The Devil's Workshop (31 page)

W
ell,” Day said, “at least my wife wasn’t in the room. Now I have some time to figure out what to tell her.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Hammersmith said. “You’ll go back to work.”

“I said I’d stand by you and I meant it.”

“I know. And I thank you. But the commissioner will accept you back without a word about it if you simply appear at your desk in the morning. I’d wager he never brings the subject up again.”

“Nevil . . .”

“No, Mr Day, you have two new babies to provide for. I have nothing.”

Day opened his mouth to respond, but didn’t know how. He
had no intention of returning to the Murder Squad without his friend, but he didn’t want to argue about it. When Nevil Hammersmith said he had nothing, he was literally correct. His work was his life, and vice versa. He was a policeman through and through, and Day couldn’t imagine him doing anything else. He turned his head and looked at Hammersmith on the other bed. His throat, from just above his collarbone down to the loose collar of his hospital blouse, was bright pink, inflamed and irritated after all that had been done to him.

“I will go back,” Day said, “but only to talk to Sir Edward again. He’s a reasonable man.”

Hammersmith waved a weak dismissive hand in his direction. “I’d rather not talk about this anymore, if it’s all right with you,” he said. “I’m quite tired.”

“Yes, of course. Sorry.”

“After all, I’ve been awake for most of half an hour now.”

“You are insufferably lazy.”

“It comes naturally.”

Day smiled and did his best to relax. He stared up at the ceiling, at a water stain that had spread from one corner and had advanced in stages, darker at its origin and increasingly fainter as it worked out toward the center of the room. He rehearsed in his mind the sorts of arguments he might make with Sir Edward, looking for the one logical thing he could say to change the commissioner’s mind. Of course, Sir Edward wasn’t incorrect: Hammersmith was often careless, he jumped forward into every battle, he pushed himself seemingly beyond the limits of human endurance . . . None of that helped his case. Perhaps, Day
thought, if he promised to look after Hammersmith, keep him out of future danger . . .

“I don’t need permission,” Hammersmith said. His voice startled Day, who had thought the sergeant was asleep. “There’s a murderer walking around out there, more than one, and I don’t need to ask anyone what I can and can’t do. I’m going to find that missing prisoner. And I’m going to find Jack for you, even if nobody else wants to do it.”

“I believe this is exactly what Sir Edward is talking about. You almost died, Nevil.”

“But I
didn’t
die. Here I am and there they are, and I am going to catch them.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I really am, you know.”

Day sighed. “Yes, I know. But would you please rest first? Would you wait until you’re able to breathe properly and move without pain?”

“I tell you, I’m fine.”

“You won’t wait? Won’t rest and let me try to talk to Sir Edward for you?”

“How many people will they kill while I lie in bed?”

“You can’t wait even a week?”

“Tomorrow. I’m going to find them tomorrow.”

“Then I’m going to help you.”

“You can’t walk.”

“With you around, I hardly need to,” Day said. “I could never keep up with you anyway.”

“Then tomorrow.”

“Perhaps. But today, will you please just lie there and think about pleasant things and let your body mend?”

“What kind of pleasant things?”

“I have no idea,” Day said.

“Your babies are healthy. That’s profoundly pleasant.”

“It is.” Day shook his head at the water stain on the ceiling. “That’s really the only thing that matters, isn’t it? And you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Hammersmith said. “Which part am I right about?”

“I have new responsibilities. I should go back to work.”

“Yes, of course you should.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

“After tomorrow.”

“Yes. We’ve got one hell of a busy day ahead of
us.”

O
nce upon a time, he knew, there had been other children. There had been friends and playmates for him, and they had probably called him by name. They had probably known who he was and maybe they had shouted at him across a public square or chased him round and round in the lane outside his home. But he couldn’t remember those children, couldn’t bring their faces to mind when he tried to think about them. He didn’t know what words they had shouted, what name they had used to get his attention. For as long as he could remember, he had simply been called the Harvest Man.

He didn’t mind it when the police and the doctors called him that. He had no other name he preferred. In fact, he didn’t think of himself by any name at all. He simply was.

But he knew that someday he would find his family again and they would open their arms to him and gather him up, and they would lean in close to him and whisper his true name in his ear. And then he would remember everything that had been good before they died and left him alone.

Finding them was the trick. He had tried many times with no success. But his father had always said (and these were words he did remember), “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

And so the Harvest Man did try again.

He had his ether and he had his plague mask, to protect himself from the spirits, and he had his blade. It was long and curved and sharp. He had found it in a little store next to the apothecary where he had taken the ether and the mask. It was not as long or as curved as his old blade, the blade the policemen had taken away from him, but it was just as sharp and he liked it.

He crept to the attic door, opened it a crack, and listened. The family downstairs was still eating their evening meal. They were talking and laughing just exactly the way a family should. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could hear the love in their voices. He had chosen a good house. They were a good family.

He wondered what their names were.

He pushed the attic door shut again, careful not to make a sound, and crept back over to the wall. He sat down and crossed his legs and rested his back against the wall. He closed his eyes. There was nothing to look at, only the same dusty joists and cobwebs and dark corners that he had seen in other attics, in different houses.

But this time would be different. He could feel it.

All he had to do was wait until they fell asleep, and then he would go downstairs and use the ether and take his time. He would use the blade on their faces, he would carve away what didn’t belong, and this time he was confident that he would find his family under those unfamiliar features.

He imagined the faces of his family smiling at him and he smiled back at them. The Harvest Man crossed his legs and relaxed and waited in the attic for the people downstairs to stop making noise.

He was a patient
boy.

Many thanks to my long-suffering agent, Seth Fishman, and my
very
patient editor, Neil Nyren. And to Ivan Held, for his continued faith in me and in the Murder Squad series.

Thanks to Emily Walters and Kristy Blomquist for helping me understand Claire’s experience. And to Benito Cereno for his help with the Karstphanomen’s Latin phrases.

My Bad Karma mates, B. Clay Moore, Jeremy Haun, and Seth Peck, helped keep me going, offering many helpful suggestions and contact information. (Seth found the jailer’s gun used by the Karstphanomen.) Thanks, fellas!

My early readers, Roxane White, Alison Clayton, Ande Parks, and Brandy Schillace, helped enormously with their enthusiasm, expertise, and eagle eyes.

Richard Walters provided the haunting sound track I listened to while writing this book.

As much as I’ve enjoyed getting to know my shadow on the wall, the real-life Jack the Ripper killed at least five innocent women: Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly. I do not wish to minimize their lives or their tragic deaths in any way.

And, finally, many thanks for ever and always to my wonderful wife and
son.