The Hollows--A Novel

by Jess Montgomery

  Hildy raps her knuckles on the desk, and Seth startles, sits up. His hat lands on top of the typewriter, and he stubs out his cigarette in an already-full ashtray. “Dammit, Hildy, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  “Trying to save you from catching the place on fire,” Hildy says.

  Seth stands, stretches. He smells as funky as he looks. “I’ve had a long night because although we’re now a daily,” Seth says defensively, “Mr. Lindermann is taking his own sweet time adding to the staff—I’m working more hours than ever. Same pay, though.” He scratches the top of his head. He grins. “I was composing the editorial for the evening edition, but the sight of you has plumb near driven it from my mind!”

  Seth had gone to high school with her, Roger, and Lily. Roger used to tease her that Seth was sweet on her, and Hildy always replied that Seth acted sweet on all of the girls.

  Normally, Hildy would stutter out an apology and—of late—worry that someone might overhear and word would get back to overprotective Merle that Seth was flirting. Merle wouldn’t confidently laugh it off as Roger would have.

  “Good. Then you will have plenty of space for this announcement.” Hildy carefully places the article and her sketch to the side of the typewriter.

  Seth stares first at the article, then at the sketch, then up at her.

  “Normally I only take notices of this sort from the sheriff herself,” he says.

  “Well, she’s indisposed at the moment.”

  “Indisposed?” Seth lifts his eyebrows and manages to make the word sound scandalous.

  “Tracking the woman’s recent path with a bloodhound,” Hildy says. And with Marvena.

  Her heart pangs with jealousy—and with nervousness. Hildy is fairly sure Marvena knows about her hidden relationship with Tom. Will Marvena tell Lily?

  Seth sighs, picks up the papers at last, reads the copy, glances over the drawing.

  He looks up at Hildy. “Where did you get this picture?”

  “I drew it from the corpse. Filled in the blanks, with logic and imagination.”

  He stares at her a long minute, wonder lighting his expression. “You always were a good artist. And full of deep and hidden surprises and secrets, Hildy Cooper.” This time his intonation and words are not teasing but serious. “If I run your piece, I’ll have to drop a letter to the editor, which the editor is insisting we run in the name of free speech, and my opinion piece responding to it. I was writing it as you came in—”

  “Oh, were you? Pro or con for allowing chickens to still be kept in town?”

  Seth does not respond with a grin, as she expected. His serious look deepens. “This anonymous woman you care so much about—if she was important to anyone, she wouldn’t be anonymous, now would she?”

  Hildy’s fist rises swiftly, of its own volition, as if it is an entity separate from her, but she has no desire to stop it, cheers it on, as it falls with a thud on the desk, next to her article and picture. It is a gavel coming down with swift judgment, propelled by frustration.

  With the thud, Seth jumps.

  “This is serious.”

  “So is this.” Seth’s hand shakes a bit as he gives her a letter.

  Women of Kinship and Bronwyn County,

  Do you want to ensure the Safety and Sanctity of your Family and Home? Fight the forces of heathen change that would threaten the Purity of Hearth and Country, invading our schools with prurient notions?

  Even our own Sheriff Ross turns her eyes against the laws of the land, allowing violations of Prohibition law and related ills to go unchecked!

  If you wish to put your newfound, hard-won political power to use, to ensure Pure American Values at home, in our schools, and in our streets—be alert for one of our sisters to approach you and listen with a Prayerful Heart to her plea.

  Our cause is Just, and we are eager for the Right women—pure of heart and aware of Their Proper place in Society—to join us.

  As one of our Great Leaders, the Quaker Evangelist Daisy Douglas Barr, penned in her moving poem:

  “I am the Spirit of Righteousness.

  They call me the Ku Klux Klan.

  I am more than the uncouth robe and hood with which I am clothed.

  Yea I am the Soul of America.”

  Standing for all that is Good and Holy and American,

  Bronwyn County Chapter

  The Women of the Ku Klux Klan

  Hildy drops the letter, as if it’s a snake. She stares at him, mouth gaping.

  Seth’s voice is taut. “We’ve had the letter for a week. I’ve thought of every reason to put off running it—though our editor insists we must. I’m trying to find the right words to compose an opposing editorial.”

  Hildy grins—not joyfully, but grimly. “Well, I’m here officially as sheriff’s deputy.” Lily had never gotten around to un-deputizing Hildy after the spring of 1925. “And as such, I’m telling you that you’ll have to put off running that—that letter—and your opinion piece, in order to run my notice and sketch. For a few days, at least.”

  Besides hopefully turning up someone to identify the woman, this will allow Hildy to forewarn Lily about this shocking development—which, she is certain, Lily will not write off as mere gossip. Hildy had read articles about the WKKK rising in Indiana, Pennsylvania, other states. But here? Where it’s been quiet and sleepy, at least since the year before?

  After a long moment, Seth nods, a fresh grin—this one appreciative—lifting his face.

  As she reaches the door, his voice stops her. “Hildy? It’s good to see you again.”

  She turns, looks at him, confusion rippling her brow. She’d seen him a few days before, in Merle’s grocery, but now he’s saying this with longing, as if he hadn’t seen her in a long time.

  Her gaze catches his, and she realizes, with a soft gasp, that he’d put a slight emphasis on “you,” that he meant the Hildy he’d known so many years ago.

  Announcement submitted by Hildy Cooper at 9:00 a.m. to be published in the KINSHIP DAILY COURIER, September 22, 1926, delivered to Kinship subscribers at 6:00 p.m.

  Woman Hit by Train—Sheriff Requests Anyone with Information to Come Forward

  An unidentified woman, approximated age late seventies to early eighties, apparently fell from the top of the Moonvale Hollow Tunnel and onto the westbound B&R Railroad freight train on September 21 at approximately 10:30 p.m.

  It is not known how the bwoman came to be on top of the tunnel.

  She is Caucasian, 5′ 1″, approximately 88 pounds, of petite bone structure and build. She does not have identifying scars or marks, though her wrists appear to have been recently bound.

  Eye color is blue. Hair color is now mainly a snowy gray-white; a few non-gray hairs are sandy brown. She is fair complected, with high cheekbones.

  Based on condition of hands at time of death, she is from a well-appointed station in life. No jewelry remained on her body, though from her ring finger, left hand, she wore a wedding ring somewhat recently. Remnants of nail varnish are on her nails. Her only clothing was a nightgown; she was not wearing any shoes but appears to have walked some distance in the woods with her feet wrapped in cloth rags.

  Any persons who have any information or who recognize the facial features (a composite sketch given the condition of the victim in death) are requested to come forward with haste and urgency, by order of the Bronwyn County Sheriff, Lily Ross.

  CHAPTER 11

  LILY

  Wednesday, September 22—10:45 a.m.

  A sign identifies the simple rectangular stone building on the other side of the road: Stanehart Hollow Friends Meeting House, est. 1819. Something about its simplicity—bereft of even a porch or window shutters, the yard cropped short save for a mass of goldenrods blooming by a corner of the building—relaxes Lily, makes her think: here, then, one might find ease and rest.

  “I bet this is Stanehart Hollow Road,” Marvena says. “Shoots off of Kinship Road, right near Rossville, connects u
p to an old settlement—Stanehart Hollow. We’re ’bout five miles from my place. The woman coulda stuck to this road, then the shortcut from my cousin’s place to the top of Moonvale Hollow Tunnel. Why’n the world would she take the hard way we just came?”

  “Good question.”

  The door opens. A woman dressed in sturdy boots and a plain, full-skirted brown dress and bonnet—the style of conservative Quaker women—steps out. She holds a broom. The woman gives the top step a brisk swipe, then stops as she spots them, clutching her broom as if it might double as protection.

  Even so, the woman calls gently, “Hello, friends!” How must they look to her—two tired, filthy women, one with a tracking dog and another with a sheriff’s star and revolver. At least the sky has cleared and they aren’t drenched by rain. Lily moves the folds of her skirt so that it partially hides the holster.

  She steps forward. “I’m Sheriff Lily Ross. Bronwyn County.”

  The woman’s expression pinches with shock. “You’re in Athens County here.” She points down the narrow road. “This is Stanehart Hollow Road. County line sign is a mile or so back.” She looks at Lily and Marvena, her expression now sedate, even as her grip remains firm on her broom handle. “May I get you water? Bread? My husband and I live up the hill.”

  Ah, wrapped up in the offer, the mention of a husband—protection from strangers.

  “That’s right kind of you, but we’re tracking a woman,” Lily says. “Found last night over in Moonvale Hollow. She was hit by a freight train.”

  “Oh!” The Quaker woman puts her hand to her heart.

  “If our tracker’s nose is right, she came by here,” Marvena says.

  “She was elderly,” Lily adds. “When she was found, she was wearing only a nightgown. Barefoot, other than a few rags she’d tied around her feet. No identification.”

  “If we had seen her, we would have helped her, not let her wander on in such a state.”

  Lily lifts an eyebrow. “Really?”

  The Quaker woman gives a slight, enigmatic smile. “Sheriff, I understand your reservations. Many do not understand our ways. If it’s justice you’re seeking, I can only wish you well. God’s ways are mysterious and—”

  “Right now we’re looking for facts. Not a sermon,” Lily says.

  Marvena gives her a hard look, and shame instantly burns Lily’s face—it’s the same look Mama would give her to reprimand her for unnecessary harshness. Since the events of the year before, Marvena has turned to faith, while Lily has sought to reclaim a belief in justice.

  “What I mean,” Lily adds, “is that I respect your views. We are very interested in learning all we can about her. To find her family, for one thing. And if it wasn’t an accident to find what justice we can for her, to let her rest in peace.”

  For a long moment, the Quaker woman studies Lily’s expression. Finally, her searching look relaxes, and she smiles. “My friend, the woman is at peace regardless. Perhaps this will help you in your quest.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a gold chain. Dangling on the end, a disc. She holds it out to Lily.

  Lily takes it. The item—a pocket watch?—is from the previous century, the case etched in an ornate fleur-de-lis design. Lily presses the side clasp and the cover pops open. Oh—a compass. As Lily turns it in her hand, the needle moves to point to the ornate N. True north. Inside the cover are the engraved initials R.E.K.

  The compass is in good shape, not scratched or dinged. Surely if it had been outdoors long, it would not be in such condition.

  Lily looks up. “When did you find this?”

  “Just this morning. Sweeping the back steps, at the other entrance.”

  “How often do you sweep?”

  “Every morning. We had a meeting last evening. None of us would have such an ornate item. And if it was there last night, someone would have spotted it.”

  “When did your meeting end?”

  “About eight. It was there this morning, looking as if it was meant to be found. It was in the center of the top step, back entrance, the chain carefully coiled around the disc.”

  “Why would someone leave something so precious on purpose?” Marvena asks.

  “And if it belonged to the woman we’re tracking, why would she leave it here? Wouldn’t she need it?” Lily muses aloud.

  “I don’t know, except—” The woman’s voice hitches, stops.

  Lily looks up at her, sharply. “Except?”

  “This road, Stanehart Hollow Road? We call it Freedom Pass.”

  The woman’s gaze intensifies, as if inviting Lily to reach inside her brain and find the meaning. Lily calculates: In Kinship, dominated by mainstream Protestant churches, Quakers are seen as religious oddities, even more so than the members of the one small Catholic church and the Seventh-Day Adventist church. Daddy, in making sure she and Roger understood the important parts of history that had been left out of instruction in Kinship High School in her class of 1916, had told them that Quakers had been instrumental in helping slaves escape to freedom and avoid bounty hunters who took advantage of the federal Fugitive Slave Law of 1850—selling escaped slaves back to their owners. Under that law, those who helped escaping slaves were themselves criminals, subject to punishment.

  Lily glances at Sadie, splayed out and panting from her efforts. Abolitionists had called it the Bloodhound Law, for the hounds that bounty hunters often used to track escaped slaves. Sadie has a talented nose, and they’re using her to noble purpose—but what if you were running for your life and baying hounds came after you?

  A shiver makes Lily tremble, but she keeps her voice low and steady as she asks, “Was this house—or someplace near here—a stop once on the Underground Railroad?”

  The woman looks down. “We are careful about who we share our history with. There have been rumblings of rising hatred, and those among us who oppose speaking out as we once did—” She stumbles to a stop.

  Now this woman’s face burns with shame. Lily recollects a recent article about the preachings of Daisy Douglas Barr, a Quaker evangelist—and a WKKK leader—who operated out of Indiana but went on speaking tours. At the time, Lily’d shaken her head at the article, dismissing Barr’s incongruous message as nonsense.

  But it had taken hold for some, in Lily’s county. Here too? Was there a reason the old woman had come here first—a Quaker meeting house—before going to what appears to have been a gathering of the WKKK at the Dyers’ old house?

  Carefully, Lily wraps the compass in a handkerchief and tucks it in her rucksack. What a collection she has now: bloody gown and foot rags, a WKKK hood, an old compass. “I’ll need to keep this for now, as possible evidence, Mrs.—”

  The Quaker woman smiles. “My name is Anna Faye.”

  Lily nods, making a mental note. “A moment ago, Anna Faye, you said it doesn’t make sense to leave the compass on your meeting house steps, except that—perhaps—the house, or somewhere near here, was a stop on the Underground Railroad. How are the two connected?”

  Anna looks down. “I confess I was taken with the beauty of the piece and I opened it up. The initials inside—R.E.K. It could be coincidence, but Rupert Edward Kincaide”—Anna looks up again—“well, he was a member of our meeting house years ago. If it’s his, he must have kept the compass as a token from his previous life before joining, then found it useful. Rupert was an operator on the Underground Railroad—until he was found slain. Supposedly, by an escaped slave he was helping to freedom. At least, that was the official ruling.”

  “Did the escaped slave get away?” Marvena asks.

  Anna shakes her head. “No. He was hanged to death as punishment for the crime. In the town square. In Kinship.”

  * * *

  This part of the journey should be easy. After all, Sadie’s sticking to Stanehart Hollow Road. But Lily’s feet have puffed up like overly leavened biscuits, filling her boots.

  “God!” Lily exclaims. “How could the woman go on, barefoot?” It’s unfathomable.
What could have driven her so?

  Marvena gives Lily a hard look. Then her expression breaks. And Lily knows she’s been forgiven for her harsh question earlier—What do you know of how hard it’s been? “One step at a time, Lily.”

  After another quarter mile or so, the road turns south, but Sadie insists that they plunge on back into the woods. A few hundred yards later, the intermittent hums of the woods and its creatures are interrupted by a steady rushing sound.

  Sadie strains forward and whines, suddenly eager, and breaks into a fast trot. Lily forgets about her aching feet and runs after Marvena and the hound.

  Abruptly, all three come to a stop at the edge of a steep gorge, and an old swinging bridge—a shortcut across the Kinship River, to the town of Athens.

  Lily looks past the bridge to turrets rising from a grand building, in the holler to the south, on the other side.

  The Hollows Asylum for the Insane.

  Lily returns her gaze to the bridge. Some slats are missing. A brisk wind sways the bridge, but Sadie sniffs at the first step, anxious to follow the scent across.

  “So that’s where the woman came from,” Lily says, the realization making her stomach queasy, her blood cold. “Give me the lead line.”

  Marvena shakes her head. “Let’s go back to the main road. There must be a proper bridge farther along.”

  “I only think that’s where she came from. I have to follow the trail to the end.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Lily gives her friend a long look. Sees the fear pooling in Marvena’s eyes—fear for Lily.

  Marvena’s right—Lily could say that the trail ran cold. No one would care. No one would blame her—not even Marvena, at least not at first. This would become another secret decision they made that they could not share with others.