A row of small heads gazed down at him from a rooftop. Seconds later, something smashed into the road, and he hopped sideways as a bottle burst, spattering him with urine. Some of the people on the stoops laughed as a woman screamed angrily at the children. Cursing, he stumbled on, peals of high-pitched laughter echoing behind him.

Chapter 70

Chapter 70

PUSH PUSH, UP and down, down and up, damn the mop. Pay special attention to the third floor, someone vomited by the window, they said. Spit, dirt, shit, hurt.

Damn the mop.

He pulled the ropy part through the mangle, sloshed it into a metal pail with cleaner water, then pushed it back and forth across the floor. Faces stared up at him from the wet linoleum, men with beards and gaping mouths, evil generals, evil men. Inside the wards people moaned and wept; he could hear them whispering behind his back.

Henrico Dargero he saved all those girls! So brave. Grave. Dead, head, bled. He saved them all. Don’t fall!

Damn the mop.

The doctors never spoke to him, or the nurses in their white uniforms with the stains under the arms. The wards smelled of mentholatum, carbolic soap, and antiseptic. Mop mop.

He reached the end of the long hallway, where one broad flight of stairs led up, another down. An immense laundry cart stood on the landing. Sometimes he searched inside to see what he might find among the soiled sheets and bloody bandages. Sister Rose saw him once and punched his ear so hard he heard bells for a week. Bells hell. Oh well.

Beside the laundry cart stood a trash barrel. Push the metal bucket on its squeaking wheels, drag the mop, stop to make sure no one saw. Look inside the barrel quick before they come. He hoped the boy found his message. Newspapers, sometimes a ladies’ magazine or The Little Girl’s Sewing Book. St. Nicholas magazine on the children’s floor, they didn’t like him to dally there, not since what happened. Not his fault.

Damn the mop, he slipped and nearly fell, caught himself and looked around, no one saw. He reached inside the trash barrel, grabbing what was closest. A newspaper, oh damn. He started to drop it, like playing the fishpond game, try another fish, you could win next time, a Kewpie, a celluloid doll. Something nice. Then he saw the headline:

Amusement Park Killings Continue

And the advertisement:

ALL CHILDREN ADMITTED FREE!

He looked over his shoulder. From downstairs came voices, Dr. Wiggins making his rounds. Rounds, hounds. Zounds. Quickly he read the article.

…police remain baffled. Riverview owner Karl Baumgarten has put up a $1,000 reward for capturing the killer…

A reward! Nothing rhymed with that except award. He’d never had one. He stared at a photo of a girl in confirmation robes, standing in front of a church:

GILDA BELASCU