AND DEATH SHALL FLEE

Evie sat in the tub, two fat cucumber slices placed over her swollen eyes, and sang in contempt of her throbbing head. “We’ll have Manhattan, the Bronx and Staten Island, too…. I had Manhattan, all right,” Evie mumbled. “And it… had… me.” She slipped under the water and let it carry her until a fierce pounding made her surface.

“I’m bathing,” she yelled.

“Will you be long?” Jericho answered.

Evie let a prune-ish toe play at the hot-water tap. “Hard to say.”

“I need the… the, ah…”

“Oh, applesauce,” Evie said on a sigh. “Okay, okay. I don’t want you to die of peritonitis like Valentino. Just a minute.” Evie rinsed the cucumber slices under the tap and popped them into her mouth. She pulled the plug and let the water swirl down the drain while she slipped on her robe and opened the door with a flourish. “All yours,” she said as Jericho pushed past her.

In the kitchen, Evie squeezed an orange into a glass, fished out the seeds, and gulped down the precious juice along with two aspirin. “Oh, sweet Mary.”

A moment later, Jericho emerged from the bathroom, scowling.

“What’s eating you?”

“Nothing.”

He sat on the couch and quietly laced up a shoe, but his disapproval hung in the room like the lingering scent of Evie’s perfumed bath salts. Evie didn’t mind yelling, but she hated feeling judged. It got under her skin and made her feel small and ugly and unfixable. She sang cheerily in rebuke of both Jericho and her throbbing skull. “You’re the berries, my bowl of cream, a dream come true, dear…”

“I was only wondering if this is going to be your usual routine,” Jericho said at last.

“Usual routine. Hmm, well, I might add a trained monkey. Everyone loves those.”

“Is that all this is to you? One big party?”

Evie was angry now. At least she wasn’t afraid to get out and live. Jericho didn’t seem to know life beyond the pages of a musty old book, and he didn’t seem interested in knowing anything beyond that, either.

“It’s better than spending every night brooding like Byron’s long-lost brother. Don’t make that injured face—you are a brooder! And what good does it do you? You’re eighteen, not eighty, kiddo. Live a little.”

Jericho got up from the couch. “Live a little? Live a little!” He let out a bitter ha! “If you only knew…” He stopped suddenly, and Evie could see him force an almost mechanical calm to descend. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. I have to get to the museum.” He grabbed his dog-eared copy of Nietzsche and slammed the door behind him.

Evie sat on Mabel’s bed. The aspirin hadn’t helped much, but like a true modern girl, she wasn’t about to lie in bed all day, unlike poor Mabel, who had succumbed to a terrible hangover. She lay curled in her bed, clutching a bowl in case she felt the need to vomit.

“Hot off the presses, today’s headlines: The love of your life does not approve of my wanton flapper ways,” Evie said in a voice of affected mystery. “Really, Mabesie. You might want to reconsider—he is a bit of a killjoy.”

“My stomach doesn’t approve of our wanton ways, either,” Mabel said miserably. She hadn’t lifted her head from her pillow. “I am never drinking again.”

“That’s what they all say, Pie Face.”

Mabel moaned. “I mean it. I feel dreadful. I am ending my association with liquor.” She raised her right hand. “You may be the notary public to this announcement.”

“Noted. Public’d.”

Mabel dropped her hand, her face screwed into an expression of fresh misery. Evie jumped off the bed.

“What is it? Are you about to blow?”

Mabel reached under her bed and pulled out what was left of Evie’s headache band. It was bent in the middle, where someone had obviously stepped on it. Several of the rhinestones were missing, and the peacock feathers drooped like spent chorus girls. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh…” Evie swallowed down a curse word. Mabel’s mouth twitched and Evie could tell she was on the verge of a legendary weep. She tossed the headache band aside as if it were rubbish. “That old thing? I was tired of it, anyway. You’ve done me a favor, old girl, putting it out of its misery like that.”

Mabel cocked an eyebrow. “You’re lying, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Just to make me feel better?”

“No. To make me feel better. Otherwise I’ll cry.”

“Thanks.” Mabel managed a weak smile. She crooked her pinkie. “Pals for life-ski?”

Evie hooked her pinkie with Mabel’s. “For life-ski.” Evie kissed Mabel’s forehead and turned off the bedside lamp. “Get some sleep, Pie Face.”

Evie left the Bennington and walked down Broadway, past the shops. A radio store played its latest model, letting the sound drift out onto the sidewalks to entice customers. Evie idled for a moment, listening as she painted her lips in the window’s reflection.

“… This is Cedric Donaldson, reporting from Roosevelt Field, Long Island, where just moments ago Jake Marlowe landed his American Flyer, an aeroplane of his own invention. You can hear the enthusiasm of the crowds who’ve gathered here on this fine autumn day to give the millionaire inventor and industrialist a hero’s welcome! And here is the Bayside High School marching band playing ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever.’ ”

The man in the shop peered disapprovingly at Evie through the glass. She pumped her arms and legs up and down in imitation of a marching band, gave the man a salute, and continued her meandering walk to the museum. At the newsstand, Evie stopped cold. The front page of the New York Daily Mirror trumpeted MADMAN OF MANHATTAN STRIKES AGAIN! She grabbed the paper and flipped past a store advertisement for Solomon’s Comet binoculars to the story on page two.

“Hey, doll, you gonna pay for that?” The newspaperman held out his palm.

Evie tossed him a nickel and, clutching the paper, ran the rest of the way to the museum.

Will was sitting in the library with Sam and Jericho. He looked pale.

“I… I just heard….” Evie said, out of breath. She held up the newspaper.

“Tommy Duffy. Twelve years old,” Will said quietly. “The killer took his hands.”

The horror of it made Evie’s stomach roil. “Is it the same killer?”

Will nodded. “First he posted a warning note to the papers.”

Jericho opened the previous evening’s late-edition Daily News. “ ‘And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them. For the Beast will rise when the comet flies.’ ”

“He seems to like attention, this fellow,” Will said. “He left another note with the body.”

Evie unscrolled the thin parchment, which resembled the first, with strange sigils along the bottom.

“Careful with that—it’s on loan from Detective Malloy,” Will explained.

“ ‘And in those times, the young were idle. Their hands were absent from their plows and they did not raise them in prayer and praise to the Lord our God. And the Lord was angry and commanded of the Beast a sixth offering, an offering of obedience.’ ” Evie read. “The hands. With Ruta, he took the eyes, and with Tommy Duffy, the hands. Why?”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Will agreed.

“The murder of a child could never make sense.”

“I meant the symbology.” Will was up and pacing the room. “Tommy Duffy was posed. He was hung upside down with one leg bent. That’s not a Christian symbol. It’s pagan. The Hanged Man, as seen on the tarot. It hints at magic or mysticism. Yet, this was found shoved into the boy’s back pocket.”

Will slapped a pamphlet down on the table. On its cover, a man in white robes and a pointed hat stood below an open Bible and a cross, ringing a liberty bell, while the ghostly face of George Washington looked on in approval.

“The Good Citizen,” Evie read. “What’s that?”

“It is a monthly publication of the Pillar of Fire Church,” Will said. “It’s also a strong endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan.”

“You think the Klan might have killed that boy?”

“It’s possible. Of course, it’s also possible it was on the scene before the murder. However, it’s worth nothing that Tommy Duffy was Irish. Ruta Badowski was Polish. The killer could harbor a hatred of foreigners.”

“He could be anti-Catholic,” Jericho said.

“They don’t need much reason,” Sam grumbled.

There were men back in Zenith who were Klansmen, Evie knew. People like Harold Brodie’s father supported them. But Evie’s father and mother had been Catholic once. The Irish O’Neills. And her father had repeatedly railed against the Klan and the thuggish bigotry for which they stood.

“When do we leave?” Evie asked.

“Leave for what, doll?” Sam said.

“We are going to this Pillar of Fire Church to sniff around, aren’t we?”

“I can’t,” Will said. “I once helped bring charges against the Grand Dragon of the Klan out there. I’m known to them.”

“What about Detective Malloy?” Jericho asked.

Will let out a long sigh. “He sent some men out this morning, but I understand that they were stonewalled. Alma Bridwell White, the bishop of Pillar of Fire, threatens a lawsuit anytime someone breathes a word against her church.”

Evie sat up. “What if Jericho and I posed as newlyweds interested in joining the church? Then we could snoop around and see what we could find.”

Jericho looked up. “You… and me?”

“You pulling my leg?” Sam said. “Frederick the Giant here will get eaten alive.”

“I can handle myself just fine, thanks.”

“Don’t get sore, Freddy. You’re a fine fella. But what you need on this is somebody who can work the angles. You need a con man. Besides, somebody’s gotta drive.”

“I can drive,” Evie said.

“Evie can drive,” Jericho said. There was challenge in his stare.

“Fine. We’ll all go,” Sam said. “But if I get us a car, I get the wheel.”

“As you wish,” Will said. “Evie, may I see you for a moment in my study, please?”

“No one ever lets me drive. I’m a fine driver,” Evie grumbled as she followed Will into the study. He retrieved a silver flask from a desk drawer and took a belt from it. “So you do have hooch,” Evie said.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you; this is Phillips’ Milk of Magnesia. My stomach is unsettled—not surprisingly, after what I witnessed this morning. You needn’t sit. I shall be brief. Evangeline, I am not your mother, but that doesn’t mean I have no standards of behavior. Coming home intoxicated at all hours will no longer be tolerated.” Will looked directly at her. It occurred to Evie that she had never been looked at with such scrutiny before.

“But Unc—”

Will held up a hand to stop her protest before it could gather steam. “I might remind you that the trains travel in both directions between New York and Ohio, Evangeline. Is that understood?”

Evie swallowed hard. “I’m on the trolley.”

“I don’t mind if you enjoy what New York has to offer, but I do think you should be smart and safe. After all, there is a killer loose in our city.”

Evie suddenly remembered the page she’d marked to show Will the previous day. “Applesauce! I meant to tell you—I think I found our symbol in a book in the library. Something about a religious order—the Brothers, the Brotherhood… oh, what was it?”

Back in the library, Evie searched the stacks, making a mess of Jericho’s careful work as he moved behind her, righting things.

“Here it is!” Evie raced down the spiral staircase. “Religious Fervor and Fanaticism in the Burned-Over District. The book is pos-i-tute-ly a cure for insomnia, but it does have this.” She opened to the page with the drawing of the pentacle-and-snake emblem. “The Brethren! That’s it! Do you know what this is?”

“No, but I know someone who might: Dr. Georg Poblocki at Columbia University. He’s a professor of religion, and an old friend. I’ll telephone him right away,” Will said, walking briskly from the library.

Jericho cleared his throat. “Would you like to take first shift, or shall I?” he asked, as if at any moment they’d be flooded with visitors.

“Where’s Sam?” Evie asked.

“He went to call a friend about a motorcar.”

“I’ll bet he did,” Evie scoffed.

“I could take first shift, if you like,” Jericho offered.

“No, I will,” Evie said. She was still miffed about Jericho’s little lecture that morning and wasn’t about to let him take the martyr points.

Evie wandered the rooms of the museum, thinking about the murder as well as the previous night’s party. She probably shouldn’t have been so public about her object-reading. What if they expected her to do that every time? What if, in the sober light of day, they thought of her as strange or frightening, somebody who might be able to divine the secrets they’d worked hard to hide? She made a vow that she’d be more careful in the future.

But she was curious about the Diviners Will had mentioned on her first day at the museum, so she sought out Liberty Anne Rathbone’s book and curled up by the woodstove in the collections room to read it.

The Prophecies of Liberty Anne Rathbone, as recorded by her brother and faithful servant, Cornelius T. Rathbone.

To-day, sweet Liberty Anne lay in that same state of which she has been bewitched since her walk into the woods. A’times, she speaks in soft awe at the wonders she beholds; other times, she is troubled and murmurs warnings of terrible things to come. It is as if she sees into that vast, heavenly abyss of which only the angels and the all-seeing eye of Providence are visitors. I have recorded her words forthwith.

“We are the Diviners. We have been and we will be. It is a power that comes from the great energy of the land and its people, a realm shared for a spell, for as long as is needed. We see the dead. We speak to restless spirits. We walk in dreams. We read meaning from every held thing. The future unfolds for us like the navigator’s map, showing seas we have yet to travel.”

Evie turned the pages excitedly.

“There can be no security at the cost of liberty. The heart of the union will not abide…. The skies alight with strange fire. The eternal door is opened. The man in the stovepipe hat will come again with the storm…. The eye cannot see.”

At the bottom of the page was a small sketch of an eye surrounded by the rays of the sun, with a lightning bolt beneath it.

“The Diviners must stand, or all shall fall.”

Evie closed the book and put it aside. Cornelius Rathbone had obviously loved his sister. Did he dream of her when she was gone, as Evie dreamed of James? Her hand sought the comfort of her half-dollar pendant. She was exhausted from her late evening. The afternoon sun beat through the windows, and combined with the warmth from the woodstove turned the room stuffy. Evie rested her head on her arms and fell asleep.

She dreamed of the city. The canyonlike streets were empty, the setting sun turning the windows orange, but in the distance, a mass of dark clouds threatened. She called out, but there was no one. Newspapers swept across the street and skittered up the sides of the quiet buildings. She became aware of others. Shades just out of sight. Shadow people. She’d turn her head just in time to see them retreat into the growing gloom. Whispering, “She’s one. She’s one of them. You can’t stop us. Nothing can stop us.”

Evie turned a corner and was surprised to see Henry also walking the streets, as if looking for someone. His eyes widened when he saw her. “Evie, what are you doing here? Don’t remember me,” he said, and when she looked again, he was gone. But someone else was running toward her, and Evie found she couldn’t move at all. She was paralyzed with fear. The figure came closer. It was a girl with shining black hair and bottle-green eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about the girl; Evie could swear they’d met before. Then it came to her—the hostess from the restaurant in Chinatown. The girl carried a strange dagger in one hand. She looked angry, alarmed, as she shouted, “You shouldn’t be here! Wake up!”

“Evie, wake up!” Sam was shaking her shoulder. Evie blinked awake in the museum. Sunlight still streamed through the stained-glass windows of the collections room. “You were dreaming.”

“I was?” Evie said, stretching. Her heart still beat fast.

“Must’ve been a real lulu of a dream. You called out.”

Evie nodded. “A real nightmare.”

“Aw, doll. Not surprising with all this murder talk. Tell your pal Sam all about it. I’ll keep you safe.” Sam moved into the chair beside her. He brushed a curl out of her eyes gently, but his smile had that same wolfish quality she’d first seen in Penn Station.

Evie gave him the big, innocent peepers. “Well, I dreamed I was in New York, all alone….”

“Poor baby.” Sam put his arm around her shoulders.

“I walked the streets searching for people… but there was no one….”

“Terrible…” Sam was so close she could smell the musk of him.

“Suddenly, I found myself in Penn Station….” Evie paused. “And the most terrible thing happened next.”

“What’s that, doll?” Sam purred.

“Some absolute louse stole my twenty dollars.” She pushed hard against Sam’s chest. He nearly toppled backward but righted himself at the last minute.

Sam smirked. “Well, that’s a fine thank-you to the fella who just got you a spiffy wash for the ball.”

Evie gave him a little bow.

“I just came back to tell you that we’ve got a real live paying customer in the joint who wants a tour.”

“Send Jericho,” Evie said, stretching.

“This fella asked for your uncle, but I told him you were in charge, Your Highness.” Sam returned the bow.

Evie replied with an eye-roll. “Do you think you can manage to not steal anything while I’m gone?”

“The only thing I’m trying to steal is your heart, doll.” Sam smirked.

“You’re not that talented a thief, Sam Lloyd.”

Evie arrived in the foyer to find a young man in a rumpled suit standing by the front doors, twirling his hat in his hands. A notebook peeked out of his breast pocket.

“Can I help you?” Evie said, giving her friendliest smile.

The man stopped twirling his hat and stuck out his hand like a salesman. “How do you do? Harry Snyder. I’m visiting from Wisconsin. Heard about your museum and just had to take a look for myself. I can’t wait to tell the folks back home all about it.”

If Harry Snyder was from Wisconsin, Evie would eat her hat. If his name was Harry Snyder, she’d eat a second hat.

“Welcome to the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult, Mr. Snyder,” Evie said, stretching out his last name. “Right this way, please.”

Evie led the man from room to room, explaining the various objects, giving the historical spiel she’d heard from Will numerous times and adding a few of her own flourishes. All the while the man took notes in his notepad and looked around as if he expected some spirit to manifest at any moment.

“I hear from a friend that you folks are helping the police with that murder investigation—that Madman in Manhattan business. Sounds awful. Do you have any clues?” he asked. He picked up a rare figurine from the seventeenth century as if it were a saltshaker.

Evie took it from his hands and placed it back on the table.

“Has your uncle told you anything about it? Is the killer really carrying out a diabolical occult ritual? What’s his angle?”

“I’m afraid I’m sworn to secrecy under the orders of Detective Malloy.”

The man moved closer. “I couldn’t help noticing that the good Officer Malloy isn’t here. Say, what did the killer do with that poor girl’s peepers? Somebody said he mailed ’em to the police with a note. That true?”

Evie narrowed her eyes. “Who are you really?”

“Harry Snyder, from—”

“Dry up!” Evie snapped.

The man grinned. He wagged a finger at her playfully. “You’ve got me.” He pumped her hand in a firm shake. “I’m T. S. Woodhouse, reporter for the Daily News? I’ve been trying to get your uncle to comment on the case for us, but he’s tighter with a quote than Calvin Coolidge. But, ah, maybe I’ve been barking up the wrong family member?” T. S. Woodhouse’s pencil hovered expectantly above his notepad.

“I’m glad I took your money up front, Mr. Woodhouse. I’ll show you the way out.” She marched toward the door, her heels clicking on the marble. Mr. Woodhouse ran alongside her.

“Call me T.S., please. Come on, wouldn’t you like to see your name in the papers? Show all your friends back home? We could even put your picture in, pretty girl like you. Why, you’d be the toast of Manhattan.”

Evie paused. With all the work they were doing, why shouldn’t they get the credit and the reward? Why shouldn’t they be famous for it? Still, if Uncle Will found out, he’d be furious. She’d already promised she wouldn’t get into any more trouble. This was courting trouble for sure.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Woodhouse. I can’t.”

T. S. Woodhouse cradled his hat to his chest. “Listen, I’m going to level with you, Miss O’Neill. I need this story. This could be my ticket to the big time. Did you ever want something that badly?”

T. S. Woodhouse reminded Evie of an overgrown, wayward schoolboy. He was tall and skinny, full of a palpable coiled energy; his face was sharp-planed but freckled, and beneath his mop of unruly brown hair and straight brows, his narrow blue eyes seemed to be constantly observing, recording. But there was a determination in those eyes that Evie understood all too well.

“That isn’t my concern.”

“It could be.” Those blue eyes focused directly on her. “What do you want? Name it. You want to be written up in all the gossip pages? You want column inches saying that millionaires are fighting to marry you? I can make that happen.”

“You can’t even make this story happen, Mr. Woodhouse. How will you help me?”

“I hit it big with this story, give the Daily News some exclusive dope, I’ll be in a position to give you what you need. A favor for a favor. On the level—a square deal.”

He stuck out his hand again. Evie ignored it.

“Pretty quiet around here,” Mr. Woodhouse said, and there was no mistaking the implication.

“It’s just an afternoon lull.”

T. S. Woodhouse reshaped his hat as if doing so were his only concern. “From what I hear, there’s a lot of lull time. In fact, I hear the city might shut this place down come spring. Unless, of course, it starts turning a profit.”

Evie bit her lip, thinking it over. She’d been wondering how they could make the museum a big deal, and now the opportunity had just fallen into her lap. Will was a genius, but he wasn’t much of a businessman. It was clear that if someone was going to save the joint, it was going to have to be Evie. She’d help the museum—and if she helped herself along the way, well, what was the matter with that?

“I’ll make a deal with you, Mr. Woodhouse. We need bodies in this joint. I’ll tell you what I know—as an anonymous source—and you keep writing about how swell the museum is, how everybody who’s anybody comes here. Of course, you can mention that Uncle Will is being helped in the investigation of these heinous murders by his niece, Miss Evie O’Neill. And if my picture just happened to make it into the papers, too, well, I couldn’t help that, could I?”

“No. Of course not.” Mr. Woodhouse smiled broadly and dropped his hat onto the back of his head. “It’s a known fact that newspapers sell better when pretty girls grace their pages.”

“We have a deal, then?”

“We have a deal.” They shook on it. T. S. Woodhouse’s pencil hovered over his notepad once again. “Ready when you are. We know the killer leaves occult symbols. What are they?”

“It’s a pentacle surrounded by a snake that’s eating its tail. The killer brands it onto their bodies. And he leaves religious notes. Unc thinks it might have to do with the Book of Revelation.”

T. S. Woodhouse’s pencil scribbled across the notepad. “That’s good. Revelations Killer! I like it.”

“We don’t know if that’s true yet….”

“Doesn’t matter.” T. S. Woodhouse’s expression was all grim determination. “I’m the press. I’ll make it true. What else?”

“That’s all for now. I’ll expect that story, Mr. Woodhouse.”

T. S. Woodhouse stuck his pencil behind his ear, shoved the notepad into his suit pocket, and pumped Evie’s hand again. “You’ve been swell, Evie. Don’t worry—I always keep my promises.”

Evie hoped that was true. If Will couldn’t make the museum into a destination, perhaps she could. And if she wanted to stay in Manhattan when her three months were up, she needed to start making a place and a name for herself now. Having a friend like T. S. Woodhouse could be very helpful.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 805