Dark River (18 page)

Maya sat next to the tiller as Mackintosh turned the boat around and headed up the Thames. A rainstorm had surged through the city’s drainage system, and the water had turned dark green. The dense fog made it difficult to see more than ten feet in any direction, but the bearded man was able to navigate without visible landmarks. They passed a clanging buoy in the middle of the river and Mackintosh nodded his head. “That one sounds like an old church bell on a cold day.”

Fog drifted around them, and the damp coldness made her shiver. The splashing waves disappeared, and they passed a dock with yachts and other pleasure boats. Maya heard a car horn in the distance.

“We’re in Limehouse Basin,” Mackintosh explained. “They used to bring everything here and dump it on barges. Ice and timber. Coal from Northumberland. This was the mouth of London, swallowing everything up so the canals could take it to the rest of the body.”

The fog parted slightly as the narrow boat entered the concrete channel that led to the first canal lock. Mackintosh climbed a ladder to shore, closed a pair of wooden gates behind the boat, then pushed a white lever. Water surged into the lock and the boat rose up from the level of the basin to the canal.

Weeds and scrubland were on the left side of the canal; a flagstone pathway and a brick building with barred windows were on the right. It felt as if they had entered the London of an earlier time, a place with carriages and chimney soot that lingered in the air. Passing beneath a railway bridge, they continued up the canal. The water was shallow, and a few times the bottom of the boat scraped across sand and gravel. They had to stop every twenty minutes to enter a lock and rise up to the next level. Waterweeds brushed against the bow of the slowly moving boat.

Around six o’clock, they passed through the last canal and approached Camden Town. This once run-down neighborhood had become a site for small restaurants, art galleries, and a weekend street fair. Mackintosh pulled over to one side of the canal and unloaded the canvas shoulder bags that contained the women’s belongings. Vicki had bought clothes for Alice back in New York, and everything was stuffed into a pink knapsack that had a unicorn on the back.

“Go up to the road and look for an African bloke named Winston,” Mackintosh said. “He’ll take you where you want to go.”

Maya led Vicki and Alice up the pathway to the road that cut through Camden. A Harlequin lute was scrawled on the sidewalk, and it had a small arrow pointing north.

They walked about a hundred yards on the sidewalk to a white van with an interlocking diamond pattern painted on the side. A young Nigerian with a round, chubby face got out and opened the side door of the van. “Good evening, madams. I am Winston Abosa, your guide and driver. I am most pleased to welcome you to Britain.”

They got into the back and sat on steel benches welded to the walls. A metal grate separated this cargo area from the two front seats. Winston made several turns down the narrow streets of Camden. The van stopped, and suddenly the side door was yanked open. A big man with a shaven head and blunt nose peered in.

Linden.

THE FRENCH HARLEQUIN wore a long black overcoat and dark clothing. A carrying case for his sword hung from his shoulder. Linden had always reminded Maya of a foreign legionnaire who had no allegiance to anything except his comrades and fighting.

“Bonsoir, Maya. You’re still alive.” He smiled as if her continued survival were a subtle joke. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Did you find Gabriel?”

“Nothing so far. But I don’t believe the Tabula have found him either.” Linden sat on a bench nearest the driver and slipped a piece of paper through the grate. “Good evening, Mr. Abosa. Please take us to this address.”

Winston pulled back onto the street and headed north through London. Linden placed his broad hands on his legs and studied the other passengers.

“I assume you are Mademoiselle Fraser.”

“Yes.” Vicki looked intimidated.

Linden glanced at Alice Chen as if she were a plastic bag of trash retrieved from the narrow boat. “And this is the child from New Harmony?”

“Where are we going?” Maya asked.

“As your father used to tell me: ‘Solve the first problem first.’ These days, there are very few orphanages, but one of our Sikh friends found a foster home in Clapton where a woman takes in children.”

“Will Alice be given a new identity?” Maya asked.

“I’ve obtained a birth certificate and passport. She’s been renamed Jessica Moi. Parents killed in a plane crash.”

Winston drove slowly through the rush-hour traffic, and forty minutes later he pulled over to the curb. “Here we are, sir,” he said softly.

Linden opened the side door and everyone got out. They were in Clapton near Hackney in North London. The residential street was lined with two-story brick terrace houses that had probably been built in the early 1900s. For years the neighborhood had presented a respectable face to the world, but now it was tired of keeping up appearances. Pools of dirty rainwater filled potholes in the street and pavement. The patches of ground in front of each building were overgrown with weeds and cluttered with plastic bins stuffed with garbage. A wanted poster for a lost dog was stapled to a tree, and the rain had made each letter bleed wavery black lines.

Linden glanced up and down the street. No obvious danger. He jerked his head at Vicki. “Take the girl’s hand.”

“Her name is Alice.” Vicki had a stubborn look on her face. “You should say her name, Mr.— Mr. Linden.”

“Her name is not important, mademoiselle. In five minutes she will have a new one.”

Vicki took Alice’s hand. The girl’s eyes were frightened, questioning. What’s going on? Why are you doing this to me?

Maya turned away from her. The little group walked down the sidewalk to number seventeen, and Linden knocked on the door.

Rain had trickled down the side of the house and swollen the door frame. Now the door was stuck, and they could hear a woman cursing as the knob moved back and forth. Finally the door popped open, and Maya saw a sixtyish woman standing in the hallway. She had stocky legs and broad shoulders, dyed blond hair with gray roots. Not foolish, Maya thought. A false smile on a shrewd face.

“Welcome, ducks. I’m Janice Stillwell.” She focused on Linden. “And you must be Mr. Carr. We’ve been waiting for you. Our friend Mr. Singh told me you were looking for a foster home.”

“That’s correct.” Linden stared at her like a detective who had just encountered a new suspect. “May we come in?”

“Of course. Where are my manners? It’s been a drab little day, hasn’t it? Time for a cup of tea.”

The house smelled like cigarette smoke and urine. A skinny little red-haired boy wearing nothing but a man’s T-shirt sat halfway up the staircase in front of them. He retreated to the second floor as they followed Mrs. Stillwell into a front room with a window that faced the street. On one side of the room was a large television set playing a cartoon about robots. The sound was off, but a Pakistani boy and a small black girl sat on the couch, staring at the garish images.

“Some of the children,” Mrs. Stillwell explained. “Right now, we’re taking care of six. Yours would be lucky number seven. We got Gloria here from the court system. Ahmed is a private arrangement.” Looking annoyed, she clapped her hands. “That’s enough, you two. Can’t you see we’ve got guests?”

The two children glanced at each other and left the room. Mrs. Stillwell herded Vicki and Alice over to the couch, but Maya and Linden remained standing. “Tea, anyone?” Mrs. Stillwell asked. “Cup of tea?” Some animal part of her sensed that the two Harlequins were dangerous. Her face was flushed and she kept glancing at Linden’s hands— the blunt fingers and scarred knuckles.

A shadow appeared in the doorway, and then an older man smoking a cigarette entered the room. An alcoholic’s saggy face. Frayed trousers and a stained pullover. “This the new one?” the man asked, looking at Alice.

“My husband, Mr. Stillwell…”

“So we got two blacks, two whites, Ahmed and Gerald, who’s a mixed-breed. She’ll be our first Chinese.” Mr. Stillwell made a wheezy little laugh. “Bloody United Nations around here.”

“What’s your name?” Mrs. Stillwell asked Alice.

Alice sat on the edge of the couch with her feet flat on the rug. Maya moved toward the doorway in case the child tried to run away.

“Is she deaf or retarded?” Mr. Stillwell asked.

“Maybe she only speaks Chinese.” Mrs. Stillwell leaned over the child. “You speakee English? This is your new home.”

“Alice doesn’t talk at all,” Vicki said. “She needs special help.”

“We don’t give special help, ducks. We just feed and water them.”

“You’ve been offered five hundred pounds a month,” Linden said. “I’ll make that a thousand if you take her right now. Three months from now, Mr. Singh will check on the situation. If there’s a problem, he’ll take her away.”

The Stillwells glanced at each other and nodded. “A thousand pounds is all right,” Mr. Stillwell said. “I can’t work anymore because of me back….”

Alice jumped off the couch and ran toward the door. Instead of trying to get away, she flung her arms around Maya.

Vicki was crying. “Don’t,” she whispered to Maya. “Don’t let them do this.”

Maya felt the child’s body pressed against her, the slender arms holding tight. No one had ever touched her like this before. Save me.

“Let go, Alice.” Maya’s voice was deliberately harsh. “Let go of me right now.”

The little girl sighed and then stepped away. For some reason, the act of obedience made everything worse. If Alice had fought to leave the house, Maya would have twisted the child’s arms back and forced her onto the floor. But Alice obeyed, just like Maya had obeyed Thorn all those years ago. And the memories pushed into Maya’s thoughts, almost overpowering her— the brutal slaps and shouting, the betrayal in the underground when her father had set her up to fight three grown men. Perhaps the Harlequins defended the Travelers, but they also defended their own arrogant pride.

Ignoring the others, she faced Linden. “Alice isn’t staying here. She’s going with me.”

“That’s not possible, Maya. I’ve already made the decision.”

Linden’s right hand touched his sword case and then dropped to his side. Maya was the only other person in the room who understood that gesture. Harlequins never made empty threats. If they ended up fighting, he would try to kill her.

“Do you think you can intimidate me?” Maya said. “I’m Thorn’s daughter. Damned by the flesh. Saved by the blood.”

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Mr. Stillwell asked.

“Be quiet,” Linden said.

“I will not be quiet! You just made an agreement for a thousand quid a month. There might not be a written contract, but I know my rights as an Englishman!”

Without warning, Linden crossed the room, grabbed Stillwell’s throat with one hand, and began to squeeze. Mrs. Stillwell didn’t rush to help her husband. Her mouth opened and shut as if she were swallowing air.

“Now, ducks,” she murmured. “Ducks…Ducks…”

“On certain occasions, I let a taint like you speak to me,” Linden said. “That permission has been withdrawn. Do you understand? Show me you understand!”

Stillwell’s face was bright red. He managed to nod slightly, his eyes jerking back and forth. Linden let go and the old man collapsed onto the floor.

“You know our obligation,” Linden said to Maya. “There’s no way you can fulfill that promise and keep this child.”

“Alice saved me when I was in New York. I was in a dangerous place and she risked her life to grab a pair of night-vision goggles. I have an obligation to her as well.”

Linden’s face was frozen, and his entire body was tense. His fingers touched the sword case a second time. Directly behind the Harlequin, a silent television showed images of happy children eating breakfast cereal.

“I’ll watch Alice,” Vicki said. “I promise. I’ll do everything….”

Linden pulled a wallet out of his coat pocket, took out some fifty-pound notes, and tossed them onto the floor like pieces of trash.

“You have no idea what pain is—real pain,” he told the Stillwells. “Mention this to anyone and you’ll find out.”

“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Stillwell babbled. “We understand, sir.”

Linden marched from the room. The Stillwells were on their hands and knees, scrambling for the money, when the rest of the group walked out.

** CHAPTER 17

Clutching a straight razor, Jugger scowled and slashed the air near Gabriel’s head. “The Ripper has returned to London and he’s hungry for blood!”

Sebastian was sitting in a lawn chair next to the portable electric heater. He looked up from his paperback copy of Dante’s Inferno and frowned. “Stop playing the fool, Jugger. Just finish the job.”

“I’m finishing. In fact, this is one of my better efforts.”

Jugger squirted some shaving cream on the tips of his fingers, dabbed it on the skin near Gabriel’s ears, and then used the razor to cut off the American’s sideburns. When he was done, he wiped off the residue with his shirtsleeve and grinned. “There you go, mate. You’re a new man.”

Gabriel got up from the stool and walked over to the cast-off mirror hanging on the wall near the door. The cracked glass cut a jagged line through his body, but he could see that Jugger had given him a very short military haircut. His new appearance wasn’t on the level of Maya’s special contact lenses and finger shields, but it was better than nothing.

“Isn’t Roland supposed to be back by now?” Gabriel asked.

Jugger checked the time on his mobile phone. “It’s his turn for dinner tonight, so he’s buying food. You helping him cook?”

“I don’t think so. Not after I burned the spaghetti sauce last night. I asked him to check something out for me. That’s all.”

“He’ll handle it, mate. Roland’s good at simple tasks.”

“Unbelievable! Dante just fainted again.” Disgusted, Sebastian threw the book onto the floor. “Virgil should have guided a Free Runner through hell.”

Gabriel left what used to be a front parlor and climbed up the narrow wooden staircase to his room. Frost decorated the upper walls and he could see his breath. For the last ten days, he had been living with Jugger, Sebastian, and Roland in a squat called the Vine House on the south bank of the Thames. The ramshackle three-story building had once been a farmhouse in the middle of the vineyards and vegetable gardens that supplied London.