But it wasn’t really the odors. It was the dying. Frank knew that smell, and it brought back far too many memories.
Finally, he saw the face he’d been looking for. It was paler than it had been the last time he saw it, but he recognized it easily.
“Prescott!” Frank called, hoping the eyes would open. To his great relief, they did.
Webster Prescott smiled wanly at the sight of him. “How’d you find me?” he asked, his voice faint and breathy.
“You asked for me, remember? The cop who found you in that alley said you just kept begging him to send for me. Said you wouldn’t get in the ambulance until he promised. So what in the hell happened to you?”
Prescott’s young face wrinkled in pain. “Somebody stabbed me.” He gestured toward his left side, and Frank managed not to wince at the thought of how close his attacker had come to his heart.
“I knew that much,” Frank said. “You wouldn’t say who did it, though. Or why. At least to the cop who found you. He’s pretty mad about it, too.”
“I didn’t want to tell anybody,” he said, his voice so faint Frank had to lean closer to hear. “Somebody else might get the story.”
Frank shook his head in disgust. “You reporters. All you think about is getting the story. I guess you thought you were safe telling me, though. You know how I hate you lot, so I wouldn’t go telling your competitors.”
“Something like that,” Prescott said, smiling a crooked, pained grin.
“All right then, who stabbed you?”
“A woman.”
Frank grinned back and shook his head. “They get real upset if you don’t pay them,” he teased.
Prescott might have been blushing, but he tried not to let on. “No, it wasn’t that. She… she sent a message. Said… she knew something… about Anna Blake.”
Frank raised his eyebrows in surprise. “This was about Anna Blake’s murder?”
“Why do you think… I was worried about… the story?” he asked.
“Let me get this straight. Some woman sent you a message claiming she had information about Anna Blake’s death?”
Prescott nodded weakly.
“And she wanted to meet you in an alley?”
“No, in the Square.”
“Washington Square?”
He nodded again. “By the fountain.”
“Then how did you end up stabbed in an alley?”
“She wanted… privacy… in the mews.”
“You followed her into the stables? The ones behind the houses on Washington Square?”
Prescott nodded.
“And what did she tell you?”
“Nothing… she just… stabbed me.”
This was making no sense. “What did she look like?”
“Didn’t see… her face. Dark… wore a cloak… with a hood…”
“But you’re sure it was a woman?”
“Sounded like… Strong, though.”
“She was strong? How do you know?”
“Pushed me… against the wall. Held my arm…” He lifted his right arm and pulled back the sleeve of his nightshirt. Frank saw the faint shading of forming bruises.
If a woman had done this, she was strong indeed. But Frank had another theory that made more sense. “Could it have been a man dressed as a woman? How tall was she?”
Prescott frowned as he considered Frank’s suggestion and held up a hand even with his mouth. Prescott was tall, so the height he indicated could have described Frank. Or Gilbert Giddings and his son. But why would either of the Giddings want to kill Webster Prescott? And were they likely to dress up like a woman to do it?
Frank found a chair and brought it over to Prescott’s bedside. When he was seated, he pulled out his notebook and a pencil. “You have to tell me everything you’ve found out about Anna Blake. Don’t worry,” he added at Prescott’s scowl. “I won’t sell the story to the Herald.”
“Or the Sun,” Prescott added.
“Or anybody else,” Frank said. “Now start talking.”
Sarah had just returned from the Gansevoort Market, having shopped both for herself and for the Ellsworths, when she found a message from Malloy stuck in her front door. She struggled inside, trying to simultaneously unlock the door, open it, read the note, and not drop her purchases.
He was, he explained, sending this message with a beat cop in hopes that she would receive it as soon as possible. He told her Webster Prescott had been stabbed, possibly by the same person who had killed Anna Blake! He was asking her to go over to Bellevue and make sure the boy was receiving proper care. Malloy, it seemed, had a sentimental streak. Or else he thought Prescott was too valuable a witness to lose.
When she’d made her way into the kitchen and set her market basket down, she reread the note again, looking for some sort of indication that Malloy knew who the killer was and was going to arrest him. But she found not a single clue. Wasn’t that just like a man, not to tell her the most important thing?
She hastily put away her own purchases and dropped off the things she’d bought for the Ellsworths. Mrs. Ellsworth obviously wanted her to stay and visit for a while, but when Sarah told her where she was going in such a hurry, the old woman sent her off with a blessing. And a rabbit’s foot for good luck. Sarah decided she’d give it to Webster Prescott, since he’d need it far more than she.
Many of the people in the hospital knew Sarah and remembered her husband, Tom, so it took her a while to make her way to the ward where Prescott lay. Fortunately, her status also gave her the ability to inquire about his condition and receive an honest answer.
The news wasn’t very good. The knife had missed his heart but had damaged his lung. He’d lost a lot of blood and was very weak. If he got a bad infection, he probably wouldn’t make it, and he could hardly avoid getting an infection with a wound like that. And of course, pneumonia was always a possibility, too. On the other hand, he was young and healthy, which meant he stood a small chance.
Sarah found him sleeping, and when she touched his forehead, she detected a slight fever.
“Could I have some water?” he asked hoarsely, without opening his eyes.
Sarah got him a glass of water and held it to his lips while he drank. Then he fell back on the pillow, exhausted. But he did open his eyes to thank her, and his puzzled frown told her he couldn’t quite remember who she was. “You’re not a nurse,” he said.
She didn’t like how weak his voice was. “No, I’m Sarah Brandt. I live next door to Nelson Ellsworth.”
A healthy reporter would have a dozen questions to ask her-who’d told her he was here, why had she come, what did she want?-but he could only manage a weak, “Why?”
“Mr. Malloy asked me to check on you. I also happen to be a nurse. He wants to make sure you’re getting good care,” she explained, picking up his wrist and checking his pulse. It seemed very fast. “Are you having a lot of pain?”
His young face twisted. “They gave me morphine, but…”
“Do you mind if I check your bandage?”
She didn’t wait for a reply. With skilled hands, she adjusted the blanket and raised his nightshirt while still preserving his modesty. The bandage was clean and dry except for a small, fresh bloodstain. Every instinct demanded that she offer to take him home where he wouldn’t be exposed to the contagion of the other patients and where she could give him constant care. She didn’t, though, because she knew the trip across town would be too much for him in his weakened condition.
“Can you take a deep breath?” she asked, and he merely gazed at her incredulously. “I’ll make sure the nurses take special care of you,” she told him, “but you must do everything they tell you, even if it hurts. Otherwise, you’ll die.”
What little color he had left leached away at that. “I don’t want to die.”