Spirits in the Park (43 page)

Kieft stepped over to a large cabinet that took up an entire wall in the dingy little room. Askook stood next to his master, but not too close, as Kieft reached out and flung open the door. Askook began to chuckle bitterly.

“I will never doubt you again,” he said.

“Of course you won't,” Kieft replied. A smile finally made an appearance on the old god's face, which was reflected in the hundreds of shiny new knives that hung in the long cabinet. Each one capable of ending a god's life.

“You could slit every god's throat at once with these.” Askook marveled.

“I won't be slitting anyone's throat,” Kieft said. “After all, they would see me coming. But there will be blood. More blood than you could possibly imagine. Soon we will be floating in it.”

Askook took in the sight of those shiny blades and his heart settled. There would be no triumphing over all this death. This war would end all wars. And judging from Kieft's smile, the ancient god had no doubt who would win.

The sun had broken through the clouds as the remnants of the great storm moved on. Cars began to make their way cautiously around the traffic circle, and tourists were emerging from their hiding places inside the nearest buildings. There was some damage visible from the wind and lightning, with many downed streetlamps and broken glass littering the streets, but all in all, a sense of relief permeated the air. In the aftermath of the storm, the heat had broken. The city was returning to normal, slowly but surely.

The Rattle Watch sat in the center of the plaza on the steps leading up to the pedestal. Sergeant Kiffer and Hans had returned from the park, where'd they let Pierre go to bury his grandson. The old man was broken, they reasoned, and not a threat anymore. Hans's arm was completely useless, but he didn't appear depressed. Instead, the battle roach began to outline plans for a bionic arm, excitedly sketching it with his good arm in the dirt at their feet. Rory lay back, staring up at the blue sky, while Nicholas, Lincoln, and Alexa argued with Simon, trying to get him to remove his locket. Finally, they broke Simon down.

“I can't!” he admitted. “It won't come off. I tried earlier today, when I found myself thinking about china patterns. It's horrible! What do I care about dishes? I eat off my lap most of the time! But now I can hear their prayers. ‘Please don't break' is the one I get the most, followed closely by ‘please don't ask me to use it.' It's driving me crazy!”

“There has to be some way to get it off you,” Nicholas said while Alexa smiled behind her hand. She had a bandage wrapped around her forehead, but otherwise she seemed all right. “We'll find it, I promise.”

“Good.” Simon sighed, his head in his hands. “Godhood sucks.”

Bridget sat on the other side of Nicholas, Toy's body at her feet. She smoothed his paper hair with her own paper hand, sadness written across her face.

“He was a real hero,” she said. “He saved us all so many times. Right back to the first time he refused to turn the key. I hope he's at peace now.”

Fritz stood on the other side of Toy's body, his helmet under his arm.

“I'm sure he is,” he said softly. “You deserved so much better, Jason. But you did us all proud in the end.”

A tear ran down his cheek.

“We should bury him,” Bridget said, turning to Rory.

“We will, in the park,” Rory replied.

“Good.” Bridget sat back and sighed. “I wish I could have seen Dad. Do you think he'll come back to see me?”

Her shoulders slumped. Fritz climbed up next to her.

“He sailed into the mist a thousand times,” Fritz said, his voice certain. “And he always came back. Many sailors haven't. There are hundreds of islands out there, many of them very livable, from what I've heard. He could have easily stayed away forever. But he always came back. You'll see him again, I promise it. And maybe then you'll get the rest of your answers.”

Rory nodded, though he wasn't sure if he believed it.

“We can't get too comfortable,” Nicholas warned them all. “I don't think Kieft is done.”

“But my job is over, right?” Rory asked. “I opened the Trap.”

“Turning that key didn't stop you from being a Light, Rory,” Alexa told him. “You're still very much a part of Mannahatta and we need you. The belt might be gone, but you still have valuable powers.”

Rory didn't want to mention the strange feelings that had been running through him ever since Caesar had melted the belt off his body. Every once in a while the world looked and felt like it had when he was wearing the belt, even though the belt was no more. But then the feeling would go away. He didn't know what to make of it.

“I'll help if I can,” he said while Bridget leaped to her feet.

“Of course we'll help, in any way you need!” she exclaimed. “We're in the Rattle Watch, right? That's our job! To protect the innocent and weak and short and ugly!”

“Something like that.” Nicholas laughed.

Rory stood up.

“We need to get you back to your real body, Bridget,” he said. “It's waiting for you at Washington Irving's house. But first, I think we should lay Toy to rest. Anyone coming with me?”

“Of course we are,” Nicholas said. “He was practically one of us.”

“I'm dying to see what the park looks like,” Simon said. “It's been locked away since before I was born.”

“Let's go, then.” Alexa hopped to her feet and reached down to lift Toy up in her arms.”

Together, they crossed the street, passing below the statue of the gilded lady and into the park. The sun slowly dried up the pools of rainwater, and soon the only remains of the great storm lay in memory. But that memory lived on long after the day, though it shifted and grew until not even those who'd lived through it could agree on what had happened exactly. Their outlandish stories were never particularly close to the truth. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that they remembered.

EPILOGUE

M
rs. Hennessy was feeling ragged. Both her children had been ill for a few days now, and she had taken off from work to care for them, which didn't please her boss at the law firm. Mr. Corgin had very little patience for her family responsibilities, constantly reminding her that there were plenty of young up-and-comers willing to work all hours for a chance at her job. He might be bluffing, since she knew she was no slouch, but then again, he might not. And since they'd been sick, Rory and Bridget both seemed . . . odd to her. They didn't laugh as loud or complain as often or argue as vehemently as they should have. Something was going on with them, and, as usual, she had no idea what it was.

The doorbell rang. Mrs. Hennessy had been sitting, exhausted, at the kitchen table, having finally coaxed her children to sleep. She forced herself to her feet and shuffled over to the door. Mrs. Mallon, a middle-aged woman with bright red hair who had moved in next door the day before, stood on the other side, a big pot in her hand.

“Here you go, dear, for the children!” she said. Mrs. Hennessy took the pot being offered her with a tired but thankful smile and carried it inside. Mrs. Mallon followed her in, closing the door behind her.

“It's chicken noodle,” she said. “It's simple, but it works. You should have some yourself.”

“I'm sure it's wonderful, Mrs. Mallon,” Mrs. Hennessy assured her, placing the pot on the stove. “Maybe I'll try it. It's only that my stomach has been so crazy lately I haven't been able to eat more than some crackers . . .”

“I wonder why that is,” Mrs. Mallon said, pretending to think. “Oh yes, your two sick children and your pressure-cooker job. That's enough to turn anyone's appetite. But this one is much gentler on the digestion. You could eat with no worries.”

“I'll think about it,” Mrs. Hennessy said, grateful for the sympathy. “I've just been overtaxed. Actually, would you mind if I cut short our visit today? I'm feeling a bit tired.”

“Sure, of course,” Mrs. Mallon said, reaching to give her a hug. Even though she liked the other woman, Mrs. Hennessy still felt a wave of nausea hit her as she put her arms around Mrs. Mallon. The woman let off a slight scent of decay, like rotting leaves. Mrs. Hennessy hid her reaction as always and patted the other woman on the shoulder. Mrs. Mallon couldn't help how she smelled.

“Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary. It's what anyone would do in my place. And please, call me Mary.”

Mrs. Hennessy nodded as Mary Mallon turned and left, leaving her alone with her children sleeping in the next room. A moment later she absently grabbed a spoon. She slid the large pot across the countertop, lifting off the lid. It certainly looked tasty. Even though she still felt queasy, she wanted to eat something, to keep up her strength. No harm in a taste, she decided. She dipped her spoon in, taking a big spoonful of Mrs. Mallon's gift and swallowing it down. It was so good, she wanted more. She took another large mouthful. So good, she thought. She hoped she'd leave something for her kids. She leaned over the pot on her counter, drinking directly from the cookware. This is more like it, she thought. I feel better already . . .

FIRST OF ALL, THE BIGGEST OF THANKS to my editor Julie Strauss-Gabel. This was not the easiest book to write, and it took a bit longer than expected to finish, and her patience and fortitude were taxed to the limit. She deserves a vacation (a real one, not one where she has to read my manuscript by the pool). Thanks to my agent, David Dunton, for his wisdom and support (and to his son, Noah, for taking a gander at an early draft). Thanks to the folks at Dutton for their enthusiasm and hard work. Thanks to my friends and family, especially my wife Kristina, who had to put up with my late night disappearances into my office to work on the evening's pages. And a special thanks to all the independent booksellers, bloggers, and librarians out there who championed Gods of Manhattan. You are the backbone of any success I've had.