Yes, she’d go, but first she’d call Pierre and have him come to the house—after she’d already left. The door would be unlocked, with the letter in plain view on the table so he’d see it. All she could hope was that everything worked out according to her plan, and not someone else’s.
Chapter Ten
Q. Or was her hair disturbed?
A. I don't think it was. I think I should have noticed it if it was disordered.
Q. Saw nothing out of the way at all, did you?
A. No, sir.
—Testimony of Alice Russell,
Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 8, 1893
A
fter a light dinner, Lizzie slipped into a dress that allowed her more freedom of movement. No tight corset, form-fitting bodice or demure tea-time gown this time, not that she opted for such frills or conventions much anymore. Most days she preferred to wear something acceptable for when she went out, but comfort came first. And now, with no idea what might lie ahead, she knew it wouldn’t be wise to be constricted by her clothing if she found herself having to fight her way out of a life or death situation.
Thinking it best to be on the safe side, she also tied a leather sheath holding one of her small knives to the inside of her upper calf. She almost slipped on the leather holster for the Colt .45 revolver, but decided against it. The gun’s size and long barrel simply made it too bulky and awkward to hide. Instead, she settled on putting another knife in the inner pocket of her dress wrapped in thick handkerchiefs. It would have to be enough.
She phoned Pierre and made light of the excursion so he wouldn’t rush over—“no, there’s no hurry, I have some places I want to check. After seven will be fine”—before she contacted one of the younger drivers she’d used before to take her to the dock. She set the unfolded letter on the small polished wood table by the front door, watching out the window for her chauffer’s arrival.
Taking a deep breath, she put on a light wool coat since it would likely be cooler by the water. With each and every motion, she readied herself and tried to contain her nervousness. I must be insane to do this! Her mind raced. The number of ways this could go wrong jangled in her head. But it had to work. It had to! Her unknown letter-writer had to know something about Emma. Lizzie simply had to find out what it was.
The arrival of the carriage at the front gate made her forget her questions for now. She went outside and shut the door, taking care that it didn’t lock. All she could hope was that Pierre found the letter. It didn’t hurt to have him know where to find her in case this whole plan went awry.
The young man handed her into the back seat and nodded as she gave him the destination. “I’d like to go to the Fall River Line dock, if you please. You can leave then.”
“Very well, Miss,” he answered.
As the carriage took off, Lizzie stared out the side window. She paid no attention to the small circle of lights spilling onto the road from the gas lights on nearly every corner. Nor did she hear the strange wails of the creatures that lurked and shuffled in the shadows. Neither did she notice the trot of another horse’s hooves from the black carriage following a discreet distance behind.
Chapter Eleven
Q. If the assailant was spattered, what portion of the body of the assailant, standing in the position you have described, would receive these spatters?
A. Most of them, I think, would be on the lower part.
—Testimony of Dr. Robert A. Dolan,
Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 12, 1893
L
izzie peered out the window as the carriage arrived at the pier where the Fall River Line offered steamboat excursions from the Taunton River, through Narragansett Bay, and on to Boston and New York. She’d taken a trip to Boston before on the sumptuous, Italian Renaissance-inspired steamboat, The Puritan, remembering it as a most pleasant experience. She’d hoped to repeat the trip with Emma once the trial ended, but that wasn’t to be.
“Thank you.” She dipped her head at the young man who opened the carriage door and helped her out.
She paid the driver and watched the conveyance pull away, feeling a bit unsure. The dock looked deserted. The waves splashed angrily against the pier. No way was she going over there. Instead, she turned and tried to see through the darkened windows of the giant depot and ticket station. Kerosene lamps mounted on the sides of the building threw off small pools of light. The depot was dark inside. She couldn’t see anything beyond the bottom edges of the part-lowered shades.
She studied the ship schedule tacked to the building’s well-weathered wood siding. It looked like no other boats would be arriving tonight, at least not from the pleasure line. She didn’t know if any of the ferries and other ships brought in goods late at night. It was likely that shipping commenced at all hours if goods were needed by morning, she guessed.
The waves beat against the dock, scenting the air with a salty sea smell. She shivered and pulled her collar tighter. A quick glance around told her she was still alone. Had she been tricked? Was someone toying with her? Am I so gullible I’ll believe almost anything, even if it seems dangerous? Apparently.
The forlorn call of a foghorn in the distance drifted over the rough waters. As she watched and waited, a long, low blanket of fog rolled in like a gray shroud. It made her shiver. The temperature seemed to drop again as the thick clouds grew heavier.
Not wanting to stay outside any longer, she wandered to the side door of the building in hopes of getting inside. She reached for the worn doorknob, which, to her surprise, turned easily. One last look, and seeing no one, she went inside and closed the door.
Her heart pounded as she stood in the silence waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She felt along the wall until her hand found the lamp mounted there. She turned the knob, finding it provided only a dim light. But that was better than nothing.
A few wooden chairs sat against the window wall to her left. To her right, a long wooden counter topped with two over-sized wrought iron teller cages took up most of the wall. Assorted bags and boxes stood in other corners. She noticed two weathered wood doors; one leading to the back exit, the other going to a small office or storeroom. She went to investigate, pausing when something scuffed the floor. Whatever it was had scurried across the floor in the next room. Mice? Or was someone in there, waiting, ready to attack?
Lizzie wrapped her hand over the knife in her dress pocket. Several minutes passed. The room was quiet. Maybe it was mice. Still shaken, but determined, she slid her feet slowly across the floor, trying to make as little noise as possible.
Only a few steps remained between her and the storeroom door when she heard it again. Then she smelled it—the distinctive rotten odor of dead, decaying flesh. The room filled with the smells, the sounds of shuffling, and low moans. Panic hit her. She couldn’t tell where the creature was. How many where there? Her breathing came fast, and shallow. Where was this person who had led her here?
The questions would have to wait. She jumped in alarm and whirled around as one of the boxes crashed behind the counter. She pulled both knives out and eyed the situation, noting not one but two, three, four, and even more of the creatures shuffling behind the counter. She cursed silently, knowing there could be more. I should’ve have come here! There are too many for me to fight alone in such a confined space.
Making a quick decision, she bounded to the door just as one of the monsters pushed its way out from behind the counter. Its face contorted in an ugly caricature of a grin, it shuffled toward her with its gruesome companions.
She grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and gasped. “No, no!”
Panicked, she jerked her head to the left, noting how much closer those things had come, and how they continued to move, slow but steady, in her direction. She tugged and twisted the doorknob, but nothing gave. The door was either stuck—or more likely someone had locked her in.
She glanced to her side again and coughed as the stench enveloped her. The creature gave a muffled roar,
the sound gurgling through the black goo that filled its throat and dripped over its blackened lips.
A foot. It shuffled closer. Ten inches. Nine…
It, and its nasty companions, drew closer. The stench grew stronger. The room filled with the shuffle of half-decayed feet, the broken bones clicking against the worn floorboards like Satan’s castanets. The air filled with the hungry clack of rotted teeth in misshapen jaws.
Lizzie backed away realizing her only way out, her only escape, was either the storeroom—providing the door wasn’t locked—or the back door, if it opened.
A tap on the glass of the front door next to her made her twitch in fright. She turned, eyes wide, and stared at Pierre’s angry visage. “Go to the back,” he yelled. “Move!”
Her lack of momentum finally broke. She ran, feeling the brush of one of the creature’s bony hands against her body, and made it to the door. She reached for the knob as Pierre motioned her to get away. She moved back as he swung part of the wooden bench from outside through the door’s window.
The room exploded with the sounds of shattered glass, and the frantic, almost crazed shuffles and roars of the hungry creatures. They reached for her, their roars sounding like the horrific sounds of animals in pain.
Wasting no time, she unlocked the door and flung it open. She had no time to protest as Pierre grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the room. He slammed the door and pushed another of the wooden benches in front as a barrier, along with a large crate he’d found on the side of the building. Lizzie saw the angry set of his jaw and the hard look in his eyes. She knew it meant a big lecture was coming.
“Let’s go.” He grabbed her arm and yanked. Lizzie pulled back, her own anger rising at his attitude. She was grateful he’d come to find her, just as she’d hoped, but that didn’t mean he should act that way toward her. Not at all.
“Wait a minute. I’m glad you’re here, but that doesn’t mean you should be pulling me around like some farm animal.”
He let go of her arm and glared before brushing a hand across his unkempt hair. “I’m sorry.”
She watched how he chewed his lip, and thought he felt anything but. The roar of the creatures behind them grew louder as they walked out of view of the door.
“Look, I knew you’d find the letter. I’m the one that should be sorry. I shouldn’t have come here alone.”
He cursed under his breath. “You think not? You ought to be whipped for doing something so foolish. What in the hell were you thinking?”
She felt her own anger rise again. “Yes, I wasn’t thinking. But I had to come here. I had to. There wasn’t time to think it over. I had to see if Emma was here. And no one has the right to lay a hand on me.”
He moved closer and gripped her arms. She tried to squirm out of his reach without success.
“Liz, please, look at me.”
She raised her head slowly and met his eyes, the hazel now darkened to a rich deep blue. “I’m sorry. I was angry. I want you to be safe. I’m here to help, but I can’t if you do things behind my back, all right?
She nodded. The conversation felt like it was about more than just them working together, especially when he moved his hands down her arms and wrapped them around her waist. To her surprise, he gave her a dimpled grin and chucked her chin, the monstrous cacophony forming an unusual background serenade.
“Saved by the roars, Miss Lizzie. I’m still angry about the incredibly foolish chance you took today, but let’s forget it for now.”
She glared at him, but any disagreement would have to wait as a loud crash shook the room. Seconds later, the pier exploded with the crush of ravenous creatures looking for prey to devour. Lizzie watched for a flash of red, sad, but also relieved not to see Emma anywhere among the group.
The mob had grown quicker than she expected. The four or five creatures inside soon became more than a dozen. In only minutes, the monsters had fanned out on all sides. The group shuffled toward them, leaving her and Pierre no means of escape, unless they wanted to chance a run down the pier toward the roiling and surging water. Seeing the angry splash of the waves, Lizzie knew that wasn’t an option.
Pulling the knives from her pocket, she moved into her fighting stance. Pierre’s yell rose above the roar of the monsters seeking flesh. Following suit, Lizzie gave a loud yell and rushed at the two closest monsters. One whipped a bony arm her way, the long, dagger-like fingernails slashing at her coat. She jumped and lunged, thrusting the knife through the rotted brain visible through the holes in the creature’s skull. A second later, it clattered to the ground like so much deadwood.
Lizzie moved back as its partner grabbed at her with long skeletal fingers. ROWRRRR. UNNHH. Its growls rent the air. Lizzie jumped ahead again, moving, slashing, and fighting her way in. The creature turned clumsily and grabbed at her again, providing a good position for the kill.
With a cry, Lizzie swung again. The knife connected with the ugly creature coming her way, sawing through the disease-weakened neck and spine like a rotted tree. The monster’s head fell, teeth clacking. She slammed the knife in the skull, ending the monster’s silent conversation with the devil. A clump of white maggots that had been lodged there fell to the ground and began crawling away. A good stomp with her heavy boot ended that.
She vaulted over the remains, slamming the gory knife into the head of another creature and then another, the bones piling up like a medieval ossuary. Having cleared out the creatures on her side, she ran to Pierre, dodging and stabbing at the mass of undead trying to get at him.
The last of the ghouls fell. Pierre turned and glared at her, eyes dark, blood streaked across his face. She shivered, seeing not him but some bloody, angry visage straight out one of those awful Penny Dreadfuls, or the pages of Miss Shelley’s nightmarish novel, Frankenstein.
She stared, unable to move, her heart fluttering. It was but a second or two later when he blinked and lowered his knife, but the image had stirred something in her. Fear? Or had she become so enmeshed in this evil that she was now drawn to the darkness?
“Lizzie? Are you all right?”
“What?” The strange apparition faded, if it had ever been there. “Um, yes, I’m fine.”
“Let’s get out of here. Whoever sent you an invitation didn’t stay around for the fun. They must’ve led those creatures into the ticket office and left.”
A flash of color among the pile of undead caught her eye. “Wait, what’s that?”
Setting the bloody knives down, she hurried over to the pile of bodies that had fallen on Pierre’s side and bent down to retrieve something. With a grunt, she yanked on the unidentified fabric. It suddenly let loose, sending her flying backward. She nearly fell if not for Pierre’s easy catch.
“What did you find?”
“This.” In her hand lay a fragment of frayed, red cloth. She recognized it as another piece of the wool scarf she’d previously tied around Emma’s neck. It matched the other scrap that had been left at her father’s business.
“Another section of Emma’s scarf. But I didn’t see her, did you?”
He shook his head. “No, though I’m not positive I really could tell you what some of them looked like. There was too much going on.”
“I know. I couldn’t tell you. If she was here, I didn’t see her. But I can’t leave until we make sure. I can’t. I have to know.”
He nodded. “I understand.”
“Thank you.”
The two of them worked in silence, moving the undead bodies one by one for identification. Lizzie grimaced as she shoved the lifeless corpses aside, their stench filling the air. Yet she kept on.
One pile done, she moved to the next group of half-rotted corpses lying near the ticket station, while Pierre finished inspecting the stack of bodies on his side. They both worked quietly, silently sliding the gory remains over to get a better look at a battered, ravaged face, or to check the color of the stringy hair remaining on the damaged skulls.
Finall
y, Lizzie stopped, pulled a loose piece of cloth from one of the bodies, and wiped the gook off her hands and knives. She handed the cloth to Pierre, who wiped his own hands and tools.
“She’s not here.”
Pierre tossed the cloth onto the pile of bodies. “I’m afraid not, which may be a good thing.”
Lizzie shrugged as she followed him to the horse and carriage parked at the side of the ticket station. “I suppose. It means she hasn’t come to any harm, as far as I know. In her situation, it doesn’t much matter. It’s just that I want to be the one to end her misery. No one else has that right.”
“I know.”
She settled into the carriage, surveying the carnage on the pier. Pierre clucked to the horse and flicked the reins.
“Unfortunately, this likely isn’t the end,” he said. “It’s become a long, cruel, and sick game.”
She nodded. That next move, whatever it was, worried her the most.
Chapter Twelve
Q. Was there any blood on Bridget’s dresses?
A. On Bridget’s?
Q. That is what I asked you.
A. Not that I discovered.
—Testimony of Assistant City Marshal John W. Fleet,
Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 9, 1893
T
he ride home was quiet, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Lizzie sat quiet, but raged inside, disturbed at the recent turn of events. Her anger simmered just below the surface. This shouldn’t be happening again!
The eerie sounds of the creatures stumbling at the edge of the road made her feel worse. She stared in anger at the hideous monsters shambling along, their rotted hands and decayed fingers clawing for the carriage as it rushed past.
How long can this go on? How long?
The horse rounded the corner onto Second Street, its hooves making a rhythmic clip-clop that agitated the creatures into a horrid chorus of protest. She looked up, the sight of the St. Mary’s Church tower reaching high into the clouds giving her hope. The chime of the church bells never failed to elevate her mood. She wished they rang now.
Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter (Book 2): The Axe Will Fall Page 7