I wrapped my fist around the club’s handle and punched its short end into the glass. A web of fine cracks spread from the point of impact. I punched, again and again, until my muscles screamed and my knuckles were raw and the glass sagged in the frame. One more blow shattered the window. I did not feel the falling glass. I raked the nightstick around the edge, clearing as many shards as I could, and dragged myself into the open. I flipped the nightstick around in my hand and charged toward the ship.

I was halfway across the pier when the ship pulled away from the dock. By the time I reached the edge, the steamer was nosing its way into the river. Even if I’d had the strength to jump, it was too far. I hurled the nightstick after the boat. It clattered off the hull and sank into the East River.

Juliette watched me from the deck until one of her sailors called to her, and she turned away. Two men emerged from the door to the hold, dragging the broken body of Virgil Carr. They dropped him at her feet. If the wind had been blowing toward me, I would have heard her laugh.

Sixteen

I ran west, toward Washington Square, toward Mary Fall, but I hadn’t gone more than a block when smoke drew me south. I arrived at Copeland Imports Ltd., just as the fire spread to the roof. A crowd stood around the base of that salt-stained, slanted waterfront building, wondering if the fire department would arrive before the building burned to the foundation. At the moment, the fire was winning.

On the sidewalk, a fruit vendor draped a tarp to protect his apples from the soot. To no one in particular, he gave his account of the blaze.

“Window burst, just like that—like pop. Glass came down all over, and I saw the fire. Third floor, Copeland’s offices. And now it’s burning—hoo. I said for years they need to get these buildings up to code, but does anyone listen? No. Couple of people got the girl, Miss Copeland, they got her out no problem.”

“What about Copeland?”

“Well, I suppose he’s still up there. Lord. The poor man.”

From the third floor came an old man’s screams. They sent a ripple of pleasure through the growing crowd. I threw down my bag, yanked open the building door, and bounded up the stairs.

The smoke was black, and it came in billows. By the second-floor landing, I was choking on it. I dropped to my knees and crawled. The sides of the stairwell danced with flame.

“Sweet god,” came the cries from Copeland’s offices. “Sweet merciful god—Juliette!”

I made the third floor, and the stairwell windows exploded. The white paint boiled on the walls, falling to the ground in bubbling strips. Copeland’s cries grew faint, then stopped.