Stanley’s instincts burned to a feverish pitch the closer they got to the Rookery. Goosebumps raised up and down his arms. The entire landscape seemed to pulse with a warning of whatever evil lurked inside. His stomach rolled, and he fought back the urge to throw up.

“Stanny, you okay? You look as white as a banshee. Maybe you shouldn’t go in,” Seamus said, halting them before they reached the door.

Shaking his head, Stanley said, “I have to. Feel it.” He gulped a huge breath of air just to get the words out.

Nodding, Seamus pointed at Arthur. “You have to stay here, boy. Can’t get you in. Shouldn’t even let Stanley in, but I need him to understand what we’re up against. This ain’t no game.”

Stanley hated the sound of that. Something had his uncle terrified. In the last month, Seamus had tried to discourage Stanley from being involved in the Veiled Prophet mess. He said to leave it up to him, Mr. Malloy, and other trusted men to get to the bottom of things. Stanley had ignored every warning, insisting that he and his Knights could handle themselves.

His body began to tremble as he followed his uncle into the mildewed, shadowed interior of the Rookery. Maybe he’d been cocky thinking he could deal with all of it, because he suddenly felt like he was about to get in over his head.

Seamus led Stanley down the same hallway he’d walked not long ago to visit the Raven. The walls seemed to close in on him, and he took a few deep breaths. Some beat cops and two detectives talked in low tones.

“Gotta wait for the meat wagons to clean up this mess. Ain’t never seen anything like it,” one cop said as they walked past. Other uniformed officers clustered together, muttering and shaking their heads.

“They knocked out the lights in there.”

“Suppose they did that before or after decorating?”

“Gives me the creeps.”

Seamus and Stanley passed into the cavernous, main room of the warehouse, and at first glance he didn’t understand all the fuss. It was dark, but for the large squares of light on the floor from the moonlight coming through the high windows and the lights in the hallway. Everything looked to be undisturbed and in place. The hissing of a record playing at its end came from one side of the room, but there was a heavy stillness that made his heart skip. It was the kind of quiet and void he’d felt in a cemetery. Where was the party? The back of his neck prickled and he looked up.

Row upon row of bodies dangled from the rafters by long, thick ropes. Men in suits and women in dresses. Some of them swung gently as if blown by an unseen breeze, while others didn’t move. Each one’s head was covered with a black bag.

“Saints preserve us,” Stanley breathed out. He wanted to bolt for the door, but he couldn’t move. He could not look away. There were dozens of bodies just hanging like the branches of a weeping cherry tree, the ladies’ skirts like drooping blossoms.

The last of the St. Louis gangsters.

Seamus shook his head, and his voice came out hoarse. “Not even sure the saints can save us now. How do you suppose anyone could take a whole gang by surprise like this? Not a drop of blood any place. No struggle.”

Stanley stared at the rows of bodies and thought how much work went into stringing them all up like that … it was a deliberate display. This was dark work. Unearthly. The musty, still air seemed to have had all goodness and life sucked out of it.

A few tables near the walls were spread with playing cards and untouched food. Even the room was dead now. Seamus walked over to the phonograph and removed the needle to stop the hissing sound, ending the party for corpses.

Vinnie said he was bringing Patricia here. Stanley’s stomach dropped. Vinnie. Where was he?

He looked upward and searched the hanging bodies, examining the shoes. When he reached the final row, he saw them gleaming black, swirling slowly in the dark.

“No. No. Please, God. No. Please. Not Vinnie.” Stanley ran over to the body, reached up, and grabbed his friend’s dangling feet.

“Boyo, what are you doing? We can’t pull them down. Not yet. What’s wrong with you?” Seamus shouted from across the room.

Stanley collapsed to his knees and crossed himself. He let out a guttural cry. Memories of Vinnie working at the ballpark with him, punching each other in the boxing ring, and laughing together on long trolley rides passed through his mind like a fading reel of film. The first time they met at the age of six, they’d shouted Irish and Italian insults at each other. And after a brief fight, they’d become fast friends.

Now, here was the end of Vinnie. Sobs heaved out of him in waves. It couldn’t be real. He let loose with a string of Irish Catholic, dirty words.

“Stanny, Stanny …” His uncle clutched at his shoulders and shook him.

“Vinnie, Seamus. This is Vinnie.” Stanley didn’t recognize his own voice. It was broken and shrill.

“No. Can’t be.” Seamus let out a groan.

“Shoes. Let him borrow them. My shoes,” Stanley forced out between sobs.

“I didn’t know, lad, I’m sorry … I wouldn’t have brought you in … Mary and Joseph, pray for us. Curse these bastards. Damn them to Hell.” Seamus knelt down next to him. He put his arm around Stanley and whispered in his ear.

“The fat is in the fire now, boy. Understand? Look at them. This is what we could all be. They want annihilation, not just control.”

Stanley wiped his face. Anger rose inside him. He stood and balled his fists. They couldn’t get away with this. Seamus’s plan to scare him off had backfired. More than ever, Stanley was determined to fight them. Vinnie needed to be answered for. He looked up at the body of his friend and noticed something strapped to his leg. Stanley reached up and removed the black, painted branch, just like the one he’d found on his pillow.

“The Winnowing has begun, Seamus.” Stanley clenched his jaw.

“Yes, boyo. There’s no safe place now, if there ever was.”

They stood there for a moment. No matter how long Stanley looked, he couldn’t take in the horror or process it. Something inside him blocked every emotion, and he just felt numb now.

“Listen. We need to get out of here. The Chief of Police is lurking around, and he’s not to be trusted, understand?” Seamus took Stanley’s arm and led him away from the horrible room of body piñatas. Arthur waited outside, standing in the shadows.

“Artie … I …” Stanley wiped the back of his hand across his nose.

Arthur squinted at him, and a look crossed his face that Stanley never saw there. Fear. “That bad, eh? Hey, the Chief is here. I gotta scram, Stanny. I’ll be seein’ ya.” Arthur darted away before Stanley could say a word.

After Arthur melted into the night, a tall, well-dressed man with white, slicked-back hair in a trench coat came up to them. He eyed Seamus and sucked on his teeth as if he had food stuck between them.

“Interesting night, wouldn’t you say, Fields?” He raised his chin to the dark warehouse.

“Guess so, Chief,” said Seamus.

“And I know this young man. Our famous, hero newsie. How are you, kid?”

He offered his hand, and Stanley shook it out of polite obligation. It was hard and cold. All Stanley could think about was Vinnie’s body swinging back and forth, the Post-Dispatch shoes gleaming with a recent shine. And the black branch.

Seamus straightened his fedora. “Chief, why haven’t the meat wagons comes yet? We gotta start processing these bodies, collecting evidence, and it’s too dark in there.”

“Ah, well, Fields, I have another crew on the way. I’m going to relieve you of this responsibility right now. Take this young man home. He looks like he’s about to fall over.”

Seamus stood for a moment, looking as if he wanted to argue the point.

“Don’t worry about it, Detective. You’ve done good work here. Now, let someone else take over.”

Stanley would have bet money that under any other circumstances, his uncle would have fought tooth and nail. Instead, Seamus smiled and said, “Well, very good Chief. Guess these rat bastards got what they deserved anyhow. Probably the mugs who did this are long gone by now.”

“That’s the idea, Fields. File your report with me personally. I’ll let your captain know.”

Seamus guided Stanley through the small crowd of policemen, which seemed to be thinning and not growing. Nobody here but the dirty cops, Stanley thought.

“Seamus, do you …”

“Shut it, boy. Not a word,” Seamus growled. He obviously had the same thoughts. This was all wrong.

They found a waiting police car, and Seamus gave the patrolman orders to drive them home. As they wove their way toward Dogtown, Stanley sat in the back of the patrol car, shaking. He squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears. It started when he found Evelyn’s body and everything after that. Now, the stick. Hazel’s strange behavior. Vinnie. Dead. Hung. Gone. His whole world turned on its head in the space of a couple of months. How much more could he take? Was he cracking up? Would he be in the loony bin like Charles?

The only thing that kept him sane was to realize, despite what Hazel said, none of this was made up. It happened. He hadn’t imagined any of it, and his gut instincts were spot on. There was no explaining away the reality of Evelyn’s buried body, and that there would be a funeral at Vinnie’s parish with his family wailing and weeping.

No matter how locked in your head you get, death reminds you what is real.

Stanley didn’t remember getting home or Seamus helping him up the stairs. But the terror of laying his head on the pillow where the branch had been motivated him to grab his blankets, throw them on the floor, and fall asleep curled up in a ball.