The Alienist - Caleb Carr [156]
By the time we’d finished hammering all this out it was late afternoon, and the weight of a sleepless night was beginning to bear down on all of us quite heavily. In addition, there were domestic arrangements to make, and of course all our packing needed to be done. We decided to cut our day somewhat short. Goodbyes were said all around, but exhaustion obscured the true importance of the moment—indeed, I don’t think either of the Isaacsons really comprehended the fact that they were going to get up the following morning and take a train halfway across the continent. Not that Kreizler and I were in much better shape: as Sara left, she announced that she intended to pick us both up the next day in a cab and take us to the station, the near-dead look on each of our faces having caused her to doubt that we could be relied on to rise at all, much less catch a train.
Just as Kreizler and I were walking out the door of Number 808, Stevie appeared, his own strength reconstituted by several hours’ sleep. Reminding us that Cyrus had been alone in a hospital room all day, Stevie said that he’d brought the calash and was prepared to drive us to St. Vincent’s Hospital to pay our wounded comrade a visit. Weary though we were, neither Laszlo nor I could refuse; and, remembering the appalling quality of food in the average New York hospital, we decided to call Charlie Delmonico and have him order his staff to prepare a really first-rate meal that we could transport to St. Vincent’s.
We found Cyrus heavily bandaged and nearly asleep at about six-thirty. He was delighted with the meal, and complained about nothing, even the fact that the nurses in the hospital objected to caring for a black man. Kreizler lit into a couple of hospital administrators about that, but otherwise we passed a very pleasant hour in Cyrus’s room, the window of which offered an excellent view of Seventh Avenue, Jackson Square, and the sunset beyond.
It was nearly dark when we stepped back out onto Tenth Street. I told Stevie that we’d mind the calash for a few minutes so that he could go up and say hello to Cyrus, at which the boy eagerly ran into the hospital. Kreizler and I were about to deposit our creaking bones in the soft leather upholstery of the carriage when an ambulance clattered up at considerable speed and came to a halt next to us. Had I been less exhausted I might have noticed that the ambulance driver’s face was not altogether strange to me; as it was, I focused the little attention I could muster on the vehicle’s doors, which burst open and spewed forth a second man. I recognized this individual—who looked like anything but a hospital attendant—with an immediate, throbbing pulse of dread.
“What in hell?” I mumbled, as the man stared at me and grinned.
“Connor!” Laszlo said in shock.
The former detective sergeant’s toothy gash widened, and then he took a few threatening steps forward. “So you remember me, then? All the better.” From under his somewhat ragged jacket he produced a revolver. “Get in the ambulance. Both of you.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Laszlo answered sharply, despite the gun.
I tried to take a different tack, having a far better idea than did Kreizler of whom we were dealing with: “Connor, put the gun away. This is crazy, you can’t just—”
“Crazy, is it?” the man replied angrily. “Hardly. I’m just doing my new job. I lost my old one, you might remember. Anyway, I’ve been told to fetch you two—though I’d just as soon leave you dead on the sidewalk. So