"Thought?" I said. "So far as I know, we still haven't ruled it out." I said. "So far as I know, we still haven't ruled it out."

"Perhaps the rest of you haven't. I don't suppose you could be expected to. You're working at a disadvantage, in that area."

I turned when I felt a presence at my side and found Kreizler carefully moving closer. He indicated silence to me as Sara spoke on: "But I can tell you, John-that's a man's work, back there. Any woman who would have killed the boy wouldn't have..." She groped for words. "All that stabbing, binding, and poking...I'll never understand it. But there's no mistaking it, once you've...had the experience." She chuckled once grimly. "And it always seems to begin with trust..." There was another very awkward pause, during which Kreizler touched my arm and with a movement of his head told me to return to the other side of the roof. "Just leave me for a few minutes, John," Sara finally finished. "I'll be fine."

Kreizler and I moved away quietly, and when we were out of Sara's hearing Laszlo murmured, "She's right, of course. I've never come across any feminine mania-puerperal or otherwise-that could compare to this. Though it probably would have taken me a ridiculously long time to realize it. We must find more ways to take advantage of Sara's perspective, John." He glanced around quickly. "But first we must get out of here."

While Sara remained at the edge of the roof, the rest of us set to work gathering up the Isaacsons' equipment and removing all traces of our presence, primarily the little splotches of aluminum and carbon powder that dotted the area. As we did so, Marcus initiated a conversation concerning the fact that half of the six murders we now felt confident a.s.signing to our killer had occurred on rooftops: a significant fact, for rooftops in the New York of 1896 were secondary but nonetheless well-worn routes of urban travel, lofty counterparts to the sidewalks below that were full of their own distinctive types of traffic. Particularly in the tenement slums, a broad but definable range of people sometimes did a full day's business without ever descending to the street-not only creditors seeking payment, but settlement and church workers, salesmen, visiting nurses, and others. Rents in the tenements were generally scaled in proportion to the amount of exertion required to reach a given flat, and thus the most unfortunate residents occupied the top floors of buildings. Those who had business with these poorest of the poor, rather than braving the steep and often dangerous staircases repeatedly, would simply move from one high floor to another by way of the rooftops. True, we still didn't know just how our man was getting to to those rooftops; but it was clear that once there he made his way around with great skill. The possibility that he had once held, or currently did hold, one of those roof-traveling jobs was therefore worth exploring. those rooftops; but it was clear that once there he made his way around with great skill. The possibility that he had once held, or currently did hold, one of those roof-traveling jobs was therefore worth exploring.

"Whatever his occupation," Theodore announced, coiling the rope we'd used to lower Marcus down the wall, "it would take a cool mind to plan this kind of violence so precisely and then carry it out so thoroughly, when he knows that the possibility of apprehension is never very far off."

"Yes," Kreizler answered. "It almost suggests a martial spirit, doesn't it, Roosevelt?"

"What's that?" Theodore turned to Kreizler with an almost injured look. "Martial? That was not my meaning, Doctor-not my meaning at all! I would be loath indeed to call this the work of a soldier."

Laszlo smiled a bit, devilishly aware that Theodore (who was still years away from his exploits on San Juan Hill) viewed the military arts with the same boyish reverence he had since childhood. "Perhaps," Kreizler needled further. "But a cool head for carefully planned violence? Isn't that what we endeavor to instill in soldiers?" Theodore cleared his throat loudly and stomped away from Kreizler, whose smile only broadened. "Make a note of it, Detective Sergeant Isaacson," Laszlo called out. "A military background of some kind is definitely indicated!"

Theodore spun around once more, eyes wide; but he only managed to bellow "By thunder, sir!" before Cyrus burst out of the staircase, as alarmed as I could remember ever having seen him.

"Doctor!" he shouted. "I think we'd better get moving!" Cyrus raised one of his big arms to point north, and all our eyes followed the indication.

At the edges of Battery Park, near the several points of entry, crowds were gathering: not the kind of well-dressed, politely behaved throngs that occupied the area during the day, but milling pockets of shabbily dressed men and women on whom the mark of poverty was plain even from a distance. Some carried torches and several were accompanied by children, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying this unusual early morning foray. As yet there were no overt signs of threat, but it had all the makings of a mob.

CHAPTER 15.

Sara came and stood by me. "John-who are they?"

"Offhand," I answered, feeling a different and a more vital sense of concern than I had at any point during that night, "I'd say that the morning edition of the Post Post has reached the streets." has reached the streets."

"What do you suppose they want?" Lucius asked, his head sweating more than ever despite the cold.

"They want an explanation, I expect," Kreizler answered. "But how did they know to come here here?"

"There was a cop from the Twenty-seventh Precinct," Cyrus said, still very anxious, for it had been a mob much like the one we now faced that had tortured and killed his parents. "He was down there with two other men, explaining something to them. Then those two fellas went into the crowd and started talking it up pretty good, about how it's only poor foreign kids that're getting killed. Seems most of those people out there come from over on the East Side."

"The officer was, no doubt, Roundsman Barclay," Theodore said, his face full of that particular anger that was inspired by treacherous subordinates. "He's the man who was here earlier."

"There goes Miller!" Marcus said suddenly, at which I looked down to see the watchman fleeing without his hat toward the Bedloe's Island ferry station. "Fortunately I kept his keys," Marcus added. "He didn't look like a man who'd be around long."

Just then the noise of the largest group of people, who were straight ahead of us and quite visible through the branches of the park's still-bare trees, began to grow louder, reaching a crescendo with a couple of venomous yells. We heard a clatter of horses' hooves and carriage wheels, and then Kreizler's calash appeared, barreling down the main path of the park toward the castle. Stevie held his horsewhip high and drove Frederick hard, around the front walls of the fort to the pair of large doors in the rear.

"Good man, Stevie," I murmured, turning to the others. "That'll be our best way out-through the back doors and up the river side of the park!"

"I suggest we get to it," Marcus said. "They're moving."

With another series of shouts, the crowd at the main entrance came into the park, at which the groups to their right and left also began to surge forward. It now became clear that there were still more people streaming into the area from surrounding streets-the mob would soon number in the many hundreds. Someone had done an expert job of inflammation.

"The devil!" Theodore grunted ferociously. "Where is the night watch from the Twenty-seventh? I'll have them over hot coals!"

"An ideal plan for the morning," Kreizler said, making for the staircase. "At the moment, however, escape seems imperative."

"But this is a crime scene!" Theodore continued indignantly. "I will not have it disturbed by any mob, whatever their complaint!" He glanced about the roof, then picked up a stout section of cut wood. "Doctor, none of you can be found here-take Miss Howard and go. The detective sergeants and I will face these people at the front gate."

"We will?" It had gotten out of Lucius's mouth before he quite knew what he was saying.

"Steel yourself," Roosevelt answered with a grin, grabbing Lucius's shoulder heartily and then taking a few good cuts at the night air with his piece of wood. "After all, this fort defended us from the British Empire-it can certainly withstand a mob from the Lower East Side!" It was one of those moments when you wanted to slap the man, even if there was sense in his bl.u.s.tering.

In order to conceal completely the nature of our work, it was necessary for the rest of us to take the Isaacsons' equipment away in the calash. Having made our way back down and through the tanks of fish, we stowed the various boxes on board the carriage, and then I turned to wish the Isaacsons good luck. Marcus seemed to be searching the ground for something, while Lucius was checking a police-issue revolver uncomfortably.

"You may not be able to avoid a fight," I said to them, with a smile that I hoped was rea.s.suring, "but don't let Roosevelt force you into one."

Lucius only groaned a bit, but Marcus smiled bravely and shook my hand. "We'll meet you at Number 808," he said.

With that they closed the fort's rear doors and replaced the chains and locks. I jumped up and grasped the side of the calash-Kreizler and Sara were already in the two seats, and Cyrus was up top with Stevie-and we started with a jolt down a path that took us to the harbor's edge and then northward along the river. The noise of the crowd outside Castle Garden had continued to grow, but as we pa.s.sed within sight of the fort's front gates the angry shouts suddenly subsided. I strained my head around to see Theodore outside the structure's heavy black portal, calmly holding his club with one hand and pointing toward the edge of the park with the other. The action-crazed fool simply couldn't stay safely inside. The Isaacsons were in the doorway behind him, ready to rebolt the doors at a moment's notice. But that didn't look to be necessary-the crowd actually seemed to be listening to Theodore.

As we approached the northern edge of the park, Stevie picked up speed, and nearly ran us headlong into a phalanx of about twenty cops as they trotted toward Castle Garden. We took a hard left at Battery Place in order to keep to the deserted waterfront, and as we did I got a brief but clear glimpse of an expensive brougham that was parked at a corner which enjoyed a full view of the events at the fort. A hand-well manicured, with a tasteful silver ring on the little finger-appeared at the brougham's door, followed by the upper part of a man's body. Even in the dim light of the arc lamps I could see the gleam of an elegant tie stud, and soon a set of handsome Black Irish features: Paul Kelly. I yelled to Kreizler and told him to look, but we were moving too fast for him to catch a glimpse. When I related what I'd seen, however, his face showed that he'd drawn the obvious conclusion.

The crowd, then, had been Kelly's work, probably in response to Steffens's remarks about Biff Ellison in the Post. Post. It all fit-Kelly was not known for making idle threats, and whipping up a fury over the murders among a deeply and perpetually disgruntled segment of the populace would have been child's play for so devious a man. Nevertheless, the move had almost cost our team dearly, indeed I feared it might still do so; and as I continued to cling to the side of the speeding calash, I vowed that, should anything happen to Theodore and the Isaacsons, I would hold the chief of the Five Pointers personally responsible. It all fit-Kelly was not known for making idle threats, and whipping up a fury over the murders among a deeply and perpetually disgruntled segment of the populace would have been child's play for so devious a man. Nevertheless, the move had almost cost our team dearly, indeed I feared it might still do so; and as I continued to cling to the side of the speeding calash, I vowed that, should anything happen to Theodore and the Isaacsons, I would hold the chief of the Five Pointers personally responsible.

Stevie didn't ease up on Frederick at any point during our ride home, and no one asked him to-each of us, for his or her own reasons, wanted to put some distance on Castle Garden. There were pools of rainwater in many of the roughly paved streets on the West Side, and by the time we reached Number 808 Broadway I was splattered with mud, cold as the tomb, and ready to call it a night (or a morning, since dawn was not far off ). But the job of dragging the equipment upstairs and recording our thoughts on the murder while they were still fresh remained, and we set about it dutifully. When the elevator reached the sixth floor, Kreizler discovered that he had misplaced his key, and I gave him mine, which was caked with mud. Overall, it was a bedraggled, exhausted little group that filed into headquarters at 5:15 A.M A.M. that Sat.u.r.day.

My surprise and joy were all the greater, therefore, when the first thing that greeted my senses was the smell of steak and eggs frying and strong coffee brewing. A light was on in the small kitchen at the rear of our floor, and I could see Mary Palmer-dressed not in her blue linen uniform but in a pretty white blouse, a plaid skirt, and an ap.r.o.n-moving about in quick, capable motions. I dropped the cases I was lugging.

"G.o.d has sent me an angel," I said, stumbling toward the kitchen. Mary started a bit when she saw my muddy frame coming out of the shadows, but her blue eyes soon settled down and she showed me a little smile, offering a bit of hot, sizzling steak on the end of a long fork and then a cup of coffee. I started to say, "Mary, how did you...," but quickly abandoned the attempt and concentrated on the delicious food and drink. She had quite a production going: a legion of eggs and what looked like sides of lean beef in deep iron skillets that she must have brought from Kreizler's house. I could have stayed in there for quite a while, bathing in the warmth and the aromas; but as I turned back around, I found Laszlo standing behind me, his arms folded and a sour scowl on his face.

"Well," he said. "I suppose I know now what happened to my key."

I a.s.sumed his admonishment was in jest. "Laszlo," I said through a mouthful of steak, "I believe I may actually revive-"

"Will you excuse Mary and me for a moment, Moore?" Kreizler said, in the same hard tone; and from the look on the girl's face, I could see that she knew he was quite serious, even if I didn't. Instead of questioning him, however, I scooped some eggs and a bit more steak onto a plate, grabbed my mug of coffee, and headed for my desk.

As soon as I was out of the kitchen I heard Kreizler start to lecture Mary in no uncertain terms. The poor girl was unable to offer any reply other than an occasional no and a small, quiet sob. It didn't make sense to me; for my money she'd done yeoman service, and Kreizler was being inexplicably mean. My thoughts were soon distracted, however, by Cyrus and Stevie, who hovered over my plate in drop-jawed hunger.

"Now, now, boys," I said, covering my food with my arms. "No need to get physical. There's plenty more in the kitchen."

They both bolted energetically toward the back, straightening up only slightly when they encountered Kreizler. "Get something to eat," Laszlo told them brusquely, "and then take Mary back to Seventeenth Street. Quickly."

Stevie and Cyrus each mumbled a.s.sent, and then descended on the unsuspecting steak and eggs. Kreizler pulled one of the Marchese Carcano's green chairs between Sara's and my desks and fell into it wearily.

"You don't want anything to eat, Sara?" Laszlo asked quietly.

She had her head on her arms on top of her desk, but picked it up just long enough to smile and say, "No. Thank you, Doctor, I couldn't. And I don't think Mary would appreciate my presence in the kitchen." Kreizler nodded.

"A little hard on the girl, weren't you, Kreizler?" I said, as sternly as I could manage through more mouthfuls of food.

He sighed once and closed his eyes. "I'll have to ask you not to interfere, John. It may seem severe-but I don't want Mary to know anything about this case." He opened his eyes and looked toward the kitchen. "For a variety of reasons."

There are moments in life when one feels as though one's walked into the wrong theater during the middle of a performance. I was suddenly aware of some very odd chemistry at work among Laszlo, Mary, and Sara. I couldn't have put a label on it, not if I'd been paid; but as I pulled a bottle of good French cognac from the bottom drawer of my desk and added some of it to my still-steaming coffee, I became increasingly aware that the air in the large room had suddenly become charged. This instinctive feeling was confirmed when Mary, Stevie, and Cyrus came out of the kitchen and Kreizler asked for his key back. Mary returned it reluctantly, and then I caught her shooting Sara a quick, angry scowl as she went out the door with the other two. No doubt about it-there was a subtext to all this activity.

But there were more important issues at hand, and with Mary, Stevie, and Cyrus gone, the rest of us were free to begin trading thoughts on them. Kreizler went to the chalkboard, which he had divided into three general areas: CHILDHOOD CHILDHOOD on the left-hand side, on the left-hand side, INTERVAL INTERVAL in the center, and in the center, and ASPECTS OF THE CRIMES ASPECTS OF THE CRIMES to the right. In their proper areas Laszlo began to jot down the theories that we had come up with on the roof of Castle Garden, leaving a small s.p.a.ce for any salient insights that the Isaacsons might have had since we left them. Kreizler then stood back to review the list of details; and though it offered, to my way of thinking, evidence of a good night's work, Laszlo seemed to find it wanting. He tossed his bit of chalk up and down, s.h.i.+fting from one foot to the other, and finally announced that there was one more significant factor we must make note of: in the top right-hand corner of the board, under the heading to the right. In their proper areas Laszlo began to jot down the theories that we had come up with on the roof of Castle Garden, leaving a small s.p.a.ce for any salient insights that the Isaacsons might have had since we left them. Kreizler then stood back to review the list of details; and though it offered, to my way of thinking, evidence of a good night's work, Laszlo seemed to find it wanting. He tossed his bit of chalk up and down, s.h.i.+fting from one foot to the other, and finally announced that there was one more significant factor we must make note of: in the top right-hand corner of the board, under the heading ASPECTS OF THE CRIMES ASPECTS OF THE CRIMES, he chalked the word WATER WATER.

That baffled me; but Sara, after giving it some thought, pointed out that every one of the murders since January had taken place within sight of a large amount of water-and the Zweigs had actually been deposited in in a water tower. When I asked if that wasn't just a coincidence, Kreizler said that he doubted so careful a schemer as our killer left very much to coincidence. Laszlo then walked to his desk and pulled an old leather-bound volume from one stack of books. As he switched on a small desk lamp I braced myself, expecting some lengthy technical quote from the likes of Professor Mosso of Turin (who, I'd recently learned, was doing groundbreaking research in measuring the physical manifestations of emotional states). But what Laszlo read, in a quiet, tired voice, was something quite different: a water tower. When I asked if that wasn't just a coincidence, Kreizler said that he doubted so careful a schemer as our killer left very much to coincidence. Laszlo then walked to his desk and pulled an old leather-bound volume from one stack of books. As he switched on a small desk lamp I braced myself, expecting some lengthy technical quote from the likes of Professor Mosso of Turin (who, I'd recently learned, was doing groundbreaking research in measuring the physical manifestations of emotional states). But what Laszlo read, in a quiet, tired voice, was something quite different: "'Who can understand his errors? Cleanse thou me from secret faults.'"

Kreizler switched off the desk lamp and sat back down. I took a blind stab and guessed that the quote was from the Bible, to which Laszlo nodded, remarking that he never ceased to be amazed at the number of references to cleansing that could be found in religious works. He was quick to add that he did not necessarily believe that our man suffered from a religious mania or dementia (although such afflictions had characterized more ma.s.s murderers than almost any other form of mental distress); rather, he was citing the quote to indicate, somewhat poetically, the extent to which the killer was oppressed by feelings of sin and guilt, for which water was the usual metaphorical antidote.

That remark stuck in Sara's craw. In a troubled, somewhat impatient voice she noted that Kreizler persistently returned to the notion that our killer was aware of the nature of his actions, and desired apprehension-yet at the same time the man continued to go out and slaughter young boys. If we accepted the supposition of his sanity, then we were left with the nagging question of what possible satisfaction or benefit he could be deriving from the butchery. Before replying to this pointed observation, Laszlo paused, considering his words carefully. He knew, as did I, that it had been a long and bewildering night for Sara. I also knew that after viewing one of those bodies the last thing one wanted to hear was a descriptive a.n.a.lysis of the mental context of the man responsible; the sadness, anger, and horror were all too great. But the fact remained that such an a.n.a.lysis was imperative, especially at that vivid moment. Sara must be coaxed back to the task immediately before us, a goal that Laszlo approached obliquely by asking her some gentle, seemingly unconnected questions: Imagine, he said, that you enter a large, somewhat crumbling hall that echoes with the sounds of people mumbling and talking repet.i.tively to themselves. All around you these people fall into prostrate positions, some of them weeping. Where are you? Sara's answer was immediate: in an asylum. Perhaps, Kreizler answered, but you could also be in a church. In the one place the behavior would be considered mad; in the other, not only sane, but as respectable as any human activity can be. Kreizler went on to try some other examples: If a woman and her children were threatened with every kind of violence by a group of attackers, and the only weapon at the mother's disposal was something along the lines of a meat cleaver, would Sara consider the woman's necessarily gruesome efforts to dispatch the men the work of a mad savage? Or if another mother were to learn that her husband was beating and having s.e.xual relations with their children, and she cut his throat in the middle of the night, would that qualify as unacceptable brutality? Sara said that, while she would answer no to those questions, she also considered such cases very different from the one we were presently dealing with. That brought a quick rejoinder from Laszlo: The only difference, he declared, was among Sara's perceptions of the various examples. An adult protecting a child, or a child protecting itself, was apparently a context in which Sara could justify even fearsome violence; but what if our murderer viewed his current work as just that sort of protection? Could Sara s.h.i.+ft her point of view enough to grasp that every victim and situation leading up to a murder resonated within the killer to a distant experience of threat and violence and led him for reasons that we had not yet fully defined to take angry measures in his own defense?

Sara remained more reluctant than unable to follow all this; I, on the other hand, was surprised to find my own thoughts falling right into line with Kreizler's. Perhaps the brandy was pus.h.i.+ng my mind past its usual limits; whatever the case, I piped up to say that each dead body seemed, in the light Laszlo was casting, to be a kind of mirror. Kreizler lifted a satisfied fist and said, Precisely-the bodies were a mirror image of some savage set of experiences that were central to the evolution of our man's mind. Whether we took the biological approach, and concentrated on the formation of what Professor James called "neural pathways," or the philosophical route, which would lead into a discussion of the development of the soul, we would arrive at the same conclusion: the idea of a man for whom violence was not only deeply ingrained behavior but the starting point of his meaningful experiences. What he saw when he looked at those dead children was only a representation of what he felt had been done to him-even if only physically-at some point deep in his past. Certainly, when we we looked at the bodies our first thoughts were of vengeance for the dead and protection of future victims. Yet the profound irony was that our killer believed he was providing himself with just those things: vengeance for the child he had been, protection for the tortured soul he had become. looked at the bodies our first thoughts were of vengeance for the dead and protection of future victims. Yet the profound irony was that our killer believed he was providing himself with just those things: vengeance for the child he had been, protection for the tortured soul he had become.

Despite the care Kreizler took in explaining all this to Sara, the effort brought no change in her att.i.tude. It was simply too soon to expect her to put the experience of Castle Garden away and get back to business. She s.h.i.+fted and writhed in her chair, shaking her head and protesting that everything Kreizler said sounded like a somewhat absurd rationalization: Laszlo was comparing the emotional and physical trials of childhood with the worst kind of adult blood l.u.s.t, she stated defiantly, whereas no such correlation existed-the two phenomena were out of all proportion to each other. Kreizler answered that such might seem to be the case, but only because Sara was deciding the proportions herself, based on the context of her her experience. Anger and destructiveness were not the guiding instincts of her life-but what if they had been, since long before she'd become capable of conscious thought? What mere physical action could satisfy such deep-seated rage? In the case of our man, not even the brutal killings could achieve it; had they been able to, he would still have been quietly going about his business, hiding the bodies and never courting discovery. experience. Anger and destructiveness were not the guiding instincts of her life-but what if they had been, since long before she'd become capable of conscious thought? What mere physical action could satisfy such deep-seated rage? In the case of our man, not even the brutal killings could achieve it; had they been able to, he would still have been quietly going about his business, hiding the bodies and never courting discovery.

Seeing that all these sound points were continuing to have little effect on our intransigent partner, I took the opportunity to suggest that we all try to get some sleep. The sun had begun to creep up over the city during our talk, bringing with it that state of extreme disorientation that accompanies most all-night vigils. I'm sure that Kreizler also knew that rest would put many things right; all the same, he made one last request, as Sara left with me, that she not allow horror and anger to lead her too far from the course of our undertaking. Her role had, that night, been revealed as even more important than he'd originally thought it: Our murderer had spent his childhood among men and and women, and whatever else the rest of us could suppose about the women involved in those experiences, our theories would never amount to more than a badly flawed set of a.s.sumptions. It would be up to Sara to provide us with a different perspective, to create for us a woman (or series of women) who might have helped foster such rage. We could not succeed without that. women, and whatever else the rest of us could suppose about the women involved in those experiences, our theories would never amount to more than a badly flawed set of a.s.sumptions. It would be up to Sara to provide us with a different perspective, to create for us a woman (or series of women) who might have helped foster such rage. We could not succeed without that.

Sara nodded wearily at the thought of this new responsibility, and I knew I'd better get her away from Kreizler, who was exhausting enough even on a full night's sleep. I opened the front door and guided her out into the elevator, and as we descended to the ground the only audible sound was the quiet, strangely comforting hum of the device's engine echoing in the dark shaftway.

On the first floor we ran into the Isaacsons, whose return had been delayed not by the mob at Castle Garden (which had dissipated fairly soon after our departure) but by Theodore, who had insisted that they accompany him to one of his favorite Bowery haunts for a victory breakfast of steak and beer. The two detective sergeants looked just as exhausted as Sara and I, and since they had to go up and report before they'd be allowed any sleep, we didn't talk much. Marcus and I made a quick plan to meet the following afternoon and venture over to the Golden Rule Pleasure Club, and then it was into the elevator for them and out to find a cab on largely deserted Broadway for Sara and myself.

There weren't many hacks braving the early morning cold, though what few there were had mercifully congregated outside the St. Denis Hotel across the street. I helped Sara into a hansom, but before giving the driver her destination she looked up at the still-lit windows of the sixth floor of Number 808.

"He never seems to stop," she said quietly. "It's almost as if-as if he has a personal stake in it."

"Well," I answered, yawning broadly, "a lot of his professional ideas could be validated by the result."

"No," Sara said, still quietly. "Something else-something more..."

Following her gaze up to our headquarters, I decided to express a concern of my own: "I wish I knew what was going on with Mary."

Sara smiled. "You never were the most romantically perceptive man, John."

"Meaning?" I asked, genuinely baffled.

"Meaning," Sara answered, somewhat indulgently, "that she's in love with him." As I stood there agape, she tapped on the roof of the hansom. "Gramercy Park, driver. Goodbye, John."

Sara was still smiling as the cab pulled around and headed up Broadway. A couple of the other hacks asked me if I also needed a rig, but after that last bit of intelligence I could only shake my head blankly. Maybe the walk-or, as it was, stumble-home would help me make some sense of it, I thought; but I couldn't have been more wrong. The implications of Sara's statement, and the look on her face as she delivered it, were all too bizarre to be made sense of in a few weary minutes. All the walk did was exhaust me further, and by the time I hit the sheets in my grandmother's house I was far too weak in body and disturbed in spirit to even remove my muddy clothes.

CHAPTER 16.

An altogether unpleasant mood took hold of me during my sleep, and I woke at noon to find that my temper had shortened to a lamentable extent. This black outlook deepened when a messenger boy appeared with a note from Laszlo, written that morning. Apparently a Mrs. Edward Hulse of Long Island had been arrested during the night after trying to kill her own children with a carving knife. Though the woman had been released into her husband's custody, Kreizler had been asked to a.s.sess her mental condition, and had invited Sara along. There was no thought of establis.h.i.+ng a connection between Mrs. Hulse and our case, Laszlo explained; rather, Sara's interest (which, sure enough, had been revitalized by several hours' sleep) was in a.s.sembling details of character for the imaginary women that Laszlo had asked her to create as a way of further understanding our imaginary man. None of this was cause for annoyance on my part; it was more the way Kreizler phrased it all, as if he and Sara were off for a pleasant, stimulating day in the country together. As I crumpled the note up, I acidly wished them a lovely time; and I believe I spat in a sink afterwards.

A telephone call from Marcus Isaacson set our meeting for five o'clock, at the El station at Third Avenue and Fourth Street. I then dressed and surveyed the possibilities for my own afternoon-they appeared few and bleak. Emerging from my room, I discovered that my grandmother was giving a luncheon; the party consisted of one of her dim-witted nieces, the niece's equally engaging husband (who was a partner in my father's investment firm), and one of my second cousins. All three guests were full of questions about my father, questions that I, having been out of touch with him for many months, had no way of answering. They also made a few polite inquiries about my mother (who I did know was at that moment traveling in Europe with a companion), and politely dodged the subject of my former fiancee, Julia Pratt, whom they were acquainted with socially. The entire conversation was punctuated by insincere smiles and chuckles, and its general effect was to make me thoroughly morose.

The truth is, it had been many years since I'd been able to speak pleasantly with most members of my family, for reasons that, while powerful, were not difficult to explain. Right after I got out of Harvard, my younger brother-whose pa.s.sage into adulthood had been even more troubled than my own-had fallen off a Boston boat and drowned. A lengthy autopsy revealed what I could have told anyone if they'd asked: that my brother had been a habitual user of alcohol and morphine. (During his last years he'd become a regular drinking companion of Roosevelt's younger brother, Elliot, whose life was also ended by dipsomania some years later.) The funeral that followed was full of respectful but perfectly nonsensical tributes, all of which avoided the subject of my brother's adult battle with terrible bouts of melancholy. There were many causes of his unhappiness, but at heart I believe now, as I believed then, that it was essentially the result of growing up in a household, and a world, where emotional expression of any kind was at best frowned on and at worst strangled. Unfortunately, I stated this opinion during the funeral, and was nearly forced into an asylum as a result. Relations between myself and my family had never quite recovered. Only my grandmother, who had doted on my brother, displayed any understanding of my behavior or any willingness to allow me into her home and her life. The rest of them regarded me as at least mentally impaired, and perhaps downright dangerous.

For all these reasons, the arrival of my relatives on Was.h.i.+ngton Square that day was a sort of crowning blow, and my disposition could not have been worse as I walked out the front door of the house into the chilly day. Realizing that I had absolutely no idea where I was going, I sat down on the steps, hungry and cold-and suddenly aware that I was jealous. The realization was so surprising that my tired eyes popped fully open. Somehow my unconscious mind had drawn some unpleasant conclusions from the pieces of information that I had received the night before: if Mary Palmer was in fact in love with Kreizler, and she saw Sara as a threat, and both Kreizler and Sara were aware of it, and Kreizler didn't want Mary around as a result, but had no trouble spending swimming little spring afternoons with Sara-well, it was all fairly clear. Sara was obviously entranced by the mysterious alienist; and the iconoclastic Kreizler, who'd only had one romance in his life that I knew of, was taken with Sara's fiercely independent ways. Not that it was a romantic sort of jealousy that had crept into me; I had only considered an amorous link with Sara once, years ago, and then just for a few drunken hours. No, I was more injured at the thought of being excluded. On such a morning (or afternoon) a jaunt to Long Island with friends would definitely have been beneficial.

I spent several minutes debating whether or not I should call on an actress with whom I'd pa.s.sed many days (and still more nights) since the end of the Julia Pratt business; and then, for no reason that I could divine, my thoughts turned to Mary Palmer. Bad as I felt, she must have been feeling worse, if what Sara had said to me was true. Why not make a quick trip up to Stuyvesant Park, I mused, and give the girl an afternoon out? Kreizler might not approve; but Kreizler was off having a pleasant day with a splendid girl, and his complaints were therefore invalid. (Thus did spite work its inevitable way into my thoughts.) Yes, as I walked by the new arch at the north end of Was.h.i.+ngton Square Park, the idea only grew more appealing-but where exactly to take the girl?

On Broadway I corralled several paperboys, and relieved them of some of their wares. The previous night's events at Castle Garden received much attention on the front pages. Apparently there was growing concern over the mood in the immigrant neighborhoods. A citizens' committee was being formed to go to City Hall and express concern about both the murders and, more emphatically, the possible effect of those crimes on civic order. All of which meant little or nothing to me at that particular moment-I quickly turned to the entertainment pages. The pickings seemed slim, until I caught a notice for Koster and Bial's theater on Twenty-third Street. In addition to singers, gymnastic comedians, and a Russian clown, Koster and Bial were offering a program of short projected films, the first ever in New York, according to the notice. It seemed the right fare, and the theater was certainly convenient to Kreizler's house. I grabbed the first cab I saw.

Mary was alone in the house on Seventeenth Street when I arrived, and in as depressed a mood as I'd expected to find her. She was also, at first, very resistant to the idea of venturing out. She looked away from me and shook her head vigorously, pointing around the rooms as if to indicate that her housekeeping ch.o.r.es were too extensive for her to even consider such an idea. But I had been inspired by the notion of cheering someone up: I described the bill at Koster and Bial's with rare zest and to her wary glances replied that the outing would be nothing more than an expression of thanks for the excellent early morning breakfast. Rea.s.sured and obviously excited, she soon gave in and fetched her coat, as well as a small black hat. Not a sound escaped her as we went out of the house, but she smiled in a very pleased and grateful way.

For an idea that had grown out of such questionable feelings, this turned out to be a remarkably good one. We got into our seats at Koster and Bial's, a very average theater of only moderate capacity, just as a music hall comedy team from London was winding up its performance. We were in time for the Russian clowns, whose silent antics Mary quite enjoyed. The comedic gymnasts, who threw barbs and jokes at each other while executing some truly remarkable physical feats, were also good, though I could have lived without the French singers and a rather strange dancer who followed them. The audience was large but good-natured, and Mary seemed to enjoy watching them almost as much as the acts.

There were no wandering eyes, however, when a glittering white screen descended across the proscenium and the house went completely black. Light flashed from somewhere behind us, and then there was near-panic in the first few rows when we were all faced with the image of a wall of blue seawater seemingly cras.h.i.+ng into the theater. Naturally, none of us was familiar with the phenomenon of projected images, an experience that in this case had been heightened by the hand-tinting of the black-and-white film. After order had been restored in the theater and the first offering, "Sea Waves," had come to an end, we were treated to eleven other brief subjects, including a pair of "Burlesque Boxers," and some less amusing pictures of the German kaiser reviewing his troops. Sitting there in that nondescript theater one hardly had the sense that one was witnessing the advent of a new form of communication and entertainment that would, in the hands of such modern masters as D. W. Griffith, drastically change not only New York City but the world; I was far more concerned with the fact that those flickering, tinted images brought Mary Palmer and me closer together for a brief time, relieving the loneliness that was for me transitory and for her a permanent aspect of existence.

It wasn't until we were back out on the street that my mental repose was turned to restless inquisitiveness by the training I'd struggled through during the last several weeks. As I watched my very pleased, very attractive companion enjoying the cold, bright afternoon, I wondered: How could this girl have killed her father? I fully appreciated that there were few things so reprehensible as a man violating his own daughter; but there were other girls who'd endured the experience without chaining the guilty party to a bed and roasting him alive. What had pushed Mary to the act? The beginnings of an explanation, I soon realized, were quite easy to detect even years after the fact. As Mary watched the dogs and pigeons in Madison Square Park, or when her blue eyes were captured by such glittering treasures as the enormous golden statue of naked Diana atop the square spire of Madison Square Garden, her lips moved as if to give expression to her pleasure-and then her jaws clamped closed, her face displaying a fear of what incoherent, humiliating noises might emerge should she try to speak. I remembered that Mary had been considered idiotic in her youth; and most children are anything but kind to idiots. In addition, her mother had considered her fit for nothing more than charwork. Thus by the time her father's s.e.xual advances began, Mary must already have been so frustrated and tormented that she was near ready to explode. Removal of any one of these disadvantages and wretched experiences might have changed the outcome of her life; together, they wove a fatal pattern.

Perhaps life had been very similar for our killer, I posited as Mary and I entered Madison Square Garden in order to have a cup of tea in the arcade restaurant on the roof. By now I had realized that a companion's extensive chatter only made Mary feel more keenly her inability to partic.i.p.ate verbally, so I began to communicate through smiles and gestures, privately pursuing what seemed a fertile line of psychological reasoning as I did so. With Mary sipping her tea and craning her neck in order to gather all the sights that were available from the excellent vantage point of the Garden's roof arcade, I remembered what Kreizler had said the night before: that violence, for our murderer, had been the childhood starting point. In all likelihood that meant beatings administered by adults-such would fit with Laszlo's theory that there were both self-protective and vengeful instincts at work in the man. But thousands of young boys suffered such torment. What had pushed this one, like Mary, over a seemingly indefinable but very real line into violence? Had he, too, suffered from some crippling impairment or deformity that during his youth made him an object of derision and scorn, not only on the part of adults, but of other children as well? And, having endured this, had he gone on to suffer (again like Mary) some sort of outrageous, degrading s.e.xual a.s.sault?

It still seems odd that so lovely a girl as Mary Palmer should have inspired me to such grim cogitations; but odd or no, I felt I was onto something, and wanted to get Mary back to Kreizler's place so that I could meet Marcus Isaacson on time and share my thoughts with him. I felt a bit bad about ending an outing that had brought Mary such apparent joy-by the time we reached Stuyvesant Park she was absolutely radiant-but she also had duties to attend to; and her mind was brought back to them in a rush, I could see, when she spotted Kreizler's calash sitting outside the house on Seventeenth Street.

Stevie was brus.h.i.+ng the horse Frederick down, while Kreizler was standing and smoking a cigarette on the small iron balcony that ran outside the French windows of the parlor on the second floor. Both Mary and I braced for trouble as we entered the small front yard; and we were both surprised when a very genuine smile came into Kreizler's face. He took out his silver watch, checked the time, and spoke in a cheerful voice: "You two must have had quite an afternoon-was Mr. Moore a satisfactory host, Mary?"

Mary smiled and nodded, then rushed to the front door. There she turned and, after removing the small black hat, said "Thank you" with a big smile and only a trace of difficulty. Then she disappeared inside, and I looked up at Kreizler.

"I believe we may yet get spring, John," he said, indicating Stuyvesant Park with a wave of his cigarette. "Despite the cold, the trees are budding."

"I thought you'd still be on Long Island," I answered.

He shrugged. "There's little for me to learn there. Sara, on the other hand, seemed quite fascinated by Mrs. Hulse's att.i.tude toward her children, so I left her. It may prove very useful for her, and she can take a train back tonight." That seemed a bit strange, given the theories I'd cooked up earlier that day; but Kreizler's manner was quite normal. "Will you come up for a drink, John?"

"I've got to meet Marcus at five-we're going to explore the Golden Rule. Any interest?"

"A great deal of interest," he answered. "But it will be better if I'm not seen in too many places a.s.sociated with the case. I trust the pair of you to take copious mental notes. Remember-the keys will be in the details."

"Speaking of that," I said, "I've had some ideas that I think may be useful."

"Excellent. We'll discuss them at dinner. Telephone me at the Inst.i.tute when you've finished. I've a few things to see to there."

I nodded and turned to depart; but my perplexity was too strong to leave matters so unresolved.

"Laszlo?" I said uncertainly. "You're not angry that I took Mary out this afternoon?"