Maplecroft

by Cherie Priest

  God, look at me. I’m coming apart at the seams. We all are. We all must be civil, instead. I must throw away these pages, lest Lizzie should see them.

  But I’ll write them first.)

  • • •

  The doctor came by, knocking on the door around lunchtime—when I was down in the parlor and Lizzie was in the kitchen, making cucumber sandwiches. I’d made my way downstairs myself, much to my sister’s irritation; now she complained she had to go up and down the stairs every time she need tend to one of us, or the other.

  But I don’t always need tending, and I never want it. Sometimes I want to finish dressing myself and with the help of my cane, descend the stairs like a more or less normal woman who’d care to read the newspaper in the parlor today. A woman who’s sick of being sick, and can’t bear the thought of lying down another goddamn moment.

  So I was in the parlor, and not in my room. When the knock came, I mean.

  Lizzie answered it, at first with a smile, and then with a frigid politeness that told me something was amiss. I listened for all I was worth, and before she even invited them in, I knew it was Doctor Seabury come to visit . . . and that he was not alone.

  Coolly, she ushered the men inside, and that’s when I was compelled to make the acquaintance of Inspector Wolf, the strangely named.

  Everything about the doctor’s demeanor suggested apology, and a begging of indulgence. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to be here, he told us all, but the matter was outside his control and he had nothing but our best health and happiness in mind.

  My face flushed warm, and my hands went cold. I had no idea how much Seabury had told this man, and I was not certain of the subject matter. We hide so many secrets here at Maplecroft—it was impossible to assume which one might have been transgressed.

  The doctor sat on the chair opposite the settee where I rested. He fidgeted with his hat in his hand, and seemed very earnest when he leaned toward me and said, “I apologize from the bottom of my heart, Miss Borden, but it’s a matter of exceptional importance that brings us unannounced.”

  I tried to keep from glaring when I replied, “It must be indeed, for you to surprise us like this.”

  He nodded hard, his eyes trying to convey something I couldn’t quite grasp. I think he was trying to tell me to trust him, but that wasn’t easy. Not when he knew so much, and could do such harm. “Yes, and I trust you’ll forgive me if I’m direct: This is Inspector Wolf, from Boston. He wishes a word with Doctor E. A. Jackson.”

  I was stunned. It would have almost been easier to swallow had he offered up some greater—but less personal—secret for this out-of-towner to chew on.

  “About what?” I was not quite ready to give up the game. I had my gender on my side, for once. Any man would believe the whole thing was an utter fabrication, if I swore it was so.

  The inspector answered this stuttered question of mine before the doctor had a chance. “I believe that he’s in terrible danger. A madman on a spree wishes to meet him, and thus far, everyone who crosses this madman’s path has turned up dead.”

  I struggled to get a handle on the matter, all the possibilities rolling around in my brain like so many marbles. “Dead? The doctor is being hunted by a murderer?”

  “A murderer many times over. We’ve tracked him since his first killing spree at a university, up at the northwestern end of the state, and—”

  I interrupted. I couldn’t stop myself. “His first killing spree?”

  “The first of seven, all told. Perhaps more,” he informed me calmly but firmly.

  I didn’t understand. I couldn’t figure out what my publishing persona had to do with a murderer on a spree, as if we didn’t have problems enough in this household. “Who is this murderer?” I demanded.

  “Madam—” Wolf made a conciliatory stab at calming me, using less condescension in his tone than I had any right to expect, given my outburst. “He’s a professor who’s taken leave of his classes and his senses alike. And it’s only just now dawned on me that I must be speaking to Doctor Jackson this very moment, a fact which gives me some measure of pain and pause. I made assumptions, and assumptions rarely take me anywhere useful.”

  I swallowed back whatever had bounced onto the tip of my tongue, and I cast Lizzie a glance. She was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking helpless and afraid.

  • • •

  (I felt a flash of sorrow, a dim flicker of memory from when we were children and she was so small when our mother was buried. She looked that way beside the coffin, except then she was holding my hand.)

  • • •

  For her, then. I could be brave and adult about this. The inspector was being polite, and there was always the chance he was an enlightened sort. He must’ve seen so much of the world; perhaps he would not be surprised by something as innocuous as a woman with a pen.

  I straightened up in my seat, held my head high, and said, “Yes. I am Doctor E. A. Jackson. Or I might’ve been, in another time and place. For now, as you see, I am a woman confined by her own skin.”

  I wondered at my own strange choice of language, and he did, too—but he didn’t mock it. He only said, “Women attend universities these days. They become doctors of all manner. Still, I can’t blame you for preferring the secret. And . . .” He looked around the room. He took in the blankets, the canes, the extra rails on the stairs and the bloodied handkerchiefs I’d collected in a pile on the side table. “I can understand if it gives you some feeling of freedom, or escape. May I ask: What is your specialty?”

  “Marine biology,” I told him. “And if I had a fraction of the health I once possessed, I’d be one of those women in the university, right now. I fear little, when it comes to the gaze or scorn of men.”

  He was looking at Lizzie now. Recognizing her. Piecing together the rest—who we were, where Doctor Seabury had brought him. No, not a stupid man. A very quick one, and tactful when it suited him. (As for other occasions, I’m unable to say.)

  “Jackson,” he mused. “Not the name either one of you was born to.”

  Lizzie answered, “No. But beyond a certain point, names become accessories. We swap them out as needed, for the sake of peace. You understand?” she asked him, her voice calm and level. She really wasn’t asking if he understood.

  “I understand,” he confirmed anyway. “Though I disagree. Names aren’t hats to change a look, or a suit to be swapped at a whim. Words mean things.”

  “Then we must agree to disagree,” she told him. “Now. Tell us about this man who’s coming for Doctor Jackson.”

  “It’s as I said—a teacher who’s lost his mind. We found a scrap of note, left by the killer at a scene. Not as a warning or boast, but as an afterthought, I think. Maybe he simply forgot about it. It seems to have been written to the doctor.”

  “It only seems that way?” I asked.

  “The note rambles excessively, and it makes sense only in fits and starts. Here,” he said, withdrawing a folded sheet from his vest pocket. “Since I believe it was intended for you, in a roundabout way. You may as well have it.”

  And then he handed over the most astonishing document I’d ever set eyes on.

  I read it start to finish; then I read it again . . . and a third time. All the while, my skull was boiling, cooking through the details and trying to figure out how they all fit together.

  “Zollicoffris,” I whispered, my attention snagging on the corruption of a name.

  “Does it mean anything to you?” Wolf asked carefully.

  I cleared my throat. “Zollicoffer,” I said with more confidence. “Phillip Zollicoffer, at Miskatonic. We’ve been correspondents for some years, off and on.”

  He sat back in the chair, exhaling. “So you do know the man.”

  “I know the handwriting, and this isn’t his.”

  “No, madam. A copy, produced by one of the Boston record keepers. But should I trust that the two of you have never met in person?”


  “Trust and believe it. He has no idea who I am, or that I’m a woman.”

  “When was your last exchange of letters?” he wanted to know, and when I finally tore my eyes away from the paper, I saw that he was now holding a notebook and a pencil. Something told me he was always similarly prepared. For anything.

  “Erm . . . I don’t know. Last April, I suppose. It’s been a while. My health has its ups and downs, but last April I was strong enough to roam along the shore, a little bit. With my sister’s help.” I cast a nod in her direction. “Sometimes Doctor Zollicoffer and I would exchange strange finds, fossils or seaweed samples. That sort of thing.”

  “Samples, yes. He refers to a ‘sample’ in the letter. Is there any light you can shed upon those particular ramblings?”

  I remembered it was warm for April, the last time Lizzie and I went to the shore. It was windy but not uncomfortable, and we’d brought my wheeled chair, but I was walking a little, here and there, running my feet over the rocks in the rubber-soled slippers that help me keep my balance. I was holding Lizzie’s hand, and there’d been a smell . . . some strange stink from a tide pool, and inside the tide pool I’d found the dead thing. A dead thing like nothing I’d ever seen before, nor have I seen since.

  “The ugly specimen . . . ,” I breathed, running my thumb along the paper. A stupid gesture. It wasn’t a genie’s lamp, and if I asked it for anything, it’d only give me more questions. “The one that smelled so awful. Lizzie, do you remember?”

  “How could I forget?” She’d come up behind me, to read over my shoulder. I hadn’t even noticed. “You made me go home and get a jar to hold it. I thought you’d gone crackers, wanting to keep that awful thing—and then when you told me you’d send it to a colleague . . . I wondered how much you must hate him.”

  “That’s right, and I believe you said as much. But I’ll have you to know that he loved it. He told me so, in a letter I received a few weeks later. He was fascinated with it, and he very much enjoyed inspecting and researching it. He’d come to suspect it was a rare kind of siphonophore, if I recall correctly.”

  “A colonial creature?” Wolf asked with a lift of an eyebrow.

  Mine lifted right back at him. It wasn’t a word I would’ve expected anyone unaffiliated with the field to know, off the top of the head. “That’s right. A collection of organisms, operating as a single creature. It truly was extraordinary, even for such an extraordinary breed.”

  “It was disgusting,” Lizzie argued. “For days afterward, I could smell it on my hands.”

  “It was science, and it was worth investigating.” And if no one else had been present, I might’ve quipped about the irony of an axe murderess being squeamish about a tide pool, but we were not alone and I restrained myself.

  Doctor Seabury, who’d scarcely said a thing since making his introductions and apologies, raised an interesting question. “You said he sent you a letter, some kind of response. Is there any chance you possess it still?”

  I shook my head. “Oh no. I destroy all such correspondence within a week or so, or someone might come and find me out.”

  The inspector said, “That sounds like a shame.”

  “Well, it isn’t. And I don’t have it anymore, and I can’t imagine what on earth a strange biology sample has to do with him going daft. And just look at this.” I flipped the paper up and tapped the pertinent paragraph with my finger. “He thinks I might be mad, too—and he believes our conditions are rooted in that April sample. Or that’s the sound of it, if one could be so bold as to assign meaning to this . . . message.”

  “But you’re fully possessed of your senses,” Wolf said politely. “Undoubtedly, there’s no true connection to be found . . . but it may not matter. When a lunatic decides upon a fact, no evidence to the contrary can sway him. He’s coming here, looking for you. He has your address, if you’ve been corresponding—or some portion of it, I should think.”

  “He knows the town where I reside, but I’ve always had him send his letters care of my sister, who he knows as ‘L. B. Andrew,’ via the general post. Mr. Katz has always delivered such mail without asking questions, and if he has any suspicions, I’d be stunned.”

  “You’ve taken great lengths to preserve your privacy, but if Zollicoffer knows the town and knows even this much about your situation . . . he’s likely to find you.” The inspector’s face was grim and concerned, a set of expressions almost comical on the face of one so plump and pink.

  Lizzie returned his expression, and put a sharp edge on it when she said, “I assure you, we can fend for ourselves. Better than you might expect.”

  The doctor added, “And I’m at their disposal as well, should they require added assistance. It’s been some years since the war, but I’m a good shot—and there’s life in these old bones yet.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but perhaps some police presence should be added.”

  Lizzie snorted. “If you can talk them into it, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. The local authorities think I’ve gotten away with something . . . and anything that befalls me henceforth must be richly deserved.”

  “You give them so little credit?”

  She and the doctor exchanged a look. Seabury answered for her. “The trial made them look bad. Like they hadn’t done their jobs, perhaps because they didn’t know how. There is plenty of bitter blood to go around. That said, I’ve often wondered why you stayed here,” he said to her. “Utter anonymity might elude you, but there are other places, farther away, that might have proved more welcoming.”

  “Fall River is my home,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  She did not add that my health had been a large concern. At the time, it was suggested that I might not survive such a strenuous undertaking as a cross-country move. This was part of it, yes—but also, by then we knew of the creatures and the threat to the town. She was determined to save it, though sometimes I can’t say why.

  And obviously, we couldn’t share that with Inspector Wolf. He knew enough already, but we didn’t know him—and our weird little coterie of three was intact, in that regard. Seabury had not betrayed Maplecroft. He’d only betrayed me, and only a little bit at that.

  That’s what I told myself, over and over.

  • • •

  Later, after the strange little inspector had left us, I told it to the doctor, too.

  He disagreed, bless him, but I couldn’t shake the sting of him knowing something so private, and sharing it.

  “I only told him the truth,” he said, “because if he’s right—a spree killer is on his way to Fall River, and you are his intended target. You never know; the inspector might be in a position to help us, when the killer arrives. And if nothing else, we’re now one step ahead of the fiend. We’re waiting for him, and we won’t be surprised by him.”

  “A killer,” I echoed. “Dear Doctor Zollicoffer. I can hardly imagine it. He was such a . . . an intense, and bookish fellow. How that translates to murdering madman, well, I’m at a loss. And all this over a sample, just some weird specimen I found on the beach.”

  Lizzie’s feet clomped slowly down the stairs. She’d been up there, checking on Nance. I assumed there was no news on the girl’s condition, or else she would’ve told us about it. Instead, she pointed out something so obvious that it hadn’t yet sprung to my mind.

  She said, “The specimen and the murders. The creatures who come, and the people in town who are likewise losing their battles with madness. They’re all connected. They’re all pieces in one large, awful puzzle.”

  Seabury quickly agreed. “The deaths Wolf described had much in common with those I’ve seen in Fall River. We’d be daft if we ignored the possibility that they’re related.”

  “But how?” Lizzie asked, with such exhaustion and desperation that my heart nearly broke for her.

  “Perhaps the monsters are causing it . . . ?” Seabury suggested.

  Lizzie didn’t think so. “We don’t know what we’re fighti
ng, not really. The creatures that come around after dark . . . they must be a symptom of something, not a cause. I can’t shake that feeling, and I don’t think any of this new information contradicts the possibility.”

  “Symptoms . . . ,” the doctor mused. “Yes. We may be thinking about this the wrong way, or . . . or I don’t know if there’s a right way, but we ought to think about it another way.”

  My sister settled into the settee at the far end from Doctor Seabury. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I’ve tried everything, but all this time I’ve been fighting blind. The creatures and the murders—we can think of them as symptoms, pieces of a bigger whole, but at the moment I’ll be damned if I can figure out what that bigger whole might look like.”

  Seabury held out his hands, using them to gesture while he talked—explaining on top of his explanations. He had an idea, and he was getting excited.

  “Here at Maplecroft, you’ve been treating all this as if it were supernatural—and reasonably enough, might I add. There’s nothing natural about what’s occurring, but let us approach it as science. Or more particularly, let us call it medicine,” he said with emphasis. “If we were to examine this town as if it had contracted an illness, where would we begin? How would the first symptoms present themselves?”

  Lizzie opened her eyes, and at first she stared off into the distance. Then she said, “Changes in behavior. Of ordinary people, I mean.”

  “All right,” he said with something perilously akin to cheer. “One moment, let me find my way to some paper and a pencil . . .” And when these things were acquired, he used the coffee table for a writing desk. “Yes. So. Changes. Can you be more precise? I assume you didn’t wake up one morning and find yourself in need of an axe.”

  Not his most delicate handling of a subject, but she didn’t seem to take it amiss. She only answered, “Sleeping more.”