"I will definitely do that, Officer Jarvis. Thank you so much for your help."
"You're very welcome. When will you be visiting Mr. Koons?"
"What availability do you have next Saturday"
"Visiting hours are from eleven to noon, but if that doesn't work for you..."
"No, that window will work just fine. Thank you again, Office Jarvis."
Abby dressed as conservatively as possible the day of the visit-not that it was difficult for her, as pretty much everything she owned was conservative. She went with the thickest tights she had, and a skirt that hung past her knees. She put on her now-usual baggy sweater, and bound up her hair in a tight ponytail. Her librarian glasses were the perfect finishing touch.
She brought along her computer, as well as a pen and pad of paper to complete her cover story. They let her through the metal detectors with only a cursory wand wave. She wondered what kind of havoc she could wreak if she wanted to. With enough bluster, she might even be able to walk out of here with Duncan Koons! Using her mother's authority to free the man that she had helped put in jail would be a deliciously ironic twist to this whole mess. She kept that idea in her back pocket in case Koons continued to be stubborn.
The Arkham County Jail was nothing to worry about. Unlike the places she had seen on television, she wasn't paraded down a hall of jeering convicts. There were barely any people in the cells. It wasn't like Arkham had any crime waves to speak of. The actual jail was just a few monkey cages tucked in the back of the building, but the metal detector and computer systems were state of the art. They felt out of place in the old brick building. The money for the upgrades had come from a rather large check from the Thorndike family a few years ago. "A small price to pay for our security," Constance had said at the time. Abby passed a plaque declaring that the visitation room was made possible by the generosity of Constance Thorndike. She peered down a hall and could make out two shapes in the cells. One of them she recognized as the town drunk, Mr. Gage, sleeping off another bender. She assumed the other one was Koons. The visiting room was a tiny concrete box with a single table and two stools bolted to the floor.
Abby went to the table and sat down, placing her pen and pad in front of her. She also pulled out a digital recording device she'd impulsively purchased to better sell her alibi as the hard-charging student journalist. As the minutes ticked by, the doubts began to rattle through her head. This was a direct challenge to her mother's authority and she was deep into uncharted waters. Constance wouldn't take this well if she found out.
Hester would take it far worse.
She considered getting up and leaving everything in her mother's hands. She was only fourteen, after all. In any just world, she would have at least four more years of running to Mommy to clean up her messes. But then she thought about Koons going to prison for the rest of his life. Not this dinky little penalty box, but a legitimate penitentiary populated with actual criminals. She couldn't leave. She was the only one who could help him.
The door on the other side of the room opened, and a burly guard escorted Koons into the room. Koons wore a bright orange jumpsuit and a morose expression. He had lost weight in jail. His baby face had thinned out. His blue eyes were watery and twitched to every corner of the room before settling on Abby. He kept muttering to himself under his breath, giving Abby glimpses of a tongue and teeth that would have been more at home on a child. He was a short man, only a few inches over Abby's modest height. When she looked in his eyes, she saw nothing but naked terror.
The guard sat Koons down and shackled his hands to the top of the table. Underneath, Abby could hear the clinking of the chains around his ankles. The guard moved to the doorway, and Abby knew it would be pointless to ask for privacy. It was crazy to even allow a fourteen year old girl to talk to an accused murderer. Leaving them alone together was not going to happen.
"Duncan Koons? My name is Abigail Thorndike."
"I know who you are," Koons said, his gaze playing over the table in front of him, and only flitting upward when he thought Abby wasn't looking.
"I need to talk to you."
"My trial is going to start next week."
"Yeah, I know. That's why I had to talk to you."
"I didn't appreciate your letters. They were very rude."
"I'm sorry about that, Mr. Koons. The polite ones didn't get your attention, so I had to be more direct."
"Rude."
"Mr. Koons, I know that you didn't commit these crimes."
"Yes, I did," he said as quickly as he could.
"No, you didn't. You aren't guilty of any of this."
Koons still refused to look at her directly. "I don't know where you're getting your information, but I'm guilty, and I plan to tell the judge that. I have to pay my debt to society."
Abby frowned. "You're not listening to me. I know for a fact that you were not at the clinic. I know you didn't kill Dr. Collins or any of the others. You're about to plead guilty to a crime you didn't commit."
"I did it."
"No, you did not! And I don't care who I have to tell, I'm going to make sure you don't pay for something you didn't do!"
Koons worried at his bottom lip with his tiny baby teeth. "Please don't," he whispered.
"What?"
"Don't!" It came out as a sob. He finally looked at Abby, and she had never seen such naked fear in the eyes of another human being. "You can't do it, Miss Thorndike. Please! You can't tell anyone! I did it! I killed them! I murdered those people! If they let me out I'll, I'll kill more! I'll kill everyone!"
He tried to lurch to his feet, but the chains yanked him back down. His face had turned purple-red. Tendons sprang up like bridge cables along his neck. He screamed with the desperation of a damned man.
Despite herself, Abby jumped away, falling onto the floor. The guard was on Koons in an instant, though there was no way the little man was going anywhere. He kept screaming.
"I was there! I was at the clinic! I killed everybody! I killed the doctor! I killed the nurses! I killed the security guards! I killed the patients! You can't let me out! I'm a monster! I'm a killer! I'm a killer!"
He kept repeating himself over and over as Abby grabbed her things and ran out of the building. She could still hear his voice echoing in her ears as she stood outside, surrounded by the chilling mist of her own breath. She knew that man wasn't telling the truth. He was beyond terrified, but she couldn't get him to accept her help. There had to be another way.
Abby's eyes were drawn to the telephone booth just outside the station. It was a rarity, even in conservative, old-fashioned Arkham. She supposed that anyone dealing with the local jail might not have access to a cellphone. But the anachronism of the phone booth wasn't what held her gaze. It was the blue, plastic-bound phone directory dangling from the bottom of the booth by a metal chain.
53
The Missing Man
"There he is," Bryce said.
"Which?" Sindy asked. She rose up on her tiptoes, leaning this way and that in an effort to see through the crowd of people out in front of Middleton Community Theater.
"Him." Bryce pointed. "Beige jacket." He indicated a fire hydrant of a man bundled up in a padded winter coat with a fleecy hood. The man wore a knit cap which made him hard to recognize. Now Sindy saw his face and the occasional flash of his easy grin. He had the darkest skin she had ever seen.
"What's his name again?"
Bryce pulled a sheet of paper out of the manila envelope in his lap. "Burton Lamar Fell. Darling of the community theater scene. Says here he's played Tevye seventeen times. Don't know why that's important."
"Tail him," she said.
"Really? Just like that?"
"Just tail him!"
"Sure thing, Starsky." Bryce shook his head and started the car again. The engine hummed softly as he pulled out onto the white-frosted street.
"He's getting into a car." It was a burgundy Subaru about a block from the door of the theater. He waved
to his friends and then shut the door. A moment later, the Subaru's headlights came on.
Bryce hesitated in the road, driving as slowly as he could.
"Speed up, or he's going to be suspicious!"
"If I speed up, I'm going to go past him," Bryce muttered.
Fortunately, Fell did not seem to notice the red BMW shadowing him. Sindy thought he drove normally, though she had no frame of reference for him. They followed him from the relative bustle of the community theater to a sleepy suburban enclave of twisted streets, large lots, and pretty (if slightly rundown) houses. It reminded Sindy of Nate's neighborhood. She'd never understood why anyone would want to live in such an awful, tangled-up place. She tried to picture Michael Endicott living somewhere like this when, thirty minutes away, he had a palatial home with his wife and children.
It didn't add up.
Fell pulled into the driveway of a house that probably used to be white. He got out.
"Pull over. Pull over!"
Bryce obeyed her. The car hadn't come to a complete stop before Sindy threw open the door and went charging across Fell's snow-encrusted lawn.
"Mr. Fell? Mr. Fell?" Sindy shouted as she ran.
Confused, Fell turned around. He held his mail in his hands.
"Yes? Can I help you?"
"Do you know who I am?"
"I'm sorry, young lady, I don't. What's this about?"
Sindy stopped. "My name is Sincere Endicott. Sindy."
It was like watching an explosion in slow-motion. First there was the frown, the contracting of everything into a confused ball. Her name was out of context. He could not place it. Then he did, and it exploded in light over his features. Then, as the debris was falling, everything turned to shock and appalling fear.
"You... you're not supposed to be here."
"Do you know my father, Mr. Fell?"
She heard Bryce's car door slam and his footsteps crunching over the thin layer of snow.
"No. I don't know your father."
She was colder inside than out. "Why do you call me every Christmas?"
Fell did not seem to be aware of anything else anymore; it was as though they were the only two people in the world. Sindy locked eyes with him to keep from drowning, but she knew that this secret, this answer to her question, would throw her into an angry sea. Her obvious despair forced him to answer.
"I was hired to do it. Thirteen years ago."
When I was one. Just one year old, she thought. She imagined herself on the phone, talking to this man, Burton Fell, thinking he was her father, saying 'dada' to him.
"Hired?"
"I'm sorry, Sindy," he said.
"Don't!" she spat on the back of a rage-choked sob. "Don't say my name!" She felt her tears, like crystal, on her cheeks.
Fell flinched. "I'm sorry, Miss Endicott. There was an ad in one of the job sheets. Easy gig, long-term, paid on time. I called the number and they auditioned me on the phone."
"Who did you talk to?" Bryce asked behind her. Sindy was grateful that he'd spoken up. Her throat was burning with unvoiced sobs. She could barely breathe.
"A woman. She said her name was Mrs. Smith." He looked at Sindy, and she watched his face crumble again at the sight of her. "I didn't want to hurt anyone. Then it kept going, and I just thought..."
"You still get paid?" Bryce asked.
He nodded. "I have one of the checks."
"Can you get it?"
Fell nodded and backed away from them as though he almost scared of the two kids on his lawn. He went into his house. Bryce put an arm around Sindy and she fell into the crook of his body.
"You okay?" he asked. He knew the answer was no.
"I can't believe this. I never thought..."
"I know. None of us did."
Bryce was right. The fathers of Arkham were gone, leaving the Daughters in their wake.
Above all else... sisterhood.
Fell emerged, clutching a check. "Here. Take it. It's yours. I don't need it." He turned to Sindy, but words failed him.
She had nothing to say, either. She and Bryce took the check back to the car. Fell stayed on his porch for a moment, then Sindy watched him sit down to cradle his head in his hands. His shoulders began to shake. A bright flame of anger blazed in Sindy's chest. She hoped he felt at least a fraction of the pain he caused.
Bryce studied the check. "It's a holding company. I've never heard of it. It looks like they have a PO box in Arkham."
She took the check and looked at it. Five thousand dollars. That was the price of a phone call. One hundred and thirty thousand dollars over the course of thirteen years to lie to Sindy about her father's life and death. She wiped away more tears. She tried to burn away the sadness with her rage. In a thick voice, she said, "We're going to find out who uses that PO box."
54
The Great Arkham Fire
The Great Arkham Fire of 1801 was one of those events that everyone in town knew. It was taught in elementary school, usually when the town's history was being laid out for a new generation of eager young minds. Like much history taught at the primary level, a lot of it consisted of local legends, elevated into fact by the simple act of repetition. Nate Baxter realized that he actually knew very little about the fire. It was an event that every Arkhamite would have greeted with a knowledgeable nod, but when it came time to discuss specifics, they would have faltered and leaned on generalities.
The Fire was an easy, catch-all excuse for the destruction of some of the town's historical buildings. The biggest losses had been the main public house and a large swath of residences.
Nate did not see a direct connection between the hangings and the fire, but he took it upon himself to find out. They were suspicious. An angry mob one month, and a huge fire only a few months later? There had to be some kind of connection there, even if there was no evidence for one on the surface.
He returned to the Arkham Public Library to peruse the digital newspapers. References to the Fire were abundant. At the time, it had been considered a horrible disaster. It continued to be the metric for misfortune in the town all the way until the Second World War. By then, anything so provincial had gone out of style.
Nate decided to start at the beginning. The Great Arkham Fire had burned from September 30th to October 2nd, so he started with September's issue. There was nothing there. He scolded himself: Remember that the fire didn't start until the evening.
Sure enough, the October 1st edition of the paper was full of news. Most of it was confused and scattered. The story didn't start to make any kind of cohesive sense until the October 7th edition. Nate read through everything he could find, making notes along the way to sketch out some kind of story.
In the beginning, the authorities had believed a lantern had been knocked over near the town's grain silo, which had shortly turned into a blazing inferno that had rained flakes of glowing wheat for miles. Later, it was believed the fire was a deliberate act of sabotage by royalists. Nate frowned at this. It was about twenty years too late, or ten years too early, for any royalists to be burning things in Arkham. Yet, he saw the same hysteria in the articles that could be found in World War II-era pieces on the Japanese, or modern stories about Middle Eastern terrorists.
He continued reading. The trio of royalists were arrested about two weeks after the Fire was finally put out. After a quick trial, all three men were hanged. Nate frowned as he saw the names. Two had no meaning for him-Luther Hobbes and Israel Thaw. It was the third name that gave him pause.
Josiah Baxter.
He didn't realize he was staring at the page until he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw that it was a text from Abby.
need a ride plz??
Nate took one last look at article. That was his surname on the screen, and he didn't know of any other Baxters in Arkham. It gave him a cold feeling in his chest. It took him multiple tries to send even the simplest of messages in return.
Of course. OMW.
He tucked his pen and pad away and left for Abby's house.
55
The Condemned Man
Abby waited at the end of her driveway. She spotted Nate as he pedaled up the street, and stood up to wave as he got close. He turned off the road and came to a stop. "Hey, Abs," he said dully. "Where to?"
"Brookside," she said.
"Brookside? Getting too rich to make your own meth?"
"No. We're going to Duncan Koons' house."
Nate cocked his head as he looked at her. "His house? I thought he was a drifter."
"No." Abby pulled a folded piece of yellow paper from her coat pocket and held it out to Nate. "His sister has a house here in Arkham."
Nate took the torn directory page and looked it over. Where had Abby found a phone book? Did they even make those, anymore? "That is super weird," he said. "But I shouldn't be surprised, I guess. I found some weird things, too."
"What kind of things?"
He told her about his research on the Great Arkham Fire and the church of Snake Handlers. He mentioned the three men who were hanged on the green, and Abby felt a now-familiar pain in her belly. She had seen those men hanged. One of them might have been Nate's ancestor.
"Our town is a little stranger than we thought," she said.
"Yeah, no kidding. So, you want to go see where Koons lived?"
"He's probably living in his sister's guest rooms or something."
Nate laughed.
"What?"
"No one in Brookside has a guest room, Abby. They barely have cellars. He's probably living in some shack on the back of the property. You remember Albert Jones?"
She shook her head, then slowly nodded. "Oh, right."
Albert Jones was one of Nate's friends, a perpetually grubby boy with an interest in fireworks and explosives. Nate and Albert had been close when they were younger, and they'd often gotten themselves into trouble. She remembered seeing him with some scrapes and bruises but anytime Abby thought to bring it up, Nate had brushed it off. It was the one part of his life that he kept separate from her. It had bothered Abby, but he and Albert had drifted apart as Nate's grades put him on the path to college and Albert's hobbies put him on the path to juvie.
Mother of Crows: Daughters of Arkham - Book 2 Page 24