by Jo Schaffer
The horror of that washed over Hazel. She took Sandy by the hand and led her into the house and up to her room with Henri on their heels. Her best friend followed without resistance and lay down on Hazel’s bed, weeping without a sound.
Hazel lay on her side next to Sandy and put an arm over her. “What happened down there? I’ve never asked before, but … my psychotherapist says that emotions we bury never die. You need to get it out.” Hazel watched her best friend’s profile as she stared up at the ceiling.
Sandy wiped her eyes and spoke. “Charles asked me to the VP Ball. He came to my house with a rose and asked me to go on a walk with him … I was over the moon. You know how much I wanted that.”
“Yes.”
“He kissed me. Hard. And he pushed something into my mouth with his tongue … Then he clamped his hand over my face so I couldn’t spit it out. It hurt, and I tried to get away. He said, ‘Swallow the pill, and I will let go.’ So I did.” Sandy stopped as a sob shook her body.
Henri whined and hopped up onto the bed, lying beside her. Sandy hid her face in the side of his furry body. Hazel watched, a lump rising in her throat. Maybe she shouldn’t make Sandy relive whatever had happened to her. It was too horrible.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she said softly.
Sandy turned toward Hazel, swallowing hard. One hand moved through Henri’s fur. “I opened my eyes, and everything was blurry. I was in the caves but didn’t know where I was. He wanted the diary … he wanted to hurt me. And he did. I never want to talk about what he did … It was too much …” She squeezed her eyes shut and caught her breath. “Then I told him I didn’t have the diary—that I gave it to you.” She turned toward Hazel, and her light brown eyes, rimmed with gold, spilled more tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry … I was afraid.”
Hazel shook her head. “No. It’s okay. Stop that.” She wiped away one of her friend’s tears and stroked her cheek. “He was coming after me anyway. I was there and saw him after he killed your sister. He knew Stanley and I were trying to figure out who he was.”
Sandy continued, staring into nothing. “I blacked out. I heard yelling and sounds but couldn’t wake up. My whole body hurt. It was dark, and my face felt funny. Sticky … tight. I reached up and touched it and realized my face was covered with drying blood. Someone was standing over me. I knew it was him … that he was back to do more things to me … He said, ‘Where’s the knife he done this with?’ At first I thought I was seeing things or that … the devil had changed shape. But I realized it was someone else in a tilted bowler hat.”
“Arthur. He went back after we left …”
Sandy nodded. “I told him there was no knife … that he carved into my face with Evelyn’s ring.” She twisted the ring on her finger. It glowed blood red.
Hazel gasped. “Oh, Sandy!”
“Last thing I saw before everything went black again … Arthur was bent over him, tied up on the floor, going through his pockets, and I saw the glint of the ring as he slashed it at Charles’ face. Arthur did that for me.”
Hazel knew Arthur had his own reasons for hating Charles, a swell who was instrumental somehow in the ruination of his family years ago. But it was clear that Sandy had fixated on the dark newsie as a hero who had evened the score for her. “Do you love him?”
“I hate him, and I need him.” Sandy turned on her side, hugging Henri.
Hazel wanted to tell her that it was dangerous and twisted to need someone like Arthur. The relationship would go no place good. But she couldn’t bring herself to say that to Sandy.
“Arthur isn’t … our kind.”
Sandy turned and looked at her, incredulous. “Hazel … how can you even talk about ‘kinds’ anymore? He’s right, and you ought to know it. This business with the Veiled Prophet goes beyond Charles. Why are you acting like you don’t know it? Why are you turning into Brigitte?”
The confusion and headache came back. Hazel shook her head. “I—I don’t know. I just can’t be sure.” She didn’t want to talk about it—had to think. “I’ll get you something to eat and drink. You rest. We can talk more later if you need to. Okay?” Hazel patted her friend’s back and slipped out of the room. It was hard not to feel panicked. Teeth was missing, Sandy and Arthur had some kind of scary attachment, and the facts about all that had happened seemed to slip through her fingers whenever she tried to think. And then there were the headaches.
Hazel found two Pepsi-Colas in the Frigidaire and a couple of pastries in the pantry. While she surveyed the shelves for something salty, she heard voices enter the kitchen.
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be more careful.” It was Peggy. She sounded unusually somber.
“Be sure that you are. I won’t have any sass. Don’t forget who pays your wages.”
Hazel blinked in surprise. Was that Mumsy sounding so high-hat?
“To be sure, ma’am.”
“My daughter needs to find her place and can’t do that while you treat her like she’s your equal.”
“I understand, ma’am.”
Hazel had never heard her mother act this way before. Admittedly, she herself had been a little bossy and impatient with the help lately … but hearing Mumsy talk that way made her realize it sounded just awful. She waited in the pantry, the drinks cold and wet under her arm.
“I’d like that martini in my room, and make it snappy.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
The sound of Mumsy’s heels retreating and then returning made Hazel back farther into the pantry. “And one more thing … I know how you people like to come and go. I’m letting everyone know they need to double check the locks at night. It’s probably best you stay in tonight. That Sinclair maid, Maxie, was found shot to death in a heap of garbage in an alleyway today, and nobody knows who did it.”
Hazel dropped one of the bottles, and it shattered on the ground, splashing her legs with cold, fizzing soda and fragments of glass.
When Stanley got home, Seamus was sitting on the couch, a glass of deep, amber colored whiskey on the coffee table in front of him and cigarette smoke floating around his head in a bluish haze.
“Hey, boyo, where ya been?”
“Had to go for a walk. Clear my head. A bit too full,” Stanley said as he sat down in the chair next to the couch.
“Sure, ya needed it. I’d offer you one of these, but you’re too young.”
Stanley nodded. “I’d be tempted.”
They sat in silence for a while, and Seamus reached for a paper bag beside the couch.
“I didn’t know if you would still want these. But you worked hard for them. I’m guessing Vinnie wouldn’t want you to throw them away.”
His uncle reached into the bag and pulled out the Post-Dispatch shoes. Stanley stared at them, not sure if he wanted to touch them or burn them.
“Vinnie’s family gave them to me. Wanted you to have them back. The funeral mass is in two days, boyo. They want you to serve, if you’d be willin’ and able.”
Stanley tried to prevent his hands from shaking. “I don’t know if I can, Seamus. I don’t even think I could stand the funeral.”
Seamus nodded, set the shoes down on the floor, got up, and went into the kitchen. When he returned, he had another whiskey glass and the bottle. He set the glass on the coffee table, poured some more for himself, and then poured one for Stanley.
“Ya know, when my pa died, your da and I had to plan the funeral. I was a mess and drunk, per usual, I guess. But William stepped up, planned the wake, a good Irish one to be sure, and helped Father with the mass. He was the strong one, Stanley, your da. And a good man. My hero.”
Stanley looked up at his uncle and understood. “Seamus, you’ve raised me and done the best you could. I’m not a street thug or anything.”
His uncle smiled and sat back down on the couch with a grunt. “To be sure, I thought you’d go that way when you were younger. That temper of
yours. Only thing I can fault you for is your skirt chasing. But the Lass of Lindell is gonna put an end to that, I’m guessing.”
Stanley nodded but didn’t say anything. He didn’t bother correcting Seamus. He’d resolved to stop all the trouble with girls even before he met Hazel and didn’t know where he stood with Hazel anyway. The last exchange with her was complicated. He couldn’t figure out what to do with her. One thing at a time.
“Did ya take the stick to Father?” Seamus asked.
“I was gonna go upstairs to get it. Any leads on the Rookery?”
Seamus shook his head. “Nah, and I can’t ask, at least not directly. Not my case anymore. But I’m tryin’ to see what I can find out.”
Stanley glanced down at where Seamus had put the shoes Vinnie had died in. “Someone has to answer for that.” He stood up, and Seamus reached up to touch his arm.
“Before you go, lad, let’s toast Vinnie on his journey.” He slid the glass of whiskey across the table to Stanley, and they both held up their glasses.
Seamus stood, closed his eyes, and raised his glass.
“Vinnie is not lost, our dearest love.
Nor has he traveled far.
Just stepped inside home’s loveliest room,
and left the door ajar.
May Vinnie see the face of Our Lord, Our Lady, and all the blessed saints,” he recited, his voice husky with emotion.
Stanley and his uncle clinked glasses and drank. Seamus downed his in one gulp, grimaced, and put down the glass. Stanley took a sip and coughed and sputtered. The liquid burned his throat, and the fumes filled his nose. “Ugh. No.” He opened his mouth to let the hot tingle on the roof of his mouth cool down.
His uncle laughed. “‘Tis good you can’t handle your liquor. May it never handle you.”
Stanley made a face. “Well, I’ll offer up that moment of pain for Vinnie’s sake.”
Seamus nodded and sat back down, lighting up another cigarette. “The VP ball is in a few days, ya know that, yeah?”
“Yeah, of course. How could I forget? I have to break out the peashooter for the parade.”
“Ha, to be sure. Wouldn’t mind being there myself. But I’m on duty. And for the ball. The chief wants me there.”
Frowning, Stanley said, “Why would he want that? You’re a detective, not a street cop.”
“Dunno. But I’m doing it to keep him happy. I seem to be in himself’s good graces lately, and that’s good for …” Seamus paused.
“Good for what?” Stanley said.
“Never you mind, boyo,” Seamus said, waving the cigarette. “Just go get that cursed branch like the good padre told ya. There’s a good lad.”
Stanley knew there were things that Seamus wouldn’t tell him. Something was fishy about the cops in town. He went upstairs and grabbed the black stick from the top of his dresser. The feel of the wood made his skin crawl, and he decided to wrap it up in one of his old scarves.
When he got back downstairs, he heard Seamus’s voice from the back porch. From the sound of it, his uncle was chatting up the widow O’Malley who lived across the alley. Stanley could never be sure, but he guessed they had a thing for each other. He never pried about his uncle’s personal life. It seemed the tough cop never had much time for women. Stanley wasn’t sure how Seamus could live lonely all these years. But with so much unknown in Stanley’s own life, it was a mystery that could move to the bottom of the list.
He walked back to St. James and found Father Timothy still in his study.
“Ah, Stanley, excellent timing. I just finished meeting with the ladies who plant flowers around the church; a fearsome bunch.” The priest grinned.
Stanley gave a light chuckle and then held up his bundle.
“I have it, Father. This is the stick.”
Father nodded and motioned toward the desk. “Put it there, and let’s see what secrets it holds.”
He put the branch down on the desk and unwrapped the scarf. The priest inhaled and said, “That’s no ordinary branch.”
Grabbing for a vial of holy water on his desk, he sprinkled it over the stick, making the sign of the cross. He and Stanley crossed themselves. And then Father Timothy bent down to examine the stick, while he took out a pocket knife. He scratched at the paint, exposing the wood beneath.
“It is blackthorn wood, often used in occult ritual. It’s meant as a conduit to target darkness, I guess you could say.”
The hair on the back of Stanley’s neck prickled. He blurted out, “How in the world do you know that?”
“I’ve told you before, Stanley. I have a unique set of skills that involve a series of experiences that I cannot share with you. I’m sorry.”
Stanley looked down and furrowed his brow as he examined the spiny, black branch again. “Guess you won’t sing.”
The priest chuckled. “I know, you hate not getting an answer, inquisitive man. But I do have my vows of obedience.”
“Yeah, I know, but …”
Father Timothy held up his hand. “I can tell you that I’ve spent years studying the occult and curses. Do you have headaches or nosebleeds? Anything unusual?”
Stanley shook his head. “No, nothing like that, but I had a terrible dream the night they put it on my pillow.”
The priest nodded. “Yes. I’m not surprised. These sort of curses are designed to invade the mind, but it looks different for everyone.”
Nosebleeds. Headaches.
“Father, could this sort of thing, I dunno, change someone’s personality?”
“Yes, especially if they are not closing their minds, as you’ve seemed to do. They underestimated you.” The priest smiled.
“But, Hazel, Father. I think there’s one in Hazel’s room. I’m almost sure of it.”
He described Hazel’s recent behavior. Her unusual confusion and snootiness, along with her headaches.
The priest nodded. “Yes, it sounds as if she is under a dark influence. But as she is not aware of the branch, it’s seeping into her mind. Brother Martin said they use these sort of diabolical tactics.”
At the mention of the monk, Stanley said, “Yeah, what’s the story on him? Why is he not here, helping us?”
The priest furrowed his brow. “His Abbot fears for Brother Martin’s soul, and he is afraid of putting everyone’s lives in danger, but he will come if he has to.”
“How can he help?”
“He knows what it is like from inside Legion and the whole history of the Veiled Prophet, why it was founded and their connections through the city. They have secret oaths and rituals that bind them together in secrecy, so that they can more easily manipulate, plunder, and murder without being caught or held accountable, gaining power with a dark brotherhood to back them. I’m sorry to say, they even extend into Holy Mother church.” Father Timothy frowned.
“I don’t understand.”
“The Veiled Prophet’s history goes way beyond the riots of 1877 and their aftermath. It goes back to the civil war, when many in this city wanted to keep blacks in slavery and wanted Missouri to join the Confederacy. So they formed secret societies to gain power. They have always terrorized those people in the city they considered unworthy. But, I suspect these groups went back even further in Missouri politics. Look what they’ve done in the past to Catholics, Negroes, Jews, Orientals, and Mormons. No group is safe that they have decided is inferior or insubordinate.”
Stanley leaned back in his chair. “Sounds like the Klan.”
The priest nodded. “They were certainly very much like them, and many of those people joined the Klan when it came into existence. You see, Stanley, people think that history is full of eras with concrete walls. When in reality, history is like an ocean with the same currents underwater, shifting to and fro. It is fluid, and when an evil disappears in one era, it reappears in another. If you look close enough, you find the connections. And in America, there has always been a group of people determined
to create the perfect place full of perfect people; a city on the hill, if you will. The Veiled Prophet is just an incarnation of what has always been.”
Stanley couldn’t move. The enormity of this group and their power overwhelmed him, and he felt helpless. As if reading his mind, Father Timothy said, “But, you know our consolation? The Lord looks over us. Evil never wins completely, not really. Goodness always raises up people to fight. There are always those who give their lives to keep the light burning.”
“So, I guess I better get writing then,” Stanley said, standing up.
The priest chuckled. “As your editor, your deadline is in two days. Give me a good article on The Winnowing. Make it part one of a series.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, Father.”
Stanley walked outside, feeling better than he had in days. He knew how to fix Hazel. The paper would be out in a week or so. And the tide would start turning once the light started showing in the rat hole. Probably some people wouldn’t believe it. But enough might.
Occupied by his thoughts, he almost ran straight into Arthur.
“Watch it, boss, I’m standing here.”
“Artie, sorry, what gives?”
“Ain’t gonna tell you until we get there. You smell too holy right now.”
Stanley chuckled. “Whatever you say, man.”
They walked in silence for a while, and Stanley glanced at Arthur. The kid was smoking like a chimney, drawing in fast and letting out smoke like a steamboat on the Mississippi. His face looked drawn, as if he hadn’t eaten in a while.
“Artie, are you okay?”
“What are you, my mother?” Arthur said, lighting another cigarette.
“No, thank God. I’d kill myself if I had such an ugly mug for a baby.”
Arthur didn’t even crack a smile. Not that he did much anyway, but sometimes Stanley could get a laugh out of him.
“What’s with you, meathead?”