ditch Mr. Smith under the pretense of Evie’s “delicate Diviner sensibilities” needing a rest. She lay on a cot in a receiving room.
“Lamb Chop, you gotta let go of this Sarah Snow business,” Sam said.
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one watching that Jesus viper take over your spot.”
“Jesus… viper…” Woody said, writing.
“Woody, you print that and I will throw your body right into the Hell Gate.” Evie sat up and tossed the compress she’d been given to the end of the cot. “Applesauce! How are we gonna get to Luther Clayton?”
“Won’t be easy. Look here,” Sam said, walking over to the wall, which boasted a proud, framed photograph of the asylum on its opening day. “This is where we are now.” Sam pointed to the main building out front. “And according to the chatty Mr. Smith, this is where they hold the most disturbed patients.” Sam pointed to a three-story rectangular ward all the way in the back. “This pavilion. Top floor. That’s where Luther Clayton is. Where they don’t allow visitors. Not even radio stars,” Sam said in perfect imitation.
“I am not leaving without seeing him,” Evie swore.
“Baby Vamp, with your moxie and my good looks…” Sam spread his arms wide.
“So we’re half-doomed is what you’re telling me. Well. I suppose you can always just…” Evie wiggled her fingers.
“What, dry my nail varnish? Pretend I’m a bird? Play an imaginary piano?” Sam said.
“No! Do your don’t see me trick.”
“How come yours is a ‘gift’ and mine is a ‘trick’? I’m insulted.”
“Just make yourself useful, Sam.”
Woody laughed. “Shame you two called off your engagement. You’re a perfect couple. Why don’t you former lovebirds wait here. I’ll step out and see if the coast is clear,” Woody said. He slipped into the hall, leaving Sam and Evie alone together.
“How’s Will taking Jericho’s leaving?” Evie asked, breaking the awkward silence.
“Oh, you know how it is with your uncle—impossible to tell what he’s thinking. He has the same expression whether it’s figuring out what to eat for lunch or facing the possible end of the world. You, ah, hear from the big fella?”
Evie shook her head.
Woody sneaked back in. “I think I found a way. Let’s ankle while we can.”
The three of them set off down the labyrinthine halls of the asylum. For the first time, Evie realized that the work they’d been doing with Sister Walker had opened her gifts up further. The very walls seemed to want to whisper their long-held secrets to her:
“… I wasn’t crazy. My husband put me here so he could marry another.…”
“… Dirty Robert… does things to us when the warden’s away.…”
“I only want the pain to stop, don’t you see? Just end it.…”
“There’s evil in this world.…”
Sam looked concerned. “You okay?”
Evie nodded. “Too many secrets here,” she said, and kept straight down the middle.
At the entrance to Luther Clayton’s ward, an attendant was on duty at his desk.
“Afternoon, sir.” Woody tipped his hat briefly as he approached the guard. “The name’s T. S. Woodhouse of the Daily News. And this lovely lady is the Sweetheart Seer.”
The guard stood and smoothed a hand over his hair. “Well, Miss, it’s an honor. A real honor. I sure do love your show!”
“Aren’t you just the berries!” Evie said, smiling flirtatiously and fluttering her lashes just a bit.
“Don’t cause a windstorm with that peepers-batting,” Sam whispered.
Evie stepped lightly on his foot with the heel of her Mary Janes.
The attendant frowned. “Gee, you’re not supposed to be back here, though, Miss. Not without permission.”
“I’ve come to see the man who tried to kill me, Luther Clayton,” Evie said quickly, managing to work up a few perfect tears. “I want to forgive the poor tortured soul.”
“Golly, Miss O’Neill, I sure wish I could let you see Luther, but he can’t receive visitors. Orders of the police. You’d need permission. Should I call up to the warden…?”
“No! That is, I wouldn’t want to bother him. I’m sure the warden wouldn’t mind if I just popped my little head in and—”
The attendant crossed his arms. “Sorry, Miss. Orders are orders.”
“Well, I suppose it’s time to dry that nail varnish, then, isn’t it, Sam? Woody, could you turn around and cover your ears, please?”
“What? Ohhh. Sure.”
“Sam, do you mind?”
“For you, Lamb Chop? Anything.” Sam stretched out an arm. “Don’t see me,” he said. The attendant’s eyes went blank. His arms dangled loosely at his sides. Evie tapped Woody’s shoulder. He took in the sight of the mesmerized man and shook his head, whistling.
“That is a neat trick, kid. Wish I could use it on my bookie next time I run into him and he wants his money.”
“How much time do we have, Sam?” Evie asked.
“Three, maybe four minutes, tops?”
Evie bit her bottom lip. “It’s not much. But it’ll have to do.”
“See, why you gotta say that? Three minutes—do you know how hard that is? How much skill that takes? Look at these hands. These are gifted hands. I should insure ’em.”
“Whaddaya wanna see Luther for?” The question came from a slight, dark-haired boy drawing feverishly at a corner table. It was hard to know his true age. The freckles made him seem young, but his eyes were wary, and much, much older than they should be.
“Luther is an old friend of mine,” Evie said.
“You’re lying.”
Evie started to protest, but something about this fragile-looking boy made her want to tell the truth. “Yes. I’m lying. He tried to shoot me.”
“You’re the Sweetheart Seer,” the boy said. “I recognize your voice. From the radio.”
“Seems you’ve got fans everywhere, Sheba,” Woodhouse said.
The boy seemed very nervous to her. Like someone whose mind wouldn’t allow him to rest. Sam tugged gently on Evie’s arm. “Come on, doll—we gotta ankle before that guard wakes up.”
“You gotta leave before nightfall! That’s when they come. Wit’ the night and the fog.”