Chapter 2 - The House on Lake Shore Drive
The Varga mansion rose out of the grey autumn fog like a Gothic fortress built by a timber baron who feared his own neighbors. Six stories of hand-carved Indiana limestone, flanked by massive wrought-iron gates that groaned as Gus Kovak steered the black Mercedes through the courtyard at five-thirty the following morning.
The interior smelled of ancient floor wax, damp wool, and the heavy, medicinal odor of digitalis coming from the ground-floor suite where Laszlo Varga was being kept alive by a array of noisy medical monitors.
Gus led Thea through the service entrance at the side of the house, down a narrow stone corridor that bypassed the grand mahogany staircase, and up a flight of steep wooden steps reserved for the domestic staff.
"Rules are simple, Miss Whitlock," Gus said in his low, raspy voice as he handed her a set of brass keys and two ironed black dresses with white aprons. "You do not speak unless spoken to by family members. You do not enter the west wing where Mr. Julian keeps his office. You do not touch the telephones in the main hall. And if you hear argument behind closed doors, you walk in the opposite direction."
"And Gabriel?" Thea asked, clutching the stiff fabric of the uniforms.
Gus stopped on the second-floor landing, turning his silver-haired head to look at her. His eyes were small, shrewd, and lined with decades of watching dangerous men do dangerous things.
"The boy is in Room 204," Gus said softly. "His mother, Lady Helena, lives in the south suite. She has not visited him in three weeks. Julian goes into that room once a day to bark orders at him, which the boy cannot hear, and to shake him by the shoulders until the boy bruises. Do not interfere if Julian is inside. You cannot help Gabriel if you are floating in the Chicago River."
He left her at the end of the long, dimly lit corridor. The walls were hung with dark oil portraits of forgotten European ancestors, their eyes painted with heavy bitumen that seemed to follow her every step.
Thea changed into the dark uniform in the small housemaid's closet near the linen room. The black wool was coarse and slightly too tight around her shoulders, but it smelled of clean lye soap. She tucked her hair into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, took her cleaning tray containing polish, feather dusters, and soft cloths, and walked to the door marked 204.
She knocked twice—a gentle, rhythmic tap. There was no answer, as she knew there wouldn't be. She used her key, turned the heavy iron lock, and pushed the door open.
The room was vast, cold, and almost completely dark. Heavy velvet drapes barred the autumn sunlight, leaving only a sliver of grey light that cut across the thick Persian rug. The air was stale, smelling of cold broth, dried ink, and fear.
In the far corner, wedged between a tall mahogany bookcase and the heavy carved leg of a four-poster bed, sat a small figure.
Gabriel Varga was small for twelve years old, his frame frail beneath an oversized grey cashmere sweater that looked as though it belonged to Casper. His hair was jet-black, falling in messy locks over a pale, high forehead. He was huddled on the floor, his knees pulled tight against his chest, clutching a heavy leather-bound sketchbook in his small, white-knuckled hands.
When the light from the hallway hit his face, his dark eyes widened with immediate, feral panic. He pressed himself further into the corner, his lips pressing into a hard, white line, his chest heaving under the sweater.
Thea did not step closer. She didn't speak. She knew that to a deaf child who had been surrounded by shouting men for months, sudden movement was identical to violence.
Slowly, deliberately, she closed the heavy door behind her, shutting out the noise of the hallway. She set her cleaning tray down on the floor right near the entrance. Then, without making eye contact, she sat down on the hardwood floor, six feet away from him, crossing her legs under her black skirt.
She reached into her apron pocket, pulled out a small piece of soft, lint-free flannel and a brass candle snuffer that needed polishing, and began to clean it with methodical, silent care.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. The only sound in the room was the faint scratching of the cloth against the brass.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Gabriel shift slightly. His breathing slowed. He lowered the sketchbook an inch, revealing a pair of dark, incredibly intelligent eyes that studied her with intense suspicion.
Thea did not look up. But with her left hand, which remained resting naturally against her knee where he could see it clearly, she moved her fingers.
Not rapid, complex signs. Just three clear, slow movements in standard American Sign Language:
SAFE. HERE. WORK.
Gabriel’s entire body went rigid. His eyes darted from her face to her hand, then back to her face. His jaw dropped slightly, a quick, gasping breath escaping his mouth.
He didn't sign back. He pulled his sweater sleeve down over his hand, hugged his knees tighter, and pulled himself back into the shadows.
May you like
But he didn't scream. And he didn't throw the heavy inkwell sitting on the bedside table.
Thea continued to polish the brass snuffer, her heart hammering against her ribs. Casper was right. The boy wasn't broken. He was just waiting for someone who spoke his language.
