Help me
I am being
held here
Against my
Will
Holy shit.
He wondered where the guy was now, and what role Grandpa had played in his “treatment.”
As he turned toward the main stairwell, a succession of shrieks erupted outside.
From the corridor, he strained to see through the grating over the cell’s window. In the distance, he could make out a swarm of birds. Either a patrol had come ashore or the woman had disturbed them.
Or worse: Rollie had arrived.
Finn squeezed his utility knife.
This was Tuesday; Sylvia had physical therapy. Rollie always accompanied her. They should be there now.
His father could have instructed the day nurse to take her. But he would have had to kayak here in broad daylight without the Harbor Unit detecting him. Even though he was in excellent condition for his age, his approach to the island, against the currents, would have been labored and slow.
Maybe Finn’s entire theory was off-base. Unless Kristian’s irritation at Rollie for mothballing the project had also been a ruse and he’d been handling the onsite work.
He glanced down the hall to ensure it was still empty and moved to the grate, where he smelled iron, and beyond it, fresh air.
The herons were taking flight from the trees near where he’d come ashore.
The beach and both decaying docks near his landing spot were empty.
Beyond them, a dark, red form blotted out a patch of the glistening water.
He squinted for a better look at the object, circling in an eddy. “Fuck.”
She must have pushed in his kayak. If he sprinted, he might be able to reach it before it became ensnared by a current or was spotted by a patrol.
Finn bolted for the exit, reeling backward just before smacking into the door.
He hadn’t closed it. Nor had he heard its rusty hinges as it swung shut.
Blinking rapidly, he pushed, but it didn’t budge.
What the hell?
He slammed his shoulder against the metal. The pinched nerve in his neck ignited in pain, blending with a fiery sensation in his bicep.
“Guys much stronger than you have tried that same move,” said a faint, raspy voice from the adjacent observation room. “It didn’t work for them, either.”
Heat radiated from his chest, flooding his entire body with fire.
He’d found her.
Or rather, she’d found him.
1902–1904
A period of rapid expansion for Riverside Hospital,
spurred by a series of outbreaks in Manhattan’s tenements
February 1902
eat from the blaze stung Cora’s back as cold wind chapped her face. Pushing through the knee-deep drifts, she slogged barefoot toward the seawall. Falling snow blended with the lavender-gray sky and whitecaps of the East River, creating a heavenly illusion. Even if her survival instincts could override her desire to die, hypothermia would render her swimming skills useless.
A scream crackled through the air.
Cora halted.
Although she kept to herself, several in the typhus overflow encampment had been kind to her. Mostly immigrants who’d settled in the squalid tenements of New York City, they clearly understood the pain that death leaves when stealing a family member.
Now she turned to face the burning tent as Mrs. Levitsky staggered from the inferno, flames devouring the back of her gown.
Horrified, Cora scanned the men in the fire brigade, who appeared too busy managing the hose to come to the woman’s aid.
“Help her!” Cora screamed, but the wind stole her words along with her breath.
Despite the germs’ grip on her frail body, Mrs. Levitsky had been like a mother to the group, telling Russian fairy tales at night, beckoning sleep to each fevered mind. Cora hadn’t understood the words, yet they’d still been soothing.
“Damn it!” Cora yelled through gritted teeth before darting back through the knot of makeshift shelters and frantic patients.
A nurse reached Mrs. Levitsky first, grabbed her, and threw them both into a snowdrift.
Even after the smoke had cleared, the old woman continued to wail.
Cora dropped to the ground and helped the nurse pack snow onto her friend’s backside as she writhed.
Although she should try to calm her, Cora couldn’t bring herself to look at the woman’s contorted face. Before Cora had arrived at Riverside Hospital, New York City’s most notorious pesthouse, she’d wanted to become a medical assistant. Two months on the island had changed that. These days, she wanted nothing more to do with disease and the doctors’ feeble attempts to stop it. She’d rather work at a Macy’s counter or sell pickles on the street.
Beyond them, a section of the tarp fell away, creating a window, framed by flames, into the pavilion, where a single ember had jumped from a coal stove to the canvas. All two dozen of the thin pallets were burning. Aside from Mrs. Levitsky’s, the only bed Cora could be certain was empty was her own. They’d been so fearful of the silent assassins festering within them; this incarnation of the devil posed an even greater threat.
She detested this prison island.
An orderly arrived to carry the moaning, charred Mrs. Levitsky to the main hospital building, and Cora stepped out of his way. A current of air, packing sea spray and snow, whipped her tunic around her legs before crashing against the burning timbers. Despite its water content, the gust countered the efforts of those manning the fire-extinguishing apparatus. So far, the blaze had been contained to the single tent, but if the staff failed, the devastation would surely spread to the other makeshift shelters and then to the hospital’s permanent wards and ancillary buildings.
Behind her, a child coughed the deep, rattling trademark of consumption, sending a shiver through Cora. With no other safe way to comfort the girl, she simply smiled. The child’s blue lips remained in a taut grimace. She’d likely be dead within a week.
Dozens of other invalids, cloaked in blankets, joined the vigil. The smoke had driven the typhus patients from their assigned tents, and others had come to gawk.
“Tret zurück! Step back!” shouted a strained voice with a German accent. Though he was holding a rag over his mouth, Cora recognized Dr. Otto Gettler.
Seemingly mesmerized by the
