The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [188]
I wasn’t alone, either: by the end of our meal the general mood at our table had grown pretty disgusted—and as we walked out I discovered that such was exactly why the devious Mr. Picton had brought us to this spot. “Get a good last look, all of you,” he said. “Because if we succeed in bringing Libby Hatch to trial, it won’t be just the outrage of the humble citizens in towns like Ballston Spa that we’ll have to deal with. No, no—all the mighty weight of this sparkling society will come crashing down on our heads, too. For it’s the essence of hypocrisy, isn’t it, Doctor, that it requires masks to hide behind? And the masks of the idyllic home and the sanctity of motherhood are the first and most untouchable of all. Yes, if I’m right, you can expect to see some of these same faces sitting in the galleries of the Ballston court house in the weeks to come.”
Which wasn’t exactly the most charitable thought to offer at a moment when some of us were trying to fix our sights on recreation. Miss Howard, for her part, had seen all she could stand in the dining room, and elected to head back to Mr. Picton’s house on the trolley right away. The Doctor, Cyrus, and the detective sergeants—none of them possessing much real sporting blood—all agreed to accompany her, clearing the field for the true enthusiasts.
Mr. Moore and Mr. Picton had a couple of quick drinks while I gave them a brief summary of my roulette strategy, and by the time they headed into the public room they were looking and sounding like they’d managed to drown their repulsion with the crowd. As for me, barred from actually watching the games, I was left to pick between heading into the ladies’ and children’s lounge and going outside for a smoke: not what you’d call a tough choice.
Wandering in amongst the long branches of a weeping willow what hung over one of the little pools of water in the park outside the Casino, I pulled at my starched collar and tie with an annoyed groan, wishing I could just take the things off. Then I lit a stick and began to think, not about what my earnings might amount to if all went well inside, but about what Mr. Picton had said in the dining room. It wasn’t what you’d call comforting, to think that by prosecuting Libby Hatch we’d be riling—and maybe even threatening—all those rich, powerful hypocrites and philanderers; and at first I thought it was just the unpleasant notion of what lay ahead that was starting to give me a distinctly nervous sensation. But soon I realized that the ripples in my stomach had a more immediate cause, something to do with the area right around me at that moment. I couldn’t say just what the uneasiness was, at first, but after a couple of minutes I put my finger on it:
I was being watched.
Spinning around, I stepped deeper into the branches of the willow and searched the darkness all around me; but there wasn’t a soul to be seen anywhere in that part of the park. All the same, I grew more convinced moment by moment that somebody somewhere was observing every move I was making. Pulling at my tie and collar again as I broke into a cold sweat, I started to shift from foot to foot, breathing very fast. Finally I called out, to what seemed like nothing but empty darkness:
“Who’s there? What do you want?” Realizing that I was being a bit unreasonable but unable to prevent myself, I shoved one hand into my pants pocket. “I’ve got a gun!” I called out. “And I’ll use it, I’m telling you—”
Suddenly a dark blur passed in front of me: dropping down, it seemed, from the sky came a fast-moving shadow, one what hit the ground softly but nonetheless caused me to shriek and jump back. Only by grabbing the trunk of the willow did I keep from falling into the pool; and though I heard fast footsteps moving away from me, by the time I looked up the person who’d made them was gone.
As I caught my breath I realized that I was now definitely alone: I felt that as certainly as I’d sensed the stranger’s presence. Whoever’d been hiding in the tree—probably some kid, I stupidly figured—must’ve