Spirits in the Park by Scott Mebus

top hat, waistcoat, and large mustache, the man looked like he’d stepped right out of the nineteenth century. But Rory wasn’t so keen on figuring out what century his abductor hailed from as he was on planning an escape. The man’s grip was steel and Rory couldn’t shake it. The first time he tried to pull away, the man calmly backhanded him right across the face. His lip bleeding, Rory pretended to have all the fight knocked out of him, but all the while he searched for ways to get free.
    â€œWhere are you taking me?” he asked, digging for information.
    â€œYou’re Irish, ain’t ya?” the man asked instead.
    â€œYeah,” Rory replied hesitantly.
    â€œThat’s good,” the man said. “I’d feel worse about handing you over to the big guy if you weren’t a dirty Irishman.”
    Wonderful. He was in the hands of an old-school bigot.
    â€œWho’s the big guy?” Rory asked, undeterred. “Kieft?”
    The man stopped, spinning Rory around to face him. Rory recoiled; the man seemed to look right through him.
    â€œDon’t be playing games with me, Rory Hennessy,” the man said. “I promised I wouldn’t kill you, but it gnaws at me to have a Paddy by the neck and let him live. So, I may not kill you, but I will knock you around, hear me? So don’t test me. You get me?”
    Scared, Rory nodded. The man knew his name and had known where to find him. His luck truly had run out. The man resumed dragging Rory toward the river, muttering to himself.
    â€œThis whole city makes my skin crawl,” the man said, disgust coloring his voice. “In my day you had the micks and the krauts and the Chinks and the darkies. And that was bad enough. But I been out of the Tombs a half a day and already I’ve crossed paths with more dirty immigrants than I ever saw in my life. So many colors and accents and the like, it makes me sick. My family stretches back generations! They built this country! They didn’t slink off the boat like a rat in the night.
    â€œI even had to hire kraut Hessians to be my distraction; I’ll be bathing for weeks to get their stench off me. Let me tell you, once I’ve handed you over, I got some real work to do. This city needs cleaning up and me and my cleavers have to rise to the challenge. I gotta take it back from the hebes and wops and micks like you. Dirty little micks like you . . .”
    Suddenly Bill pulled up, roughly spinning Rory to face him. The kidnapper’s cheek twitched as his eyes stared right through his captive. A shiver ran through Rory as he realized that madness had taken over his kidnapper. Bill’s promise to refrain from murdering Rory teetered on the edge, as Bill’s hands reached, grasping for the handle of his rusty cleaver . . .
    Just then a blur shot through the air in front of them, crashing into Bill and knocking him to the ground. Rory staggered backward as his captor’s hand was wrenched from his arm. Bill struggled to rise, but someone in a hooded sweatshirt was jumping up and down on his chest. Bill reached into his belt and pulled out the cleaver. Rory let loose a cry, but not in time, as Bill swung his arm around and buried the cleaver in the shoulder of Rory’s rescuer.
    â€œHey! This is a new hoodie!” Rory’s growing suspicions were proven true as the hood fell back to reveal a rough paper face. It was, of course, Bridget. Relief and anger warred inside Rory—and anger won.
    â€œWhy are you in that papier-mâché body!” Rory cried. “I told you not to wear it, it’s too dangerous!”
    â€œYou’re welcome!” Bridget replied as she struggled to hold Bill down. “I’m so sorry I ran all the way home to get it so I could stop this maniac from murdering and eating you. You’re too ungrateful to be saved.”
    â€œYou’re not by yourself, right?” Rory looked around for the cavalry.