Against a Brightening Sky

by Jaime Lee Moyer

  “I believe you, Dee. At least now I know.” She held out her arms and Connor went to her, his smile every bit the match of his mother’s best. Sadie came back to her chair and perched on the edge of the seat, bouncing her son on her knees. “I survived reasonably well with you seeing ghosts all these years. I’ll learn to cope with Connor seeing things I can’t. And at least ghosts are something Jack and I understand. The way Connor cries when we go out … I’d pictured something more sinister.”

  Dora gave her an amused look. “For a two-year-old, ghosts are sinister enough. Things will be easier once he’s a bit older and understands what’s happening. Are you up to telling Jack or would you like me to explain?”

  A swallowtail butterfly dipped and swooped across the yard, a slow dance of bright wings Connor couldn’t resist. He slipped off his mother’s lap to the ground and gave chase.

  Sadie sat back in her chair, arms folded across her chest. “Telling Jack will be simple enough. He swears that when Stella was first born, he heard Mama singing to her in the nursery. That would be just like Mama, so perhaps he did.” She watched her son run across the yard, giggling and rosy cheeked. “To be honest, Annie’s the one I’m worried about telling, and I’m wondering if I should say anything at all. You know how she’s gotten the last few months, Dee. I hate to place blame on the new pastor at her church, but that’s where it lies.”

  Annie’s new pastor had visited the house several times at the height of her illness, praying and asking God to heal her if her heart was pure. We soon discovered that Pastor Grant spent a great deal of each Sunday sermon preaching against spiritualists and mediums. The pastor saw people like me and Dora as demon cursed, working to lure innocents and the unwary into sin. As a result, Annie had grown cool toward Isadora, placing the blame for my abilities squarely on Dora’s shoulders.

  My attempts to convince Annie of the truth had failed, ending in a bitter argument. I’d avoided the subject ever since.

  “I’d thought of that too.” Connor flopped down at Dora’s feet, picking dandelions and blowing seeds into the wind. I squeezed Sadie’s hand, remembering Stella reciting Annie’s words. “We’ll talk about it later. There’s no need to tell her right away.”

  Springs on the back screen door squealed, bringing Dora’s head up. I turned, expecting to see Annie, and saw Gabe instead.

  How much he’d overdone things during the course of the morning showed. Gabe walked stiff and bent as someone twice his age, one hand pressed tight to his ribs. I rushed to meet him.

  Gabe smiled as I slipped an arm around his waist. “I was hoping I hadn’t missed you and Dora.” He looked across the yard and lowered his voice. “How did breaking the news to Sadie go?”

  “I’d say all in all, Sadie handled the news better than I did. She plans to tell Jack herself, so not a word. The same goes for Annie, but for entirely different reasons.” He was sweating, shaking with exertion. Crossing Sadie’s backyard was a major undertaking for him, and that worried me. “What have you been doing, Gabe Ryan? You weren’t in this much pain this morning.”

  “Leading a murder investigation.” Gabe eased down into the chair I’d vacated. “I needed to talk to you and Dora before going back to the office.”

  “Come along, Connor. I don’t think either of us wants to hear this. Time for us to see if Papa’s awake.” Sadie scooped her son up, nuzzling his neck and making him giggle. “You can visit with Uncle Gabe later.”

  She carried a laughing Connor inside, leaving the three of us to speak freely.

  “A brand-new case lands in your lap, and the first thing you do is come looking for us? That’s never a good sign.” Dora had found her cigarettes once the screen shut behind Sadie. She took a long, slow drag and blew smoke into the tree overhead. Blue swirls caught on leaves only half unfurled, thinned and blew away. “I must confess to dying of curiosity. Are you ever assigned normal murder cases, Captain Ryan?”

  “Occasionally, Miss Bobet.” Gabe frowned and fiddled with the brim of his fedora, a tactic to avoid looking at Dora. He was blushing furiously, an odd enough thing in itself. Very little embarrassed my husband. “But not this time. The man who died was a wealthy Russian refugee. Mr. Rigaux was killed in a high-priced brothel, one that caters only to very rich and very powerful men. If a man has enough money, the proprietor is willing to honor—special requests.”

  Dora crushed her cigarette underfoot, eyeing Gabe. “I assume that’s relevant.”

  “I know it’s not a decent subject to discuss in mixed company and I don’t enjoy talking about this, especially in front of my wife.” Gabe cleared his throat. “But it’s important for you to know and it is relevant. The young lady he’d hired for the night was one he visited frequently. He was with Trula May often enough that anyone looking for Rigaux wouldn’t have a difficult time finding him. And Trula May witnessed the murder—after a fashion.”

  Gabe told us Trula May’s story and left nothing out, his face an amazing shade of red the entire time. Dora’s expression went from interested to incredulous at hearing what the dead man, Mr. Rigaux, had been doing when he died, but she let Gabe speak uninterrupted. I listened just as intently. That he was more embarrassed than either Dora or I would have been endearing if the subject matter weren’t so grim.

  Knowing Dora for the last four years had stripped away most of my innocence. Working on murder cases with her and my husband had taken care of the rest, but I could still be shocked at the cruelty in the world. What turned my stomach was the killer making Trula May listen to Mr. Rigaux die and then leaving her to lie next to his body until morning. How he’d died added another layer of horror.

  Death magic was something I’d only read about, dark and repellent in the extreme. My one brush with a practitioner of blood rituals two years before had only reinforced my aversion. I’d learned about this horrific thing as I’d learned all Isadora wanted to teach me, so that I’d be prepared if I ever stumbled across the unimaginable. Now I had, and all the knowledge I’d gained didn’t lessen how sick and angry I felt. What Gabe described was unbelievably cruel and violent.

  I glanced at Dora and found her watching me, confirming we’d both come to the same conclusion. Our mysterious necromancer had killed Mr. Rigaux, but he hadn’t used conjured monsters or hired gunmen on a roof. He’d strangled Mr. Rigaux with his own hands. The implications of that were the most terrifying of all.

  Dora sat back once he’d finished speaking, fingers drumming rapidly on the lawn chair’s arm. “Dear Lord, Gabe. You made the right call about those chants being incantations, but I’d have to know what was said to guess the purpose. Given what Trula said about it sounding like prayers sung during Mass, they may well have been speaking Latin. Old languages command a great deal of power. That would fit with what I know about European necromancers.”

  “I won’t bother to ask if you’re serious. This just gets worse.” He rubbed his eyes, looking even more tired. “How likely is it that this … this necromancer will leave San Francisco without killing again?”

  “This man isn’t going anywhere, Gabe, and the chances of him not killing again are miniscule. The fact that Mr. Rigaux was Russian only reinforces that belief. We’re dealing with a fanatic who hasn’t accomplished what he set out to do. What we need to focus on is finding him and doing what we can to minimize the loss of life. Unfortunately, we can’t send every Russian refugee in the city into hiding.” Dora lit another cigarette, but after the first puff, she let it dangle between her fingers. “Getting that poor woman, Trula May, out of the city was the right thing to do. Even that might not save her, but it should at least make finding her more difficult and buy some time. That they left her alive in the first place bothers me a great deal.”

  “Letting her live didn’t make any sense to me either. Even if she couldn’t see what happened, she heard everything and was able to give me a detailed account. But maybe that was the point.” Gabe fiddled with the crown of his hat, rubbing at a worn spot and p
inching the creases tighter. He was thinking, trying to fit together what he knew. “I don’t believe for a second those men decided to show Trula May mercy or compassion. They left her alive for a reason.”

  Dora beamed at him. “Very good, Gabe. My best guess is they wanted word of what they’d done to spread in the community. Fear is a powerful weapon and can make people careless. You said this Mr. Rigaux’s wife was some sort of Russian nobility with an estate on the Black Sea?”

  “That’s what Maggie told us.” Gabe reached for my hand. “I told you about Maggie DeVere. This happened at her place.”

  “You did tell me.” I squeezed his fingers and met Dora’s curious stare. “Don’t let his proper exterior fool you. Gabe has a quite colorful past and equally colorful acquaintances. Some of them pop up unexpectedly from time to time.”

  “I see.” She smiled, quietly amused despite the topic of discussion. “We should assume Mrs. Rigaux is a target herself and may well be dead already. Regardless, we need to establish her location as soon as possible. Hopefully we can get to her ahead of the Bolshevik’s hunters.”

  Gabe’s grip on my hand tightened. “Then the rumors Mullaney heard were true, at least up to a point. The Bolsheviks are killing people with ties to the throne. I’ve got a hunch these people are after Alina too.”

  “I agree. And I think you should have another private talk with Mr. Mullaney. Quietly spreading the truth of what’s happened among the Russian members of his union might be wise. Doing so before the rumors and half truths get out of hand would be best. Have him warn his people not to panic, but to be wary and on the lookout for strangers.”

  The kindest word I could think of for Gabe’s expression was “skeptical.” “Those men are waiters and kitchen workers. Do you really think they’re in danger of assassination?”

  The drumbeat of Dora’s fingers on the chair arm grew faster. “You’re making assumptions based on their jobs, Gabe. Don’t underestimate how many counts and minor princes are waiting tables at the Fairmont. They’re all in danger if they stay in the city. Ideally, we can flush this necromancer out of hiding soon. Once we have him in hand, the threat diminishes.”

  I perched on the arm of Gabe’s chair, still holding his hand. “But the danger doesn’t disappear.”

  Dora picked lint off her jacket, focusing on tiny specks I couldn’t see, or that might not exist. She was stalling for time in order to think before answering. “Not for Alina. If this man fails, they’ll send another. They won’t stop looking for her until they believe she’s dead.”

  Gabe looked between us, his expression closed off and careful. “Is Alina that important to the Bolsheviks?”

  I watched Dora’s face, knowing she struggled with how to answer, with how much to reveal and if speaking aloud would make her words unchangeable truth. Anyone who knew Alina’s true identity, or sought to protect her, was at great risk. Dora and I were aware of the danger, but putting Gabe or anyone else under that same threat wasn’t a step she’d take lightly. He willingly took on the dangers of his job each day, but this was different.

  Until Isadora spoke, I wasn’t sure what she’d say.

  “She is that important.” Dora sat up straighter in the chair, her face composed and regal, and looked Gabe in the eye. “If the Bolsheviks’ revolution had failed, Alina would be one of the heirs to the Russian throne. Since her presence here leaves little doubt that the Bolsheviks achieved their aim of destroying the tsar—there are those who would put Alina forth as empress.”

  Gabe tipped his head to the side, studying Dora’s face. Finally he nodded. “Then we need to convince the people after her that she’s dead. Between the three of us, we should be able to think of something.”

  “We can’t leave Sam out of this.” I draped my arm around Gabe’s shoulder. “He has a rather large stake in Alina’s well-being.”

  Dora’s lips twitched, but she didn’t allow herself to smile. Her fingers drummed on the chair arm again, an uneven stop-and-go beat. “You’re right. Sam belongs in our conspiracy, but telling him now wouldn’t be wise. Alina needs to regain all her memories first. Whether she stands and fights or quietly disappears is her decision. No one can make it for her.”

  The springs on the back screen screeched again. Sadie stood holding the door half-open and called across the yard. “Jack wants to see Gabe before he leaves and insisted I come down and tell you. We both know he won’t rest easy until you update him on the case.”

  I helped Gabe stand, making sure he was steady before we started off. “Gabe and I were just coming inside. You can tell Jack we’ll be right up.”

  “You and Gabe go on, Dee.” Dora opened her bag, pulling out her cigarettes and matches. “I have a great deal to think about. Besides, I wouldn’t want to antagonize Annie.”

  The princess ghost sat in a window as we reached the porch, her gaze serene and unruffled. I held the door open for Gabe, staring at the ghost as he went ahead of me. Faceless memories still frosted the glass around her, their number seemingly unchanged. The princess still held Alina’s memories tight. I wondered if she was able to let them go.

  Falling into the watcher’s eyes was a gentler sensation this time and short lived, but no less overwhelming. Release was sudden and jarring, but I finally understood some of what the watcher wanted from me and why this ghost had sought me out. I stumbled into the house after Gabe, shaken and worried that I wasn’t strong enough to relive Alina’s memories.

  Her guardian wasn’t giving me a choice.

  CHAPTER 11

  Gabe

  Gabe shifted in his desk chair, relieved that something so simple as easing the tension in his shoulders didn’t hurt. A little over a week had passed since he’d cracked his ribs, a week of moving carefully and slowly, gauging how much he could do by how biting and immediate the pain was. He’d been able to work the case with Sam, Randy, and Marshall’s help, even hampered and half-hunched over like an older man. Still, he wished there were a way to mend his ribs faster.

  The bruises couldn’t heal fast enough to satisfy him either. Delia had helped him get his shirt on each morning and undress at night, her breath catching at the sight of the darkening patches mottling his back and sides. He hated the mix of remembered fear and relief in her eyes each time she saw the marks. Dee didn’t need the constant reminders of how close he’d come to dying. Neither did he.

  Gabe finished the duty roster for the six officers guarding Libby’s settlement house, rotating the men outside. He’d gone to the chief and called in a favor to have three of the women officers from the downtown precinct placed inside. The SFPD had hired its first women in 1913, but he’d never had any of those officers assigned to his squad room.

  Adding three more women to the already busy house hadn’t attracted any attention. Officer Martha Moulton was in charge, a tall, broad-shouldered woman who reminded him of his great-aunt Hazel, and was just as no nonsense. She’d been on the force since 1914, with a wide range of assignments. Everything had been quiet since Alina left to stay with Dora, but he wasn’t taking any risks. He trusted Martha Moulton to get Libby and the children out of the house at the first sign of danger.

  Knowing these killers were still out there made his skin itch with the need to find them. How unpredictable, how random the killings were made it all worse. There was no trail of evidence to follow, no pattern that would let him predict this necromancer’s next move.

  He didn’t waste time trying to convince himself Alina was the only reason the Bolsheviks had come to his city. Once Gabe and Sam started digging, they found stories of men vanishing on their way to work, or women who never made it to the market. Landlords had reported entire families disappearing from their flats, leaving behind everything they owned. A half dozen bodies were found dumped in alleyways; bodies that were never claimed or identified.

  All the disappearances happened in the two months before the riot. All the names they were able to find were Russian. Without bodies, he couldn’t sa
y if these people had run or if they were dead.

  Eva Rigaux had run once they found her. She’d listened dry eyed as Gabe broke the news to her earlier that morning, asking very few questions other than how her husband was killed. Within an hour, she’d dismissed her servants, packed a valise, and left Nob Hill in the back of a squad car. Henderson had put her on a train in Oakland, bound for a small town in the Midwest. If she was as smart as Gabe thought, she’d change her name and disappear for good.

  He glanced at his father’s old clock hanging over the office door, automatically adding ten minutes to compensate for how slow the clock ran. Sam would be there soon and Jack with him. Today was his partner’s first day back on the job since his release from the hospital. Sadie wasn’t very happy about him returning to work so soon, but Jack’s restlessness and his drive to solve this case finally convinced her. That Sam volunteered to chauffeur Jack to work this morning helped.

  Striding down the hallway whistling or hobbling along leaning on a cane, Gabe would take Jack however he could have him. The week without his best friend and partner had stretched on too long. He still couldn’t bear to think about how he’d cope if Jack never came through the door again.

  Gabe had thought time and again about how to greet his partner, what to say, and how much help to offer. In the end, he decided he was worrying too much. Jack and Gabe had been best friends for going on fifteen years. A brush with death didn’t change who they were or how they should act with each other. Asking Henderson to move the visitor’s chair to the front of the desk was the only accommodation he’d made.

  Right on time, Sam rapped on the door and swung it wide for Jack. Gabe wasn’t prepared for the ache in his chest as Jack came through the door.

  Jack’s foot and ankle were wrapped tightly, bandages disappearing up into his trouser leg. Annie had cut down an old, worn leather shoe for him to wear over the wrappings. He shuffled slowly so the shoe wouldn’t fall off and leaned heavily on a dark wood cane, fingers white with the effort of hanging on to the silver handle. A bandage hid the deep gouge in his forehead, but the bruises on his jaw and neck, the jagged scratches on his hands, were in plain view.