Hazel paced the front yard, hoping for some message from Frisky. Her breath came in white blasts in the frigid, night air. Where was Stanley? Her stomach roiled and turned with worry. She thought she might throw up. Why was it that just when life seemed to inflate with joy and possibility, when even the dangers and problems seemed for a moment to be surmountable, that something cold and merciless gleefully blew it all to smithereens?

Mumsy was inside waiting by the phone in case Peggy or Seamus called with any news. Hazel’s father had come home, heard what had happened, and rushed back out again. Heaven knew what was going on. Hazel had never felt so alone. Even Henri had retired to his doghouse. There was nothing to distract her from the anxiety clutching at her chest.

What if Stanley’s body had been cremated in the red boxcar? What if he was gone forever? Panic surged through her.

Where was Peggy?

A specter materialized out of the darkness, moving slowly, deliberately toward her. It paused just out of reach of the porch light.

“Who is it?” Hazel backed away, a chill crawling up her back.

The flick of a match lit up a familiar face. Arthur lit his cigarette and strolled closer, smoke trailing behind him like he’d just arrived from the furnaces of Hell.

“People are looking for you,” Hazel seethed.

“No joke,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

“He’s been with me.” Sandy appeared from behind him in a black, fur coat, her scarred face ghoulish in the dark.

Hazel let out a breath. “Of course.” Sandy had been hiding him this whole time. A second of hope jumped into her throat. “Have you seen Stanley?”

“Nah. I ain’t.” Arthur blew out a stream of smoke. He seemed to mull over something he needed to say.

“So I guess you know about the fire.” Hazel put her hands on her hips.

“Yeah. I heard.” Arthur hesitated and removed his bowler hat, tapping it against his leg.

“Well? What have you to say about it? The Castle is gone, Stanley is missing—maybe burned to death!” She hadn’t meant to lose control, but the words came out in an angry sob. “It’s all your fault! Did you start the fire? Because even if you didn’t, you caused it just the same. You declared open war on the VP at the ball, putting us all in danger!”

Arthur came closer, his eyes narrowing. “My fault? You shoulda let me burn that clinic down when I had the chance. I was gonna slow down their snatch and grab program. Now—”

Sandy put a hand on his arm, and he stopped talking, his chest heaving with anger. She leaned close to him. “Not like this, baby. Don’t tell her like this. It isn’t her fault …” Hazel’s best friend gave her a look of pity.

Hazel’s heart dropped. “What! Tell me what? What’s happened?”

Arthur replaced his bowler hat and pointed a finger at Hazel. “You want to protect these people so badly? But you’ll wish you never did. The church was crawling with cops, and one of my pigeons got the skinny. Your maid, Peggy, was shot like an Irish dog by the altar. That’s the kind of people you’re protecting.”

For a few moments, his words didn’t make any sense. Hazel blinked, staring at his mouth and how smoke puffed out as he spoke. When understanding finally clawed into her brain, Hazel let out a shriek. “No! No, that isn’t right. I don’t believe you!”

Arthur frowned, and Sandy pushed him aside to grab Hazel in her arms. “It’s true Hazel. I’m so sorry.”

Hazel shoved Sandy away. “You. Both of you. You did this.” Her whole body shook; tears streamed down her face.

Sandy’s face hardened. “No. They’ve been getting away with this for as long as this city began. The poor have suffered all along. Now it’s touching the fancy edges of your kingdom, and you can’t face it.”

Hazel stared at her best friend, not recognizing her. The ragged scar crinkled on her face; the shadows under her eyes and blunt cut of her bangs made her look like mugshots she’d seen on wanted posters. Hazel covered her face with her hands. It was too much. Peggy couldn’t be gone. She’d been there Hazel’s whole life. A giant hole opened up in the ground and Hazel felt herself being sucked into it. There was no bottom to it and no coming back.

“No … Not Peggy.” It was not real. Hazel could see Peggy’s auburn hair, her dimpled smile … the sparkle in her eyes when she’d tease … the warmth of her hugs. She had counted on her for her comfort and wisdom … she needed her. The world would never keep spinning after this.

Sandy let out a sigh. “I know … how you feel.”

Hazel uncovered her face. “Nobody does! Peggy and maybe Stanley in one night,” she choked. “I can’t …” She clapped a hand over her own mouth, willing herself to stop. If she kept talking about them being gone, then it would be true … and she would fall into that hole and be lost forever.

“Stanley … he ain’t dead.” Arthur reached into his back pocket and pulled out Stanley’s cap. The one from his father that he always wore.

Hazel’s heart leaped, she grasped at the remaining sliver of hope, wiping her face. “Where did you get that?”

“The steps of Saint Michael’s church—one of my pigeons nicked it before the cops got there. Stanny must’ve been there with Peggy. They got him, like Teeth … like the others.”

The thought of Stanley being at the mercy of those hooded monsters made something snap in Hazel’s head. He had fought them so hard. It seemed impossible that her tall, strong newsie, who seemed to be able to take on the world, could lose a fight.

All feeling drained out of Hazel, and sounds became muffled. Her own voice sounded distant and monotone. “They took Peggy from me. Now they have Stanley … he’s a page in their file cabinet now.”

Hazel stared at the cap in Arthur’s hands. He held it out to her, and she stepped forward and took it. She pressed it to her face and breathed in the smell of Stanley’s hair and sweat. The scent of a living, breathing boy. Hazel set the cap on her own head and pulled it down snug.

Her mind wandered and seemed to grasp at thin air. All she could think about was Peggy and Stanley. Then Hazel thought of the page with Teeth’s serial number. That thing would probably lead them to wherever they had taken Stanley.

“The clinic. They took him there to give him a tattoo and serial number,” she said.

“He’s gone by now.” Arthur spat on the ground.

“It will be empty …” Hazel said.

“We figured.” Sandy reached into her big, fur coat and pulled out the bottle that Arthur had with him the day in the alleyway. “You in?”

Hazel’s pulse hummed. “Yes.”

Sometime later, Hazel stood with Sandy and Arthur outside the tavern up the street from the clinic, in a crowd of drunk people who had gathered on the sidewalk to watch the Family Care Clinic burn to the ground. The firefighters were too late. There would be nothing left.

“An eye for an eye,” Hazel said, a mixture of rage and grief blistering her insides and scorching up who she used to be.

“That should slow them down a bit,” Sandy said.

“This is only the warm up. Just wait ‘til we get to work.” Arthur flicked his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out.

The people around them shouted and hollered. Many of them lost interest, and laughing returned to the cozy embrace of the tavern. “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” played in jaunty rhythm from inside. The smell of whiskey and tobacco mingled with the smoke of the burning building. The world had ended, and the party went on.

Hazel clenched her fists. She felt the cold of the Joan of Arc medallion at her wrist. She rubbed it between her thumb and finger. Give me strength. What would Stanley do if he were here right now …?

“Gather Frisky and the Knights,” she said, straightening Stanley’s cap. “And let’s find someone who can read German. We have work to do.”

“I’m way ahead of you, swell.” Arthur’s dark eyes met hers, but instead of feeling the usual fear, Hazel saw a reflection of her pain there. “We’ll get Stanley back,” Arthur vowed.

“I’m counting on it, street rat.”

Arthur gave Hazel a crooked smile, and Sandy took his hand. She reached out for Hazel’s hand too. Hazel took it, feeling nothing. She just needed something to hold on to.

 

 

 

 

The clickety-clack sound of a train woke Stanley up. A swirl of sights and sounds overloaded his senses, and he tried to order them in his aching head.

“Welcome back to the land of the living dead, white boy.”

“Lincoln?” Stanley said and tried to raise his hand.

“Easy, pal. We’re chained together.”

Stanley felt the cold metal against his right wrist and shook the chain. He looked around and saw other pairs of young boys chained together, sitting on the floor, and leaning against the walls in the darkness. Only the dim light of a single, swinging lightbulb in the ceiling revealed the huddled captives. Some looked asleep, others had looks of absolute terror on their faces.

“Where the hell are we?” Stanley said, knowing the answer.

“A place you should be familiar with; a boxcar,” Lincoln said. “As to where we’re going, I have no damn idea. My guess is wherever that train station was designed to take folks.”

A cold chill ran up Stanley’s spine. The Winnowing. He looked at his left arm and saw the black, numbered tattoo on his swollen, red skin.

He racked his brain, trying to remember the numbers in Evelyn’s diary. Stanley realized the first numbers meant he was not going to be exterminated. At least, not yet.

The smell of sweat and urine permeated the boxcar, and Stanley coughed.

“Keep quiet, you filth,” a voice said from the other end of the car. The young boys across from him cowered and whimpered in fear.

A man emerged from the dark, wearing a black mask with only eye holes. He carried a wooden stick, lifted up.

“What are you gonna do with that?” Stanley said.

“Shut up, man,” Lincoln said in a low hiss.

“I’m going to knight you, Lord Stanley.”

The stick came down on his arm faster and harder than Stanley expected. Pain shot through his arm, but he gritted his teeth. He would not give this bastard the satisfaction of crying out.

“Enough, Legion. This dog requires stronger medicine.”

That voice. The one he heard in the church before he blacked out. And the one that haunted his dreams.

“Charles Chouteau.”

“Very good, Fields. I’ve enjoyed watching all the hero attention you’ve been getting. It’s very amusing,” Charles said as he emerged from the dark. A long, ragged scar marred his otherwise flawless face. Stanley couldn’t help but smile. Artie did him a good one.

“But too bad you didn’t know when to quit. And what a shame little Artie is not here with you. He’s a slippery, little fellow.”

Stanley wished Arthur was there too. The kid would go savage on this goon, chains or no chains.

Charles walked over to the boxcar door and opened it. The dark landscape rushed by as the wind blew into the compartment.

“Ah, what a beautiful night for a hanging, wouldn’t you say, Fields?”

Stanley tried to stand, but Lincoln jerked him back down. “Don’t man, not now. He just wants an excuse to do something,” he whispered.

Lincoln was right. But it made Stanley crazy to play by this loony’s rules. “If you’re gonna kill me, Charles, do it, and spare me the evil villain speeches.”

Charles laughed. “No, Fields, you’ve not earned your death yet. But your Dad did. Your smelly, Italian friend did. And poor, little mommy.”

Stanley growled, “You … piece of garbage …” He squeezed his fists together, remembering how Peggy had fallen to the ground.

“Oh, pardon me, I’m forgetting someone,” Charles went on, ignoring Stanley’s outburst.

He walked into the dark at the other end of the car and brought back a hooded figure. The other captives in the boxcar scrambled back against the walls. Stanley’s heart thumped hard when he saw a rope like the one that hung Vinnie, encircling the figure’s neck like a leash.

“Speak, you Irish dog,” Charles said, jerking the rope.

The figure shook his head. Wind swirled in from the open door, and the sound of the tracks seemed to grow louder.

“Tsk. Tsk.” Charles took out something from his pocket and stuck it in the person’s arm. A sharp cry of pain echoed through Stanley’s brain.

“Seamus. No. No. No.” Stanley lurched forward, but Lincoln had gone dead weight, pinning him down.

“So you recognize the prisoner. Good. Makes things so much easier. Now, Fields, I want to know who is supporting this paper you’ve started and who is opposing us. And, for good measure, I want the diary of that piece of filth, baseball slut.”

“Don’t get them anything, lad. Not a damn thing,” Seamus said with a muffled voice.

“Typical hero response. But Stanley gets the final say,” Charles said, as he took the end of the rope and wound it around a steel bar near the open door of the boxcar.

“So, Lord Stanley, Pendragon of the Order of St. Louis, if you don’t give up everyone, you’ll kill off the rest of your family tonight. And Detective Seamus Fields will no longer protect and serve the good citizens of St. Louis again.”

Stanley stared at Seamus, the man who raised him. He could not give up the Order, Father Timothy, Brother Martin, or Mr. Malloy. But he couldn’t commit Seamus to a horrible death either.

As if reading his mind, Seamus said, “Lad, I’m prepared. I went to confession before mass.”

Charles hit Seamus on the head and pushed him to the edge of the boxcar. “Last chance, Fields.” He raised his voice over the sound of the speeding wheels on the track.

Stanley steeled himself and tried to empty himself of any emotion. He wondered if Charles was bluffing. But then he remembered the caves. Swallowing hard, he said, “Go to hell.”

Charles stared at him for a moment with a blank expression. And then said, “Well, according to Seamus, he confessed and was absolved. Let’s test to see if that will keep him from Hades, shall we?”

With that, he leapt into the air and kicked Seamus in the back. His uncle stumbled through the door and into the rushing air. He flew outside, and the rope pulled taunt. The body beat against the metal side of the boxcar with loud thumps as it continued to bounce in the wind.

Stanley let out a deep scream of rage and horror. The train whistle joined him as he screamed. “By all the saints in heaven and on earth, I’m going to end you!”

Charles whipped out a long, curved knife, went over to the rope, and cut it. The body gave one last bang and then the train left it behind, speeding mercilessly into the night.

“We will talk more, Fields, when you get to the island.”