by Libba Bray
“Yes. She told my husband and me that the same brown car had been shadowing her around town.”
Nice choice of words, Woody thought. “Did she get a look at the two men driving it?”
Mrs. Plunkett’s cup halted halfway to her mouth. “How did you know it was two men?”
Bob Bateman had been a guest on Evie’s “Pears Soap Hour with the Sweetheart Seer.” He’d brought a comb as his object and told her it had belonged to a war buddy of his. Except that Evie swore it was her brother’s comb. It had been the start of Evie’s fall, Woody remembered. She’d gotten upset and accused him of lying while on the air, then she’d chased him down the street, demanding answers. It had been scandalous, and the advertisers had not been happy about it.
The question remained: Who had given Bob Bateman that comb and arranged for him to go on her show?
Bob Bateman wasn’t answering Woody’s telephone calls, but, Woody discovered, he had a brother who’d done prison time. That fella worked at a scrapyard in New Jersey.
Woody dodged his way through piles of metal odds and ends, careful not to cut himself on anything sharp. He found Albert Bateman smoking a cigarette while taking a busted-up two-seater down to parts.
“Albert Bateman?”
“Who wants to know?” the man said around his cigarette.
“I’m T. S. Woodhouse. Of the Daily News? I had some questions about your brother?”
“Oh. You boys finally paying attention?”
Woody didn’t follow, but a good reporter never let on. “That’s right. I am. Can you tell me what happened?”
“It’s like I told everybody—he was bumped off.”
Bob Bateman was dead? “You know who did it?”
“Prob’ly those same fellas who paid him to go on the radio.”
“What fellas would that be?”
“Bums in gray suits.”
“You know their names?”
“No.” Albert Bateman took the cigarette out of his mouth and ground it under his boot. “And I don’t wanna end up like Bob, neither.”
“Just to confirm, how did Bob end up?”
“Buried in an ash heap in Corona with his throat slit.”
Just like Ben Arnold, Sam’s informant, had been.
Woody had one last name on his list.
Mr. Paul Peterson was a resident of the Derryville Home for the Aged. He was also a Diviner. Woody had come across his story in the Daily News archives, filed under people who had predicted tragedy or disaster. Paul Peterson had foretold a fire that decimated a mill in a nearby town, and he had premonitions of the 1900 hurricane that killed six thousand in Galveston, Texas. That had brought him to the attention of the Department of the Paranormal and a young Jake Marlowe and Will Fitzgerald. Now Mr. Peterson was seventy-five years old, with liver-spotted hands and a rocking chair. Woody had told the nurse he was Peterson’s nephew. He bribed the old man with a secreted cigar.
“You worked for the department for a time?”
“That I did. Here and there.”
“Did they take your blood?”
“No. They did not,” Mr. Peterson said on a puff of spicy smoke. “Mr. Marlowe didn’t want me for his little eugenics project.”
“Oh. Why’s that?” Woody asked.
“On account of the blindness.”
Only now did Woody realize that Mr. Peterson could not see.
“Of course, I wasn’t fully blind then. But I was losing my sight, sure enough. Nothing they could do to stop it. My hearing was just fine, though. I heard Mr. Marlowe and that other fella—oh, what was his name…?”
“Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“That’s the one. They argued. Mr. Marlowe said he couldn’t take a chance with my blood. It was tainted. He said the Founders Club wouldn’t like it.”
Woody made a note. The Founders Club. All these wealthy, important men who believed in eugenics. Hadn’t Evie mentioned them at one point? It was all coming together, piece by piece. It would be a real lulu of a story.
“What were you being recruited for?”
“Oh, some experiment. Magic, don’t you know. Marlowe was building a machine that ran on Diviners energy. There were these kids around. All of ’em guessing cards and reading objects. One of ’em got a terrible nosebleed. The army took everything over at one point. I remember that.”
“The United States Army?”
“That’s the one we’ve got, isn’t it? Anyhow, I left for a time. My wife was dying.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Happens to us all in the end, Mr. Woodhouse. Nothing to be done.”
Woody was coming to like Mr. Peterson’s dry humor. “How’s that cigar?”
“Wonderful. Thank you. I went back to see Mr. Marlowe, though, during the war. I’d had a premonition that something catastrophic was going to happen up at Hopeful Harbor. That’s his family estate, you know.”
“What sort of premonition?”
“Oh, couldn’t make much sense of it at the time. Something about a big hole torn in the sky and another world on the other side of it. A terrifying world, Mr. Woodhouse. Full of dead, hungry things.”
Woody could tell that this memory still had the power to unsettle the old man.
“What happened when you told Mr. Marlowe?”
Mr. Peterson’s jaw tightened. “He clearly thought I was an old fool, even then. He told me I was mistaken. That something wonderful was about to happen there. Something that would change the course of the nation.” Mr. Peterson sighed. “Well, there must’ve been truth to what he said, because I never heard boo about it. The war ended. Mr. Marlowe went on to give us all sorts of wonders—medicine and all manner of inventions. And here we are. Except…”
“Except?”
“Well, sir. The spirits have been talking to me again lately. Showing me terrible things, Mr. Woodhouse. I know I’m not long for this world. They’ve told me that, too. My heart, you see. It doesn’t work right. My lungs are filling up.”
“What have the spirits been telling you?”
“That that hole I saw back in ’seventeen did come to pass, and those dead, hungry things have been coming into this world all these years, getting stronger, all because of him.”
“Him?”
“A tall man in a hat and a coat made of crows. The spirits who tell me these things, they’re mostly good. They’re afraid, Mr. Woodhouse. Of what might come to pass if this King of Crows gets his way.”
“And what’s that?”
“Pestilence. Violence. Death everywhere. An army of dead eating the living down to ash.”
Woody took it all down, writing so fast he could hardly keep up. The information was explosive. He couldn’t wait to get back to New York and start his report. But first he had to go to Washington, D.C. He had to search for the office Margaret Walker had told him about. He had to find whatever records he could in the archives to support his story. Then and only then would he report.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Peterson.”
“Thank you for the cigar, Mr. Woodhouse.”
They shook hands, and Mr. Peterson stiffened. His mouth parted as he let out a long, strangled sigh. “The spirits have a message for you, Mr. Woodhouse.…” Mr. Peterson’s grip tightened. His voice was a strained whisper. “You… must be careful… now.” His speech slowed as if he were reading words appearing one by one across the sky. “Careful in the rain. On the marble. The angels… of our… better nature. The cleaning woman. Such a sacrifice.” Mr. Peterson put up a hand. He winced as if someone had thrown a hot light across his face quite suddenly. “In the dark. Something is coming! Coming after you—so sharp!”
The Diviner sagged and loosened his grip. Woody snapped his hand back as if it had been fouled.
“Be careful, Mr. Woodhouse,” Mr. Peterson whispered. “Oh, please be careful.”
SHADOW AND LIGHT
At the first cock crow, Jericho pulled on his trousers and boots and shook Sam and Henry awake.
>
“Wh-what is it? What’s the matter?” Henry said.
“Time to get to our chores. Rise and shine.”
“I will rise,” Henry muttered, half-dead. “But I pos-i-tutely refuse to shine.”
“C’mon, Little Man. Time to get up,” Bill said and nudged Isaiah from bed, steering the sleepy boy to his clothes and shoes.
“Things sure do happen early on a farm. Even earlier than the circus,” Isaiah said on a yawn.
Jericho peered out the window. The horizon blushed a golden pink, a sunrise he could practically feel inside his cells, as if his body had never forgotten those days of getting up in the dark to gather eggs and milk cows. As Henry and Sam groaned and fumbled for their clothes, Jericho thought about the hard work that awaited them and how much they would hate it.
“You’re smiling. How come you’re smiling?” Sam asked.
“No reason,” Jericho said and grinned wider.
They filed out into the side yard and waited for Mr. Olson. Upstairs in the house, a light shone in Evie’s room. Framed in the window, Mrs. Olson wrung out a cloth and bent down, out of sight. Jericho’s earlier levity sank to the bottom of his stomach.
“She gonna be okay?” Isaiah asked.
“’Course she will,” Bill said.
Memphis patted Sam’s shoulder. “She’ll pull through. She’s strong.”
The back door swung open. Mr. Olson seemed surprised to see everybody lined up and ready to work.
“Mornin’, Mr. Olson,” Jericho said.
“Mornin’,” Mr. Olson said. “Looks to be a fine day.”
“Yes, sir,” Bill said.
In their coop, the chickens squawked and clucked.
“Think you can collect the eggs?” Mr. Olson asked Isaiah.
“I can get him started,” Bill said. “Then Memphis and I can come join you in the field.”
“All right, then.” Mr. Olson handed two pails to Jericho. “You know what to do with these?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well. Let’s get to it, then,” Mr. Olson said and headed toward the pasture.
“What are those for?” Sam asked as Jericho led him toward the barn.
“You’re about to get a real education, Sam,” Jericho said, sliding open the barn door. The smell—hay, sawdust, manure, the earthy sweetness of leather—greeted Jericho like a long-lost friend. The cows lowed mournfully in their stalls.
“What’s the matter with ’em?” Sam asked, stepping back. “They don’t sound happy.”
“They’re full of milk. If you were full of milk, you’d make that noise, too. They need to be relieved.” Jericho swung open the stall door and entered. He positioned a low stool beside one of the restless cows and patted the seat.
Sam balked. “You’re pulling my leg, Freddy.”
“Nope. But you, my friend, are about to be pulling something.” Jericho motioned Sam over to the stool.
“I don’t usually like to be this close to my food,” Sam said.
Jericho ignored him and reached under the cow. “Grab hold. Like this.”
“Do I take her to dinner first?”
“Sam.”
“I never… you know. On a cow, at least. What if she doesn’t like it? What if she kicks me?”
“I wouldn’t blame her.”
Jericho guided Sam’s fingers, pulling down. The milk hit the pail in a splattering stream. “It hit my eye!” Sam squeaked, blinking hard.
“Congratulations. You can tell everybody about this back home.”
“I’m never telling anybody about this. And you’re not gonna, either.”
“Just keep it up. One, two, one, two. Like a dance step.” Jericho was overcome by the memory of Lupe teaching him to dance behind the motel and was filled with longing for her. He wondered where the Haymakers were now and if she was also thinking of him and how long it might be before they were together again.
“Sure. Just like a dance step… in the world’s worst nightclub,” Sam said, fully extending his arms to keep as much distance as possible between himself and the cow. He gripped the cow’s udders like he was learning to drive.
Jericho patted Sam’s shoulder on his way out of the pen.
“Wait a minute! Just where do you think you’re going, Freddy?”
“There’s three more cows to go. And don’t call me Freddy.” Jericho closed the stall door behind him, grinning as he heard Sam squeal, “Wait a minute! Hey, don’t… don’t move! Stay still!”
The day came up in dazzling blue—a good omen for planting. Jericho hooked a team of draft horses to a wooden plow and grabbed hold, walking behind them as he guided the blade through the earth. With his enhanced strength, breaking up the ground was no trouble at all. He worked for hours without getting tired. The soil was awfully dry, though. Jericho crouched down and grabbed a palmful. It crumbled between his fingers. “Not looking so good,” he announced to Mr. Olson, who’d come to admire his handiwork in the field.
“Drought. Don’t it figure—there’s folks down south getting drowned by floods. Sure wish we could take the burden of rain from them and bring it to our crops. Hate to think what’ll happen if this dry spell lasts much longer. The topsoil could blow clean away.” Mr. Olson slipped off his hat and wiped a sleeved arm across his damp brow. “During the war, there was plenty for us. Corn fetched a dollar twenty-one a bushel. Now I’m lucky to clear forty-one cents for that same corn. Whole place is mortgaged to the hilt. It’s like they plumb forgot about us out here. Jake Marlowe eats the food we raise. Doesn’t mean he wants to pay for it. Those men in the boardrooms don’t have dirt under their fingernails. They don’t know what it takes to work the land.”
Jericho looked up. Not a rain cloud in sight.
“You think you could put a little touch of healing on these crops?” Jericho asked Memphis later as they gathered around the pump. They dunked their rags in the cold water and wiped the sweat from the backs of their necks.
“Does it work on plants, Memphis?” Isaiah asked. He had a cup of seeds. Bill had told him he could follow behind the plow and plant them deep in the earth and beautiful things would grow.
“I don’t know. I think it only works on people,” Memphis said. “And there’s a lot of land. Truth is, it really beat me up to help Evie. If we’re gonna fight the King of Crows and heal that breach, I need to build up some strength again.”
Jericho nodded. That was their priority. But his heart sank for the Olsons. They were close to losing the farm, he knew, and he hoped that whatever he and the others did here would be enough to turn the tide for them.
“What these crops need is rain,” Bill said. “And none of us has a power for that.”
Memphis cupped a hand above his eyes to block the sun’s glare. “Never thought I’d say this after what we went through in Mississippi, but come on, rain.”
The first chance he got, Isaiah was under the porch with Sarah Beth, holding the kittens. He nuzzled his favorite against his cheek and told Sarah Beth what he’d heard about the drought hurting the earth and making the crops fail. “You think we could bring on rain with our moon glow?”
“I don’t know. But there’s no reason we can’t try. Maybe we’ll discover a whole new power!”
This got Isaiah excited. Why not? Maybe together, he and Sarah Beth would turn out to be more powerful than any of the others. Maybe they would be the key to saving the world. They might even get a parade out of it! Isaiah quite liked the idea of that. He pictured riding in the back of a touring car down Fifth Avenue under a snow of paper streamers, the crowd cheering his name as if he had won the World Series.
“Come on,” Isaiah said, gentling the kitten next to its mother again.
He and Sarah Beth sneaked into their special place in the dried-up cornfield.
“Here,” she said, holding out her hands.
Isaiah looked around nervously. It was daylight now. Somebody might see him. He would be in trouble.
“Isaiah!” Sarah Beth st
omped her foot.
Nervously, he took hold of her hands.
“Rain, rain, rain…” Sarah Beth chanted.
Isaiah joined in. “Rain, rain…”
They turned their faces up toward the sun and waited for a wet kiss of hope across their noses. Waited for proof of their magic.
“Try again,” Sarah Beth said.
“Rain, rain, rain!”
But it was no use. On the fifth try, Isaiah accidentally burped. They broke into a fit of giggles and couldn’t get serious again. Their mission abandoned, Sarah Beth said, “Come on. I want to show you the river.”
Isaiah dutifully followed Sarah Beth until the river was in sight.
“Sometimes I can catch a frog or some tadpoles here,” Sarah Beth called out over the burbling of the water as they neared the tributary that bordered the far edge of the farm. She took off her shoes and stockings and walked to the snaking water’s edge. The embankment sloped down to slick rocks and a slow-moving, white-gray current. “It’s down some ’cause there hasn’t been any rain.”
It looked plenty deep enough to Isaiah. He hadn’t learned to swim yet, so he kept a respectful distance. But he could see the marks on the sides of the bank where the water had been and knew that Sarah Beth spoke the truth.
“Mother won’t let me in the water. She’s afraid I’ll catch my death of something. But I get as close as I can anyway,” she said, giving a naughty smile.
Isaiah liked that they had yet another secret, but he was also afraid of getting in trouble with Mrs. Olson. His mama and Aunt Octavia had raised him to be respectful of rules, and he was envious of the way Sarah Beth didn’t seem to worry too much about that. Sarah Beth showed him where she kept an old tin pail tied to a branch with a twist of rope. He helped her lift it up out of the shallows. A school of minnows scurried back and forth along the pail’s flat bottom. “We’ll feed these to the mama cat so she can make milk for the kittens,” Sarah Beth said, and it made Isaiah happy to think about that.
They spent some time playing along the river’s edge. Sarah Beth showed Isaiah how to skip stones properly, advising him on how to angle his throw to make the most jumps possible before the stone sank out of sight.