Garden of Beasts

will end up in shackles. Pick the first and you will suffer no pain. Pick the second, you will end up bloody. The choice is yours.”
    “I have been accused of a crime I did not commit!”
    “I repeat: Surrender or die. Those are your only choices.”
    “No, sir, I have one other,” Charles shouts. He resumes his flight—toward the dock.
    “Stop or we will shoot!” Detective Simms calls.
    But the freedman bounds over the railing of the pier like a horse taking a picket in a charge. He seems to hang in the air for a moment, then cartwheels thirty feet into the murky waters of the Hudson River, muttering some words—perhaps a plea to Jesus, perhaps a declaration of love for his wife and child—though whatever they might be none of his pursuers can hear.
    •   •   •
    Fifty feet from Geneva Settle forty-one-year-old Thompson Boyd moved closer to the girl.
    He pulled the stocking cap over his face, adjusted the eye holes, and opened the cylinder of his pistol to make sure it wasn’t jammed. He’d checked it earlier but, in this job, you could never be too certain. He put the gun into his pocket and pulled the billy club out of a slit cut into his dark raincoat.
    He was in the stacks of books in the costume exhibit hall, which separated him from the microfiche reader tables. His latex-gloved fingers pressed his eyes, which had been stinging particularly sharply this morning. He blinked away a few tears from the pain.
    He looked around again, making sure the room was in fact deserted.
    No guards were here, none downstairs either. No security cameras or sign-in sheets. All good. But there were some logistical problems. The big room was deathly quiet, and Thompson couldn’t hide his approach to the girl. She’d know someone was in the room with her and might become edgy and alert.
    So after he’d stepped inside this wing of the library and locked the door behind him, he’d laughed, a chuckle. Thompson Boyd had stopped laughing years ago. But he was also a craftsman who understood the power of humor—and how to use it to your advantage in this line of work. A laugh—coupled with a farewell pleasantry and a closing cell phone—would put her at ease, he reckoned.
    This ploy seemed to work. He looked quickly around the long row of shelves and saw the girl, staring at the microfiche screen. Her hands, at her side, seemed to clench and unclench nervously at what she was reading.
    He started forward.
    Then stopped. The girl was pushing away from the table. He heard her chair slide on the linoleum. She was walking somewhere. Leaving? No. He heard the sound of the drinking fountain and her gulping some water. Then he heard her pulling books off the shelf and stacking them up on the microfiche table. Another pause and she returned to the stacks once again, gathering more books. The thud as she set them down. Finally he heard the screech of her chair as she sat once more. Then silence.
    Thompson looked again. She was back in her chair, reading one of the dozen books piled in front of her.
    With the bag containing the condoms, razor knife, and duct tape in his left hand, the club in his right, he started toward her again.
    Coming up behind her now, twenty feet, fifteen, holding his breath.
    Ten feet. Even if she bolted now, he could lunge forward and get her—break a knee or stun her with a blow to the head.
    Eight feet, five . . .
    He paused and silently set the rape pack on a shelf. He took the club in both hands. He stepped closer, lifting the varnished oak rod.
    Still absorbed in the words, she read intently, oblivious to the fact that her attacker was an arm’s length behind her. Thompson swung the club downward with all his strength toward the back of the girl’s skull.
    Crack . . .
    A painful vibration stung his hands as the baton struck her head with a hollow snap.
    But something was wrong. The sound, the feel were off. What was going on?
    Thompson Boyd leapt back as the body fell to the floor.
    And tumbled into pieces.
    The torso of the mannequin fell one way. The head another. Thompson stared for a moment. He glanced to his side and saw a ball gown draped over the bottom half of the same mannequin—part of a display on women’s clothing in Reconstruction America.
    No . . .
    Somehow, she’d tipped to the fact that he was here and was a threat. She’d then collected some books from the shelves as an excuse for standing up and taking apart a mannequin. She’d dressed the upper part of