The Salem Witch Society (32 page)

Jerome approached the detectives. He placed his hand on Lean’s upper arm, but Lean shrugged him off.

Lean pointed a finger at Marsh. “I know you people are up to something here. I’m not finished with you.”

Marsh didn’t answer. He barely acknowledged Lean’s comments, focusing instead on the still-silent Grey.

“On the contrary,” Jerome hissed at Lean, “if you’re not more careful, you’ll be the one praying that
we’re
finished with
you.
You haven’t the slightest idea of what we’re accomplishing here.”

“There is one thing I’m pretty damned sure of,” Lean said.

“What’s that?”

Lean’s right fist shot up, snapping Jerome’s head back. The man stumbled, then dropped to the floor, his oiled hair knocked out of place and blood flowing from his broken nose. He reached for his face, then cast a wounded look at Marsh.

“Thought so,” Lean said with a nod.

“Quite unnecessary,” Jotham Marsh said. “Mr. Grey, I suggest you keep that bulldog of yours on a tighter chain. Best for all, I do believe.”

Grey gave Marsh a tip of his hat before turning to follow Lean out the door.

L
ean held the key to Lizzie Madson’s apartment. He had commandeered it the day before from the building’s owner, a disinterested man who lived and worked comfortably far away from this rundown building on Oxford Street. The owner told them that Lizzie Madson had paid three months in advance and lived alone. Any other facts were more likely to come from the neighbor, who at that very moment was
hovering over Lean’s shoulder as if the deputy were reading a copy of the only newspaper printed in the past twenty years. The lock twisted hard, and Lean lowered his shoulder to budge the door open.

“No, like I said, I ain’t ever seen a man with her,” said the neighbor. “Course, these walls being thin as they are, I could hear when a fellow was in there with her, plenty of times.”

“Lots of different men?” asked Grey.

“She weren’t like that. I don’t know if she were all right, but she weren’t no peddler’s trull neither. Besides which,” added the man, “I could always hear it was this same one guy on account of he sometimes had a hard time talking.”

“What’s that mean? Drunk?” Lean held the door just an inch ajar, unwilling to give the gawking neighbor any more of a view.

“Nah, just not talking good. You know, couldn’t get the words out of his mouth. Especially when the two of ’em were getting into it over something or another.”

That bit matched Boxcar Annie’s description of Maggie Keene’s last customer. Lean shot a look at Grey, who nodded at the connection. The two of them stepped into the room.

“Thank you. We’ll let you know if we have any further questions.” Lean closed the door as the neighbor craned his neck, trying to see into the apartment.

Lizzie Madson’s rooms were plain and simple. The parlor held a small square table with two mismatched wooden chairs. Off that room was a small kitchen, and the back held an equally unadorned bedroom. Lean and Grey went through the parlor thoroughly, working their way toward the back bedroom, which held only a narrow dresser and a bed.

“Interesting,” announced Grey.

“What? There’s nothing here. No trace.”

“Don’t you find that peculiar? Lizzie Madson lived here for two months with a frequent, but unseen, male guest with whom she had loud rows in the time before her murder. And yet this place is devoid of any
indications of the sort of person she was. A few implements and scraps of cloth show she earned a bit as a seamstress. But that’s it. It’s hardly lived in.”

Lean shrugged. “She didn’t have much to her name.”

“Yet she’s paid up months in advance.”

“Apparently our marble-mouthed killer has money enough.” Lean glanced into the tiny kitchen without bothering to step in. “Did he plan to kill her this whole time, the two months he’s been renting this place for her? All that planning, and all the effort he took with the body, yet he’s left us nothing.” Lean could feel confusion spread over his face.

Grey held up a cautionary finger. “Nothing can be learned if nothing has happened. That is true. But much has happened here, in a manner of speaking. Consider the victim. She was brought to Witchtrot Hill, murdered, and then brought back to Portland again. Clearly he places some distinct importance on specific sites. Yet she is different from the two prior victims. It’s the first time he hasn’t simply selected a victim who was convenient to the location. And also she is the first that he moved after the fact. The first two were mutilated and left as they lay.”

“But here,” Lean finished the thought, “he hid the wound, redressed her in unsoiled clothes.”

“Why is she different? Why, after the murder, does he treat this body with greater care?”

“He cared for her in some way?” Lean waved off this idea. “You can’t attach human emotions to such a beast.”

Grey shook his head. “It’s a mistake to view him so. However ghastly his deeds, we must remember he’s just a man. Granted, he killed her in a most gruesome manner, but perhaps our killer really was Lizzie’s tongue-tied beau. It’s not inconceivable that in some way he felt a reluctance, if not genuine remorse, about killing her.”

“I don’t know about remorse.” Lean spit out the last word. “Certainly less violence against the body. Not even signs of a struggle.”

“Until now.” Grey moved over to a wall beside the doorway to the small kitchen. Lean joined him and saw three scratches dug into the wall about five feet off the floor.

Grey held
his own hand up and fitted three fingers into the grooves gouged into the wall. “The plaster under her fingernails. This is where he attacked her. She was pressed up against the wall until she was subdued. Perhaps chloroform again. Took her by surprise.” Grey glanced around the room. “She was coming through from the front door. He came up from behind, around the corner.” Grey motioned to the kitchen doorway a few feet off.

Lean stepped in to inspect the kitchen. A brick chimney ran up one wall, and a small cast-iron woodstove stood at the base. The two detectives started toward the counter and the few spare furnishings that occupied the space near the chimney. Passing through the center of the room, Lean noticed some small dark spots splattered underfoot. “What’s that on the floor?” He knelt down for a closer look.

“Lean.”

He looked up at Grey, who was rubbing his right hand with the fingers of his left, his eyes fixed instead on the ceiling. It took Lean a moment to grasp what he was seeing. Letters were scrawled there, thick and crude, like finger painting:
AMANTA PATCHI WAWITTA SPEMKIK DALI O NOBI DALI KIK.

“‘May it please the Creator there in the above land here the same on earth,’” Grey recited the passage. “Line three of the Lord’s Prayer. But once again queerly worded.”

Lean drew out his handkerchief, dabbed it on his tongue, then rubbed at one of the stains on the floor. Grey opened the curtains above the sink. With the improved light, Lean could see a reddish-brown smudge on the cloth.

“Blood.”

“The message explains the cut Dr. Steig noted on Lizzie’s fingertip. He bled her enough here to spell out his message.” Grey was still massaging his right hand.

“You all right?”

Grey seemed confused by the question, then glanced at his hand. He stopped rubbing it, although he continued to flex the fingers as if they ached. He then peered at the floor, his gaze moving outward in concentric circles. It stopped at the woodstove. He leaned forward and ran his finger
along the floor where a thread of ashes had fallen in front of the grate. He studied the ashes, then rubbed them between his fingers. “Someone’s been burning papers.”

Grey took the handle to the woodstove’s grate and eased it down. The two men peered into the opening. Inside was a short stack of burned and blackened papers. Grey reached in very gently and tried to ease out the twisted, carbonized top sheet. It crumbled in his hands, the small black shards falling in wisps to the floor.

“I’m going to need very thin tracing paper, several boards, pins, a solution of gum arabic—fairly clear—a razor blade, some cloth rags, a wide cooking pan with a bit of water. And, just in case, about a dozen small panes of glass. Eight by ten.”

T
he next afternoon, Grey sat at his work desk. He ignored the six panes of glass set atop the black rectangles he had reconstructed from fragments of burned pages. Instead he focused on a single sheet of white paper that held two separate lines of his own handwriting:
“Kia K’tabaldamwogan paiomwiji. Amanta patchi wawitta spemkik dali o nobi dali kik.”
The words left above Maggie Keene and at Lizzie Madson’s apartment were the killer’s attempt to render the second and third lines of the Lord’s Prayer in Abenaki. Grey closed his eyes and let his mind stare into the darkness. The lines were simply wrong. He felt his hands sliding along the edge of the desk, and he gripped the sides.

He saw a man standing before him, old and pale, with a stern face behind round spectacles. It was Mr. Copeland, his first tutor in his grandfather’s house. The man stared at him, arms crossed, one hand holding a long wooden pointer. Grey was seated, with his hands pressed flat against the top of his child’s desk

“‘Our Father in the above land sitting, made glorious like a great chief is
thy name. May it be pleasing to you, give us today our everyday bread.’”

“No, no, no!” Mr. Copeland’s eyes widened in exasperation. “‘Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.’ Your translation is wretched enough. But then you’re skipping lines. Now, listen.” He whacked the desktop with his pointer. “‘Thy kingdom come’!” The tutor struck again. “‘Thy will be done, in earth as it is in heaven’!”

Grey stared into the pale, watery eyes of this man who would have him pray to God as the white men did, not as his own father had taught him. “‘Our Father in the above land sitting, made glorious like a chief is thy name. May it be pleasing to you, give us today our everyday bread.’”

He heard the tutor’s stick cutting through the air, then felt his right hand burst with pain. He clenched his teeth and sucked in his breath.

“Correctly, now! ‘Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, in earth as it is in heaven.’”

“‘Our Father in the above land sitting, made glorious like a chief is thy name. May it be pleasing to you, give us today our everyday bread.’”

The stick came whipping down again.

Lean rapped at the door, then stepped into Grey’s parlor. The shades on the right side of the room were open. The long table near those windows, normally a mess of equipment and papers, had been organized with everything stacked in small piles close to the perimeter. Grey was seated, holding the edges of his desktop. He released his grip and began to rub at his right hand again, the way he had at the apartment the day before.

“‘Dead he lay among his books! / The Peace of God was in his looks,’” Lean said with a smile that faded as soon as Grey peered up from the table where he was working. He was still in yesterday’s clothes, eyes glazed, dark circles hanging beneath like anchors. “Have you slept at all?”

He was swamped with regret over his failure to assist Grey. The day before, Lean
had observed the start of the laborious process of retrieving each burned page from the stove, moistening the page by close exposure to a damp cloth, so that it would be less brittle and less likely to disintegrate when gently pressed into place on tracing paper covered with a thin layer of gum arabic. Sheets that had broken apart involved a much more delicate and lengthy reassembly process. Finding that he was of little use in the endeavor, Lean had excused himself and started to make inquiries on a long-neglected task. It was a side note at best, but still Grey had seemed interested and there might be something to it.

Grey waved off Lean’s remark and, with a satisfied smile, motioned toward the table. “Come, see what I’ve done.”

Lean moved closer. In the dim light, it was impossible to read the carbonized papers. They looked like nothing more than black rectangles. “Remarkable. But what do they say?”

“I have no idea. The ink on the page is practically invisible to the human eye.”

“Then why—” Lean stopped himself as it occurred to him that Grey had just completed some massive waste of time and the man’s smile was the result not of success but rather a mild delirium caused by lack of sleep.

“To the human eye. Fortunately, modern technology has given us something better: the camera. I’m hopeful that the ink on the pages will be discernible in the photographic images. I had pictures taken of each an hour ago. Now we must wait.”

“So you’re free this afternoon,” Lean said.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I have a lead on the fire at Old Stitch’s place over at Back Cove.”

“Yeah, I remember it. That was back … oh, early seventies maybe. We took the engine across Tukey’s Bridge, but the place was down in a little hollow in through the woods. Couldn’t reach it with the truck hoses.” Noah Cobb, captain of Casco Engine No. 5, had a far-off look in his eyes as he stood in the broad doorway to the engine bay. It was like he was back there
again on that day, every detail still perfectly captured in his mind.

Lean wondered if he would be the same in twenty years, every thief’s name entered on the docket of his mind, every confidence man’s face plain as a photograph. The memories of his own life blurred with time, but the details of all his cases burned clear into him.

“We were going to try pumping water out of Back Cove, but by then the fire burnt itself out. That little shack was a real tinderbox. No wind that day, else it might’ve spread into the brush all around there. Why are you asking?”

“Just trying to figure what happened,” Lean said.

Cobb snorted his laughter. Somewhere beneath the massive expanse of his gray handlebar mustache, a wide grin was enjoying life. “I know you boys can get busy sometimes, but coming round twenty-odd years later is a bit much.”

“Better late than never,” Lean responded.

Cobb laughed again, and the effort rippled through his lungs, setting him to coughing. He took a few steps out and hawked a gob of phlegm onto the grass. The fire captain turned back toward them, wiping his mouth with a shabby handkerchief that looked as if it should have started drawing a pension years ago. Lean saw that the man’s face was two shades redder than his normal ruddy tone and his eyes were watering from the coughing fit.