Mrs. Wells had scheduled Sarah’s first class for Tuesday morning. The girls had entered the classroom quietly, almost hesitantly. She could see their wariness and suspicion. Like stray dogs who had been kicked too many times, they trusted no one. The red-haired girl, Maeve, was the worst of all. She glared at Sarah with undisguised animosity.
Sarah forced herself to keep smiling, as if she sensed nothing amiss. At least they were paying attention, she thought, painfully aware of their unblinking stares as she began her lesson. At first they seemed to be afraid to react, but then Sarah said something especially silly, just to test them. Someone in the back giggled, quickly slapping a hand over her mouth as if afraid of being reprimanded, but Sarah laughed, too, and soon they were all laughing. All except Maeve, who continued to glare.
Slowly, Sarah won them over. By the end of the class, they were interrupting each other with questions, raising their hands and waving them to capture her attention, if only for a few moments. When the class was finished and she dismissed them, they jostled each other, pushing and shoving, as they all tried to gather around her at once.
Their faces revealed a variety of ethnic backgrounds, the tongues a babble of different accents, but the eyes were all exactly alike. Every pair held an eager desperation for Sarah’s attention and approval. This, she knew, was why she’d come. Here was her chance to touch these girls’ lives and show them they had other alternatives than the ones they saw around them. She wanted to help them choose the right path so they didn’t end up selling themselves in the streets or worse.
Finally, the bell summoned the girls to their noon meal, and they reluctantly took their leave of her after extracting numerous promises that she would return. Only then did she notice the red-haired girl, Maeve, still lingering. She hadn’t joined the group that had surrounded Sarah but had hung back. When they were alone, she came forward.
“Did you have a question, Maeve?” Sarah asked kindly, hoping to break through the animosity.
Only then did she correctly identify the expression in Maeve’s brown eyes. She was defiant and ... and
haughty.
Sarah could think of no other word to describe her. She came right up, looked Sarah straight in the eye, then turned and walked out of the room. Clearly, she wanted Sarah to know she didn’t need her attention the way the other girls did. She didn’t even
want
it. Sarah couldn’t help wondering why she had felt compelled to inform her of that.
After gathering her things, Sarah went to find Mrs. Wells to take her leave. Everyone was in the dining room. Plank tables had been set up there, and girls of all sizes and shapes lined the benches on either side of them.
“Won’t you join us, Mrs. Brandt?” Mrs. Wells asked before Sarah could say a thing. If she still harbored any reservations about Sarah’s motivations for being there, she hid them well. Her smile was warm and friendly.
“I don’t want to ...” Sarah gestured helplessly. “Imppose.”
“You mean take food out of the children’s mouths?” Mrs. Wells guessed. “Nonsense. We’re just having soup and bread. One serving of each won’t make any difference at all. Please, have a seat.”
She indicated an empty place at the end of one of the tables, across from Maeve and the child Aggie. Maeve didn’t look pleased by Sarah’s choice of seats, but Aggie glanced up when Sarah sat down across from her. Her expression was still solemn, but her eyes danced with mischief.
“Aggie, behave,” Maeve warned sternly, giving Sarah a look that accused her of encouraging bad behavior.
“Maeve, please get Mrs. Brandt some luncheon,” Mrs. Wells said.
Maeve’s expression changed instantly. She smiled, practically beaming with pleasure as she looked up at Mrs. Wells. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, rising so quickly she would have knocked over the bench if the other girls’ weight hadn’t been holding it in place.
“I can serve myself,” Sarah protested, but Maeve didn’t even glance at her. She took her orders from Mrs. Wells and sought only to please her.
“You’re our guest,” Mrs. Wells said, sliding into the bench beside her. She had, Sarah noticed, gotten her own bowl of soup.
“Aggie seems young to be here,” Sarah observed, noticing the next youngest of the girls was at least several years older than the child. Aggie couldn’t be more than five and perhaps as young as three.
“She’s a foundling,” Mrs. Wells explained, giving Aggie a small smile which the child did not return. “We found her sleeping in our doorway one morning several months ago. She was painfully thin and filthy and dressed in rags, and she wouldn’t speak. We tried to find her family, but no one in the neighborhood knew who she was — or at least no one admitted it.”
“She’s still very quiet,” Sarah said, then smiled at Aggie. “Do you like living here, Aggie?”
The little girl did not return the smile, but she nodded slowly, deliberately, proving she’d understood Sarah’s question. Sarah had wondered if the child might be deaf, which would explain her being mute, but apparently, she could hear just fine.
“She still doesn’t speak,” Mrs. Wells explained. “And we don’t really know her name, of course. I named her Agnes, after my mother.”
“Sometimes children stop speaking when they are badly frightened by something,” Sarah said as Maeve returned with her soup and a slice of bread. Sarah didn’t even want to imagine what a child like Aggie might have seen to scare her speechless.
Maeve carried the soup carefully, not allowing so much as a drop to spill. She set it in front of Sarah with the air of one delivering a precious gift, then looked at Mrs. Wells for approval. She didn’t care if Sarah was pleased or not.
“Thank you, Maeve,” Mrs. Wells said, and the girl fairly beamed with pride.
Squaring her narrow shoulders, she took her own seat again, bumping Aggie slightly but deliberately in the process. The smaller girl cast Maeve an annoyed glance, but she didn’t make a fuss. Once again Sarah saw the mischievous gleam in her eyes.
Aggie got up from her place, walked around to where Mrs. Wells sat, and gently tugged at the woman’s sleeve. Mrs. Wells looked down.
“What is it, Aggie?”
The child gave her a beseeching look and held out her arms. No one could have resisted such an appeal. She reached down and lifted the child into her lap. “You haven’t finished your soup,” she said and pulled the child’s bowl over so she could feed her.
Sarah happened to glance over at Maeve and caught a look of sheer loathing in the girl’s honey brown eyes. Jealousy was an ugly thing, Sarah thought, looking to see if the other girls shared this emotion. To her surprise, she saw that most of them were staring at the cozy couple with unabashed envy. When she looked back at Aggie, she caught the little one giving the rest of them a superior smirk that Mrs. Wells couldn’t see.
The hair on Sarah’s arms rose as a chill raced over her. So much for her illusions that the mission was a haven from the evils of the world. If she’d thought of this as Eden, it was an Eden where the serpent operated freely.
Did Mrs. Wells suspect the petty rivalries that existed? Did she realize she was sowing seeds of discord among her charges simply by favoring one who appeared to be weaker and more helpless than the others? Surely not, Sarah decided. Someone as caring as Mrs. Wells wouldn’t consciously foster such rivalries, and she certainly wouldn’t let the rivalries continue if she knew about them. But no wonder so many of the girls backslid, as Mrs. Wells had lamented. They’d come here seeking acceptance and found only more of the rejection they’d known outside.
Sarah was wondering how she could tactfully point out what was happening when Mrs. Wells asked, “How is your soup, Mrs. Brandt?”
“It’s delicious,” Sarah lied, then took her first spoonful. Fortunately, it was tasty enough that she didn’t have to retract her praise.
“We are fortunate that several of the grocers supply us at a very reasonable cost, and my father was a butcher,” she said, feeding Aggie another spoonful of soup. “He always sold the better cuts of meat to his customers, so I learned early in life how to use the parts no one else wanted. We pinch every penny we receive in donations.”
“You must be sure to mention that on Thursday night,” Sarah said. “Which girls will you be bringing with you to the party?”
Instantly, Sarah regretted the question. Although Mrs. Wells seemed unaware of it, Sarah could literally feel the wave of reaction that swept through the room. The eyes of every girl had turned to her. Obviously, they’d known nothing about a party or the prospect of attending. Their desperate longing to be chosen was palpable — and not very pleasant to behold. These were children who very recently would have sold their bodies or even their souls for a crust of bread. What might they do for such an honor as this?
Looking at the desire burning in those eyes, Sarah could almost imagine they might do murder.
“No, Mrs. Brandt,” Mrs. Wells replied, still engrossed in feeding Aggie her soup. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
Frank stifled a yawn as he finished up his report on the warehouse robbery he’d just solved. The hour was late, and he was the last detective still working at Police Headquarters, but Frank had to admit that was the only inconvenience involved. If real business ran as smoothly as criminal business did in the city, Millionaires’ Row would be a hundred miles long, he thought, recalling how easily he’d put this case to rest. The Short Tail Gang had robbed a warehouse of a shipment of dry goods, and the owners had summoned the police. Frank let it be known among his informants that he’d been assigned to the case, and the next day a member of the gang approached him. After some negotiating, they’d settled on the amount of the reward, and he’d notified the owners, who had duly posted it. Then Frank had been able to locate the missing goods exactly where the gang member told him they would be. The owners paid Frank the reward, he gave the gang their share, and everyone was happy. Except, of course, the poor folks who had to pay more for their dry goods to cover the cost of the reward.
Why couldn’t all crimes be solved in such a civilized manner? Frank’s job would be so much easier, and he’d be able to make captain a lot sooner. Making the rank of captain had always been his goal, because of the financial security that came with it. Captains received a percentage of all bribes paid to the men in their command, and they retired as wealthy men. Ever since Brian was born, Frank had believed the child would never be able to earn a living and would need to be supported the rest of his life. A mere policeman or even a detective sergeant couldn’t hope to leave a legacy large enough for that. A captain could, though, even after paying the $14,000 bribe necessary to obtain the appointment.
Brian’s recent operation had taken some of Frank’s “captain” savings, but it had also reduced the possibility that Brian would require the kind of care Frank had once envisioned. The boy was still deaf, but even that might not be much of a handicap. Educators he’d spoken with assured Frank that the boy could learn a trade and make a living. So maybe making captain wasn’t so important after all. Maybe, instead, he had a totally different kind of obligation to his son.
And to Sarah Brandt.
He stacked the reports neatly and filed them. Then he sighed and made his way back down the stairs to the lobby of the building. The offices were mostly empty at this time of night, and the rest of the building was quiet. No one had brought in any prisoners for a while, and those who were already in custody had been locked away two floors below in the dank dungeon that passed for a jail.
Frank wearily headed down the stairs to the cells. The stench of unwashed bodies, vomit, and human waste was like a miasma in this airless, windowless hole. The night guard slept in his chair, snoring loudly, as did many of the inmates who were curled on filthy mattresses or on the even filthier floor. Others sat, sleepless, staring into the constant darkness with haunted eyes.
Frank picked up the guard’s locust and poked it through the bars to prod a body that sat huddled against them, trembling even in sleep. He started awake, coming to his feet instantly, ready to ward off whatever attack was imminent. His crazed gaze finally settled on Frank, standing patiently outside the bars.
“Hello, Billy boy,” Frank said cheerfully. “How are you feeling? Are they taking good care of you down here?”
Billy was the boy Frank had found living in Danny’s hovel. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since Frank had brought him in, but he’d steadfastly refused to betray his friend. Frank could have charged him with assaulting a police officer — for cutting his arm the day he’d tried to arrest Danny — but that would have meant transferring him to the city jail. In spite of its nickname, The Tombs was a palace compared to this lockup. Frank figured Billy would never betray his friend once he’d settled in over there in relative comfort.
Frank had begun to doubt he would break even here, but seeing him now, he realized the fight had finally gone out of the boy. Stronger men than he had broken in this place.
“Get me out of here,” the boy pleaded in a broken whisper.
“I’ll be glad to, just as soon as you tell me what I want to know,” Frank said pleasantly.
“I’ll tell you anything.
Please,”
he added, his youthful face twisting with the effort of begging.
Frank told the guard to let Billy out, and he had the boy taken to an interrogation room on the floor above. He smelled pretty bad, Frank noted when he closed the door to the room behind him. He wore only a ragged pair of pants and an equally disreputable shirt, all he’d had time to grab on his dash out of the hovel after the raid. Shoeless and coatless, he’d suffered from the chill of the cellar in addition to all the other discomforts. A stocky young man, he’d been quite formidable when Frank met him the first time. Now he sat with shoulders hunched and eyes lowered to the table.