Shivaree

by J. D. Horn

  “I knew you had it.” He held the bottle up before her eyes. “I guessed what you were intending when I saw your cat losing its fur.” He shook the bottle. “You have enough for one or two people maybe, but you don’t have anyone close to you. That meant you planned on taking a bunch of folk with you, but you don’t have enough to kill everybody. Not here. You’d end up cutting it too much to take a bunch of folk out quickly.” He held the bottle out to her. “Besides, in small doses this stuff takes time. I went to the library in Tupelo. Read up about it. That’s why I never told the sheriff about it. But when Miss Ruby came to me, I told her about it. I told her about you.”

  She reached out to snatch away the bottle, but Merle was too fast, sweeping it back beyond her grasp. He smiled, then again held the bottle out, this time letting it drop without guile into her palm. She shoved it into her pocket. “Ruby is dead. And you’re crazy.”

  “No,” Merle replied, his sparkling eyes taking on an intensity she’d only seen before in Pentecostal tent revivals. “They put her in a casket, but she wasn’t dead. Not really. Not in the way you and me think of as dead. I know, you see, ’cause we live right next to the cemetery. One night, I just felt her. Standing out there in the moonlight. She’s my friend now, so I told her about you. She got the idea from you.”

  Annie felt the pulse in her neck, even as her extremities turned cold. “What idea?”

  “To use the diner. See, if she’s right there with you, looking at you, there ain’t no way you can refuse her. She’s too beautiful to say no to. You love her too much.” His expression softened, his eyes took on a distant, smitten look. “You’d do anything for her. Give her anything.” He tilted his head and leaned in as if he were about to make a confession. “But if she ain’t with a person, she can’t make ’em do as she wants ’em to. Until you taste her. Once you taste her”—his tongue slid out and ran slowly across his lower lip—“she owns you.” He reached out, squeezing her hand. “You gave her the idea to spike the food with her blood, so everyone who eats at the diner will do as she wants ’em to, without her having to be right there watching over ’em.” His voice grew quiet. “You handed her the goddamned key to the city”—he paused, squinting at her—“but you never eat what the diner serves. You never, even once, eat at the diner.”

  “Of course not,” she said, growing angry. “I’ve been in the kitchen.”

  Merle laughed, although she meant it as a sincere explanation. “It doesn’t matter now anyway,” he said, as a pickup truck turned on to the street and came to a halt next to them. It took her a second, but she recognized it as belonging to old man Aarons. There were two men inside, though. Her stomach lurched as she recognized the Sleiger boys. The doors to the truck opened, even though they left the engine running.

  Annie broke out into a cold sweat. “You two best get out of here and leave me be,” she called out as they drew near. “The sheriff, he’s looking for you.” She felt her body tensing, preparing to run if they took a single step closer.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Merle said, his voice calm, soothing. “Miss Ruby, she’s got a special reward for you. You’re gonna serve her. She’s chosen you as her handmaiden. She’s gonna take you herself, and when you wake up, you’ll never have to worry about growing old or dying. Ever again. You’ll live forever. As long as you please her. As long as you serve her.”

  “But I don’t want to live forever,” Annie said, bursting into tears.

  “Don’t be silly,” Merle said, “nobody wants to grow old and die. Everybody wants to live forever.”

  “Not in this body. Not with this face.” Before she could take a step, the Sleiger boys had her and were stuffing her into the cab of the truck. In that moment, she believed what Merle had told her. The realization of what was about to happen to her slapped her across the face, and as it did, she let herself scream, not even caring if the Sleigers enjoyed the sound of her cry.

  FIFTY

  Francis examined her reflection. She wore her favorite robe, a faded rose one Dylan had chosen as a Christmas present for her some years ago, back before he had picked up any of his bad habits. Back when he was still her little sweet-faced angel boy. She tugged the side of her curler cap down, and twisted off the lid of her cold cream. She applied a dab on the forehead, then smoothed the cream into an even coat. A dab on each cheek, on the chin. She gently worked the cream up, then ran her hands under warm water.

  It had taken her an hour in a hot tub to help her relax after nearly hitting the fool who’d been standing in the road. She’d barely managed to swerve in time. She forced the thought from her head. No use getting herself all worked up again over it.

  She tightened her robe and turned off the light, padding down the stairs in her new slippers. The old ones, the ones her husband had bought her as an anniversary present before he grew ill, had worn clean through, so she found a new pair that somewhat resembled them. She wouldn’t allow the unfamiliar to creep into her house. When Dylan finally returned, she wanted him to feel at home, to know this was where he belonged.

  Oh, how she rued the day she allowed that Ruby girl beneath her roof. Originally, she had approved of a liaison between them. It seemed like the two might be a good match, both socially—Ruby was, after all, the daughter of a judge—and physically, too. Her dark eyes and raven hair were diametrically opposed to Dylan’s Apollo-like radiance, though her features were indeed exquisite. But her beauty didn’t go any deeper than what a body could see. Ruby had been a carnal girl, lacking entirely in spiritual and intellectual qualities, a taste for which she had done her best to cultivate in Dylan. Francis watched helplessly as the horrid girl dragged her beautiful son down, forcing her attentions on Dylan. Seducing him. Soiling him. Stealing him away.

  Francis did what she could to intervene. She even had Reverend Miller come and speak to the youth and try to appeal to his higher nature, but the change in Dylan happened all too quickly. Francis could never have imagined that Ruby’s despicable influence would act with such alacrity, undoing a loving mother’s years of guidance seemingly overnight.

  Francis flicked on the kitchen light and pulled a small saucepan from a drawer. She filled it with water and placed it on the stove. The igniter had stopped working reliably, sparking only around half the time, so she took a match and touched it to the burner; the gas flamed to life. She slid the pot to the burner, and glanced at the clock on the wall. Half past seven. She’d fix her nightly cup of Postum and warm up the radio. Dylan’s favorite program, Suspense, aired tonight. His father had never approved of the program, but neither had he expressly disapproved of it, so she and Dylan had enjoyed listening to it together ever since Dylan was a boy. Francis would listen to it tonight, just as she did every week at this time. It made her feel closer to Dylan, knowing that he, too, wherever he was, would undoubtedly be tuned in.

  She opened the cabinet where she kept the Postum, and a sense of sorrow, greater than even what she felt at her husband’s passing, descended on her. She had done this how many weeks now? How many years? Keeping the home fire burning. Holding everything still and in place. Early on, it had been easy to hold on to the faith that Dylan would begin to see through Ruby and her lascivious ways. That he would grow to miss the wholesomeness of his own hometown. That he would come to miss his mama as much as she missed him.

  But then Ruby had returned. And Ruby passed on. Between those points, the Judge had refused to let Francis pose her own questions to Ruby, claiming that the two had drifted apart early on, and that Ruby had no knowledge of Dylan’s whereabouts. Despite the assurances of Dylan’s well-being that Clarence had passed on to her from beyond the veil, despite Chief Little Feather’s promises of Dylan’s safe return, Francis felt unsure. Tonight, for the first time, she allowed herself to question whether her boy could be gone for good, lost to her forever. She watched the steam as it began to rise from the pot of water.

  She found a spoon and ladled the mix into her cup. A knock sounded at her door. For
one delirious moment, her heart leapt. Could it be? She stopped. Of course not. She was being ridiculous. Another, more insistent knock set her in motion. She followed the sound of the rapping to her front door. Using one hand to secure the upper portion of her robe, and the other to grasp the doorknob, she opened the door a crack, just enough to get a glimpse at the caller on its other side without having to reveal too much of herself.

  “Hello again, Mrs. Sawyer.”

  “Marjorie,” Francis said, rather surprised to see the hapless woman for the second time in one day. Marjorie had struck her as a complete creature of habit, showing up every day or so, always with a cake carrier in her plump, sweaty hands. Never before had she come calling twice in one day. “It’s rather late for a visit, I think. I was just preparing to turn in.” This time the girl came without pastry, her gaze cast downward. She seemed rather upset. Francis realized it was her Christian duty to inquire. “Is everything all right?”

  “May I come in?” Marjorie replied. She stood there on the stoop, looking for all the world like a lost child. Downcast. With one hand, Marjorie fingered the bow around the waist of her dress. She had something small clutched in the other, and because of the way she kept slipping it backward, nearly hiding it behind her, Francis surmised that this object was more than likely the cause of the simple girl’s consternation. “Please?”

  Francis came close to refusing, but relented. “I suppose it would be all right, but only for a few minutes.” She stepped back and allowed the girl to enter. She remembered the pot she’d left on the burner, and turned. “Come through, and please close the door behind you.” Francis made her way to the kitchen, not bothering to wait on her dowdy guest to trudge along behind her.

  She turned off the stove. The water had boiled, so she left it in place to cool a bit before adding it to her cup. She glanced at the clock. Still plenty of time before the program. With any luck she could wrap up Marjorie’s bundle of misery and parcel her back out the door before the announcer began speaking.

  Marjorie appeared suddenly behind her, startling her. Even though Francis was well aware of Marjorie’s presence, the stealth with which she approached demonstrated none of the lumbering, ungainly qualities Francis had come to expect of her. She suppressed a gasp. “Do sit.” She motioned toward the kitchen table, circling around to its far side and pulling out her own chair. Marjorie did as requested, dragging the chair so that the legs scraped loudly against the linoleum Dylan had chosen for the room. Francis nearly protested, but something about the girl’s expression stopped her. Marjorie’s hand shot out and grasped the edge of the table as she fell, collapsing into the chair. “Dear, are you quite all right?” Francis said, noticing how pale the girl seemed. “Are you ill?”

  Marjorie’s head shot straight back, and her eyes opened wide. They struck Francis as odd, but she couldn’t figure out exactly how. Marjorie’s breathing grew labored, as if she had just finished sprinting a mile. Then, through gritted teeth, she began screaming, the veins in her temples jutting out. Her hand reached up and came slamming down on the table, shards of glass escaping as the small brown bottle she had been secreting shattered. Blood dripped from Marjorie’s hand as she raised it, and Francis jumped up to get a towel to wrap it in. “What is wrong with you, child?” She grabbed a dry cloth from beside the sink and turned to use it as a bandage, but stopped at the sight of a portion of the bottle that remained on her table. She dropped the towel.

  The red diamond poison warning stared accusingly up at her. But how? She’d disposed of the bottle behind the diner. Years ago now. The night that Dylan left. The night he’d threatened to turn her in to the police.

  Her brother had been a chemist working for the pulp plant before he died in the war. He’d had a few bottles of it in his possession. She’d used the others. This one had been the last. She had held on to it, just in case. She never really thought she’d use it.

  “You drove him away,” Marjorie said. Her face had bunched up in on itself, shriveled into a mask of rage. “I know it now. I know everything.”

  Francis backed away until she bumped up against the sink.

  Marjorie stood and walked to the drawer where Francis kept her cutlery. She slid the drawer open. “You poisoned Mr. Sawyer. That’s why he got sick. That’s why he died.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Francis slid along with her back to the counter. Once she got a clear shot for the door, she’d . . . she’d what? Go to the sheriff? What if they listened to this girl?

  Marjorie reached into the drawer and pulled out Francis’s best carving knife. “You poisoned your husband. You found out he was planning on leaving you. Leaving Conroy. So you poisoned him to keep him around.” Marjorie took a step closer. The overhead light glinted off the blade.

  “I don’t know how you got these crazy ideas in your head . . .” Francis said, sliding to the end of the counter. The entrance to the kitchen was now a straight shot.

  “Ruby. Ruby told me.” Marjorie stood before her, her chest heaving. “And Dylan told her. Dylan, he told her that you poisoned Mr. Sawyer so he couldn’t leave you. Then Dylan caught you trying to do the same thing to him, so you could keep him around.”

  “When did Ruby tell you this?”

  “Tonight. Just now. I hear her in my head. She’s laughing. She wants me to ask you if you’d like to talk with Chief Little Feather.”

  “That harlot is dead, and you are crazy.”

  “I am not crazy,” Marjorie cried and lunged at her. Before Francis fully realized what she was doing, she grasped the handle of the pot she’d left on the stove and flung the still-scalding water into Marjorie’s eyes.

  Marjorie howled and dropped the knife. She fell to her knees, then over on her side, pulling her legs up into her chest. “I’m not crazy,” she said between sobs.

  Francis stood frozen in place. “I never meant to kill his father.” She hadn’t expected to admit it, but the confession spilled from her, surprising her with how good it felt to say the words. “I was so very careful to keep the dosage low. I just couldn’t let him leave me. I couldn’t let him leave us. A boy needs his father.” Her own legs began to feel weak, and she slid down to the floor next to Marjorie.

  “I only wanted to protect Dylan. He was putting himself at such a risk with those drugs she started him taking. He was putting himself at such risk . . . being . . . with that undoubtedly syphilitic whore. Is there a man she didn’t spread her legs for?” A flash of anger filled her. “One day I heard them talking. Talking about leaving Conroy. I knew if she took him away, she’d destroy him. I’d never see my baby boy again.” Her own sobs rose to match and then drown out Marjorie’s. She realized her companion had fallen silent, the realization causing her to regain her own composure. “I only wanted to make him a bore to her long enough that she’d lose interest in him and move on. I would never have harmed him. Not really. He was my son. He was the love of my life.”

  Francis pushed herself up, then crawled the few feet to the stove. She opened the oven door, peering in. She drew a breath and puffed out the oven’s pilot light, then turned the gas up high. She looked back over her shoulder and took one last look at the girl, still writhing on the floor. Still on her hands and knees, Francis made her way around Marjorie, and finding the knife had damaged the linoleum, picked up the blade and plunged it into the girl.

  Francis pushed through the blood that had begun to puddle around Marjorie. Francis put her head inside the oven and then, closing her eyes and thinking of her son, began taking deep breaths.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Corinne spotted the patrol car’s arrival through the two large picture windows that had been set one on each side of the station’s double-door entrance and emblazoned with the city’s seal. She couldn’t help but reflect on the fact that while the building’s higher and smaller windows were barred, these two large windows were not. Had the architects reasoned Conroy’s criminal element wo
uld respect the integrity of the large festooned panes?

  She and Lucille had been waiting there for hours, ever since the sheriff had shown up at the Judge’s house, telling her that the Dunnes had been murdered, and that it’d been Elijah who’d done the killing.

  Now the three men entered the building one by one. The deputy, who was first in the procession, opened and held one of the double doors, allowing Elijah to be pushed through by the sheriff. “Elijah,” Corinne called. She tried to grab hold of his sleeve as the sheriff maneuvered him past her and toward the large cell that lined the back of the office.

  “Step back, please, Miss Ford,” Bell said, this time having no trouble remembering the family name Corinne had planned on leaving behind.

  Corinne searched Elijah’s eyes for even the slightest sign that any of this could be true. That the kind and gentle young man she had intended to marry—had this really shifted into the past tense?—could be responsible for the bloodshed Bell wanted to lay at his feet. She saw no guilt. Only confusion. Pain. Corinne shuddered as she wondered if Elijah had learned of his parents’ murders from men who thought him responsible for the act.

  “Sheriff,” Corinne said, inserting herself between Elijah and the cell into which the sheriff had intended to place him. “Look at him. Can’t you see he had nothing to do with any of this?”

  “Your loyalty to your fiancé is heartening, ma’am, but I do need you to step out of the way.”

  The deputy—what was his name?—took her by the arm and pulled her to the side. Keys jangled and metal scraped metal as Bell unlocked and opened the cage. He gave Elijah a rough shove, causing him to lurch past the bars, and pulled the door closed with a loud clang.