Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(74)

“That’s right, and I believe you said as much. But I’ll have you to know that he loved it. He told me so, in a letter I received a few weeks later. He was fascinated with it, and he very much enjoyed inspecting and researching it. He’d come to suspect it was a rare kind of siphonophore, if I recall correctly.”

“A colonial creature?” Wolf asked with a lift of an eyebrow.

Mine lifted right back at him. It wasn’t a word I would’ve expected anyone unaffiliated with the field to know, off the top of the head. “That’s right. A collection of organisms, operating as a single creature. It truly was extraordinary, even for such an extraordinary breed.”

“It was disgusting,” Lizzie argued. “For days afterward, I could smell it on my hands.”

“It was science, and it was worth investigating.” And if no one else had been present, I might’ve quipped about the irony of an axe murderess being squeamish about a tide pool, but we were not alone and I restrained myself.

Doctor Seabury, who’d scarcely said a thing since making his introductions and apologies, raised an interesting question. “You said he sent you a letter, some kind of response. Is there any chance you possess it still?”

I shook my head. “Oh no. I destroy all such correspondence within a week or so, or someone might come and find me out.”

The inspector said, “That sounds like a shame.”

“Well, it isn’t. And I don’t have it anymore, and I can’t imagine what on earth a strange biology sample has to do with him going daft. And just look at this.” I flipped the paper up and tapped the pertinent paragraph with my finger. “He thinks I might be mad, too—and he believes our conditions are rooted in that April sample. Or that’s the sound of it, if one could be so bold as to assign meaning to this . . . message.”

“But you’re fully possessed of your senses,” Wolf said politely. “Undoubtedly, there’s no true connection to be found . . . but it may not matter. When a lunatic decides upon a fact, no evidence to the contrary can sway him. He’s coming here, looking for you. He has your address, if you’ve been corresponding—or some portion of it, I should think.”

“He knows the town where I reside, but I’ve always had him send his letters care of my sister, who he knows as ‘L. B. Andrew,’ via the general post. Mr. Katz has always delivered such mail without asking questions, and if he has any suspicions, I’d be stunned.”

“You’ve taken great lengths to preserve your privacy, but if Zollicoffer knows the town and knows even this much about your situation . . . he’s likely to find you.” The inspector’s face was grim and concerned, a set of expressions almost comical on the face of one so plump and pink.

Lizzie returned his expression, and put a sharp edge on it when she said, “I assure you, we can fend for ourselves. Better than you might expect.”

The doctor added, “And I’m at their disposal as well, should they require added assistance. It’s been some years since the war, but I’m a good shot—and there’s life in these old bones yet.”

“I don’t doubt it, but perhaps some police presence should be added.”

Lizzie snorted. “If you can talk them into it, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. The local authorities think I’ve gotten away with something . . . and anything that befalls me henceforth must be richly deserved.”

“You give them so little credit?”

She and the doctor exchanged a look. Seabury answered for her. “The trial made them look bad. Like they hadn’t done their jobs, perhaps because they didn’t know how. There is plenty of bitter blood to go around. That said, I’ve often wondered why you stayed here,” he said to her. “Utter anonymity might elude you, but there are other places, farther away, that might have proved more welcoming.”

“Fall River is my home,” she said, as if that explained everything.

She did not add that my health had been a large concern. At the time, it was suggested that I might not survive such a strenuous undertaking as a cross-country move. This was part of it, yes—but also, by then we knew of the creatures and the threat to the town. She was determined to save it, though sometimes I can’t say why.

And obviously, we couldn’t share that with Inspector Wolf. He knew enough already, but we didn’t know him—and our weird little coterie of three was intact, in that regard. Seabury had not betrayed Maplecroft. He’d only betrayed me, and only a little bit at that.

That’s what I told myself, over and over.





? ? ?


Later, after the strange little inspector had left us, I told it to the doctor, too.

He disagreed, bless him, but I couldn’t shake the sting of him knowing something so private, and sharing it.

“I only told him the truth,” he said, “because if he’s right—a spree killer is on his way to Fall River, and you are his intended target. You never know; the inspector might be in a position to help us, when the killer arrives. And if nothing else, we’re now one step ahead of the fiend. We’re waiting for him, and we won’t be surprised by him.”

“A killer,” I echoed. “Dear Doctor Zollicoffer. I can hardly imagine it. He was such a . . . an intense, and bookish fellow. How that translates to murdering madman, well, I’m at a loss. And all this over a sample, just some weird specimen I found on the beach.”