“That’s what he told you. That’s always what he told you. Going to have another look for Alice Pearl. He was with me, child. Always with me. He came here, about four in the afternoon. He stayed until seven. He drank from this bottle. Clubber Carr’s last drink. After he was gone, I could never find an occasion special enough to open it again. When I saw you, I knew it was time.”

She handed me the bottle of Boulton’s, half full and caked in dust. I swirled the liquor in the bottle, watching it slide down the thick brown glass, smelling it in the air and tasting it on my teeth. There were fingerprints around the neck. They could have been Virgil’s. Why not? I opened the bottle and inhaled as deeply as I could. Boulton’s Rye. It smelled like my father’s smile.

“That night, he talked of a breakthrough,” she said. “The empty city, the deadly night, Alice Pearl. He swore he’d unraveled it all, at last.”

“How?”

“There’s no point shouting. It was madman’s talk. The poor man was gutted. When he left, I knew I’d never see him again.”

“Then why didn’t you stop him?”

“Could anyone ever stop Clubber Carr from doing anything he wanted?”

“But what did he say?”

“I’ll tell you, dear, if you think it will help. And if you find my guns.”

I was about to answer when screams came from the tunnel, north of Barbarossa’s car. For a big woman, she moved like spilled mercury, pushing past me to fling open the door and shout for order. The noise stopped, save for one hurt voice, one moaning, silken, failing tenor.

“Up here,” said Barbarossa. “Get him up here!”

Thorne and two of the boys hoisted Cherub onto the bridge, blood in his eyes, a long, hideous cut down the side of his skull. His left leg dangled strangely, but he held his saber tight. He fell toward me, and I nearly buckled under his weight.

“Cherub, I’m sorry,” I murmured, not sure what I was apologizing for, but certain it would never be enough.

Barbarossa dragged us both back into her car and helped me lay him down. She did not seem to mind the blood. She slapped Cherub across the face. He didn’t stir. I wanted to help him, and I knew I could not. I wanted to scream, but I had no voice. It was like being trapped behind glass.

“Came in like that,” said Thorne, from the doorway. “His boys with him, in worse shape than he was. Tell ’em, kid, tell ’em what you told me.”

He stepped aside, and there was Roach. The stuffed cat dangled from his hand, and his face was pale beneath the blood.

“Three of us dead,” whispered the boy. “The rest scattered. Dead on Sixth Avenue. Dead in the street.”