Chapelwood

by Cherie Priest

  From streetlamp to streetlamp, I scanned the front page.

  The big headlines focused mostly on the recent election, and made note of the changes I’d heard about in passing already. George Battey Ward: Out. Nathaniel Barrett: In. Reorganization of the police structure: Chief Eagan essentially evicted, and Thomas Shirley instated in the role.

  I sneered at the blatant descriptor of “Klan favorite,” as applied to a man whose job it would be to uphold the law. Sounded like a terrific conflict to me. Not that anyone here cares “how we do it up north.” (As I’d already heard, once or twice in my travels below the Mason-Dixon. Fine, then. Duly noted.)

  When I reached my hotel room, I settled in with the paper—and with a couple of messages from the Boston office. Those I ignored, until I’d finished reading what passes for journalism down here.

  Are all the local papers so biased everywhere across the land? Well, probably. That doesn’t make it right, or good. I’m sure it happens in Boston, and I don’t really see it. Maybe the people here don’t notice it anymore, either. There’s plenty we’re all prepared to ignore, by virtue of familiarity.

  My attention snagged on another mention of the Klan, buried on page four.

  It was in reference to a recent parade, and I, for one, could not ignore it. (Yes, the Klan exists elsewhere above and beyond the fabled line, but nowhere else is it so ubiquitous. Or I must hope and pray.) Apparently, there were rumors that the early axe killings were perpetrated by black men . . . and someone thought that the solution to this matter would be to invite the Klan to put on a show of strength. Not that they put it that way, but I can read between the lines with the best of them.

  I doubt it will work. It was a stupid idea in the first place, and it will serve only to frighten and intimidate perfectly honest men . . . and maybe cause the assault and horrific death of a few, because everyone else will be worked up as well.

  I hate to consider it, but the atrocities committed by this group are no great secret; if anything, they go out of their way to advertise their brutality, mounting a campaign of fear against the populace at every available turn. And to think, I’d reflexively felt it best to preserve my hosts from the details of the Massachusetts case of yore—when, apparently, it’s common practice to perform comparable acts of terror on negroes with virtually no evidence (or none at all).

  I won’t record any of it here. It turns my stomach.

  And that said . . . though less creative in scope, and more limited in production . . . these assorted instances of mob justice do remind me of those terrible crimes in Massachusetts.

  Several things have reminded me of them since I learned of Coyle’s death . . . as if a reminder is being suggested by the universe, repeatedly. A gentle hint, growing louder. It’s not just the brutality of the Klan attacks, or the repetition of the axe motif. (And it is a motif. Everything is, when you stand back far enough and squint.) But just when I was prepared to write it all off to coincidence . . . young Ruth brought up the notorious Miss Borden. Just as the chief did, before I left Boston.

  I haven’t thought of her in years, and now she’s come up twice.

  The old Fall River case and these new cases aren’t the same, no. Not the same parties or location, not the same anything—except for a common weapon and a shared sense of dread that escalates the longer I remain here. But I am listening to these hints from the cosmos all the same, and so I am thinking about what it all means.

  I am thinking about the brief time I spent in the company of Lizzie Borden.

  No. That wasn’t her name, not by then. She was using her father’s name, Andrew, or something like that. But a simple change of name is no change at all, not really.

  • • •

  We never did know what happened in the Massachusetts cases. Something was headed for Fall River, barreling toward Emma Borden—we’re confident of that much. It wasn’t someone so much as it was a thing, wearing the skin of an upstate biology professor.

  That thing killed dozens. (And that’s only to count the deaths we confidently know of, and can tie directly to it.)

  And then . . . then it reached Fall River. Or it should have, according to our calculations. No one from our team was ever able to stop it, at any rate—so either it stopped of its own accord, or someone else stopped it.

  My money has always been on Lizzie Borden.

  Lizzie Andrew. Whatever.

  Her sister (an invalid) was in no position to defend herself, and that old doctor friend of theirs was once in the army, but he lived on the other side of town . . . so there was but one person on the premises at all times with a hypothetical history of violence, and a physical capacity to perform it.

  The math supports my conclusion, even if she never did.

  There’s some connection here, between Alabama and New England. I don’t know what it is, but I must listen harder, pay attention, and see what the universe is trying to tell me.

  • • •

  Stephenson’s trial doesn’t begin until Friday, and since he’s confessed freely to his involvement in Father Coyle’s murder, there wasn’t much “solving” to be done on that particular case. He’d either be convicted (unlikely, I fear) or cleared of all charges due to insanity or some other loophole of a justice system with no intent whatsoever to jail him (much more likely, yes). True, I’d collected my stipend and headed south in order to address the priest’s murder, but what was there to address? I’d sit in at the courthouse out of respect, if I could. Not that it would make any difference.

  Meanwhile, there was always the matter of the axe murders. Coyle thought they were important, and he was no fool—so I decided I might as well take a crack at them while I’m here. I’m still on the fence with regards to their strangeness (or I should say Strangeness), but the Chapelwood business is mighty weird; and if the two are related, I might be right—and this may yet count as a business trip and I might successfully petition you for full reimbursement.

  With this in mind, I made a phone call to the police station, to see how their change of leadership was progressing. It sounded like more mayhem over there: plenty of shouting, plenty of questions, plenty of background noise that made it difficult for the young secretary and me to understand each other. Eventually I extracted a bit of useful information from her, which was to say that the axe murder case files were no longer on the premises. They’d been removed to the city commissioner’s office a month before, due to concerns about security.

  That’s how she put it, “concerns about security.” From whom or what, she declined to say.

  I thanked her for her time, and released her from the call.

  A quick check of the local paper reminded me of the name of the outgoing commission president: George Ward. Everyone of any character I’ve met so far has spoken well of him, and if the ludicrously named True Americans are that desperate to get rid of him, he must have at least a few principles stashed about his person . . . or so I told myself as I feathered through the phone book.

  I found his listing right away, but when I inquired after him, his wife informed me that he wasn’t home. She pointed me toward his old office, where he was cleaning things out and doing his best to ease the transition. I heard a catch in her voice as she said that part; she didn’t want the transition eased in the slightest—she wanted to fling a thousand boulders in front of it, and I could certainly understand the sentiment. But as she stressed, Mr. Ward was a consummate professional, and he wanted to fulfill every ounce of his final obligations.

  A cab ride brought me to the government center in under fifteen minutes.

  The city’s administration headquarters were typical of government buildings all the world over, or the Western world, at any rate. Greek inspired, Roman confused. White columns and wide, short steps—oversized entryways, heavy double doors . . . all of it intended to remind the citizen of how small he is, in the scheme o
f government.

  The council wing was off to my right. I found it down a corridor with marbled floors and lots of brass fixtures, everything modernized (very slightly) with the nouveau lines that were popular ten years ago, and already look a bit dated . . . but at least it wasn’t more of the humdrum Mediterranean mishmash, so I gave it a pass. Likewise, the plates on all the doors were carved in a current typeface, something with triangle-edged points and doubled lines on the capital letters. It was sharp, and it suggested that someone, somewhere, was interested in bringing Alabama into the modern age.

  I watched the nameplates and office designations until I found one reserved for the City Commission president. The door was ajar, for a man with a bucket and a scraper was carefully removing George Ward’s name from the frosted-glass window set within it. He gave me a nod, but didn’t look at me. I responded in kind, and stepped inside without disturbing the door.

  I rapped politely on the frame, in order to announce myself to the fellow who stood behind the desk. He was a lean man, tall and sharp, in a gray linen suit that was cut like it cost a pretty penny. In keeping with the citywide style, he wore a mustache, keenly waxed; his hair was smooth and shiny, parted on the side, as dark as a crow’s wing. It was a startling shade of black on a man who must’ve been in his late forties. Not a speck of salt, nor a hint of pepper marred it. He was holding a phone, but he wasn’t using it. He’d either just hung up or hadn’t yet dialed.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. Smooth voice, and oily like his hair. It was the voice of an educated man, with a higher-class version of the regional accent I’d been hearing on the streets thus far.

  “I beg your pardon, but my name is Simon Wolf. I’m an inspector from Boston, visiting your fine city on a bit of business.” I produced a badge that identified me as a veteran representative of the police department there. It wasn’t true, but no one ever followed up on such a bold claim; and even if anyone did, the police and my home office have a quiet agreement on such matters.

  “Boston business? In our fair city?” He set the phone down atop the big oak desk. “I suppose we’ve had some high-profile crimes over the last year or two . . . but I’m still surprised to see a guest from such a distant corner. Please, pardon my manners: I am the City Commission president, Nathaniel Barrett.” He extended a hand, and I took it. We shook, and he continued. “I hope our little town has treated you well so far.”

  “I find myself enchanted by your cityscapes, your citizens, and most especially your cuisine. And it’s a pleasure to meet you.” It wasn’t, but we were both being pleasant. And I, for one, was being careful. “I’ve been sent here, that I might look into your recent spate of axe murders. I’m a specialist, you see—and I’m often assigned to strange and violent cases. I have an exceptional record for solving them.”

  “An interesting specialty indeed,” he said, then looked around behind me. “I do apologize—I’d offer you a seat, but as you can see, I’m still getting settled in.”

  It was true, the office was in a state of disarray. Two chairs were present apart from the one behind the desk, but they were stacked atop one another in a corner. Several boxes of papers, notebooks, files, and other assorted paper goods were overturned and shuffled into madness; two of the desk drawers were lying beside it, their contents scattered across the floor. This did not look like an office changing hands. It looked like the site of a particularly brutal ransacking.

  I demurred. “No apologies necessary—I understand completely. In all honesty, my own office rarely looks much tidier, and I don’t have an administration change to pin it upon. Speaking of which, congratulations on your new position.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wolf. I appreciate your kind words, and I hope I can be of some assistance to you . . . but as I said, I’ve only just arrived. I’m still learning what archives are kept where, and under what system of organization. My predecessor and I had different ideas about filing.”

  I almost said, “Among other things, I hear,” but I bit my tongue. “Perhaps I could have a word with your predecessor, then . . . ? I understand that Mr. Ward was the commission president during the bulk of the killings.”

  “That is correct, though you might have better luck at the police station—if it’s the case files you’re after.”

  “Ah, but that’s not what the station had to say about it. According to my contact there, the files were moved here a few weeks ago. Something about security concerns.”

  He looked puzzled, but that’s easy enough to do. I didn’t take it at face value.

  “If that’s the case, then I must apologize yet again. I really haven’t the faintest idea where they might have run off to. I haven’t come across them so far, but I assume there’s other storage to be found, someplace. Listen, why don’t you give me a number or an address where I can reach you, and I’ll keep my eyes open. Surely they’ll turn up in the next day or two, don’t you think?”

  “That’s a marvelously kind offer, and I can’t thank you enough.” It might have been a little gushy, but by that point, I think we both knew how much horseshit was being flung about the room. “Here, take my card—and on the back, I’ll jot down the hotel where I’m staying. You can reach me there, or leave a message anytime, day or night.”

  We extricated ourselves with another handshake, just in time for his phone to ring with a jangling clamor that was loud enough to rattle the single office window, which overlooked a rectangular yard. I took my leave, and once again took care to keep from disturbing the man at work on the door.

  But as I stepped around him, he discreetly tapped the back of my leg with his scraping tool.

  He held a finger to his lips, so I said nothing—I only walked all the way around the door and out of Mr. Barrett’s immediate line of sight. From the single side of the conversation in the office, I deduced that he was chatting with his new police chief; and the workman deduced that it was distraction enough to whisper a message: “Basement,” he breathed. “Stairs at the end of the hall. Storage Room Six.”

  Then he returned to the “r” in “Ward,” removing it one solitary flake at a time, and studiously avoiding any pretense of having spoken at all.

  I would’ve thanked him, but he gave me the impression he’d rather I didn’t call attention to his covert assistance, so I walked away in the direction his head-cocking had indicated.

  I collected a few curious stares as I strolled the length of the corridor, but I’d already figured out the easiest way to deflect them—with a nod and a smile, the social currency of the region. It was a simple work-around to my native unfamiliarity; so long as no one heard me speak, and realized how very foreign I was, everyone treated me with cordial acceptance—and although I was not familiar to any of the men or women who worked there, I behaved as if I belonged, and that was sufficient to keep anyone from stopping me when I reached the door to the stairwell.

  A sign beside it confirmed what lay beyond it, and furthermore admonished, “Authorized Employees Only,” but I ignored that, pulled the handle, and let myself inside—to a narrow vertical space made of concrete from floor to ceiling. I realize that these interstitial places are meant to function, not shine, but it still felt like an oppressive, gloomy nook—all gray, all dark except for the caged lightbulbs positioned at the landings. The steps were stained or shadowed in blotchy patches, and the handrail was covered in glossy black paint that had chipped and peeled in the Southern humidity to reveal a veneer of rust underneath.

  I had no intention of touching it.

  But in the semidarkness, I reached for it anyway, without meaning to—about halfway down, where the light was weakest between the landings. It felt slick under my fingers, and I jerked them away. I looked for someplace to wipe them, but seeing nothing, I took hold again. I could always wash my hands later, couldn’t I? It would be easier than nursing a broken leg.

  At the bottom, I gave up and reached for my
handkerchief. I rubbed it back and forth across my fingers, turning it faintly red and collecting the flecks of paint as I stared about my new surroundings.

  It was brighter there at the bottom, but not much. The floor was still that smooth, drab concrete, but the walls were brick and stone, painted white . . . though I could scarcely see them for the stacks of filing cabinets, boxes, folders, office equipment, and cleaning supplies that formed a maze around me. “Storage Room Six,” the man with the scraping tool had told me. I saw no mention anywhere of different rooms or divisions, or any other sign that this repository of Everything Else had ever received any hint of organizational assistance.

  Directly before me, a few feet from the final step, a pair of cabinets stood side by side like oversized, threatening sentries. A pair of angels with flaming swords could have scarcely been more intimidating in that close, darkened terrain—but the space between them was approximately the width of a doorway, and a path ran between them as a matter of necessity.

  I approached these bureaucratic obelisks and turned sideways, passing through this weird gate and into a veritable tunnel, for the civic detritus towered over me on either side. On my left I saw nameplates and old windows, closet doors and pieces of chairs. On my right, broken lamps and brooms, a cigarette machine that perhaps still worked, a tower of desk drawers stacked one atop another almost to the ceiling.

  It may have been my imagination that the way grew more narrow as I progressed, and the storage items more peculiar. But I turned sideways again and now I squeezed past an upended chaise, a bicycle, and the bottom springs of a mattress. I shied away from bookcases covered in dampness and rot, a coffee table that looked like it’d been shattered with a mallet, an umbrella stand shaped like a dead-eyed parrot—and the skeletal remains of half a dozen umbrellas that jutted from its head.