“I don’t know about that,” I said, looking to the Doctor.
“But Señorito Stevie-your friend has died-”
“I know,” I answered. “But it might be more complicated than we thought. We need to know-to know why she’s doing this.”
The aborigine gave that a moment’s thought and a sigh before answering, “I tell you, Señorito Stevie-in jungles I have seen in my journeys, there are villagers who live near the lairs and hunting grounds of tigers. Some of these tigers kill men-some do not. No one knows why. But all know that the tigers who do kill must die-for once they drink the blood of man, they never lose the taste for it.” I couldn’t figure how to answer him: half of me knew that what he was saying, terrible as it was, made very real sense. “Señorito Stevie? You are there?”
“I’m here.”
“Will you hunt the tiger with me, or will you try to ‘understand’ it?”
I looked to the Doctor again, knowing, even in my sorrow, what I had to do. “I can’t,” I said, turning away so that the Doctor and Miss Howard wouldn’t hear me. “I can’t do it with you. But you go on. And don’t call here again-they’ll try to stop you.”
There was another pause; then El Niño said, “Yes. It is best, this. It is not for us to decide what is the way-only the gods and fate can determine who will reach her first. I understand you, my friend.”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I understand you, too.”
“I hope I shall see you again. If I do not-remember that I still wear the clothes you gave me. And when I do, I see your face, and feel your friendship. I am proud of this.”
The words put me near to tears again. “I’ve got to go,” I said, replacing the receiver on its little hook before El Niño had a chance to say anything more.
“The aborigine?” the Doctor asked.
I nodded, moving into the kitchen. “He’s down on Bethune Street. She’s back there with Ana. But the neighborhood’s crawling with Dusters.”
“I see.” The Doctor started pacing around the kitchen table. “Has she returned to the house simply to collect her things? Or to rid herself of the burden of Ana Linares in the safety of her secret hideaway?” After pondering this for a few seconds, the Doctor rapped a fist on the table. “In either case, we have run out of time-the crisis will play out tonight. If Marcus is successful, we can use the full power of the Police Department to enter the house. If not-”
“But even if he is,” Miss Howard added, “can we be sure she won’t harm the child before we get there? Or while we’re trying to get in?”
“We can be sure of nothing,” the Doctor answered. “But we must try to attend to what we can. With that in mind, Sara, I suggest that you call Señora Linares. Advise her that we must now take action, and that its results may not please her husband. She may wish to seek safety in some place other than her own home.” Nodding in agreement, Miss Howard moved to the phone just as Cyrus entered the kitchen and put a strong, comforting hand to my shoulder. “Ah, Cyrus,” the Doctor went on. “Some of your excellent coffee is called for, I think-we won’t be catching up on our sleep anytime soon, and clear heads will be needed.”
“Yes, sir,” Cyrus answered. Then he looked down at me. “Might be enough time for you to get a little rest, Stevie. You could use it.”
I just shook my head. “I don’t want to sleep,” I said, remembering what’d happened the last time I’d drifted off. “Make that coffee strong, though.”
“Always do,” Cyrus said. “Oh, and Doctor-the detective sergeant asked me to tell you that he’s gone down to headquarters to give his brother a hand. Says he’s worried about how long it’s taking.”
“As am I,” the Doctor answered, checking his watch. “It would seem, on the surface, to be a fairly straightforward matter. Like so many things about this case…”
Not really feeling ready yet to talk about the particulars of what we were going to do next, I wandered on upstairs, where I found Mr. Moore in the parlor. He’d turned one of the Doctor’s easy chairs around to face a window what he’d opened, so’s he could get a good view of the storm what was continuing to batter the city. Collapsing onto the nearby settee, I joined him in quietly studying the wind-tossed trees in Stuyvesant Park.
“Hell of a storm,” I mumbled, looking over to see that Mr. Moore’s face was full of the same kind of sadness and confusion that was eating away at my own soul.
“Hell of a summer,”he answered. “But the weather’s always crazy in this goddamned town…” He managed to turn to me for just a few quick seconds. “I really am sorry, Stevie.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Me, too. I mean, about Mr. Picton…”
Mr. Moore nodded and let out a big gush of air, shaking his head. “So now we’re supposed to catch this woman,” he mumbled. “Catch her and study her. It’s not exactly what I’m in the mood for.”
“No,” I agreed.
He held a finger up like he was lecturing the angry heavens. “Rupert,” he said, “never believed you could learn anything from killers after you’d caught them. He said it was like trying to study the hunting habits of wild animals by watching feeding time at a menagerie. He’d have been the first to say that we should kill this bitch if we get the chance.”
“It might happen,” I said with a shrug. “El Niño’s still out there somewhere. And he won’t stop to ask her why she does the things she does. All he’ll want is a clear shot when she’s not holding the baby.”
“Well, I hope he gets one,” Mr. Moore answered flatly. “Or, for that matter, that I do.”
I looked at him again. “You really think you could kill her?”
“Could you?” he answered, going for a cigarette.
I shrugged. “I been thinking about that. Might as well be me as some electrician at Sing Sing, if she’s gonna die. But… I don’t know. Won’t bring anybody back.”
Mr. Moore hissed out smoke as he lit his stick. “You know,” he said, his face still looking sad, but irritated, too, “I’ve always hated that expression.”
For a few more minutes we sat quietly, starting every now and then when a big clap of thunder boomed or a bolt of lightning shot down into what seemed like the heart of the city. Then the other three joined us, Cyrus carrying a coffee service and setting it down on the rolling cocktail cart. The Doctor could read Mr. Moore’s and my moods well enough not to start talking about any plans right away, so we all just drank the coffee and watched the storm for another half hour or so-until a hansom pulled up at the curb outside and produced the two detective sergeants. They’d pretty obviously been bickering inside the cab, and they kept right on going when they got into the house: things, it seemed, had not gone well downtown.
“It’s cowardice,” Marcus explained, after taking a careful moment to tell me how sorry he was about Kat. “Absolute cowardice! Oh, they’ll get the warrant authorized, all right, but if apprehending the woman means going up against the Dusters, they’re not interested.”
“I’ve been trying to remind my brother,” Lucius said, pouring himself a cup of coffee, “of what happened the last time the Police Department attempted a large-scale confrontation with the Hudson Dusters. An embarrassing number of officers ended up in the hospital. Kids on the West Side still taunt patrolmen by singing little ditties about it.”
“And let’s not forget who can generally be found hanging around the Dusters’ place,” Miss Howard added. “A lot of well-connected people in this town like to go down there to take cocaine and romanticize about the lives of gangsters. The fools.”
“That doesn’t excuse cowardice,” Marcus insisted, himself going for some of Cyrus’s brew. “Damn it, we’re talking about one woman who is a mass murderer, for God’s sake. And the department doesn’t want to get involved because they’re afraid they’ll lose face?”