Fallow

by Jordan L. Hawk

  “Things didn’t go well with Ma, as you’ve guessed,” I admitted. “Or Vernon. But the one who seemed the most upset to see me was Marian, truth be told.” I hesitated. “I was shocked to see her there. Did she and Benjamin get divorced, or...?”

  “Aw, heck, you didn’t know?” Lawrence’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mention it last night, because I figured your ma had told you.”

  “Then he’s dead,” I said, the last bit of hope I’d clung to disintegrating.

  “I’m afraid so.” Lawrence sank back in his chair. “It happened a few years after you left. Marian went out looking for him when he was late for supper. She found him in the barn, shot through the head and with a gun in his hand.”

  I could still remember the spray of freckles that the sun brought out on his face. Running footraces down the road on Sunday afternoons. The nervous flutter in my belly the first time we’d kissed. The desperation burning in every fiber of my being when he’d told me to unfasten my trousers and bend over for him.

  A few moments of pleasure to blot out years of pain and fear, of knowing something was wrong with me, of praying it could be changed.

  “May God have mercy on his soul,” I said through numb lips.

  “Amen.” Lawrence leaned forward and tapped out the ashes from his pipe against the hearth. “It was suicide, though Marian called it murder, so Parson Norton refused to let him be buried in the churchyard.”

  “Murder?”

  Lawrence rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “Not directly, but talk about him never really died down, even after you left. Marian claimed somebody sent Benjamin anonymous letters every month, calling him a sinner, telling him he was bound for hell for what he’d done. Once or twice a year, the newspaper would print anonymous letters sent to them, railing against letting him stay in Fallow. Of course that damned—pardon me—editor Carson printed them, and was happy to do it.”

  “God.” I’d never known. Never guessed.

  My departure was supposed to fix things for him. Instead, I felt as though I’d abandoned Benjamin to his death.

  “Maybe if he and Marian had children, things would have been different.” Lawrence glanced at Simon, head bent studiously over a book in the dim light of the kerosene lantern. “Then again, maybe not.”

  “What was that?” Annie asked, looking up from her sewing. “I thought I heard something outside.”

  The house fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire, the low creak of the beams in the wind. Just as I began to think she’d imagined it, there came a low scratching noise from beneath one of the windows.

  “Must be the dogs,” Lawrence said uneasily. He rose to his feet, checked that his shotgun was in easy reach, and opened the door.

  Two dogs raced inside, their ears back and their tails tucked between their legs. They cowered beneath the table, eyes fixed on the open door, clearly too terrified even to bark.

  I drew out my revolver. “Something is out there.”

  Lawrence picked up the shotgun. “Don’t worry,” he told Annie. “Probably a wolf spooked them.”

  But he didn’t sound as if he believed it.

  Annie pulled her children close, but her eyes remained fixed on her husband. “Maybe you ought to stay inside.”

  “This ain’t Alabama,” he said. “If it’s a wolf we’ll scare it off, and if it’s prowlers, we’ll send them running too. You just stay here. We’ll be right back.”

  I took up a lantern, and we stepped out onto the porch, shutting the door behind us. Night had fallen, the sky distinguishable from the plains only by the presence of stars.

  The yard was empty, at least within the reach of our lantern light. “No horses,” Lawrence murmured, and I recalled his comment about Alabama. Annie’s family no doubt had brought with them dark tales of riders in the night.

  Lawrence led the way around the side of the house, where we’d heard the scratching. I held the lantern high, directing its light along the wall.

  “Nothing here,” he said, but I heard the unease in his voice. “If it was a wolf, maybe we scared it—”

  There came the sound of running footsteps, and a heavy body slammed into me.

  Chapter 14

  Whyborne

  “I’m so pleased you could come, Dr. Putnam. That is, Dr. Putnam-Barnett,” said Mayor Tate. “And your husband and Dr. Whyborne, of course.”

  The Tate house was the largest within the town proper. Mr. Tate, a big man with a generous belly, greeted us as warmly as his wife. Miss Tate was naturally present for the dinner party, as was Miss Norton. I bowed politely over their hands. Both of them smiled and blinked their eyes a great deal in my direction.

  “And this is Parson Norton, Miss Norton’s father,” Mayor Tate went on.

  Parson Norton had thinning gray hair and a rather red face. “I look forward to seeing you in church Sunday morning,” he said as we shook hands. I muttered something vague in reply.

  “I’m glad to report we’ll be giving Whyborne Railroad and Industries our business in a few days, once the harvest is finished,” Mr. Tate said, once introductions were finished. “Folks here need some hope, and the sight of your train cars stuffed with our corn, heading to Widdershins, will uplift many a heart.”

  Dear lord, I hoped the man didn’t intend to talk business throughout the evening. I hadn’t the slightest interest in Father’s empire. “I saw the grain elevators when we arrived on the train.”

  His chest puffed out slightly. “I own those—or a share in them, anyway. The old grain company no longer believed in our little town, closed up operations, and moved on. Fortunately Loyal Grain showed an interest, and I was able to convince them to invest in a joint operation.”

  “Fascinating,” I lied. Thank heavens Mayor Tate chose that moment to indicate we should proceed to the dining room, saving me from any further talk of business.

  I soon found myself seated at the long table between Miss Norton and Miss Tate. Mayor Tate sat at one end of the table, with Christine to her right. “I assume you’re active in the matter of women’s suffrage?” Mayor Tate asked once the parson had droned his way through a lengthy prayer for grace.

  Christine’s eyes lit up. “Naturally! I must say, I was quite impressed to discover Fallow has a female mayor. The men of your town must be uncommonly sensible.”

  Mr. Tate and Iskander exchanged a look.

  “I am the seventeenth woman to hold such a position in Kansas,” Mayor Tate replied modestly. “But it isn’t due just to the men—women can vote in municipal elections in our fair state.”

  “Kansas is far ahead of Massachusetts in such matters, then,” Christine said with a scowl. “My own work has left me little time to become involved in suffrage, I fear.”

  “Perhaps you could speak to women’s groups, and show them what we might achieve?” Mayor Tate suggested.

  The young ladies seemed uninterested in political matters. “Do you have a large practice in Widdershins, Dr. Whyborne?” Miss Norton asked.

  It took a moment for me to realize what she meant. “Oh! No. I’m not that sort of doctor. I work at the museum.”

  “How fascinating,” said Miss Tate. “Oh dear, your wine is getting low—please let me refresh it for you.”

  Miss Norton shot her friend a glare across me. “Do try the potatoes,” she said, adding some to my plate without asking. “I cooked them myself.”

  “Our cook was considered one of the best in Virginia, before Mother lured him here,” Miss Tate said smugly.

  Miss Norton’s smile grew more and more fixed. “I find a woman should know how things ought to be done first hand. Only then can she judge whether the work of another meets her standards.”

  “How interesting. I have never found it necessary to know how to plow a field in order to judge whether the resulting meal in front of me is any good.”

  Miss Norton’s face flushed an angry red; apparently the remark carried the weight of some history between them. I shrank back in my chair as far
as possible, but neither woman seemed to notice my attempt at a retreat.

  “I’m certain a man of Dr. Whyborne’s stature would prefer a wife who understands the nature of hard work, so as to provide a suitable home,” Miss Norton grated out. “Rather than one who would laze about and see only to her own comforts.”

  “Mr. Tate,” I said loudly. “What were you telling me earlier about grain elevators?”

  Tate blinked at me in surprise. “Er...that Loyal Grain provided the funds, and I oversee their operation?”

  Clearly he thought me a lunatic. I didn’t care. “Fascinating. Please tell me more. Spare no details of their workings, I beg you.”

  Chapter 15

  Griffin

  The lantern went flying, leaving us with only the light from the windows. My elbow struck the ground painfully hard, followed by my chin.

  A heavy weight came down on my back, and a moldy stench enveloped me. Fingers scrabbled at my throat, and I strove to buck my assailant off before he could throttle me.

  “You’ll pay for what you’ve done,” he snarled in my ear. His breath reeked like something rotting in a root cellar.

  “Get off him!” Lawrence shouted, and grabbed the man’s arm.

  My assailant ignored him, fingers continuing to tighten. Black spots showed in my vision, and my hands scrabbled in the dust.

  Hooking a handful of loose dirt, I squeezed my eyes shut and threw it over my shoulder and into my attacker’s face.

  He reared back, clawing at his eyes. At the same moment, Lawrence struck him with the stock of the shotgun. My assailant grunted—then fell away from me at a second blow.

  I rolled to my feet, revolver at the ready. The man crouched in the full light of the window—and revulsion brought bile to my throat. The familiar grayish hyphae crawled over his face, like the spread of some fungal growth.

  “It’s Bottomless Joe!” Lawrence exclaimed in recognition.

  My finger hesitated on the trigger.

  The man lunged at me, seeming not to care for safety any more than Odell or Evers had. Lawrence brought the stock of his shotgun down hard, and Joe collapsed into the dirt, unmoving.

  When it became apparent he was unconscious, I lowered my gun. “You know him?” I asked.

  I couldn’t see Lawrence’s expression in the dimness. “Yeah. Bottomless Joe. They call him that because of how much he could drink. But the booze drove him crazy. He’s supposed to be locked up at the poor farm. I guess he got out.”

  The poor farm. Where Odell had been. Where the crops flourished thanks to the new wells.

  “You all right?” Lawrence asked me.

  I took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m fine,” I said, though what I really wanted to do was strip off my things and bathe. God, how he smelled.

  “Joe must be the prowler,” Lawrence said. “Let’s get some rope from the barn—we’ll tie him up, and take him back to Mrs. Creigh first thing tomorrow.”

  “Mrs. Creigh?” I asked.

  “The superintendent of the poor farm.”

  “Really?” I murmured. “This might seem like an odd question, but...did Mrs. Creigh recently take over its management, by any chance?”

  Lawrence gave me a puzzled look. “How did you know? She came around the beginning of August, if I remember right. Old Mr. Kendrick died of heart failure, and she was his replacement.”

  “Heart failure,” I said. “Of course.”

  Lawrence’s gaze narrowed. “Griffin...is there something you ain’t telling me? You said you’re a private detective, and I don’t mean to intrude where it’s none of my business, but are you here looking into more than just some old artifact?”

  “I can’t really say,” I said, with a little nod meant to confirm his assumption.

  “Ah.” He tapped his nose with a finger. “I get it. I won’t say nothing to anyone.”

  “I appreciate your discretion,” I said, relieved I wouldn’t have to make up some fable on the spot. “You keep an eye on our friend here, and I’ll retrieve the rope.”

  I was just returning with the rope, when I heard Lawrence shout. “Wait! Stop!”

  I broke into a run. Lawrence stood in the yard in front of the house, staring into the darkness. “Gol darn it,” he said. “He came to all the sudden. I showed him the gun, told him not to run, but he did anyway.”

  And of course Lawrence wasn’t the sort to shoot an unarmed man, let alone a lunatic not responsible for his actions. “It isn’t your fault,” I said.

  Lawrence cast a final glance in the direction Bottomless Joe had vanished. “I don’t think Joe will be back tonight...but just in case, why don’t you come in the house and wait until your friends get back. I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t out here alone in the barn.”

  “As would I,” I said, and followed him into the house.

  Chapter 16

  Whyborne

  By the time dinner ended, I knew more of grain elevators than I’d ever wished. The ladies drifted away, Christine and Mayor Tate in deep discussion concerning the rights of women, both in the United States and abroad. Miss Norton and Miss Tate followed them, shooting furious looks at one another as they did so.

  The rest of us stepped onto the porch for brandy and cigars. I declined a cigar—the things smelled like burning socks in my opinion, although most men seemed to enjoy them. The air held a slight chill, and I was glad for my coat.

  “Dr. Whyborne, might I have a private word with you?” Mr. Tate asked.

  Dear lord, he didn’t mean to inquire as to my intentions toward his daughter, did he? I could hardly refuse his request, so I followed him to a more secluded end of the wrap-around porch, away from the light spilling from the open doors.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Tate?” I asked.

  Tate looked deeply uncomfortable. He turned to stare out at the horizon. Searching for any signs of a distant prairie fire, as Griffin had last night? “The matter is...well, it’s a bit awkward,” he said apologetically. “Normally I would never repeat any sort of gossip, but at the same time I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t warn you.”

  “Warn me?” I asked blankly.

  “Yes.” He took a fortifying sip of brandy. “About one of your traveling companions. Griffin Flaherty.”

  Dinner transformed into a leaden lump in my belly. “What about him, sir?” I asked, letting an edge show in my voice.

  “I don’t know what he’s told you,” Tate said, “but the reason he moved away from Fallow was less than savory. There was a scandal.”

  Damn Tate, and the Kerrs along with him. “Mr. Flaherty consented to return to Fallow to assist with an archaeological survey on his mother’s farm.” The brandy snifter grew colder under my fingers, frost spreading from my touch. The shadows hid it from Tate, but at the moment, I wasn’t sure I even cared.

  Tate looked wretchedly uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t speak of such things ordinarily,” he assured me. “But he was...well. To put it plainly, he was caught committing unnatural acts that would outrage the sensibility of any decent man.”

  Words burned on my tongue, and the scars on my arm ached. How dare he speak of my husband so? How dare he spread such tales, surely knowing the danger it would put Griffin in, were I the ignorant employer Tate assumed me to be?

  I hated him. I hated them all.

  “I am not in the habit of listening to gossip and innuendo, sir,” I said, and the air grew colder with every word that left my lips. “Especially not when spoken behind a man’s back.”

  Mr. Tate stepped away from me, and I caught a flicker of fear in his eyes. Good. Let him fear me. “Dr. Whyborne, I assure you, I worry only for your reputation!”

  “And you believe it can only be protected by smearing that of another man?” My face felt like a rigid mask, which might crack at any moment and expose the rage seething within. “I will overlook this lapse, Mr. Tate, because I am a guest in your home. But do not think to whisper slander in my ears again.”

  “Y-
Yes. Forgive me,” he said, shrinking back. “I never meant offense.”

  “You have given it nonetheless.” I put my snifter down on the railing. The brandy within had frozen solid. “I believe it time for us to return to our lodgings. Good night to you, sir.”

  ~ * ~

  I fumed in silence all the way back to the Reynolds’ farm. I’d managed to remain civil until the ladies rejoined us, although the demands of politeness had sorely tried what little patience I had left. When we’d announced our departure, Miss Norton brought out a basket for me.

  “A pumpkin pie, as promised. You can return the basket whenever you’d like,” she said, giving me a wide smile.

  “Did you enjoy your conversation with Mayor Tate, dearest?” Iskander asked when we were well away.

  “Oh indeed. We spoke of universal suffrage. Of course, the women’s movement is dreadfully tied up with temperance.” Christine sighed. “I don’t see why I have to give up whiskey in order to gain the vote.”

  “Very unfair,” Iskander agreed.

  “However, I didn’t allow myself to become entirely distracted by our debate,” she went on. “I asked her if she knew a Mr. Delancey.”

  A bold move—but one I should have expected. “Did she?”

  “Quite well,” she said, flicking the reins. “I couldn’t help but overhear some of your dinner conversation, Whyborne. Mr. Delancey was the man who put her husband in touch with Loyal Grain, made introductions, and generally oversaw the company’s operation in Fallow. At least until he was suddenly called back east on business.”

  Blast. “Do you think the Tates have any connection with the cult?” Of course, we weren’t even entirely certain what Delancey’s connection had been. If he’d worked with them, or pretended to, or simply been an unknowing pawn who’d realized their intentions too late.

  “You spoke alone to Mr. Tate,” Iskander said to me. “Did you receive any hint he might be with the Fideles?”

  “No.” I ground my teeth together. “He wished to warn me that my association with Griffin would do my reputation no good.” The slow burning anger threatened to flare up again. “I wanted to strike him. No—I wanted to curse him, in the most literal way possible.”