The Truth of All Things

by Kieran Shields

  “Fair enough”

  Grey’s eyes never left the papers in front of him, and while he continued to read, his hand slipped into his vest pocket. He removed his watch, which he opened and set before him on the table. Its miniature clicking filled the air between the men.

  Lean picked up the next entry from his assigned stack. A deposition from the Essex County Archives entitled Mercy Lewis v. George Burroughs. He took a deep breath and turned his attention to the item.

  The deposition of Mercy Lewis who testifies and says that on the 7th of May 1692, at evening I saw the apparition of Mr. George Burroughs whom I very well knew which did grievously torture me and urged me to write in his book and then he brought to me a new fashion book which he did not use to bring and told me I might write in that book: for that was a book that was in his study when I lived with them. But I told him I did not believe him for I had been often in his study, but I never saw that book there. But he told me that he had several books in his study which I never saw in his study and he could raise the devil. And now had bewitched Mr. Sheppard’s daughter and I asked him how he could go to bewitch her now he was kept at Salem. And he told me that the devil was his servant and he sent him in his shape to do it. Then he again tortured me most dreadfully and threatened to kill me for he said I should not witness against him. Also he told me that he had made Abigail Hobbs a witch and several more then again he did most dreadfully torture me. The next night he told me I should not see his two wives if he could help it because I should not witness against him. This 9th May, Mr. Burroughs carried me up to an exceeding high mountain and showed me all the kingdoms of the earth and told me that he would give them all to me if I would write in his book. And if I would not, he would throw me down and break my neck. But I told him they were none of his to give and I would not write if he threw me down on 100 pitchforks.

  Mercy Lewis ag’st Burroughs.

  “No mention of Burroughs’s blood, but it smacks of this investigation.” Lean reread the passage aloud while Grey sat silent with his eyes closed. When he finished, Lean set the page down. “Breaking her neck and casting her down on pitchforks. All kinds of promises to get her name in his book. It all sounds like Maggie Keene, doesn’t it?”

  “That bit again about a secret book in his study that he could use to raise the devil.”

  Lean nodded. “Perhaps a grain of truth in some of these girls’ wild testimony. Did she just make that up, or did she really know something about that same book mentioned by the other fellow Meserve told us about, the one Burroughs entrusted to hide the Black Book before he was arrested as a witch? It makes you wonder.”

  Grey bolted from his chair and grabbed the telephone receiver. He clicked the lever twice and waited.

  “Grey? What is it?”

  He held up a finger toward Lean, then spoke into the receiver. “Telephone exchange 5328, please.” Grey waited, his finger tapping on the side table that held the phone. He glanced up and saw Lean waiting for an explanation. “Pierce. That other man’s name was Pierce. The one who wrote about Burroughs giving him the Black Book and all that.”

  Lean waited for something further, but apparently that bit of information was supposed to be enough to explain Grey’s sudden frantic behavior.

  “Thank you, Operator. No, I won’t need to place the call again.” Grey hung up the receiver and then grabbed his coat from a hook by the door.

  Lean rushed after Grey, who barreled down the stairs. They nearly knocked over Mrs. Philbrick, who had poked her head out of her ground-floor apartment to see about the commotion. Lean tipped his hat in apology as he passed the poor woman, her eyes still wide in terror from the previous incident with a blood-spattered Tom Doran.

  Outside on the front steps, Grey waved frantically for a cab.

  “Where the blazes are we going?”

  Grey didn’t look back. A cab was pulling up, and he climbed aboard before it had even stopped. “The historical society—to see Meserve!”

  They entered the historical society on the third floor of the Portland Public Library building. The room was empty, and the door to the back research room was closed. After finding it locked, Lean pounded several times on the wooden door.

  “Meserve’s not here,” Grey said. “How are you with busting doors down?”

  “I’ve done a few in my time.”

  “I’ll defer to you, then.”

  Lean stepped back, girded himself, and then rammed his right foot straight ahead, just next to the doorknob. The frame splintered. A second kick sent the door slamming inward, knocked off its top hinge. Lean stepped into the room with Grey right behind.

  “I’m coming.…” F. W. Meserve called as he came bustling down the outside hallway and entered the front room. “Just a second …” He had his glasses in hand, cleaning them with a handkerchief. He let it drop and set his glasses on his face as he approached the ruined door, his mouth agape.

  “Oh, there you are, Meserve,” Grey said from inside the research room. His head turned this way and that, looking over the various piles of books and bound stacks of paper. “Sorry about the …” He waved in the general direction of the entry.

  “Door,” Meserve muttered as he stepped into the room. His eyes flitted back and forth between the doorway and his visitors. At a loss to explain events, Meserve fell back into old habits. “Is there something I can help you with today, gentlemen?”

  “Yes, actually,” Grey said. “That collection of papers you told us about before. Caleb Pierce’s writings. There was mention in there of an Indian attack. Pierce, George Burroughs, and some other English settlers took refuge on an island in Casco Bay.”

  “Yes, that’s true. On Andrews Island.”

  “Can we please see the actual document?”

  “Of course.” Meserve smiled, so pleased by their interest in the subject that he seemed to momentarily forget about his shattered door. He moved to a bookshelf, ran a finger along several aged spines, and selected one. He set the volume on a table and gently turned through the pages.

  “Here we go.” Meserve took half a step to the side, his finger still lingering at the bottom of the page. “There’s the spot where Pierce mentions the island.”

  Grey stepped forward and bent in close. He scanned the page, then read aloud: “ ‘On our return to Andrews Isle, I was gladdened to find the Reverend Burroughs having by virtue of his own hands begun construction of a stone wall for defense. You yourself know the surprising strength in the Good Reverend’s frame. The business was trying enough that all our hands were sorely cut by the jagged rocks and work of digging out the stones for use. It is to be hoped that no more English blood shall stain that wall before the Lord sees fit to favor us with redemption.’ ”

  Grey closed the book. “Burroughs’s blood was shed there. That’s our spot.”

  Lean puzzled over the name. “Andrews Island? I’m not familiar with it.”

  “It hasn’t been called that for a hundred years,” Meserve explained. “It’s Cushing’s now.”

  “We haven’t much time,” Grey said. He stood still, his hand on his chin while he thought. “We’re going to need assistance. Tom Doran.”

  “Probably find him at Jimmy Farrell’s place,” Lean said.

  “A quick stop back at my rooms first.” Grey and Lean started toward the door.

  Meserve picked up the book and cradled it like a prized possession. He watched his sudden visitors step around the splintered remains of his door. “You gentlemen will just show yourselves out, then?”

  Grey and Lean stood just inside the doorway to James Farrell’s basement place. The leader of one of Portland’s Irish factions ran a cavernous hall that serviced almost every vice a man could ask for, provided the man in question wasn’t too imaginative and mostly liked to drink cheap whiskey and rum. The few narrow windows set high in the walls were too filthy to let in more than an ounce of sunlight. It was still afternoon, but the place was already well on its way to a good night’s b
usiness. The smell of whiskey, beer, new sweat, and piss almost covered up the stale versions of those same smells that had lingered from the night before.

  A doorman with scars visible on his close-shorn scalp approached. He was wide enough across the chest that Lean almost didn’t see the man behind him. Jim Farrell hadn’t bothered to don his coat but looked dapper all the same in a light blue silk vest over a crisply starched shirt and navy cravat. His face was well lined, and his bristly hair was more than halfway given over to gray. He’d led a hard life and looked older than Lean knew him to be.

  “Deputy. You shouldn’t be here. I have an arrangement.”

  “This isn’t official business,” Lean said.

  Farrell looked Grey over. The man made little effort to hide the threat of violence lurking close behind his eyes. “Well, I’m afraid you came down here for nothing, then. Tom Doran ain’t taking social calls right now. Sorry, gents.” He gestured toward the door.

  “I think you should reconsider,” said Grey.

  “Do you, now? And why’s that?”

  “Because after so many years of loyal service, I suspect you’ve come to rely on the sturdy support of a man like Tom Doran. You might even, in your own way, consider him a friend. More important to you, it’s simply in your best interests.”

  Farrell tilted his head slightly; there was a gleam in his eye. Lean could tell that the man was trying to figure whether there was a threat or a proposition coming from Grey.

  “Doran’s started drinking again,” Grey continued, “heavily. Dr. Steig saved his life years ago. Cured him, in a manner of speaking. At least helped him keep his demons at bay. Steig’s dead now. Doran is a man standing at the edge of the abyss. If he goes over, he’s no use to you. Eventually he may even become too dangerous to keep around.”

  “And what are you proposing to do about it?”

  Grey slipped a manila envelope from his inside coat pocket. “I propose to pull him back. And I have here the one last thing in this world that just might save the man’s very soul.”

  Lean struggled to contain his own surprise at what Grey was saying. He couldn’t tell if it was a ploy. For Doran’s sake, and their own, he hoped it was the truth. He knew that Farrell had managed to survive and flourish in his own dangerous profession due, in large part, to his ability to know how much a man was lying to him.

  “All right. You got five minutes. Any trouble and it’ll be your own souls you’ll need to worry about.” Farrell nodded toward the burly doorman, who proceeded to lead Lean and Grey to a semiprivate booth in a back corner of the hall. After a minute, the doorman reappeared, holding an unsteady Tom Doran by the elbow.

  Doran slumped into the seat across from them. Even in this stench-filled room, Lean could smell the whiskey on the giant Irishman.

  “Hello, Tom.”

  “What do you fellows want?”

  “We need your help,” Grey said.

  “Hah, that’s rich. I can’t help no one.”

  “We need to get out to Cushing’s Island tonight. Unseen, after dark,” Lean told him.

  “So hire a boat.”

  “We also need a couple of men who can be relied upon. Sure men.”

  “You’re the cop,” Doran said. “Take some of your own.”

  “This isn’t police business, officially. This is about the guy who killed Dr. Steig.”

  Doran’s eyes flashed at the mention of the name.

  “Right now, this is about Helen Prescott. The man who killed Steig has taken her,” Lean said.

  “And her little girl,” added Grey. “If we don’t stop him, he’ll kill them both. Tonight.”

  “You’re messing around with me now.”

  “No, Tom. We need your help. Farrell’s got boats and men who know their way around every inch of these islands in the dark and can do it without being seen or heard.”

  Doran was wavering. Lean could see that it was too much for him to consider in his current state. Grey slid the manila envelope across the table.

  “Open it.”

  Doran glanced back and forth between Grey and the envelope several times before picking it up and fumbling with the opening, trying not to rip the thing in two. He managed to get a thumb inside and tore away the top. A photograph slid out. Lean caught a glimpse of a woman in the picture. Doran stared at it, and a knot appeared between his eyebrows. “She’s …”

  “She goes by the name of Dunleavy now. Katie Dunleavy. The family lives over near Libby’s Hill. She’s engaged to a young man by the name of Mullen. A fine Irish lad. He’s a bank clerk.”

  “Katie?”

  “Yes, Tom, your daughter.” Grey let the news sink into Doran’s whiskey-clouded brain for a moment longer. “She’s living a very happy life. Dr. Steig helped set her on that path twenty years ago. Back when you were in no condition to help her. Your little girl, all grown up and happy. Maybe you could meet her someday, if you were up to it.”

  Lean’s mind was racing. Steig had kept Doran’s jail sentence down after his drunken rampage over his wife’s death. The child was to be taken to the Female Orphan Society, but Dr. Steig instead made arrangements for a favorable adoption. Had he kept tabs on her ever since, without ever mentioning it to Doran, and then told all this to Grey? Or had Grey ransacked the doctor’s papers and found the information? Then the image flashed into Lean’s brain. Grey copying down a name and slipping it into his pocket that day in the records room, when they’d been searching for the orphaned son of Old Stitch. He’d been looking for Doran’s child. Since then he’d held on to the information that could free Doran from the pain of not knowing that his only child was safe and happy. Grey had kept it up his sleeve until it was needed. But what if it hadn’t been needed for another year, or five, or never? Lean wondered how long Grey would have waited to ease Tom Doran’s burden.

  Doran looked up at them, tears in his eyes. “She’s beautiful. Looks just like her mother.”

  Lean felt a vicarious stab of guilt and glanced at Grey. There was no sign of remorse on the man’s face, no shame at having just seen the pure joy on Doran’s face and knowing he could have delivered the news earlier.

  “Tom, Dr. Steig’s niece is going to die tonight. Her little girl is going to be murdered. She’ll never grow up and turn into a beautiful, happy young woman. Don’t let that happen to her. You can help this little girl. Right now.” Grey was staring into the massive Irishman’s eyes.

  “Cushing’s?” said Doran.

  “Tonight,” Grey said. “Just after sunset.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Four,” said Lean, and then, remembering Doran’s condition, he added, “p.m.”

  “Meet me at the bottom of Clark Street in two hours. We’ll take the bridge. There’s a house on the shore in Cape Elizabeth we can leave from.”

  Making their way back through Farrell’s place, Lean could feel many eyes on them, men staring like salivating dogs awaiting their master’s order. When they reached the street, Lean took several deep breaths, the fresh air like a bit of redemption.

  “That wasn’t right in there. Holding that all back from Doran until now. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Right? I fear there’s very little right in all that’s about to happen. But ask me again come sunrise—if we’re both still living.”

  The fourteen-foot rowboat scraped onto the rocky gravel of the unlit beach. Tom Doran and his two men dropped their oars so that the handles fell into the bottom of the boat, leaving them leveraged in the oarlocks, the heads lifted high out of the water. Lean did likewise. Doran’s rowers were men who didn’t look like they spent much time sober or out of doors, but they were adept at handling the boat, and Lean didn’t have to ask why. With only four oarlocks, there was plenty of space left for cargo. Tonight, with the four of them manning the oars and the boat not hauling a single barrel of smuggled whiskey or beer, they’d made good time from the mainland. Lean scrambled over the side, splashing down in ankle-deep water.
Doran single-handedly drew the boat up onto shore. They left one man there to stand guard, with explicit orders to shoot anyone—particularly a short, dark-haired man—who tried to gain passage on the boat. Two hundred yards north along the shore, they spotted a small dinghy, hidden under a tarp. Doran ordered the second man to stand watch there, with similar orders to the first.

  Moving away from the rocky shore, with its cluster of summer cottages, Lean led Doran north. The island was more or less level, with scattered stands of woods in front of them, allowing a decent view of the landscape, though it was dark beneath the new moon. As they moved closer to the point, still unable to make out any clear details, Lean felt his heart begin to thump louder and louder in his chest. He was trying to move through the tall grass and brush quietly but was struggling to restrict his pace to a brisk walk. His eyes scanned the dark horizon, searching for any spark or sign of flame. There was nothing, and his gaze drifted northwest to the lights visible across the water in Portland. Grey was there, still analyzing the evidence, searching for anything they had missed, guarding against the possibility that they had once again misjudged their man and left him alone in the city to wreak havoc as he’d done with the murder of Dr. Steig.

  “Damn!” Doran roared past him in the second it took for Lean to detect the source of the giant man’s sudden outburst. One hundred yards ahead, a red spark appeared, flickered out, then reappeared. The small dot of fire rushed sideways in both directions and quickly began to climb.

  Lean sprinted forward, arms pumping. His gaze was fixed on the spreading flames, though Doran partially blocked his view. He was amazed at how quickly the Irishman’s massive strides were outpacing his own. Ahead, in the light of the building flames, Lean saw the form of a small body supported a few feet above the ground. Panic seized his mind, but he clung to one thought, inarticulate but all-encompassing: Delia herself was not yet on fire.

  A shot exploded from straight ahead, and Tom Doran went down, tumbling violently head over feet in the tall grass. Lean instinctively threw himself down on the ground, rolled, and got to one knee, pistol in hand. In the fleeting seconds it had taken him to rise, he saw that Doran had regained his own feet and was sprinting forward again.