The Alienist - Caleb Carr [84]
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 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 assumptions. 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