Against the Tide (5 page)

4

I
t was nearing midnight and the Professor was tired, but he carried his treasure as carefully as if it were an injured butterfly, stepping down the carriage steps gently so as not to stress the delicate pages of his latest acquisition.

“You have sanded the walkways properly?” he asked the servant who held the carriage door open for him.

“Certainly, Professor.”

“Good lad.” It had been raining all day, and these slate paths could be slick. The thought of slipping while he carried this poor, damaged masterpiece was too hideous to contemplate. Warm light glowed behind the windows of his granite mansion, and soon he could transfer these delicate pages into a proper resting place. Never again would the book be neglected in a room too warm, or fingered by stupid people who did not understand the priceless nature of John Milton’s
Areopagitica.
Printed in 1644, this volume had survived civil wars, the burning of London, and the slow decay of years. He had traveled all the way to Philadelphia to attend the auction, but it was worth it.

It was a relief to step inside, where he kept the house perpetually cool, mindful of preserving his delicate books. It wasn’t comfortable for the people who lived here, but these sacrifices must be made. His eyes dilated with pleasure as he passed through the mansion’s great room, the walls filled to capacity with bookshelves towering to the ceiling. More books rested atop the vestibule table, stacked along the hallways, and stashed beneath end tables.

He pulled on a pair of soft cotton gloves, opened the box, and let his eyes feast on the beauty of
Areopagitica.
He winced a bit at the stain that darkened the lower-left corner of the book. Probably some careless reader from centuries ago who did not know how to properly care for a masterpiece such as this. No matter. He would overlook the flaws, no different from a father who would love a child despite a scar.

A whimper disturbed the silence of the night. He lifted his head and cocked his ear. Most definitely, it was the crying of a child. The Professor carefully wrapped
Areopagitica
back in its protective covers and set it within the mahogany case before following the sounds of weeping to the music room.

Just as he suspected. There, curled beside the harpsichord and holding his stomach, was little Dennis Webster.

He closed the door. The weeping immediately stopped and Dennis froze when he saw him standing inside the music room.

“Come now, child,” the Professor said. “What is the cause for all those tears? Isn’t Mrs. Garfield feeding you well?”

The boy’s eyes were huge as he clung to the side of the harpsichord, too upset to speak, and that would never do. “Shall I have her fetch you a bowl of warm soup? Or perhaps some apple pie? She usually has pie at this time of year.”

The barest shake of his head was the boy’s only answer.

“Well then, if you are not hungry, I insist you tell me what is
wrong. We can’t have a boy of your age crying like this. It is unseemly. What are you, nine years old?”

The boy sniffled. “Ten.”

“Ten years old. Too old to be crying all alone in the middle of the night. Now, tell me what has you down in the dumps, lad.”

The boy wrapped his hands around his knees and stared at the hardwood floor. “I miss Tony,” he said quietly.

“Ah . . . the Vallins boy. I see,” the Professor said with sympathy. He walked across the room and sat in a chair opposite the still quivering child. “What happened to Tony was tragic, but you know that has nothing to do with you. Come now, there are plenty of things here for you to do, even though your playmate is gone. There is fishing and horseback riding. And I hear there is a brand-new batch of puppies out in the barn. You may pick one out for your very own, if you like.”

Dennis shook his head and refused to lift his gaze. This was getting frustrating, but perhaps it was only natural for a boy in Dennis’s position to be frightened. Natural, but it was time he grew out of it. The boy had been here for three years, and the Professor had never said a cross word to the child. Never harmed him in any way.

“Dennis, you must learn to be a man and grow out of these childish fears. I know you are in a . . . well, a tricky position, but I don’t intend to punish you so long as your father continues to be helpful. Which he has been ever since you came to live with me. That was not the case with Tony’s father, so I was simply left with no choice. You can understand that, can’t you?”

After a long pause, there was the barest nodding of the boy’s head. “That’s a fine lad,” he said soothingly. “And you are in good company. Why, holding the children of important people has been quite common throughout all of history. The first king of Scotland was a guest of the English king for most of his childhood. It
wasn’t until he was sixteen that James was sent back to his family in Scotland, and by then he had made lots of friends in England and he was a much better king because of it. So it worked out well for all parties,” he said warmly.

Confusion and anxiety was still stamped all over Dennis’s face. The boy tried several times to say something, but he seemed reluctant to actually get the words out. “Don’t be afraid. Ask me whatever you wish,” the Professor said kindly.

“What . . . what exactly happened to Tony?”

He breathed a heavy sigh. There was no purpose in telling the boy such things. After all, Tony did not suffer, as the Professor would never countenance unnecessary violence, but Tony’s father needed to be sent a clear message. The delivery of a trunk containing the body of eleven-year-old Tony Vallins did the trick. Mr. Vallins had three other children to be concerned with, and the Professor did not expect to have any additional trouble from the harbormaster of New Orleans ever again.

“All you need to know is that Tony did not suffer. His father simply did not love him enough, but that was hardly the boy’s fault, now was it? Come, why don’t you write another letter to your father and put it in tomorrow’s post, if it will make you feel better. I can even help you with some of the harder words. Tell your father what a brave young boy you are, just like the Scottish king.”

He smiled at the child. How nice it was to help a boy with his letters. He never had children of his own, but over the years there had been other children just like Dennis and Tony he had welcomed into his home. Very few ended up like poor Tony, as the Professor’s reputation tended to be very effective in getting what he wanted.

Only once had he been truly, deeply disappointed in one of the children who came to live with him. Alexander Banebridge had the keenest brain of any man, woman, or child the Professor had
ever met. Cunning too. Over time, the Professor decided to raise Bane as his own son. He gave that boy everything. An education. Access to power. He taught Bane the manners of a gentleman, the cultures of the world, and how to operate an international shipping operation. And Bane devoured everything, that lightning fast mind of his locking away the information and always searching out more.

Of course, Bane had ultimately proven to be a terrible disappointment. Who would have predicted that the Professor’s most splendid creation would fall victim to a passel of Bible-thumpers?

But the other young hostages had proven quite profitable. Some even went into business with him when they became grown men. Perhaps young Dennis would be just such a lad.

Bane walked into the florist on Cranston Street and was enveloped by the heady fragrance of rose and jasmine. He waited while a young man dictated an insipid love note to be attached to a delivery of roses. “As I would live for your smile, I would die for your love. Sweet Margaret, you make me soar like a dove on the wings of love.”

Despite the onslaught of atrocious poetry, Bane kept his face carefully neutral. There were very few things in this world of which Bane could be certain, but one was that he would never gush over a woman in such a pitiable manner.

At last the young man completed his poem, paid for his delivery, and left the store. Bane approached the florist. “Have you any poppies in stock?”

The florist gave a reluctant shake of his head. “It’s a bit tough to get them in at this time of year. Perhaps some dahlias?”

In the five years that Bane had been coming to this shop, the only type of flower he ever purchased had been poppies, but he
pretended to consider the option. It would hardly do to let the florist think he suffered from some sort of maniacal obsession that motivated every action of his life.

“Let’s have a look at the dahlias,” he said casually. Bane wouldn’t know a dahlia from a turnip, so he followed the florist around the counter and looked at the flower. The wide, sloppy petals were reminiscent of a poppy, but really, only a poppy would do.

“Charming, but I’m willing to wait for the poppies. When can you have a shipment delivered?”

Bane knew it was a tall order. Poppies bloomed in June, and although a few strains could be manipulated to last later into the season, those would require a greenhouse far to the south. The man hesitated. “I’ll have to telegraph an order to a supplier in Georgia. Perhaps a week?”

Bane nodded. He slipped the man the hefty fee such a delivery would entail. “I want them delivered to the Rare Book Room at the Harvard library. No note is necessary.”

A surge of satisfaction pumped through Bane. Odd, that he could still get a charge out of taunting the Professor. He risked his life each time he lobbed one of these grenades at Professor Van Bracken, but it was worth it. For decades that man had polluted the world with tons of smuggled opium, the lethally seductive by-product of the poppy plant.

For a few years, Bane had been the Professor’s willing henchman. He had helped the Professor smuggle, distribute, and sell opium to anyone who was willing to pay the price. When Bane was seventeen, he found God and broke free of the Professor’s iron grip, but the shame still lingered on Bane’s soul. He would carry that stain for the rest of his life, but at least now he was unraveling the horror he had brought upon the world. He spent most of his time in the bare-knuckle world of political brawling, pushing
legislation that would choke off the sale of opium throughout the country, but taunting the Professor was one of the few indulgences he permitted himself.

Ten years ago, shortly after he escaped the Professor’s influence, Bane bought a case of poppy bulbs and waited until the Professor left his remote mansion in the Vermont wilderness where he operated his criminal empire. For three nights Bane sneaked onto the property and planted those bulbs everywhere, filling the Professor’s lawn, the gardens, even the pasture where he kept livestock. He broke into the Professor’s mansion and slipped bulbs inside the potted plants that graced every room. Bane wished he could have been there as those poppies started blooming, but he had been too busy covering his tracks, knowing the Professor’s henchmen were still on the hunt for Bane’s head.

After that summer, Bane started sending the Professor poppies everywhere. He knew who in the Professor’s network could be turned, and Bane turned them. When the Professor hobnobbed with high society, Bane made sure the hostess had lavish bouquets of poppies to fill her parlor. When the Professor met with his bankers, there was a glorious oil painting of poppies on the office wall. All of it was designed to set the Professor on edge, to let him know that Alexander Banebridge was still alive and knew where he banked, with whom he socialized. He wanted to ensure the Professor would never enjoy a single peaceful night of sleep in his life. How ironic that a lovely bouquet of poppies could help make that happen.