The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [45]
“Right,” Mr. Moore said. “And Cyrus’ll be happy to drive—won’t you, Cyrus?”
“Yes, sir,” Cyrus replied cheerfully.
Mr. Moore turned to the staircase. “Stevie!”
“On my way!” I answered, bounding down.
“The barouche, if you please,” Mr. Moore told me. “Cyrus, get the Doctor ready for a night on the town, will you?”
Cyrus nodded as I ran downstairs and out the front door to get Gwendolyn and Frederick harnessed and hitched up to the barouche.
By the time I drew the carriage up to the front gate, the others were coming out of the house. I turned the reins over to Cyrus, and as the rest of them climbed in the Doctor reminded me to make good use of the evening and get to bed early.
As they drove off, I could only laugh at that idea.
CHAPTER 8
Anticipation of the kind that’d eaten me up all afternoon set back to work on my insides that evening. I went down to the kitchen and told Mrs. Leshko that she could go home early, as I’d see to the glasses and such in the parlor. She gave me a big grin and near wrenched my cheeks” off in gratitude, then got her things together and departed. I went up to the parlor and straightened up the cocktail wagon, taking the glasses downstairs to wash them. Then it was upstairs for several hours of the history of ancient Rome and half a packet of cigarettes, all of which was interrupted by the occasional trip to our new icebox for something to nibble on, periodic bouts of nervous pacing, and long minutes of wondering whether or not the Doctor would agree to help find little Ana Linares.
After dropping the others off at their respective homes, the Doctor returned to Seventeenth Street at about midnight. Such was early by the group’s usual standards, but in recent weeks the Doctor hadn’t allowed himself anything like so much leisure, so I took the time of his return as a good sign. He entered the house alone—Cyrus was next door tending to the horses—and as I heard him come in I started down for the parlor, where I knew he’d be pouring himself a nightcap, I’d taken the precaution of getting into some nightclothes and a robe, and as I walked slowly down the stairs I ran my hands through my hair once or twice to muss it up. Then I did my best to look sleepy, giving out with a quiet yawn as I entered the parlor and found the Doctor sitting in his chair with a small glass of cognac, once again going over his letter from Mr. Roosevelt.
He looked up when I came in. “Stevie? What are you doing up? It’s late.”
“Only midnight,” I answered, walking over to the window. “Must’ve dozed off, though.”
The Doctor let out a small laugh. “An excellent attempt, Stevie. But a trifle transparent.” I didn’t say anything, just kind of chuckled and shrugged. Setting his glass aside, the Doctor walked over to stand at the other window. After a moment, he quietly said:
“You realize, Stevie, what they want me to do?”
The question might seem to’ve come out of nowhere, but I guess I was expecting something like it, being as I answered without much hesitation, “Unh-hunh. Pretty much.”
“And how long have you known?”
“Miss Howard told us about it last night.”
The Doctor nodded, smiling for just a second, then kept staring out the window. “I’m not sure that I can.”
I shrugged again. “It’s your decision, I guess. I mean, I do understand—with what happened—”
“Yes.” He didn’t turn as he added, “We almost lost you, last time around.”
That was a surprise: I’d been so convinced that Mary Palmer would be foremost in his thoughts when it came to considering the Linares case that I’d clear forgotten that I’d had a pretty close brush with the Reaper during the same attack that’d left her dead—and so had Cyrus, a fact what I quickly reminded the Doctor of.
“Cyrus is a grown man,” he answered. “If he tells me he is willing to take the risks involved with this case, then that is his decision. God knows the Beecham affair should have given him a—point of reference