The Edge of Dreams (3 page)

“I don’t think any killings are completely random,” I said. “A person must have a reason for that first killing. Nobody suddenly decides one day to go out and just kill somebody, anybody. Someone has upset him, or thwarted him, or he’s decided he hates all women, or black people, or Italians … but there has to be some kind of rationale behind the first murder.”

Daniel shook his head. “The first murder that we know about was a simpleminded old woman who lived in a small house in Brooklyn. Who would want her out of the way?”

“The other possibility, of course,” I said tentatively, “is that only one of the murders is important. The real murder is hidden behind the smoke screen of random killings.”

He frowned, considering this. “You think so? Yes, I suppose that is possible. All right. I’ll go through the list again, although I’ve been through it a hundred times already.”

“So who were the rest of the victims? Were they also in Brooklyn? Also feebleminded?”

Daniel smiled and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Molly. I really don’t want to involve you in this. Besides, I’m too tired to talk.” He pushed his plate away. “I’m even too tired to eat. Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

I helped him up from the chair and he held my hand as we walked through to the bedroom.

*   *   *

I slept fitfully that night, unable to shake the worrying thought that out of all the policemen in New York, a violent and disturbed person had selected my husband as the recipient of his notes. As I lay awake, listening to Daniel’s rhythmic breathing, I longed to help—not just because of my incurable curiosity, but because I hated to see my husband so tired and worried. We had come a long way, Daniel and I. At the beginning of our relationship he had dismissed my detective skills as sheer female luck, but over the years he had come to admit, grudgingly, that I was actually a good detective. But that had never extended to asking for my help on a case. Pride, I suspected. Daniel Sullivan was a proud man.

But that didn’t stop me from toying with the information he had shared with me.
Why send cryptic notes to a particular member of the police?
I asked myself. Because our murderer wanted to feel clever. He enjoyed stumping the police and making them appear stupid. But why Daniel? Was it as simple as seeing Daniel’s picture in a newspaper, after he had solved a crime or arrested a criminal, and feeling animosity toward him? Or had this to do with some time he and Daniel had crossed paths—a criminal Daniel had put behind bars, maybe, now out of prison again and bearing a grudge?

I decided to mention this to Daniel in the morning, but I was still sleeping when I sensed he had gotten out of bed, and I came to consciousness fully only to hear the front door slam behind him. Liam awoke and demanded to be fed. We breakfasted. I bathed him and we were ready to visit Sid and Gus just after eight o’clock. But they lived a civilized and childless existence. They were not used to receiving visitors at such an ungodly hour. Still, I didn’t want to linger in that cramped and airless little apartment. I’d take the elevated railway down to Greenwich Village and if we arrived too early, I could amuse Liam by letting him watch the people and pigeons in Washington Square, or even buy some fresh fruit in the Jefferson Market.

It was an overcast morning, rather uncomfortably warm, with a heaviness to the air promising rain or even thunder later. Ninth Avenue was busy with early-morning activity—people hurrying on their way to work and shopkeepers winding out awnings, putting out trays of vegetables, bric-a-brac, flowers, books. Smart carriages and hansom cabs raced past. Delivery drays lumbered along and there was even an occasional automobile, dodging in and out of slower traffic and impatiently tooting its horn, which delighted Liam. I should have been enjoying the scene but I couldn’t shake off a feeling of uneasiness. I found I was glancing over my shoulder as if someone was watching me—which of course was absurd, since nobody knew I was in this part of the city.

When we reached the Fifty-ninth Street station I realized my folly at coming out so early. The platform was jam-packed with business people, traveling down to the commercial center of the city at the southern tip of Manhattan. I was half-minded to go back down the stairs and hail one of those cabs. But that would have been an extravagance we couldn’t afford, especially with the added expense of furnishing our house looming. I still hadn’t had time to ask Daniel where the money was going to come from to buy those bed linens and kitchen supplies. That was one of the problems with being a policeman’s wife—there was never time just to sit and talk. And there was too much time to worry, alone.

A train came rumbling down the track toward us, the bright disk on the front of the locomotive revealing it to be a Sixth Avenue local. Just what I wanted. But apparently so did everyone else. The crowd surged forward and I saw to my dismay that the carriages were already full. A portly man with muttonchop whiskers, wearing a derby hat, saw me carrying a baby and stepped aside for me to get on board, but just at that moment a man came hurtling past, nearly knocking me over as he ran down the platform. My protector in the derby hat leaped to my aid, muttering curses at the unchivalrous lout, and as he did so the doors slammed, the whistle blew, and the train pulled out.

“No matter,” my portly protector said. “See, another train is right behind it. They come thick and fast at this time of the day, and I’ll wager this one is less crowded too.”

As it rattled into the station and pulled up with a squeaking of breaks, I saw that it wasn’t a Sixth Avenue train this time. It was a Ninth Avenue train. I hesitated as the doors opened and others climbed aboard. I could take this train to Christopher Street, but it would mean a longer walk at the other end. Then it struck me that it would also mean that I would walk past Sid and Gus’s favorite French bakery. I could stop off there and bring them croissants for their breakfast. Thus encouraged with the idea of buying my friends a little treat, I was about to climb aboard the second car when I heard the sound of a hacking cough.
No, thank you,
I thought. I was forever mindful that summer diseases can linger into September in New York. Every year had its share of cholera and typhoid, and consumption was ever present. I wasn’t going to expose Liam to that risk. I backed away and pushed through the crowd to the third car instead. Passengers were packed like sardines behind the first two doors. I wrenched open the third door and heaved Liam and myself up the step. This part of the car was just as crowded. Two round middle-aged women, immigrants from somewhere, dressed in black dresses and black headscarves, were sitting on the seats nearest the door, leaning across to each other, deep in conversation and oblivious to me, continuing to talk around me as if I wasn’t there. A man across the aisle tried to offer me his seat, but I couldn’t get past a large lady with a round shopping basket on her arm, so I was forced to stand with Liam in my arms.

This was not wise, I told myself. No wonder I couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease that had gripped me since I left the apartment that morning. I tried to hang on to the leather strap above my head but Liam was now too heavy to hold with one arm, and besides he was wriggling and complaining at being squashed like this.

I’d get out at the next station and take the Broadway trolley instead, I decided. It took longer but at least there would be fresh air and Liam could see out as we rode. I was swung from side to side as the train picked up speed. Then I was pressed to the door of the carriage as the train started to round a curve. I remember thinking that we were traveling much too fast for such a curve. And surely there was no steep curve on the Ninth Avenue El? It was the Sixth Avenue train that went around that sharp bend. But even as these thoughts were flashing through my mind, suddenly there was a tremendous jolt. I was flung violently against the carriage door. The large woman and her basket slammed into me. Liam cried out. People were screaming. The screams were deadened by the sound of screeching metal, of splintering wood. The life was being squeezed out of me as more people piled into me. I tried to yell, “Liam!” as he was wrenched from my arms.

And then we were falling. Plunging down toward the street below.

Three

I must have passed out because I opened my eyes to a scene of hell. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. As I came back to consciousness I realized I was lying, pressed against a door that miraculously held fast, with a jumble of people across me. The air was full of acrid smoke and through it there came moans and screams. Someone very close to me was whimpering, “Help. Somebody help me.”

For a moment I couldn’t remember where I was and how I had come to be in this predicament, then the full realization came back to me. The train going too fast around a steep curve. Squeal of metal. Awful jerk. Plunging. Falling. I tried to push away the weight that was pinning me down and saw it was the large woman with the basket. She seemed to be unconscious. And the second I tried to shift her weight from me I remembered I had been holding Liam. She must be lying on him. Suffocating him. I struggled desperately and got a hand free, then pushed with all my might.

“Liam!” I yelled. “Where’s my baby? Somebody help me find my baby.”

Other people stirred, shifted, moved. My other arm came free. And there was no Liam in it. No Liam pinned to the door or on the floor at my feet. In my panic I struggled to stand upright, but I teetered and couldn’t get my balance. Then I looked out of the window and saw why. I was in a train car that was dangling at a crazy angle, suspended from the elevated track above. I had no idea whether we were hanging in midair or the other end of the car was resting against something solid. Any minute now we could continue our plunge to destruction. And my child was nowhere to be found. I scrabbled around like a mad thing through the smoke-filled car—pushing aside God knows whose limbs to look under seats, under bodies, growing more and more frantic every second. It hurt me to breathe and I couldn’t tell whether it was because of the acrid smoke or whether I was injured. I saw there was blood on my hands and couldn’t tell if it was mine or someone else’s.

Then through the chaos I heard a cry.

“Liam!” I screamed and clambered down the steep angle of the car, over seat backs, people’s backs. There were shouts, complaints. Then I heard his wailing again, his little voice full of fear, and another voice saying calmly, “Don’t worry, son. Your mama’s here somewhere. We’ll find her.”

A gentleman, dressed in smart business attire—his dark suit now covered in dust and debris—was holding my son, who was squirming and bawling like a mad thing. Liam’s new white sailor suit was streaked with black and the matching sailor hat was missing.

“Liam. My precious.” I grabbed him and held him tightly to me, rocking him, crying with him. I could feel his little heart pounding against me and a searing pain in my chest with each breath.

“Thank you.” I looked up at the man.

“He was quite fortunate,” the man said. “He must have slid down under the seats and landed at my feet. Come on. We must see if we can get out of here before this car catches on fire too.”

I glanced down and could make out a crushed and burning heap below us. It was hard even to recognize it as a former railway carriage, and I realized it was the second car, the one I hadn’t taken because of the man who was coughing.
On such minute details hangs our fate,
I thought.

There was movement below us. Shouts through the smoke. More shouts coming from outside the car.

“Careful,” someone warned. “Don’t shift the weight or we might fall down to the street.”

“No, it’s all right,” a man’s voice shouted back. “We’re resting against the wall of a building, and if I can get this window opened enough we can climb out onto a window ledge.”

One by one people were helped through the carriage window. Hands came out from the building to pull them to safety. The smart gentleman called out, “Lady with a baby here. Take her next.” And I was passed down to the window. Liam screamed as he was wrenched from my arms again and handed through to waiting arms. I had to hitch up my skirts as I squeezed through the window and then take a large step, through the black and swirling smoke, across to the nearest window ledge. But frankly, concern about who might see my bloomers was the last thing on my mind at that moment.

Then I was in a small kitchen that reeked of garlic and onions. Several dark-eyed children huddled behind the table, eyeing us with fear and fascination. Liam was handed back to me. I was assisted through the apartment, onto a landing, and down a flight of steep wooden stairs before coming out to join the throng on the street below. I could hear the sound of fire truck bells jangling as an engine approached. Police were yelling “Stand back. Let them through.”

As the smoke swirled and parted I felt that I was looking at the aftermath of a battle. In front of me was the twisted, smoldering wreckage that had once been a train carriage. It appeared to have landed on top of a truck, which was now burning. People were crowding around the wreckage, still trying to extricate those trapped inside. Those who had managed to escape now sat on the curb, holding up handkerchiefs to blood-spattered faces. Others staggered around in a daze, their clothing bloody and burned, while still others lay silent. I couldn’t tell whether they were unconscious or dead and I turned away, shivering.

Find a cab, I told myself. Take a cab to Sid and Gus. They’ll know what to do. They’ll take care of me. I jumped as a hand touched my arm. “Are you all right, ma’am?” a uniformed constable asked me. “You’re as white as a sheet.”

“I was in that carriage that’s still hanging,” I said. “I couldn’t find my baby.”

“Are you sure you’re not hurt? And the little boy?”

“He seems to be unhurt, thank God. I think I’m all right. It hurts me to breathe.”

“I’m thinking we should maybe get you to the hospital,” he said. “Just to be on the safe side. People don’t always recognize that they are injured in an accident, and you’re clearly suffering from shock.”