That Afternoon, 1:00 P.M.

"Huge fact'ry fiah, Joisey boined ta da ground!"

            The headline was good improvement on the small and quickly controlled blaze in a Jersey City textiles factory. It was a clear, beautiful summer afternoon, the crowds were thick in Central Park, a band was playing merrily in the bandstand, and the papers were selling themselves. It was a good thing, too, because if she'd had to give any more effort than this, Flick knew she probably wouldn't have earned a single penny today.

            The five partners had gone back to their strategy of old, each with his or her own selling spot, scattered all over the park. There were two reasons for this. Flick did not want to be near anyone, and no one really wanted to be near Flick, though they were all worried sick by now and did want to keep an eye on her.

            Deyre watchin' me. All o' dem. Dey ain't gotta be so subtle 'bout it. Dey must know I can see 'em, creepin 'round heah ev'ry few minutes, pretendin' ta be huntin' an elusive customa or chasin' a blown-away pape or whateveh.

            "Infoino takes da lives o' thousands! T'ank ya, ma'am."

            Deyre worried 'bout me, huh? Fancy dat. An' what must dey t'ink o' me, wallin' 'em off like dis, closin' up an' snappin' at 'em when dey try ta help? I'se as bad as I was when we foist came heah! All I gotta do is soak 'em, an' dey'll have da old image o' me back in place. Dey'll f'get ev'rytin' dat's happened since den...hat chases...horse races...pokah games...

            "Whole city reduced ta ashes! Jist a penny, sir."

            'Cept dis's diff'rent from when we foist came. 'Cause it ain't 'we' anymoah. Secret prob'ly hates me now, an' I don't blame 'er. I can't believe I'se treatin' 'er like dis. My best friend. An' Song told me...

            NO. NO. NO. NO.

            "Rescue poisonnel soichin' fer su'vivas!"

            But it's a'right. It'll blow oveh. I'se jist...broodin', right now. Toughenin' up. Gettin' useta what 'appened, loinin' ta accept it. I'll be outta dis mood soon. I'll apologize ta Secret, an' Blink an' Mush...an' Race. I'll make 'em see why dey don't need ta know what happened. Why it's best jist ta f'get. An' den...

            Den what, Flick? she mocked herself. Yeh'll all live happily eveh afta?

            Okay, so t'ings won't be poifect. Dere'll be a crack heah an' dere. Nuttin's eveh poifect. But if dey knew...den ev'rytin' would shatta...

            If dey knew...but I don't know myself.

            What happened dat night, Flick?

            NO. NO. NO.

            What happened? Ya don't know yaself!

            It's best dat way...it's best ta block it out...ta live fereveh widdout rememberin'...

            But ya will rememba. 'Cause it'll come back ta haunt ya. Ya can't run from it, ya can't hide in yer new home wit yer new friends an' yer new life. Somehow, it'll catch up ta ya...

            "Inventin' moah deaths ta put pennies in yer pockets?"

            Flick spun around so fast that she nearly fell over. The movement was reflexive; she already knew who she would see. Yes, there he stood before her...the same tiny street kid she had encountered in this very park three long days ago.

            "Ya owe me fifty cents, kid," she informed him shakily.

            "Spent it," the pickpocket replied calmly. "An' how 'bout you? Whadda you owe? An explanation? A...confession, maybe?"

            Flick stared at him. She could feel her shock rapidly being melted by the heat of her emotions, and she realized that if this kid didn't disappear very soon, she was likely to damage him severely. He seemed aware of this too, and backed away a few steps, but continued to gaze stonily at her.

            "Look, kid," Flick began in a whisper that was like a lit match being slowly lowered toward a can of kerosene. "I dunno who ya are. I'd neveh seen ya in my life befoah ya robbed me t'ree days ago. But whoeveh ya are, I strongly suggest ya 'splain why da he** yer hangin' 'round me an' askin' me strange questions. Or jist get outta heah, dat might be da smarta choice at dis point."

            At that moment, four pairs of footsteps came pounding across the grass. Four newsies appeared on the scene, clustered behind Flick like a miniature army, of which she was general.      Flick felt her heart rise to her throat. She knew one of them must have seen the kid and tipped off the others. She knew they were here to help her, to back her up, to see if she was in trouble. But for some reason, some reason she didn't quite know herself, she didn't want them here. At all.

            The young thief looked around at Racetrack, Blink, Mush, and Secret. He did seem slightly afraid, and with good reason. But he was not backing down. The exchange continued as if the newcomers were not there at all.

            "Don'cha know why I'se hangin' 'round ya, Flick? Don't tell me ya ain't guessed. Pickpockets heah a lot o' t'ings on da streets, y'know. We's almost as well informed as Spot Conlon."

            Dis is a scrawny liddle kid, no moah den ten, maybe eleven, yeahs old, an'...what...4'9? So why am I shakin' inside?

            "I dunno what yer tawkin' 'bout, kid, but..."

            "But I'se treadin' on dangerous ground, right? Ya ain't happy dat yer friends showed up, are ya? Don't dey know what happened, Flick...don't dey know what ya did?"

            Flick's vision had become a tunnel. A dark, narrow little tunnel. Like a tube stretching from her eye to the face of this stranger, this little boy, this random street rat, who had come to shatter her world.

            Don't dey know what ya did?

            "Flick?" Blink's voice.

            "Flick..." Secret.

            "Flick...?" Mush.

            "Flick...trust us." That was Racetrack.

            Don't dey know what ya did?

            "I din't do nuttin'..." Her voice was not her own. It was hoarse, raspy, alien.

            "Din't ya?" The boy regarded her with a look of disgust.

            Did I? DID I!?!

            Dat night...

            The child's face was all she could see, and her hearing was fading too. She had an impression that the others were speaking, not just the pickpocket, but her friends, their voices saying things to her...but she couldn't make out the words. There was one sound now, one sound that was clear as day. It was coming from the bandstand.

            Flutes. They were playing flutes. The music filled her ears, and filled her mind, and filled her up until she knew that she was drowning in it. That music which was one of the most familiar sounds in the world to her. And which now brought pain like a hundred swords being driven through her heart.

            Soft...sweet...hypnotic...

Flutes. Flutes.

August 3, 1899, 8:30 P.M.

"Ya almost done, Song? We gotta be headin' back. It's gettin' late, an we's all outta papes."

            "I know, Secret, I know...can't stop now dough. Da people comin' an' goin' heah love it, I'se makin' a fortune...an' I'se playin' real well t'night. Ya can't interrupt art, goil!"

            "Oh, you an' yer art, Song! C'mon, it's gonna be yer fault if we's late gettin' back an' we hafta sleep on da fiah escape."

            "Hey, I happen ta like da fiah escape, Flick. It's good fer inspiration. I can practice out dere widdout any o' youse bums tellin' me ta shuddup an' go ta sleep."

            "Well, dat's all very well fer an artist, but dere's some of us heah dat actually enjoy sleepin' in beds. Right, Secret?"

            "She is right, y'know, Song. I really don't fancy gettin' eaten alive by mosquitoes an' wakin' up wit a stiff neck."

            "Youse two! Ya jist can't appreciate t'ings like dis. Go on back ta yer nice warm bunks, den. I'll catch up ta youse soon, or brave da fiah escape."

            "Uh-huh. Nice try, Song. As if we'd leave ya alone, outside a bar in New Yawk City, afta dark."

            "'Scuse me, but I t'ink youse two are f'gettin' sometin'. WHO is da oldest one heah, da one dat should be lookin' afta youse, instead o' da odda way around?"

            "God, Song, fer da las' time..."

            "I know, I know! Youse can both fight an' I can't! Gimme a break fer once, a'right? Go home. Yer gonna be late. I'll jist stay a liddle while longa. Who's gonna attack a doity liddle newsgoil sittin' on da ground playin' a flute? Believe me: I'll. Be. Fine."

            "Song, it ain't safe..."

            "Ya don't know da foist t'ing 'bout defendin' yaself..."

            "An' I won't hafta defend myself! Secret. Flick. Listen ta me. I need dis time, a'right? I need ta do sometin' on my own fer once. I love both o' youse an' ya know it, but once in a while I gotta be alone, wit myself, an' da night, an' da music. It might not seem important ta youse, but it means a lot ta me, a'right?"

            "I can undastand dat, but Song..."

            "Dat's it. Fightin' ability aside, I got seniority. Both o' youse, back ta da lodgin' house. NOW."

August 11, 1899, 1:15 P.M.

"We left 'er dere," Flick murmured feverishly. "We left 'er, it was stupid...so stupid..."

            "It's okay, Flick," Secret was saying, "we shouldn't o' done it, but she insisted...ya know dat...it's tough, but it's a'right now..."

Then the little thief's voice, cold and terrible. "Ya did moah den leave 'er."

August 3, 1899, 9:00 P.M.

"What's takin' 'er so long? Da** it, why'd she hafta insist dat we leave 'er dere!? So stupid, I can't believe it, she KNOWS what all goes on in New Yawk at night! Din't she even t'ink o' us!? She musta known we'd be waitin' up! Wheah da he** is she!? Da** it, da** it, I will kill dat goil when I see 'er..."

            "Calm down, Flick...she's prob'ly jist woiked up a nice crowd...ya know how she gets..."

            "I'se gonna go bring 'er back."

            "Flick! Ya are NOT! I AIN'T gonna have both my best friends out dere at dis time o' night...speakin' o' stupid...c'mon, Flick, get back heah...Flick!"

August 11, 1899, 1:17 P.M.

"I din't listen. I went anyway."

            "Ya were worried," Secret whispered.

            Was this true? Flick thought it was, but also..."I was mad."

August 3, 1899, 9:10 P.M.

What on earth WAS taking her so long? Music! Art! 'Time alone wit myself an' da night...' Flick would show her time alone! How dare she do this, worrying her friends to death...she knew the risk, she knew they'd be worried, how dare she make them wait...

            Here was the street. Here was the block. Here was the bar...

August 11, 1899, 1:18 P.M.

Flick swayed. "No..."

            Secret's hand was on her arm. "Flick..."

            The thief was not sympathetic to her plight. "Tell 'em," he insisted.

            "Leave 'er alone!" Race shouted.

            And in the bandstand, the flutes kept on playing...

August 3, 1899, 9:11 P.M.

"Song...Song. Song! SONG!!"

            That night...on the ground...Flick was beside her, kneeling beside her. Song was not moving. Not moving. Not moving. Crimson stained her vest. She was not moving...

            And a knife...there was a knife...

August 11, 1899, 1:20 P.M.

"Dat night..."

            "Yeah? Tell 'em. Tell 'em what happened."

            Blink was furious. "Get outta heah! Leave 'er alone! Ya don't know what yer tawkin' 'bout, leave 'er alone!"

            Secret was still trying to comfort her. "Flick. It's a'right. We all know what happened now. Da secret's out, da lyin' an' pretendin' is oveh. Song, our best friend, practic'ly our sista, died dat night. It was horrible, an' it'll always hoit, but it's oveh now! It's oveh!"

            Flick murmured faintly. "A knife..."

            And then the pickpocket's voice. "An' who was holdin' it?"

            An' who was holdin' it?

            A knife...an' who was holdin' it?

Date And Time Indefinite

She was.

She was.

Down on da ground...dat night...in my hand...

In her hand...

Song lay on da ground, an' I was mad at 'er, an' dere was blood, an' da knife was in my hand.

August 11, 1899, 1:21 P.M.

"I was."

            Silence.

            Absolute and utter silence. Untouched, unbroken, pure and total silence...pierced only by the low music of flutes.

            Secret felt the world slipping out from under her. "Flick," she murmured, imploring, pleading, voice high and shaky and tear-choked and desperate. "Flick...ya don't know what yer sayin'. Ya din't...ya don't know...ya don't know!"

            "It can't...ya neveh..." Mush stammered.

            "I don't believe it." Blink was shaking his head, eyes closed, face pale. "I don't..."

            Racetrack was silent. His shock and anguish were too overwhelming for words.

            "It's jist what I hoid in Harlem." The mysterious kid's voice contained no satisfaction, no triumph. Only a deep, resigned sorrow. "Dat a redheaded newsgoil wit a horrible tempa killed 'er best friend."

            Flick struck out at him blindly, not even knowing if her fist found its target. Then she turned and ran...ran from the calm and happy couples and families strolling through the park, from the children laughing and playing, from the boy who had accused her, from the faces of her friends, full of shock and terror and hatred, and from the bandstand and the relentless music of the flutes.

For a time, no one spoke. The young thief was gone as quickly as he had arrived. No one made a move to stop him. He left three boys and one girl standing devestated in the middle of Central Park, staring in the direction their red-haired friend had run, long after she had disappeared.
            It was Secret who finally broke the silence, and then with only four faint words: "I'se goin' afta her." With that, she took off.
            "Secret!" Mush called, starting after her, but Blink pulled him back. "Let 'er go," he whispered shakily.

            As for Racetrack, he had not so much as moved since Flick spoke those two earth-shaking words: I was. Even now, Race did not even seem to take notice of Secret's departure, and the Musketeers watched resignedly as she vanished the same way Flick had.
            And then there were three. The three best friends finally managed to look at each other, each searching the others' eyes for some sign of calm, of understanding, of acceptance. But all they saw was horror, confusion, and denial.
            "She didn't."  Racetrack's whisper came out low, poignant, and earnest.
            A few seconds passed. "She...must...have," Kid Blink uttered slowly and hesitantly, as if it hurt to talk. "She...she said..."
            "Oh, God," was all Mush could manage.

            "We...gotta go...back." Blink sounded desperate, as if reaching out for something to anchor onto and finding only air. "We's gotta..." He hesitated, then moaned softly. "We's gotta tell da oddas."

            Mush's mouth dropped open at this. He eyed Race, who looked like he was about to pass out at any moment. With one last lingering glance in the direction in which both newsgirls had run, the Three Musketeers slowly headed back to the Manhattan lodging house. The numbness of pure and all-consuming shock had not yet left them, and none knew how they were going to tell twenty-seven boys that the girl with whom they had been living for five days was a murderer.