City of Liars and Thieves (17 page)

Others tried. Some went down on hands and knees. But they came up empty-handed.

“See anything?” Watkins asked.

Supporting himself on a pole, Lent teetered perilously over the edge. “Looks like…” he said.

I staggered backward and opened my mouth, but the scream died in my throat.

“Dear Lord,” Elias whispered.

Arnetta Lispenard appeared at my side. “Come along, darling, let me take you inside,” she offered.

Eyes fixed on the well, I shook my head.

Watkins went to his carriage and returned with a hammer and nails. He rested the longer pole on the ground and drove a nail into its end, banging with full force. The fury of his blows matched the beat of my heart and echoed across the desolate fields. When the nails were in place, he handed the pole back to James Lent. “Try to hook it now,” he said.

Again, Lent submerged the pole, applying his weight like a lever. “Help me,” he said.

Watkins stood behind him and pushed the end of the pole down with the weight of his body.

A fistful of green fabric emerged, snagged by the sharp nail.

My knees buckled and, as if an invisible force had thrown me backward, I collapsed.

“Caty?” Elias stooped over and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Caty,” he said again. “We must be strong.”

I knew he was right. Yet the pain I felt was as real as any blow. I was breathless and stunned. My head was spinning and a wave of nausea rose within me. I had thought that Elma's absence was worse than death, that when she was found we would find some measure of peace. I was wrong.

“Up now,” Elias said. He tucked his hands under my arms and pulled me to my feet.

The hope I had hidden deep inside was smothered as a nail and pole tore through the neckline of Elma's best dress, the one we had sewn so painstakingly together.

“Draw her up,” Watkins said. “Careful.”

Elias pulled me close. I rested my head on his shoulder but could not look away.

“She's too heavy,” said Lent.

The boy was sent to fetch a rope. He returned with a coarse, thick cord, the kind used as a noose. I watched in horror as Watkins and Lent steered the pole and shimmied the rope. Other men gripped the ends, pulling, chafed hand over chafed hand.

“Heave,” someone cried.

The men tugged and panted. Some cursed. One gazed into the hole, dropped the rope, fell to his knees, and retched.

Lispenard, who had been so full of bluster, staggered backward, as pale as the snow. “It can't be, this can't be,” he repeated like a vow.

“Pull together now,” Watkins directed.

A chunk of thick snow slipped down the side of the well, exposing more bricks. The damp rope dragged against the icy grime and frayed until I thought it would snap. The men pulled.

Slowly, Elma emerged.

Her neck was limp, twisted at an impossible angle, and a shroud of wet hair obscured her face. The rope ran across her chest and under her arms. It took four men to hoist her up. Her back arched and scraped across the bricks and boards, and the rope grew slack as her body slid down the embankment and came to rest.

Elma had been eleven days in this gruesome place. Her hat was off. Her gown was torn open above the waist. Her shawl was missing. Her shoes were gone, and the tops of her feet were scraped. I went to her and knelt by her side. Frost had collected on her lashes. Her eyes were cloudy and vacant, open but unseeing. As I cradled her head and lifted it onto my lap, it rolled sideways as if no longer attached to her body. I brushed a tangle of hair off her face. My fingers caught in a hard knot. The ivory comb clung to her frozen locks, the ribbon gone.

I leaned my head down close to hers and kissed her waxy forehead. She had a loamy stench like a cellar. I closed my eyes but could not escape images from a lost dream: a swampy meadow, stagnant water.

“Elma!” I wept, shaking her until her head lolled forward and back.

Elias dragged me away from the pile of rank clothing and tangled hair that once was Elma. His eyes looked bleary, or my vision had blurred. He led me back to the road. I slipped in the snow. As he helped me into Watkins's sleigh, I caught my heel on the runner and tore the leather. Elias struck the horse with the whip, splattering us both with icy mud.

“Where's Elma?” I looked over my shoulder to where the men stood, stooped gray figures melting into the white snow. “She should be home.”

“Watkins will see to that.”

“When?”

Elias mumbled into his collar. His eyes were fixed on the road and his head swayed along with the pitching rig. I could tell that he was in shock. It would have been easy for me to join him, but my senses were rapidly returning, my devastation turning back into the rage I had been nursing these long days. Elma was dead, but she had fought to save herself. Her torn dress and scraped feet were proof of her struggle. Her pain was my agony. Her fight was now my battle.

“She didn't do this to herself,” I said. There was no way to reconcile the outward signs of trauma with self-inflicted pain. No one, no matter her sorrow, would torture herself so horribly. A rancid smell clung to my clothing, and one thought gripped my mind: Ezra Weeks's men laid the pipes for the well, and Levi knew the location. It was likely he oversaw the project himself. “Levi did,” I said.

The reins grew taut in Elias's hands, and the horse pinned his ears and whinnied. “Why?” he shouted over the wind. I couldn't tell whether he was questioning me or the unjust workings of the world. Either way, I had a response.

“Elma was carrying Levi's child.”

Elias spun toward me, the horse balked, and the sleigh swerved off the narrow path. Surrounded by brush, the horse pulled up. The harness was tangled and the sleigh tipped at a menacing angle.

“Damn!” Elias swore. He jumped down and tried to pull the rig forward, but the horse flared his nostrils and tossed his head. Elias slapped the horse's flank, but he only backed farther into the thicket. “Get down,” Elias hollered, though he didn't offer a hand.

I lowered myself into spiky bramble, more convinced than ever that Elma would never have come here alone.

Elias righted the sleigh and coaxed the horse back onto the road. I waited until we were moving before speaking again.

“Elias.” It seemed essential that he acknowledge Levi's guilt. “Ezra didn't approve of Elma. He would never have condoned their marriage.”

“Let it rest,” he said.

“So he lured her from the house on the pretense of a wedding, and then he—” I grew queasy again, thinking about what Levi had done, how Elma had fought to save herself.

Elias snapped the reins. “Let her rest!”

“I can't,” I said. “I won't,” I swore.

We turned down Greenwich Street. Men, women, and children were gathered on the sidewalk in front of our house, and more spilled out into the street, making it impossible to approach. Three boys, not much older than Charles, tossed a ball. It was well past candlelight and frigid on the street, but the crowd closed in as we arrived, eager for news.

“Where's Elma?” called the woman who had become Elma's most ardent supporter. Other shouts drowned her out. Everyone had a question. None of which I could answer.

One of the Forrest boys pushed through the crowd to take the horse and sleigh.

Elias wrapped an arm around my shoulder and ushered me inside. His shoulders were shaking, his chest convulsing.

Through the dimness, I could see the children perched halfway up the stairs with Elizabeth Watkins. Their white nightgowns shone in the darkness like a modest beacon of hope.

“Caty?” Elizabeth rushed downstairs the moment the door closed behind us.

“She's been found,” I said, then shook my head, imploring her not to ask more in front of the children. “Thy husband and the others are bringing her home and we'll be able to lay her to rest.”

Charles ran down, hugging my legs. “Elma's coming home?” he asked.

I stroked his hair. It was silky and soft, though not as thick as Elma's. “Elma is in heaven now,” I said, trying to compose myself.

“No!” he screamed, and his tiny fists punched against my skirt.

“That's enough,” Elias said. He took Charles by the collar and pulled him away so forcefully that his bare feet dangled momentarily off the ground.

Elizabeth began to sob, and so did Patience. My stomach clenched. I had been unable to save Elma and I could not even comfort my own children. I knelt and took Charles's hands in mine.

“Heaven is a beautiful place. There are green pastures and clear, flowing streams—” My explanation sounded like one of Elma's stories, and I choked on my words.

“The Lord has summoned her,” Elias said. Perhaps he regretted handling Charles so roughly, because his tone was unusually gentle.

I turned, hoping Elias had returned to his senses, but my relief was short-lived.

“Why?” Charles cried. “Why now?”

“Charles!” Elias exploded. He had always been quick to anger, but I had never seen him so volatile. “Off to bed. And mind thy sister.”

Charles's eyes widened as he looked past the dark parlor toward the bedroom. “What if the Lord calls Patience or me?” He stepped backward. “What if we don't want to go?”

At her name, Patience began to shriek.

“The innocent will be spared,” Elias said.

I spoke sharply, without considering Charles's fear. “Elma was innocent!”

“Caty,” Elias said, “let the children go to bed.”

“I'll take them,” I said, scooping Patience into my arms. She was hiccuping, and I hugged her warm body until I could feel her heartbeat in my chest.

Elias clutched my arm. “The men will be returning, and someone has to see to her. Let Elizabeth put them to bed.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth said. She wiped her tears and smiled at Charles, though she had no words of consolation. No one did.

Elias's fingers dug into my flesh. I kissed Patience's soft forehead before handing her back to Elizabeth and following Elias into the parlor.

The fire was low. The room was empty, or so I thought until I saw a dark shadow in a rocker. The chair was pulled close to the hearth, tilted forward, and Levi was resting his feet on the grate. His body was doubled over, and he hugged his knees as if in pain.

“They found her,” he said, not bothering to turn.

“Yes.”

“At the Manhattan Well?” Levi asked.

Elias's head snapped up. “Why did thou say that? How did thou know?”

“Be-because of the muff,” Levi stuttered. “Because of where it was found.”

“The farmer's boy named Lispenard's Meadows. They never mentioned the Manhattan Well,” Elias said, clenching his hands into tight balls.

“How would thou know where she was found?” I asked. “Unless thou put her there.”

Levi jumped to his feet, pointing out the window. “Those people outside told me. They said the muff was found at Lispenard's Meadows.”

“They named the Manhattan Well?” I'm not sure I would have believed him if he said the sky was blue.

“Yes,” he insisted.

I shook my head and was about to say more when Elias shoved a chair so forcefully that it banged into the wall, broke a leg, and fell over. “Why weren't thou part of the search party?” he asked.

“I just returned,” Levi said. “I only now heard.”

“Yet thou knew exactly where she was found,” I said.

“Tell us what happened to Elma,” Elias demanded.

Levi took a step backward. There was little room between him and the fireplace, and his eyes flashed with fear. “I swear I don't know.”

“Liar!” Elias shouted, rushing toward him.

“Caty?” Levi looked desperately at me, as if I would come to his defense.

“Elma was expecting a baby,” I said.

Elias stopped in his tracks, and Levi blinked hard.

“She told you that?” he asked, looking from me to Elias.

“Not in so many words, but I guessed—”

Elias spun toward me. “I thought she confessed.”

“She didn't have to; I could see. Isn't it obvious?” I asked, because I was the only one who seemed to understand. “He killed her to protect his inheritance.”

There were shouts outside. I watched through the window as a sleigh drew up and the crowd grew silent. The front door opened and Isaac Hatfield entered.

“Watkins is here,” Hatfield said, eyes downcast. “He has…He's brought—” He shook his head, running a hand over his forehead. “Dear God, what's the world come to?”

Elias glared at Levi. “If I were to meet thee in the dark,” he said, “I wouldn't think it wrong to put a loaded pistol to the side of thy head.”

I wanted to feel grateful that Elias was defending Elma for once, but his vehemence seemed reckless. Throwing chairs and spewing threats would not avenge her death.

Hatfield took stock of the dark room and splintered chair and stepped between Elias and Levi. “Your cousin is lying outside in a wagon bed. Let the law see to him.”

Turning away, Elias kicked the chair before stepping back from Levi. His arms were folded across his chest, stiff and unnatural, but Hatfield stared at him and then exhaled, seemingly satisfied that the worst of the tension had passed.

“Mrs. Ring,” he said, addressing me with awkward reverence, “would you please get the door? Elias”—his voice hardened—“
Watkins needs help.”

I followed Hatfield outside. A crowd had collected around the sleigh and Watkins was trapped in the bed, standing and shouting orders, until they cleared a path.

“Elias,” I said, turning. I had thought he was right behind me, but a moment passed, then two, and he did not appear. I hurried back inside, worried that he and Levi had come to blows. “Elias?” I stood on the threshold, peering into the dark room.

Elias stood between Levi and the doorway, with his back toward me. “It's high time for the truth,” he said. “She's dead. What happened to her?”

Levi sounded exhausted. “I told you. I don't know.”

“The sheriff is on his way. I won't keep quiet.”

“Accuse me”—Levi's voice grew sharp and menacing—“and my brother will take your home. You'll lose everything, including your name.”

“My silence can't be bought. She's dead!”

“You're not innocent,” Levi said. “Remember, Croucher saw you.”

Elias laughed. He sounded deranged. “Richard Croucher will be happy to see thee hang.”

My confusion about Elias's erratic behavior soured into suspicion. I stepped into the room. “Elias?”

There was banging at the front door.

“Ring,” Hatfield hollered. “Come help.”

I hurried back to the entrance, unfastened the latch, and stepped aside.

Watkins and Lent carried Elma inside. They had laid her on one of the frozen boards. Watkins had tried to hide her battered body with his overcoat, but her hair hung over the coarse fabric, and her bruised feet were exposed. The house took on a musty smell and I gagged, aware that the putrid stench came from her.

“Oh, Elma.” My entire being shook. Nothing would ever be right again.

Sheriff Morris followed the men, trailed by a watchman. The sight of a uniformed officer with his leather helmet and heavy bat added to the unreality of the moment.

Watkins kept his eyes trained on the makeshift bed. “Where shall we put her?” He sounded angry, almost betrayed.

Elias, now quiet, deferred to me.

I gazed at the body. It was Elma, yet it wasn't. I pictured Elma's face, gentle and sweet as she was as a child, then my eyes returned to the foul lump before me. A feeling much like exhaustion, but more profound, overwhelmed me.

Levi stood in the dark corner, his lips twitching as he muttered to himself.

“Bring her upstairs to her bedroom,” I said, leading the way.

Sheriff Morris followed on my heels, directing the men. James Lent negotiated the stairs backward, stooping down low so the warped plank would remain level. Elma's arms hung off both sides and scraped the stairwell's narrow walls like a last desperate plea.

In Elma's room, they laid her down on the bed and slid the plank out from beneath her. The movement upset her body and I went to her side, wanting to set her right. I touched her wrists, intending to place her arms flat, but they refused to bend. Her hair was frozen stiff. I brushed a lock and it snapped off and fell to the floor.

Elias stood next to me, his face nearly as white as Elma's. Watkins and Lent hung their heads. Levi hovered in the doorway. His shoulders were hunched and his eyes looked haunted, with none of their earlier fury.

I pulled back Watkins's coat. Someone had closed Elma's eyes, but she did not look the least bit peaceful. The waxy skin on her shoulders beneath her green dress was exposed. I tugged the fabric together in a futile effort to protect her modesty. The sour smell intensified, and I flung Watkins's coat to the corner as if it were the cause of the sickening odor. That's when I saw the bruises: discolored spots in a chain around her neck. I pressed my fingertip to one. The impression was larger than the tip of my index finger, but not by much.