Chapelwood Page 7

  Well, I’d guessed one of them right.

  “The fellow’s a day laborer who’d worked for her family in the past. Hung wallpaper, built windows, that kind of thing. I don’t know him well, but I’ve seen him around and thought he wasn’t so bad. Quiet, competent. Not the sort to beat her. She could do worse, I suppose.”

  “But her father didn’t think so. And oh . . .” I made another guess, one I would’ve bet the bank upon. “Father Coyle was the man who, shall we say, facilitated this elopement?”

  “Correct. She’d befriended Coyle somehow, and her father had warned her away from him—with a belt, I expect, or something harder. But she kept coming around the church to spite him, or maybe she was thinking about trying on a different hat, when it came to how she worshipped Our Lord and Savior. Maybe the street preaching and the shouting wasn’t for her.”

  “What was her father’s affiliation?”

  “Methodist, of a kind.”

  “There’s more than one kind?”

  He sniffed, and blew a small stream of smoke through his nose. “I’d hate to sully the name of that church at large, and paint all the Methodists alike with a tar brush, you hear me—and to the upstanding local congregation’s credit, when they found out what he was up to, they gave him the boot.”

  “What does it take to be ousted from one’s congregation in the Methodist faith?” I asked. I really knew almost nothing about it.

  “He was hanging about the courthouse, telling folks he was a minister—and offering to perform marriages for a small fee. Made himself a little killing on it, over time.”

  “There’s . . . there’s a market for that sort of thing? Sidewalk unions?”

  “Well, say you’re in a hurry for some reason or another. Say you’re headed to the justice of the peace, and all you plan to do is sign a piece of paper to make it legal. Then say some nice fellow offers to perform you a service, on the spot—blessed by God as well as the county. Plenty of people have been romantically inclined enough to take him up on it. I think he was asking less than the courthouse fee, anyway—but I wouldn’t swear to it. The point is, he was out there pretending to represent the church, and pretending he had the authority to marry people off. And he didn’t, either way.”

  “So these couples . . .” I asked slowly. “They aren’t properly married?”

  “They filed their certificates like everyone else, but with Stephenson signing them . . . who knows? Maybe he’s legal by now. Before he shot down the priest, he left the local Methodist flock in a huff and joined some other church outside of town. Not a church I’d want any part of, if it was me.” He scowled straight ahead, then yanked his cigarette from his mouth and tossed it onto the ground half smoked, in a waste of perfectly good tobacco. “It’s just another arm of the Klan, is all. No business mixing God and politics, much less God, politics, and hearts full of nothing but hate and fear. I don’t want to know what kind of god thinks those fools are worshipping him, when that’s all they’ve got to offer. Hate and fear,” he said again, then drew up to a halt outside an ironwork gate with a sign announcing we’d reached Saint Paul’s.

  The church wasn’t the largest I’d ever seen, but it was clean and well kept, and so were the grounds within the fence—which might have once stood for decoration, and now served to give the little patch of land the look of a fortress. Which, after a fashion, I suppose it was.

  “This is it, and those are the steps right there. That’s where Edwin Stephenson shot Father Coyle, in cold blood, in front of God and everybody. It wasn’t right, and it doesn’t matter. The Klan has bought his trial just as surely as they bought the election that’s sending me home today. Me and George.” He shook his head. “We weren’t the only thing standing between this town and the . . . the darkness I feel coming . . . but people looked to us, and people thought we had some power to protect them. We did the best we could, damn it all to hell. And now there’s . . . now there’s hardly anybody decent—and anyone who is left will be out the door, just as soon as Shirley and Barrett can figure out who they are. This is the start of a terrible time, I can feel it in my soul.”

  He gave this soliloquy to the church steps, never once looking at me while he spoke. I felt awful for the man, so stalwart and aged. Dignified and furious, and helpless . . . his legs swept out from under him by an election that sounded about as upright as a patch of crabgrass.

  A flash of pink cotton flickered at the corner of my eye, and when I turned to get a better look, I saw a young woman. She was brown of hair, blue of eyes. Had a bit of a corn-fed look about her, I think that’s how you’re supposed to put it when you’re trying to say “plain, but not ugly.” She was thin and nervous, her hands squeezing repeatedly at a small handbag, and her feet shuffling with hesitation as she approached.

  “Chief Eagan?” she began, one hand reaching out for the man. She changed her mind, and used that hand to clutch her shawl closed instead.

  “No longer, girl.”

  “So it’s true?” If she looked unhappy before, she was positively crestfallen now. “They sacked you, just like that?”

  “They might as well have. And look at you, speaking of the devil.”

  “Ruth?” I hazarded a guess. “Ruth Stephenson?”

  She lowered her eyes and said something about yes, sir, and it was nice to meet me. I introduced myself as Inspector Wolf, and she then looked at me quite keenly. “An inspector? But not one of ours, not from around here.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m visiting from Boston.”

  Before I could tell her more, Eagan asked, “Ruthie, dear—what are you doing, coming around the church? You won’t help the case, if anyone sees you here.”

  “I was looking for you,” she told him. “At the station . . . they said they thought you’d come this way. I was hoping you could tell me something, anything, about the trial. Daddy’s lawyer won’t talk to me, and there’s no prosecutor lined up yet.”

  “Barrett’ll shoehorn some rat bastard into the spot soon enough. He just took office today, and he’s still getting his ducks in a row.”

  It wasn’t quite terror in her eyes, but you could see it from there. “Barrett? He’s the one who decides?”

  “It’ll all depend. The case is going up in front of Judge Holt, I do know that much—so it’s brave of you, girl.” His voice softened. “But you mustn’t get your hopes up, and you mustn’t feed his defense by coming around looking like a convert. We all know how this is going to go.”

  Stubbornly, she said, “I don’t care. I’m testifying anyway.”

  “Against your father?” I asked.

  “Damn right. He’s a pile of shit from toes to temple—and if he gets away with murder, then all right, that’s what happens. But it won’t be because I sat down and didn’t say a thing, when I could’ve said my piece against him.”

  “Brave indeed,” I echoed Eagan’s sentiment.

  “Why are you visiting from Boston, anyway? Has this got something to do with Father Coyle?”

  I nodded, hoping to reassure her. “He was my friend.”

  “And you’re some kind of policeman?”

  I hesitated.

  She was the first person to ask me so far. Not even the chief had bothered, and as often as not, I can proceed with an entire case without ever having to lie about my office of origin. But sometimes I can’t, so I told her, “It would be more accurate to say that I work for the federal government. I came here to help, if I could.” The former a lie, the latter the truth.

  “Then I’m glad to meet you, well and truly. We need all the help we can get.”

  The chief wasn’t quite so enthusiastic. “No amount will be enough, not since the election. There’s no one left who really wants to charge your daddy properly, and there are plenty of folks with money who want to see him turned loose and sent back to that pretend church of his.”

&n
bsp; Ruth made a face like she wanted to spit on the ground, but was just barely too ladylike to give it a go. “It ain’t no church. I’ve spent a lifetime in churches, some of them better than others. What’s going on at Chapelwood, that’s just a gentlemen’s club for men in hoods.”

  “Chapelwood . . .” I made note of the name. I remembered it from Coyle’s last letter. “That’s what they call the church?”

  “I don’t know what the reverend calls it on his taxes, but that’s the name of the old estate. Listen, sir—if you really mean to help, I’d be happy to talk to you, but the chief’s right. We shouldn’t do it here.” She glanced around nervously.

  Eagan agreed. “I need to get home. My wife will be wondering if I’m still alive and if I’ve killed anybody on my way out the door—but, Ruthie, you might want to take this fellow over to George’s. I expect they’ll have quite a lot to talk about.”

  Ruthie shook her head. “I’ve got a husband to get back to myself. But this afternoon, sir,” she said to me. “Perhaps you’d like to join us for supper.”

  “That’s a very kind invitation, and I’d be delighted.”

  She gave me an address, and we agreed on six o’clock.

  Then we all parted ways—Eagan back to his vehicle, the girl back to her new husband, and me to find a corner where I might flag down a car. I had no intention of walking back to the hotel in the increasing warmth.

  Honestly, I don’t know how anyone stands it. And if this is September, ye gods—what the hell can be said of their summer?

  Leonard Kincaid, American Institute of Accountants (Former Member)

  BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA SEPTEMBER 25, 1921

  I’m so very tired of the front page. I can’t escape it soon enough, and, I mean, really, you’d think they’d run out of room or interest at some point. Right now, my escapades compete only with the elections and the upcoming trial of that man who murdered the priest.

  God, I wish one of those stories would usurp me.

  As for Stephenson . . . I knew him. Not well, but well enough to know I’d prefer to keep some distance from the man. He’s always been an unpleasant fellow, nasty to everyone—especially his own family. I’ve seen his wife and daughter around town, quiet and browbeaten, except for how the younger daughter kept running away.

  I’ve heard rumors that he’s become one of the Chapelwood men. If that’s correct, it’s no surprise to me; but he joined the group after I escaped it, so we never worshipped together.

  I almost want to talk to him. I almost want to visit him in his cell, ask him questions about their progress and their plans. Would he talk to me? Maybe he doesn’t know that I’m banished and hated. Maybe they stopped talking about me, after a while. Of course, it might be the other way, too—they may warn every newcomer about the mad accountant who left his place at the reverend’s side, and now creeps through the streets to rob Chapelwood of its sacrificial lambs.

  That’s more likely, isn’t it?

  I think it probably is.

  I should avoid the jail, and the angry father who waits there for his reckoning . . . not that it’ll be much of a reckoning. No one expects a conviction. It’s a jury of his peers, after all—most of them Klansmen, or True Americans, or men who are wholly sympathetic to those causes. I say this not because I know it for a fact, but because you may as well count on it. It’s just been announced that Hugo Black is the attorney on the case, and that says everything you need to know right there.

  This is not a jury that will hang a man for shooting a Catholic, certainly not when his daughter had run off unexpectedly to marry one. Furthermore, certainly not when he was surprised with a son-in-law from Puerto Rico, as brown as the octoroons who used to work the laundry by my office.

  • • •

  I haven’t thought of those women in months. They were lovely, and they used to sing while they stretched out the hospital linens along the lines. I liked their voices, and by proxy, I even learned some of their songs. I wonder if anyone has noticed I’m gone. I wonder, if one of their numbers comes up, would she recognize me in her very last moments?

  The laundry women. Good heavens, that feels like a lifetime ago.

  • • •

  I ran the equations again last night, twice for good measure. I was extra thorough because I’m always extra thorough—I’d hate to get it wrong, not when someone’s life and death hangs in the balance. But let me be honest: I’m looking for Edwin Stephenson’s name or position.

  Wouldn’t that be nice, to find him in the digits? What a relief, if I could kill someone terrible, for once. I’d love to feel like my unfortunate reign over the front-page news is helping the city in a concrete way, and not merely a metaphysical one.

  But I did not find Edwin Stephenson in the numbers. Alas, I never do. Instead, I found a woman who is not likely to be missed—if I am careful. And I am learning to be as careful in my murders as I am thorough in my math.

  At first, simple success was all I hoped for . . . but with time and experience, I’m acquiring a skill set I never wished for, and never expected. My pen shakes as I compose this, but it’s true: I’m getting good at this. So good, in fact, that I wonder how I ever managed to escape capture after those first few deaths. I was sloppy and stupid, and if my victims had been wealthier, more prominent in the community, more socially valuable . . . I think the authorities might have hunted for me harder. It isn’t a fair thing, but it’s been a fortunate thing for me.

  Now they seek me in earnest, yes, because I’ve become famous and it makes them look bad. But now, I’m capable of evading them.

  • • •

  “My victims.”

  I wrote that, only a few lines ago.

  I’m starting to think of these men and women that way, though rationally I know I shouldn’t. Rationally, I know they are victims of Chapelwood. I am no murderer, I am only a soldier struggling to save the world—and this is what Chapelwood forces me to do in pursuit of that goal. And I am forced. It is either this terrible spree, or the reverend makes his summons and then . . .

  . . . then, would it be the end of the world?

  Well, I think it’d be the end of this one.

  What I would give to be free of this equation, snipped off the graph, erased from the slate where I adjust and readjust all the particulars. Every night, with every stroke of the chalk and every tally of the sum, I ask the universe: Why me? And it’s stupid of me, because I already know the reason. It must be me, because there is no one else who knows what’s truly at stake. No one else who awakens with equations scrawled on strange surfaces, in his own handwriting—but no memory of how it all arrived. And there’s no one else I could convince, either.

  But there is a new number on the board, and this time the woman in question is an itinerant streetwalker. She plies her trade near the rail yard, and while she is known to the men who work there, I doubt anyone will notice if she vanishes.

  So she will vanish. I can make that happen, with a little planning. Before, I would’ve only run from her corpse; now I am so numbed by experience that I can picture myself handling it, adjusting it, and disposing of it.

  Obviously, I don’t picture it with anything but disgust. But I can picture it all the same—and this is a new development, not one I’m particularly proud of. It is revolting. I am revolting, and becoming more so by the day.

  There really is no hope for me. Maybe there is no hope for anyone else.

  Chapelwood has gotten its way, and rather than make any helpful mistakes, it grows in power. It allies itself with the organized fiends of government and thereby lends itself credibility and strength among the hateful rubes who are so plentiful here. We are at a stalemate, that church and I—and I fear with all my soul (or what’s left of it) that this is the new normal. I will kill and kill and kill, and Chapelwood will plot and plot and plot, and all that happens is nothing except
for death upon death upon death.

  How cruel it is, that I’m the one doing the killing.

  All I ever wanted was to talk to God.

  Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)

  FALL RIVER, MASSACHUSETTS SEPTEMBER 25, 1921

  What the hell is going on in Alabama? From this distance I can only speculate, and speculation isn’t terribly helpful for anyone, anywhere . . . not that anyone is asking for my help or suggesting that I interfere. I am merely a long-distance spectator.

  For now.

  I add “for now” because I’m beginning to feel a certain . . . calling. As if something there is luring me, drawing me . . . trying to seduce me into coming closer. Ordinarily I’d write this off to curiosity and boredom, for I have an ample surplus of both; but there’s a familiar element at play . . . something that hints at things I’ve felt before, in darker, more desperate times.

  You’d think that’d be all the excuse I’d need to withdraw entirely—quit subscribing to these papers, quit seeking more information from my journals, and from the more helpful tomes I borrow at the library. You’d think the familiarity would be enough to keep me quietly at home with my own silent ghosts like you, Emma. It damn well ought to be.

  But somehow it isn’t. Somehow, the dreams I’ve had in the last few weeks, they’re . . .

  . . . No, I won’t. I can’t remember them very well, so long after waking.

  As for last night’s, I only remember a sky gone perfectly dark, and a sense that something pooled around my ankles, and climbed them. It’s not worth trying to write it down now. Maybe I’ll leave some paper and a pencil beside my bed at night. Maybe these aren’t dreams so much as messages—as ten thousand years of seers, clairvoyants, and witches have sworn is perfectly possible.

  I’m none of those things, but I’m prepared to hope all the same.

  Perhaps I protest too much. After all, isn’t that what the boys in town whisper, when they think I’m gone? They call me a witch, and they say it like it ought to be a secret, as if it’s true. As if I sit at home with my eyes closed and my hands upon a planchette—a board across my knees—summoning spirits and communing with the devil, not that I’ve ever done either such thing.