In the drunk tank, he’d hardly had time to think about what he was doing; the thing had attacked him and he’d fought back. But he had known immediately how to fight it, just as Miss Fairweather had said. All those years of ignoring the power, pushing it down, had banked it and given him a measure of control.
Or maybe he was just doing what God had meant for him to do with it.
Trace held up the whiskey bottle and his free hand. “Ergoth!” he bellowed, using his cattle-range voice. “Son of Mirsoggh and of Mygaroth! You hear me, you sonuvabitch?”
A great wind blew through the pressroom, roaring across the flames and flinging paper into the air. Trace felt heat and icy cold swirl around him, felt the demon’s impotent fury at being so addressed. “Ergoth son of Mirsoggh and of Mygaroth, I command you in God’s holy name and by the names of all the angels and all your masters, enter this vessel!”
The roller press groaned and shuddered on its burning legs. Bits of lead type pelted Trace like hail. He shielded the whiskey bottle with his body. This thing might be limited in its powers, but it was old, and proud. It twined around him, cajoling, threatening, pleading. Trace felt for that ball of lightning in himself and let it out, a little at a time, feeding along his arms and up the back of his neck until he was sure his hair must be standing on end. He cast out with the power, let it twine through the cold dark presence of the demon, and then tightened it like a lasso. The thing squalled with fury.
“Last chance,” Trace said. “Into the bottle or I let you burn.”
It rushed at him, a gale force that nearly knocked the bottle from his hand. He clutched it to his chest, reeling under the impact, felt the cold stone weight of the thing punch him in the lungs and then coalesce, contained.
No sooner had he jammed the cork into place than hands landed on Trace’s shoulders, dragging him backwards so he almost lost his feet. His lungs were burning, and his eyes, and he couldn’t see who had hold of him, but he let himself be dragged over the threshold and down the back stoop, into the alley behind the print shop, where the sky was twinkling twilight and the air was the freshest he’d ever tasted.
He leaned into Boz’s arms, stumbling to a grassy patch across the street, where Danny and Avery huddled. Danny had a blanket around his shoulders and his head in his hands, but he looked up when Trace fell to his knees. “Are you all right? Did you get it?”
Trace nodded, hacking and unable to speak. The cold of the bottle was burning his hands. He set it down, coughing, and gratefully accepted the tin cup someone held out to him.
It was Whistler. The detective dropped to a crouch in front of Trace. There were cinders of burned paper in his mutton-chops, but his pale gaze was as imperturbable as ever.
“More lightning and black smoke, I see,” he said.
Trace laughed in spite of himself, and then had to cough some more.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On Friday morning he went to see Miss Fairweather. It was early enough he figured she’d still be abed, or at least not fit for callers, and was unsurprised when Min Chan left him to wait in the library.
He was more surprised when she swept into the room a few minutes later, wearing a loose dressing-gown and an agitated expression. “Are you all right?” she demanded. “You are unharmed?”
“Fine,” he said, taken aback. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Her brows snapped down into a look that Trace recognized—that of a woman who had been up all night worrying, and now was gearing up to lay into the cause of her anxiety with the rough side of her tongue. They were all alike, he thought in amazement. Wives, nuns, mothers—and now this covetous little harpy, who had no claim on him at all. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or furious.
“I understand there was a fire at the newspaper office last night,” Miss Fairweather said, with jaw-clenching restraint. “One might be moved to concern for the welfare of those in one’s employ.”
“One might,” Trace agreed. “But I doubt you were.” He took the two corked, wax-sealed bottles from the pocket of his duster and set them on the map table.
She frowned at them, distracted from her ire. “Which is from the printer’s office?”
“This one.” He touched the larger bottle, the contents of which were gray, shot through with red.
“And the other is from the jail?”
“That’s right.” Trace picked that one up, looked at her. “Did you send me this bottle? To Four Courts? Full of laudanum?”
“Certainly not,” she said indignantly. “Surely you don’t think me cruel enough to tempt a recovered user with opiates.”
“But you did know I got arrested,” he said, ignoring the question of what she was capable of. “You sent your lawyer to bail me out.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. Did I violate some code of masculine self-sufficiency?”
Her sarcasm was biting. She sure had her dander up this morning.
“No ma’am,” Trace said. “I’m grateful for the assistance. I guess I’m just wonderin how close an eye you’re keepin on my goin’s and doin’s.”
“Quite a close eye, these past few days. And a good thing, since you lack the basic courtesy to keep me appraised of your plans.”
“Keep you—” Trace swallowed a bark of laughter. “Lady, you’re the one with plans. I’m hangin on by the skin of my teeth, here. I got demons croppin up everywhere I turn, and this thing in my head all riled up—”
“What happened to your eye?” she asked. “That was not done last night.”
“No. Boz hit me while I was possessed.”
“You were possessed?”
Trace sighed, and relayed briefly the story of the boarding-house notice, and his arrest, and the night in the drunk tank. But she was not content with the bare bones of the story; she urged him into a seat and sent Min Chan for the coffee tray, and questioned him backward and forward until she had got it all. He was uncomfortable describing how he’d brought the power out, how he’d been unknowingly cultivating it over the years, but she grew more calm and clinical the longer he talked, and professed admiration at his resourcefulness.
“Dr. Hardinger spoke highly of your will to overcome the opium dependency,” she said. “Though I don’t think he understood fully how your psychic powers were aiding the process.”
“Neither did I,” Trace admitted. “I’m still not … Hold up, when did you talk to Hardinger?”
She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip, briefly. “Last autumn. Shortly before I moved here.”
But Hardinger had been dead for sixteen years. “All right, how? If you don’t talk to the spirits.”
“I don’t speak to them as you do. There are other ways.”
Her tone was coolly superior, and Trace resented it. “Then what in blue blazes do you need me for?”
“I told you, I cannot leave this house—”
“Yeah, you said. Consumption, hysteria, neurasthenia,” Trace scoffed, and Miss Fairweather’s expression turned to anger.
“I assure you, it is no fashionable or trivial matter. You have seen yourself that there are predatory things in this world, and some of them are attracted to persons like yourself, with powers you don’t understand. If you are half as clever as you seem, you must realize the danger of dabbling—”
“I do realize it. What I don’t know is why you’re so eager to feed me to those things.”
Her head went back, a line of consternation appearing between her brows. “That is the third time you have implied I am either callous or careless about your well-being. Do you sincerely believe I mean you harm?”
Trace considered her—the sharp pale eyes, the too-thin arms and throat, the hollows at her temples and wrists. She looked like a ghost herself, but there was nothing weak or transparent about the will that drove her. “I don’t think it would suit your purpose.”
“Then forgive me for presuming, Mr. Tracy, but I have inferred, during this meeting, that you are not displeased with the developments of the past week.
Indeed my first impression when you walked in an hour ago was that you appear quite … virile today, unlike your usual melancholy self.”
Trace shook his head in amazement. “How do you know? You say you don’t have powers like mine—How did you know the spirits had quieted down around me, since Sikeston? How’d you know I had it in me, to … That exorcism you wrote out for me—do those words mean anything at all? Or are they just Texas courage?”
“Texas courage? I’m not familiar with—”
“Snake oil. Somethin to make me brave enough to take a dare.”
“You have a talent, Mr. Tracy,” Miss Fairweather said, exasperated. “A very large talent, I suspect, but you have been keeping it suppressed for years and years. I thought you might be reassured to know that others before you have used such talents in doing the work of your God.”
“The work of God,” Trace agreed, and got to his feet. “Not the work of you.”
She went very still. She slid a careful look up at him, from under her lashes. “I see no reason why the two must be exclusive. You wish to understand your power. I can supply you with opportunities to use it. And knowledge, Mr. Tracy. I may not possess your gifts, but I have known others who did. Think of the good work we might accomplish together.”
She was cleverer than most women. No sentiment or tears or appeals to his sense of chivalry. And yet her fingers were clutching the arms of the chair so tightly the knuckles were white.
“Let us not be tedious,” she said coldly, after a moment when he didn’t answer. “Either accept my offer or take yourself off. I will not waste time wondering when you will next come begging for my help.”
And you won’t beg at all, he thought. He could almost admire her for that. “If I agree to work for you, there’s got to be enough work for Boz, too. And regular-like. He doesn’t like sittin around idle and neither do I.”
“How much would you normally earn, in a season on the trail?”
Trace told her what they charged to outfit and lead a wagon train to Montana and she nodded immediately.
“I will pay you that now, as a retainer,” she said, her shoulders relaxing a fraction. “And a per diem of ten dollars for each day that you are actually on assignment for me. In return I ask that you check with Mr. Jameson daily for messages, and call upon me the same day that I summon you.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Would you like to visit my solicitor, to draw up a contract?”
“No, I’ll take a handshake on it.”
She put her small hand into his as she rose to her feet, but she staggered a little when her chair caught on the rug. Trace lifted it with the other hand and moved it out of her way.
“Thank you.” Miss Fairweather looked up at him. “I do value your assistance, Mr. Tracy. Aside from your psychic powers, I believe you are an honorable and intelligent man. I should not like to search for your replacement.”
Trace bent forward slightly, using his height as he seldom did, to subtly intimidate. But she did not appear cowed. She looked … intrigued. She was not, to his mind, a handsome woman, but there was something compelling about being seen so clearly, and so openly admired. Her pale eyes seemed to see straight into him. And she was still clasping his hand.
“You know what it’s like, don’t you?” he said, almost against his will. “The power.”
She knew she had him, then. He could see it in her eyes.
“Oh yes,” she said softly. “Delicious, is it not?”
* * *
SOLOMON ROTH HAD been buried the Friday before, but Danny Levy was still red-eyed and mournful when he dropped by Jameson’s store Monday morning. Jameson had gotten in a couple hundred bushels of seed on Saturday, and every farmer in the county was coming by for his share of it. Boz counted and loaded wagons and relayed the numbers to Trace, who jotted down the tally for Jameson’s books.
Danny was pressed and spit-shined, with a skullcap on his head and his books under his arm.
“You’re a little far downtown for school, ain’t you?” Trace said, shaking his hand.
“On my way,” Danny said. “Came to say … well. You know.”
“Yeah. Sorry about your friend. And your job.”
“I still got my camera,” Danny said, with a quirk of a smile. “I think I’ll open a studio.”
“Better put your studies first,” Trace said. “I left seminary when I was about your age, and look how I turned out.”
The smile turned into a grin, but it quickly faded. “Thanks. For not thinking I was crazy.”
Boz came up then, and Danny shook his hand, as well. There wasn’t much to say, but they said it, and then Danny Levy took himself off.
“He’s a good kid,” Boz said.
“Yep,” Trace agreed.
“Pure as the driven snow,” said a nasal voice on the stoop above them. “Sweet as honey on the vine. Not like you two sour old campaigners, eh?”
“What the hell d’you want?” Boz said.
“Take it easy, Sambo. I’m just here to settle accounts.” Reynolds slapped a folded copy of the Times against his palm. “Seeing as how you rid me of the competition and all.” He sailed the paper at Trace, who caught it. “Right there at the top.”
ANNA HERSCHEL INNOCENT—FATHER SUFFERED BRAIN TUMOR
New information brought to light at the inquest of Miss Anna Herschel has proven conclusively that the young woman is innocent of the murders of her parents and sister. An autopsy of Judd Herschel revealed an abnormal growth in the front of the brain. According to expert medical testimony, pressure from the tumor upon the brain could produce sudden violent rages, such as Miss Herschel described her father exhibiting on the night of the murders.
A judge has declared Miss Herschel innocent of all charges.
“Is this true?” Trace demanded.
“Near enough,” Reynolds said. “That’s what you might call the useful parts of the truth, which is all people really want to hear, anyway. So, I reckon that makes us square. Unless of course you change your mind about telling me your story. Folks can’t get enough of this Spiritualist pap. Makes ’em think they’re not all bound for Hell after all.”
“Not a chance,” Trace said. “I gotta live in this town, you know. I see a word in the Times or any other paper sounds like a story about me, I’ll know who to come lookin for.”
Reynolds grinned, viciously. “I reckon you might try. You’re pretty good, son. You might manage to run me down … but you’d wish you hadn’t.”
“I already bottled two demons this week,” Trace reminded him.
“True.” Reynolds clacked his sharp-looking teeth. “But you don’t see me squatting in a printing press, do you?” He winked, slicked a finger along the brim of his hat, and sidestepped through the back door of Jameson’s shop. “Be seeing you, young’un.”
APRIL 1880
END OF THE LINE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The couple who came into the store looked harmless enough, but there was something purposeful in their smiling, serene cheer that put Trace on his guard.
Jameson had gone to visit with his banker, so Trace had volunteered to mind the store for a couple hours, during the lull between sunup deliveries and midday rush. He’d been using the time to write to Emma. She sent him weekly letters, written on Sundays at the nuns’ direction, full of schoolgirl chatter and usually voicing hope that he would visit soon. He tried to get around to see her every couple of weeks when he was in town, but the nuns frowned on more frequent visits.
Lately he’d been wondering if it was time to take her out of that school. Emma was the product of his father’s second marriage, born while Trace was away recuperating from the war, but he’d had the care of her since she was seven. She was fifteen now, old enough she ought to spend some time out of the convent and learn about the world, and he didn’t trust anyone else to teach her.
But if he meant to have Emma live with him, he’d have to know his curse was under control.
And a few ghost-free weeks were hardly conclusive evidence. All the same, he found himself writing about his new job in town, and how he hoped it would lead to brighter prospects for both of them. And then frowning at the words, wondering if he was planting expectations that would never come to fruition.
Then the missionary couple came in, smiling and radiating aggressive benevolence.
“Pardon me,” the man said. He was about fifty, with bright blue eyes and a round, sturdy look about him, like a little Mexican burro. “Is Mr. Jameson about?”
“He’s out for a bit,” Trace said. “Can I help you?”
“Well, I don’t know.” The man drew out a folded letter that bore Trace’s own inelegant handwriting. “I was supposed to arrange a meeting with a Mr. Tracy, but I’m afraid I don’t have his direction. Mr. Jameson had been our intermediary—”
“I’m Jake Tracy. Are you Kingsley?”
“Yes! Martin Kingsley.” The Baptist put out his hand, and Trace shook it. “This is my sister, Miss Eliza Kingsley.”
“Ma’am,” Trace said.
“How do you do, Mr. Tracy.” Miss Eliza had a lovely smile, warm and gracious, as if he were just the person she’d hoped to meet that day. Trace gave her a longer look: she was about his age, with the handsome oval face of a classical Madonna. There was a single streak of silver in her dark hair, in rebellious contrast to her placid demeanor.
“The thing is, Mr. Tracy,” Kingsley rocked from heel to toe as he spoke, as if he had too much energy to remain still for long, “—and I hate to do this to you, after I told Mr. Jameson we’d be needing your services—but we’ve just this week received a love donation, from a sister in faith. She had her servant deliver it specially, because she’s in poor health and can’t travel. She purchased railway tickets for the entire party and our cargo, and even offered a generous portion for building our church in the wilderness—”
It was the words in poor health that roused Trace’s suspicions. “This servant—was he Chinese, speaks real good English?”
“Why yes,” Kingsley said. “Do you know Sister Fairweather?”
The Curse of Jacob Tracy: A Novel Page 14
