Spirits in the Park (5 page)

“Is this what you would call regulation-size armor?”

“Hans made it for me,” Sergeant Kiffer explained stiffly. “This way, people know I'm not some scrawny runt with eight hulking brothers. I am a roach to be reckoned with!”

“I bet you get stepped on a lot,” Rory said.

“And it never even cracks!” Sergeant Kiffer said proudly, rapping his armor with one fist. He spied a small bowl on the bar and his face lit up. “I think I'll have a nut!”

The roach munched on nuts as big as his helmet while Rory sat back to wait for Fritz. Gradually, snippets of the conversations around him floated by. Everyone seemed to be talking about the earthquake, and they didn't appear to know any more than Rory did. Though it didn't stop them from speculation.

“The island tore free of its moorings and is floating out to sea!” a sailor maintained with utmost certainty. He didn't seem too alarmed, however, as he made no move to leave his drink.

“It's a weapon, a gun going off in one of the big boys' faces, and we're next!” a gang member said, spinning his knife in his palm nervously. His friends laughed at him, though some looked worried at the thought.

“It was Caesar Prince, doing one of his experiments again,” one fireman asserted. Rory had met the God Under the Streets and he wouldn't put it past him.

“It's the Munsees, I tell you,” someone said loudly. “They're trying to break out of their prison and wreak their revenge on us all!”

Disturbed by that last declaration, Rory scanned the room for the source of the comment.

“Yer crazy!” Big Mickey shot back from behind the bar. “The Munsees been locked away, good and tight, fer years and years. Always will be, too.”

“Really?” the first voice said. Rory could tell it came from a table in the corner, but he couldn't see past the sailors. “That's not what I heard. I heard there's a Munsee loose outside the Trap right now!”

This caught everyone's attention. Rory's heart skipped a beat and he exchanged a worried look with Sergeant Kiffer. Could the man be talking about Wampage? How did he know? Rory moved over, straining to see past the sailors into the corner.

“Now yer just talkin' nonsense!” Big Mickey scoffed, and many of his patrons agreed. But not all. Some of the firemen looked worried, while the tattooed sailor appeared thoughtful.

“Maybe I am, maybe I am,” the voice continued. Rory leaned over the bar, trying to peer into the dark corner. “But listen to me now. No one can kill a god, correct? Yet Adriaen van der Donck was murdered last month, as was Jenny Fingers and Hiram Greenbaum and who knows who else. So who killed them? And how? Well, you know who can kill a god, don't you? A Munsee, that's who. So chew on that, my friends. Chew on that.”

Indignation ran through Rory at the bald-faced lie. Albert Fish, former member of the Rattle Watch, had murdered those gods at Kieft's order. He wanted to call out the falsehood, but he knew he shouldn't attract any attention. Muttering rippled through the crowd and the sailors leaned in to listen, finally giving Rory a clean look at the gossip. One glance at the tall, thin man in the corner and Rory quickly dropped back into his seat, his face white.

“I know him,” he whispered to Sergeant Kiffer, his heart pounding. “His name is James!” The last time Rory had seen James had been in the vault of T. R. Tobias's bank, standing behind Tobias himself. This man spreading lies worked for Tobias. And he knew what Rory looked like. “I need to get out of here,” Rory told the battle roach. “Now.”

“You'll never make it to the entrance without him seein' you,” Kiffer whispered back. Rory didn't know what to do; he moved around the bar to duck down behind it. Big Mickey noticed and stepped over to him.

“Friend of yours?” he asked, nodding toward the corner. “Would ye be lookin' to stay out a sight?”

“I wouldn't mind it,” Rory answered, crouching down.

Big Mickey winked. “If ye want, I got a room in back where ye can wait fer yer friend in private. It's where I stay when I don't want to go home to the missus. Interested?”

Rory didn't want to say yes. But it was only a matter of time before James spotted him and then it was all over. Safer to wait in this back room until Fritz arrived.

“I'll take it,” he said. Big Mickey smiled.

“Yer a customer a' mine, and I always treat me customers right.”

“Mark my words!” James was saying as Rory began to creep toward the back. “It's only a matter of time before that Munsee killer helps his murderous friends escape and take their revenge on us all!”

The room exploded in argument, and under cover of the din, Big Mickey led Rory and Kiffer quietly behind the bar to a door in the back. Opening it, he stood aside to let them pass. Rory took one last look at James, who stared around the agitated tavern with a satisfied smile before slipping into sanctuary, Tucket by his side. Kiffer held up behind him.

“I'll wait out here for Fritz,” he told Rory. “And to make sure no one comes back here to bother you. Don't worry, you'll be safe and Fritz will be here soon.”

Rory nodded with a smile he did not feel, and stepped back, letting the door close behind him as he turned to take in his new surroundings.

Suprisingly, it seemed like a normal little bedroom, complete with a large red bed sitting in the center, inviting any and all to take a load off and rest for a while. It seemed so comfortable that Rory sat on the edge, intending to test the springs and such while he waited. Gradually his worry faded as, lulled by the soft bedspread, Rory leaned back to enjoy its comforts. He fiddled with the necklace in his pocket, thinking about the woman who made it. What had happened to her? Maybe Soka would find out. Would he ever see Soka again?

He smiled at the thought of the Indian girl's mocking eyes. He would see her again, he told himself. After the Trap came down, Soka would be so impressed with how he saved the day that she'd go out with him, maybe on a Circle Line cruise or something. She'd never actually been to New York, even though she'd lived her whole life in Central Park, so she'd probably want to do all the touristy things, like the Statue of Liberty and Katz's Deli. Finally they'd go for a walk along the West Side by the water, holding hands as they gazed across the Hudson at the bright lights of Jersey City. Beyond that, Rory's imagination dared not go.

Rory grew sleepy as he daydreamed in the big comfy bed. Maybe he'd catch a little shut-eye until Fritz came to get him. It had been a trying day, after all. A little nap wouldn't hurt. He slowly closed his eyes, surrendering to the power of the plush mattress and luxurious bedspread.

And then whole world went crazy.

First he heard a loud click, which cut through the air like a gunshot. Before he could react, the entire bed dropped down beneath him, sending him tumbling into a dark hole. He plummeted for what felt like years, until he landed roughly on the ground somewhere in the dark. Before he could get his bearings, hands grabbed at him, pulling at him.

“Get 'im, lads,” a rough voice sounded near his ear. “This'll fetch a nice reward from the captain.”

Rory pulled away, ready to fight. By the dim light streaming in from the trapdoor above, he could make out a small group of sailors, the very ones who had been speaking with Big Mickey at the bar. At their head was the short man with the tattoos, only this time he wasn't smiling. Before Rory could decide what to do, another pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning his arms to his side. He struggled, but try as he might, he couldn't break free of the guy's grip. But just when he thought he was a goner, a bark and howl heralded Tucket's arrival, leaping into the hole after his master. Sly chuckles were replaced by shrieks and curses as Tucket launched into the group of attackers, scattering them.

“What is that thing?” one of the sailors cried.

“Kill it!” another yelled.

At first Rory feared for the dog, but then he noticed something extremely strange. Tucket had somehow grown, dramatically. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but as Tucket held the sailors at bay with his snapping jaws, it became apparent that the dog had expanded to the size of a small bear. Almost instantly, the doofus dog had transformed into a fearsome protector. The grip holding Rory prisoner disappeared as Tucket fought off the attackers, snarling like a wild animal, and Rory tumbled to the ground. Finally, the sailors cut their losses and ran down the tunnel, disappearing into the dark. Tucket padded over to Rory to check on him, and Rory sat up to give the huge beast a hug.

“Good dog,” he muttered. Already Tucket was beginning to shrink again. “That's a nice little talent you have there. I'm sorry I ever called you a doofus. Forgive me?”

Tucket licked Rory's face and he laughed, shaking his head ruefully. “This has been one of my crazier mornings, Tucket. And considering the month I've had, that's really saying something.”

Rory glanced up at the hole he had fallen through; it was too far above him to reach. He'd have to find another way to the surface.

Rory climbed to his feet, gazing both ways down the tunnel he'd fallen into as he mused aloud. “There has to be a manhole around here somewhere. I didn't fall that far. And those sailors have to know an easy way down to get here so fast. I don't want to wait here like a sitting duck. So I guess I'll follow where they went. Just don't forget to supersize if we run into them again!” Tucket stared up at him, his face happily blank as his tail wagged back and forth. Rory said a little prayer to whichever god was listening and began to walk into the darkness.

HITCHING A RIDE

N
icholas Stuyvesant gazed down the long alley of lodging houses, shaking his head at the mess in front of him. Built close to the main docks on Pearl Street, near the South Street Seaport, these poorly constructed wooden structures had been thrown up to house the spirits of the sailors on shore leave. So poorly constructed, in fact, that the earthquake had shaken many of them to pieces. Spirits wandered the alley, suddenly homeless, and Nicholas could hear them muttering among themselves at the unfairness of it all. More than once, in defiance of all reason, he heard the Munsees being blamed. Not good.

“What a fiasco.” Alexa van der Donck sighed next to him, her tightly pinned brown hair dusted with white mortar she couldn't be bothered to brush off. “Each place we visit is worse than the last. I think Mannahatta was hit far harder than Manhattan.”

“Dad was right to be worried,” Nicholas replied heavily. “You just can't trust everyone on the council.” Peter Stuyvesant, God of Things Were Better in the Old Days, sat on the Council of Twelve, the elected rulers of Mannahatta. Some of the council members maintained that nothing was wrong, that the earthquake had been a minor blip in the life of the city. But Peter decided to send out the Rattle Watch, that band of the children of the gods assembled by Alexa's late father, Adriaen van der Donck; Peter charged them to see the aftermath for themselves and report back. Nicholas and Alexa headed south, and everywhere they went, they came across angry spirits throwing the blame for the earthquake squarely on the Munsees. Nicholas didn't need to visit the fortune-teller to know that Kieft likely stood behind the rumors. But why?

“He's riling them up, that's what he's doing,” Alexa said, obviously thinking the same thing. “Reminding everyone about their hate. Of course, it could be the Mayor. He's the one who really hates the Munsees.”

“I never understood what happened to the Mayor all those years ago,” Nicholas said. “One day Hamilton is best friends with Tackapausha. The next”—he slammed his hands together—“he's condemning them all to eternity in prison. I never got it.”

“Breaks your heart,” a voice from behind them slurred, startling the two Rattle Watchers. Nicholas and Alexa whirled to see a spirit leaning against the wall of one of the few buildings still standing on the block. He swayed as he fought to keep his balance. Alexa raised an eyebrow at Nicholas; the stink of booze coming off the sailor threatened to asphyxiate them both.

“It sure does, friend,” Nicholas replied. “You been drinking?”

“Oh yeah,” the drunken man said with a sloppy smile. “I've been drunk now, oh, I don't know. Hundred years? Something like that.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Alexa said, giving Nicholas a look that begged him to move on.

“It's a shame they all talking about the Munsees this way,” the man continued, his eyes gazing into the distance. “It is disrespectful. It's not the Munsees' fault, anyone with brains should see that. Even the Mayor should see that. 'Course, the Mayor never did think clear when it came to the Munsees. Someone should ask Harry Meester; he'd set them straight.”

“Is that you?” Nicholas asked, humoring the drunk. He was surprised to see the man throw up his hands in fright.

“Oh no! Not me! Don't go tellin' people I'm Harry Meester! Harry's problems are his own and I won't stand you making them mine!”

“Sorry,” Alexa said, calming the drunk down. “It's okay. You're not Harry Meester, don't worry. Nobody thinks that. In fact . . . that name sounds familiar . . .” She stared off into space, trying to remember.

“You're humoring me,” the man said, closing his eyes wearily. “You think Alberto is just a harmless drunk. But I know things. I've been following you for two hours trying to work up the courage to tell you what I know. If the world's shaking itself to pieces, somebody's gotta say something to make it right.”

“Like what, Alberto?” Alexa asked gently.