Brooklyn Legacies

by Triss Stein

  “Do you remember—you must remember—there was a fire next door a long time ago? It completely destroyed the old building.” I wanted to get right to the point.

  “Yes, there was.” She looked baffled. “I did not live here then. My parents were still alive, and I was married to, oh, one of those men. We had our own apartment a few blocks away. But yes, I remember it. Certainly. A big mess in the middle of the night.”

  “Did you ever wonder how it happened?”

  “It was a dreadful old building, an absolute wreck. And fires weren’t uncommon in those old places. It was tragic—there were deaths—but, dear, it was no more than an old tinderbox, and no one was surprised.”

  “And do you remember what was there, then, before the fire?”

  Kingston looked wary. He knew. I was sure of it. Louisa looked uncertain, then she said, “It was that nasty witchcraft store, wasn’t it, Jeremy? No one missed it, you can be sure of that. Though I might have if I’d known my new neighbors would be even more undesirable, albeit cleaner.”

  “Now, Louisa, you know they are much better neighbors.”

  “Not lately.” She shot him a hostile glance and drained her glass.

  “What makes you interested in that event?” He refilled Louisa’s glass from a pitcher and topped off his own with a tiny splash while he waited for my answer.

  What should I say? My deepening conviction that there was a web of connections between places and fires and lost souls, if only I could knit it all together? That it was a story with no possible conclusion so far? Merely the complete weirdness of witchcraft in my own Brooklyn?

  In the end, I just said, “Still trying to understand how this neighborhood kept changing in the last fifty years.” I smiled, giving away nothing. “It’s what I do.”

  “Well, now that you have waked up my old brain, I can tell you there were rumors at the time. If the fire was set, it’s the old cui bono, is it not? Who benefits? Some gossip even suggested my family did, that we didn’t like them as neighbors. We didn’t, but what nerve! If only those fools had seen how that turned out. And when the Witnesses bought it for fire-sale prices—ha ha!—I know some people had those thoughts.”

  “Come on, Louisa! “

  “Oh, all right. Unlikely. But gossip is always imaginative.”

  “You know,” Kingston said, “I believe I have something somewhere. A dedication speech or an interview, when they opened the dorm. If I can find it, would you like a copy? The underlying idea was that by building a place of sacred purpose on ground that was damned by Satanism and death, it was redeeming. Something like that.”

  “That’s crazy. That seems so very…”

  “Yes. Early American? Even older? Anyway, I’ll look for it. It’s a long shot—it’s been years—but I’ll try.”

  “Thank you.” I was a little stunned. Did anyone in twentieth-century New York actually believe that? Who wasn’t as delusional as my Jonathan Doe? How was that possible? “Thank you both for talking to me. I need to head home now.”

  Louisa rang a tiny bell on the cocktail tray, and Sierra appeared.

  “Please show Dr. Donato out.”

  “Oh, wait. One last question.” I turned to Kingston. “Do you have any idea who said, or wrote, that piece?”

  “I do believe it was Daniel Towns. Even then he was involved in their property division.”

  I stopped myself just in time. I was astonished again. My head was spinning, but not so much I could not take advantage of a private minute with Sierra.

  “I’m still trying to find out how to contact Willow Lief. I’ve met her, but now she has disappeared again. I have her cell phone but she is not answering. You need to tell me, and the police, where she lives!”

  Sierra flinched.

  “What if she’s in trouble? It might not be that she doesn’t want to be found.” My trump card, though I didn’t actually believe it.

  “You don’t want to know.” Sierra whispered it. “It’s awful. You don’t want to go there.”

  “Give.”

  She finally whispered an address. I knew it roughly. It was a world away, a scary part of one of the scariest parts of Brooklyn. She had a point about not going there.

  Torres had returned my call while I was at Louisa’s. Now there was a text. “At precinct. Come see me if you can. Something for you.” I sent back “On way.” And then I contacted Chris and Joe and apologized. This day would never end. I briefly wished I had simply stayed at the museum and stuck to work.

  I flagged down a cab to run me over to the precinct; it was not far.

  “Sit.” Torres passed me a typed report. Though it was only a page, I had to read it twice to take it in.

  The handwriting analyst said that the letters, which had looked so similar to me, were definitely not the same hand. Louisa’s were one writer and Towns’s and mine were the same, but someone else, almost certainly imitating Louisa’s writing.

  “What? How is that possible? Why would anyone?”

  “Yeah. What I said, too. The more we learn, the less sense it makes. She noticed there were a few similar words to the Towns letters in the ones you brought over, too. No question about being connected. Somehow.”

  I barely managed to croak out, “Then you’ll want to see this.” I handed Torres the DVD. “To make it even more confusing.”

  She played it on her computer, so I saw it yet again. No more highlights for me, but I pointed some out to her. When it ended, she played it again without a word.

  “This man is…”

  “Severely mentally ill. Delusional, it seems.”

  “Yeah. ‘Crazy’ was the word on the tip of my tongue, but delusional is more politically correct, let’s say.” She shook her head. “I’ll have it analyzed by a shrink. This is beyond my pay grade, that’s for sure. Except…”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought. Except.” I slid my notes to her, the pages and the two columns where I carefully listed things said next to things from the letters next to Witness writings.

  As she scanned them over, she muttered to herself and ticked items off with a pen. “And who’d you say he is? This raving lunatic?”

  “Don’t know.” Before she exploded, I quickly went on, “He was called Jonathan Doe when he was brought in as a patient at Downtown Care. He used to sneak out regularly, and then one time, he got lost, they think, and died on the street.”

  She looked up sharply. “Recently?”

  I nodded, and she swore. “I know him now. A rambler. The first real break, and we can’t even ask questions.” She swore some more, fluently. I was kind of impressed.

  I told the rest of the story, how I’d found out about him and who gave me the tape and all the tidbits I had picked up along the way.

  She stood up suddenly and grabbed her gear. “What am I waiting for? I need to know what this Lief person knows. Not give her another second to disappear.” She leaned out her door and called for Kahn. I stood up.

  “I need the address.” She had her phone out to tap it in.

  “I’ll tell you in the car.”

  “What? You’re not coming. You’d only get in the way. I’m not expecting trouble, but who knows? Especially around there. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m coming.” I returned her hard look stare for stare. I hadn’t known I had it in me.

  She swore again. “You got me. If I thought we were arresting anyone, not a chance—you’d give me that info like it or not—but this is only asking questions. A whole lot of them.”

  It was an old and shabby apartment building, much worse than Leary’s, built from the start to be neglected. It was in the dark under the elevated train tracks. I thought it must be one of the few areas left in Brooklyn with not a trace of gentrification. We came to a stop at a door with a broken lock, squeezed between two shabby storefronts. Even in plai
n clothes, my companions were recognized as cops, and the few people on the street promptly drifted off.

  We went into a foyer, which was reeking and filthy, with no working lights, and went up to the third floor. I was afraid to touch anything, and heard skittering on the floor, too. I was trying to remember why I had insisted on coming. I could not think of a single good reason. I hoped I would not embarrass myself by throwing up.

  It didn’t help that my companions had guns visible, prepared for whatever. Nothing good.

  The door of the apartment gave with a slight push. No working locks here.

  It was a single room with some kitchen appliances built into one corner and a futon in another corner. A few other pieces of furniture, frames barely holding together, fabric stained with mold and who knows what else.

  Doors to the bathroom and the one closet were open, but Torres and Kahn approached them carefully. Was anyone hiding behind the doors? Nope. They were as empty as they seemed.

  The bathroom held only dust and a wastebasket. No toothbrush, no medicines, no glass. The closet held only a few wire hangers.

  The rusty cabinets over the sink and stove were empty except for a box of health food cereal and a few almost empty jars of natural peanut butter and jelly. The tiny refrigerator held a puddle of melting ice and a container of spoiling organic milk.

  Torres and Kahn relaxed their ready-for-anything stance. There was nothing to be ready for.

  “She’s gone. Damn!” She turned to me. “What the hell? Did you say anything to her? Did you tell her we would come?”

  “No. No. We just talked. No reason for her to run.” Was there?

  A manila envelope stood up on a cushion of the rotten-looking sofa. No name, only a large drawing in purple marker, a complex three-pointed knot. I knew it. I knew I had seen it before. I closed my eyes and thought. On the cover of books. And on a chain around Willow’s neck under her raggedy clothes. And on Sierra’s arm. It was a Wiccan symbol, a form of a Celtic knot, a symbol of female power. I thought it was.

  While I was thinking, Torres was carefully opening the envelope. A small pistol fell out and a piece of paper.

  This time it was Kahn who swore, surprised, and Torres, who was breathing hard as she carefully opened the folded paper. I read over her shoulder.

  In tiny, elegant script, spiky, almost runelike, it said: “Not much more left to my life this time around, so I leave you an answer. Did you work out the riddle of Jonathan Doe’s life? Haunted by a terrible thing he did. His demons were real. He saw them and they commanded him. But his friend—his friend!—his very best friend!—advised that the best help is the compassionate god who is always near the broken soul. Wrong, wrong, wrong. So then the Goddess told me how to finish this. The circle is closed at last.”

  “What the hell? Give me an ordinary drugged-up gangbanger. She saying what I think she is?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know! But we can find out. Looks like the right type of weapon. There’s nothing else here. Take some pictures, and get it all back. And you—” She turned to me. “We’re going to ask you questions and make a record of it. Everything you know.”

  “I’ve told you all of it.”

  “Not good enough. I want a record, beginning to end.”

  By the time I walked out, it was dark. I could barely speak. I could barely even think. Too damn much had happened in this one crazy day, and all I wanted was to be home, head on Joe’s shoulder, eyes closed, brain switched off.

  Joe was happy to oblige, but Chris had teenage things that needed a mom’s attention. I had to tell myself to be glad that she still did need me, but at that moment I could barely process my own day, let alone hers.

  I finally said, “Do you have any bubble bath?”

  She stopped in mid-story. “Uh, yeah? Lemon? Got it for my birthday.” She really looked at me for the first time that evening. “Did you have a rough day?”

  I nodded. “Leave it in the bathroom, OK? And we can talk more in the morning.”

  I fell asleep in the tub. I knew because I suddenly couldn’t remember when I’d moved the washcloth or added more hot water. Joe found me later, wrapped in a big bath towel, sound asleep on top of our quilt. He told me that when I woke up with a start and thought it was morning. It was three a.m. I’d been dreaming about symbolic knots and lakes of fire.

  In the morning, I rushed off to my day at work. It would be boring, compared to what I had been doing. I couldn’t wait. Boring, peaceful, ordinary. It sounded pretty good.

  I was sidetracked from the start. Nancy was standing across the street from my house, hands in pockets, straight up and alert. There was no doubt she was looking for me, and she did not look happy. I tried to pretend I did not see her and walked briskly in the direction of my work, but that was an exercise in futility. She moved a lot faster than I could and was beside me before I was partway up the block.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  Oh? I thought. Ha-ha. She never wanted to talk to me before. I didn’t say it, but I didn’t stop walking, either. Then she was standing in front of me instead of next to me, blocking my way. She was bigger than I am, and angrier.

  “You are not slipping away today.”

  I was trapped. No one was out and near us at that moment. No neighbor to greet and then casually walk off with. Joe had left before me, so ESP would not bring him out to the street. And normally withdrawn into near invisibility, today Nancy had anger blazing.

  “All right. You’ve got me. What is it? But make it fast. I am running late already.”

  “I want you to leave my kids alone.” She had locked onto my arm. She had muscles. I would not be able to make her let go. So I made the quick plan to use my weapon of choice instead. Words.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I have a job to do, to protect kids who need it. Sierra’s not in my group, but she’s young and on her own. You keep harassing her, you answer to me.”

  “Oh, come on. I’m harassing someone? I asked her for information, that’s all. No threat. We were right in Louisa’s house, for crying out loud, not some dark deserted spot in a park. For all I knew, you were there somewhere working your magic. “

  She faltered and I had my arm back.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes!’

  “Maybe I leaped too fast. But you’ve been stalking her. You have. And she’s still a kid. You gotta leave her alone, or you answer to me. She has, all my kids have, enough to carry.”

  “OK.” The idea of me as a scary stalker seemed absurd, but maybe I had been too persistent? But I also didn’t appreciate being accosted first thing in the morning on my own block.

  “I’ve said what I came to say. Believe I mean it, though.” She turned away, but now it was my turn to grab her. All I got was a handful of her jacket sleeve.

  “Hold up. If I leave her alone, you talk to me instead. Answer a few questions. We are on to something important.”

  She looked wary but agreed to walk a little with me, and talk.

  “You said you knew Daniel Towns for a long time, right?”

  She sighed. She didn’t like this topic, but she muttered a yes.

  “How well?”

  “Friend of my parents when I was growing up. They were all rising in the organization, I guess you could say. “

  Ah. “Was there another friend?” How in the world could I describe Jonathan Doe? I didn’t even know his name, let alone what he looked like then. “Tall and thin? And maybe troubled? Confused?”

  “Are you crazy? I was a little kid. I didn’t pay attention to their friends. Only if they brought me a treat or played with me. Towns was always a friend, so he was around when I was older.”

  She was right. She would have nothing to tell me about this mysterious, tormented man. Damn. Okay, another way.

 
“What do they believe, the Witnesses, about mental illness?”

  “Where are you getting this from?” She was edging away from me even as she asked.

  “Long story. I’ll tell you too, I promise, but for now, I just need to know a little more. I’m putting puzzle pieces together.”

  Her look was mostly hostile, but she said slowly, “Officially they say it’s a disease, and getting help is no more shameful than taking medicine for diabetes or the flu.”

  “And what aren’t you saying?” I knew there was something more.

  “There’s social pressure? Lots of other worlds have the same. Like, your faith should be enough for any troubles. Like that. And believe me, they don’t trust any kind of counselor from outside in case they criticize their idea of the truth. That’s truth with a capital T. The one eternal truth. My kids tell me some stories to break your heart.”

  “Even now, when they say it’s an illness like any other?”

  “Sure. And it was worse back in the day. They never told us kids, but there were always bits we picked up.”

  “Kids always know more than anyone thinks.”

  “You bet. I had an aunt. She used to stay in her house and cry. And my parents read the Bible to her, and other teachings. And prayed. Oh, they prayed. They said she only needed the Scriptures and the counseling of a mature Christian to help her.” She stopped, angry at them or me. Perhaps both. “I haven’t thought of this for years and years, and haven’t wanted to, either!”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Don’t know. It was when I was still a kid. She went away, they said, to a better place. Hospital? Heaven? They would never let us talk about her after.” She stopped again and looked right at me. “Happy now?”

  And then she walked away. She had tears in her eyes.

  I was sorry. I was. And a little ashamed. But I also thought she’d given me the missing piece. I could tell a story now. I didn’t know if it was exactly the true story, but some of it was. I saw it and heard it all the way to work, and when I got there, I closed the door and turned off my phone. I had exactly one hour before I had to meet with someone.