Jagged scars ran down his well-muscled pectorals and shoulders, and now it looked as if the last fight would leave a permanent scar across his left eye and his jaw.
The Irishman shook his head as he unwrapped the blood soaked bandages and prepared to put on new ones. “With a shoulder like that there be no sense in getting a bow. You wouldn’t be able to pull on the damn thing let alone shoot an arrow for a good while.”
“We need those weapons,” Samuel said as he grimaced. “And he needs us if what we suspect is true.”
“Between the rumors and those weapons I be betting there be a demon in Liberty Row. But those people keep their troubles and their business to themselves,” Andrew stated, sure of his knowledge.
Samuel chuckled. “You know most people refer to the Irish as ‘those people,’ not the other way around.”
“Aye, but the Negros and the Irish be more alike than not. ’Tis shame that no one seems to see that bit.” Andrew wound a cotton bandage around Samuel’s shoulder numerous times, then secured it with a clasp pin. “Sure you don’t want to be seeing no doctor?”
“They ask too many questions.”
Andrew nodded as he cleaned up the bloody bandages, then stood up. “Need me to help you into bed?”
“No. I’ll be fine. Go home and see that daughter of yours.” Samuel hauled his feet up onto the bed. He sighed in relief. “Shouldn’t she be married by now?”
The Irishman guffawed. “Not bloody likely. She’s just a lass. Barely sixteen. I’m not letting her get married until she finishes school and finds herself a position as a teacher.”
“Very ambitious. If I can help in any way…” Samuel’s closed his eyes.
Andrew took a deep breath and swallowed as if he was gathering his courage. “As a matter of fact, there might be….”
The sound of snoring resonated from the bed.
Andrew leaned over and pulled a blanket up around Samuel, draping it across his body and over his shoulders. “Later, laddie. We’ll be talking later.”
GRANVILLE PULLED HIS ANKLE-LENGTH WOOLEN coat around him, hoping to hide the long, narrow box containing a bow and a quiver of arrows underneath it. He knew he looked suspicious wearing it this time of year, but he hoped as it got later the night air would cool down enough to make him look less odd. Not that it mattered much; there were few people out strolling even though it was a pleasant evening. Weekdays were quiet, but it was Friday and more people should have been out. Liberty Row was a haven for good music and good food, and the locals were not wont to pass up an evening out after a hard week’s work, but tonight were different. A dread feeling permeated the air laying heaviness on one’s chest like the onset of a summer thunderstorm, which made wearing the coat that much more uncomfortable.
He walked in measured steps toward the place where the neighbors had found the body of Old Joe.
A few weeks ago a woman leaving early for her job on the other side of the Middle District had tripped over his foot sticking out of an alleyway. The rest of his body had lain stuffed in a trashcan. Her scream had awakened half the block.
The police had come and gone, figuring it for a revenge murder. When the locals had tried to explain that Old Joe did not have an enemy in the world, the police shrugged it off and told them to call if it happened again. However, it wasn’t as if they did not care. The Boston Police had caught the man who had murdered eight children two years back, and he had hung for it. Two of the children were Negro, but by then the people of Boston just wanted the murderer caught.
Granville had been here before, and he’d seen Old Joe’s body. The slices and cuts had not been made by a knife or ax, but from claws. Large ones, he estimated, maybe six inches long and an inch in diameter at their bases. The poor old guy’s entrails removed with precision leaving nothing but an empty cavity. Then there were the bloody footprints that the police never bothered to look at. Close to thirteen inches long and each appeared to have three toes on each foot.
He opened the lid to one of the trashcans and pulled out an oil lamp he had secreted there earlier in the day. Granville put down the box then lit the lamp and adjusted the wick. He examined the walls and the area around where the body was found. Granville wished to do more investigating in the daylight, but there had been too many people around.
Peering at the wall above where Old Joe’s body had been eviscerated, Granville saw deep gashes in the brick shaped like claw marks. His eyes lit up when he noticed what appeared to be a piece of the creature’s talon. He pulled out a pen-knife and worked it out of the mortar. He inspected it and confirmed what he already knew: a demon had come to Liberty Row.
Granville stood up and pondered his next move. He was not a Medium or a detective, but he knew this neighborhood, and there were a finite amount of places a demon could hide. The trouble was, even if he found its hiding place, the creature would be on him before he knew it. He continued searching to see if he could find a clue as to where it resided. In his research, he had learned most demons liked to hide in small, dark places with limited access and running water.
He searched the basements in this block first. Most of the locals knew him, so he thought he could talk them into letting him inspect their basements on the ruse he was running scientific experiments.
So began the tedious task of knocking on doors, smiling and telling the same lie over and over again. After the fifth or sixth time the words tumbled across his lips with little effort. Most welcomed him and wanted to chat. Several of his neighbors insisted on entertaining him before he ventured into their basements or storerooms. A few were not at home, so Granville made a note to come back to those houses later.
Not long after midnight and with four blocks covered, Granville decided he had enough tea and cake to last him until next week. Though not heavy, the box with the bow and arrows had dug into his shoulder. Worse than that, his feet hurt. He wondered how Samuel and Andrew managed with the cumbersome weapons they used. Granville had developed decent upper-body strength through years of twisting and re-working metal, but he now discovered that walking long distances on cobblestone and brick was harder than he thought. He needed better shoes.
After inspecting over a dozen potential lairs and finding no sign of the demon, Granville decided it was time to go home. Sarah and Grace would be back by now and he didn’t want to worry his sister. He shifted the strap to the box to his other shoulder, and he started off. By this time he had stopped hiding it and explained to those who asked that it contained sensitive measuring equipment. His reputation was such that no one bothered to question him.
He had not traveled a half a block when he knew he was being followed.
Granville took the box off his arm, knelt, and laid it on the sidewalk. He opened it, paying particular attention to any movement or noise. At first there was nothing, then he heard it: fast, labored breathing, and a footfall. A whisper echoed between the brownstone buildings then rose above him like smoke through a chimney flue.
He yanked out the bow from the box, grabbed an arrow, nocked it, and spun around toward where he thought the noise had originated. Granville stared down a dark alley very much like the one where Old Joe was found. Droplets of sweat traveled from his scalp and across his nose, pausing for a moment before they continued on their journey. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move.
“Come forth, creature!” Granville cried out. “Or are you too scared to show yourself to a human?”
Silence answered his call.
Granville tried to provoke whatever lay hidden in the darkness. Not being a Medium, he couldn’t force the demon to reveal itself. All he had were his wits and the hope that whatever it was had an ego to bruise. “Do you just kill old men and children?”
He heard a scratching sound behind him. His breathing quicken as he prepared for the worst. Granville whirled around pulling back on the bowstring, ready to fire. His fingers were about to let the arrow fly when Granville stopped. There before him stood a whimpering and shivering young
boy.
“Please, Mr. Woods, sir! Don’t kill me!” Tears streamed down the poor boy’s face.
Granville lowered the bow in relief. “Peter Travers? What are you doing here? You scared me to death!” he barked.
The boy didn’t move. “Please, sir. Don’t hurt me!”
Granville knelt and reached for the boy. “I won’t hurt you. Now let’s get you home. Your mother must be terribly worried.”
The boy stared at Granville’s hand for a long moment then grabbed it. As Granville stood up, the child wrapped his arms around the man’s waist and held on for dear life.
“Peter? Are you all right?” Granville asked feeling jittery as his adrenaline rush dropped to nothing.
He shook his head. “Don’t let it kill me.”
Granville hugged him back. “I won’t let anything happen to you, son.” Prying the boy’s arms off him, Granville looked Peter in the eye. “What are you doing out so late?”
The boy wiped his tears from his eyes and used his sleeve on his runny nose. “Augustus, Michael, and Jefferson were playing hide-and-seek. I asked if I could play and they said yes. Then they told me to go hide, but they never found me.”
Granville patted the boy on the head to comfort him. He suspected the boys in question never looked for Peter. He had no doubt they thought it would be funny to leave a little boy out alone after nightfall.
“That’s because you were too good at hiding.” Granville smiled. “Come along, let’s get you home.”
Granville packed up the bow and arrow, then slung the box over his shoulder. He grasped Peter’s hand in his and walked out of the alley.
After they left, something slid out of the shadows and scurried after them, always keeping a discreet distance.
SAMUEL DRESSED WITH A GREAT deal of difficulty the following morning. His shoulder and back throbbed though both were healing well enough. Each time he reached behind him to put his arm into his shirt sleeve the motion caused him agonizing pain and he yearned for the days when he had servants at his beck and call. Not that he was accustomed to affluent living prior to his marriage to Elizabeth.
Born near Boston Harbor, Samuel was the son of merchants who ran a “ship chandler” as it was known among seamen that sold pea coats, lanyards, canvas trousers, rope, and hooks of every size and shape, as well as the traditional blunt-nose seaman’s knife. His mother managed the finances while his father dealt with sales. By the time Samuel was eight, they owned a successful small warehouse on the harbor. Well respected among the seafaring community, it wasn’t difficult for his parents to make sure Samuel attended a decent school, expecting him to take over their business when he came of age.
Samuel had other ideas.
Not one to settle down and become a tradesman, Samuel joined the crew of a merchant ship that sailed the East Coast right after his eighteenth birthday. Born right after the end of the House Wars, he had watched the Great States of America rebuild and re-imagine itself. By the time he reached adulthood, commerce was booming both in the Americas and abroad. Opportunity had beckoned, and he had wanted to be part of something greater than himself. Others used those same opportunities to cause mayhem and murder.
Samuel made port in Charleston, North Carolina one day and took leave with the rest of the crew in the boisterous city. Most of them headed toward their favorite brothels, Samuel included. Now twenty-two with a strong back and even a stronger will, Samuel worked hard and played even harder. Charleston, being a bustling commercial port, brought in people looking to make money or take it from others. Resentment from those loyal to the defeated Southern Houses still simmered beneath the surface of welcome and congeniality. However, one particular night that bitterness manifested itself in an ugly and twisted way.
A prostitute was found mutilated and murdered in a room one of Samuel’s shipmates had just frequented. He swore he was innocence, and although the police did not believe him, Samuel had.
Samuel had taken it upon himself to investigate the murder, examining the room and the body, questioning the other girls and whoever else had been there. The police took exception to this and threatened to arrest him, but he just would not let it go. With three days to solve the case before they shipped out again, Samuel knew he had to work fast. Samuel pieced together the disparate and conflicting stories and saw a pattern, or rather a flaw in the pattern. He had discovered that a local man, jealous his favorite girl saw other men, had crawled through her window and murdered her right after Samuel’s shipmate had left the room. The man had taken a locket she had cherished and given it to another prostitute. It had been his undoing.
Police still did not believe Samuel’s evidence until an older patron who frequented the same brothel stepped forward and introduced himself as a senior Pinkerton detective. He told the police he thought Samuel’s case was sound and they should pass it on to their superiors. Not wanting to take the word of two men they considered to be outsiders, they refused. However, it was not long until Samuel received a message from the police captain to present himself without delay. It appeared the Pinkerton detective had more political clout than the local police had thought.
Samuel’s crewmate returned to the ship a free man but life was to change for young Samuel Hunter. Impressed with Samuel’s ability and doggedness without any training, the detective offered him a job. Samuel accepted.
Many years later, Samuel had left the Pinkertons and had taken a position guarding Elizabeth Weldsmore, the heir to one of the most powerful Houses in Boston. They had fallen in love and married, much to the distress of her father.
Living in one of Boston’s greatest Houses had been both a burden and a revelation. Samuel soon learned that servants attended to every little detail of everyday life. He never had to deal with anything as mundane as laundry, cleaning, shopping, cooking, or even dressing. His wife Elizabeth had grown up with it, but he could never get used to someone waiting on him hand and foot.
This particular morning he would have liked to have had his old valet back. Even more, he wished Elizabeth were still alive.
“You have that look about ya, laddie,” Andrew piped up as he wobbled into the room. “Memories be good, but not if that’s all you be thinking about.”
Samuel waved the shirt at him with his good arm. “My memories are my own. Now, would you please help me with this shirt? And why are you limping?”
Andrew pursed his lips, took the garment, and helped Samuel struggle into it. “Erin saw fit to throw a pitcher or two at me.”
“What could you have possibly done to warrant that?” Samuel inquired, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
“The usual. My lass Caitlin has a mind of her own, and her ma will have none of it.”
“And you got in the middle?”
“Aye. That be the long and short of it.” Andrew buttoned up the jacket, straightened the lapel and made sure the sleeves hung just so. “There. You look like a proper peacock. Now where do you think you be going today?”
“I thought I could manage walking ten feet over to my office. Think you can handle making tea? There should be left over biscuits and hard-boiled eggs.” Samuel headed to the door that led to his office.
“Gah. A fine man like you needs to be eating better than that. Especially if you expect to get well any time soon,” Andrew remarked following him.
Samuel nodded as Andrew walked over and opened the cooler. Easily mistaken for a simple pine dresser, it stood three feet tall with brass fittings and shelves made of zinc. Andrew had never liked the contraption, always complaining that the gas inside would leak out and kill them all. He knew better than to press Samuel about it, though, as it had been a gift from Elizabeth before electricity had been installed.
Samuel eased himself into his desk chair as Andrew put together a semblance of a meal for them.
“Have there been any messages? Any new jobs?” Samuel asked in a hopeful tone. He wanted nothing more than to take his mind off, well…everything.
&n
bsp; “Aye,” Andrew responded as he carried a container of honey and two plates laden with hard boiled eggs, biscuits, and a slab of butter to the desk and set them on the table. “But no one’s going to fight any demons or ghosts until you can swing an ax without dropping it on ya foot.” Andrew picked up a blue-and-white ceramic teapot from a small wooden stove and poured a dark robust tea into two matching cups. “Now not another word.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“If that’s what it takes for you to sit on your arse a spell, then so be it.” Andrew bit into a buttered biscuit.
Samuel studied his egg as he peeled it. “So what are we going to do in regards to Mr. Woods? We need those weapons. You know him. What do you think it would take?”
“He be a right proud man, but I thought for sure he’d sell us a bow or two. I guess you can’t be too careful when folks be stealing your stuff.” Andrew used a knife to dip into the honey jar, then smeared it on the remaining biscuit. “Maybe we can offer him a trade.”
“Trade our services for his?” Samuel pondered this. “With the number of arrows and other weapons he’s got up there, I’m thinking he already knows he needs us.”
“Or he just can’t bring himself to do it. Pride be a damnable thing.” Andrew winked at Samuel. “There be anyone you know who be like that?”
The younger man gave Andrew a scathing glance. “Very funny. The weapons could be for something else. You know that, don’t you?”
“Aye. If there ever be another House War, Liberty Row will be arming itself.” Andrew stared into his tea as if he could see the future. “No one wants to be a slave.”
“The people of Liberty Row will be slaves to fear if I’m right about the demon.” Thinking, Samuel tapped the egg on the table. “Get the police reports from one of your old contacts. See if anything out of the ordinary has been reported. I want to know for sure if there’s a demon living there.”
Boston Metaphysical Society Page 21
