Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(66)

Other than this, I’m not sure what you’d have me say.

The cannery burned. We found some corpses, charred beyond identification. The circumstances were strange, but there was no sign that the dead men had any ill intent, or that they were the source of the blaze.

Between us, there might be more I could share . . . if I could share it firsthand. If the commissioner is so up in arms about the insurance adjuster, maybe it’s for the best that you come yourself, and we can quit passing one another notes like schoolboys. Or if you won’t come, I suppose the man from Boston will lend you his reporting, when he’s accumulated it.

I don’t know him by name or reputation, but he’s called “Wolf,” and his interest in the case is very keen. If you’re the man who sent for him, you ought to say so. The town sheriff swears he didn’t make the request, and if he didn’t, and I didn’t, then I assume it must’ve been you—unless the adjuster has some special interest in learning about the bones.

Maybe it’s that simple after all. Do you think he’s afraid there might be a lawsuit?

Never mind. Come and see me, and I’ll tell you the rest. Or don’t, and wait for the inspector’s report. I’ll accommodate the man as best I’m able, but if there’s anything in particular you’d like me to convey or withhold, it’d be helpful to know about it before he arrives.

This case has left me with a terrible taste in my mouth. Something is very strange about it, and something is untoward. I’m confident of that. But whatever strangeness or failings may be deduced from the matter, I’ll not see my department’s actions or officers thrown into the mud over it. We did the best we could, with the tools we had at our disposal. Asking any more of us is wholly unfair and unreasonable.

I hope that your previous correspondence came at the behest of the commissioner, and not from any private concerns. I thought you knew us better than that.

Yours,

Aaron S.





Emma L. Borden


APRIL 25, 1894

He knows.

I cannot say that he knows everything, for honestly, who does? But he knows enough to either help us or see us in jail. So now we must hope for the best.

I’d be lying if I swore it wasn’t some kind of relief, as if whatever burden Lizzie and I have borne is now cut by a third. Three sets of shoulders to carry it will make the load lighter for all, won’t it? Or maybe it’s all in my head. From another angle, it’s now three who suffer—rather than two. I don’t care.

Is that awful? Fine, then. I’m awful.

But he knows, and I’m glad. He’s confused, frightened, appalled, and outraged, which only means that he’s a good, sane man. Any other reaction would’ve worried me.

He’s seen the creatures now. Firsthand. He’s even been injured by one, though slightly; and now he knows that we’ve constructed our falsehoods of pure motives, and have only sought to understand the nature of what we’re up against, using the best tools we could arrange. So he’s passed that first test and not gone mad.

He passed the second test as well, when we sat up late in the night with Nance. Lizzie had gone downstairs into the laboratory to finish the last of the cleaning up and locking down, leaving me and Doctor Seabury to entertain one another over the sleeping, drooling form of my sister’s lover—who never much stirred, and never much whimpered . . . except to cry softly from time to time. And to repeat that unsettling mantra: out . . . out . . . out . . .

So the doctor and I kept each other company. He asked me questions, and I answered them as best I could. If my sister had been there with us, she might’ve slipped me sharp gazes, or cleared her throat pointedly, to keep me from sharing too much. She’s so very careful, always, and I do not mean to diminish the necessity of this—I only admit that I find it tiring. More tiring than being ill. More tiring than ringing bells for minutes and minutes on end, my heart racing with terror that the bells may ring forever and not be answered. Not by her, at least.

And when I can’t ring the bells any longer, and when I’m all out of bullets . . . what would become of me then?

Same as Father and Mrs. Borden, I guess. Same as the Hamiltons.





? ? ?


Except . . . there’s this. I’ve wondered a terrible thing, a time or two—then quickly shoved it from my mind, like the decent human being I remain thus far. What if I were to become afflicted, or infected, or . . . touched . . . with whatever strange taint is creeping through the town? What then? Would I become like Father, with the strength of five men and the temper of a minotaur, angry and hungry, but full of power? Would I turn into Mrs. Borden, fast and heavy, with fists that could break down doors and a back that could overturn a cart? Or Matthew? Who . . . if the doctor’s report is accurate, via Ebenezer Hamilton, was able to lift his mother aloft with one hand and hold her in midair.

Such strength. Like I’ve never known, or can’t remember. I don’t recall the last time I was able to walk unaided into town, or dash up and down a set of stairs. I can’t remember what it feels like to run, and I doubt I ever shall feel that joy again. Not without some unnatural intervention.

But I didn’t tell Doctor Seabury about any of that.

Instead, I told him about the house, and the laboratory downstairs. I told him how Lizzie had so cunningly arranged to have it built out when neighbors were absent or otherwise occupied, and when perfectly ordinary excuses could be made for the equipment. They know we’re rich. They think we’re strange. Why would it surprise anyone if we installed extensive plumbing to upgrade the home to modern conveniences? And what of it, should we import a heater for all the water and install it in the basement? And so forth, and so on.