The Book of James (42 page)

hadn’t been used in years and was stuck. The old metal hinges

groaned when I pulled on the knob. I had to stop periodical y to

catch my breath and take a sip of water.

It took about a half hour by my best estimation, but I final y

managed to get the door open wide enough to squeeze through.

I was so exhausted that, for a moment, I was tempted to lie down

and take a nap rather than try to escape. I drank what was left

of my water, took the shovel, and went through with the penlight

clenched between my teeth. Pulling that door closed behind me

would have been impossible. When those two ventured back, they

would know how I’d gotten out—but by then, with any luck, I’d be

at Dylan’s and it wouldn’t matter.

The tunnel on the other side was different. It was very damp

and narrow; moisture clung to the wal s. I felt something brush

by my leg and I froze, petrified to look down. I would rather be

covered with snakes and spiders than even
see
a rat at seven paces.

The light trembled between my lips, and I didn’t know what to do.

I forced myself to walk, one foot at a time, straight ahead. I could hear the scuffling of little feet near me, and I knew if I saw anything that would be it: I’d have a final mental col apse and they’d find my body here years from now.

I put one foot in front of the other and kept going. The tunnel

got smaller as I went on, and I had to flatten my body against the wal s in places to pass. I stopped, unsure whether to turn around or keep going. Something scuttled over my shoe. Something heavy.

The light bounced in between my lips and I couldn’t make it stop.

I wiped at my face with the dirty sleeve of my shirt. Just then

this singsong game popped into my head. It was a jump-rope game,

but I’d used it since childhood to calm myself down. Before exams or presentations in college, before job interviews.
A
my name is Alice; my husband’s name is Albert and I come from Alabama and

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347

I sell apples.
B
my name is Beatrice; my husband’s name is Burt, I come from . . . Berlin and I sell bacon. My breathing slowed. By the time I got to
G
, I was ready to move on. God, I was losing my mind.

The ceiling of the tunnel got lower and lower until I couldn’t

stand up straight. But before I could question my decision to keep going, the wal s widened. The ceilings got higher. I shined my

light around me. I was in a small room. Every wall was covered

in shelves. The remains of a wooden staircase sagged against one

wal . The root celar. Cora had told me the tunnels were originaly airshafts from the root cel ar and had been dug out later on to make passageways. If this was the root cel ar, the stairs had to lead to the pantry. Slats were missing, and the railing was held in place by only a few rusty nails. I tested my weight on the first step and heard the old wood begin to crack. I dropped to my hands and knees to distribute my weight more evenly and crawled up the steps, dragging

the rusty shovel behind me. Spiderwebs hit my face and mouth,

but I didn’t care. One step at a time, I reached the top.

The door at the top of the stairs was heavy, but different from the ones that had imprisoned me before. It was small—not even the full height of a person—and it had an actual knob, which didn’t turn

when I tried it. I put the keys into the lock one by one. The words uttered under my breath were just one long string of profanities.

It was all I could do not to cry with relief when one key slid

into the lock and turned. I pulled on the door and it swung inward on its hinges. I stood and ducked to get through.

I heard the voices before I could acclimate myself: Cora and

Harrison in the next room over. I was right; I was in the pantry. A large china closet was filled with all sorts of delicate dinnerware and silver. There were shelves and shelves of food and a stainless-steel refrigerator in one corner. The washer and dryer where Cora had

found the stolen checks were in a smal , separate part of the room.

I didn’t know what time it was, but daylight seeped through the

partial y opened door. I no longer had need for Harrison’s little penlight.

Flat on the floor, my shovel next to me, I crawled over and

peeked through the crack. Tea. Cora and Harrison were having

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fucking tea. I could see part of the table from where I lay. I watched Cora’s hand lift the lid from the sugar bowl and drop a sugar cube into her cup with silver tongs. While I was dodging rats, she was up here making like the Queen of England.

“It’s raining. So much rain is bound to be good for the plants.

Especial y the roses. Wait and see in the spring,” Harrison said.

They were talking about gardening?

“The gardeners did a good job fertilizing and covering the

roses, I think, but we’ll see.”

I dropped my head to my arm. This was surreal.

“If the rain keeps up, it may wash out the grass seed. It may

have to be reseeded. But there’s nothing we can do.” Harrison

took another sip of tea. I could only see Cora’s hands, and at that moment she picked up some sort of scone. My stomach growled.

“I keep telling you, you ought to enter your roses in a contest.

Invite the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society up here next year for a luncheon.”

“I don’t want anyone on this property, Harrison. Not the hor-

ticultural society, not the historical society. Lord knows they ask every year if they can open the house for tours for their Juneteenth celebration. Is that what they call it?” I saw Harrison’s head nod the affirmative. “The coloreds prance up and down, going into the abolitionists’ houses with their grape sodas and sticky watermelon fingers.” She laughed. “When I’m dead and gone, they’ll come in

here, not a moment before then. Do you hear me?”

“Cora, we have a mess on our hands.”

“Can’t I just enjoy my tea, Harrison?”

“No. I’m worried sick. I can’t even swallow. What are we going

to do?”

“I don’t know.” Cora’s voice had dropped. “I’m still trying to

figure it out. If we kill her, we may get caught. Those friends of hers won’t likely let it drop.” So Samantha and Dylan had already been here looking for me. “But we can’t let her go. She knows so much.”

350

ELLEN J. GREEN

“Not everything.”

“Enough.”

“She suspects James didn’t just disappear, but she hasn’t fig-

ured out what happened to him.” I heard the rain beating down

against the cathedral windows. “We could leave the country. Leave her here. Get a plane and go to . . . I don’t know. South America?

Argentina?”

“Argentina?” Cora asked.

“Wel , you decide. Between us we can scrape together enough

cash to live for the rest of our lives. It has to be someplace that isn’t going to extradite us.”

“I’m not leaving my house. You go if you want.”

“It’s not like I want to go . . .” Harrison’s hand reached across the table. “Let’s check on her. Get her some water. Please? Then we can come back. Have some more tea and make a plan?”

She must have agreed, because they both rose and left the

kitchen. I stood up and leaned in to look. I knew I only had min-

utes before they would see I was gone. I moved quickly, stopping

only to grab a scone from the plate. I shoved it into my mouth, scattering crumbs in my wake. But my tongue was so dry I coughed,

and pieces flew everywhere. The more I tried not to cough, the

stronger the urge became. I grabbed Harrison’s half-filled teacup and emptied it into my mouth. It wasn’t much, but it was enough

to encourage the scone down my throat.

I strained at the kitchen door to hear voices. Nothing. I needed

to get outside, and the quickest way to do that was to go through the formal dining room.

The door swung open with my push, and I ran to the series of

French doors. The velvet curtains were thrust aside, and I stepped outside. It wasn’t raining. It was more like a downpour. The sun, fairly low in the sky, was obscured behind storm clouds. It had to be twilight.

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Freedom. It had always just been another word in the English

language. Until now I hadn’t understood or appreciated the full

meaning of the word. I didn’t get to savor it for very long, because I heard voices coming closer. I dropped to the ground and crawled within the protection of the greenery. Cora and Harrison hurried

by with a flashlight. They were dressed in rain gear. They didn’t say anything that I could hear; their voices were low and they were

talking fast. They were looking for me.

My face lay flush with the mud as they passed. Their lights

skittered across the bushes, and I held my breath. I curled up,

pressing my back to the stone wal , and waited. They seemed to

hesitate near where I lay. The light bounced back and forth. After an eternity and a minute, they moved forward again, picking up

their pace.

Something Cora had said kept playing through my mind over

and over. It was when she’d been talking to Harrison and I pre-

tended to be asleep. She said I might put the pieces together and go back to the cemetery. The answer to everything was in the cemetery. It wouldn’t take me long. I knew it was insane, but it was as if I were being pulled by some unseen force. I had to go to the cemetery and find the answer for myself. Then I’d go to Dylan’s.

Everything in me told me to get up and run, but I forced myself

to wait, to make sure Cora was real y gone. Mud made its way into my nostrils, so I tried to breathe through my mouth. Final y came the moment of no return. I crawled out on my hands and knees,

looking careful y both ways before standing to full height and racing across the lawn as fast as I could, shovel still in hand.

The trees provided some protection from the rain. This time, I

knew where I was going. I found the cemetery and opened the gate

with my keys. I took a moment and kissed them. I hadn’t known,

when I took them from Ginny’s room, that they would actual y

save my life. I pushed them back in my pocket.

352

ELLEN J. GREEN

The grave of Edward James Monroe II looked bleak, especial y

with the rain coming down so hard. I looked up and said a silent

prayer, asking for forgiveness for what I was about to do. Then I started to dig. The ground was soft but didn’t yield easily to my rusty shovel. My stomach had stopped telling me it was empty long ago, but my strength was waning. Every movement was an effort.

I was trying to hurry, but I glanced around me every few sec-

onds to make sure I was alone. How much more macabre could it

get? Digging up a grave in a secluded cemetery in the pouring rain with a madwoman
and
a madman after me. I would have laughed, but I didn’t have the calories needed to make my lips turn upward.

Then I saw something amid a shovelful of dirt.

I leaned over and picked it up. Blackened metal. I held it out

and let the rain wash it clean of mud. A rosary. Cora’s? I put it in my pocket and kept digging.

I stared into the hole. I hadn’t dug all that far down—not even

two feet—but I didn’t need to dig farther. I dropped the shovel and backed up to the gate. My hands went to my mouth; my lips were

opened, but no sound came out. I didn’t have any tears left, no

anger, no outrage. Nothing.

I wasn’t even surprised when I looked up to see Harrison

standing outside the gate staring in at me. I looked back at him

impassively. I waited to see if Cora would come up behind him,

but she didn’t.

“Mackenzie, you had a chance to escape. Why didn’t you go?”

He spoke through the bars of the gate. The hood of his windbreaker was pulled up over his head to protect him from the rain. His eyes were expressionless.

I pointed to the grave. “I did what my husband asked of me. I

found James.”

I walked back to the grave and pulled on a piece of dark-

colored material sticking up from the mud. I didn’t anticipate that THE BOOK
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JAMES

353

I had pulled part of a shroud, and that the shroud contained flesh.

I quickly released it.

“I know.”

“You put him there?” I picked up the shovel and began to put

some of the dirt back.

“Yes.” His voice was clear. Matter-of-fact. He still stood outside the gate. I had no idea what I was going to do, but James deserved to be covered. “I put him there.”

“You killed him?” I stared at him.

He shook his head. “Heavens, no. I’ve just spent a lifetime cov-

ering it up.”

“Cora?”

He laughed, but his eyes were sad. So sad. “Not exactly.”

My hands flew out to my sides. “Not exactly? Then who?” I

was starting to get angry. “Who, Harrison?”

“You didn’t real y know your husband at al , did you,

Mackenzie?”

I stared back at him. “Nick? No. Nick was only six or so.”

“Yes, he was six. He’d spent six years with Cora, day in and day

out. It took four years for the idea to be planted. Four years for the manipulation, the twisting to final y take shape.”

I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t. I knew Nick. They were

blaming him. But he was the one person who couldn’t defend

himself now.

“Four years to plant hate,” he went on. “Cora was an expert.

Her father did it to her. Killing James herself would have been

too easy. Why not have Nick do it? It would bond Cora and Nick

together forever. And that is exactly what Cora wanted.”