Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(64)
We sat together in silence, me on the edge of a table and her still on the floor, where the cooker vibrated and hummed beneath her. Finally she said, “It’s awful, knowing just enough to know how bad this is.”
“And yet not knowing how bad it might get. Or how to fix it.”
“That’s the worst part, yes. But I pray—in case that means anything—I pray that you and I can work together, and you’ll help me with this. I’ve shouldered it alone, and I cannot bear it much further. I’m at the end of my reach, and I don’t know what else to try. Who else to ask. How else I might proceed. You’ve always been so kind to us, and I’ve appreciated it more than you know. Even the little things, the acts of politeness, they’ve meant the world . . . and now, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you give me . . . well . . . you give me hope.”
I was touched. “I’m honored that you would take me into your confidence. And left to my own devices, I do not pray; but I verily hope that I prove myself worthy of your trust.”
She smiled. It was a feeble smile, but a genuine one, I think. “Thank you, sir. And now, if you’ll excuse me briefly, I’ll check on my sister and Nance. Feel free to look around the laboratory, though I’d caution you to avoid the box in the floor beside the cooker.”
“The sea glass baubles?”
“Yes. You hear them?”
“I do. But now I know the call for what it is, and I can resist it, I think.”
I should’ve said it with more confidence. She watched me for a few long seconds, and then said, “Then perhaps you’d better stay with me. Please join me upstairs, and then when all’s secure, and everyone’s as well as we can manage . . . I’ll show you around the laboratory. I’ll open my notes and my research books to you, and maybe you’ll see something I’ve missed.”
“I will be fine unsupervised,” I promised her, but I knew I’d said it too quickly. I felt it even as I heard the humming, purring, warm, wet sound . . . I didn’t hear it with my ears, but with my soul. And it frightened me.
“All the same . . . ,” she said. She collected herself, and rose from the floor. “Until you have a better grasp on what we’re dealing with here, I’d appreciate your immediate proximity.”
I did as she asked. She was the expert, after all.
But what a terrifying thought, that the world’s foremost expert knew only enough to live in horror.
Aaron B. Stewart, Fire Chief, Farthington, Mass.
APRIL 26, 1894
INFORMAL REPORT SUBMITTED TO COUNTY SUPERVISOR MARTIN HELLERMAN
Since you’ve pressed us for particulars outside the bounds of the standard report, I will cheerfully oblige you—for there’s nothing I can give you but the truth, and I must trust that it proves sufficient to appease the adjusters, or whoever leans upon you to lean upon us.
The call came at approximately four forty-five a.m. via James Horner, who arrived at the main station on horseback. He was frantic, and all the way from the other side of town he’d been rousing the populace, a veritable Paul Revere shouting out that the fire was coming, the fire was coming. Or rather, the fire had arrived—in all its sky-high glory, and the entire block would shortly be consumed if nothing was done, and done promptly.
The block in question once housed the Franklin Cassock Cannery and Shipping Facility, which closed eight years ago, in the wake of some industrial accident which was never satisfactorily explained. Something about a belt snapping, a compression device failing, and to sum up a tragic and tedious tale: a dozen people were killed. Whichever Cassock son ran the operation at the time (and I can’t remember the name off the top of my head, but it’s a matter of public record, I should think) . . . he never recovered from the shock. He witnessed the catastrophe firsthand, and subsequently took leave of his senses. Truly, the matter was heartrending for all involved.
But I tell you all that to say this: The place had been abandoned since the late 1880s, and boarded up tight to keep out the daring youths and derelicts who might be drawn to it. Though, all things considered, it wasn’t quite the problem you’d expect. The old cannery was rumored to be haunted—and not in the charming, romantic way that attracts curiosity seekers, but in the fashion that frightens off all but the most desperate or inebriated. The buildings have been listed for sale for quite some time, but to the best of my knowledge there have been no offers, and no interested parties in pursuit of redevelopment.
The site has not seen a great deal of trespassing. That’s what I wish to convey.
But at four forty-five in the morning, Horner came around crying about a fire—warning that it would surely consume the entire block, and it might well spread farther than that if the whole community were not rallied on the spot.
I wanted to say he must’ve been mistaken or deliberately inflating the stakes, but when I stepped outside to greet him, I could see the glow of the blaze over the tops of the trees, lighting him from behind. My heart sank down into my belly, and rested there like a lump of lead.
I asked Horner if he’d summoned the police force yet, and he nodded, turning his horse and telling me that I was nearly the last man to be roused, because I was sleeping at the station’s quarters—and inconveniently enough, the station lies at the most distant end of town from where the blaze began. He said I should bring the cart and all my men, and he’d instigate a bucket brigade in advance of us.