The Diviners

The reporters laughed and T.S. bowed to her. “Your wish is my command.”



“Swell. Can I have something of yours? A glove, a watch—any sort of object will do, really.”



“She wants your wallet,” a reporter cracked.



“As long as it isn’t your heart, Thomas.”



“Haven’t you heard? I’m a newsman. I haven’t got one of those,” Woodhouse shot back.



Evie held out her hand. “Anything at all will do.”



He pressed his handkerchief into her hand, allowing his fingers to linger an extra moment on hers. At first, there was nothing, and Evie suppressed a jolt of panic. She closed her eyes and concentrated. At last, her Cupid’s bow mouth stretched into a fetching smile. “Mr. Woodhouse, you live in the Bronx, on a street near an Irish bakery called Black Holly’s Biscuits. You owe your bookie fifty clams for the Martin-Burns fight. I’d suggest paying that; he doesn’t strike me as a patient man.”



Woodhouse frowned. “Anybody could know that.”



“A seventeen-year-old girl?” another reported yelled.



Evie pressed harder and the handkerchief yielded its deeper secrets. She bent to whisper those intimate secrets in his ear. His expression of surprise yielded to one of bitter understanding.



“New headline,” he announced to the crowd. “ ‘Sweetheart Seer Tells All, Breaks Murder Case with Mystery Talent.’ ”



The reporters pushed closer, demanding. “What happened, Evie?” “Over here, Evie!” “Heya, Miss O’Neill. Smile—that’s it!”



T. S. Woodhouse held up his pencil. “My lead’s getting cold, sweetheart.”



Evie fixed him with a stare. “For some time now, I’ve had this… gift,” she began.



She told them about how her ability to read objects led to them to the killer. She stuck close to the official story—a troubled man killed by the brave men in blue. She didn’t tell them that there were things to be afraid of, that the ghosts they imagined on dark nights as a chill on the neck were real. She did not mention the coming storm Miss Walker had warned about. Instead, she thrilled them with another demonstration—just a quick flash of fun facts gleaned from a reporter’s notepad. A crowd was gathering. They loved it. They loved her. In the greatest city in the world, at its greatest moment, she was there at the center of it all. Will couldn’t send her home now. There’d be a protest. She’d organize it herself if she had to.



“Miss O’Neill—hey, beautiful! Over here!” The flash powder exploded into tiny claws of light. There was another flash, and another. They dazzled and bruised Evie’s eyes till she was forced to turn her head. She expected to see Will and Jericho, but the steps behind her were empty. Evie turned toward the mob again. Across the street at the edge of the park, Margaret Walker stood perfectly still, watching. The flash popped once more, and when Evie’s eyes cleared, she, too, had gone.



PROJECT BUFFALO



Blind Bill Johnson knocked at the door of Aunt Octavia’s house and waited until the door creaked open and he heard her asking him inside. They sat in the living room while Octavia brought out cups of coffee and a plate of butter cookies.



“I don’t know how to thank you for being there, Mr. Johnson,” Octavia said, a catch in her voice.



“Well, ma’am, I’m just glad the Good Lord put me there.”



“That sure is a nice new hat and suit you have on, Mr. Johnson.”



“Bill. Thank you, Miss. Bought it with my winnings. My number come in big. Won two hundred dollars, just like that.” Bill snapped his fingers.



“Must’ve been a heavenly reward for your good works.”



Bill cleared his throat. “And, uh, how is the little man?”



“Oh, haven’t you heard?” He could detect the exuberance in the woman’s voice. “He’s fine. Why, he’s better than fine. All healed up like nothing at all happened.”



“I see.” Bill’s hands shook and he clasped them in his lap. “And does he remember what happened?”



“No, no, not a thing. The doctor says it may have been some kind of fever. Guess we’ll never know.”



“Maybe…” Bill said, then shook his head, as if dismissing the thought out of hand. “It may not be right for me to say.”



“What is it?”



“I got to wondering if maybe he just wore himself out guessing cards at Miss Walker’s place.”



He sipped his coffee and waited. When Octavia finally spoke, her voice was tight with both apprehension and anger. “Miss Walker helps Isaiah with his arithmetic. He has trouble with his sums. I don’t know anything about any cards.”