“We’re not going back to the saloon, are we?”
“I figured you’d had enough slumming and beer drinking, or was I wrong?”
Lizzie batted his arm as they traipsed down the main road. “I’ll stick to champagne from now on, if you don’t mind. Where are we going?”
He led her between the overgrown bushes. The well-worn dirt path snaked behind the saloon and the neighboring buildings.
“This path leads to the shed at the neck of the road. You can wait there while I go find my friend who’s holding the carriage. He’s only a few houses away. It won’t take long.”
Another row of scraggly bushes blocked the path. Pierre set the blanket down next to Lizzie. “Hold this, while I see if anyone’s about.” He popped out through the bushes and came back a minute later. “All clear.”
She led the way through the slight space between the bushes, while he picked up the blanket and followed. Setting it up on end behind the shed, he gave Lizzie a quick peck on the cheek before heading back the same way. “I’ll be about ten minutes,” he said.
She accepted his quick kiss, not thrilled about being left behind, but she had to wait with Emma. Relief filled her that this long awful journey was almost over. Already, the pockets of ghouls she’d seen wandering around seemed to be smaller. The crack of gunshots in the distance told her that hunters were still out on patrol. Good. It was time for others to do their part.
She turned her attention toward a stirring in the bushes, anxious for Pierre to bring the carriage so they could head home when a harsh voice broke the silence.
“There ye be Miss Lizzie Borden. You and me got some scores to settle.”
Lizzie turned, not overly surprised to find her short-term cook and maid, Eileen, standing there. But the real shock was seeing the other woman who stood next to her: none other than her family’s former maid, Bridget Sullivan.
Chapter Twenty
The Clerk. Gentlemen of the jury, you upon your oaths do say that Lizzie Andrew Borden, the defendant at the bar, is not guilty?
Several Jurors. We do.
The Clerk. So say you, Mr. Foreman; so say all of you, gentlemen?
The Foreman. We do.
—Verdict of the Jury,
Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 20, 1893
A
ny other time, Lizzie might have felt like she’d been shoved into a corner, but not now. Not when she was so close to seeing this nightmare come to an end.
“Eileen… and Bridget? Whatever are you doing here?”
Two pairs of hard green eyes met hers.
Lizzie put her hands in her pockets, refusing to be cowed. Not this time. She stared at the younger woman, Eileen. “Well? What do you want?”
“Aye, brave now that yer gentleman isn’t here, are ye? I’m thinkin’ ye and me got a bone to settle. The nerve ye got comin’ down here and disruptin’ people’s lives. We’ve all been doin’ fine, makin’ the best o’ the mess yer family made.”
“My family? That’s all done and over,” Lizzie said. “All this mess is the fault of everyone else who’s been keeping their infected relatives at home. That’s not my fault. Maggie, what are you doing here?”
Her former maid, Bridget, spoke up. “My name’s Bridget, not Maggie. I wouldna be here at all if’n not for you.”
Lizzie removed her hands from her pockets, smoothed the front of her dress, and put her arms behind her. She leaned against the building wall and shifted her weight while she moved closer to the standing blanket.
“What are you babbling about?” She watched the women as she reached behind her. “And I won’t stand for your lack of manners.”
Both women let out hard laughs. “Miss High ‘N Mighty don’t like yer addressin’ her so,” Eileen answered in a sing-song.
Bridget returned Lizzie’s glare. “I don’t work for ye anymore, Lizzie. I’ll be sayin’ what I like. ‘Tis your fault that I’m not able to get hired anywhere.”
“I gave you a good character reference,” Lizzie said. “It’s no fault of mine you haven’t found work!”
“Oh?” Bridget’s mouth drew into a fine line. “It don’t matter what ye said. Once the employers saw yer name, they turned me away. If not for me cousin here, and the others gettin’ me work and puttin’ me up, I’d be out on the streets.”
Lizzie stared wide-eyed at the two of them. “Cousins? Of course.”
She hadn’t known about this part of the puzzle, but she had figured out enough of the whole plan that it would be stopped in its tracks once she got to the marshal’s office.
“So what do you plan to do about it?” Lizzie asked.
Eileen sneered and stepped closer. “We’ll let the others decide what to do with ye.”
Lizzie knew she had to make a move. “Oh, really? We’ll see about that!”
In a flash, Lizzie leaped aside, giving the blanket a good shove. The whole time they’d been talking, she’d been busy carefully cutting the ropes with the small knife she’d taken out of her pocket and hidden in her palm.
Her push sent the blanket crashing to the ground in front of the two women, who scurried backward in shock. Eileen yelled, “What’re ye doing?”
Her question was answered as the rug unwrapped, and its snarling contents spilled out. Skeletal arms latched onto Bridget’s ankle. She fell and knocked Eileen down with her.
“Eileen, help!”
The two women struggled but found themselves no match for the surprise attack, as well as the unexpected strength of the ravenous undead Emma. They grappled and tried to escape the ghoul’s monstrous grip while staying clear of its snapping teeth, but found themselves on the losing end of the battle.
“Lizzie,” Bridget panted with the effort. “Please, help us.”
Her eyes cold, Lizzie stood and watched until finally, she could tolerate no more. She smashed the creature’s wrist with the butt of the knife, causing the hand to break off and the fingers to fall apart. Freed, the two women scrambled to their feet, running off down the road, never looking back.
The snarls of the horrific being at her feet brought Lizzie back to the matter at hand. She rushed to push the blanket closed, covering the head of the snapping, biting creature within.
The snort of a horse made her look up while she fought to retie the rope around the blanket. She waited while Pierre pulled the horse and carriage back through the row of bushes and stepped down to join her.
“I see you’ve got everything under control again.”
She glared at him. “I could’ve used your help.”
He helped her retie the other rope around the blanket. “You did fine without me. I thought it best they didn’t know I was there. It sounded like unfinished family business.” He lifted his end.
She picked up the other end of the blanket and helped him put it into the carriage behind their seats. “It’s finished now,” she snapped. “If you don’t mind, please take me to my attorney’s office. I want to get my statement typewritten and bring it to the marshal. I don’t want to see him on my doorstep again.”
Her anger still burning, she ignored his overtures. All she wanted now was to get this settled, and take care of Emma. She was tired, exhaustingly bone-tired.
Chapter Twenty-One
Q. Had you gone to Mr. Borden’s house to visit him with reference to this store?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. When and how many times did you go there?
A. Twice.
Q. So that you were there the two days preceding the homicide?
A. Yes.
—Testimony of Jonathan Clegg,
Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 7, 1893
T
he clash of metal on metal, the monstrous sounds, and the yells of the society members, police, and neighbors out in full force fighting the monsters made Lizzie feel hopeful for once. The cooperation across the city had to mean they’d finally turned a corner in this whole dreadful mess.
Muffled sounds coming from the blanket i
n the back of the carriage made her more determined than ever to bring things to an end. The undead problems had gone on long enough, as had the vilification of her and her family.
She thanked Pierre for waiting as he pulled the carriage to the side of the street near her attorney’s office. Twenty minutes later she returned, her mood improved by the typewritten letter she held tight.
“I called Marshal Hilliard. I said I’d come to the station, if you don’t mind going there. I’m not too happy about it, but truth be told, it’s best this way. Then that chapter of my life will be fully closed. I won’t have to deal with him anymore.”
“At your service, Ma’am. I’m only too glad to take you wherever you want.” Pierre smiled. “Anytime. Anywhere.”
Her mission nearly over, she knew she couldn’t stay angry with him for long. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I really do. You’ve been wonderful to me, and to Emma. It’s meant a lot.”
“I’m only too happy to oblige. I’ll expect to hear more of this later, you know. I think we need to have a heart-to-heart discussion, don’t you?”
She smiled and nodded, realizing she actually looked forward to their tête-à-tête, as well. With all they’d been through together, it was unfair to keep him waiting around. She needed to tell him where they stood.
He halted the carriage at the Central Police Station, the weathered stone façade looking almost foreboding with the overcast skies behind it. Lizzie exited the carriage and went up the front steps, head high. It felt good, empowering even, to come here of her own accord, on her own terms.
The front glass door opened into the lobby, now completely empty. No mobs of clamoring people milled about like she’d seen during her last unfortunate visit. No policemen stood behind the long wooden front counter yelling, trying to be heard above the din. The best improvement, of course, had been the lack of monsters shambling about outside. They must be having success in clearing them out, she thought.
A deep voice broke into her woolgathering as she waited at the front counter. “Miss Borden? Shall we go into my office? This way, please.”
“It’s awfully quiet since I was here last,” she remarked, following him down the hall.
He nodded and led her in to a small, plain office. “It is. Every officer we have is out fighting those creatures, though they seem to be thinning the ranks. Other staff members are staying home, safe, as we’ve advised citizens to do.” He cleared his throat and welcomed her to take a seat. “So, what may I help you with?”
The stern look on his face, as well as his attitude, no longer bothered her. She handed over the letter, quite pleased with this recent turn of events.
“I’ve come to deliver this. With the help of Mr. Moret, I’ve learned quite a bit about what’s going on in the Irish side of town, and in other parts of Boston. I think if you find Mr. Jonathan Clegg, and some of the other people I’ve named, much of this situation with the ghouls will be cleared up.”
His eyes met hers, his face skeptical. “You don’t say?”
“Please, just read it.”
She looked around the room as he sat and read, noting the serious-looking portraits of men in uniform, and the lack of much decoration other than a dull, rather blurry landscape painting on the wall. No-nonsense, much like the man, she thought. She felt her cheeks warm as her eyes fell on the stack of Leslie’s Illustrated Newspapers, the memory still fresh of the stories she’d seen about her and the trial. She’d tossed every copy she’d come across in the refuse bin.
She re-crossed her feet, wondering what was taking so long. It was only one short page she’d handed him. He muttered a curious, “Mmm-hmm” here and there, but he acted as if she was no longer in the room. He didn’t even bother giving her another glance.
Of course, at this point, she preferred he take his time. She wanted him to thoroughly consider what he was reading, though she did wonder what he thought. He could easily dismiss her explanations, she knew, since had she no actual police experience, and of course, given the history between them.
But, as she glanced at him and then away again, she got the sense that he would be fair; otherwise he probably would’ve tossed the paper aside by now. No matter what, she felt her explanations and reasoning of everything made sense, beginning with her temporary Irish maid answering the advertisement, to her discovering the girl was related to her former maid, Bridget.
She shared how everything was connected, from the written Gaelic curses and the infected being stolen, to the butcher and his cronies staging zombie fights at that bar. It all tied in with the forgery of the shipping document and the butcher’s mentioning the candle-making venture. Only one man was tied to both the candles, and to her family.
Hilliard cleared his throat again. “This is an interesting story, very interesting. So, you say Clegg is involved?” He read from the letter: “Mr. Clegg admitted at the trial that he’d argued with my father about hiring the new storefront. I heard someone at the door days before the murders. I didn’t know then who it was.”
“You say it was him?”
Lizzie nodded. “This scheme was the perfect revenge for Father not going along with his plans. Mr. Clegg likely forged the signature on that shipping receipt to pass blame in case anyone discovered the undead, or their ground parts, being sent to Boston. He also took the bold step of leasing part of my father’s business for his candle-making venture. I don’t know how or why he connected with these Irish hoodlums, but he did. He found the perfect way to make a lot of money by his horrible practices, and have a good laugh at my family’s expense. I hope this means he’ll be arrested.”
Hilliard nodded, folding the paper as he rose and led her to the hall. “All right. I want to thank you for this information. My detectives will follow up. There’ll be arrests for the kidnappings and the attacks on you and Mr. Moret. Other charges will be forthcoming if we find the rest as you say. That should end this whole infernal shipping and manufacturing nonsense involving these loathsome creatures. We’ll stop this nefarious, monstrous ring for good!”
Her work done, Lizzie hurried outside, her heart as light as her conscience. She climbed into the carriage, flashing Pierre a big smile.
“I trust everything went as you expected?”
She lightly touched his arm. “Even better. I know the marshal believed me. They’ll make arrests for our attacks, and they’ll investigate my other claims, as well.”
“Then that is good news, very good news. I’d say it’s cause for celebration. You’ll join me?”
She nodded, feeling her face warm as he leaned over and kissed her cheek.
The trip home took little time. The carriage put away, Lizzie peered in the back to be certain Emma was secure while Pierre took the horse to a neighboring barn for a few hours rest. She leaned over, surprised to find the top rope around the blanket had somehow loosened. She’d thought it had been pulled tight enough.
A bony arm reached out and latched onto her arm. The fleshless fingers tightened like a vise around her wrist. Lizzie tried to break the iron grip, even as the undead Emma squirmed and fought her way out of the blanket. As the minutes passed, it became harder to keep the creature that was once her sister from fully escaping its confines.
The creature’s eerie sounds of protest became louder. Lizzie struggled to keep the ghoul contained and began to hyperventilate. I have to get out of here! She pushed to keep undead Emma inside the blanket as both its arms broke free. It grabbed and grasped, its long bony fingers clawing at Lizzie’s arms. Lizzie pushed and shoved, desperate to escape, but didn’t see anything to help her keep this horror at bay. What am I going to do? What can I do?
Then, to her relief, she spotted the shovel by the door. Could she break free and grab it before the undead Emma got free? She had no other choice. She had to try it.
Breathing deep, Lizzie gathered her strength and shoved the grasping monster away with all her might. The creature fell backward, the action leaving its bony body more tangled in t
he blanket.
As her zombified sister fought to crawl free, Lizzie saw her chance. She ran to the door and raced back, the shovel held high. She whispered, “I’m sorry, Emma,” and slammed the shovel on top of the blanket as her undead sister nearly broke free.
The room fell silent. The blanket no longer moved. Lizzie stepped back, saddened, yes, but relieved that it had to end like this. She shut the door and went outside, shaking her head at Pierre’s question whether everything was all right.
Once inside, she headed to the kitchen and took a bottle of red wine from the cabinet. She opened it and poured two glasses.
Her mood dark, she remained silent and downed her drink. All she wanted was to be alone. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to explain, or answer any more questions. When Pierre attempted to put his arm around her, she moved away.
“Pierre, I appreciate all you’ve done. I think we should—”
He gulped down his drink and slammed the glass on the counter in anger. “It’s getting awfully chilly in here. I think we’re both tired. I’ll take you to the cemetery, but once we finish, I’m going home, and I’m not coming back.”
“What? No. I don’t understand.” She stared at him, his response coming as a complete shock. She watched him head into the sitting room, his face angry, his eyes hard. He settled into a chair with his back to her, leaving her to consider what to do.
Her mind raced, her thoughts going back over their long journey together … his fighting the creatures with her … his helping protect Emma … his being there every step of the way during their battle to end the undead invasion that had started with her father, and been taken over by others with evil motives.
She looked around as reality hit her. She had a beautiful home, but nothing else. Emma was gone. She was alone, truly alone, except for her dog. But she didn’t have to be—if she chose not to. If she could talk to him.
The Axe Will Fall_Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter_Book 2 Page 12