by Jess Lourey
“Can I cover her with my jacket first?” Ernest looked pained.
“Of course,” Bel replied. “You’re not hostages.”
He was too tall to remove his parka without bumping Salem two separate times. Other than the chicken-soup smell announcing he was past due for a shower, Salem didn’t mind. He unbuckled, leaned over the backseat, and tucked his jacket around Mercy. She didn’t stir. He returned to his spot and rebuckled.
“You’re not going to like this,” he began, “but I don’t know much more than I told you at the hotel. The Hermitage Foundation was formed by Andrew Jackson back in the early 1800s. He invested his fortune into it. I think he envisioned a secret group of men who would get rich and stay rich, sort of orchestrating the world behind the scenes. Part of their mission entailed keeping women in their place.”
“Why?” Salem asked.
Bel echoed her. “Yeah, weren’t religions and governments doing just fine at that?”
“That’s just it.” Ernest swiveled to face her. His voice was sincere, begging Bel not to make fun of him. “The original founders were the heads of everything at the time, including churches, businesses, and the government. They wanted to keep it that way. They’ve done a pretty good job too.”
“I thought I heard something in the news sometime about the Barnaby Brothers being active in the Hermitage.” In response to Bel’s questioning stare in the mirror, Salem explained, “Those two rich guys taking down unions all over the country.”
Ernest nodded. “One of them, Carl Barnaby, is the Hermitage’s CEO. His brother, Cassius, is on the board. They oversee the American arm of the Hermitage. Their mission is to help the rich get richer, starting with themselves. It’s the original good old boys club.”
Bel glanced out the window, taking her eyes off of Ernest for the first time. “Let me guess: women’s inequality is a conspiracy, created and funded by the Hermitage Foundation.”
He misread her sarcasm as buy-in. “Exactly! Women are the majority. If they united, they could take their power back. The Hermitage knows that. Cutting female genitals and sewing what’s left mostly closed, sanctioned war-time rape, acid attacks, how impossible it is in some places to get an education—or even birth control—if you’re female, unfair pay, erasing women from the history books … they’re all movements funded by the Hermitage Foundation. They’re so good at it that they have people thinking all of that is their own idea. They even have women speaking out against their own interests. And your mothers”—he turned his attention to Salem—“were instrumental in keeping the Hermitage in check, even though it’s always been an uphill battle.” He coughed. “You’re going to want to get on Highway 2.”
Bel spun her eyes back into the car. “What?”
The shadow of a smile appeared on Ernest’s lips. “I peeked at the note back at the hotel, when you had me in that lock hold? I saw Emily Dickinson’s signature. I figure you’re going to Amherst, right?”
Salem sneaked a peek at Ernest. He was so tall he had to bend his shaggy head forward to fit in the car. He otherwise sat as straight as he could, long fingers spread out on his knees, face too young to grow a proper beard but a couple weeks past a shave nonetheless. He’d proven himself to be resourceful and smart, and he clearly loved his little sister. He was growing on Salem. “I think we should trust him, Bel.”
A flash of light appeared in the backseat as Bel fired up her phone. “The directions he gave look good.”
Ernest nodded happily. Traffic was heavy enough to keep the sedan at 40 miles per hour, gray cars full of gray people on gray roads streaming past like groupers against a current. The only color in the severe fall landscape was the sun, which had nearly dipped below the horizon, a vivid corona of blood orange marking its passage.
Bel’s voice cut into the silence. She was still researching on her phone. “The only Minneapolis homicide stories mention Mrs. Gladia.” Bel aimed her words at Ernest. “No mention of her dog, no mention of our mothers disappearing, both facts that you knew.”
“And my nickname,” Salem said.
Bel dropped her phone and rubbed her face with both hands. “Okay. The kidnapping of two women, one of them a local celebrity, should be headline news. Goddammit.”
Salem’s eyes grew hot. If she started crying, she wasn’t ever going to stop, so she swallowed the cresting wave of fear and loss. No one was looking for Grace and her mom—no one but them.
“Your mom was right, Salem,” Bel said softly. “We have to beware. We’re on the run, officially, until we figure this out.” She put her hands on the front seat and pulled herself forward. “Ernest, I don’t trust you, but it’s not personal. It’s common sense.”
He bobbed his head. “Understood.” His voice dropped. “Your moms knew the Hermitage was coming for them. They set something in motion before they were … taken care of.” He pointed to Salem’s pocket. “Emily Dickinson’s note must tell us what it is.”
Salem’s hand flew to the cloth of her jacket. She pushed lightly and heard a crinkle.
Dickinson’s letter. Safe and sound.
Relieved, she let out her breath. “Where are you from, Ernest?”
His shoulders slumped. “Everywhere. Me and Mercy have been in Massachusetts for the last few months.”
“How’d you get caught up in all this?” Bel asked from the backseat.
Ernest glanced at the shadows racing outside his window. “We were living in Georgia. My mom died giving birth to Mercy. The Underground found us soon after. They give us places to bunk up and down the coast, help me with Mercy when I run errands for them. We can’t ever stay in one place too long. I don’t want the Hermitage to find her.”
The jacket in the backseat moved. “I’m hungry,” Mercy said.
Salem covered her mouth with her hand. How much had the girl heard? “You know what, honey? I’m hungry too. I’ll take the next exit and—”
A deer leapt out of the ditch, scaring the words from her mouth, hurtling toward the hood of their car.
42
Massachusetts
Salem shrieked and jerked the steering wheel to the right. She narrowly avoided colliding with the animal but had over-compensated, careening toward the ditch. A bevy of horns blared and lights flew at her from every direction as the sedan’s tire caught loose gravel and the car spun. Salem slammed her foot on the brake and held it rigid. The brake’s screams matched her own as the smell of burning rubber filled the air.
Finally, the car slid to a halt, one back tire in the ditch, the two front tires creating a perpendicular line with the passing traffic. The deer, a twelve-point buck at least, continued to wreak havoc on the traffic going the other direction before bounding safely into the far woods.
“Everyone okay?” Bel asked.
“Mercy?” Ernest nearly jumped over the seat to reach his sister.
Her voice was tiny. “I’m okay.”
Salem released the steering wheel, realizing too late that it was all that was anchoring her hands, which took to the air like palsied birds. “I’m all right,” she croaked.
“Then let’s get out of here before the police arrive.” Bel unbuckled herself and stepped out of the car. She tapped on Salem’s window, helped her out, and hugged her quickly before sliding into the driver’s seat. Salem hobbled into the backseat, adrenaline rattling her bones, the brisk air a small help in clearing her head.
“I’m still hungry,” Mercy said, so quiet that Salem was sure she was the only one who heard it.
“Bel,” Salem said, “we need to rest. You and I haven’t slept in over two days. It’s dangerous. And I need to research what Ernest told us plus figure out exactly where in Amherst we’re going. A shower wouldn’t kill me, either.”
“I’d feel better if we kept moving.” Bel timed their reentry into the traffic. “Can you do the research on your phone?”
“And lemme guess, you were too cheap to pay for a hotspot on your phone?” But Bel’s tone was acquiescent. Salem knew it would be a relief for all of them to stop.
“Look.” Salem shoved her hand between Bel and Ernest to point ahead. “Right up here—a motel and a pizza restaurant, all advertised on the same billboard. It’s a sign from the universe. This exit, please.”
Bel did as requested, pulling into the parking lot of the Holiday Motel just off the ramp. Its vintage neon sign was at odds with the crumbling strip of rooms to each side of the office. A gas station that looked like it’d last pumped fuel during the Reagan era was the only other building on the scrabby patch of road, which led south to Littleton and north to the highway they’d just exited, the latter so close Salem could read the license plates of the cars zooming past if she squinted. She marched into the Holiday Motel office and exited four minutes later with the key to room 11, two double beds, no smoking.
The room was at the far north end of the motel, so Bel moved the car, and the four of them trudged into the room, quiet as a prayer.
When the door closed behind them, Bel slid the chain lock into place and secured a chair under the knob as an extra precaution.
Outside, a gray sedan pulled into the abandoned gas station parking lot and killed its lights.
No one got out.
43
Massachusetts
“Does the pizza place deliver?” Bel asked, stepping out of the bathroom.
The room was shabby but serviceable, containing two beds as promised and not much else. Ernest stood at the window, peering outside past the industrial curtains. Mercy sat cross-legged in front of the TV, watching a staticky Seinfeld rerun. The jokes would go over her head, but the light and laughter had a soothing effect, entrancing her. Salem pushed aside the Bible to get at the stack of takeout and delivery menus in the nightstand.
“Yup,” she said. She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. “What’s everyone want?”
She scribbled down the requests—extra cheese for Mercy, all meat any meat please for Ernest, Bel wanted her usual cream cheese, pineapple, and Canadian bacon, and for Salem, jalapenos and mushrooms. She added a garden salad to the order. The way Mercy’s shoulder blades poked out of her camisole indicated it’d been too long since the child had eaten fresh vegetables. Salem wondered how Ernest supported the two of them, if it was stealing like he’d done with the car, or if Underground members paid him for running errands. Probably both.
As if reading her mind, he reached into his jacket. “I can help pay.”
He brought out his wallet, but something was caught on it. Salem reached for it, the chain uncoiling in her hand as softly as water.
It was half of a pink quartz heart, the word love etched in it.
Her guts twisted, forcing an oof out of her mouth.
Bel looked over from the window, where she’d taken up Ernest’s watch. “What is it?”
Ernest tried to snatch the necklace out of Salem’s hand, but it was too late. Bel had walked over and spotted it herself.
She and Salem had discovered the matching necklaces ten years earlier when shopping for Mother’s Day gifts. They’d seemed perfect, pull-apart rose quartz, each half identical to the other, symbolic of the love the four of them shared.
A month later, Salem and Bel decided the necklaces were corny and stopped wearing their halves.
As far as they knew, their mothers had never taken theirs off, even to sleep.
“Where’d you get this?” Bel’s voice was rust and bile.
Ernest’s face shaded a waxy red. “Dr. Keller overnighted it to me. It was found on the body of one of your moms. He said if the ‘Bits’ didn’t convince you, then the necklace would.”
Mercy looked away from the television, attracted by the thick tension.
“Why didn’t you show us earlier?” Bel demanded.
Ernest groaned. “I couldn’t. It was hard enough to tell you that one of them was dead.”
Bel had grown so pale that Salem could see an aqua-colored vein running from her forehead to her ear, pulsing. Salem wanted to touch it, but she was floating, no longer body and bone but pure white fear.
Bel was monotone. “How did Dr. Keller acquire it?”
Ernest’s eyes swam with tears. He couldn’t look at either of them. “Two Hermitage employees in Minneapolis were called in to dispose of the body. One of them also works for the Underground. He went straight to Dr. Keller afterward and gave him the necklace.”
“Our mothers were together. What happened to the other one?”
“The assassin took her to some plant outside of Minneapolis. She was still alive.”
The words dropped out of Bel’s mouth like bombs. “Which one of our mothers did this necklace come from?”
His shoulders crawled toward his ears and stayed there. “I don’t know.”
Bel reached over to Salem and clung to her, grounding her despite the trembling that passed between them. They’d been forced into this conspiracy, trained for it apparently, and it was a world where people were murdered. The cold shock was too thick to pierce, but Salem felt something toxic and hot squirming just outside of it.
Betrayal.
Their mothers hadn’t warned them about any of this.
They hadn’t asked if Salem and Bel wanted to be a part of it.
Their mothers had led a double life, and it had gotten one of them killed. Salem had been dreaming of a loving relationship with her mom, and Vida had been training her for war.
“I’m hungry.”
Salem glanced over at Mercy and then exchanged a look with Bel. There is nowhere to go but forward, it said. Bel slipped the necklace into her jeans pocket and returned to her post at the window.
“Order the pizzas,” she muttered over her shoulder.
Salem patted Ernest—he looked miserable—and tried to smile at Mercy, testing her speech. “I’ll get us food.”
She called in the order and then tugged the Holiday Motel WiFi password out of her jeans. She walked to the bathroom to grab a towel, placing it over the bedspread and set up a small workstation. She retrieved the Dickinson poem from her jacket pocket and placed it next to her on the towel. With her back against the headboard, she left the pain and fear of the hotel room and fell into the rabbit hole of research.
Salem had studied the note so many times that she knew it by heart:
My Life had stood—a Loaded G̣ụṇ
Ṣome keep the Sạbbath going to church ;
I keep it staying at hoṃe,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.
Some keep the Sabbath in Sụrplicẹ ;
I just wear my wings,
And instead of toḷḷing the bell for chụr
h,
Ouṛ little sẹxṭon sịngs.
God preạches,—a noted cler
yman,—
And the seṛmon is never long ;
So instead of getting to heạṿẹn, at last,
I’m going all along!
—Emily Dickinson
Σ
She recognized the symbol below Dickinson’s signature. The original Greek letter sigma, used frequently in modern mathematics, was usually referred to as lunate sigma, or the female sigma, because of its crescent shape. She’d already decided it was either a shorthand symbol for the Underground, or, given its E-like shape, an affectation of Emily Dickinson’s.
Yet, she must have overlooked something. She retraced her earlier research, locating the actual Loaded Gun poem, finding the title for the Sabbath poem, researching Dickinson, h
er family, her education, any link to the Underground or other famous women of her time who might have connected her to the Underground. Other than the brief period in 1844 when Dickinson’s parents sent her to Boston and she met Lucretia Mott, there were no other historically remarkable women Dickinson may have encountered.
Salem tied up her hair with a band that she wore at her wrist and scratched her chin, selecting the Emily Dickinson Museum from the list of Google offerings. The museum was closed for the day and wouldn’t reopen until 11:00 tomorrow. It consisted of two buildings, the Homestead where Dickinson was born and spent much of her life and the Evergreens, home of Dickinson’s brother, wife, and children. If Salem didn’t discover anything on her computer, the museum was the likely place for them to travel to tomorrow.
But how could there be nothing in Dickinson’s note? No substitution cipher, no transposition cipher, just a poem with the wrong title, the whole works written by one of the most famous poets in history. Salem exhaled the frustration through her nose. Maybe it was a code, with each word representing something else, the key forever lost to the ages.
“What are those for?”
Salem jumped, her tunnel vision expanding to include the towel, and the bedspread, and little Mercy Mayfair, who stood right next to her, peering at the note with her liquid brown eyes.
“The words?” Salem asked, steadying her heartbeat. “It’s a poem by Emily Dickinson. Have you heard of her?”
“Not the words,” Mercy said. “I can read those. What are the dots under them?”
Salem’s heart thudded against her rib cage. She held the note up to the light. The paper was faded and yellow, but still, how could she have missed it? Dickinson’s note hadn’t contained a code or cipher. It had contained dots. Steganography, the act of concealing a message in plain sight—Morse code knit into a scarf, an itty bitty message hidden under a stamp, invisible ink, a still frame planted within a video.