Francis spun in his chair. “Jaysus Christ!” he said. “Don’t sneak up on a fella, will you!”
Michael’s eyes were fixed on the envelope, on his brother’s jagged-peaked M and A, the crooked slashes of his T, I, and N. He jabbed a finger at the envelope and tapped loudly, twice.
“What is it?” Francis bent his elbows, palms up and out: the universal sign of the interrogative.
Michael snatched the pen from the desk and bent to the task. At a deliberate pace, he wrote Francis beneath the first name, then Michael beneath the second. The letters were shaky and poorly formed, but legible.
Francis stood and pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer and placed it on the blotter. He wrote, Can you read this? and handed the pen to Michael, who nodded vigorously. Triumphant, Francis pressed his brother to his chest. Michael recoiled; he’d been poked by one of the buckles on Francis’s regalia, but stepping back for a good look at his brother, he could only laugh—a choking, snorting sort of laugh.
The clock next to the bed told Francis that he was already late but he didn’t want to go, not now. A minute ago he’d been ready to commit to this awful day. But here was proof that Michael was becoming Michael again. A thought flashed—What if we just ran for it?—but that was impossible. Even if he and Michael could disappear, they could never get Martin and Rosemary and the girls to follow.
Who was he willing to sacrifice to save his own skin? No one.
He put his hands on Michael’s shoulders to get a last look at him. The two brothers smiled at each other. Michael was giddy as a puppy, his features loose and lively. Francis knew if he dropped his smile, his whole face was likely to crumble.
I have to go, he wrote.
Where?
To meet the king.
King of what?
Long story. going w/ girl from the park.
Shouldn’t she wear the skirt?
Francis boxed him playfully on the shoulder. This was the Michael who had fled with him from Ballyrath. Frank and Jesse James, on the run from the posse.
Francis picked up the pen. I have to go. I’m sorry.
Sorry for?
Everything.
As Michael puzzled over this, Francis put a hand on his shoulder. He tightened his grip, felt his brother’s bones and the warmth of his skin, radiant from sleep and the sheets and the morning heat. Michael was real, was returned. Every day he would come closer to his old self. He thought again of his prayer, his life for Michael’s.
Before he left the suite, he asked Miss Bloch for one last favor: Once Michael was dressed, could she put him in a cab with this envelope, to be delivered to Martin and Rosemary? Their address—now where did he put their address?—but Lilly waved him off; Rosemary had given it to her the night before. She would put Michael in the cab, but was he sure that it was safe? Michael alone had not had good results.
“He can read,” Francis said. “I don’t know how or why, but suddenly he can read and write again. He’s a new man. Or he’s becoming the old one. I wish I could stay, but—” He looked at his hands, helpless. “And I’m sorry to impose, but he needs to be out of the hotel within the hour—as do you. And as a token of our thanks, for all you’ve done, I’d like you to have this.” He handed her the rest of the money: two hundred and fifty, perhaps three hundred dollars.
She looked at the stack of bills as if he’d handed her the pieces to a jigsaw puzzle.
“It’s far less than you deserve, but I hope it helps with your travels. Bon voyage.”
“Forgive me,” she said. Francis was acting so strange: dressed like a Highland groom, unable to stand still, speaking a hundred miles an hour, telling her Michael could read and write, and now this handful of dollars. “But I don’t understand.”
“It will all make sense, but right now you have an hour to get far, far from this place.”
“That sounds ominous,” she said lightly. After all, everything he had said last night sounded like a joke.
“It’s meant to.” And with that he was out the door.
MICHAEL PULLED BACK the drapes and let the morning sun stream into the bedroom. The bed linens blazed white, but Yeats remained a smudgy half-gray. He sat hunched, his elbows on his knees.
“Did you see that?” Michael said. “The letters didn’t move. I could read them, simple as that.”
Yeats rubbed his hands together, contemplative, then pushed himself to his feet, his back to Michael.
“Did you see, Mr. Yeats? You’ve no need for a medium now. If you want to write a letter to your wife—”
Yeats turned, his eyes deep and blank, framed by the black weight of his spectacles. He slowly opened his mouth.
“No, no, no!” Michael saw it before he heard it. He backpedaled toward the window and stumbled over a pair of shoes. Windmilling his arms, his balance gone, he hit the window hard enough to crack it. His head rapped against the mullion; his elbow punctured the pane.
Yeats opened his mouth and the Noise poured out of him. Michael wrenched his elbow back through the glass and pressed both hands to his ears. He was aware of the sudden pain in his arm, sharp and hot and sticky, but it was a sideshow. The main event was the machine drilling through his skull, squealing and grinding through bone and brain pulp. The floor shifted and he heaved himself forward, away from the window, as Yeats raised one hand in warning or farewell, and then the poet was gone and in his place was his host, the woman who had rescued him once before, and he had time only to register the shock on her face before the blackness came all around him and he pitched toward the blazing mass of the bed.
GRAMERCY PARK
BAGMAN. THE TRUTH OF it had stung, coming from Dempsey’s mouth. Cronin was a delivery boy. He had helped to deliver Francis Dempsey to his doom and now he was toting a sack of money to Gavigan. How was that for being on the right side? How was that for being a good man? Once he was done with Gavigan he would find his way home and try to look Alice in the eye, but it wouldn’t be easy. She’d say she was glad to have him back but who—what—was she getting?