The Alienist - Caleb Carr [194]
My driver didn’t let up for a moment during the trip to Stuyvesant Square, and in a remarkably short time I was standing on the sidewalk in front of Kreizler’s house. I gave the cabbie a generous amount of money without asking for change, to which he announced that he would wait for me at the curb, suspecting that I would need another ride soon and not wanting to lose so openhanded a fare at such a slow hour of the morning. I moved cautiously but quickly to the front door of the house, which was pulled open by Sara.
She looked uninjured, for which I was grateful enough to give her a big embrace. “Thank God,” I said. “From the way Harriet sounded I was afraid that—” I suddenly pulled back when I caught sight of a man standing behind Sara: white-haired, distinguished, wearing a frock coat and carrying a Gladstone bag. I glanced at Sara again, and noticed that her face was full of an exhausted sadness.
“This is Dr. Osborne, John,” Sara said quietly. “An associate of Dr. Kreizler’s. He lives nearby.”
“How do you do?” Dr. Osborne said to me, without waiting for a reply. “Now, then, Miss Howard, I hope I’ve been clear—the boy is not to be moved or disturbed in any way. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial.”
Sara nodded wearily. “Yes, Doctor. And thank you for being so attentive. If you hadn’t been here—”
“I only wish that there was more I could have done,” Osborne answered quietly. Then he put his tall hat on his head, nodded to me, and set off. Sara pulled me inside.
“What in hell’s happened?” I said, as I followed her up the stairs. “Where’s Kreizler? And what’s this about a boy? Has Stevie been hurt?”
“Shush, John,” Sara answered, quietly but urgently. “We’ve got to keep things quiet in this house.” She resumed the climb to the parlor. “Dr. Kreizler’s—gone.”
“Gone?” I echoed. “Gone where?”
Walking into the dark parlor, Sara made a move toward a lamp, but then decided with a wave of her hand to leave it alone. She collapsed onto a sofa, and took a cigarette out of a case on a nearby table.
“Sit down, John,” she said; and something about the range of emotions contained in those few words—resignation, sorrow, anger—made me comply instantly. I held out a match for her cigarette and waited for her to go on. “Dr. Kreizler’s at the morgue,” she finally said, in a smoky breath.
I took in air quickly. “The morgue? Sara, what is it, what’s happened? Is Stevie all right?”
She nodded. “He will be. He’s upstairs, along with Cyrus. We’ve got two cracked skulls to care for now.”
“Cracked skulls?” I parroted again. “How in—” A sudden, sickening rush swept through my gut, as I glanced around the parlor and the adjacent hallway. “Wait a minute. Why are you here? And why are you letting people in and out? Where’s Mary?”
Sara didn’t answer, at first, just rubbed her eyes slowly and then drew in some more smoke. Her voice, when it reemerged, was curiously faint. “Connor was here. Saturday night, with two of his thugs.” The twisting in my stomach became more extreme. “Apparently they’d lost track of you and Dr. Kreizler—and they must have been taking a lot of heat from their superiors, based on the way they were acting.” Standing up slowly, Sara strode to the French windows and opened one just a crack. “They forced their way into the house, and shut Mary in the kitchen. Cyrus was in bed, which left Stevie. They asked him where you and Dr. Kreizler were, but—well, you know Stevie. He wouldn’t say.”
I nodded, and mumbled, “‘Go chase yourselves,’” softly.
“Yes,” Sara answered. “So—they started in on him. Along with his skull he’s got a few broken ribs, and his face is a mess. But it’s the head that—well, he’ll live, but we don’t know yet just what sort of shape he’ll live in. Things ought to be clearer by tomorrow. Cyrus tried to get out of bed to help, but he only collapsed in the hallway upstairs and bumped his head again.”
Though afraid to ask, I did: “And Mary?”
Sara’s arms went up