Inside the Shadow City (29 page)

“We're not going to plant the device on the kidnappers,” said Kiki. “We're going to plant it in something the kidnappers will want to take with them.”

“Other than Betty, what do we have that they would want?” asked Luz.

“This.” Kiki dug into her knapsack and pulled out Mitzi Mulligan's bronze dragon. “The figure is hollow. We're going to glue the tracking device inside and leave the dragon in Betty's handbag, where the kidnappers are
sure to find it. I doubt they'll want to let it out of their sight again.”

“From what I can tell, the dragon is really old,” I butted in. “I read that one like it just sold at a gallery in New York for half a million dollars. This one's probably stolen.”

“If it's worth so much, why don't we sell it and find some other way to plant the tracking device?” asked Luz.

“Luz, you were the one who just pointed out that there's no other way,” said DeeDee. “And
I'm
not interested in selling stolen goods.”

Luz sat back and twirled a strand of hair around her thumb until the tip started to turn blue.

“Whatever. Dragon or no dragon, the plan's too risky. What if they find some other way to drug Betty? Or what if they force her to drink it?”

“That's where
I
come in.” DeeDee held up a glass bottle filled with a thick, chalky liquid. “I call it Morlock's Miracle Mixture. I developed it last year after I came down with a bad case of food poisoning. I got the idea from a Pepto-Bismol commercial. Just a tablespoon coats the lining of the digestive system and keeps poisons from being absorbed. So forget wart remover—they could serve Betty a tumbler of drain cleaner and she'd never feel a thing.”

“Yeah, but what if that gunk doesn't work?” asked Luz. “What are we going to do then?”

“I took some before I got here, Luz,” DeeDee said calmly as she pulled the Devil's Apple out of her pocket, opened it up, and gulped down the greasy liquid inside. “I'm pretty sure it works.”

DeeDee smiled triumphantly and the rest of us laughed in amazement.

“Well, I guess that settles it. We have a plan.” Kiki rose from the table. “Let's get started, unless anyone has something else to add.”

“I've got something,” said Oona, turning to Betty. “Sorry for what I said earlier. I'm just jealous that you get to have all the fun.” She held out a card. “Here, I made this for you. It's a driver's license for Tyler Deitz. You never know when you might get carded.”

“Thanks, Oona,” said Betty, looking genuinely touched.

“I've got one for you, too, Strike,” said Oona, tossing a laminated card to Kiki. “I don't want to bail your butt out of jail when you get caught riding that scooter without a license.”

“Who knew you could be so thoughtful?” Kiki laughed.

“I had a moment of weakness,” said Oona. “Don't get used to it.”

• • •

Kiki Strike and I anchored our boat in the middle of the Hudson River, the current pushing softly against its bow. The city before us shot out of the water in a blaze of lights. The Empire State Building rose above it all, illuminating the sky and painting the clouds silver. From where we sat, New York looked like a magical realm— glittering and dangerous.

On the river, the shadowy shapes of other boats moved about in the darkness. A hundred years earlier, they might have been pirate ships invading the harbor
under cover of night. Now they were garbage barges ferrying New York's toothpaste tubes, dirty diapers, and half-eaten pupu platters to less magical places. I held my breath as a barge the length of three football fields glided noiselessly by. Piled high with mountains of rancid garbage, it made its way toward the Atlantic Ocean, leaving an indescribable odor in its wake. As it passed, something bumped against the side of the boat. Leaning over the side, I saw a pale, fleshy object bobbing in the water. I gasped and hopped toward the middle of the boat. Kiki took one look and burst into laughter.

“It's only a fish,” she said, poking it with an oar until I could see the fins. “Did you think it was a floater?” she asked, referring to the human corpses that are regularly fished out of the rivers that encircle Manhattan.

“Of course not,” I insisted, trying to save face and hoping it was too dark for her to see me blush. “But who'd have thought there were fish in the Hudson River? Isn't the water supposed to be poisonous around Manhattan?”

“It is a
dead
fish,” Kiki noted, picking up her binoculars and training them on Pier 54.

I checked my watch. It was 9:28, and a well-dressed mob had assembled at the pier. Letting my eyes drift across the crowd, I recognized a few of the more popular older girls from the Atalanta School, each wearing a stunning dress and a dangerous set of heels. A diamond mine's worth of bracelets, rings, and necklaces sparkled in the moonlight. But even surrounded by a swarm of beautiful people, Betty stood out from the crowd. And to my surprise, she was making no effort to blend back in. Beneath the city lights, her simple white dress glowed
with the cold fire of an opal. That night, Tyler Deitz looked devastatingly lovely—a fact that wasn't lost on the half-dozen young men who were chatting with her impersonator. It was hard not to feel a twinge of envy.

The cell phone vibrated, and Luz's number appeared on the caller ID. She, Oona, and DeeDee were stationed on the George Washington Bridge, keeping an eye out for the boats that would ferry the guests to the Banner-man Ball.

“A bunch of boats just passed under the bridge,” Luz reported. “Get ready.”

“Good luck!” called Oona in the background.

“Time to turn on the tracking device,” whispered Kiki. I flipped a switch, and the screen illuminated. A green dot identified Betty's position on a fuzzy map of Manhattan.

The drone of a dozen motors arrived with a gust of wind that rushed down the river and through our hair. A line of boats was headed for the pier. They were Venetian water taxis—elegant, wood-paneled boats designed for racing through canals. They looked as out of place in New York waters as a herd of antelope galloping across the meadows of Central Park.

One by one, the boats stopped at the edge of the pier and left laden with partygoers. A muscular young man in a dark suit helped Betty into the third boat to stop at the pier.

“There's something familiar about the guy with Betty,” I told Kiki.

“That's because you've seen him before. I'm surprised you've forgotten, but I guess it was a long time ago.”

I racked my brain, but I still couldn't come up with an answer. “Okay, who is he?”

“That happens to be Thomas Vandervoort, known at one time as the scourge of Central Park.”

“That's one of the guys you beat up when you saved the man in Central Park?”

“Bingo. He may look tough, but he cries like a baby and loses control of his bladder if you give him a good kick. He really wasn't much of a challenge. I bet you could take him, too.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” I told her, wondering if she remembered how little experience I had with hand-to-hand combat.

When the last of the boats had departed from the pier, Kiki fired up the engine. Rather than the ordinary roar, it emitted only a pleasant purr that was too soft to attract any attention.

“Luz may be a pain in the butt,” Kiki remarked as we took off in pursuit of the boats, “but you can't say she's not a damned good mechanic.”

We skimmed noiselessly across the black water of the Hudson River, navigating between the massive legs of the George Washington Bridge and beneath the steep rock cliffs of the Palisades, where the heads of captured pirates were once displayed on spikes. We kept the headlights of our boat off to avoid detection and followed the wakes of the Bannerman boats. Outside of the city, our only light came from the moon above and the mansions perched high on the hills overlooking the river.

An hour into our trip, an eerie fog engulfed our boat, and we traveled blindly for more than a mile before we
spotted lights flickering in the distance. As we drew closer, an enchanted fairy-tale castle floated on the water before us. Candlelight spilled from dozens of enormous glassless windows. Kiki slowed the motor and angled our boat toward a shadowy section of the riverbank.

“I doubt they'll anchor a dozen boats around the island,” she explained. “They'll probably return to one of the towns downstream and come back later to pick up the guests. If we pull over now, we won't be spotted. Once the other boats have gone, we'll steer closer to the castle.”

As the party guests began to set foot on dry land, I raised my binoculars to take my first look at the island. According to my research, Native Americans had believed that malevolent spirits haunted the island. The first European explorers had also returned home with stories of the fiends and goblins that made Pollepel Island their home. In fact, until Francis Bannerman chose the spot for his castle and renamed the island in his own honor, most people went out of their way to avoid it. Only shipwrecked sailors and pirates looking to stash their booty had been willing to brave the isle, which, aside from the resident demons, was said to be crawling with ticks and snakes.

The sight of the ruined castle that covered most of the island should have kept most trespassers at bay. Its turrets, towers, and guard walls didn't seem terribly inviting, and I suspected that, without the support of the poison ivy vines that crawled along its sides, the castle would have disintegrated into a pile of rocks. But inside the crumbling fortress, a party was raging. I was too far
away to see through the open windows, and my curiosity was killing me.

I set my binoculars aside and watched the screen of the tracking device. I followed Betty's movements, keeping an eye out for anything unusual. When the last water taxi passed our hiding place and disappeared around a bend in the river, Kiki steered us into the open water. We stopped just beyond the reach of the castle's lights— close enough to enjoy the festivities through our binoculars, but too far away to be seen.

I peered through the open door of the castle and into a cavernous room that was filling with guests from the boats. The line into the castle stalled as each person who entered took a moment to gape in disbelief at the castle's décor. Just one foot inside was enough to convince them that the party had been worth the trip.

As I stared up at the castle from the middle of the Hudson River, one thing quickly became clear. The hosts of the party were loaded. The sumptuous furnishings would have delighted the most discerning of decorators and emptied an emperor's pocketbook. Bloodred silk draped the stone walls of the castle. Hundreds of round white lanterns floated down from the ceiling, each trailing tendrillike ribbons that swayed in the breeze. From where I stood, they looked like a swarm of jellyfish floating through a tranquil sea.

Guests reclined on chaise longues covered in plush velvet and stared up at statues of handsome gods and fierce goddesses that stood about the castle like silent sentries. In the center of the room, a ten-foot Chinese dragon carved out of glacier ice crouched on a table, a
ball of fire suspended in its frozen belly. The pale blue ice dripped into a pool of water on which platters piled high with delicacies appeared to float. Stunning waitresses in shimmering cheongsams wound through the crowd, dispensing exotic drinks trimmed with tapioca pearls. Guards were stationed at every exit. Each wore the bronze armor of an ancient Chinese warrior and carried a long, thin sword that looked as if it had been designed for lopping off heads.

I scanned the castle for Betty and found her standing in front of a window, chatting with Thomas Vandervoort, who refused to leave her side. Though I had held my tongue, I had questioned the wisdom of sending Betty to the party. But seeing her engaged in pleasant chitchat with a dolt like Thomas Vandervoort, I had to admit I'd been wrong. It couldn't be easy to hold a conversation with someone whose interests, I imagined, were limited to his hair and his bank account.

A waitress slinked up to the pair. Thomas Vandervoort selected a pale drink with three lychee nuts perched on its rim, but Betty held up her hand in polite refusal. The waitress simply nodded and moved to the next group.

“Now there's something you should see,” I heard Kiki say.

“Where?” There was so much going on, I had no idea where to look first.

“Standing at the main entrance.”

Greeting the last of the guests as they entered the castle was an unpleasantly familiar face. Her strapless jade dress was embroidered with a golden dragon that
complemented the castle's décor and identified her as the party's hostess. Piles of yellow curls were artfully arranged about her face, and an insincere smile was plastered on her lips.

“Naomi Throgmorton?”

“The one and only,” said Kiki. “And my, my, my. Look who's escorting the lovely Miss Throgmorton this evening.” I barely recognized the young man standing at Naomi's side. In the two years since I had seen him, he had grown even taller and more handsome. Standing side by side, he and Naomi looked like a prince and princess from a sinister fairy tale.

“That's one of the guys I saw with Thomas Vandervoort that night in Central Park.”

“Jacob Harcott.” Kiki nodded. “Heir to the Harcott smuggling fortune and all-around bad seed.”

“I don't suppose it's a coincidence that he's escorting Naomi while his best friend has been glued to Betty's side all night.”

“We both know there are no such things as coincidences,” chided Kiki.

“But Naomi can't be behind the kidnappings,” I argued. “She's too dumb to mastermind something like this. And from what I've heard, she doesn't have enough money to pay for the hors d'oeuvres.”

“Maybe not, but her date does. Jacob Harcott's father is swimming in cash. Remember the warehouse we found packed with counterfeit shoes? It belonged to Oliver Harcott—Jacob's father. He's our connection to Chinatown. They're working with the Fu-Tsang gang.”