Chapter 9 - Cleansing the Briar
By eight in the morning, the street below was silent, but it was no longer empty.
Four black sedans were parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb. Eight men in clean, heavy wool overcoats stood at attention near the tenement entrance, their presence keeping every beat cop and neighborhood gossip at a respectful fifty-yard distance.
A private physician—an elderly man with a leather bag and eyes that knew never to ask questions—had already arrived, examined Wynn, administered an injection of antibiotics, and wrapped her in three heated wool blankets brought up from the cars.
As two of Sullivan’s men prepared to lift the stretcher, Wynn reached out and caught Hollis’s sleeve.
Her fever had broken slightly, her eyes clear for the first time.
“Hollis,” Wynn whispered.
Hollis took her hand, squeezing the thin fingers. “Go home, Wynn. Listen to your brother. And don’t ever let anyone tell you who your family is.”
Wynn looked toward the door where Mrs. Marguerite was standing with Posy.
Posy had her thumb in her mouth, her eyes wide as she watched the tall men in dark suits moving through the tiny room.
“Posy,” Wynn called softly.
Posy pulled her thumb out and took three tentative steps forward.
Wynn reached up, unclipped the plastic daisy from her hair, and held it out. “I kept it safe. Just like you said.”
Posy shook her head, pushing Wynn’s hand gently back toward her chest. “No. You keep it. So when you get cold again, you remember the stars.”
Wynn’s eyes filled with tears once more. She nodded, clutched the clip against her heart, and allowed the men to lift the stretcher and carry her out into the hall.
Sullivan remained behind.
He stood near the kitchen table, watching the small girl with the messy hair and the missing tooth.
“Mr. Vane,” Hollis said, waiting by the door. “You should go with her.”
Sullivan turned to Hollis. “Moretti’s people know she was taken from this neighborhood. By nightfall, they will know someone in this building helped her.”
Hollis felt a cold spike of fear run down her spine, though she kept her face completely impassive. “We didn't see anything. We don't know anything.”
“Moretti doesn't care about what you know,” Sullivan said flatly. “He cares about what hurts me. If he learns that a woman on 22nd Street kept my sister alive, he will burn this building to the foundation just to send a message.”
He walked toward the door, pausing on the threshold.
“Pack your things,” Sullivan said.
Hollis stiffened. “I told you, I am not taking your charity—”
“This isn't charity, Mrs. Brennan,” Sullivan said, his eyes meeting hers with the lethal certainty that ruled the River Ward. “This is a strategic necessity. I do not leave people who save my family behind enemy lines. A car will be here at six o'clock this evening. You, your daughter, and your neighbor will be in it.”
“And if I refuse?”
Sullivan looked at Posy, who had picked up her pencil again and was drawing another star on her scrap of newsprint.
“If you refuse,” Sullivan said quietly, “I will buy this building, evict you, and have my men carry you to my estate anyway. You carried my sister when she was helpless. I will carry you whether you like it or not.”
May you like
He turned, picked up his coat from the railing, and walked down the iron stairs without looking back.
***
