The Diviners (The Diviners 1)

Sam stopped. Though he’d played the scene over in his mind many times, he was never really sure what he would say when that day came. He only knew that he wouldn’t be going in blind. Sam pulled up his pants leg and removed the gun strapped there, turning it over in his hands, examining the barrel, feeling the tension in the trigger. He opened the chamber and spun it around. There were no bullets yet. The ashtrays would bring enough for those. This job at the museum had been a stroke of good luck, easier than hustling magic tricks on the streets of Times Square. All he had to do was hold on for a little while—long enough to find out who needed to pay for what had happened to his family. And they would pay.

In the mirror, Sam was scowling. He looked older than his seventeen years. He straightened his collar, eased the scowl into a hard smile, and raised the gun, taking aim at his reflection.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Sam Lloyd. Tell me where she is, and I might let you live.”

Sam heard footsteps and hurriedly replaced the gun in its holster. The door swung open and Jericho came in. Sam made a show of washing his hands. “Something the matter?”

“I seem to have lost my wallet.”

“Aw, gee. Tough break, pal,” Sam said. “Want me to help you look?”

Jericho squinted at Sam, evaluating the offer. “Thanks.”

Sam accompanied Jericho through the museum, making a show of looking, pointing out spots where a wallet could possibly hide. When they reached the library, he shook it free from his pants leg near one of the many bookcases. It wouldn’t do for Sam to suddenly find the wallet; he needed to make Jericho think he’d found it himself.

“Did you look up here, big fella?”

Jericho frowned at the phrase big fella. He took the spiral staircase to the second floor and walked the stacks until he spied his wallet on the floor. “I found it,” he called. He opened the wallet and frowned. “I could’ve sworn I had five dollars. But there’s only two here.”

“Gee, that’s rough. Better hold on to those rubes,” Sam said evenly.

Evie skimmed the pages of a book titled Religious Fervor and Fanaticism in the Burned-Over District. The author appeared to have written the book with the express purpose of putting his audience to sleep, and Evie had difficulty retaining anything she read. She resorted to skimming the pages, stopping suddenly when she came to an illustration near the back. There was the same symbol used in the murder. The inscription read THE PENTACLE OF THE BRETHREN, BRETHREN, NY, C. 1832.

The telephone rang, echoing through the empty museum. Evie turned down the corner of the page to show Will later and ran for the phone.

“Hold a moment. I’ll connect you,” the operator said. There was a click and a hiss, and then Theta’s voice crackled over the wires.

“Hiya, Evil. It’s Theta. Listen, you still want to catch the show?”

“And how!”

“Swell. I’ll leave a pair of tickets for you and Mabel at the theater for tonight’s show. There’s a party in Greenwich Village after, if it’s not past your bedtime.”

“I never go to bed before dawn.”

“Attagirl! And Evil, wear your best glad rags.”

“They’ll be the gladdest rags you ever saw.”

In the privacy of Will’s office, Evie jumped up and down. Finally! Tonight, she and Mabel would be out with Theta and her smart set. She danced back into the library, humming a jazzy number.

“What just happened to you? You win the Miss America contest or something?” Sam said. He gathered Evie’s book into a tall stack of volumes to be reshelved.

“I will be the guest of Miss Theta Knight at the Globe Theatre for Mr. Ziegfeld’s latest revue tonight, and at a private party afterward.”

“Swanky. Need a date?”

“Private party!” Evie sang out. She reached up and grabbed her scarf and hat from the giant stuffed bear’s paw, where she’d hung them earlier.

“Say, I was wondering, either of you know anything about this?” He pointed to the newspaper clipping on top of the stack, about the girl with the sleeping sickness.

Evie glanced at it as she tied the scarf into a loose bow at her neck. “It’s one of Unc’s strange scraps. He collects these odd little ghost stories. That’s his job, I suppose. Why do you ask?” Evie said.

Sam forced a smile. “No reason. Just trying to keep up.”

Evie patted his cheek. “Good luck, Lloyd.”

Evie left the museum and walked along Central Park West. Ten blocks farther up, she could see the gothic spires of the Bennington peeking above the roofs and trees. It was a pleasant late afternoon, and a sudden optimism seized Evie—the feeling that all good things were possible, and that she could pull her deepest wishes from the air like a magician with a coin.