The Diviners

by Libba Bray

  “It started with his hand.” Jericho paused, sipped from Evie’s glass of water, resumed. “One day, he couldn’t make a fist. I remember that moment so clearly. He turned to me and said, ‘It’s like my doggone hand is drunk. Kid, you didn’t take my hand off base for a quick one while I was sleeping, didya?’ He said it like it was a joke. But I could tell he was scared. He didn’t tell the doctors, though. He just kept telling them he felt fit as a fiddle.”

  Jericho worried the edge of the sheet between his fingers, pulling it taut, relaxing it again.

  “He would get awful moody. Agitated. Once, he threw a plate of potatoes against a wall, and it left a hole there. His eyes were haunted. He asked me to run with him. He ran me into the ground. He couldn’t or wouldn’t stop. I let him go; I couldn’t keep up. Later, I saw him standing in the courtyard in the rain. Just standing there, letting it wash over him. I ran out to tell him to come inside, and he said, ‘It’s like I’ve got too much inside me. It just pushes and pushes with nowhere to go.’ I got him to come inside and lie down. I could hear him in the dark, whispering, ‘Please… please… please.’ Anyway, one night he went a little crazy. He stripped off all his clothes and ran through the hospital like an ape, swinging from the pipes, smashing windows. ‘I am the future!’ he screamed. It took four orderlies to catch him and strap him to the bed. The doctor came in and explained that the process had become unstable. For his own good, they’d need to stop it.”

  Jericho buried his head in his hands for a minute before continuing.

  “He was shouting at them, screaming, ‘You can’t do this to me! I’m a man! Look at me—I’m a man!’ over and over. They gave him a shot of something to calm him, but he kept struggling, kept screaming that he was a man, he had his rights, they just needed to give him a chance, a stinkin’ chance. Then the drug began to take effect; he couldn’t struggle much. He was crying, begging, pleading with them and God as they wheeled him out.” Jericho shook his head at some memory beyond words. “They reversed the process, I heard. Even worse, they had to take the other arm, too. It had spread throughout his body.”

  Jericho fell quiet. Outside, someone was trying to start a car in the cold. The motor protested with a shudder.

  “He hung himself with his belt in the showers.”

  “Oh, god,” Evie said. “How horrible.”

  Jericho nodded mechanically. “They couldn’t figure out how he’d done it, with no legs and no arms.”

  The car’s motor caught, and they listened to the comfort of its banal purr as it shook, idled, then spurred into action and drove away. Jericho’s voice grew even softer, until it was almost a whisper.

  “It was late; I’d been sleeping. I woke up to the sound of him crying. The ward was dark, with only the light from the nurses’ station bleeding in. ‘Kid,’ he said to me, and his voice… his voice was like a ghost. Like that part of him had already died and had come back for the rest. ‘Kid, this is worse than Topeka.’ He told me that once, in the war, he’d come upon a German soldier in the grass with his insides falling out; he was just lying there in agony. The soldier had looked up at Sergeant Leonard, and even though they didn’t speak the same language, they understood each other with just a look. The German lying on the ground; the American standing over him. He put a bullet in the soldier’s head. He didn’t do it with anger, as an enemy, but as a fellow man, one soldier helping another. ‘One soldier helping another.’ That’s how he put it.” Again, Jericho fell quiet for a moment. “He told me what he needed me to do. Told me I didn’t have to. Told me that if I did, he’d make sure God would forgive me, if that’s what I was worried about. One soldier helping another.”

  Jericho fell quiet. Evie held so still she thought she might break.

  “I found his belt in the dresser and helped him into the wheelchair. The hall was quiet on the way to the shower. I remember how clean the floor was, like a mirror. I had to make a new hole in the leather to tighten it around his neck. Even without his arms and legs, he was heavy. But I was strong. Just before, he looked at me, and I’ll never forget his face as long as I live—like he’d just realized some great secret, but it was too late to do anything about it. ‘Some craps game, this life, kid. Don’t let ’em take you without a fight,’ he said.”

  Silence. A dog barking in the distance. A puff of wind against the glass, wanting to be let in.

  “After, I took the wheelchair back and parked it in the same spot. Then I slipped under the covers and pretended to sleep until it was morning and they found him. Then I did sleep. For twelve hours straight.”

  Evie’s throat was dry, but she didn’t want to reach for her water. She swallowed to soothe her aching throat, trying to make as little sound as possible, and after a moment Jericho continued.

  “I don’t know if that story about the German soldier was real or something he made up to get me to help him. It doesn’t matter. Neither does God’s forgiveness. After Sergeant Leonard’s death, they shut down the Daedalus program. It was too much of a risk. The doctors and scientists wanted to shut me down, too. They were afraid of what might happen with me. They would’ve put me right back in that iron coffin to rot, but your uncle stepped in. He said he’d take me home to die with dignity. Then he loaded up a kit with serum. As far as they’re concerned, Jericho Jones died ten years ago. If Will hadn’t taken me in, I’d be there now, staring at that same ceiling, with no soldier to help me out.”

  Evie sat up. “But you were cured. You could be the key to some astonishing advance.”

  “Cured?” Jericho scoffed. “I live every day knowing something could go wrong, and I’ll be back in that iron coffin. I’m the only one of my kind. Half man, half machine. A freak.”

  “You’re not a freak.”

  “I don’t even know what I am,” Jericho said. He glanced at Evie. “You’re different, too.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Two of a kind.” Jericho reached out and took Evie’s hands. He turned her hands palm up and rubbed his thumbs over the insides of her wrists. The softness of her skin was a miracle. Jericho didn’t know if he would function like a normal man. He only knew that he had all the feelings of one. He wanted Evie. He wanted her desperately. With his hands on hers, he imagined what it would be like to kiss her, to make love to her. She was a little spoiled and often selfish, a good-time girl with a surprising kind streak. She ran toward life full tilt while Jericho held back, not daring. She made him feel alive, and he wanted more of it.

  A loud bang at the door made Evie jump. She was afraid it was the innkeeper come to throw them out, but it was Will who stood outside the door, his hat on and his pocket watch open. The sky was already graying toward daybreak.

  “Ah, good. You’re up. Almost dawn. Time to go, before the Brethren come looking for us.”

  SOLOMON’S COMET

  Will’s filthy car crossed from the South Bronx into Upper Manhattan, and the city appeared under a haze of clouds and smoke like a mirage conjured of dirt and steel. Evie was exhausted from the ordeal in Brethren and from her night watching Jericho and from hearing his heartbreaking confession. She was unsettled, too, by the feelings she had developed for him.

  Manhattan’s never-ending line of buildings flew past the automobile’s windows and she thought how close they had come in Brethren. But they had prevailed. They had the pendant. Tonight they would perform the ritual and banish John Hobbes from this world for good. And after that, she would ask Will to explain what it all meant. She would ask him to tell her exactly what she was and what to do about it. Later. She rested her hand against her own talisman and went to sleep.

  Evie walked through the day in a haze of nerves. The museum had never been busier, it seemed, their attendance made doubly large because of Solomon’s Comet. The whole city was abuzz. Mayor Walker had asked New Yorkers to dim their lights just before midnight so that the comet could be seen without a haze during its once-in-a-lifetime appearance. Many New Yorkers had already pulled their chair
s and cushions—even mattresses—onto the tar beaches of their buildings’ rooftops or small terraces. The five-and-dimes sold out of their hats and blowers. Nightclubs advertised special raffles to be held at midnight and offered drinks like the Solomon’s Sensation and the Falling Star. There was even a bathing-beauty contest that promised to crown a Miss Comet. It was as if someone was hosting a party and all of Manhattan had been invited. But Evie wasn’t feeling celebratory; if they didn’t do everything just right, this would be the end. John Hobbes would be here to stay, and hell would come with him.

  When the last patron had gone from the museum, Evie locked the doors and she, Sam, and Jericho gathered in the library. It was seven o’clock. The comet was to make its way across New York’s skies at one minute before midnight. Jericho rested on the settee, still weak from the previous night’s ordeal.

  “Are you feeling all right, Jericho?” Evie asked a bit shyly. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I’m… jake, thanks,” he said, trying out the word with a smile.

  Sam watched the two of them from the sidelines. Something had happened up in Brethren beyond their finding the pendant and escaping from the new faithful. And Sam didn’t like it.

  “Gee whiz, I’m a nervous wreck,” Evie said. She flipped on the radio. The Paul Whiteman Orchestra was playing a special hour of hot jazz dedicated to “Old King Solomon.” The merry songs felt out of place given their purpose tonight.

  “There’s something I don’t get,” Sam asked. “How come he didn’t make the tenth offering yet? You think he’s going to do the last two offerings together, tonight?”

  Evie bit at her fingernail. It was odd. “I don’t know. All I know is that if we burn the pendant tonight and repeat the incantation, we get rid of John Hobbes forever.”

  Will burst into the library carrying a bag of supplies. “I’ve got what we need here.”

  He handed Evie a piece of chalk and Sam a can of salt. “Evie, draw a wide circle on the floor, and a pentagram inside it. Sam, you go around the perimeter of the room with the salt, please.”

  There came a knock at the museum’s front door, very loud and very insistent.

  “What now?” Evie said. “Don’t worry—I’ll tell them the museum is closed for the evening.”

  She was stunned to find Detective Malloy at the front door. He was not full of his usual gallows humor. In fact, his expression could only be called grim. Evie felt her stomach drop. Flanked by several officers, he walked right past her on his way to the library. Will paled when he saw them.

  “There’s been another murder,” Malloy said. “Mary White Blodgett was found out at Coney, in the Tunnel of Love. Same markings as all the others. Her tongue had been cut out.”

  “ ‘At the sight of the Beast, the widow offered lamentations until her tongue was stilled….’ ” Evie said softly.

  “The Lamentation of the Widow. The tenth offering,” Sam said.

  Will looked pale and sick.

  “Mrs. Blodgett’s daughter said she’d been visited by you and a young lady two days ago. Said you were asking all sorts of odd questions about John Hobbes,” Malloy continued.

  “It’s true,” Will said.

  “You didn’t think to share that with me, Fitz?” The detective sounded hurt and angry.

  “I didn’t think… It wasn’t relevant. I was playing a hunch.”

  “I get paid to follow hunches,” Malloy said. “And I told you to stay away from the case. And if I ask you whether you have Ruta Badowski’s other shoe buckle in your museum, you would say what?”

  “I would say that’s preposterous,” Will answered.

  Malloy’s face was grim and a bit weary, as if he’d been told of the imminent death of a sick friend. “I’m asking you as a friend, Will.”

  Will’s gaze was steely. “As I said, preposterous.”

  Malloy nodded slowly. “I hope you’re right. Mind if we have a look around, Professor?”

  Already, the police were swarming the museum, emptying drawers and opening cabinets. An officer nearly dropped a figurine and Will called out, “Could you be careful with those, please? Those are priceless artifacts.”

  Another officer reached into Will’s desk drawer and pulled out Ruta Badowski’s shoe buckle. “It’s here. Just like the note said.”

  “How did that…?” Will stood perfectly still for once, as if he’d been nailed in place. “Wait a moment—what note? What are you talking about?”

  “Can you tell me how evidence from a murder victim got into your museum?” Malloy didn’t blink.

  “I don’t know,” Will said softly. “I swear I don’t, Terrence.”

  “And I suppose you don’t know how your cigarette lighter ended up at a murder scene, either?” Detective Malloy held up Will’s missing lighter.

  Will’s hand went immediately to his empty breast pocket. “I-I lost it recently, and…”

  “It was found at Mary White Blodgett’s house.”

  “I took the shoe buckle,” Sam blurted out. “Found it out at the seaport and thought I could make a quick buck off it. There are creepy chumps who pay for that stuff.”

  “Sam, don’t,” Evie warned.

  He gave her a wan smile. “It’s okay, doll. Let’s call it even on that twenty bucks.”

  “Nice little crew you’ve got, Fitz,” Malloy said. He took in the room: the pentacle chalked on the floor. The salt, half-poured. The pendant. “What’s going on here, Will?”

  “If I tell you, you’ll think I’ve gone mad.”

  “If you don’t tell me here, you’ll be telling me downtown!” Malloy thundered. “I don’t think you understand what sort of trouble you’re in here, Fitz!”

  “Detective Malloy, please, what note did you find?” Evie pressed.

  “It was written by Mrs. Blodgett just before she died and shoved into the pocket of her robe. Her daughter confirms it’s her handwriting. It names Will as the murderer.”

  Will reeled. “What?”

  “That’s a load of bunk!” Sam shouted.

  “She said we’d find the evidence of it at the museum. Said you’d been asking her about the murders for some time, that you did it to drum up interest in the museum.” Malloy’s beefy shoulders sagged. He seemed to have aged ten years in those few moments spent holding Ruta Badowski’s broken shoe buckle. “Mr. Fitzgerald, you’re going to need to accompany us downtown and answer some questions. Fellas, bring the little thief, too, for good measure.”

  “Oh, he’s clever. He’s very, very clever,” Will said, more to himself than to anyone else. “Don’t you see? He knew we were close! He knew! He got her to write that note. He laid a trap, and we walked right into it.”

  “Oh, Unc!” Evie said. “What are we going to do?”

  “What are you talking about?” Malloy asked.

  “Terrence, this is going to sound like I’ve gone over the edge, but I assure you I am quite sane. The Pentacle Killer isn’t a copycat, and he certainly isn’t me. He’s John Hobbes.”

  Malloy’s face remained stony. “John Hobbes, who died fifty years ago? You’re telling me a dead man committed these murders?”

  “Through some sort of sorcery, his spirit manifested on this plane, yes. I know it sounds completely mad—”

  “But it’s true!” Evie interrupted. “That’s why we had to go to Brethren, to his secret grave, and dig up his body. It’s why we must destroy his pendant—to release his spirit from this world. And if we don’t do it before the comet comes tonight, we’re all in for it.”

  Evie realized how ridiculous they sounded. The other officers snickered. Only Malloy didn’t, and he looked very angry, indeed.

  “You know, Fitz, I never figured you for believing in that wad of chewing gum you sell here at the museum. I also never figured you for a murderer.” He turned to the other officers and said, “Take him.”

  The officers surrounded Will and Sam, leading them out of the museum.

  “Murder. Grave robbing. Dest
roying property. Thievery. And corruption of the young…” Malloy trailed off, but not before Evie heard the full weariness and disgust in his voice. “I guess you just never really know anybody, do you?”

  Evie ran after them, her heels clacking against the marble floor. “Please, you can’t take him, Detective Malloy! We have to stop John Hobbes tonight. He’s going to strike during Solomon’s Comet and become the Beast. It’s our last chance!”

  “Sweetheart, I don’t know what he’s been telling you, but there’s no such thing as ghost killers. There’s no such thing as ghosts, period. There’s no bogeyman raising up some Beast bent on bringing the end of the world. That’s a fairy tale. That’s all. I’m sorry.” Malloy’s jowly face was filled with sympathy.

  “Terrence, please listen to me—you’ve got to stop him before he makes his last offering tonight,” Will pleaded as the officers angled him into the back of a waiting police car.

  “If he strikes tonight, you’re off the hook, Professor,” a nearby officer snarled before closing the door.

  Back inside the museum, Evie paced a path around the library. Jericho watched her. “How are we going to stop him? Think, Evie, think.”

  “They took the pendant with them.”

  “There has to be another way.” Evie opened the Book of the Brethren, carefully examining each page. When she got to the last page, the eleventh offering, she stared at it. The Beast stood over the prone body of the woman, their hands joined. There was a small altar. Above them, the night sky burned with the comet’s fire.

  “Why would he ask Mary White to keep the house?” Evie mused.

  “He needed a place to come home to,” Jericho said. “He needed someplace safe.”

  “But he’s left the bodies in very public places. So he could have gone anywhere. Why there? What does he need from it?” Evie was on the move again and traveling the room.

  “You’re beginning to remind me of your uncle,” Jericho said. “And you’re making me a bit dizzy.”