A Visitation of Angels

by Carolyn Haines

Reginald went through Ruth’s clothes, checking seams and pockets, collars that felt a little thick. He patted down quilts and blankets, felt pillows and even a few stuffed animals he found in the back corner of Ruth’s chifforobe.

  “I’m going out to look in the shed.” I needed to be alone. There was so much going on in Ruth’s house that I felt bombarded by emotion. If I meant to connect with Ruth Whelan, I had to get out of the house and into a quiet place.

  “I’ll finish here and wait for you.” He looked around the chaos of the house. “Someone has been through this place with a fine-tooth comb.”

  Reginald understood. It seemed to me that while he might never be a natural medium, he was developing more ability. And he was attuned to my needs, without explanation.

  When I stepped out the back door into the yard, I became aware that I’d been holding my breath. The smell of death had made me sick, but in the clean air that sensation passed. There was a chicken coop in the back, the birds sad and hungry. I fed them some scratch from a barrel and shut them in the coop. Reginald could help me catch them and take them back to Elizabeth or Hattie Logan. I wasn’t going to leave them there to starve or be eaten by hawks or foxes or other predators. People thought chickens were stupid, but I liked the happy cluck-cluck sound they made, and the way they minded their own business.

  I searched the coop carefully, looking under nests and gathering the eggs as I went. They’d have to be broken and thrown away because there was no way to tell how old they were.

  I found nothing in the coop, and even though I mentally invited Ruth to visit, she did not. I could sense her, the pleasure she took in caring for her birds, the satisfaction of the clean nesting area, the raked grounds around the coop, the solid fencing that protected the birds, at least until something tore it open.

  “Ruth?” I spoke her name, hoping to entice her.

  My gift for seeing spirits had come as a surprise this past summer when I’d arrived in Mobile, Alabama to visit my uncle Brett for the summer. The death of my husband, Alex, in the Great War, had left me at sixes and sevens. I’d taken a job as a high school literature teacher and loved working with the students, but a summer vacation at the beautiful Caoin House was too tempting.

  It was on the grounds of Caoin House that I was made aware that Alex’s tragic death had awakened a latent childhood ability that I’d suppressed. I could see and communicate with the dead. And what I’d also learned was that the dead were just like the living. Some were merely lost, sometimes unaware that they were even dead. Others had returned to this plane to deliver messages or warnings or threats. And some were evil, desperately clinging to this world, willing to commit terrible acts and inflict harm for a variety of motives as diverse as their living counterparts. Some were very dangerous, too, attaching to the living and feeding off their hopes and fears. The most powerful could manifest and move objects, or even attack the living.

  As I walked down the pine needle-strewn path to the barn, I felt only peace. Ruth had loved her cottage, the woods. It was only in the house that I felt negativity and stress. Ruth’s life there had not been so pleasant and free.

  A horse clopped up to me from a pasture. The gelding looked good, and I found a halter hanging on a peg and captured him. He, too, would have to go to a neighbor’s. Someone had to care for him. I led him into a stall and found the feed room and a barrel of grain. I gave him a small feeding. I loved listening to the sound of a horse eating, and I stroked his neck as he chewed.

  He lifted his head, ears pricked forward. He gave a low whinny of greeting. When I looked at the open doorway of the barn, I saw her outlined against the white-hot sun.

  She was a slender woman, petite, with a tiny waist. She wore her hair up in the old Gibson girl style, more 19th century than current, and a long-sleeved dress with a long skirt that suited the place. Mission seemed to be at least thirty years behind the rest of the country. The modern women that had begun to grace even the larger Alabama cities would be run out of Mission on a rail.

  “Ruth?”

  She came forward slowly.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  As my eyes adjusted to her in the darkness of the barn, I could see that she was translucent. She wasn’t strong enough to manifest completely, and I knew she couldn’t stay long. It took more energy than she had. The horse went back to eating, ignoring her.

  “Who did this to you?”

  She raised her hands as if to ward off a blow, and a wave of fear slammed into me. She had died in terror.

  “Find…”

  The word came to me more as a thought than a sound. “Find what?”

  “Find…” She sobbed and came closer. Her head was cleaved, and she’d lost an eye in the brutal attack. “Find!”

  It was painful to look at her. “Find what, Ruth?” I kept calm, stroking the horse’s neck, focusing on the soothing sound of his eating, the warmth of his hide beneath my hand. The little things kept me steady.

  She bowered her head and sobbed. “No, no, no, no.” She mumbled the word over and over. I didn’t know if she mourned her own death or something else.

  “Who killed you, Ruth?” I tried again.

  “Find…him.”

  I nodded. “We’re trying. Was it Slater McEachern who hurt you?”

  “No.” She lifted her head at an odd angle. “Not Slater. Not him. Find…”

  Her word was good enough for me. Slater was not her killer. Elizabeth, no matter how she came by her knowledge, was correct. There was no reason for Ruth to lie to me. The dead were not trustworthy in many regards, but I believed her about this.

  “Why were you killed?” I thought she understood me, but the way she angled her head made me wonder if she truly did. She floated closer. Blood saturated her dress. “Why, Ruth? Can you tell me?”

  “Because—” She looked up sharply and the horse snorted and pushed away from me, knocking me lightly into the stall. “Run!” In a split second she was back at the barn opening. “Go!” And then she was gone. I heard a car door slamming and a male voice call out.

  “What are you doing here? This is private property.” The man sounded tense, angry.

  I waited for Reginald to respond, and when I heard his voice, I went to join them. The car was long and new, a fancy car. I recognized the make, an Aston Martin. Someone had paid a pretty penny for this car in a place where gasoline wasn’t even sold.

  The man standing beside the car was prosperous. He wore a freshly starched shirt, ironed to perfection. His moustache was waxed in a continental style, and he wore a fedora even though the day was like an oven. He looked me up and down and didn’t bother with a greeting. He turned back to Reginald, who stood on the porch.

  “You’re trespassing on private property,” he said.

  “And so are you,” Reginald offered casually. “Unless you now own Ruth Whelan’s place.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Reginald Proctor and my associate, Raissa James.” Reginald waved me over to stand beside him. “And you are?”

  “Lucais Wilkins.” I supplied his name.

  He gave me a searing look. “What are you doing here?”

  “I suspect the same thing you are,” Reginald said. He was his best in this kind of situation. He couldn’t be ruffled or upset.

  “I intend to buy this property.”

  “We’re also interested buyers,” Reginald said, supplying the false story we’d worked out with Uncle Brett. “A lot of people might be put off by the fact a brutal murder was committed here, but not us.”

  “I thought you were in town visiting a relative,” Lucais said.

  “Can’t we do both?” Reginald asked.

  “I’m going to town and I’ll send the deputy out here to force you to leave.”

  “Afraid of a competitive bid?” Reginald asked, and I felt my heart catch. Lucais was no one to mess with.

  “You’d better pack up and move along. This place isn’t for you,” Lucais said. “Take some friendly
advice before it becomes unfriendly.”

  Reginald didn’t move, but the front door of the house slammed with enough force that the panes in the window rattled.

  Lucais started forward angrily but stopped when Reginald came down the steps to meet him. “Someone wrecked this house,” he said. “I wonder what they were looking for.”

  “I don’t know how you did that, slamming that door without touching it, but I’m not falling for any of this bullshit you’re selling. I don’t know why you’re really on Sand Mountain, but take my advice and leave while you’re still breathing.” He got in his car and drove away.

  “Lucais Wilkins,” Reginald said to me. “The man who runs the town. He’s a bully and if he hangs Slater McEachern, he’s a murderer.”

  “And the man who’s going to make it a point to run us out of town.”

  “He can try,” Reginald said. “He can try.”

  Chapter 9

  Reginald settled the chickens and the gelding at Elizabeth’s place. The old boy had trotted behind the car without tugging on the lead rope once, and Reginald had made sure to go slow. I would have ridden him back if I’d been able to find a saddle. Elizabeth told us that Hattie would send her helper to get them before the night came on.

  “Are you sure I won’t be charged with theft?” Elizabeth asked. “Lucais would rather see those animals die of starvation and thirst than think I was benefitting from them.”

  “I’ll speak with Gomes,” Reginald promised. He sighed. “You haven’t been honest with us about Ruth. How she survived. The things she did.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “No, I haven’t. She was my friend. I didn’t see the need to speak about it. She took no pleasure in what she had to do.”

  “Except that’s probably why she was killed.”

  Elizabeth studied the ground before she looked up and held my gaze. “Yes. She knew everyone’s darkest secrets. She talked about that sometimes, when she was feeling sad and alone. She said she carried the worst parts of so many people with her.”

  “So many men,” I said.

  “The men used her, yes, but the women did their part in making her feel excluded. She provided what many of them cared to withhold. She helped them hide their appetites and sins, the men and the women alike. They should have thanked her, not shunned her.”

  “We ran into Lucais Wilkins,” I said. “He’s planning on buying the property.”

  “I’ve heard that, but I don’t see the natural spring as something Lucais really views as a valuable investment. He’s not the kind of man who’s going to be content selling jugs of water, or even moonshine, for that matter. Lucais doesn’t see himself as a merchant or bootlegger. There’s something else there.”

  “If Ruth had a list of her clients, the men she…serviced and the women she helped get rid of their pregnancies, where would she have hidden it?”

  “I’ve thought about that a lot since she was killed. If she had something of value to hide, where would that be? I think I know.”

  “Elizabeth, I don’t mean to sound harsh, but you need to be completely honest with us. We’re wasting our time unless we know the whole story,” Reginald said.

  “Of course. There’s a circle of stones in the woods behind her house. Big stones, not ones she could move herself. They’ve been there for ages. She liked to go there to think. She said the place held power left behind by the Indians.”

  “I’ll go there right away.” Reginald looked at me. “I want to go alone. If someone is watching the place, I don’t want you caught up in things.”

  “No.” My reaction was quick and firm. A faint glimmer of the terrible dream swept over me. Reginald could not get arrested. They truly would hang him. “It’s too dangerous for you. You more so than me. I can go.”

  Reginald started to say something but stopped. He frowned. “Why are you saying I’m in more danger than you?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Because she’s seen that danger.” Her voice rose with excitement. “Gabriel came to her. He gave her a dream, a glimpse of the future. She met Gabriel and felt the touch of his power.”

  “Touch of what power?” Reginald was quickly getting upset. “Who is this Gabriel?”

  “I had some dreams last night. Disturbing.” Even as I talked about them they slipped further from my grasp, as dreams were wont to do. “At first it was just a regular dream. I was walking on a beach with the surf and the night. It was good. Peaceful. Then I was sinking in the sand. Reginald was in danger.” A flash of the Caoin House cemetery, gravediggers hard at work, hit me and I blinked back tears, which Reginald didn’t miss.

  “It must have been some dream.”

  “Trust me. It was.” I didn’t want to talk about it. To speak of it made it too real. The terrible grip of the dream had caught me once again, unnerving me. I needed action, to do something to combat the sense of helplessness that made my limbs heavy and unresponsive. “Give me the keys to the car. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

  “You can’t drive.” Elizabeth put her hand on my shoulder. “It isn’t allowed. Women don’t drive. If they catch you, they’ll put you in jail.”

  “What do you mean women can’t drive? Why not?”

  “It’s against the laws of Mission. Only men can drive.”

  “Even if a woman owns a car?”

  “She cannot. And they will arrest you.”

  “That horse of yours. Is she ridable?” I’d get back to Ruth’s and search the area around the circle of stones for a journal.

  “She’s very nice. Easy.”

  “I’m a good rider. I grew up riding. Is there a saddle?”

  “There are two, but you’d have to ride sidesaddle. It’s how things are done in Mission.”

  “I can manage that, though I have a better seat astride.”

  “I’ll saddle her for you,” Reginald offered. “But I still think I should go.”

  “No.” I didn’t want to tell him what I’d seen in my dream. I only knew he could not find himself behind the bars of that jail or he might never leave alive. “Maybe you could take Elizabeth on her rounds to deliver eggs. Meet some of the local women. See what they know.”

  Reginald wasn’t pleased, but he wasn’t going to fight me. “Brilliant. “

  I leaned in and captured his gaze. “It’s important that you do this. We need another suspect. The women will talk to you a lot quicker than they’ll talk to me. Maybe you can find out if they’ve heard gossip, or have ideas of who really killed Ruth. You can charm them.”

  “Doubtful. They’ll know that their husbands visited Ruth.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on.” I grabbed his hand and held it, remembering the hands I’d seen holding onto the bars of the jail. An artist’s hands. “A lot of women are possessive. Sex is a duty to them, but it is also the hook another woman can use to catch their wayward spouses, if left…unsatisfied. To many of the married women, Ruth would have been a blessing because she was a woman who could take care of their husband’s needs but who would never attempt to claim a man in marriage.”

  “And she knew how to avoid the trap of a baby,” Elizabeth said. As if on cue, little Callie began to make gurgling sounds. I wondered if the baby could cry. I’d never heard her do more than the soft sounds of a baby lamb.

  “Let me get the horse ready.” Reginald stepped out of the house. His footsteps across the porch were quick and even.

  “What gift did Gabriel give you?” Elizabeth asked eagerly. “I knew when I met you that you’d be able to see him.”

  Elizabeth’s loneliness was apparent to me. She’d been so very alone in the birth and raising of her daughter, in running the farm. Her friend had been murdered, and she lived in a town that viewed her with suspicion if not contempt.

  “Can you dream the truth?” She caught my hand and held it in a gesture of friendship.

  “No.” I frowned. “The dream was a nightmare. Terrible. I never want to experience that again. He touched my shoulder and I was paralyz
ed. Sinking deeper and deeper into the sand, and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t save myself. If that’s what he considers a gift, I want no part of him.”

  “He touched you.” Elizabeth’s eyes were wide, the skin beneath them tense. She was afraid for me.

  “Just a light brush more than a real touch.”

  “He has marked you.”

  I shook my head. “No. There are no marks on me.” I’d washed myself before I dressed. Except for the sunburn on my arms and face, I was unmarked.

  Elizabeth took my wrist and led me to a mirror near a hutch. She brushed back the fine hair beside my ear. Just in the hairline, so small I hadn’t noticed it, was a red mark. In the poor light I couldn’t see it very well.

  “That’s just a bug bite. Mosquito or fly.” I rubbed it and it tingled.

  Elizabeth pulled me toward the light from the kitchen window. She lifted her heavy black curls to show me a similar mark on her skin. I bent close. It looked to be concentric circles inside a red dot no bigger than a pencil’s eraser.

  I knew it wasn’t a bug bite. And how did she know to look for the mark on me? Was it possible the creature from my dream had left a physical reminder in my flesh? The idea was terrifying. A few of the spirits I’d encountered were able to manipulate the physical world, but most could not. They were remnants of a dead time, spirits and emotions lost between the worlds of the living and the dead. But this winged creature, this…man or angel, had abilities I’d not yet encountered. The implications were frightening.

  Elizabeth was watching me, seeing the truth of what she said sink in. “I’m sorry,” she said. “If I’d known Gabriel could reach you in that way I would never have called on you for help.”

  “What does this mark mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know anyone else who has it?” I would find answers and come to a way to remove it.

  “I’ve heard stories.”

  Rumors and old tales about angel markings were not what I wanted to hear. I didn’t have another option, though. I couldn’t even call Madam Petalungro to ask her advice because there were no telephones in Mission and possibly not anywhere on Sand Mountain. The terrain and isolation kept them insulated from the broader world and that was how they liked it. I’d hardly been in town twenty-four hours and the disconnection from the real world was already wearing on me. Now, I knew I was about to hear things that would further upset me.