THE ETERNAL RECURRENCE

Evie and Jericho sat at a long table with stacks of books, police reports, drawings, and assorted papers before them. Jericho had lit a fire in the library’s massive stone fireplace. It crackled and spit as it bit into the dry wood. They’d been at it for an hour, searching through musty books for some clue that might shed light on the baffling occult nature of the murder. Evie was tired and irritable. She didn’t want to think about what she’d seen the day before, much less wallow in it. But Will showed no sign of stopping. As he spoke, he walked the perimeter of the room, trailing ash from his cigarette.

“Right. Let’s review: What do we know so far?” Will asked.

“The killer has a fascination with the occult and with religion, possibly the Book of Revelation,” Jericho answered from his perch at the head of the table.

“How do we know this?”

“His note mentions the Harlot, the Whore of Babylon, and the Beast, possibly a reference to the anti-Christ.”

“Indeed,” Will said. “But the passage is only partially from the Bible. They don’t correspond neatly.”

“They’re close,” Jericho said.

“Any librarian or scholar will tell you: Close is not the same as accurate. And don’t forget that there are sigils as well. That’s more indicative of some ceremonial magic or mysticism than of Christianity.” Will indicated the scribblings running around the edges of the note. To Evie they just looked like scribbles—stylized crosses, squiggles, fancy letters, and geometric patterns.

“Now…” Will stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and immediately reached into his silver cigarette case for another without breaking his stride. “We have a symbol, do we not?”

“A pentacle,” Evie answered.

“Yes. I’ve no artistic skill. Evie, could you…?” Will handed her a nub of chalk fished from an old cigar box full of odds and ends. It took Evie a moment to understand that he expected her to draw the symbol on the slate. “No, you’ve drawn it right side up. Inverted, please.”

With a sigh, Evie erased her five-pointed star and drew it again with the two points up and the one down. “What’s the difference?” she grumbled.

“I’ve told you: Inverted means matter over God. Spirit becoming flesh rather than the other way ’round. And now the snake, if you would, please.”

Evie finished off the sketch. It was a rather nice likeness of a snake, if she did say so herself. Not that Will said thank you. Evie brushed the chalk dust from her hands. “What is the meaning of the snake?”

“Ah. That is a very old symbol, indeed. The snake devouring its tail, no beginning and no end. It exists across time and cultures. We see it in the Norse Jormungandr, the Greek Ouroboros, Gnosticism, the Ashanti, the Egyptian. It represents cycles, the idea that the universe is neither created nor destroyed but returns infinitely, to be played out again and again.”

“The eternal recurrence, Nietzsche calls it,” Jericho said.

“Does that mean I’ll be forced to live through this afternoon again?” Evie joked. No one laughed, and she occupied herself by chalking in a fashionable hat on the snake’s head.

Will grabbed a handful of mints from a dish and jiggled them in his palm as he resumed his pacing, the cigarette still in his other hand. “We may assume, then, that our killer has some passing knowledge of the occult, of magical and religious symbolism, most likely the Book of Revelation. But he references the Whore of Babylon as the ‘Harlot Adorned upon the Sea.’ ” Will paused for a second. “Strange phrase, that. Baffling. Possibly from a religion of the killer’s own making.”

“How do you invent a religion?” Evie asked.

Will looked over the top of his spectacles. “You say, ‘God told me the following,’ and then wait for people to sign up.”

Evie hadn’t given religion much thought before. Her parents were Catholics turned Episcopalian. They attended services on Sunday, but it was all pretty rote, like brushing your teeth and bathing. Just something you did because it was expected. Evie hadn’t always felt that way. For a year after James had died, she’d cupped his half-dollar pendant between her pressed palms and prayed fervently for a miracle, for a telegram that would say GOOD NEWS! IT WAS A TERRIBLE MISTAKE, AND PRIVATE JAMES XAVIER O’NEILL HAS BEEN FOUND, SAFE, IN A FARMHOUSE IN FRANCE. But no such telegram ever arrived, and whatever possible faith might have bloomed in Evie withered and died. Now she saw it as just another advertisement for a life that belonged to a previous generation and held no meaning for hers.

“We haven’t answered the most basic question of all: Why? What purpose is served by these murders?” Jericho asked, jolting Evie from her thoughts.

“He’s a monster,” Evie said. “Isn’t he?”

Will reached into a bowl of bridge mix. He juggled the candies in his hand without eating them. “Indeed. But that’s a what, not a why. Nothing is done without purpose, however twisted that purpose may be.”

“Why did he take her eyes?” Evie asked.

“He might be keeping them as souvenirs.”

Evie made a face. “A pinwheel from Coney Island is a souvenir, Unc.”

“To us, yes. To a madman? Perhaps not. But he might need them in some way for the ritual. Some cultures believe that ingesting the flesh of your victims makes you immortal. The Aghori of India eat the flesh of the dead in the belief that it confers supernatural powers, whereas members of the Algonquin tribe believe that anyone who eats human flesh will become a demonic spirit called the Wendigo.”

Evie’s stomach turned. “Well, there’s nothing in the Bible about holy cannibalism.”

“Transubstantiation?” Jericho said. “ ‘Eat of my body, drink of my blood’?”

“Right,” Evie conceded. “I’ll certainly never feel the same way about Communion again.”

“As I’ve said before—America is a young country comprising all sorts of people. Beliefs converge and become something new all the time.” Will finished his second cigarette and Evie could see his fingers twitching for a third, which, thankfully, he resisted. The cigarette smoke hung thickly in the air as it was.

“There’s something I don’t understand. The note…” Evie searched through the mess of papers on the table and retrieved the photograph of the note left with Ruta’s body. “The note says, ‘This was the fifth offering.’ Why the fifth? Why not the first?”

“Yes. Troubling.” Will paced around the table, his cigarette case still clutched in his palm. “Jericho, could you telephone Detective Malloy and ask if there are any unsolved murders that might be similar in nature?”

“Don’t you think he would have mentioned that?” Evie said.

“Never assume,” Uncle Will said, and it was clear that it was his final word on the matter.

“It’s almost time for your lecture at the Women’s Association’s Ancient Order of the Phoenix club,” Jericho reminded Will.

Will squinted at the mantel clock as if he meant to rebuke it for displaying the wrong time, then gave two curt nods, like a headmaster finally accepting a student’s scholarly argument in class. “So it is. I’d best gather my lecture notes.”

“You left them upstairs,” Jericho said.

“Ah. Good. Good.” Will paused for a moment longer, his eyes scanning the room. “I can’t help feeling that there’s something we’re missing here. Something important.”

The fire cast Will’s face in shadows. He shook off his misgiving and was gone.

There was a knock at the door. Finally, a customer! Jericho was up first. From the way he bolted, Evie figured she wasn’t the only person worried about the museum. She heard voices, and a moment later Jericho returned with none other than Sam Lloyd in tow.

Evie’s eyes narrowed. “Well, well, well. I suppose you’ve got my twenty bucks.”

Jericho glanced from Evie to Sam and back again. “Do you two know each other?”

“Actually, I’ve come to see Mr. William Fitzgerald. Is he here?” Sam craned his neck.

“Dr. Fitzgerald. And what business do you have with my uncle?”

“Your… your uncle?” Sam smiled in surprise. “You don’t say! Now, isn’t that a coincidence.”

“Isn’t what a coincidence?” Uncle Will said, stepping into the room. He wore his hat and carried his briefcase. An umbrella hung from his left arm even though it was a sunny day.

Sam marched forward and shook Will’s hand with gusto. “How do you do, sir? Sam Lloyd. I have something I believe belongs to you.”

“Indeed?”

“Well, sir, I’m afraid it’s a story that won’t make me look like too swell of a fella. See, I was at the pawnbroker’s last night, hoping to get a few rubes for my watch—times are a bit hard. And I hear this fella saying he’s got some merchandise to sell. Rare treasures from the Museum of the Creepy Crawlies.” Sam gave an apologetic shrug. “That’s just what they call it, Professor.”

“Go on,” Uncle Will said. If he was put out, he didn’t show it.

Sam opened his bag and retrieved Cornelius Rathbone’s Masonic dagger. Will held it up to the light and peered at it. “That’s ours, all right.”

“I offered the fella my last twenty bucks for it, and he took it, seeing as the pawnbroker wasn’t too keen on taking it for more than ten. I didn’t know if there might be a reward for its safe return.” Sam paused, glancing quickly up at Will, then back down at his hands. “I just thought, well, it’s one thing to take what you need so’s you can eat, or to pinch from a bootlegger. It’s another thing to steal treasures from a museum. Why, that’s just bad form.”

Evie stared, her mouth hanging slightly open. Sam winked and said, “Hey, sister, careful there—wouldn’t want your tongue to fall out.”

Evie glared. “If my tongue goes missing I’ll know whose pockets to check first! Of all the cockeyed stories! Unc, you need to give him the bum’s rush. He’s a cheat, a liar, a thief, a liar—”

“You said that already,” Sam noted.

“Well, I’m saying it again! This is the son of a bitch who stole my twenty dollars in Penn Station!”

“Evangeline, not everyone is accustomed to your gangland charm,” Uncle Will chided after a pause. “Is that true, young man?”

Sam offered a reassuring smile. “Now, see, that’s all a big mix-up, Professor.”

“So’s your old man,” Evie spat out.

Sam adopted a pained expression. “I didn’t want to say this and get the young lady in trouble, but she stole my coat.”

“And you’re not getting it back until I have my twenty dollars.”

Jericho came to stand beside Evie, looming over Sam.

“Hi there, big fella. You her brother?” Sam asked.

“No.”

Sam glanced from Jericho to Evie. “You married?”

“No!” Evie and Jericho said, but not before Sam noted the blush creeping into Jericho’s cheeks.

“Listen, sister, I don’t know what kind of situation you’ve got going on here. I’m not the judging type. I’m glad to see you’re safe and sound here with your uncle and your”—he nodded to Jericho—“large friend. I was only trying to do a good deed, but I see that no good deed goes unpunished. So if you’ll just hand over my coat, we’ll call it even and I’ll beat it. I won’t even charge you with stealing my property.”

Evie sputtered for a second, then took off after Sam, chasing him around the long table, knocking over stacks of books as she did. “I’m going to kill him. Who wants to watch?”

Jericho raised his hand.

Will stepped into Evie’s path, stopping her. “Pardon me, but I’m rather confused, and I am also”—Will checked his watch again—“six and a half minutes late for my lecture. I don’t mind thieves, but I do abhor liars and people who keep me from conducting my affairs in an efficient manner. Now. Did you, in fact, steal her twenty dollars? Answer carefully, young man.”

For the first time, Sam appeared nervous, raking a hand through his hair and inching just a bit closer to the door. “Well, sir, a great man once said, ‘Subjectivity is truth; truth is subjectivity.’ ”

“Kierkegaard,” Will said, surprised. His tone softened. “Still. Facts are facts.”

Sam looked down at his shoes. “I’m sorry. I was planning on paying her back when I saw that fella at the pawnbroker’s and gave him my last dime to get that knife back. I thought maybe it could be a peace offering.”

“Oh, dry up,” Evie muttered. “He probably stole it himself.”

Sam forced himself not to look up. “I’m so broke I had to jump the turnstile to take the train. You can call a cop if you want to. In fact, I wouldn’t blame you a bit. But I’m as honest as a senator about finding your fenced goods, sir. I hope that counts for something.”

“I hear they feed you in Sing Sing,” Evie muttered. “Three squares a day.”

“Evangeline,” Will said with a sigh. “Charity begins at home.”

“So does mental illness.”

Will drummed his fingers on the back of a chair. “It was wrong to take Evangeline’s money, no matter how dire your straits at the time. However, you acted quite nobly in returning the museum’s property when you didn’t have to. I’d never thought about security for the museum before.” Will scratched his head, looking around at the precious books.

“If you don’t mind my saying, sir, you can’t be too careful these days.”

“I’ll say.” Evie glared at Sam.

Will nodded, thinking it over. “Very well. How would you like an honest job at the museum? There’s plenty to be done, and you could stay here at night to thwart any unwanted thieves.”

Evie whirled around to face Will. “Unc! He’s a thief!”

“Yes. So he is. Are you a good thief, Sam?”

Sam smiled. “The best, sir.”

“A good thief in need of a job,” Will mused. “I suppose you may start right away.”

“Will, Evie’s right. You don’t know him, and he’ll only be in the way,” Jericho said quietly. “I could keep watch if you need me to.”

“I don’t think that’s wise, Jericho,” Will answered quietly. Evie didn’t know what he meant by that, but Jericho’s face went stony. “We can always use an extra hand, especially now that we’re investigating a murder.”

“A murder?” Sam said. “Sounds exciting.”

“They might be investigating yours pretty soon, pal,” Evie warned.

“Yes, well, I do hope you’re not averse to hard work,” Will said.

“Nothing better than an honest day’s work, I always say, sir.”

Will checked his watch again. “I am now nine minutes late. Jericho, could you return Mr. Lloyd’s coat and show him to the filing, please?”

A thoroughly irritated Jericho retrieved Sam’s coat from the closet and handed it over a bit roughly.

“He is enormous,” Sam whispered to Evie. “What do you feed him?”

Evie leaned close. “I’m on to you, pal. You so much as whistle off-key and I promise I will personally give you the bum’s rush. You won’t even have time to grab your hat.”

“Well.” Sam nodded, slipping on the coat. “I am pretty fond of this hat. Nice to see you again, Sister.”

“The pleasure was all yours,” Evie said and ran to catch Will. Behind her, she could hear Sam whistling “Am I Wasting My Time on You?” He was whistling off-key, and Evie had the distinct impression he was doing it deliberately.

“Unc!” Evie called. She caught up with Will at the front door.

“Evie, can this wait? The ladies of the Ancient Order of the whatever-it-is—”

“Phoenix,” Evie supplied.

“Phoenix are expecting me, and if I can’t hail a taxicab, I’ll go from being forgivably late to being egregiously late.”

“Unc, you can’t let Sam Lloyd work here. Not with all those priceless artifacts! He’s likely to rob you blind.”

“It’s precisely those qualities that could prove useful.”

“What do you mean?”

“From time to time, the museum has to be… clever in ferreting out objects, stories, and people before anyone else gets there. It’s delicate.”

“You expect me to believe that there are other people who want those creepy things?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“He’s still a thief.”

“A thief who reads Kierkegaard is an interesting thief, indeed.”

“But Unc—”

“Evangeline, not everyone starts life in a comfortable house on a comfortable street in Ohio,” Will said pointedly.

The comment stung. Why was Will defending Sam Lloyd, a common criminal, over her? After all, Sam was a stranger; she was family. Weren’t family supposed to protect their own? But he’d sided with the opponent, just like her father and mother had sided with Harold Brodie instead of defending their own daughter. If Uncle Will wanted to be foolish, well, that was his affair. She’d been stupid to try to intervene.

“I hope you’re right about him,” Evie said and went back to the library. She glowered at Sam once for good measure and then settled in at the long table, checking through stacks of newspaper reports and books, searching for anything that might shed light on the strange murder of Ruta Badowski.

When she’d had enough, she sneaked out her copy of Photoplay.

“So, is Clara Bow running away with Charlie Chaplin?” Sam read over her shoulder.

Evie did not look up. “Why don’t you take it and read it for yourself? You seem to be skilled at taking things. In fact, why don’t you carry it with you on your way out?”

Sam snickered. “Now, why would I leave such a sweet deal? Besides, I’d hate for you to miss me, sister.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Let’s put that phrase to the test, shall we? I’ll get your hat.”

“No can do. Your uncle needs my help. Look at all this stuff—who knew there were so many superstitious charms? Like this—love charm of the Hopi. Oh, I better not let you hold this, sister. You might get goofy for me.”

“That’ll be the day.”

“I’m counting on that day.”

“I hope you can count pretty high, then,” Evie said.

He leaned in a little closer. Evie could see the flecks of amber in his eyes. “Admit it—you liked that kiss.”

“You owe me twenty dollars.”

“Cash or check?” he said cheekily. Even the dullest Ohio girls knew that bit of lingo: Kiss now or kiss later?

“Bank’s closed, pal.”

Sam nodded. “Check, then.” Whistling, he headed for the library doors. Evie followed him up the wide, curving staircase that led to the museum’s second floor.

“Can I help you, sister?”

“I’m making sure you don’t leave with half the museum.”

“Just have to iron my shoelaces,” he said, nodding toward the men’s room at the top of the stairs. When he reached the men’s room door, Evie stood outside, her arms folded across her chest.

“Honestly, I’d invite you in, but I’ve managed to avoid getting arrested for petty theft. I’d hate to go to the Tombs for perversion.”

“Whatever it takes to get you out of my uncle’s museum,” Evie quipped. “I’ll wait.”

“Suit yourself, doll.”

In the museum’s musty lavatory, Sam washed his hands and left the tap running. Whistling, he sat on the cracked tile floor and watched the shadow of Evie’s feet under the slit of the door as she paced. She’d get bored eventually. He opened Jericho’s wallet, which he had lifted while the blond giant was occupied in the stacks. Trusting fella. That was a dangerous habit—trust. Sam removed a five-dollar bill, replacing it with two singles. It was the oldest trick in the book: If you stole the Abe’s cabe outright, the other fella could make you for a thief. But if you took a large bill and left some singles, the mark would think he’d spent the big dough and just didn’t remember getting change.

From his jacket pockets, Sam removed two small silver ashtrays, which he’d managed to take from the library unnoticed. These he hoped to sell later to a disreputable pawnbroker on the Bowery for a few bucks. For now, he wrapped them in one of the bathroom’s hand towels and hid them behind the toilet bowl. He had big plans, and plans took time and money.

Evie’s shadow disappeared. Sam opened the door a crack and saw that the hallway was empty. He closed the men’s room door again, turned off the tap, and stared at his reflection in the tall wooden mirror. Two shocks of his dark hair hung down on either side of his gold-flecked eyes. The devil-may-care expression was gone, and in its place was one of hard determination.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Sam Lloyd. Tell me where she is, or…”

Sam stopped. Though he’d played the scene over in his mind many times, he was never really sure what he would say when that day came. He only knew that he wouldn’t be going in blind. Sam pulled up his pants leg and removed the gun strapped there, turning it over in his hands, examining the barrel, feeling the tension in the trigger. He opened the chamber and spun it around. There were no bullets yet. The ashtrays would bring enough for those. This job at the museum had been a stroke of good luck, easier than hustling magic tricks on the streets of Times Square. All he had to do was hold on for a little while—long enough to find out who needed to pay for what had happened to his family. And they would pay.

In the mirror, Sam was scowling. He looked older than his seventeen years. He straightened his collar, eased the scowl into a hard smile, and raised the gun, taking aim at his reflection.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Sam Lloyd. Tell me where she is, and I might let you live.”

Sam heard footsteps and hurriedly replaced the gun in its holster. The door swung open and Jericho came in. Sam made a show of washing his hands. “Something the matter?”

“I seem to have lost my wallet.”

“Aw, gee. Tough break, pal,” Sam said. “Want me to help you look?”

Jericho squinted at Sam, evaluating the offer. “Thanks.”

Sam accompanied Jericho through the museum, making a show of looking, pointing out spots where a wallet could possibly hide. When they reached the library, he shook it free from his pants leg near one of the many bookcases. It wouldn’t do for Sam to suddenly find the wallet; he needed to make Jericho think he’d found it himself.

“Did you look up here, big fella?”

Jericho frowned at the phrase big fella. He took the spiral staircase to the second floor and walked the stacks until he spied his wallet on the floor. “I found it,” he called. He opened the wallet and frowned. “I could’ve sworn I had five dollars. But there’s only two here.”

“Gee, that’s rough. Better hold on to those rubes,” Sam said evenly.

Evie skimmed the pages of a book titled Religious Fervor and Fanaticism in the Burned-Over District. The author appeared to have written the book with the express purpose of putting his audience to sleep, and Evie had difficulty retaining anything she read. She resorted to skimming the pages, stopping suddenly when she came to an illustration near the back. There was the same symbol used in the murder. The inscription read THE PENTACLE OF THE BRETHREN, BRETHREN, NY, C. 1832.

The telephone rang, echoing through the empty museum. Evie turned down the corner of the page to show Will later and ran for the phone.

“Hold a moment. I’ll connect you,” the operator said. There was a click and a hiss, and then Theta’s voice crackled over the wires.

“Hiya, Evil. It’s Theta. Listen, you still want to catch the show?”

“And how!”

“Swell. I’ll leave a pair of tickets for you and Mabel at the theater for tonight’s show. There’s a party in Greenwich Village after, if it’s not past your bedtime.”

“I never go to bed before dawn.”

“Attagirl! And Evil, wear your best glad rags.”

“They’ll be the gladdest rags you ever saw.”

In the privacy of Will’s office, Evie jumped up and down. Finally! Tonight, she and Mabel would be out with Theta and her smart set. She danced back into the library, humming a jazzy number.

“What just happened to you? You win the Miss America contest or something?” Sam said. He gathered Evie’s book into a tall stack of volumes to be reshelved.

“I will be the guest of Miss Theta Knight at the Globe Theatre for Mr. Ziegfeld’s latest revue tonight, and at a private party afterward.”

“Swanky. Need a date?”

“Private party!” Evie sang out. She reached up and grabbed her scarf and hat from the giant stuffed bear’s paw, where she’d hung them earlier.

“Say, I was wondering, either of you know anything about this?” He pointed to the newspaper clipping on top of the stack, about the girl with the sleeping sickness.

Evie glanced at it as she tied the scarf into a loose bow at her neck. “It’s one of Unc’s strange scraps. He collects these odd little ghost stories. That’s his job, I suppose. Why do you ask?” Evie said.

Sam forced a smile. “No reason. Just trying to keep up.”

Evie patted his cheek. “Good luck, Lloyd.”

Evie left the museum and walked along Central Park West. Ten blocks farther up, she could see the gothic spires of the Bennington peeking above the roofs and trees. It was a pleasant late afternoon, and a sudden optimism seized Evie—the feeling that all good things were possible, and that she could pull her deepest wishes from the air like a magician with a coin.

At a newsstand, a young boy hawked the late-edition paper by calling out the headlines, but Evie was too preoccupied with thoughts of the perfect evening awaiting her to pay any attention. Dreaming of what she would wear, she passed harried mothers corralling children on the edges of the park as well as an organ-grinder who was accompanied by a tiny monkey dressed as a bellhop. It clicked its teeth and screeched at passersby until they rewarded him with pennies for his small tin cup. Two girls in matching capes advertising a nightclub offered her a flyer.

“What’s this?” Evie asked.

“For the Nighthawks Club. We’re having a Solomon’s Comet party!”

“A what?”

“Jeepers, the comet?” the taller of the girls said in a thick New York accent. “It’s comin’ t’rough New York in a coupla weeks. It comes once every fifty years or somethin’. ’Posed to be a—whaddaya call it, Bess?”

“Event of heavenly significance,” the other girl enunciated carefully. “Like magic or something. All them magicians and holy rollers thought it was a sign. Anyhow, the club’s having a real swell party for it. You should come. Oh, your coat is the cat’s meow!”

“Thank you,” Evie said, pleased. She looked over the flyer. It was a caricature drawing of a flapper dancing up a storm, her cocktail glass sloshing its contents. Above her, a magnificent comet arced over the skyline of New York City. The artist had given the comet a face, and it smiled down at the fetching girl. Its fiery tail showered sparkles on the city.

“You don’t wanna miss out on the most magical night of the year, do you?” the taller girl asked.

“Not on your life-ski,” Evie said.

Solomon’s Comet. An event of heavenly significance. Perhaps it would bring her luck. At any rate, it was a dandy reason for a party, and thinking of the night ahead and the nights to come, she went merrily on her way, clutching the flyer. At the corner, she waited for the traffic cop to signal the all clear with his white-gloved hands. He blew his whistle, spurring the crowd into action again, and Evie turned toward home.

Behind her, the newsboy held the late-edition paper aloft, shouting the headline to anyone who might have a nickel. “Extra! Extra! Madman threatens to kill again!”

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 592