Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter (Book 2): The Axe Will Fall

by Verstraete, C. A.

  Opting to go catch a trolley, she sighed and stepped out on the porch. She locked the door and turned, surprised and even more annoyed, to find Pierre at the wrought iron gate. Head high, she walked down the steps, thanking him with a silent nod as he held the gate open for her.

  “Afternoon, Lizzie. I’m assuming everything went well?”

  “Yes, everything is fine,” she answered, her voice frosty.

  He sighed. “Liz, I hope you won’t stay angry with me. Please, I’m sorry. You know I meant no harm. The more people we have checking into this the better.”

  She looked at him before giving in. “I know. Mr. Jennings is working on it. He says the charges will likely be dropped. The police really have too many other things to worry about at the moment. Luckily, all that chaos was enough to keep those pesky reporters busy elsewhere instead of bothering about me. At least for now.”

  “Good, I’m glad. Where are you headed?”

  “Back to Father’s building. There has to be something there that’ll show us what’s going on. Why else would those monsters have been held inside? I have to find Emma! We can’t wait for the police. We have to start searching.”

  “I agree, and I still want to help, if you’ll let me?”

  Her idea of going it alone faded. She really could use his help if the scene was anything like their last visit. “Very well, though I’m still extremely angry with you.”

  “I know. I do apologize. I’ll even grovel all day if you like.”

  She tried not to smile. “Fine. I guess we should look everywhere we went before and then we’ll check some new places. We can’t be too careful nor do we want to overlook anything.”

  “Come along then. I’ll be glad to drive you.”

  The ride went smoothly and chaos-free most of the way, though Lizzie could hear the sounds of moans and fighting from the adjacent streets. Her grip tightened on the bag in her lap as they came upon several groups of undead stumbling along the walks and the road. Her face wrinkled in disgust at the odorous onslaught of rot and decay. The creatures snarled and growled, reaching decayed hands toward the carriage, but luckily the horse clopped faster, outrunning them—this time.

  They drove on, Lizzie no longer conflicted about letting some of the monsters they saw go free, at least for the moment. She couldn’t let it bother her; not when so many were loose. Seeing a group of men coming up the road, tools and guns in hand, offered some comfort. She was glad to see more people involved in the fight this time. Only because their own friends and family are part of the unholy ranks. Like Emma. Is she in one of those mobs?

  Lizzie looked back, her eyes eager to catch a glimpse of a ragged red scarf wrapped around the scrawny neck of her rapidly declining sister. Emma hadn’t fared well in the past months; Lizzie knew that. She should’ve let her sister go to her eternal rest, but like everyone else in the same situation, she simply couldn’t do it. Not yet. She wasn’t sure she ever could, though the day would surely come, and sooner than she might expect.

  She glanced again at the mob of creatures shuffling behind them before turning to look the other way, her face scrunched in concentration. An odd feeling of being watched hit her. The hairs on her neck rose in alarm. Of course you’re being watched, she told herself. There are dozens of dead eyes focused on you…

  But that wasn’t it. Yet when she spun around, checking each direction again, she saw no one hiding in doorways. No one lurked in the shadows. She clenched her hands and rubbed her fingers, her anxiety growing. I have to hold it together, I have to. I can’t let myself fall apart again. Not now.

  A sob escaped as she thought of the last moment she’d shared with her sister as Emma lay ill; her condition rapidly growing worse. She had reached over and carefully tied the scarf around her sister’s neck. It was a feeble attempt to keep us connected. To keep the one steadfast and most loyal family member in my life, for as long as I could.

  “Liz? Are you all right?”

  She forced herself out of her gut-wrenching daydreaming. “Yes, yes. I was just remembering.”

  “We’ll find her, you know. I’m sure they’ll contact you. They want something.”

  “I suppose, but what? What could they want? Other than money, I have nothing to give them. Nothing.” Nothing that I haven’t already given them, of course.

  “I don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough. Here we are. Let’s have another look, shall we?”

  The bad memories flooded in as Pierre stopped the carriage in the courtyard next to the red brick Borden building, which hulked over most of the corner on North Main Street. Once inside, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. She heard nothing. A good sign.

  They hurried down the hall past the various offices. Sadness filled her at the sight of the now truly dead woman’s body still lying on the floor. Everything else looked as it should.

  “It doesn’t seem like anything’s changed since we were here. No more of those monsters are around either.”

  “That’s a good thing. Do you want to check downstairs again, or should I?”

  “No, I don’t think we have to. Nothing appears out of order. I don’t know why those creatures were in the building, except for the workers who got infected. That has to be the answer, though we don’t know how they contracted the disease in the first place.”

  She turned to go to the door, but stopped. “Let’s look in the workroom and the old mortuary display room, just to be sure. Then we can go.”

  The area was silent, and free of foul odors. Pockets of dust littered the empty shelves in the workroom. Granules remained on the chute leading from upstairs. Nothing had been disturbed.

  With each step, Lizzie fought to leave the foul memories behind. One of the double doors leading to the showroom, where her father and his partner had once displayed coffins and other mortuary supplies, opened with an eerie creak. A faint hint of oranges and cloves lingered in the air. Everything here also looked as it should.

  A feeling of relief filled her. “It looks fine. I guess we’ll never know how the staff got infected, or how one of those creatures got inside.”

  She stopped when she spotted a flash of red from the corner of her eye. Her heart pounding, she crept closer to the handsome walnut table standing against the center wall.

  “Lizzie? What is it?”

  She crept forward and pointed, her fingers shaking. “That.”

  Bunched in the center of the table sat a pile of red cloth. Pierre went over and picked up the piece of woolen scarf. It unfurled, hanging over his fingers in a waterfall of muted, but attention-getting, blood-red color. “Who does it belong to?”

  Lizzie’s eyes met his questioning gaze. “It’s Emma’s. It’s the last thing I put on her. But why is it here? When did it get here? I wonder what happened to the rest of it.”

  He shook his head as he picked up a small white slip from the table and stared at it.

  Lizzie’s sense of consternation and foreboding grew as she studied the small scrap of paper he held. On it was scrawled one word in a small, slanted, and barely legible scribble. “Thea? Theach? What does that mean?”

  Pierre shrugged and tucked the paper in his pocket as he urged her to leave. “I don’t know, but it must have something to do with that other paper you found on your steps. It has to be some kind of message.”

  “A message? About what? Why would they leave me a message—and Emma’s scarf? Whoever is doing this has her. I’m positive. But why?” Her anxiety grew. Lizzie knew she should control it, but couldn’t stop the whine in her voice. “Pierre! Where is she? Where?”

  “I don’t know. Yet.” He herded her down the hall and toward the back door. “Whoever it is wants you to know that, yes.” He locked the door and directed her to the carriage. “They also are leaving you another message.”

  She thought about it as he helped her into the carriage, then went around and hopped into the driver’s seat. The fine black horse snorted and shook its long, silky mane.

>   “It has to be linked to that forgery of my father’s signature. They want me to know what they’re doing, and keep taunting me. They want me to suffer.”

  Pierre clucked to the horse and flicked the reins as he directed the animal to the gates. “Yes, it sounds very personal. We have to find out who has it in for you, and we will.”

  She took a deep breath, relieved she wasn’t facing this alone. “I’m so glad you’re here. I keep thinking it might not just be me. Someone may still be carrying a grudge against my father. I only hope we can find Emma, and end her misery. It’s time. It’s up to me to do that, no one else.”

  “We’ll keep searching until we find all the answers. I’m sure someone will know what’s going on. Secrets like this are hard to keep.”

  Lizzie hoped he was right. “At least not for long.”

  Chapter Nine

  Q. And did she (Lizzie Borden) say anything about the conversation with the man two weeks before?

  A. She said the man was talking with her father, and I asked her what he was talking about, and she said that she thought he wanted to get a store from her father, and her father said that he wouldn’t let him have a store for that purpose.

  Q. Did she say the man made any reply?

  A. She said the man seemed to be angry.

  —Testimony of Assistant City Marshal John W. Fleet,

  Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 9, 1893

  T

  he secret, of course, had to keep for a while longer.

  Lizzie figured that out the next day as she wandered about the house picking up a book, setting it down, grabbing a magazine to read, or just searching through the folders she’d taken from her father’s former office on their first trip.

  She picked and poked at things. Nothing kept her attention, or interest, for long; nor did the file reveal any secrets or items of particular importance. She combed through old rent receipts and papers, stopping when one seemed to tickle her memory.

  Wait—Clegg. Yes, Jonathan Clegg, the man who’d rented the Borden building. Didn’t he also testify at her trial? She thought he did, though she couldn’t recall what he’d said. Probably not much of importance, she guessed. Just another of the many faceless tenants in Father’s buildings.

  Still, she swore there was something else… She wracked her brain, not sure why his name or association should seem familiar. She’d let Mr. Jennings handle all the details and the contract, so why should it mean anything to her? Nothing specific came to mind. She’d wanted to put everything about the trial and the last year behind her. Maybe she’d succeeded.

  Shoving all the papers back in the folder, Lizzie realized the clues wouldn’t be so easy to find. Not like last time. This time the perpetrators had left little to go on. Even the paper breadcrumb trails were stingy.

  The chime of the front doorbell stopped her musing. She hurried to the door and peered out the small square of glass, relieved to see Pierre standing there. A flash of anger hit her when she thought again of how he’d called the marshal, but she tamped it down. It had seemed best to forget his mistake and go on, especially since she needed his help in finding Emma. Besides, truth be told, she really didn’t want to stay mad at him. Anger was a luxury she could no longer afford.

  Lizzie smoothed the front of her dress, glad she’d chosen the lovely rose gown instead of the ugly, well-worn blue day dress she usually donned without a second thought. She took a quick peek in the mirror on the wall, surprised at her extra interest in how she looked. Vanity normally wasn’t one of her big concerns. Pierre was merely a friend coming to call, after all.

  Throwing the door open, she flashed him a smile and turned her cheek to receive his welcoming kiss. “Pierre, you’re out early. It’s barely nine.”

  He smiled in response. “That I am, and you’re looking lovely and rested. How about some coffee? I have some news for you.”

  She led him into the kitchen and put the still warm iron coffee pot back on the fire to reheat. “Oh? Have you found out anything about Emma?”

  He shook his head and sat down. “Not yet. I have been talking with the Society members… Now, what’s that dirty look for?”

  “Oh, pshaw. You know how I feel about them, but go on.” She pulled her hand back quickly after touching the now hot coffee pot, and filled two cups. “What did you find?”

  “Interesting how a lot of the members know someone who kept their infected family members at home. They wouldn’t admit it outright, but a lot of them looked rather sheepish when I asked if they’d done it. No one gave me a direct answer naturally, but I was able to get a better idea of what we might be up against.”

  She sat and sipped her coffee, clearly intrigued. “Oh?”

  “Yes. You know those notes we found?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, others found them inside their homes or sheds where they, or rather other people, had hidden their infected loved ones.”

  He paused and pulled a sheet of paper from inside his jacket. “Take a look and tell me what you see.”

  Scooting her chair closer to him, she peered at the paper and the curious words written down. “Dee, die-ah-hal, chi-nam, how do you pronounce that? What does it mean?”

  He moved his chair back and folded his arms, looking quite satisfied with himself. “Well, as I said, I’ve been busy. After I talked to several of the Society members, I found one of them who hadn’t been involved, but said he knew what the words were.”

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  He smiled. “Of course, of course. He’s Irish, by the way. He said these are curses written in ancient Gaelic.”

  Lizzie couldn’t help it, but she shivered, feeling like a ghost had indeed walked on her grave. “Irish curses. Wonderful. Should I ask what they were?”

  “Oh, they’re the usual things like hoping the devil breaks your bones and that God never grants you peace.”

  “I see. What about the words on the paper I found here?”

  He cleared his throat. “I think yours has a more direct meaning. I showed these to my source. It means ‘a plague on your house.’”

  The threat didn’t surprise her. “It sounds like they’re referring to Emma and to Father. Why else would they mention a plague, not that I’m not already cursed. But what’s going to happen to Emma?”

  It felt comfortable, right even, when Pierre rose and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned in closer and burrowed her face against his neck, relishing the spicy scent of the shaving lotion on his smooth skin. She wished they could just stand there forever, no thoughts of Irish threats, or ghosts, or monsters lurking outside. Just him and her.

  It was unrealistic, of course.

  She gently extricated herself, fully aware she was about to do something she might soon regret. But it had to be done.

  “Somehow we have to ferret out these Irish hoodlums. I know of only one way to do it. I’ve heard it’s a tight-knit community. I’m going to put an advertisement in the newspapers for some domestic help, and maybe some men to do repairs. I suspect that once they see my name, they won’t hesitate to answer the ad, or have someone else answer it.”

  “This could be a dangerous move, Lizzie. Maybe you should let the police look into it.”

  “And do what? We have no clues as to who left those notes. We have no idea who came into my home and Father’s building, or who forged his name. Nor do we know who took Emma. It all has to be connected. It has to be. Someone still has it in for Father, or maybe they’re angry with me. It’s personal. We simply can’t wait for someone else to do something. We need to find out who took Emma.”

  He sighed. “Very well. I’m not thrilled about this, but I suppose we have to set something in motion. As plans go, it’s as good as any.”

  Once Pierre left, she contacted her attorney, explained what she was doing, and with his help developed a small advertisement. She nodded in satisfaction at his suggestion of offering a more-than-adequate salary that they both felt would generate the h
oped-for results.

  Lizzie woke the next morning with a feeling of dread that nothing would work, and a feeling of anxiety about what would, or could, happen. She went to the door for the morning Herald and found the advertisement. A glimmer of hope rose that it would work. It read:

  Domestic Help Wanted. Short-term. Excellent pay.

  Contact Miss L. Borden in care of Mr. A. Jennings.

  By mid-afternoon, she wondered if she’d been wrong. She sat in the parlor with a cup of Earl Grey tea and glanced at the mantel clock again for at least the fifth time in as many minutes. No calls. No responses. Why not? She’d thought for sure the ad would’ve brought quite a few applicants, but so far, nothing.

  Her dog, Laddie, lifted his head and gave a low growl. Lizzie listened but heard nothing. “What is it, boy? You hear the leaves rustling?”

  The weather had been getting colder, with snow expected soon. The dog looked at her then went back to his dozing, his legs twitching as he lay on the soft rose-colored rug she’d set down for him by the settee.

  She checked the clock once more, thinking it too soon for any mail, but decided to look anyway. No mail wagon or mail carrier could be seen outside. She opened the door, and glanced down in surprise when her slipper rubbed against something. Curious, yet a bit apprehensive, she eyed the plain white envelope.

  Ignoring her misgivings, she picked up the envelope and ran her fingers across the front, noting the slight lump. There was something inside besides paper. As she didn’t feel anything sharp, she didn’t think it was dangerous. She could imagine Pierre’s angry lecture, but went ahead anyway. She slid open the envelope flap and pulled out a plain white sheet of paper.

  Heart pounding, her mouth dry, Lizzie unfolded the letter and gasped. A small bundle of dark brown and gray hair tied with a piece of twine fell to the floor. On the paper, six words had been hastily scribbled in dark lead pencil: 8 tonight, ferry dock, come alone.

  Not the response she’d expected, but as foolhardy as it seemed, she knew she’d follow the directions.