by Joanne Dahme
I immediately felt a wave of dizziness and nausea envelope my body, and I staggered until I stumbled against a ledge. I felt my palm hit the cold, metal surface of a vault. I screamed again and retreated to the center of the mausoleum.
My head was throbbing. I held my breath. Patrick’s parents and brother were resting in these vaults. I whirled around, expecting to see their ghostly forms behind me. How did I get here? I suddenly cried out against the memory of the nightmarish figure rushing at me through my bedroom door.Who was that apparition? Why did it attack me?
I worried about Patrick. Did he know that I was missing? Perhaps he too had been attacked.
“Patrick?” I whispered again. I almost hoped that he was here, however incapacitated. He would know what to do. I would wait until my eyes became accustomed to the dark. I didn’t dare stumble about the place in the darkness looking for him.
Move. Keep warm. Become familiar with the dark. I repeated these entreaties like a prayer. I brushed my tangled hair from my face. I rubbed my hands to keep the blood moving. What if Patrick was not here? I prayed then that someone would come soon. I couldn’t stand being here alone. I was afraid to move, afraid to breathe. But I was also afraid that someone would come—whoever it was that had left me here.
I rubbed my arms and stamped my bare feet against the cold stone floor and winced at the throbbing pain. I realized I was still wearing my nightdress. If Patrick were safe at home, what would he do? Surely he would alert the police.
Stop this, I chided myself. I had to get out of here—had to concentrate on getting out of this tomb. I noticed then that the darkness was fading to gray. A gloaming light lurked beyond the glazed glass door. It was near dawn. I attempted to rally myself. Within a few hours, I hoped there would be visitors to the cemetery and employees performing their grounds keeping duties.
My eyes could now distinguish the interior of the mausoleum. I could discern the form of the small stained-glass window on the back wall, still shrouded in shadow. The gown and the wings of an angel glowed softly with light. The angel pointed toward heaven. From where I stood, only three feet separated me on both sides from the marble ledges that led to the respective stack of vaults. Patrick was not lying unconscious on the floor. I was on my own, and I wasn’t willing to wait for a police search.
I inspected the interior with my eyes. What could I use to gain someone’s attention? The glazed glass of the door was thick and covered by iron bars. I would need to make an appalling amount of noise to be heard.
I rubbed my hands together.They felt dead and useless. I stood there, hoping that some means of escape would spark in my mind like the flare of a gaslight. I dropped to my hands and knees, running my fingers across stone slab. I didn’t know what I was looking for—anything would do—a key, a pin, something sharp or hard. I prayed for fissures in the walls, holes in the roof. But of course, the structure was solid and air tight. It had been completed only a month ago. Was the air thinning? I wondered if the decayed bodies of Patrick’s family could contaminate it.
I fought a sob and covered my mouth with both hands. I had to get out, had to find an object that was large enough and strong enough to bang against the glass door in order to alert visitors that I was trapped in this tomb. My gaze suddenly settled on the vaults, and I recoiled.There were the bones—bones, long and blunt, with rounded joints that might serve....
It was then I heard the click of a key in the ornamental iron door. A fresh fear grasped at my gut, and I quickly pushed myself flat against the back wall. I listened, my heart threatening to break my ribs, to the slow squeal of the door pulling back and a jangling of keys. I could see the form of a person through the glazed glass door. The person’s head was bent, the shoulders hunched. I had nothing in hand to defend myself.
A sudden swirl of air, carrying in its vortex a few curled brown leaves, swept into the room. I smelled the pungent odor of alcohol and sweat before I saw Peter Brophy, grinning and squinting from the open door. He was wearing the same dirt-covered overalls that he wore to yesterday’s hearing. For a moment, he appeared disoriented by the shadowed interior.
“Peter!” I cried. “Thank God you’ve found me. Where is Patrick?” I felt such immense relief that I was almost willing to throw myself into Peter’s arms. The police must not be far behind.
I touched him gratefully on the arm, stepping around him to go out the door to Patrick. Peter reached out his arm, hooking it around my neck. He pressed me back against his body, threatening to choke me.
“Peter, what are you doing?” I could hear the hysteria in my voice.
“Damn it, Miss Rose.You are awfully impatient. Patrick didn’t forget about you,” he teased, as he nuzzled his stubbled cheek sharp against my ear. He reeked of whiskey and vomit. “He insisted that I bring you a little something to drink.” He began running his hand up and down my thigh, across my stomach, pressing toward my breasts. His fingers burned my skin like ice.
“Stop it, Peter,” I shouted, wrestling to break free. But Peter didn’t tighten his grip. He moaned, pretending to enjoy the feel of my body thrashing against his. Desperately, I clawed at his face, causing him to stagger. He shoved me away, suddenly tired of the game.
“You thirsty?” he leered at me, tilting his head. His usually sharp features were slack. Angry red lines marked his cheeks where my fingers had dug. He raised the dirty canteen, swinging it back and forth as if it was a dead rat that he held by the tail.
“Peter. Why are you doing this? Are you angry with Patrick? I can talk to him for you.” I had always known that Peter could be trouble. Patrick never listened to me. I prayed that there was some latent decency in Peter that I could mine.
Peter was leaning his lanky frame against the doorjamb now.The sun rising at his back seemed to set his clothes on fire. I couldn’t see the expression on his face.
“Oh, I don’t need you to talk to Patrick for me,” he sneered. “We’re on good speaking terms, actually the best we’ve ever been on. We share a special bond now.”
Peter took a step toward me. He started swinging the canteen back and forth again like a pendulum. “Tick, tock, tick, tock,” he singsonged. “It will only be a matter of time before you’re thirsty.” A nasty grin distorted his face, exposing his bone white teeth. “This wasn’t really Patrick’s idea. When Martha told him what she had done, he came up with his own plan.” His grin broadened.
“I don’t believe you,” I whispered. I stepped back. My last moment alone with Patrick flashed through my mind—the previous morning, when he had kissed me before our departure for the City Councils’ hearing.
“Peter, this is insane,” I appealed to him. “If this was Martha’s idea—you know as well as I that Martha has never been—normal about Patrick. She’s jealous of any woman in his life.”
“Oh, Patrick likes Martha just the way she is.” He brayed a laugh. “Besides, Martha likes Elizabeth. And when I told Patrick that you saw me at the Water Works last week, he didn’t need much convincing. You could have ruined everything.”
For a moment, I was speechless. Patrick had said that the gloves that I had found in his study were for the young woman that Peter was courting. I fought against the urge to collapse, to crumble into a useless heap onto the floor. Another tremor of cold wrenched my body, and I covered my face.
“I want to see Patrick. I want to talk to him,” I insisted. I was trembling. “Peter, please. I’m sure there has been a misunderstanding.” I slowly approached him, my hands clasped in an appeal.
“Why should I listen to you? You never liked me.” Suddenly, his eyes were hard. “Don’t you think I noticed how you looked at me? With your nose in the air, like I was the dirt you had scraped from your shoes?”
I felt an instant of guilt. I did avoid Peter when he came to the house to talk to Patrick. I thought I had been at least polite.
“It wasn’t you I disliked,” I insisted. “It was the way you conducted business together. Patrick made it sound so—mean.”
/> “Whatever you say, Miss Rose,” he laughed, his eyes glazed again by the liquor. “I got to get going now.” He nodded toward the door.
I crept toward him. “Peter,” I pleaded. “You aren’t going to leave me here, are you?”
Peter shoved me back, tossing the canteen against the back wall. “You had better drink that, Miss Rose,” he instructed, wagging his finger. “Or someone might just have to force you.” He winked at me and then stumbled backward out the door. “And I’d be happy to volunteer for the job. You know, Patrick always gives me the best ones.” He flicked his hand dismissively and then slammed the thick glass door. I heard the key click in the lock and then the final thud of the ornamental door sealing me in again.
“Don’t leave me here!” I screamed, my hands banging against the glass of the door. But Peter didn’t return.
I shuddered, turning to look at the battered canteen containing what I knew was contaminated water. Peter must have been the one who forced Officer Russo to drink the poison. Was this done at Patrick’s behest?
A sudden surge of anger welled in me. I felt my cold, aching limbs tighten in response to this flare of warmth. I will not die here, I vowed, as I bent down to grasp the leather strap of the canteen. I was not going to make it that easy for Peter. With both hands, I began swinging the canteen against the thick glass of the door, screaming out in frustration. The sound was deafening, and soon I stopped, exhausted and sore. The canteen hadn’t left a single crack in the glass. I let the canteen drop to the floor.
I stared hard at the bare stone walls and the metal vaults. I remembered that Patrick’s brother’s remains were in the second vault. I had seen the corpse of Patrick’s father when I had entered the mausoleum with Detective Buchanan.The clothes had decayed, although their remnants gave some semblance of a man to the remains. I remembered the shock of white hair still attached to the skull, protruding like the bristles of a scrub brush. I wanted to run then, but there was no where to go. Instead, I blessed myself and grabbed the handle of the vault. It was heavy, and I closed my eyes as I used all my strength to pull it toward me.
A cloying gasp of air greeted me. I held my breath, suppressing an urge to be sick. I thrust my hand into this final place of rest, seeking the largest, heaviest bone I could find. I forced my hand, almost paralyzed with the cold now, to grasp the one I spied poking out beneath a trouser leg. I pulled, and for a moment, the bone clung to cloth. I cried out and wrenched it free. The bone felt lighter than I expected and rough against my fingertips.
I didn’t want to look closely at the bone or think about exactly what it was that I was now holding in both hands. Michael had been young at the time of his death.This bone felt solid and strong. My hands felt dirty, and I almost dropped the bone—Michael’s bone—Michael, who the detective intimated was probably drowned by his brother.
I took a deep breath and swung the bone hard against the tempered glass until I felt the bone crack in my hand. The bone was not strong enough. A gray line splintered the thin length of it. Suddenly, the bone and the canteen were everything to me. I knew they were my only means of defending myself and that I must keep them in my hands, poised to strike. Peter had almost promised that someone would be back for me soon. I must be ready.
SEAN
I rubbed my blistered hands. My palms were smeared with dirt, and the hollows beneath my nails were caked with it. The sting oiled my outrage.
“How long must we wait?” I asked Buchanan, barely looking at the detective, unwilling to take my gaze away from the brownstone on the opposite side of the street.
Buchanan blew into his cupped fists. His hands were also raw from our night spent digging. He fished gingerly for his fob and opened his watch. “It’s not quite seven yet. I am sure that we will hear from the superintendent soon. Please try to be patient,” he encouraged. “We’ve come this far.”
I gripped the tying post in front of me. It was the only thing that kept me from dashing across the street and up the stairs of the Dugans’ home. The predawn calm galled me. In the waning darkness, I watched the soft glow of light ply the incremental gap in the draperies of the first-floor windows. The second floor was dark. Where was Rose? How would she react to the revelation that her husband was a murderer on a grand scale?
“What if he escapes?” I asked irritably, stamping my feet against the brick pavement.
“Mr. Parker,” Buchanan sighed. “I sympathize with your impatience.” He grasped me firmly by the arm. “I want his head just as sorely as you do, but now we must follow the path of the law. Otherwise, Dugan may wrest free.”
I remained silent for a moment, concentrating on slowing the pulse of my blood and heart. “You don’t think he would have done anything to harm Rose, do you?” I asked, for the first time looking away from the house. I had not meant to use her first name.
“You care for her?” Buchanan asked softly. The cold clipped his speech.
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. “And I fear for her.”
Buchanan patted my arm in a fatherly gesture. “We will have him soon, Mr. Parker. We took the correct course of action by immediately reporting our discovery to the police superintendent.” The detective almost chuckled. “He never was a good egg when it came to early morning disturbances.” Buchanan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “It was best that the superintendent alerted the mayor of our discovery, as Dugan has a special—relationship with him. A crime of such magnitude can only be prosecuted by following both the proper and political channels.”
“I know you are right,” I answered. “But how long do you think it will be until the warrant arrives?”
“Soon,” Buchanan replied. “We have a patrol wagon on Buttonwood Street ready.”The detective stopped to grab me by the arm and pull me back into the shadow of the house behind us.
I watched a woman in a brown coat and hat turn the corner of 19th Street and quickly ascend the steps to the Dugans’ home. I couldn’t see her face in the miserly dawn light, but by her step and figure, I could tell that she was young. My body tensed, and I stepped forward as the woman fumbled with her key.
“Wait,” Buchanan ordered, increasing the pressure on my arm. “It may be the cook. Let her be. We don’t want to raise any suspicions.”
I pulled my arm away. I was cold. I was hungry. At the moment, the only thing that would alleviate these pains would be my fists pummeling Dugan’s body. “It’s getting late,” I grumbled, raising my voice slightly as a horse pulled an open wagon full of laborers east on Spring Garden Street. The rhythmic sound of hooves from the streets surrounding them began to fill the air. Pink streaks of color flared in the sky above the rooftops. “I’m sure Dugan will be leaving for work soon.”
Buchanan looked over his shoulder in the direction of Buttonwood Street. He patted his coat pocket, feeling for the absent warrant. “How long will it take your men to remove that plate?” he asked. I knew that the detective was working to distract me. But the talk of Dugan’s handiwork only stirred my fury.
“George and Martin should have freed the plate by now. I instructed them to call for additional laborers.” I cursed under my breath. “But the repair of the manhole and the removal of the sewer pipe—that is going to take the day. Even if a contractor is able to start the work immediately. . . .”
“Why don’t you stop pumping the water? Isn’t it better for the city to be dry than contaminated?”
I shook my head impatiently. “We can’t stop. We need the water in our mains for fire protection. We can’t risk the city burning to the ground because the hydrants are dry. That’s why we rely so strongly on the public boiling their water.”
“Did you reissue the boil water notice?” Buchanan interrupted, as we stared at a team of horses, black ribbons decorating their manes, pulling a hearse. I watched the breath of the horses mist the air.
“It was never rescinded,” I replied, staring at the house now as if by will my vision could penetrate it
s stone walls. “Now that we know its cause, the Bureau of Health will distribute leaflets in the neighborhoods served by the reservoir. I’m sure that there will be notices in the papers.” I turned to confront Buchanan. “Where the hell is that warrant?” I demanded.
We both turned to look down 19th Street. “Thank God,” Buchanan whispered, as he watched a young officer running toward us, waving a paper in the air above his head.
I was tempted to meet the officer halfway and drag him to the corner. As the officer stood panting, his breath smoking the air, I restrained the urge to snatch the warrant from his hands.
“Detective Buchanan,” the officer panted, handing the warrant to Buchanan with a quick salute. “Shall I alert the patrol wagon?”
Buchanan read every word before he nodded to the officer. He turned to me. “You are aware that it is highly unusual for a civilian to join me in serving this warrant, but as we are in the midst of a public emergency, and you are now one of the higher ranking officials from the Bureau of Water embroiled in this crime against a public work. . . .”
“Please, Buchanan,” I took hold of his shoulder, propelling the detective to cross the street. “I am more than fully aware of the circumstances. Let’s not waste a moment.”
Buchanan nodded, before barking to the young officer. “Tell Sergeant Mallon to instruct our men to surround the house—and to do it quietly,” he snapped.The officer saluted before turning on his heels to dash back down 19th Street.
Buchanan’s features assumed an official pose, essentially unreadable. His red-rimmed eyes focused on the door of the house as we crossed the street. We climbed the stone steps, and both of us took a deep breath before Buchanan banged the knocker on the Dugans’ door.
The moment seemed an eternity. We saw a woman’s hand tug at the curtain in the window to the right of the door. It was a young, slim hand.The curtain quickly dropped back into place. In another moment, the door opened. The young woman we had seen earlier in the brown coat stood nervously on the threshold. She wore an apron and bib over her dress.