Taking two or three heavy breaths to try to calm the pounding in my chest brought on by the possible death of Mr. Picton and the definite danger that Kat had suddenly been placed in, I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “There’s just one thing…”
Going to the staircase doorway, I made a little hissing sound in Mr. Moore’s direction. I had to do it two or three times before I got his attention, and then finally he turned.
“Mr. Moore!” I whispered; then I urged him over with a wave of my hands.
Moving slowly and keeping his eyes locked on Mr. Picton, he joined us in the staircase. “What is it, Stevie?”
“Mr. Moore,” I said, shuffling in my anxiousness, “I’ve-we’ve-we’re going. Now.”
That got his attention, and he turned his tear-stained face to me fully. “What do you mean?”
“She’s got a long lead,” I answered. “The rest of you have to take care of Mr. Picton and clear things with the sheriff. By the time all that happens…”
Mr. Moore pondered that for a second, then grabbed another quick look at Mr. Picton. “But what can you-” Turning back to us and looking down, he suddenly caught sight of El Niño’s kris. When he did, his face filled with darkness-but not disapproval. “How will you go?”
“We’ll manage,” I answered. “But we’ll need a little bit of a start.”
Looking to his blood-soaked friend again, Mr. Moore reached into his pocket and pulled out his billfold. “You’ll need money, too,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“You’ll help us?” I said, a slight tremble of relief coursing through me.
Mr. Moore nodded once. “Kreizler’ll have my guts for garters,” he whispered. “But it’s the only way.” He forked over a wad of bills, everything he had, then put one hand on my shoulder and the other on El Niño’s. “Don’t tell me how you’ll get there-I can’t reveal what I don’t know. And watch yourselves. We’ll follow as soon as we can. As soon as-”
“I know,” I said. “And tell the Doctor-” I glanced into the room once more to look at the man who’d done so much for me in my life, and who I was now defying. “Tell the Doctor I’m sorry…”
“I know,” Mr. Moore answered. “Don’t worry-and don’t waste any more time. Just go, and do what you have to.” He gave me a hard, meaningful stare. “Go, Stevepipe…”
Then he turned and went back to the others, while El Niño and I quietly but quickly took to the stone steps, moving with the practiced skill of two people who’d spent many years mastering the art of stealth.
CHAPTER 52
“When El Niño and I reached Mr. Wooley’s stables, we found the liveryman up and sending Mrs. Hastings and Marcus off in the specially padded rig (he’d put a feather mattress in the bed) what the Doctor’d ordered. We waited for the man to go back into his house, figuring he would never have agreed to hire one of his animals out to a pair like us; then we shot over to the barn, where I made short work of a big but simple padlock with the set of picks in my pocket. Once inside, I looked around for the little Morgan what I knew to be such a strong, reliable animal; finding him, I told El Niño to get a bridle and saddle ready, while I scrounged around in an old desk by the door for a pencil and a scrap of paper. I wrote out a note explaining where Mr. Wooley could locate his animal-at the Troy train station-and then folded the note up with more than enough cash to cover the “loan.”
By the time I was finished, El Niño had the horse ready to ride; and as it turned out that he’d done some time with a band of horse-riding raiders in French Indochina, I helped him shorten the stirrups and then let him take the front of the saddle and the reins, while I got behind and grabbed on to his shoulders. Moving at a quiet walk out past Mr. Wooley’s house, we picked up a little speed as we trotted toward the southeast edge of town; and once on the Malta road, the aborigine turned the Morgan loose, so that we began to fly along at a pace what was both jarring and reassuring.
It was better than twenty miles to Troy, but that little Morgan-though loaded down with two riders-made short work of it, as I’d expected and hoped he would. Less encouraging was the news we received at the station: we’d missed the last passenger train to New York for the night, and we wouldn’t be able to secure seats on another until six P.M.But there was a West Shore Railroad freight train due through in another twenty minutes; and so, leaving our trusted mount behind, the aborigine and I made our way to the edge of the station yard, where we waited to hop aboard one of the boxcars of the train as it slowed to pass through the city. This arrangement, though less comfortable and picturesque than a ride in a passenger car (the West Shore traveled on inland tracks as far south as Poughkeepsie), turned out to be far better suited to our purposes, being as the freighter only made a few stops on its journey south; and though its final destination was Weehawken, New Jersey, across the Hudson from Manhattan, there was a ferry line based in that town, one whose boats ran all night across the water to Franklin Street, which was only some twenty-five blocks south of the Dusters’ headquarters on Hudson Street.
None of which made the trip any easier on our spirits. For the first part of the train journey El Niño just sat in the open doorway of our box car, staring at the black countryside what was passing around us. Sometimes he looked like the hate he now felt for Libby Hatch had turned him to stone; other times his face softened and he wept quietly into his hands or knocked his head against the wooden doorway. Nothing I found to say consoled him, though I’ll admit my efforts weren’t the most determined; besides still being nearly heartbroken myself over what’d happened to Mr. Picton, I was far too worried about Kat to make any claim that things would all turn out all right in the end. And so when the west bank of the Hudson came back into view below Poughkeepsie, I just sat beside the aborigine and took to staring out at the river, trying but failing not to calculate how much blood Mr. Picton must’ve lost in the long minutes he’d lay there alone on the basement floor of the court house or how fast Libby Hatch might’ve gotten out of Ballston Spa.
That Libby’d arrive in New York considerably ahead of us was a given; the only question was what she would do when she got there. Was her main concern now getting rid of all traces of Ana Linares, securing what money she could from Goo Goo Knox, and then heading out of the state, probably to the West, where wanted criminals could and often did disappear into new lives under assumed names? Such would’ve been the most logical set of moves, but nobody’d ever accused Libby Hatch of being logical. Clever and devious, yes, to a point what sometimes made her look brilliant; but at bottom her actions-her whole life-were deathly nonsensical, and I knew that if I was going to predict her next steps I’d have to think like the Doctor, instead of drawing on my lifelong experience with criminals whose goals were more practical.
As we crossed into New Jersey and dawn started to turn the sky a strange, glowing blue I put my mind to this task and came up with only one consideration what I figured was cause for hope: with all that she’d been through upstate, with all that’d been discovered and revealed about her life of murder and destruction, Libby’s desire and even need to keep Ana alive-to nurture her as a way of proving that she could, finally, care properly for a child-would be increased. She’d try to escape the city, there was no question about that; but I figured she’d make the attempt with the baby, and so long as she didn’t try to do Ana any harm, there wouldn’t be any cause for Kat to try to step in and maybe get herself killed. This reasoning was, I told myself, sound; and I clung to it as tightly as our train hugged the inner side of the Palisades on its way into Weehawken.