Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(9)

(I think the church Ruth describes might actually be the original farmhouse, strangely augmented over the years. Or then again, maybe it’s one of the barns, having undergone a conversion of its own.)

It is now privately owned by the reverend, though parts of the surrounding property are held in trust by a private firm . . . and on the board of this firm, I’ve spotted two names that are prominent in the Klan, and three others you’ll find in the front row of every True Americans meeting.

The coincidences are piling up. The overlap, I mean . . . between Birmingham’s corrupt politics and the Chapelwood Estate.

It might well be argued that bigots sit at the top of the power structure here, and so you might well expect to find them at the top of the churches, the businesses, and the political heap. But these newer groups, the True Americans and their Guardians of Liberty in particular . . . their rise coincides with this sinister place of worship.

I may believe in divine contrivance, but I don’t believe in coincidences.

(Yes, I think there’s a difference.)

My notes are thin on the ground, but I’ll make a point to send them east, regardless—to Boston, and an old friend of mine there. He’s an inspector, that’s all I’ll say about his job. A man about my age, or a little younger, with a head for peculiar facts and a nose for the weird.

Then again, maybe I ought to restrain myself. I’ve been sending him letters and clippings on the axe murders since the start of August, and I’ve heard nothing from him in return. He could be off on a case, and therefore out of the office. I hope he’s well, at any rate. I’m sure I’ll hear from him soon enough. He’s not the kind to leave a man waiting, not on purpose.

I’d like to see him again. He’s a jovial fellow, as strange as the Good Lord ever dared to make one—but a stalwart friend in times of difficulty. He’s also tough to scare, and I could use his stouthearted assistance right about now.

Well, if the axe murders aren’t enough to lure him out for a visit, I’m sure the Chapelwood matter will bring him around. I sense that it’s more to his taste.





Ruth Stephenson




SEPTEMBER 19, 1921


I shouldn’t have done it, but I’m glad I did.

Daddy wasn’t home—he’d headed off to a “prayer meeting” and left me with Momma to set up supper for him. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but dark was coming, and we had just turned all the lights on and fired up the stove when my momma saw the neighbor’s dog digging in our backyard garden. She’s been swearing and throwing shoes at that dog for ages, and it made her mad to see him stroll right on up and start making a mess—so this time, she took off her apron, threw it on the table, and said she was going to go smack that thing silly.

I didn’t really think she’d catch it, but it was halfway funny watching her try. She ran around the yard with a rake, swiping it back and forth, never noticing that the dog was having a grand old time. He figured they were playing a game, and she figured she was going to beat him blue, and maybe go over to Mr. Marks and start swinging at him, too, since it was his dog after all.

Not much has been very funny, lately. Not halfway, or even a quarter way. Birmingham has become a city full of men in hoods, or men with axes. It’s a place where dark churches swallow people up whole. It’s not a place where too much happens to make you smile.

So I watched her for a minute, and then I heard something.

A thump, and maybe a sliding noise, like something heavy being dragged around. I tried to tell myself it was my imagination, because that’s what you ought to do when you know you’re inside a house by yourself—but you hear something heavy moving around in your momma and daddy’s bedroom. Their bedroom . . . that’s where it was coming from. There was something in there. I listened hard, and it wasn’t my imagination at all. And it wasn’t funny, neither.

It wasn’t no happy dog playing tag. It wasn’t my sister, because she had the good sense to be married and living someplace else. It wasn’t anybody.

It didn’t sound like a person, anyway.

It’s hard to explain, but I felt that weird thing again, that dizzy feeling I’ve been getting a lot, especially since Daddy started dragging us all to Chapelwood. Almost like I’m sick, but not quite. Almost like I’ve been spinning around with my arms out, or hanging on to the merry-go-round while a big man shoves it faster and faster, and it spins so hard, so fast, that it almost throws me off into the sky.

Momma calls them my little spells, and says it’s nothing to worry about, even when I tell her I can hear her long-dead momma trying to tell me something from someplace far away. But she’s got her blinders on so thick, it’s a wonder she can see the end of her own nose. Whatever’s going on, she either knows and doesn’t care, or she can’t see it, for not paying attention. Either way, it’s hard to respect her. It’s hard to trust her, too.

Whatever’s happening, she’s no ally of mine.

? ? ?

(Father Coyle says I shouldn’t be so hard on her, because it’s not really her fault. I know he’s kind of right, but I don’t think he’s totally right. Sure, she’s gotten used to Daddy and his ways; and yes, I know, she’s doing the best she can to muddle on through this life like everyone else. But at some point, a full-grown woman has to be accountable for her own self, and for the choices she’s made. That’s how I see it. And I see my momma just closing her eyes, and pretending that none of this has ever been her fault, and none of it has ever been up to her. And that just isn’t true. She’s had plenty of chances to choose one thing or another, one person or another, one church or another. But she lets him choose for her, and that’s a choice, too, isn’t it?)