A fatigued Hardy entered the office. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, removed his hat as he looked down at Elroy’s corpse. He shook his head, cursed under his breath, then patted me on the shoulder.
“What are we gonna say about Elroy and such?” I asked as I waved at the body. “What are we gonna say happened here?”
“Whadya think?”
“The truth, maybe?”
“It’ll ruin the department’s image for decades,” one of the detectives warned. “We gotta find something else to say.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “We didn’t have a good mug to begin with. We didn’t fool nobody. At least now we can start afresh, I suppose.”
Out in the hallway, I congratulated the detectives who had accompanied me. Despite the groans, I was in a good mood.
“How did the Vigilante and his boys hold up?” I asked casually.
The detectives exchanged unwilling glances; something was wrong. Their eyes turned away from him.
“What?” I asked.
One of the detectives put it bluntly.
“The Vigilante’s dead.”
My cigarette dropped to the floor. I kicked open the door to the stairway. My feet barely touched the steps as I flew down them, a sick sensation in my gut.
Sean couldn’t be dead. The Vigilante, maybe. But not Sean.
***
I arrived to find the foyer a provisional mortuary. Officers worked with the militia to organize the bodies. Corpses were lined up in rows by the wall, the wounded tended to on the opposite side of the room.
Still, the scene was chaotic. Half the militia distrusted the officers, even though they wore black arm bands; they kept a knife or pistol in their hand as they assisted. It had a counter effect; the officers then kept a watchful eye on their own holsters. Hardy attempted to mediate, explain the situation. The militia distrusted Hardy for his past, but they calmed down when I gave my assurances.
I spotted Antonio Sergio, my Italian contact, at an overturned desk with a sergeant. I approached him, asked to speak with him privately. Antonio complied; he had amazingly sustained no injuries or wounds. His face was smothered in black, his body stank of gunpowder. His tearful gaze indicated how many of his friends he had lost.
I glanced to my sides before I whispered in Antonio’s ear.
“This doesn’t go to anyone else, right?”
“Of course. I neva tella no one. You knowa dis.”
“Good. Somebody told me the Vigilante was dead. Is this true?”
Antonio gave me a strange look. He wanted to give an answer. Something kept him mute. Instead, he nodded over at a pile of dead men from the militia. Placed nearly by itself was a corpse dressed in the Vigilante’s clothes.
My eyes shrank as I peered at the face. It looked like the Vigilante. But it didn’t share all of his characteristics.
Antonio brought him closer to it. Two Irishmen plus one Italian guarded the body protectively. Antonio convinced them to move away from it for a moment. They held tears behind their stoic expressions as they walked away.
With a heavy heart, I bent down close to the face. I cocked my head as I summoned the nerve to remove the mask. I didn’t want to see Sean’s face; I would see how death had come.
But I had to know.
I went to take off the mask, gasped when I felt scarred flesh. Bemused, I touched the rest of the face. It was all real, no mask. I opened the eyelids.
It wasn’t Sean. The eyes were a lighter shade of blue. Close, but not close enough. I could tell the difference.
This was the imposter.
The heaviness in my heart lifted. There was still hope.
“Well?” Antonio asked. “Is it him?”
I looked at him curiously. “Do ya see him look like this?”
Antonio didn’t answer. I suddenly realized he was taciturn for a reason; he had a secret he didn’t know what to do with. He motioned for me to join him away from the body as the three guards returned.
“I saw someone dressed like the Vigilante,” he explained. “But he didna talk like him. He had a very bad wound, but he seemed more concerned about his friend. He was hurt very badly”
“What did his friend look like?”
“Like a boy who had done nothin’ wrong in his entire life.”
That had to be Sean.
“Where is he, then?”
Antonio shrugged as he motioned at the body again. “They fought each other. He didna want us to interfere, so we didn’t.”
“Does anybody else know he’s the Vigilante?”
Antonio’s reticence served as an answer. No one else knew.
“Those who did know died,” he said.
I thanked Antonio, muttered a prayer as I wandered through the wounded, searched for a particular face. I observed the pack of men that surrounded the “Vigilante” body. They wept so bitterly I felt guilty about the secret.
Just as I was about to give up and go back upstairs, I noticed a wounded individual on a makeshift cot concealed partially by the corner of a wall. No other wounded men were near. A minister knelt by him with an open prayer book. At first, I thought it was a priest. But then I failed to see any rosary or telltale signs. The man also spoke in English, not Latin.
Then I saw Patrick Malone next to him. His red hair in a mess, he had a bandage on his chest. To my surprise, when he was offered whiskey, he refused.
As I approached the end of the cot, I looked at the minister. He was an older man with a bowler hat by his side. He had a book of Puritan prayers in his hand.
“Who are you?” Moore asked.
“Alistair,” the man replied.
I then looked at Patrick, who had a guilt-ridden look on his face.
“Is he alive?” I asked.
No answer.
I moved up to the head of the cot. A natural smile formed when he saw Sean’s darkened face. Sean’s eyes were closed, but his chest stirred. Evelyn Malone stood in front of his coat with her hands held tightly around her rosary.
He was alive. Barely.
Good enough.
“Where did ya find him?” I asked.
“Does it matter?” Patrick answered. “He’s alive. That is all that matters.”
Alistair finished a prayer. He then closed the book, took hold of one of Sean’s pale hands.
“It’s the second time I’ve saved his life,” he said. “Everyone else who had found him previously said he was dead. The Malone’s and I didn’t believe them. They said the wounds were too extensive. We wouldn’t accept it. Had we not attended to him, he would have bled to death.”
I wasn’t certain how to take it. Sean seemed relaxed, more so than he had ever seen before. There was almost an air of completion, of satisfaction. The subtle hint of his alternative self, his violent nature, had departed.
I wondered what Sean would say when he regained consciousness. Would he be elated, or disappointed? Had he come to be married with death? Or had he anticipated the Grim Reaper to pass him once more? It had cut a wide path with its scythe. For Sean, it had been too narrow or too wide.
Hardy arrived in the foyer, surveyed the damage. He barked out a few orders to several hastily promoted lieutenants. As he walked over to me, he stopped to gaze at the humanity that had encircled the body they thought to be the Vigilante’s. I couldn’t figure if it was reverence or concern that kept Hardy motionless for a while as he watched.
“So, I guess they were right,” Hardy said to me. His voice sounded somber, yet optimistic.
Alistair looked at me implicitly, as did the Malone’s; they knew Sean’s true self, probably had discovered it that same day.
Patrick then pulled back his coat; inside was Sean’s automatic revolver and mask.
It suddenly occurred to me what had happened; everyone thought the Vigilante was dead. The imposter, whoever he had been, had had such a repulsive face he didn’t require a mask. Patrick had come in as the Vigilante, but somehow the fight had concluded between
Sean and the imposter. His mask had been stripped from him. Death revealed few secrets.
I looked at Sean on his cot. What did he want? Did he want people to know?
The picture became clearer as I considered it; Sean hadn’t come in with death in the forefront of his mind. But he had been prepared for it.
His salvation had been unexpected.
I glanced over at the quasi-ceremony that had arisen. The men mourned in vain; what would say if they knew they stood over the body of a man who had been all that the Vigilante hadn’t been?
Who was I to tell them?
“That’s him, alright,” I said to Hardy. “Too bad we’ll never know who he was. He had a pretty mug.”
“Didn’t think ya were the kind of guy to say that,” Hardy chuckled humorlessly. “What should we do with the body?”
“Leave it to them. They’ll take care of it.”
A medical unit arrived; I called one of them over to Sean, insisted he be treated properly. The medic checked the bandages, seemed impressed with the fact that Sean hadn’t died yet. Evelyn followed them concernedly. Patrick stood beside Alistair.
“He gonna make it?” I asked.
“I suppose,” the medic said. “If he was going to die he would have died already.”
“Ha! Ain’t that the truth!”
As they carried Sean away on his cot, his eyes opened for a short second. It was just long enough for him to look at me worriedly.
I grinned at him.
“Ya gonna be fine, kid. Just fine.”
Sean nodded, closed his eyes as he rested his head down. I followed him out to the front of the building, stopped at the top steps. I watched as the medics loaded the cot into an ambulance. It drove away furiously.
Tired, I searched my pockets for a cigarette. I pulled out a pack, only to find it empty. Left with nothing to smoke, I suddenly no longer felt the desire for tobacco. I took off my fedora, enjoyed a few minutes of rest as I looked out at the barren street. Despite the ruined edifices, the destruction wrought in the past two days, it seemed rather calm.
I had no reason to be afraid anymore. Marzio’s mob was destroyed. The dirty cops in the department had been wiped out. Any criminal with half a brain wouldn’t show his face for a long time. The cancer the city had suffered from for so long had finally been removed.
For the first time I could remember, I felt at peace with myself, with the city. Ever since my father’s death, I had held a grudge against it. Now I could finally forgive it.
Beverly Evening Times, February 26, 1935
POLICE HEADQUARTERS ATTACKED BY MILITIA!!!
POLICE COMMISSIONER COMMITS SUICIDE, POLICE CHIEF FOUND DEAD INSIDE MARZIO’S BUSINESS!!!
VIGILANTE DIES IN FINAL BATTLE AGAINST POLICE!!!
Saturday Morning Citizen, February 26, 1935
RECORDS TIE ELROY TO MARZIO!!!
LINK BETWEEN POLICE AND MOB WENT BACK YEARS!
POLICE OFFICER BEHIND RANTOUL STREET MASSACRE!!!
Shingleville News, February 26, 1935
VIGILANTE’S TRUE INDENTITY UNKNOWN, AUTSOPY INCONCLUSIVE
WHO WAS THE VIGILANTE?
Italiano Americano, March 5, 1935
MASSIVE VIGIIL HELD IN TRIBUTE TO VIGILANTE
FUNERAL PRYE SCHEDULED TO COINCIDE WITH FIRST VIGILANTE KILLING
McKinney’s Press, March 12, 1935
NEW VIGILANTE MURAL PROJECT ON CABOT STREET BRINGS COMMUNITIES TOGETHER
THE LEGENDS AND TALES OF THE VIGILANTE AS RECOUNTED BY WITNESSES
Saturday Morning Citizen, March 16, 1935
HARDY APPOINTED AS NEW POLICE CHIEF
NEW COMMISSIONER VOWS TO PREVENT FURTHER GANG VIOLENCE
ERIC MOORE AWARDED MEDAL OF VALOR
Shingleville News, March 18, 1935
HOW A CITY LIKE BEVERELY CREATED THE VIGILANTE
WHY VIGILANTISM IS THE PRODUCT OF APATHY AND INDIFFERENCE
Sean pulled out the last remaining blades of grass from around his grandfather’s gravestone in a secluded section of St. Mary’s Cemetery. On his knees, he brushed off the moss that had grown over a part of his name and the year 1934, the year he had died. He smiled quietly as he gazed at it, his hand held on top of the now clean gravestone.
Evelyn kneeled close beside him. Dressed in a bright green dress, she had her hair tied into a ponytail with a large ribbon. A quiet smile was on her face, a hand gently resting on Sean’s shoulder.
Behind him, placed against the fence, were his two crutches. The large bandage wrapped around his waist was partially visible as he brought himself up. He took off his flat cap and placed it beside him.
“Thank you, grandfather,” he whispered as though praying. “I came finally put it to rest. I can finally be at peace with myself. I’ve found where I belong. I’ve been given a way out of the world I’ve tried so hard to get out of. You helped me.”
As he spoke, his grandfather’s black rosary swung back and forth below his neck. When he was finished speaking, he took the rosary out from around his neck and placed it on the top of the gravestone. He then tried to stand up some more, but struggled from the extent of his injuries, even with Evelyn’s help.
“I don’t need this anymore,” he said. “I now know why you gave it to me. I always wondered what you would have wanted for me. Now I know.”
On his feet, he held Evelyn’s small hand as he surveyed the vicinity. Their section, allotted for the poor Irish, had gone through a significant restoration, at Sean’s behest.
“Are ye at peace now?” Evelyn asked him.
As Sean looked at her, his eyes moistened somewhat, but a sparkle of joy swept across his face, evaporating it.
“Yes,” he said.
A voice called out after a brief pause.
“Ya better be.”
The two turned to see Seth Moore saunter towards them across the grassy field. He shifted uncomfortably in his pristine dark blue police uniform. A medal of valor was pinned to his chest, which he glanced at with uncertainty. His dark red hair had been oiled and combed back. He touched his face delicately as it glistened from a recent shave. It made him appear younger, less cynical.
Moore took off his police cap, combing his hair back as he looked at Sean and Evelyn approvingly.
“You look good,” he said. “Better than when I last saw you. The doctor had about twenty different tubes inside of you.”
Sean tilted his head with intrigue. “Since when do you speak so properly?”
“Since I was promoted. Apparently, the position requires a little bit more tact than I’m used to.”
“How was the ceremony?” Evelyn asked.
“Lousy. Everybody was applauding me like I was some Hollywood actor, and the reporters kept calling me a hero and all that.”
“You are a hero,” Sean said.
“No. It was never that hard for me. My father was the real hero. I’m just trying not to screw it up.”
“Think you can handle the job?”
Moore chuckled as he tugged at his uniform. “We’ll see. I’m starting to miss my leather jacket already. What about you? Do you miss anything?”
Sean shook his head Evelyn helped him walk over to Moore. The two of them assisted him as he hobbled over to the fence to grab his crutches.
“Did you watch the Vigilante’s funeral pyre?” Sean asked.
“I did,” Moore replied. “It was a beautiful sight. Sorry you missed it. Hard to be there when you have stitches all over your sides.”
“I’m glad I missed it. I don’t think I would have wanted to watch it.”
Moore pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes. The two shared a smoke together as they looked down at the gravestones.
“Is it over?” Evelyn asked Sean.
Moore’s slight nod seemed to indicate that he knew what she meant as cigarette smoke poured from his nostrils. He leaned against the fence, scratching his scalp as he searched for an answer.
“For now,” he said. “But somebody else will w
ant to move in. Our city is now open again for another gang to set up. And the public still doesn’t trust us completely. You don’t get trust back easily after what happened.”
“The Vigilante could have helped,” Sean said. When Evelyn looked at him with alarm, he added with a wink, “If he had survived.”
Moore chuckled as he clapped Sean on the arm. “You know something, kid? I thought about it for a long time ever since it all went down the way it did. You know what I decided? It’s good the Vigilante ended like that. He wouldn’t have belonged in this environment. Before, he belonged. He did what nobody else could do, including me. I did the best I could, but it wasn’t enough. Somebody had to do the nasty work. The Vigilante did it. But that’s changed. Things aren’t going to be the same. New gangs will try to move in, but this time we’ll be ready for them. I won’t let them set up shop here. The Vigilante was needed because the city did not do its job right. Now it will. There’s no need for the Vigilante anymore.”
“As long as the police do their job,” Sean said.
Moore narrowed his eyes at Sean, a suspicious grin apparent.
“Is the Vigilante really dead?” he asked. “Or is he just dormant?”
Sean held Evelyn close, kissing her on the cheek.
“If he isn’t, I don’t know. I have nothing to do with it from now on.”
“So what are you going to do with your life? Things are going to be a little boring, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life, but that doesn’t worry me. I’ve been offered some work as a writer for McKinney’s Press, but not sure if it’s for me.”
He and Evelyn exchanged hopeful looks.
“It doesn’t really matter,” she said.
Moore rolled the cigarette around in his mouth, then flicked it out onto the ground after smothering it on the fence. He grimaced as he felt the smooth sensation on his cheeks.
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