The Game of Love and Death(29)

Helen seemed to consider the likelihood of such a disaster. “No,” she said, her hands in her lap. “I don’t believe it will.”

They made their way down from the crown of the hill to Kerry Park, which had been given to the city by friends of the Thornes a decade earlier.

“What are we looking at?” Helen said.

Henry pointed out Elliott Bay and downtown. “In the daylight, you can sometimes see Mt. Rainier.” His gaze swept the mud flats and he considered mentioning Hooverville and James Booth and the story they were researching, but something made him hold back.

“Don’t you just love the feeling of being on top of the world?” Helen said. “I adore heights.”

Henry didn’t feel any particular need to impress Helen, but neither did he care to say the truth.

She persisted. “Such a romantic view. Thank you for bringing me.”

Henry swallowed. “It’ll be dark soon. I should be getting us home.”

“Only if you can’t think of anything else to do.” She looked up at him with her dark eyes. He looked away.

He hoped his discomfort wasn’t obvious. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to keep you out too late.”

At some point, maybe he’d become used to her, or less embarrassed by the see-through scheme of Mrs. Thorne. Yet he felt no connection to Helen. Nothing in common, besides maybe their age. And there was this sharpness to her, not just in the line of her smile, but somehow beneath her. It reminded him of the smell of food that had just turned bad. There was an underlying menace to it.

And, though she was clearly on best behavior with Henry, she’d been prickly with Ethan. She didn’t seem like someone he could trust.



“It was a lovely tour,” she said, when they returned home again. The dark, chilly sky was moonless and thick with high clouds. A row of streetlamps lit the driveway. The air smelled of fresh earth and spring blossoms. Even a hint of lily, though none grew in that part of Mrs. Thorne’s garden.

Helen stopped to pick a tulip. She ran her fingers down its pale green stem. Then she put her nose inside the cup of the flower and inhaled.

“I’m not sure you should be doing that,” Henry said. “Mrs. Thorne is pretty particular about her garden.”

She bent and picked several more. Each, she placed in Henry’s arms, until he held a bouquet. “She won’t notice. And you look darling standing there with your arms full of dead flora.”

Henry shuddered.

“Cold?” Helen said.

“No. Just tired, I suppose. Either that, or a bird flew over my grave.”

“What an expression,” she said. She feigned a yawn and held out her arm. “I’ll no doubt sleep like the dead tonight. I haven’t adjusted to this new time zone. My body thinks it’s midnight already.”

“Let me take you inside, then.” Henry felt the lightness of sudden possibility, adjusted the bouquet, and took Helen’s arm. They walked to the house. “I’m going to put these in water.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Helen said, as she turned to head upstairs. Henry hurried into the kitchen, in search of a vase. But as soon as he was alone, he changed his mind about what he’d do with the flowers. He still had Mr. Thorne’s car keys. He found some paper, wrapped the tulips, and slipped out the side door. He headed for the Domino, wondering what little thing nagged at him as he drove.

He’d just arrived at the club when he figured out what it was.

Ethan’s Cadillac was missing. Wherever could he have gone?





LOVE had felt his opponent return to the city hours earlier. And disguised as the cousin. No wonder the face had been recognizable. It was clever, devilishly so. When her train pulled in, he and a small group of men at Hooverville were standing around a burning barrel full of wood scraps and trash, discussing the best meals they’d ever eaten. He could hardly mention oysters in Paris or chocolate in San Francisco, so he’d made something up about his mother’s biscuits. He felt a darker sort of hunger, and he knew it was hers.

His first impulse was to join her. He was desperate to harangue her for what she’d done to the zeppelin. This would not change what had happened, though. He stilled himself by watching the flames gorge themselves on the sad heap of scraps. Then Love directed his heart toward Ethan’s, calling him across the miles.

He was fond of the young man, surprisingly so. But he was equally conscious of the fact that Ethan stood in the way of the players. It wasn’t just Ethan’s unspoken attraction to Henry, but also his growing interest in an alliance between Henry and Helen. Love wouldn’t break the rule against interfering with the players’ hearts directly. But with one close to them? Especially one so full of charm? It would be his pleasure.

Ethan knocked on James’s door at sunset, still pushing the ruse that he was researching the newspaper piece.

“You’re not writing anything down,” Love said, after they’d spent two hours inside his shack discussing philosophy and politics.

“I have a good memory.”

“Just what the forgotten men of Hooverville need. Your memory.”

Even in the weak light that found its way through the doorway, Love could see Ethan did not know what to make of the remark. He touched the young man’s forearm to reassure him it was not meant as a jab. He meant it truly: to be seen, to be remembered, to matter. It was what these men, and all others, needed.