BLOOD AND FIRE
Eugene Meriwether let himself into the imposing white edifice of the Grand Masonic Lodge on West Twenty-third Street, near the rattling thunder of the Sixth Avenue El, and climbed the steps to a small office on the third floor. He’d enjoyed a dinner out with his Brothers following a meeting on a charity endeavor they hoped to get under way. Now, by the soft glow of his banker’s lamp, he worked up a proposal for the Grand Master to review.
In the quiet of the office, he opened the jeweler’s box secreted inside his jacket and brushed a finger across the cuff links nestled into the dark velvet. Tomorrow was Edward’s birthday. He smiled, imagining Edward saying, “What is this?” as he opened the box and beheld the fine workmanship of the cuff links, which featured a scrolled E, the initial they shared. He could practically feel Edward’s sweet kiss on his lips. Edward, his great love; Edward, his great secret.
A sudden sound drew Eugene’s attention—a jovial whistling. He thought with consternation of old Mr. Saunders, who liked to drink and might have stumbled in.
He called out: “Saunders, old boy, is that you?”
The whistling stopped. Satisfied, Eugene went back to his work. But a few moments later, there it was—an irritating ditty echoing through the empty lodge. More than irritating… uncomfortable. There was a telephone on the desk, and Eugene struggled with whether or not to call the police. How foolish would he feel if it turned out to be old Saunders after all? And how humiliating for Saunders, who was very close friends with the Grand Master himself. Why, Eugene might ruin his own standing in the Brotherhood and never rise above Junior Warden. No, he couldn’t risk the taint of shame or ridicule. He’d like to be Grand Master himself one day. Yes, better to handle this on his own. If he took care of this trouble with Saunders carefully, discreetly, the old man might take a shine to him. This was the sort of opportunity disguised as obstacle the inspirational books talked about! He would meet the challenge head-on. How proud Edward would be when he told him later.
Again he called out: “Saunders? Can you hear me?”
Nothing but that damned whistling.
Straightening his tie, Eugene Meriwether left the comfort of his desk and poked his head out of the office. At the far end of the darkened hall, golden, shimmering light spilled out from around the slightly open door of the Gothic Room. Curious, the Mason moved toward it, passing the framed portraits of departed Masonic brothers. As he walked the dim corridor, something in Eugene Meriwether’s belly sounded a silent alarm that pulsed through his blood. Something that snaked back to his primitive ancestors and their need to huddle in caves around fires, the kind of warning that no amount of civilization could ever completely eradicate. He almost wished he had called the police, but his ambition kept him moving forward, toward the glowing room. He grabbed the knob and pushed open the door.
Fire. The golden glow had come from a fire burning on the center altar. And as he tried to piece together what was happening—A fire? In the Gothic Room? How?—the door slammed shut behind him. He pulled on the doorknob, his mind whirring with logical explanations: It’s a prank. Some hooligans in need of a lesson. They’ll be very, very sorry for this. Holding this door shut from the outside, they are. Youth today—no respect. Hooligans, all.
The whistling stopped. A deep, resonant voice echoed in the room. “ ‘For they did not walk in the path of righteousness and lo, was the Lord’s anger sorely provoked.’ ”
A dark shadow passed across the wall. It seemed at first glance to be the long shadow of a man. But as the shadow drew closer, it became clear that whatever lurked behind Eugene Meriwether was far from human.
“ ‘And for the seventh offering, it was commanded: Turn the heretics from the Temple of Solomon under the watchful eye of God and purify their sins with an offering of blood and fire. For there is no expiation of sin but by blood….’ ”
Eugene Meriwether put a hand to his chest, feeling the furious beating of his heart beneath the small square box meant for Edward. Clinging to thoughts of his love, Eugene slowly turned. And as the walls began to whisper, he lost his footing on the precipice of reason and began the terrible fall into a hell beyond imagining.
RECKONING
Evie and Mabel spent the entire night in a cell of the city’s notorious downtown jail, the Tombs, surrounded by drunken flappers, prostitutes, and a large woman who growled like a dog whenever anyone got too near. Mabel’s mother arrived first, sweeping down the hall with her characteristic hauteur. “I do hope you girls have had time to reflect upon your evening,” she said, but it was Evie she glared at and it was clear who she thought should shoulder the blame.
“So long, Evie,” Mabel said as her mother escorted her out. She looked like a prisoner being led to the electric chair without a last meal.
By the time Uncle Will posted bail for Evie, it was just past seven o’clock. They city was rumbling to life, another morning in Manhattan, as she and Will emerged onto White Street.
“I should have let you sit there longer,” Will snapped. He was walking so quickly that Evie could barely keep up. Her head thudded with each step.
“I’m awfully sorry, Unc.”
“We had an agreement: I give you your freedom, and you keep out of trouble.”
“I know, and I feel like a real Dumb Dora, getting pinched like that.”
Will wagged a finger. “That is not the point, Evangeline. You deliberately disobeyed my quite reasonable request that you stay at home last night. You lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie, exactly….”
“Sneaking away is lying.”
“Yes, but… could you slow down, please, Unc? My head’s killing me.” The morning sun made her eyes feel bruised.
Uncle Will stopped near a newsstand and ran a hand through his hair. A street urchin waved a newspaper at him and he shooed the boy away. “This was a terrible idea. I’m a bachelor; I haven’t a clue how to be a parent, or even an uncle.”
“That isn’t true. You’re terribly uncle-ish. Why, you’re the most uncle-ish person I know.”
“Uncle-ish isn’t a word.”
“Well, it should be. And it should have your picture beside it in the dictionary.”
“The charm won’t work, Evie. I forbade you from going out last night for a very good reason. Yet, you chose to disregard my reasonable request.”
“Oh, but Unc—”
“And I specifically warned you about getting into trouble, did I not? Well, I believe it’s quite clear that this arrangement will not work.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” Evie asked. Her stomach had begun to hurt.
“It’s best if you return to Ohio. I’ll ring your mother tomorrow”—he looked at his watch—“today, and make the arrangements.”
“But… it’s only the first time I’ve been in trouble!” As soon as it was out of her mouth, Evie realized how ridiculous an argument it was—almost a promise of more trouble to come—and she wished she could take it back. “Please, Unc. I’m very sorry. I won’t ever disobey you again.”
Will sagged against a lamppost. He was softening, she could tell, so she kept up her attack. “I’ll do anything. Sweep the floors. Dust the knickknacks. Make sandwiches every night. But please, please, please don’t send me back.”
“I do not intend to have this discussion on White Street with someone who smells like a distillery. I will take you back to the Bennington and you may have a nap, and—I might suggest—a bath.”
Evie gave her coat a sniff and grimaced.
“I will expect you at the museum at three o’clock. I’ll deliver my verdict then. Don’t be late.”
A long, hot bath washed the stench of the Tombs away, but despite her exhaustion, Evie was too nervous to sleep. Instead, she went to Mabel’s flat and used her special knock.
“Hey, old girl. I’m in trouble. Unc’s threatening to send me back to Ohio because of last night, and I’ve got to find a way to win him over. I think he was softening up a little, but m
aybe if you tell him that it was your idea he’ll go easier on me, and yes, I know that’s not entirely true, Pie Face, but this is absolument an emergency of the first order and… gee, Mabesie, aren’t you going to invite me in?”
With a furtive glance into the apartment behind her, Mabel slipped into the hallway and shut the door.
“Uh-oh. I know that face. What aren’t you telling me? Did somebody die?”
“Mother blames you for my arrest. She’s banned you from the house,” Mabel said.
Evie’s mouth opened in outrage. “Your mother’s been arrested more times than I have!”
“For the cause. She thinks getting arrested for drinking in a nightclub is amoral and a sign of capitalist greed,” Mabel whispered. “She says you’re a bad influence.”
“Golly, I hope so. Tell your mother that if it weren’t for me you’d still be wearing black stockings and reading dire Russian novels about doomed aristocrats.”
Mabel lifted her chin. “What’s wrong with Anna Karenina?”
“Everything from A to enina. Oh, look, Pie Face, just let me in, and I’ll charm her.”
“Evie, don’t—”
“Five minutes of a sob story about how I’m a product of middle-class bourgeois values lost in the machinery of a corrupt world and she’ll be organizing a rally on my behalf—”
“Don’t you ever know when to stop?” Mabel snapped. “You’re so selfish sometimes, Evie! It’s all a game to you—and you want to rig it in your favor all the time, and damn what anybody else wants.”
“That’s not true, Mabel!”
“It isn’t? I wanted to leave last night….”
“But then you would’ve missed out on all the fun. And once you got home, you’d grumble that you should’ve stayed. You’d regret it. I know you, Mabesie—”
“Do you?” Mabel shot back.
Evie felt slapped. She’d just wanted Mabel to get out from under her mother’s control and kick up her heels. To live it up like a real swell. Hadn’t she?
“I’ve had enough, Evie. I’m tired, and I’m going back to bed.”
Evie took in a shaky breath. “Mabesie, I… I didn’t think….”
“You never do. That’s the trouble.”
On the other side of the door, Mrs. Rose’s voice rang out. “Mabel, darling? Where are you?”
“Coming,” Mabel called. She went back inside and shut the door.
Evie stared at the door for a moment longer. She used her secret knock again, but Mabel still didn’t answer, so she left to meet with Will. On the walk to the museum, Evie tried to shrug off her fight with Mabel, but doing so proved impossible. She and Mabel had never had a fight. And Mabel’s words stung. That was what other people, the dim-witted Normas of the world, said about her. But not Mabel. Not her best friend.
In the museum, Evie heard voices. Jericho was showing a rare couple of visitors the collection in his quiet, scholarly way, a twin of Will. The couple looked bored. “Can these doodads haunt you if you touch them?” the woman asked.
“Oh, no. They’re quite harmless,” she heard Jericho answer. It was a missed opportunity. If Evie had been giving the tour, she’d have made up a story they’d never forget, something to keep them coming back.
Sam breezed past her in the long hallway, on his way to the collections room. He smiled brightly. “Hey, sister, glad to see your uncle sprang you from the clink.”
Evie scowled. “You left me there in that club, you fink. Very unchivalrous of you.”
“You weren’t thinking of me when you shimmied into that dumbwaiter by yourself. Don’t pretend you’re better than I am, Sheba. You got a little thief in you, too.”
Evie slammed the door on Sam and sat in Will’s office awaiting her fate. What if Will really did decide to send her home? She hadn’t allowed herself to really think about it; she just assumed she’d win him over. Now that thought crawled under her skin and left her feeling unsettled.
At precisely one minute before three o’clock, Will marched in. He hung his hat and coat on the coatrack and took his time taking off his gloves while Evie squirmed in the silence. At last he settled into his wingback chair behind the desk, templed his fingers, and fixed her with a pensive stare. Evie swallowed. The saliva caught in her throat and she suppressed a cough.
“Your mother was at a luncheon at her club when I telephoned earlier. I’ve left a message that she should ring me back. There’s a train to Zenith tomorrow evening. You will be on it.”
Evie gasped. “Oh, Unc, please. You can’t send me home. Not yet.” She could feel the tears burning at the corners of her eyes.
“What’s done is done.” Will rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It was foolish of me to think that I could take this on. I’m an old bachelor, set in my ways.”
“No, you’re not,” Evie said, sniffling. “I’m sorry. Everything will be the berries. You’ll see. Just give me another chance. Please,” Evie’s voice thinned to a whispery pleading.
“My decision is final, Evangeline,” Will said gently, and his sympathy was worse than his anger. “You’ll be better off back at home with your friends.”
“No, I won’t.” Evie wiped the backs of her hands across her cheeks, but the tears kept falling.
Will was making a speech, something about having been young and careless once, the sort of thing old-timers said when they issued a deathblow, as if they thought their sanctimonious ramblings disguised as empathy would be welcomed, but Evie was only half listening. She’d never told him about the object reading, she realized. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what she could do—that she might be able to use her skills to help him find the Pentacle Killer. After all, she’d gotten a glimpse from Ruta Badowski’s shoe buckle. Maybe what she’d heard wasn’t so irrelevant after all.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” Evie blurted out, interrupting Will’s soliloquy on responsibility. “I never told you what happened back in Zenith. The trouble I got into.”
“Something about a party game and slander,” Will said. “Your mother told—”
“It wasn’t a party game.”
“Really, Evie, there’s no need—”
“Yes, there is. Please.”
Will relented and Evie summoned her courage.
“The night of the party, I got into trouble for divining. I believe I may be a Diviner, Unc, like Liberty Anne Rathbone. And if I’m right, I could use my powers to help you solve this case.”
Will stared at her openmouthed, but Evie didn’t give him a chance to say anything just yet.
“Do you remember at the first murder scene, when I was ill?” Evie said, her words coming in a rush. “It wasn’t the sight of that girl, though it was gruesome. There was a buckle that had come loose from her shoe. I simply wanted to put it back, to make something… right. I must have been holding it very tightly—tighter than I meant to—and…” Evie let out a whoosh of breath. “I saw things. Just from holding something of hers.”
Will’s sympathy had hardened into a tight-lipped disgust. “I suspected this would be a ploy on your part to remain in New York, but I didn’t think you’d stoop so low as to capitalize on the murders of two innocent—”
“I’m trying to tell you something important!” Evie practically shouted, stunning him into silence. “Please. Just give me five minutes of your time. That’s all I ask.”
Will flipped open his pocket watch. “Very well. You have five minutes of my time, starting… now.”
This was it. If she couldn’t convince Uncle Will, she’d be on the first train back to Ohio. She needed to give him proof.
“It’ll be quicker if I just show you. Let me have something of yours—a handkerchief or hat. And don’t tell me anything about it.”
“Evie,” Uncle Will said with a sigh. Evie knew that sigh. It was often paired with her name and disappointment, and she had to fight the tears that wanted to come. Because why should he take her seriously? The party girl, the flapper with the ready quip and
the closet full of rhinestones and embroidered stockings.
“Please, Unc,” she said softly. “Please.”
“Very well.” Uncle Will looked around before settling on a glove. “Here. You have exactly four and a half minutes left.”
Evie pressed the glove between her palms and concentrated. The tick-tick-tick of the second hand on Will’s watch was distracting. She tried to block it out and concentrate on the glove, but there was nothing, and the first cold fingers of panic seized her.
“Three minutes,” Will said.
Evie gritted her teeth. She didn’t understand how or why her object reading worked, only that it did—in its own way, and in its own time.
“Two and a half minutes remaining…”
Images unspooled slowly for Evie now. “These were in a bin at Woolworth’s, marked down to seventy-eight cents. It was cold that day and you’d lost one glove of the last pair. You’ve lost the right glove of this one, too. You keep taking it off and forgetting it.”
Evie opened her eyes. Will was still looking at his watch. “That could be a lucky guess. Or cleverness. Gloves at Woolworth’s at that price aren’t uncommon. You often observe me misplacing my right one. Not proof. One minute remaining.”
Evie was tired and desperate and more than a little angry. She closed her eyes again. This time, the scene was strong. She saw a laughing woman with dark hair and eyes, her hands encased in a fur muff. “ ‘That’s you all over, William. Always a glove short,’ ” Evie repeated after the woman.
“Stop,” Will said coldly, but Evie was truly there now. She could almost sense the wind. A much younger Will wobbled on ice skates while the pretty woman laughed. Evie smiled unconsciously.
“I can see her. She’s standing by an ice rink… in a dark green coat… in the snow….”
“Stop, Evie.”
“She’s very pretty and… and she’s happy… so very happy… it might be the happiest day of her li—”
Will yanked the glove from Evie’s hands hard, startling her. He loomed over her, red-cheeked and angry. “I said stop!” he thundered.