The Truth of All Things

by Kieran Shields

  Whitten’s voice was getting louder, stronger as he went on, a spark growing in him. “Tell me, have you ever heard your god’s voice? Has he ever even spoken to you? And not in some … some ridiculous sign you create for yourself: a drop of water on a statue’s face … a rainbow or a sudden piece of good fortune. I mean an actual voice … speaking directly to you? No? Well, my god speaks to me. His words are given to me every day, to heed and follow. So I ask you, which one of us is truly mad to do our god’s bidding?”

  “So after you got a hold of the Riddle of the Martyrs,” Grey said with no more outward excitement than if he’d been asking for a recipe or the steps to some chemistry experiment, “why bother killing Father Coyne?”

  “I thought he might be growing suspicious.”

  “And you poisoned him with the abrus seeds.”

  “He retreated to his family’s home, and I accompanied him. It was a perfect cover from which to conduct our affairs.”

  “How long until you murdered him?”

  “Not long—months ago. I let Peter kill him. He’d earned it.”

  “You kept his body, and that was what they pulled from the ashes of his house. And what about Geoffrey Blanchard on Gallows Hill? You let Peter carry out that murder as well, even though it was you the Blanchards hanged all those years ago.”

  “Not murder, Mr. Grey, sacrifice. And that pained me. I’d have liked to slit the little toad’s throat myself. But” — he motioned toward his leg — “I was unable to go so soon after I was shot. It was disappointing, but now I see the Master’s hand in it all. I am still alive to complete the ritual and accept his return.”

  “You seem to have little remorse over your brother’s death.”

  “Sacrifices are required of us all,” Whitten said.

  “So Geoffrey Blanchard had arrangements at the hospital to come and go—bribed a guard, I suppose. His excursion out a week ago was to communicate with you, make final plans for the last phase of the ritual. You made assurances, lured him to Gallows Hill with the promise of a ritual he believed would bring his mother back to him.”

  “He never understood the true purpose of the riddle. He actually thought, when all was done, he’d see her risen in the flesh once more.” A twisted grin spread across Whitten’s face.

  “So you admit that the Riddle of the Martyrs doesn’t produce the dead?”

  “In the flesh? Of course not,” Whitten said. “The called spirit of the Master exists again within the flesh of the Servant.”

  “Within you? Ah, so that’s the purpose of the disappearing moon. And the riddle’s references to the vessels being poured out. Emptied and prepared. Some sort of symbolic wearing away of your soul, making room for the spirit of the Master.”

  “Not symbolic, Grey. My soul will give way before the Master. He shall live in me.”

  “And what becomes of your soul?”

  “Sacrifices are required of us all.”

  “I do have one final question,” Grey said. “What exactly do you plan to do when your invocation fails? When you realize you’re still the same weak, ineffectual, stuttering child you’ve always been. The memories of beatings, the constant hunger, strange men grunting and rutting in the room beside yours, separated by that tattered curtain. The feel of that rope burning into your neck. No one coming to save you. There’s no one coming to save you now, either.”

  The hint of a smile that had flickered across Whitten’s face for much of their conversation now vanished. “Soon you will see, Grey.… Then you will believe … in those last few moments before you die. You will know the truth of all things. Your god’s empty promise. There will be no judgment … no redemption. And my god will rule over you. My spirit will pass into … nothingness, and I will be joined with the Master. He will complete his work. The world wasn’t … ready two hundred years ago; it is now.” Whitten stepped back and spread out his arms.

  “And there shall be the trumpet sounded, and it will be heard many miles off … and then they all come one after another to be made witches. And the Master will pull down the Kingdom of Christ and raise up the Kingdom of the Devil … who was always the true teacher and rightful God of Man. And the Master will abolish all these false churches in the land, and so go through the country. And the Master has … has promised that all his people should live bravely, that all persons should be equal, that there should be no day of resurrection … or of judgment, and neither punishment nor shame for sin.” Whitten fell silent, still staring at Grey.

  “You know,” Grey said, “you just reminded me: Since Geoffrey Blanchard is dead, there’ll be a vacant room at the Danvers Lunatic Hospital. It’s rather luxurious inside. And the grounds are lovely. Depending on your behavior, you’d have upwards of an hour a day of outside time. Supervised, of course.”

  Whitten took a small step forward and launched a boot into Grey’s midsection. “I thought perhaps to spare you … for a while, anyway. You seemed to fit. With your Indian blood,… so like the Master’s shadow helper. But I can see now that you deserve to die as much as the others …” Jack Whitten struggled to produce the next word, and as he did, there was a noticeable thud from below. His eyes went wide. Whitten tilted his head and listened for several seconds before leaning in toward Grey again.

  “Oh, you’re a clever one. Distracting me so. You will suffer for this.” He stepped over to Helen, bent down to grab her by the arm, and thrust his billhook close to her face. “Up!” he hissed. “Any trouble and I’ll slice your throat.”

  Her legs were not bound, but she was still a bit unsteady from the aftereffects of the chloroform. Whitten held her in front of him and stepped toward the trapdoor, so he could look down the short, curved staircase. He waited there half a minute, blade poised at Helen’s neck.

  “I know you’re there,” he finally called out. “My god reveals your secrets to me. Step forward or I’ll kill her.”

  From where he stood, beside the final set of steps, Lean could see the shadow of a human form within the rectangle of faint light coming down from the trapdoor. He took a deep breath and whirled around into view, his pistol aimed up to where a dark-haired man wielding a billhook held Helen before him.

  “Toss that up here!” Whitten shouted down to Lean.

  Lean didn’t flinch. Helen shook her head at him, pleading with her eyes for him not to listen to the madman. The blade pressed into her neck, and she let out a stifled yelp. Lean lowered the gun slowly, then tossed it up the staircase. It landed beside the killer’s feet.

  “Delia’s alive!” Lean called out.

  Helen’s eyes went wide with unmistakable joy. She didn’t seem to notice the killer’s recoil that caused him to poke her neck again, hard enough to draw a bead of blood.

  “You lie!” Whitten shouted.

  “We pulled her from the pyre on Cushing’s.”

  “I saw the blaze,” Whitten said.

  “You saw that red-haired witch of yours. She went up fast, whoever she was.”

  The killer pushed Helen aside and bent to grab Lean’s pistol. Lean ducked back into the shadows, grabbing a loose piece of wood from one of the shelves that held the observatory’s signal flags. He expected to see the killer descend, but instead the room went dark as the trapdoor slammed shut.

  Inside the observation platform, Grey watched as Jack Whitten set Lean’s pistol aside and grabbed his long wooden staff. The man struggled to get the wooden bar into place above the trapdoor. He wedged the top beneath a windowsill and started forcing the base under the lip of the door leading outside. With one fluid motion, Grey rolled himself up to a sitting position, got his weight over his crossed ankles, and forced himself upright. His hands were bound before him, but he had enough mobility to grab the rope Whitten had tied to the hook in the ceiling. Grey took hold of it and looped the rope twice. As Whitten finished jamming the trapdoor closed, Grey dropped the rope circle over the man’s head and yanked the ends, drawing the cord tight about Whitten’s neck.

 
Whitten spun around and was met with a backhanded blow from Grey’s bound fists. He fell back against the doorframe, then drew the billhook from his belt. Grey was on him in an instant, seizing Whitten’s wrist and slamming it through a windowpane. The billhook clattered to the floor. The trapdoor banged, and Grey realized that Lean was throwing his weight against it, not realizing it was blocked.

  Whitten tried to reach Lean’s pistol on the floor. Grey slipped his foot forward and kicked the gun, which slid over the doorjamb out onto the deck. The attempt to grab the weapon had put Whitten off balance, and Grey threw his weight forward. Whitten clutched at Grey, but the momentum carried both men through the open door.

  The two men spilled out onto the narrow walkway surrounding the observation platform. Grey was on his side as he grappled with the killer. He saw his pistol nearby, where it had slipped out the door during the struggle. He let go of Whitten and stretched for the gun. He just reached the butt with his fingertips when Whitten clasped his wrist. There was a stinging on the back side of his hand as Whitten dug his nails into Grey’s flesh.

  Grey jerked his body, flailing forward toward the gun. Whitten released his wrist and also grasped for the gun. The two of them struggled for control of it for a second before it slipped away, toward the edge of the deck. It passed under the bottom edge of the railing that circled the deck. The gun wobbled there for a split second, then disappeared over the side.

  Whitten pushed away and scrambled to his feet. Grey bolted up as well but, hampered by his bound wrists, he was a half second too late. The man was on him again, pushing him back to the waist-high railing. Grey’s foot slipped out from under him. The deck was not level; it sloped away slightly from the building. The unexpected slant caught him off guard and gave Whitten the advantage needed to overpower him. Grey’s lower back pressed into the rail. The killer’s hands were at his throat, pushing, forcing his head back so that Grey arched out over the railing. He grabbed at Whitten’s hands, trying to break the man’s grip.

  Jack Whitten was small but surprisingly strong. Grey didn’t have enough leverage; he was losing the battle, unable to pry the killer’s hands from around his neck. Grey stuck his right foot between two of the railing’s balusters, twisting his lower leg around for support. Then he let go of Whitten’s grip and went for the throat instead, his fingers clutching, searching for the man’s windpipe, desperate to crush it. Grey strained to work his thumbs between the double strands of the rope that he had tightened around the killer’s neck.

  He tried to force the killer back, to gain equal footing. The two stood that way for several seconds, each pushing at the other, both with every bit of strength they possessed. Grey was struggling to draw enough breath through his clenched teeth. At some point he bit his tongue, and blood-specked spittle flew from his mouth with each fierce exhalation.

  Grey stared into the man’s eyes. There was a crazed glee there, a dark, bottomless rapture. Each man continued to choke the other, but the length of rope around the killer’s neck was interfering, keeping Grey from getting a solid grip.

  Where the hell was Lean? Grey glanced through the glass, into the observation room. He saw Helen there on the floor, kicking with both legs, trying to snap or dislodge the solid wooden staff that was jamming the trapdoor shut. He saw her look out toward them. By the flickering candlelight, Grey caught Helen’s stare: equal parts fierce determination and terror.

  He turned away, looking back into the face of Jack Whitten. Lack of oxygen was making dark spots appear before his eyes. He would be done soon. Beaten. Dead. Fear began to well up inside Grey, quickly boiling over into a fury, a burning, consuming anger toward the inhuman murderer who, with every second, was strangling the life out of him. Grey tried to focus. His eyes locked onto the length of rope that was angled toward them, dangling from the hook inside the observatory.

  In an instant, Grey shifted his hands, from trying to clasp the man’s throat to instead clutching Whitten’s robe. He twisted his ankle free from around the baluster and jerked up and backward, yanking the killer toward him. The sudden, unexpected reversal in weight completely surprised Jack Whitten; he had no time to react. With their combined effort pushing back against the rail, the momentum was too strong.

  Grey’s feet left the deck, and he teetered on the rail, then toppled backward, yanking on Whitten as he went. The killer’s body came with him over the side. As they fell, Grey released the robe and grabbed the man’s body in a bear hug, tighter than he had ever clasped anything in his life. They fell clean through the air for another second before the rope around Whitten’s neck snapped them back. There was the clear sound—a sickening crack—and then the momentum slammed them into the outward-sloping side of the building.

  Grey struck against the observatory sideways, his left shoulder taking the force of the blow. That arm went dead, and he slipped down, with only the grip of his right hand on the killer’s belt to support him. He took several deep gasps of air, then pulled himself up enough so that he could wrap his own legs around those of the dead man to whom he clung. Finally he glanced down — there was nothing but hard ground five stories below. Looking up, he saw Lean at the railing, fiddling with the rope.

  “Hurry!” called Grey.

  Grey’s strength was fading, and he couldn’t hold on much longer. Within seconds another length of rope came cascading down the side of the building.

  “Take hold of this one,” Lean called out to him.

  Grey flexed his leg muscles, tightening the grip on Whitten’s body. Then his right hand shot out to grab the new length of rope, and he wrapped it around his forearm several times. He reached out with one leg, then the other, snaking each around the dangling rope. Grey began to rise, and at the same time Whitten’s body sank toward the ground. He realized that they were both suspended by separate ends of the same rope. The deadweight of Whitten’s body, along with Lean’s pulling, was hoisting Grey back up toward the observation deck. He gave another look down and watched Whitten’s dark form dropping in jerky motions toward the earth.

  A few more pulls and Lean was able to tie off the rope, then reach over the rail to grab hold of Grey. Once he was safely onto the deck, Lean slipped back into the observation platform to loosen Helen’s gag.

  “Where’s Delia?” she pleaded as Lean cut away the ropes from her wrists.

  “Home. Tom Doran’s there with her.”

  “Oh, thank heaven!” Helen clasped Lean in a hug, then started shaking her arms, trying to regain circulation. She breathed deeply several times as she fought to control the wild pendulum of emotions she had endured that night. Then she caught sight of Grey standing in the doorway. She struggled to her feet, with Lean’s assistance.

  “Are you out of your mind! How could you— What were you thinking? Were you trying to kill yourself? And before … that whole time … just ignored me.… Why were you … blathering on and provoking him …? Lucky he didn’t kill us both.”

  Grey was in visible pain from his left shoulder, but a smirk appeared as he listened to Helen’s rant.

  “This is not funny. I watched you throw yourself over the edge. I thought you were dead! Do you understand— How could you? You are so …” Helen stepped forward with her hand raised, about to slap Grey cross the face. “So absolutely maddening.” Instead of striking, Helen reached out, grabbed Grey’s lapels, yanked him down to her, and kissed him full on the lips.

  After a few seconds, Lean forced an awkward cough. Helen released her hold on Grey.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me. It’s just—”

  “No need to apologize.” Grey gave her an appreciative smile. “It’s been a most trying night. But if we stay here much longer, we’re going to have to answer a lot of difficult questions.”

  “What do we do with his body? We could call it a suicide,” Lean said.

  Grey shook his head. “We’ll need a carriage or wagon.”

  “I spotted one around the side,” Lean s
aid. “I think it’s the one he used to bring Helen here.”

  “Excellent. Help me get him loaded, then get Miss Prescott home. I’ll see to the body.”

  Lean eyed the pair of gravediggers. They were a matched set: stout workmen with caps slanted to keep the sun off their faces and cigarettes dangling from the corners of slack jaws. Their frock coats would be set aside as soon as the last of the crowd dispersed, revealing soil-encrusted work clothes. Lean could see they were restless, eager to begin filling the hole before the late-August heat worsened. It was only eleven o’clock, but the sky was already developing a haze. It was the kind of day that begged for something other than a black suit, regardless of the occasion. While many of the mourners had shed genuine tears, Lean had noticed more than one who dabbed their eyes as an excuse to continuously wipe beads of sweat from their brows.

  The last few tearful hugs were bestowed on Helen by some more distant relatives of Dr. Steig. The preacher had finished several minutes earlier, and most of the large crowd had already dissipated, moving up the slope toward the main gate of the Western Cemetery. A row of carriages, many lined with black crepe, waited there like so many hovering crows.

  Emma turned to Lean. “Are you ready?”

  “I’ll be right along.”

  She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. Emma led Owen to where Helen and Delia stood, not far from the double plot where Dr. Steig, after more than a dozen years, would join his late wife. Emma exchanged hugs and quiet words with Helen. Her departure left a small company of five: those whose lives had been threatened by Jack Whitten and his unknown female devotee the night before last. Lean supposed that it was the shared horror, as well as the confused manner in which that night had ended, that now left them clustered beside Dr. Steig’s grave.

  After Whitten’s death they had located that man’s cab and deposited the former owner’s body inside. Grey had taken the reins and disappeared into the night. Lean had managed to hail another cab and get Helen back to her house. Not much had been said on that ride, other than repeated assurances that Delia was fine and the ordeal was truly over. Upon arrival, they found Doran inside, standing guard over the girl. There hadn’t been much opportunity or need for further discussion after the reunion of mother and daughter.