by Laini Giles
The drive to Cortland would take about an hour. Once there, they would get a room at the Little York Inn and tuck in for the night. The next morning, he would make Libbie his bride at the courthouse. No one knew them there, so anonymity was assured among the clergy and the civil servants employed by the justice of the peace. They could take their pick.
“Come on, let’s go,” she said. “I want to go to our spot first.”
“Libbie, it’s all the way on the other side of town. It looks like the weather is turning nasty. We should head for Cortland now before the rain starts.”
“I want to go to the falls first,” she insisted, pouting.
Sighing, he put the flivver in gear and off they went, bouncing toward the road that led to their favorite parking location near Buttermilk. She must want to spend time cuddling a bit before the long journey to Cortland.
“Are you all right, dear?” he asked, caressing her arm.
“No, I’m not all right,” she snapped. “I’ve been throwing up every morning for two weeks. My sister suspects something.”
“Well, they’ll all have even more of a surprise when we return from Cortland!” he said, slapping his knee as he laughed about it. He had to grab the wheel again with both hands when a large rut made him swerve.
She glared at him. He braked, unsure of this new mood of hers, and pulled in at the exit to the falls, their usual spot, sheltered by trees. Convinced it was the pregnancy making her cranky, he killed the ignition and reached over to hold her.
“Libbie, what is it? There’s no need to worry. Plenty of people do this every day. We all know there are people whose parents haven’t been wed the full nine months. It’s just understood. I love you. This is what people do.”
She shook her head at him, as if he were a small child.
“Tom, you don’t understand. It was fun while it lasted. I enjoy making love. Other girls my age think it’s shameful and awful and that ladies shouldn’t do it. But it feels good. So I like doing it. I especially like doing it with you. But the thing is, I don’t want to marry you.” She shook off his arms and extracted herself from the embrace.
He felt his stomach take a sickening dive, and his head spun.
“What?”
“I said it was fun, but I don’t want to marry you.”
“Why not? What do you mean?”
She looked at him as if he were slow. “Because you’re poor,” she said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to understand. “I won’t do it. I’ve thought about it, and I don’t want to.”
“Is that all I was to you? Some fun in a car? Libbie, I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you. Don’t you understand?”
“We had some good times together. But that’s not what I want forever. I never have. I need someone who can give me everything I want. Stylish clothes, a beautiful house, a maid…all the things I have now and don’t want to lose. I have no desire to live in a run-down rooming house over on Linn Street, churn out ten babies in poverty, and have that be the end-all and be-all of my life. I’m better than that.”
“Your life? That’s the only one that matters here? What about me? What about this child?”
“What about you? You’ll get on with your life without me, find some stupid farm girl to marry, and have loads of children, just like everyone you know. Remember? It’s what you told me you wanted. You aspire to a pension, a wife, and babies. Well, I want more. And I can’t have it until this is all over. All I want from you is to help me with this. And then we’re done.”
“Help you with what?” he said, apprehensive.
“ I snuck some whiskey out of the house to make me a little sleepy, since I know this will hurt a bit.”
“Libbie, what are you saying?”
“You’re going to help me get rid of this thing!” she hissed.
As Tom looked on, horrified, she pulled a flask of whiskey and a buttonhook out of her bag, along with some clean white rags. She opened their blue blanket across the seat of the car, the one that had seen so much recent activity, and lay back upon it. Spreading her legs wide, she lifted her skirts and unhooked her garters as she had so many other times and gazed at him expectantly. Then, unscrewing the cap on the whiskey, she gulped down the entire contents of the flask and let out a delicate hiccup when she was done.
“Libbie, I can’t do this. I can’t kill our baby. I love you. I still want to marry you. The baby is part of us.” Tears of hurt streamed down his face. Frustrated, he wiped them with the sleeve of his shirt. “Please don’t make me do this,” he pleaded. “I can’t do it.”
“You can and you will,” she insisted. “I don’t want anything to do with us. We don’t exist anymore. This brat will ruin everything for me. I won’t be branded a harlot just for doing something I like to do. If I’m going to have a bunch of kids, I’m going to do it with a lawyer for a husband and a maid to do all the work. Do you hear me?! Do it! I’ve already lost Stephen LaBarr, and it’s your fault.”
“Who the hell is Stephen LaBarr?”
“The man I was supposed to marry before I got involved with the likes of you. I found out the other day that he’s engaged to some debutante in Manhattan. They can go be boring together, but now I’ll have to find another doctor or lawyer instead. My father is furious. And my mother hasn’t been able to leave her bed since she heard the news.”
“How is that my fault?” he protested. “Making love requires two people, Libbie. And from my end, it was love. I’m not sure what it was for you.”
“It felt good. That was all,” she said. Then, through gritted teeth: “Now do it!”
Grasping the buttonhook, he squeezed himself into the area in front of her, gingerly grasping her skirts and pushing them above her waist. Now he knew why she’d worn black. To hide any stains. She’d had everything planned. And he’d been the perfect dupe. His hands shook as he held the buttonhook near her. He could not make himself go further.
“Come on. Let’s get this over with,” she slurred.
Still, he hesitated.
“You’re yellow, I guess.”
Another tear pooled in the corner of his eye, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes begging her to stop this insane quest.
“You’re just a coward. You’re poor, you’re not very smart, and you’re craven to boot. A big fat chicken. Boy, do I know how to pick them.”
“Libbie, please…”
“What a spineless disappointment you turned out to be. Truth be told, I don’t know if you were a good lover. Once I begin comparing, I’m sure you won’t even rank in the pantheon of my favorites. But one thing’s certain. In case this happens again, all the boys I sample from now on will have money. Lots of money,” she said, tossing an arm across the seat in her inebriation.
Suddenly, as though it had a mind of its own, Tom’s hand bolted forward, and the buttonhook found its destination inside her. Driven beyond all sadness and rage and frustration, he drove it to the hilt into her, grinding it and turning it violently as he did so.
Libbie grunted and doubled over, the hook still protruding from her. She yanked it loose, panting from the effort and pain. Looking down, her eyes widened as she saw what he had wrought. A deep plum colored stain blackened the blanket beneath her, growing larger and larger.
“What did you do?” she demanded, fright now tinging her voice. “Take me to Doctor McKay, right away!” she said, looking up at him and clutching her damaged midsection. Her voice was slurred from alcohol and pain.
“Why, so he can clean you up and you can go marry your rich lawyer? Do I look that stupid to you?”
“I think you’ve punctured something!”
“Only your dreams for the future, dear.” He leaned back on the bench seat and casually watched her suffer. In the distance, a loom
ing black cloud let out a low rumble.
Over the next few minutes, heavy beads of perspiration broke out on her face, and it turned an unhealthy gray. Her lips lost all color.
“Get me…to…the doctor,” she managed to squeeze out. “Something…wrong. Hurts…”
The blanket was now more plum black than blue. The back of the car filled with a slick, metallic odor. Yet still, he sat. In fact, a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. He was going to make sure she hurt as he was hurting now. He didn’t know how long he sat there, observing her as she restlessly shifted positions, her feeble moans echoing through the car.
Her pallor was now a pale ashen, and her lips were pale blue. She clutched his arm and looked over at him, terrified. After a few minutes, her hand fell to her side, lifeless.
“Libbie?”
Okay, it wasn’t fun anymore, putting her off and being cruel. It didn’t come naturally to him the way it did for her, and he was tired of it. He tried rousing her to tell her he would take her to the doctor now. But she wouldn’t respond.
“Libbie! Libbie, wake up!” he said, shaking her.
She fell to one side like an unbalanced sack of potatoes. Her eyes were unblinking, accusing.
“Libbie, oh God, wake up. Please wake up!”
He tried for what seemed like hours to revive the woman who up until two hours ago was going to be his bride. But it was no use.
And then his mind shifted into high gear. No one will believe you, it said. No one will believe that she told you to do this. No one will believe that you didn’t mean to hurt her. You didn’t want to hurt the baby. You just wanted to go and get married. She ruined everything. But no one will believe you.
He looked at her, dress and blanket soaked with blood, head to one side, eyes unfocused, and he started to sob. Throwing himself on her, he cried until he didn’t think he had any strength left to summon. Realizing his precarious position if he were discovered, he looked around the car. Seeing no one, he came up with a makeshift solution.
He wrapped Libbie in the blanket. Tighter and tighter, he pulled it around her, throwing in the buttonhook as he rolled it. Remembering their walk several weeks ago, he managed to push open the back door of the car and dragged the blanket and its grisly contents to the log several yards away, praying the entire time that he would not be interrupted. Sweating profusely, he pulled the body, a little at a time, behind the log until he could barely see it.
Good old Hi. Like any farmer, he had left a shovel in the back of the flivver. Grabbing the farm implement, he began to dig a grave. At first, it wasn’t much, but finally, it fit the gruesome parcel he wanted to squeeze into it. It didn’t have to be very deep; he only wanted to make sure it wasn’t unearthed by woodland creatures before he was able to get out of town.
He rolled Libbie into the grave, blanket and all, and started filling the hole. When he’d packed the cavity with soil, he pushed with all his might, shifting the fallen log several inches so it sat over the bulk of the hole. Then he covered the top with anything he could find…large rocks, sticks, twigs, leaves, nests, whatever he could use to disguise it. As he did, he prayed that he’d be able to get a head start before the authorities stumbled upon the body. His chances were dwindling by the moment.
Chapter Thirty-Two
As he made his way back to the flivver, he noticed the drag marks on the ground. He rubbed a tree limb through the dirt all the way back to the log, obscuring them. Then he discarded it. Climbing behind the wheel, he pondered his next move.
Maybe he could head to Buffalo. Or even better, New York City. Farther away, and bigger, and he could get lost there among the masses of immigrants. First, he needed to get rid of the car. It was full of blood. The drive back through town was unnerving. As he reached the southern city limits, the rain began. Huge, fat droplets hit the windshield, inhibiting his view of the road. Tom kept the flivver at a nice respectable speed, and he drove with more caution than he ever had in his life. No need to give any town cop reason to pull him over. The blood in the car could send him to Auburn and fry him.
He followed the road as it led north out of town, skirting the eastern edge of the lake. Eventually, it met up with the turnpike heading east, but he didn’t plan on driving that far. Near Myers Point, he downshifted and pulled the car off the road. Searching for the perfect spot, he idled for a moment as he thought, then found an outcropping with darker waves in front of it, signaling deeper water. It was difficult to see it in the dark. But he seemed to recall bathing here several years ago and suddenly having the ground drop beneath him. This lake was famous for its depth. That could work in his favor now.
And to think, he had hoped the car would help him win Libbie. Why hadn’t she just accepted him and let his love be enough for her? If he’d been a son of privilege, they’d be on their way to Cortland right now. Glancing down, he caught a glimpse of the sad, drooping flower from Mrs. Protts’ garden that he had impulsively inserted in his buttonhole before he left the rooming house. Ripping it from the fabric in a fury, he tossed it on the lakeshore and crushed it to nothing with his heel, grinding it harder and harder into the rocky soil, crying as he did so, his tears mixing with the rain pelting his face. The harder he sobbed, the harder his shoe pulverized the bloom, now part of the mud underfoot.
He thought for a moment. The throttle would control the flivver’s speed. The clutch would control the forward motion, and it would stay in high gear, even without his foot on the pedal. In high gear, the car would continue into the lake until the water reached the carburetor. The rear wheels would seize up, but by then, the car would be en route to its underwater grave. He wondered how long it might take to sink.
No matter. He needed to make quick time. Telltale bloodstains coated his sleeves and the front of his shirt. His trousers had to be bloody as well. He put on his jacket and buttoned it, hiding the worst of the gore. He’d worked up a sweat digging the grave, but now he was freezing. The ragged wind, combined with the cold rain, chilled him to the bone. He needed to change clothes; there was no getting around it. He would have to return to the rooming house. He dreaded the thought, wondering whom he might run into and if he could get in and out unseen. There was nothing else but to try.
Putting the car in gear, he jammed the shovel against the pedal for good measure. Then he stepped out of the way as he let the clutch go and the flivver sped toward the lake. After hitting the waves with a tremendous splash, it continued gamely forward until the carburetor stalled out and the car sank like a stone beneath the surface. Huge bubbles signaled the massive displacement of water as it began its journey to the bottom.
The task complete, Tom turned and started his long walk back to town, past the Cayuga Marina and the Tioga Tavern, head down, lost in thought, and soaked to the skin. How had he come to this? Several hours ago, he had been at a wonderful picnic, planning a joyous future with the woman of his dreams. Now, he was sopping wet, he’d become a murderer, and soon, he’d be a wanted fugitive. What the hell had happened?
He arrived back at Mrs. Protts’s place just before eleven, slinked in the back door, and slid his key stealthily into the lock for his room.
He only had time to throw a few things into a satchel—several shirts and pairs of pants, a pair of suspenders, his only other pair of shoes, a razor, his family photograph, and a few other personal possessions. He removed the bloodstained shirt and pants, then grabbed the small rag from his bowl and ewer and sponged off a bit. He changed into the one remaining clean outfit he had, jammed a bowler on his head, and softly closed the door.
In the common hallway, he stopped at the cast-iron woodstove that provided a modicum of heat on cool evenings. Someone had stoked the fire recently, and it was good and hot. After tossing his bloody clothes inside, he took the poker that leaned against the wall and nudged them farther into the flames to ensure that they were consu
med.
Then he planned his strategy for when he arrived at the train station. He wished he’d been able to contact Della and Hi before he left, but he couldn’t. And furthermore, he wouldn’t be able to tell them where he’d gone. He was sure the police would be speaking to them very soon. Right now, the trick was to disappear. He had a pretty good idea how he could do that, and Libbie’s love of literature had provided his inspiration. Humming to himself to assuage his nerves, he caught the streetcar and hopped off near the train station, umbrella in hand.
Ithaca train station
September 1916
“What?” Tom cried. “What do you mean there are no departures for easterly routes?”
“Why, just what I said, sir,” the station clerk told him with authority. “There are currently no trains for eastern destinations. There’s been a derailment near Binghamton, and everything is jammed up because of it. They’re hoping to have everything put to rights in a few days.” He was a small balding man with a white beard and a weak chin, his little round spectacles magnifying myopic blue eyes under his green eyeshade. The man put his head down, and the glass between them muffled his voice to a barely discernible mumble. Tom felt like socking that chin.
Trying to keep his head about him, Tom protested with hat in hand. “But I need to be in New York City within a few days. Important business, you see.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid all our travelers are in the same situation. There are no trains from there coming west, and no trains from here going east for several days. It might possibly be a week or more. Might I suggest checking in with us on Tuesday? Things should be back to normal by then.”
“Yes, perhaps I’ll do that,” Tom said, turning on his heel and trying not to panic. He would have to go back to the rooming house and pretend like nothing had happened. He had a short time before Libbie’s friends and relatives became suspicious. It did look a little strange that he no longer had the car, but he would think of an explanation for that.