Elizabeth slowly quits swaying. Her eyes open and she looks at us. “That’s the dream. It’s still as vivid as the night I dreamt it.”
“Who is holding the cleaver?” I ask. Her eyes are still distant, as if she’s right there, in the dream. If she tells us who she suspects, perhaps it will help us find evidence to aid Slater McEachern.
“I don’t know. I’m inside his head. I can see everything he sees. I can feel some of his sensations, his emotions. But I can’t see him. I don’t even have a sense of his size, except in relationship to Ruth. He was several inches taller than her. He split her skull with one blow, which tells me he’s strong.”
Elizabeth’s recounting of the murder had chilled me to the bone. She’d been so detached, so calm, as a woman she knew was brutally murdered. Almost as if she felt nothing. But then she looked directly at me and I saw how haunted she was.
“Ruth was dead by the time I dreamed this,” she said. “I woke up that very night, snatched Callie out of bed, and ran to her house. When I got there, the front door was open. I stepped inside and saw that someone had torn her house apart, looking for something. Maybe they found it. Maybe not. I could smell the blood from the doorway. When I saw her, sprawled up against the stove, her back burned into it and her head split open and nearly severed at her neck…” She swallowed and gently rocked Callie. She drew comfort from the baby, as much if not more than she gave. Callie turned her head and watched us with those bright navy blue eyes that were almost black.
“Do you know what the intruder was looking for?” Reginald asked.
“I don’t know. I think it might have been the deed to the land. Ruth didn’t have anything anyone else wanted. That farm was the only thing of value. Both of her children died of a fever a couple of years ago. Not long after that, her husband was killed when a tree fell on him. Ruth was lonely. The killer could have waited. When Ruth died, the land would have gone up for sale. All the time she lived there, she never tried to stop anyone from getting the spring water if they wanted it. Now folks are acting like Mr. McEachern wanted that land because he thought it was valuable, saying the water could heal people.”
“Healing water.” Reginald spoke more to himself than us. “Who’s been healed?”
“Several people claim they were healed by the water. One said her vision cleared. Another claimed the water helped her rheumatism. A little boy had a high fever and drank some of the spring water and his fever broke. The Indians believed the water had healing properties. Sometimes they’ll slip by, filling skins with the water to take back to their villages. They aren’t wanted here in Mission.” A flush touched her cheeks. “No savages, no pagans, no gypsies.”
I recalled the sign with the noose. “What’s the issue with the Romany people?”
“Lucais Wilkins, the man who runs the town, says the gypsies are thieves. He hates them so everyone else follows suit.”
“This Wilkins is the mayor?” Reginald asked.
Elizabeth only laughed. “There is no mayor of Mission. The town is run by a board of governors appointed by the church. Lucais is the head of that board and the man who has enough money to buy his way whenever he wants. He hires the law officers. He sits as judge on trials. He runs everything.”
Mission wasn’t the only town that was controlled by a single person or even a handful of wealthy people. “What church is it?”
“Everyone in town is a member of the Blood of the Lamb Reformed Church. It’s an offshoot of the Protestant faith, but nothing like the Methodists or Baptists.”
Elizabeth was very well-spoken and apparently well educated. She was an outsider looking in on the town, but an outsider with a larger worldview.
“Where did you come from, Elizabeth?” I asked again.
The question made her sigh. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve always been a vagabond.”
Oh, but it did matter. It mattered a lot. “Why Mission, Alabama? You could have gone anywhere. You’re educated. You could have worked as a secretary or maybe a clerk for a town. Maybe a lawyer’s secretary. Why here, where there is no work for you?”
“I was directed here.”
“By whom?” I asked.
“By the Divine.” She smiled at my expression. “I’m not an emissary of God or some kind of pagan priestess. I just know that my being here is not an accident. Nor is the gift of the dreams. It’s all toward a greater power.”
The baby was watching her with rapt attention, as if she understood the ramifications of what Elizabeth claimed.
“God sent you here?”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t have said God, but that’s close enough.”
“What would you have—” Reginald’s hand on my shoulder stopped me.
Reginald was kind but firm. “We came here to help you, and we came without the expectation of pay. What we do expect is your honesty. You’re risking a lot for a man you say you don’t have any bond with. He’s not a relative or a lover or a business associate. So why does this feel so important to you? We need to know what’s going on.”
Elizabeth looked down at the ground for a moment. “Yes, I owe you that much. I suspect you’ve guessed some of it anyway.” She faced us. “I’m Romany. I came to Mission looking for my brother. He came this way to sell pots and pans, and the last account of him was in this area. That was more than two years ago.”
Chapter 4
Darkness slipped among the thick trees as we sat under the white oak and talked. Elizabeth came from privilege. She’d had private tutors in Tennessee and spent summers in Europe with relatives. Her family could claim a direct line of descent from Kelly Mitchell, the Queen of the Gypsies. Mitchell had been buried in Meridian, Mississippi, and newspaper articles of her grand funeral had traveled all the way to Charleston. The stories of wishes granted were legendary for those who visited the gravesite and left behind a token of food, drink, or money.
“My parents died several years ago in the flu epidemic. It was only my brother and me left, both of us grown, but we’d been very sheltered. My brother had a yen for adventure, and he took part of his inheritance, bought a wagon and team, and set out to sell pots and pans in rural areas. He said he wanted to know what it was like to be a real Gypsy, not a city Gypsy. Ramone never saw danger. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Hard-headedness appears to run in your family.” Reginald said it, though I was thinking the exact same thing.
“If it weren’t for Ramone, I’d be safely home in Chattanooga. We have property, money in the bank, a safe and comfortable life. None of that mattered to him. He was to join up with some travelers on the Tennessee-Alabama line. I had built a satisfying life around tutoring children and giving piano lessons. I thought eventually I would fall in love and marry. When I didn’t hear from him for months, I tracked him to the group of travelers. One woman told me he’d had a dispute with their leader and Ramone had set off alone to sell his wares on the Cumberland Plateau. She said Ramone was talking about communities so isolated that they would gladly buy all their supplies from a tinker traveling though. It sounded exactly like Ramone’s thinking—that he would go to the hardest place and make a killing with a captive audience.” Pride and dismay mingled in her voice.
“How did you track him here specifically?” Reginald asked.
“I followed him to Victoria and a woman in a dry goods store where he’d bought material and sewing supplies told me he was headed this way. He left a letter for me, indicating this was his destination. He was to meet me here. So I followed. But not as a Gypsy. I traveled as the proper wife of a farmer. If the people of Mission knew I was Romany, they would have banished me. Or worse.”
I didn’t doubt it. Even just recalling the sign with the noose made me cringe. The people in this community didn’t like any outsiders, but there were some outsiders they really hated.
“But you moved here?” I asked. “Why didn’t you keep searching?”
“This was the last place I knew he was headin
g. I thought if he wasn’t here, that he’d certainly come later. Frankly, I didn’t know where else to go. When I couldn’t find him, I realized he would have to find me. I put jams and jellies in the local store with my name on them. I did what I could.”
Elizabeth had chosen to remain in an inhospitable village on the off chance her brother might travel through?
“This isn’t a safe place for you or your baby.”
She didn’t argue. She was out of arguments—and yet she flatly refused to leave without helping Slater McEachern. Whatever held her here was more powerful than the impulse to protect her child or herself. All she’d say was that it was a directive from the Divine.
“When this is done, I’ll leave. You have my word.”
That was presuming that Elizabeth would have an opportunity to leave. Dread had begun to creep over me with the night. The hoot of an owl told me that the nocturnal predators were out. I had a sense that once again we were being watched, and this time by the living. It was time for Reginald and me to find our lodging and to sleep. We all rose as if we were of the same mind.
“You’ll find Hattie to be a lovely hostess. She has a room for each of you. I didn’t know…”
“That’s perfect,” I said. “We’re exhausted. I’ll fall asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow. Tomorrow we’ll talk with Slater McEachern.”
“I’d like to come too.” Elizabeth touched my arm. “They haven’t allowed me to talk to him at all.”
“It might be better if you didn’t,” Reginald said. “We don’t want the appearance that you’ve collaborated with McEachern in any way.”
She nodded. “A good point.”
“And they don’t even want Raissa to speak with him,” Reginald said. “They seem to have a very clear idea of what a woman’s place is in this town.”
“And it isn’t in a jail.” Elizabeth and I spoke in unison, and for a moment the tension was broken. We laughed, and it felt good. In Elizabeth I recognized some of my own traits.
“My uncle warned me to keep quiet here,” I told her.
“He’s a wise man. There’s no place in Mission for a woman with intelligence or opinion. I do my best to avoid expressing any thoughts.”
Until now. When she was bent on taking on what served as law enforcement, the judge, and town rule. Essentially the entire male establishment of Mission. Elizabeth was not naïve or stupid. She knew what she was risking, and she had so many strikes against her. More difficult was the fact she was risking her infant daughter, though I hoped the townspeople would not take action against a baby. I couldn’t be certain, though. When fear was invoked and whipped to a frenzy, people were capable of incomprehensible cruelties.
Moving as a group, we started back through the woods, the fallow garden that had played out with the summer heat, and past the barn. “Shall I hold Callie for you while you feed the horse?” I offered.
Elizabeth shook her head. “Mariah loves Callie.” She looked over to the paddock where the buckskin came to the rail to greet us.
“We should go,” Reginald said. He seemed edgy, and I wondered why.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” I told Elizabeth before we headed to the car and the drive to our lodging.
* * *
Mrs. Logan had left a candle burning on the kitchen table with a note telling us where our rooms were located. She’d already retired. Widow women worked long, hard hours, and Reginald and I slipped quietly to our rooms. We were worn out. I looked forward to a bed and the oblivion of sleep.
I snuffed out the candle and was almost instantly traveling the shadowy world of dreams. I walked along the shoreline of an ocean, the waves cresting white as they broke and then charged the shore in a whirlpool of foam, kissing my bare feet with warmth. I loved the sound, the feel of the sand sucking out from under my feet as the water shushed up and out. I didn’t know this place, but I was at home here, alone against the huge void of winking sky and murmuring ocean.
As I passed between the sand dunes and the water, a breeze kicked in that brought with it an icy chill. The water, which had been warm and appealing on my bare feet, grew icy, biting into my flesh like angry fingers. The sand sucked and held me in place, making me panic as I tried to pull free. The harder I pulled, the deeper I sank. Sand covered my feet, then my ankles, and the water rose higher, tugging at the hem of my skirt. A force I couldn’t see held me motionless. Behind me, I sensed the approach of someone but I couldn’t turn around. I was mired in the sand up to my knees, my body held stationary. The surf pounded now, but not as loudly as my heart.
From behind me came the flutter of wings and a bitter wind. The softest touch, feather light, moved along the back of my arm, sliding down my back from shoulder blade to waist. Twisting and fighting to free myself of the cold grip of the sand, I only sank deeper, to mid-thigh.
“Behold the child.” The words came from the blackness behind me and I no longer tried to look. I could not bear to see what stood only inches from me, because I was afraid.
“Leave me alone.” I sounded pitiful and weak.
“You asked to see, and now you shall.”
But I didn’t want to see any longer. I wanted only to leave this place, to run down the shoreline and away to safety. I could not, though. I was trapped as securely as if I were held in chains. This was not a ghost or a spirit in the ordinary sense of the word. This was something that lingered in the dim shadows of sleep, between the worlds of the living and those who slumbered.
A hand grasped my shoulder, and numbness crept over me. It was a struggle to breath, my lungs unwilling to pull in the oxygen my body screamed to have. Suddenly the darkness of the sky and ocean disappeared, replaced by a rough brick wall with iron bars set in a window. Two hands gripped the bars. These were not the hands of Slater McEachern. The trimmed nails, the tapered fingers that indicated artistic talent—I knew these hands even though now they were grubby with dirt. Reginald’s face pushed against the bars. His hair was oily and unkempt, and his eyes haunted. “They’re going to hang me.”
He looked directly into me, and I felt his despair and hopelessness. They would hang him for who he was, not for anything he did. I was helpless to save him.
Again, a hand grasped my shoulder, and I found myself in a shady cemetery. I recognized the graves, the graceful beauty of the burial ground at Caoin House where my uncle Brett lived. This past summer, I’d spent more time than I wanted in that cemetery, where so many ugly secrets had been laid to rest. What drew my attention was not the familiar tombstones, but something else. Two Negro men dug a grave, the sweat running down their faces in the awful heat. I sat in the dirt, my feet dangling in the grave, a shovel in my own hands. When I looked at my hands, I was shocked to realize I was also a Negro. My hands were heavily calloused from hard work, and I grasped my shovel and jumped into the grave, relieving one of the other men as I bent to the task.
The man digging with me spoke. He was in his fifties, lean and hard from work. “I heard Mr. Airley say to bury him fast. Took Mr. Brett a long time to get his body back. They kept him swingin’ for two days. Keep diggin’.”
We were burying Reginald. What was left of him, anyway, after the town of Mission had finished with him.
“Stop!” I fought the paralysis that held me in a grip so tight I could no longer feel my torso or legs. I had returned to the beach, to the suffocating sand that was now at my hips. The earth was swallowing me whole in one slow gulp.
Whoever, or whatever, had been behind me was gone. The sound of the ocean returned and the stars blinked on in the velvety night. Once again, the water teased my toes, warm and comforting. The grip of the dream had released me.
I awoke in a strange bed in a strange room, the hot night laying as heavy on me as a wool blanket. I was drenched in sweat and I sat up, hoping to catch a breeze from the open window. It took me a moment to remember that I was in Hattie Logan’s home in Mission, Alabama. Even when I did, my anxiety didn’t lessen. Had I seen the future?
Was Reginald going to be jailed and hanged? Would Uncle Brett retrieve his body to bury him at Caoin House? It took everything I had not to give in to the overwhelming urge to cry. Tears had never been my friend, and I fought them back.
When I’d gathered my emotions sufficiently, I got up and went to the window to look out. Two big sycamore trees, the leaves still green though autumn was close, glowed white in the moonlight. The slightest movement made me look closer. A man stepped out from behind the tree trunk. He stared at the house, but I couldn’t tell if he saw me in the window. I eased back, hiding. Was he a living human or something else?
I peeped out the window again and he was much closer. I could see him in detail, the shirt so white it glowed in the moonlight. He lifted his arms, and behind him two enormous wings spread open. Was I still in the grasp of a dream? I couldn’t tell, and I felt myself slipping into darkness. He would be waiting there for me, in the land between the living and dead, and I was terrified.
I came awake gasping for oxygen. It was as if I’d been held underwater for a long time and was finally free to break the surface and draw in air. When I caught my breath, I stood up and went to the window. The sycamore trees shone like old bones in the moonlight, but if someone was out there, he remained hidden. I knew where I was. I knew that I’d been dreaming. Deeply dreaming. If this was “the gift” that had come to Elizabeth Maslow as part of her relationship with an angel, I wanted no part of it. I only wanted to get in the car with Reginald and drive home as fast as we could.
Chapter 5
I got up the next morning when the sun was bright in the window of my room. I could hear Mrs. Logan busy in the kitchen. I’d finally returned to sleep in the wee hours of the morning. My room was small but comfortable, though to be honest I was so exhausted I could have slept in the backseat of the car. The horrible dreams I’d experienced were like an almost forgotten memory—just a faint lingering whiff of tragedy and danger.
A Visitation of Angels Page 4