A Visitation of Angels

by Carolyn Haines

  He was trying to allay my fears. And perhaps his own.

  We drove past the copse and though I tried peering through the trees to find out who was spying on us, the woods kept their secrets. Finally we arrived on the outskirts of the town, where another sign greeted us: Gypsies—don’t let the sun set on you here. A noose hung beside the sign.

  “Gypsies?” I turned to Reginald.

  “Some of these little towns hate anyone who isn’t Anglo and of their same religious belief and background. Outsiders. Be aware, Raissa, this is not a welcoming place.”

  “No wonder Elizabeth Maslow wrote for us to come.” His words affected me, but the sign and noose made me angry, not afraid.

  Reginald drove into the village, which was a kind term for the sad gathering of buildings. There was a main street with a dry goods store, a place that sold hand-hewn furniture, a café, an apothecary, a butcher, and a bank. The courthouse/jail was a block over but since the settled area had been stripped of trees, the stone building was easily visible. When I looked at the jail, my stomach clenched. It was dank and dirty looking. As we drove closer, I saw two hands wrapped around the bars of a window. Could that be the man our client had asked us to help?

  “How are we going to find Elizabeth Maslow?” I asked.

  Reginald parked the car in front of the courthouse. “We’ll have to ask, and I believe the smart thing to do is let the head lawman know we’re in town. Strangers clearly aren’t welcomed here and I don’t want us to be a surprise to anyone.”

  “Then maybe we should just keep quiet.” Dread and oppression had settled over us the minute we drove into town.

  Reginald smiled and nodded to his left. “There’s no keeping this quiet. In ten minutes everyone in the settlement will know we’re here.”

  I glanced in the direction he indicated and saw two men standing at the edge of the road watching us without any attempt to hide their interest. Their unfriendly interest, judging by the scowls on their faces. Reginald was right. Best to confront this head-on, at least where the law was involved. I was well aware of the power of lawmen to act as accuser, judge, and jury in such isolated communities.

  We got out of the car without hurry and sauntered up the steps of the sheriff’s office and jail. Though I was still dying of the heat, I was glad I’d thought to wear one of my longer and more conservative skirts. My blouse, a bit the worse for wear, completed the look of a young woman who knew her place. I took in the stone façade of the building. It wasn’t a courthouse as much as administrative offices. Behind the jail, hammers rang out as they struck nails. Someone was building something with gusto.

  Inside the dark foyer of the building, a sign sent us left into the clerk’s office.

  “May I help you?” A thin, middle-aged man sat behind a desk covered in ledgers and letters.

  “Could you give us directions to Elizabeth Maslow’s home?” Reginald asked.

  The man studied Reginald, then me. “You have business with Elizabeth Maslow?”

  “We need to speak with her.” Reginald smiled pleasantly.

  “Deputy Gomes will have to give you directions.” It was clear he had no intention of helping us.

  “Is the deputy available?” Reginald admirably kept his tone light and breezy.

  “Office across the hall.” The thin man nodded to the right side of the building.

  “And where is the jail?” I asked sweetly, causing the thin man to startle so badly he upset a stack of papers that slid to the floor.

  “Women aren’t allowed in the jail,” he said.

  “Not even as visitors?” I pretended shock. I’d been down this path before in larger cities that should have known better. Here, in Mission, it was likely I’d discover that a woman was allowed in three places—her home, the grocery store, and church.

  “Who you thinking of visiting?” the clerk asked cagily.

  “I’ve come to spread the word of the Lord and save souls.” I regretted the words the moment they came out of my mouth, but it was too late. Reginald gave me a stunned look that he quickly hid.

  “You’d better see Deputy Gomes,” the man said, slowly standing. His face and neck were red, as if he knew I was playing him for a fool. I deeply regretted my flip remark, but it was too late to pull it back.

  “Thank you for your help.” Reginald took my arm and led me out into the little foyer that separated the side of the building. “What was that?”

  “I know.” I sighed. “I couldn’t stop myself. He was so smug.”

  “You’re smarter than that, Raissa.”

  “Obviously not.” I did regret my blathering. I’d been raised in the Methodist church but if someone grilled me on my Biblical knowledge, I wouldn’t pass muster.

  Reginald kept a grip on my elbow—possibly hoping that somehow that would control my tongue—as we went into the office where Deputy Gomes ruled. It was a small room with a counter and a heavy book that I recognized as a jail docket. I was itching to open it but Reginald tightened his hold, reminding me to remain quiet and passive, like a good woman.

  “Can I help you?” the deputy asked. He, too, was thin with thick brown hair and a handlebar mustache that was more in style last century.

  “Could you direct us to the residence of Elizabeth Maslow?” Reginald asked.

  The deputy rose slowly. “What’s your business with Mrs. Maslow?”

  “Personal.” Reginald smiled. “We’re relatives, and we also have some business in the area.”

  It was my turn to be stunned, but I didn’t show it.

  “We just discovered she was here. Elizabeth slipped away from our family, and now that we’ve found her, it’s our Christian duty to help her,” Reginald said. “We’re in the area, so two birds with one stone and all.”

  Deputy Gomes studied us. “We’ve been worried about her,” he said cautiously. “Her…mental state.”

  “Oh, dear! How so?” Reginald played it perfectly.

  “She’s been upset and some of the things she’s been saying don’t make a lot of sense. That and that baby she had.” His tone had grown hard. “She came here and bought property, saying her husband would be along. He never showed, because he don’t exist. She arrived with lies on her lips and fooled folks into selling her property in a place she don’t belong, a town with morals and values. Hard for a solitary woman to raise a baby, much less one that’s a monster.”

  “Monster?” I couldn’t help it. Elizabeth had written us that her baby, a little girl, had been born with membrane between her fingers and toes, but that was hardly monstrous.

  “Like something that lives in the water.” He watched my reaction closely. “Like a frog.” He held up his hands and spread his fingers wide. “The thing has webbed hands and feet. Like it ain’t all human. I guess when she was looking for folks to help her out, Elizabeth didn’t bother to tell you the truth of her situation.”

  Reginald’s fingers dug slightly into the muscle of my arm, reminding me not to react.

  “Could you tell us how to get to Elizabeth’s house? We’d be most appreciative.” Reginald was completely cordial.

  “That baby comes from the devil.” Gomes came to the counter and leaned on his elbows. “Satan’s spawn. Nothing good can come of that. While you’re doing your charity work with Miss Elizabeth Maslow—we all know she ain’t married—you might convince her to give up the father of that baby. They both need to be punished. God does not love a fornicator.”

  “Who does she say is the father?” I asked.

  Gomes tilted back his head and laughed out loud. “It sure beats all, but she says she was visited by an angel.” He laughed again, and this time with a sharp edge. “It’s bad enough to be caught in sin, but to claim it’s the working of one of God’s messengers, now that’s something she’ll be held to account on. Trust me, retribution is coming down the road at her.”

  The malice in his face told me how deeply Elizabeth was hated. Whatever the reasons, Elizabeth Maslow had gotten hers
elf into serious jeopardy.

  Chapter 2

  The deputy sheriff stood on the steps of the administrative offices and watched us drive away. He’d given us directions, and sneeringly told us to hustle Elizabeth and her ‘git’ out of town before legal action was taken against her. It was curious he was willing to let her escape with her sin—if she left Mission.

  As we pulled onto the road, I had to ask. “Can they legally punish Elizabeth for having a child and not being married?”

  “Fornication is a sin in Alabama. Any sex outside of marriage is illegal. Technically, she can be charged.”

  I snorted. “If that law were truly applied, a lot of men would be in jail.”

  Reginald rolled his eyes. “True. And those with influence never pay the price. Women are always the losers because they can’t hide their guilt. A child.” He swallowed. “The business with the infant’s webbed hands and feet makes it a hundred times harder.”

  “It may by correctible with surgery.”

  “Logic doesn’t matter. Some folks will say it’s a sign.” Reginald watched the road.

  “Of what?”

  “Of evil. Or something akin to evil.”

  I snorted again. “That’s ridiculous. A baby can’t be evil. You know that.”

  “Oh, I know it, but there are those who see it differently. We should try to convince Elizabeth to leave with us.”

  It wasn’t a bad plan.

  The cottage we sought was a couple of miles out of town down a narrow, sandy path between towering hardwoods. In places the trees canopied the road, lending welcome shade. When the house came into view, I took in the wide porch with a rocking chair and butter churn. In the back was a small barn. A horse whinnied from inside, but the paddock area and well-constructed coop were empty. Neat fields stretched behind the paddock and at the far end of the pasture was an open gate that led into a wooded area.

  Before we could get out of the car, the front door opened and a slender woman with striking black hair stepped out. She was young, maybe twenty-two or three. She wore a long skirt and plain blouse and her hair, which had been braided in an intricate swirl, was pinned up. In all regards, she was a modest woman. And quite beautiful. Hauntingly beautiful.

  Reginald was equally captivated. “Helen of Troy,” he whispered.

  She came toward the car and we got out to meet her halfway.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  “I don’t know what we can do.” Reginald couldn’t stop staring at her. Her hair was blue-black in the sun, and her eyes were a tawny brown that seemed to drink in light and hold it. The planes of her face were angled, high cheekbones widely spaced on either side of a straight nose. Her complexion was olive, and her square jaw held firm resolve.

  “You can help me prove that Slater McEachern didn’t kill Ruth Whelan.”

  “You say you know that this McEachern is innocent,” I said, taking care how I worded my sentence. “How are you so certain?”

  “Because I saw the killer in a dream.”

  Movement at the end of the field caught our attention. Two men were standing there, watching us. They’d come out of the woods and simply stood, hands at their sides, staring. They wanted us to know we were being watched.

  “Let’s go inside,” Reginald suggested.

  “Of course. Arrangements have been made for your stay. My neighbor, Hattie Logan, has a bedroom for you.”

  I wondered if Elizabeth had assumed we slept together, but that was the least important matter in front of us. We’d work it out when the time came. I followed her into the house with Reginald behind me.

  The interior of the small cottage was cheery and the smell of stew cooking made my mouth water. A bassinet, decorated in yards of bright pink cloth interwoven with green and yellow ribbons, had been placed beside the kitchen table where Elizabeth had been chopping carrots when we arrived. She waved us into chairs around the table. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” Reginald smiled. We both looked at the bassinet, but neither of us made a move to go to it.

  “I named my little girl Callie.”

  “She is healthy?” I asked.

  “Completely.” She went to the cradle and picked the baby up. The infant wore a long muslin gown. Her head was covered with thick black curls and her eyes were lively and alert. Her little hands were in fists, but when she reached for her mother’s nose, I saw the webbing between the fingers and thumb. The membrane was thick and in the sunlight I could see that it was transfused with veins. It could likely be removed, but it would take a skilled surgeon to be sure there was not too much bleeding or scarring that would render her fingers useless.

  The baby cooed softly and pointed at me. Elizabeth handed her to me, and I took her with only a little apprehension. I’d taught high school children, but I’d never spent much time around babies. She seemed so tiny and fragile. The moment I touched the child, a series of images populated behind my eyes. I saw things in my mind that had no connection to me or any past I knew. In a flashing series of images I held a rifle in my arms, and I leaned into a dirt embankment, bullets exploding all around me. I felt my own tears on my face and tasted the dirt I tried to burrow into. When I looked at my hands, I saw Alex’s wedding band. And I felt his terror and determination to live. A sob burst from me.

  Reginald was instantly at my side. “Are you okay?” He was puzzled.

  “Yes.” I pushed the visions away, focusing on the kitchen and Elizabeth and the baby. Elizabeth watched me, and I had the distinct impression she knew what I was experiencing. I shifted the baby to a more comfortable position and the assault ended. Once she settled in my arms, I relaxed. Callie was content and happy, and I saw that her eyes were a dark navy blue. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, she is. She is my gift.” Elizabeth picked up a carrot and began chopping it. “She’s in danger here, because of her hands and feet. And because I’m not married.”

  “Yes, Deputy Gomes seemed affronted by the child. And by your conduct.”

  She scoffed. “They want to punish me, but they don’t know what to do. Yet. I’m sure they’ll come up with something.”

  “Because you claimed the father was an angel?” I asked.

  “It isn’t a false claim. Gabriel came to me in the night.” She looked directly at me. “I have no human lover and you know this. You’ve felt it.”

  I busied myself with the baby. I’d been a married woman and a teacher. Babies didn’t jump in a woman’s belly out of thin air. An egg had to be fertilized, and there was only one way for that to happen.

  “Why do you think the father is an angel?” Reginald asked.

  “He told me. And because of the dreams.” She stopped mid-chop and stared out the window of the kitchen. “Callie is his gift to me. That’s what he said. She brought the dreams.” She looked at Reginald. “I didn’t ask for them. I don’t really want them. But when an angel gives you a gift, you have to accept it and use it. Don’t you think?”

  There was no artifice in Elizabeth Maslow, but I wondered if she were completely sane. She was so sincere, so certain an angel had given her not only a child but the ability to see things in dreams. I didn’t doubt that she had abilities, but coming from an angel was harder for me to accept.

  “Tell us how the dreams work,” I requested. “We have to understand to be able to help you.”

  She nodded, her hands busy once again with the carrots. “It’s hard to describe.” She got up and picked up the carrots to put into the stew that bubbled on top of the wood-burning stove. There was no electricity in Mission. When she sat back down, she smiled at her baby in my arms. “It’s like this. I go to sleep and suddenly I’m somewhere else. I see things that have happened. It’s like an…echo.”

  “And you saw the murder of a woman.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears but she didn’t cry. “It was horrible. Yes, I saw it. He struck her.” She picked up the knife, but there were no more carrots to chop. She put it down. “Wi
th a meat cleaver. Again and again.”

  “And you saw the killer?” Reginald asked.

  She shook her head. “No, not his face. Only his hands. It was like I was…inside him. Seeing what was in front of him.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t this McEachern man?” Reginald asked.

  “Slater McEachern almost lost the thumb on his left hand when he was a boy. They saved the thumb but it’s badly scarred. I’ve seen his hands holding the hymnal in church. The man who killed Ruth has two normal thumbs. There was no scarring on his hands. They were…strong. Unblemished. It was not Slater McEachern.”

  I believed her. It didn’t make any sense, but I believed her. “And you saw this in a dream?” I asked.

  She nodded. “If not a dream, then some kind of altered state that I can’t explain. When I came to, I was in the front yard. My arms, face, and legs were bleeding from where branches and thorns had torn at me. My head was pounding, but I remembered that my baby was inside, asleep.” She touched her child’s crown of dark curls. “I wouldn’t have left Callie alone. Not for any reason.”

  “Whether we believe you or not,” Reginald said, “no one else in town is going to. We need proof.”

  “That may be hard to come by,” Elizabeth said. “People think I’m either a Jezebel whore or a crazy woman. No one will believe what I saw. No one will help me—or you, if you are my agents. That is why we must work alone. Callie and I will leave when this trial is done. Life here is only going to get harder and harder. If I can help Mr. McEachern, I will, and I hope you can assist me. If there’s nothing to be done, then I must go.”

  “Is there anyone who can corroborate anything you saw?” I asked her.

  She hesitated. “The man who killed Ruth was looking for something. He tore up her house, spilling drawers and looking behind things. If I knew what he wanted, that might help.” Her voice quivered. “He stepped in her blood and tracked it all over her clean house. He didn’t care at all. He had contempt for her things.”