Jackaby

by William Ritter

  “Yes, Commissioner. I understand, but . . .”

  “But nothing! I want you and your men back out in the streets where you belong, finding answers! Finding me a killer!”

  Marlowe, out of self-preservation, bit his tongue before speaking, and I took the opportunity. “Does this mean I’m free to go?”

  Swift darted a glance at me as though he had already forgotten I was in the room. “You? Certainly not. Marlowe, keep the both of them locked up tight until this is over. Should keep them out from under foot so you can do your damned job, and teach them a lesson for wasting our time. At least we can tell the press we’ve already taken the prime suspects into custody. The public likes fast action. Justice is swift and all that. Oh, that’s not bad. I should have my campaign boys do something with that. Dixon!”

  The commissioner moved stiffly to the door, hollering down the hallway until a scrawny man in a suede suit and straw boater hat popped into view. The two of them disappeared from view around a corner, and the sound of the commissioner’s booming voice faded away.

  Marlowe slowly shut his notebook and slid his chair back from the table. “This isn’t over,” he said. Collecting the bloody tuning fork and Bragg’s map, he walked out the door.

  The dirty uniform escorted me back to my cell, and I plopped down on the bench. A barred window on the wall across from us had been opened to let in some fresh air. It had begun to rain while I was in interrogation, and the pitter-patter from the window was pleasant, if a bit chilly.

  “Did you have a nice time?” Jackaby asked, leaning against the bars between our adjoining cells.

  “Did I have a nice time? Being interrogated for a double homicide at a police station on my second day of work?”

  “That’s a ‘no,’ then?”

  “It was . . . illuminating,” I conceded. “I shouldn’t have thought a young lady would fit the role of murder suspect for a man like Marlowe. It’s almost refreshing to be mistreated equally.”

  “Oh, not at all,” Jackaby said. “Culture and lore shape our societal expectations—and Marlowe has no doubt internalized countless archetypes of wicked women. La Llorona and her slaughtered children, Sirens and their shipwrecks, Eve and the apple.”

  “Thanks, that makes me feel much better.” I slumped against the wall.

  “So, Marlowe has his vigilant eye on you, as well, does he? I suppose he’ll even have poor Douglas pilloried before this is over.”

  I proceeded to tell him about the commissioner’s dramatic entrance and exit, and the extension of our custody.

  “I should have liked to see Marlowe sweating for once.” Jackaby chuckled.

  The wind was picking up and it whistled against the buildings, spattering the windows with rain. Apparently the weather had grown too warm for more snow, but only just. I shivered involuntarily, but not from the cold. The processing officer had taken my long, fitted coat, but the heavy shirtwaist Jenny had lent me was thick and warm, and suited for the cold weather. Something else was sending tremors down my spine. It could not be more than midday, but the sky was growing dark as more clouds rolled in.

  “Well, I guess we’ll be here for a while,” I said, trying to remain light. “I suppose we should make ourselves comfortable. At least they feed you in jail, right? It’ll probably be the first proper meal I’ll have had since making port.”

  Jackaby looked focused on his thoughts. His eyebrows were knit in concentration. “Hmm? Oh yes. It’s not bad, if you’re partial to creamed corn.”

  “Should’ve gotten myself arrested sooner—could’ve saved us the trouble of clearing out a room for me, eh?”

  The wind was really wailing now, and a sudden, hard gust danced through the station house, sending a stack of paperwork flying around the room. The portly duty officer latched the window tightly and quickly busied himself sorting out the mess. Even with the windows sealed, the angry gale roared against the panes.

  Jackaby was sitting on the bench in his cell, but his eyes were a million miles away.

  “Quiet a moment,” he said, putting a finger to his lips. He shut his eyes, and his head cocked to the side as he listened. I listened as well, though it was getting impossible to hear anything over the howling wind.

  And then, like a match struck in the dark, my mind made sense of the sound. It had been growing steadily louder on the tails of the storm. I felt the blood drain from my face as icy tingles shot down my spine and danced through my extremities. A drop struck my cheek, and I brushed away my own hot tear.

  “You hear it, too?” Jackaby’s voice came somberly through the wind.

  I nodded solemnly. “So sad,” I managed.

  “Yes,” said Jackaby. “Mrs. Morrigan has a remarkable voice.”

  At the mention of the banshee’s name, a burst of lightning lit the little window, and the thunderclap was not far behind. I slumped in my seat, my head reeling, and listened to the banshee’s cry—listened to the sound of our own deaths riding after us on the storm.

  “Cake?”

  My misty eyes found focus. The policeman with the walrus mustache was holding a tray with a few cheerful slices of birthday cake. He pushed one through the slot at the bottom of my cell.

  “It’s just gonna go stale, anyway,” he said, kindly. “And we get ants.”

  Jackaby managed a weak smile as the man slid one to him as well. “Thank you, Officer,” he said. “Many happy returns.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The following hours, during which the stormy winds continued to harass the station-house walls, felt like days. We were half a mile from the Emerald Arch, but, like currents against a sinking ship, the banshee’s wail continued to wash over us in rhythmic waves. I recalled the image of Mr. Henderson, pillows belted to his ears to drown out the sound, and his actions seemed much less like madness now.

  The song was a whirlpool, powerful and disorienting, and pulling me ever deeper. At times it was melodic, sung with beautiful, sweeping tones of exquisite sorrow—but then it would collapse into the wretched discord of a woman in the throes of anguish, and back again. There was no break between the two, and the further into the lament I fell, the more I saw them as one and the same. It was my mother’s voice, and it was my voice, and it was no voice at all. No words in any language could have more precisely conveyed the sadness and foreboding flooding through my senses. It was the last song I would ever hear.

  With great difficulty, I pulled my mind back into the dim police station. I looked into the next cell at Jackaby, who was standing by the thin, high window, looking out into the tempest. How long had he been there? Minutes? Hours? It was a blur. He looked inexplicably calm.

  I pulled the scratchy, woolen blanket tighter about my shoulders, wondered briefly when I had received it, and walked over toward him. His breaths were deep and even. His storm gray eyes flashed for an instant with the brilliant reflection of lightning outside.

  “What do you see?” I asked through the bars.

  “Nothing,” he answered softly. “Just the rain.”

  “Aren’t you afraid?” I asked, wiping my eyes with the wooly corner of the blanket.

  He looked at me for a moment and smiled gently. “Of course I am.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “I suppose I am curious, first. I’ll let myself be afraid when my curiosity is satisfied—and as my curiosity will only be satisfied when I’ve looked our murderer in the face, it is unlikely I shall need to spend much time in fear.”

  “Ah,” I said. “That’s convenient.”

  “Quite.”

  I followed his gaze out the window. “So,” I said, “we’re going to die.”

  “Well, of course we are, Miss Rook. Don’t be dense. Everyone dies.”

  “Tonight,” I said.

  Jackaby sighed. “Yes.”

  “Any thoughts about what sort of creature we should be expecting?” I asked.

  “Many thoughts, yes.”

  “Any conclusions?”


  Jackaby’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced my way. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes. Madness? Excitement? Hope? The banshee’s melancholy melody howled through the trees and I shivered, holding my attention on that glimmer like a hot ember in a pile of cold ash.

  “There is someone who has aroused my curiosity,” he mused, turning away again. “Just a theory. Suspicions with no proof.”

  “Someone—a suspect? Who?”

  Jackaby’s answer, if he had intended to give me one at all, was interrupted. The banshee’s wail came to a crescendo as the wind picked up. Icy chills danced up my back, and even the detective winced. The door at the far side of the room swung open, and Junior Detective Charlie Cane stepped inside.

  He nodded to the portly policeman on duty, who had abruptly tucked a slim dime novel into his top drawer and was now making a show of shuffling through important-looking paperwork. Charlie made his way directly toward the holding cells. His shoulders were damp from rainfall, and his eyes were even more tired than when last we’d seen him, red-rimmed and hung with heavy bags.

  I glanced at Jackaby, who was following the young detective’s approach intently, as a cat on a windowsill might follow the movements of a stray dog below. Charlie? Could the sweet man whose intentions had felt so earnest really be the villain we were hunting? The villain hunting us? He had lied about the claw marks on the door, I remembered. Jackaby was right; the detective was keeping secrets. I fixed him with my steeliest gaze and waited for him to speak. Charlie did not seem to notice. He stopped near the bars of Jackaby’s cell, heavy shadows collecting beneath his brow, his head hung down. He breathed deeply for several seconds, and a few drops of rain plunged from his damp hair to spatter the pointed tips of his polished shoes.

  “Well, Miss Rook, Mr. Jackaby,” he said at last, “this is it.” His voice was grave and ominous, a tone only amplified by the wailing winds and icy air, but it was not menacing. It echoed the weariness written across his face. With a heavy sigh, his head finally rose, and those bloodshot eyes looked into mine.

  He read my expression silently for several seconds, and I read his. Confusion, at first, crept in, crinkling his eyebrows as he glanced between Jackaby and me. Then some dawning comprehension smoothed his brow.

  “You can hear her, can’t you?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” I answered, my trembling fear turning to indignation. “Just like Bragg. Just like Henderson. So we’re next, are we?”

  Charlie nodded, still without the menacing countenance of a killer stalking his prey, but with a resigned and genuine sadness. “Yes, Miss Rook, it seems we are.”

  It was not the taunt of a hunter, but rather the lament of prey. My suspicions wavered, and then fled like shadows from the light of dawn. “ ‘We’? You mean you can hear the cries as well?”

  He nodded.

  Of course. How selfish Jackaby and I had been to think we endangered only ourselves by sticking our noses into the case. If the killer was a cornered animal, lashing out as we attempted to close in on him with each new clue, then we had brought Charlie right with us into range of the beast. Publicly, he had been as much a part of the search as either of us.

  Jackaby stepped up to the front of his cell, closing the distance until he was nearly nose to nose through the bars with Charlie. My employer’s expression had not changed, and he continued to scrutinize the young detective, peering into his reddened eyes and tactlessly surveying the state of the man’s hair and clothing.

  “Jackaby,” I said, “it’s coming for him, too. He can hear the banshee’s wail. Whoever—whatever that monster is, it’s coming for all of us.”

  He ignored me, finally ceasing his examination to fix Charlie with an aggressive stare. “Are you in control?” he asked in a hushed but forceful whisper.

  Charlie looked momentarily confused by the question. “I won’t allow my emotions to get in the way of my duty, if that’s what you mean, sir,” he said. “I can face death.”

  “That is not what I mean. I mean, are you in control?” Jackaby repeated the phrase with intensity. Charlie’s eyes widened in surprise. He glanced at the officer in the desk behind him.

  “You know?” he whispered in alarm, then shook his head and laughed softly at himself. “Of course you know. Yes, Detective. I am always in control, I assure you.”

  “Don’t go getting any big ideas, Cane. I’m still running this show,” barked a rough voice from behind Charlie.

  He spun to face Marlowe, who had entered from the hallway. The clanking handcuffs still hung from his belt, but it seemed that when he wanted to, the chief inspector could tread remarkably quietly for a man of his stature.

  “You’re coming with me. Back to the Emerald Arch. Now.”

  The inspector did not slow his pace to wait for Charlie to keep up, but continued straight on through the entryway, jamming his navy blue uniform cap onto his head as he moved.

  Charlie gave us one last pitiful glance, and then drew himself up, jogging after Marlowe and out the door. I turned to Jackaby. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that was all about?”

  “No. I don’t think I will. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you apprised of anything urgent.”

  I slumped back on the bench, lacking even the energy to argue. “Not that it matters. All three of us will be dead by morning.”

  “I’m afraid it may be even worse than that,” Jackaby said flatly.

  “Worse than death?”

  “Worse than the three of us. Or didn’t you notice? No doubt he hurried out to avoid our taking notice, but the chief inspector’s eyes were as puffy as yours. He’s been crying.”

  “Then—Marlowe hears it, too?” I said. “But that’s terrible! He and Charlie are both running straight back to the scene.”

  Jackaby cleared his throat and nodded for me to look around. In the cell beyond Jackaby’s, our inebriated neighbor in red suspenders had awoken and was sullenly picking at the crumbs of a piece of cake. Between nibbles, the man sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Tears had cleaned twin trails down the grime of his cheeks. I whirled around. At his desk, the portly policeman wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and then leaned heavily on his elbows, his hands sliding up to cover his ears.

  They could hear the banshee’s wail. All of them.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  We have to warn them!” I swiveled back to face Jackaby, who looked remarkably composed for one who had just realized that a wholesale massacre was descending upon the town.

  “You hear the keening, as well. Has it been of great help to you, knowing the sound is a portent of your impending extermination?”

  I scowled at my employer, then deflated. He was right. I did not know how much time I had already lost, succumbing to the lilting wails. They had been possible to overlook when they were just a feeling in the back of my skull, an intangible sadness on the breeze—but knowing their full meaning had given the notes a dismal weight. I was going to die, and worse, I was going to squander my last minute thinking about the fact that I was going to die. “Ignorance is bliss, is that it?”

  “That’s insipid. Happiness is bliss—but ignorance is anesthetic, and in the face of what’s to come, that may be the best we can hope for our ill-fated acquaintances.”

  The howling wails of the banshee were becoming more distinct from the wind and rain with each passing minute. The storm seemed to be abating. Wisps of rain, rather than heavy sheets, struck the small, barred window. The mournful cries, however, had not diminished in the least. They were, in fact, becoming unbearably intense. I had just crossed to peer out the window when another wave of sadness slammed into me. My eyes clenched shut, and I felt my knees give out and crack into the floor. With my hands clamped over my ears, I forced my eyes open and peered around.

  In a muffled semivacuum of sound, with the echoes of the last cry bouncing about my head, I tried to reorient myself. The man in the far cell had curled into a fetal position and was rocking slightly. Jackab
y was shouting something about his tuning fork at the desk officer, but the portly man had slouched back in his chair, keeping his hands clapped to either side of his head. I took my hands tentatively away from my own ears, only to be caught by another terrible wail.

  I forced my eyes open again, my vision swimming slightly. Jackaby had abandoned his efforts with the policeman, and looked as though the task of simply standing upright was commanding all of his willpower. There was no noise at all now, save the sorrowful voice of the banshee in my ears. As the song and scream entwined, the painful beauty of the melody came into focus.

  On the crest of the building wave, a few last thoughts—tumbling wishes and regrets—breached the surface. I longed to see my parents one last time, and tell them that I loved them—that I was sorry. I imagined my mother, scooping me into a deep hug, as she had done when I was small. The image changed, and she became my father, and he held me still more tightly in his big broad arms. Again the vision gently shifted, and now he was the handsome Charlie Cane, and I could not be bothered to shy away from the thought of his embrace. Gradually my mind cleared until nothing but the mournful sound remained.

  So, this is it, I thought. I am about to die. A strange peace washed over me. The harrowing song reached its peak and came toward a lilting end, the melody drawing at last to one elegant final note. I breathed in deeply and let my hands fall to my sides, opening my ears to the long, sustained finale. The tones of pain and fear subsided, and it was a sound of pure release and relief. As if on cue, a beam of sunlight cut past the last dwindling raindrops and through the little window. Then, just as the trembling note began to soften, the voice abruptly stopped.

  It was a jarring shift, like falling out of bed in the middle of a dream. Mundane sounds returned suddenly, alien at first in their normalcy: the soft slosh of water in the gutters, the pitter-patter of droplets slipping from the wet branches, the heavy breathing and occasional sniffle of the man in the far cell. Wondering, briefly, if I was dead, I blinked and patted down my torso. Finding no gaping wounds, I looked dumbly to Jackaby.