The Alienist - Caleb Carr [198]
I’d just reconciled myself to this conclusion when I heard a key turning in the front door. Sara came bustling in, umbrella and grocery parcels in hand, her movements and air nothing like they’d been that morning. She was stepping and talking quickly, even lightly, as if nothing at all had happened.
“It’s a flood, John!” she announced, shaking her umbrella and depositing it in the ceramic stand. She took off her wrap, then lugged her parcels back toward the little kitchen. “You can barely get across Fourteenth Street on foot, and it’s worth your life to try to find a cab.”
I looked back out the window. “Cleans the streets, though,” I said.
“Do you want something to eat?” Sara called. “I’ll get some coffee going, and I brought food—sandwiches will have to do, I’m afraid.”
“Sandwiches?” I answered, not very enthusiastically. “Couldn’t we just go out somewhere?”
“Out?” Sara said, reemerging from the kitchen and coming over to me. “We can’t go out, we’ve got—” She stopped as she caught sight of the Isaacsons’ telegram, then picked it up carefully. “What’s this?”
“Marcus and Lucius,” I answered. “They got confirmation on John Beecham.”
“But that’s wonderful, John!” Sara said in a rush. “Then we—”
“I’ve already sent a reply,” I interrupted, disturbed by her manner. “Told them to get back as soon as they can.”
“Even better,” Sara said. “I doubt if there’s much more for them to discover out there, and we’ll need them here.”
“Need them?”
“We’ve got work to do,” Sara answered simply.
My shoulders drooped with the realization that my worries about her attitude had been well founded. “Sara, Kreizler told me this morning that—”
“I know,” she answered. “He told me, as well. What of it?”
“What of it? It’s over, that’s what of it. How are we supposed to go on without him?”
She shrugged. “As we went on with him. Listen to me, John.” Grabbing hold of my shoulders, Sara led me over to my desk and sat me on it. “I know what you’re thinking—but you’re wrong. We’re good enough now without him. We can finish this.”
My head had started shaking even before she finished this statement. “Sara, be serious—we don’t have the training, we don’t have the background—”
“We don’t need any more than we have, John,” she answered firmly. “Remember what Kreizler himself taught us—context. We don’t need to know everything about psychology, or alienism, or the history of all similar cases to finish this job. All we need to know is this man, his particular case—and we do, now. In fact, when we put together what we’ve gathered during the last week, I’ll bet that we know him as well as he knows himself—perhaps even better. Dr. Kreizler was important, but he’s gone now, and we don’t need him. You can’t quit. You mustn’t.”
There were undeniable bits of truth in what she was saying, and I took a minute to digest them; but then my head began to shake again. “Look, I know how much this opportunity means to you. I know how much it could have helped you convince the department—”
I shut up instantly as she took a good cut at my shoulder with her right fist. “Damn it, John, don’t insult me! Do you honestly think I’m doing this just for the opportunity? I’m doing it because I want to sleep soundly again someday—or have your little trips up and down the eastern seaboard made you forget?” She dashed over and grabbed some photographs off of Marcus’s desk. “Remember these, John?” I glanced down only briefly, knowing what she held: pictures of the various crime scenes. “Do you really think you’re going to spend many easy hours if you stop now? And what happens when the next boy is killed? How will you