“That depends on whether or not you’d like this operation of yours kept secret. I have friends at the Fourth Precinct who would be quite interested to learn of a tunnel under the fence.”

“The Fourth Precinct is a rotted-out shell.”

“This would be quite the coup for them. It would mean promotion, escape to the Eastside. I assure you, they would be happy to hear of it.”

“Then it’s better for us, isn’t it, Miss Carr, if you don’t leave this building alive.”

“Please, Mrs. Greene. One working woman to another. I need only five minutes of his time.”

For a moment, she considered it, but that moment did not last long. She snapped her fingers again, and my wrists were back in the vise.

“Chuck her down the pit,” she said. “We’ll see how she does in the tunnel.”

The man with no tongue was not smiling anymore. There was a look of apology in his eyes as he dragged me toward the hole, my feet scrambling on the splintered floorboards, my heels unable to gain purchase. He felt sorry for what he had to do, and I felt sorry too. I gathered up every ounce of mucus that had oozed into my throat over that long, hot morning and spat into his open mouth. He was surprised—who wouldn’t be?—and his grip loosened just long enough for me to wrench myself free.

I scrambled across the floorboards and grabbed the first thing I could find. It was, as luck would have it, a hammer, but I was not arrogant enough to think I could fight off a roomful of strapping, disfigured young men all by myself. I turned as I ran and whipped the hammer sidearm across the stage, like a third baseman throwing across the infield. I was aiming for one of the lanterns, hoping it would splash liquid fire across the stage and give me time to escape, but the hammer sailed clear through all three strands of lights, all the way to the far side of the stage, where it slammed into the lever that held the rotten Longacre curtain aloft and sent it crashing down to the stage, shattering the Tiffany lamp, and dooming any hope I had of escaping through the orchestra.

“Ugly,” said Ida Greene. “Sever her head.”

There was a gleaming silver fire ax strapped to the backstage wall. Ugly tore it loose and, with the smallest of shrugs, walked in my direction. I ran straight at him, and he lifted the ax over his head. I kept running, and the ax whistled through the air, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, anticipating the kiss of the blade. I threw myself forward, crashing into his knees just as the ax bit into the wood behind me.