Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(16)

I took a drink. All of it, in three long draws. I poured myself another. “Someone hit her on the head, Marty. That’s all.”

“Her eyes . . . they were all black, too. She said the smell crawled up her legs, up under her skirts, and it wrapped itself around her waist, and shoulders, and around her neck like a snake that was going to choke her—and she couldn’t move, not for love or money. She couldn’t break loose from whatever it was. She said she looked up at the sky, that was all she could do—stare up at the place where the sky ought to be, but wasn’t. That’s how she put it, George . . . that’s how she put it. And that was the last thing she remembered.”

I held the bottle in my hand. I’d been meaning to pour another round for us both, but I hadn’t gotten to it yet. I sat it back down on the desk without giving myself another drop. “All right, then,” I said, trying hard to be rational about it. “If you don’t think she’s made it all up—by accident, I’m sure—then what do you think happened to her?”

“Can’t say. But I tell you why it sticks with me: Lorino, you know, the Italian fellow who survived. He said something about the smell, too. In that strange way, you know—he doesn’t really talk right anymore, not even in his own mother tongue. He talks so fast, but none of it makes much sense. But he said that before he was struck, he smelled the ocean real strong. Like something dead lying on the beach, when high tide has gone and left it to bake in the sun. That’s a funny detail, isn’t it? A funny thing for two folks to offer up, after something like this happened to them both. They wouldn’t have seen it in the papers. Nobody reported it, because I didn’t tell anyone about it.”

“That is a funny detail,” I agreed. “But what does it mean? We’re looking for a murderer with poor bathing skills?”

“I don’t know, but it means something.”

He left, and I left, and we went our separate ways for the night, but it’s still tugging at me, hanging about in the back of my head. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, almost like I’m forgetting something—but not quite.

? ? ?

So when I say that the dirty politics of Nathaniel Barrett and the axe murders of the past year are connected . . . I have absolutely nothing to bolster the statement except an uncanny feeling in my gut.

There are murders, and there’s a police chief who’s stumped and—so far as my opponent claims—is doing absolutely nothing about it. They’ve even implied that he might be at the root of the attacks somehow, which is preposterous; but then again, fools like Barrett and his “True Americans” believe a Catholic capable of almost anything. Their thoughts on that old church, and the pope, and everything associated therewith . . . well, they’re far more ridiculous than a girl with a head wound who thought the sky was missing one night.

It’s a tenuous connection at best, I know. It’s a conspiracy at worst, and that makes me every bit as bad as the Klansmen and the True Americans. But I have nothing else, just a bad feeling about the timing of it all, combined with a horror of the elements that are pushing Barrett into power.

I fear for Eagan, after this vote tomorrow.

I fear for the city, and everyone in it.





Inspector Simon Wolf




BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA SEPTEMBER 25, 1921


Through a convoluted series of events, I arrived in Birmingham, Alabama, later in the evening than I’d hoped. Train schedules in this part of the country seem to be more like general suggestions than hard-and-fast guidelines, and this observation does not immediately speak well of the place—and the legendary politeness I’ve found somewhat cool in tone. Then again, I am (as they still say, so help them God) a “Yankee,” and therefore deeply suspicious . . . to the engineer from whom I asked directions, to the driver who asked a thousand questions about my accent, and to the woman at the hotel who looked at me through narrowed eyes when I confessed I was visiting from Boston. I may as well have said Hades, but she smiled and blessed my heart, and gave me my key without incident.

You’d think the war hadn’t been over for sixty years.

Well, the food is good. I’ll give it that. Mrs. Becker—that’s the name of the hotel lady—told me that supper was served at six thirty sharp, and what she really meant was “something closer to seven,” but yes, it was very good. Everything full of butter and salt, everything fried, baked, and seasoned expertly, and a side to go with every course. Biscuits, corn bread, toast. Puddings, potatoes, and pickled vegetables. I might have gained another five pounds just from looking at the table, but on a frame like mine, it’s not as if it’d show.

I’m prepared to forgive myself.

First thing this morning, I collected the local newspaper from the mat in front of my door—and realized that my visit’s timing is less than stellar. I read quickly while I ate another large meal—a breakfast whipped up with more syrups, jellies, and flapjacks than a man had any right to hope for in a week—and I learned that I’d arrived on the far cusp of a local election. I’d say it was a hotly contested one, but by the sound of things it was bought and paid for with a significant margin, if the editorials can be believed.

They are triumphant, these editorials. Not even pretending that their political victory had come from something other than the Klan’s coffers. You’d think they’d have the decency to demur, but no—it’s out in the open here. The Klan is very public, and very active; the paper reports on them like a local sports team. It’s appalling, and frankly a little strange. I mean, they have a great number of negroes and Jews about. You’d think the hooded devils would be run underground by sheer population density.