Chapelwood

by Cherie Priest

  The porter took my trunk down from the steps and I followed behind him, squinting against the midday sun. After the overcast dimness of the train cars, it was perfectly awful—and rather hot, once I stood outside, at the mercy of its full brilliance. The air wasn’t so bad; it wasn’t the muggy wonderland of outermost hell I’d heard about, but instead it was almost cool and dry. The sun, though . . . it was relentless up there, and it cooked me inside the navy blue travel dress I’d chosen for the trip.

  “Can I find you a car, ma’am?” the porter offered, and I almost told him yes, that I’d appreciate it greatly—but someone else answered for me.

  “There’s no need for that. I’ve gotten us a car. It’s waiting just outside the station.”

  I held my hand over my eyes to shade them, and behold, there stood Simon Wolf.

  His appearance was not so different from our previous meeting. He was older, of course, but so am I. He was still a big man, all pink-faced and light-haired, in well-tailored clothes and shiny spectacles that caught the sun and threw it around his cheeks. He smiled broadly and stepped forward, removing his hat. “Miss Andrew,” he said, as cavalier as could be.

  “Inspector Wolf, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” See? My social niceties were recovering. I tipped the porter and thanked him for his assistance as the inspector helped himself to my trunk.

  “Likewise, I can assure you. The meeting may be a strange one, but I’m happy to have the company all the same. Here.” He held a door open for me. It was tricky for him as he navigated the oversized trunk, but he pulled it off with flair. “The car is waiting across the lot.”

  “I must say, I’m surprised to see you. I thought I’d find you at the hotel, perhaps.”

  “Surprised? But I’m a detective!” he noted happily, wrangling the trunk into the road. I let him lead the way, for all the cars looked the same to me—some marked as public taxis, some not. All black and shiny, the same model of Ford you’re starting to see everywhere.

  “That’s true, and it’s not that I’d forgotten . . .” I stepped down off a curb, sticking closely in his wake. “I’d only thought you’d be out . . . detecting.”

  “Nonsense. It took ten minutes with a schedule to see which engine would likely bring you to town. There were only four arriving through New York or Boston before the end of the week, and I had a feeling you wouldn’t have time to catch two of them—and wouldn’t wait around for a third. That left this one, and here you are. Easy as pie!”

  “Your detecting skills are as sharp as ever.”

  “You sounded eager, so I chose your most likely departure, charted a most likely course, and took my chances. Detecting, indeed . . . And here we are.” He stopped beside a big black car, somewhat larger than the average Model T. It wasn’t a coupe or a roadster, but some kind of touring car. The driver climbed out and assisted him with my trunk, and then we climbed inside. “I thought we would visit the hotel first, so you could leave your trunk behind and refresh yourself, if you like. Then a bite to eat, and then . . .” He glanced up at the driver, who stared straight ahead—but I understood. He didn’t wish to say too much. “Then we have a lot to talk about.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  It was true, despite my aching head and travel weariness. This man had a portrait of my Nance, and this city had strange things prowling its streets at night. Fall River once had strange things prowling its streets, too, and I didn’t like the symmetry of it.

  So we had work to do, and despite the circumstances, I was glad for it. It’d been ages since I had any real work in front of me. Once upon a time, I would’ve looked forward to such tedium as my life has lately become; it appeared infinitely preferable to the mayhem of thirty years ago—and only a fool would reject the comfort of routine for weeks of murder and monsters.

  And yet . . . there I was.

  Again.

  • • •

  The hotel was quiet and pleasant: not too fancy, but no flophouse, either. Wolf said he chose it for its discretion and proximity to downtown, but I think he might’ve also had his eye on the meal schedule. I don’t say this to tease him for his size; I say this because he brought it up twice on the ride over there, and once again upon our arrival—praising the offerings, and recommending them highly.

  Once I was checked in, I asked for twenty minutes for myself. He offered an hour, but I can dress more quickly than that, and I was hungry, and I wanted to see this portrait of Nance so badly that I hadn’t been able to ask about it yet. The anticipation had positively paralyzed me.

  I changed into a fresher dress, a cream-colored tea-length affair with yellow roses and sleeves that were only three-quarters long, but the outfit worked nicely with a wrap, in case the temperature were to plummet when the sun went down. I chose a round-brimmed hat and button-shut sandals for comfort, and hoped I struck a dignified silhouette that wasn’t too much “mutton dressed as a lamb,” as they say. I was covered, at any rate, and I would not be too warm. I wasn’t sure how different the fashions might be, from New England to the Old South, but surely we all receive the same catalogs, don’t we? Everyone must have a Macy’s or a Nordstrom, I should think. A Sears Roebuck, if nothing else.

  I felt silly dedicating so much thinking time to making myself presentable. I usually didn’t bother. So few people ever saw me outside of the house, it just wasn’t something that I counted a priority.

  But when I was finished at the mirror, and I was satisfied that I’d achieved this presentable state, I rejoined Simon Wolf downstairs in the banquet hall.

  It wasn’t so much a hall as a large room with several tables, all impeccably set, with pitchers of iced tea and lemon slices chilling on plates with ice. Wolf held out a chair for me, and I took it; then he explained that it was a bit late for lunch, around these parts . . . but the hotel mistress had not yet closed the kitchen, so we were in luck.

  Lunch was divine, and the talk was small until we were into our second glass of sweetened tea (a new thing for me, and one I rather liked) and the dessert plates had been taken away. (I’d never known there was any such thing as key lime pie, but I now consider myself a great fan thereof.) But after the plates were effectively licked clean, the napkins were folded beside our silverware, and the table was cleared between us . . . Wolf reached into a satchel he’d left sitting beside his chair.

  “I know what’s brought you here, and I can’t flatter myself by pretending it was the promise of my company. To keep you waiting any longer would be unkind.”

  He produced a thin sheet of sketch paper, folded in half. He let me do the honors.

  With trembling hands, I straightened it.

  “The likeness isn’t perfect.” He sounded almost apologetic. “But it’s clear enough that I knew it, and I thought of you. The connection with the axes notwithstanding.”

  I ran my thumb along the edge, careful to keep from rubbing the pencil marks that made up the halo of her hair. And it was her hair. It was her face, her eyes, her jawline. Her mouth, full and wide, ready to turn up at the edges for a bawdy joke or a sip of scotch. It wasn’t a caricature, or a loose sketch; it was indeed a portrait, and a good one—if not from a hand with formal training.

  I would’ve known her anywhere, even after all this time. Even though she didn’t haunt me, for all that I wished she would.

  My heart squeezed tight, and I tried to keep from squeezing the paper, too. I swallowed hard, and blinked back the dampness that welled up in my eyes. “Where did you find this?”

  “In a basement, beneath the big government building downtown. It was in a box with other evidence, regarding the city’s recent spate of axe murders. But I think I mentioned most of that over the telephone.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you did.” I couldn’t remember. I looked up from the image, though it almost hurt me to do so. “What does this . . . what does she have to do with the l
ocal axe murders?”

  “This picture was drawn by one of the attack survivors, a man named Gaspera Lorino. He was badly injured, and his recovery has been incomplete—or so I’m led to understand—but that’s the way it sometimes goes with a bad head wound. He called her the gray lady, but if he offered any further explanation, it wasn’t passed along to me.”

  I stared at the drawing again. The gray lady . . .

  I remembered Nance, her body as gray and pale as a fish’s belly. Alive, but changed, or changing. The image I held in my hands—it wasn’t an image of my beloved as she’d appeared toward the end, no. This was before the darkness took her, when her eyes were still bright and she still smiled at me when I said her name. This was before the water, and before Doctor Zollicoffer. Or whatever he was, by the time he reached us.

  “I haven’t yet spoken to Mr. Lorino,” Wolf said gently. “I was waiting for you. I thought you might want a word with him, and for that matter, I think his sister might prefer a woman’s inquiry to mine. I chatted with her briefly on the phone, through the sanatorium offices; she did not sound wildly enthused about the idea of a detective interviewing her brother, so I might’ve mentioned that Lorino’s artwork depicted a woman from a missing persons case, unsolved all these years. I said that you were coming into town, at my request . . . and I may have implied that Nance was your sister. As a matter of narrative convenience, you understand.”

  “You didn’t mention my name?”

  “Not your old one. To the best of everyone’s knowledge, you are Miss Lizbeth Andrew, and far be it from me to correct anyone’s assumption. Yours is a veritable reincarnation!” he said, but his smile looked almost forced. “I hope this arrangement meets with your approval, and my caution has not proved . . . insulting? For that surely was not my intent.”

  “You’ve played the situation admirably,” I assured him. “And don’t look so bashful about suggesting my rebirth; it’s a fascinating belief that I’ve studied more than a bit. So I’ll be Nance’s sister, and play upon the sympathies of Mr. Lorino’s sibling in turn. It’s the best cover I could hope for in a thousand years.”

  “The plan sounds mercenary, when you put it like that.”

  “How else should I put it?”

  “No, no. I didn’t mean it was a bad thing.” His smile was easier now. “I’m glad that we agree in intent and execution, that’s all. So! The sanatorium’s hours extend through five o’clock and it’s only one thirty now. We have plenty of time—but I did tell the sister and the staff that we’d come by after lunch.”

  “You’ve constructed all sorts of plans ahead of my arrival.” Without even being certain of it, I did not add. His confidence amused me.

  “Time may be of the essence. It would not do to dally.”

  We found another car—or rather, Wolf had one arranged for us already. Quite an architect of the calendar, this man. One step ahead of everything. I liked it, even though I found it intimidating (if I was honest with myself). Why did he need me, after all, if he was already so prepared? What role did he expect me to play in this weird drama?

  If he had anything particular in mind—apart from “pretend to be Nance’s sister, for interrogation purposes”—he did not disclose it on the ride to St. Vincent’s Hospital.

  The hospital itself was situated on a great lawn, green with lush grass and manicured hedges, and shady trees that hadn’t lost any of their foliage yet to fall. Despite its exterior elegance, as we pulled up a driveway and parked in the shadow of the place, the word which sprang to mind was “hulking.” The main structure was enormous and made of brick, with stone details lovingly applied in the last century’s style. Grand, stately, and hulking, yes. Four and a half stories, with a steeplelike appendage on top, pointing toward the sky, plus a secondary wing with white porch rails running the length of each level.

  The place was only thirty years old, and it already looked dated. But all in all, there were surely worse places to be sick.

  “Reminds me of a sanatorium I know in Providence,” I murmured, craning my neck to look out the window. I meant the one where Emma had gone, at the very end. (The one where you died without me beside you, because that’s what you had chosen, and I chose to respect it. Even though I didn’t want to.)

  He opened his door and climbed out. “There’s a certain style to these things, all across the land. At least, there’s a certain style to those built in the last century. Cut from a template, each and every one of them.”

  “It’s a nice template, though.”

  “Nice enough on the outside.” He paused to pay the driver, and then to dart around the car’s hood in order to open my door. “They’re more progressive within, but not so much as a modern inmate might prefer, I think.”

  • • •

  (He’s really quite the gentleman, Emma. It’s a pity you never gave him a chance. I think you could’ve been friends.)

  • • •

  Up the walkway we went, and through the main door. Beyond it, there was a desk with a nun behind it. Obviously, I could’ve guessed that it was a Catholic hospital, given the name, but for some reason it still surprised me to see a woman in a habit working up front like that. I’d heard such awful things about how Catholics were treated in the region; and when I looked around, I saw that certain measures were being taken to ensure the safety of the patients, and the security of the grounds.

  An armed guard sat in a corner reading a newspaper. He glanced up at Wolf and me as we entered the lobby—then quickly judged us harmless, and went back to reading. An alarm was established behind the main intake desk . . . I assumed there was some kind of trigger or lever hidden beneath it somewhere, to be pulled in case of emergency. I wondered if they treated this space like a saloon, and kept a shotgun behind the counter.

  Has it come to that, do you think? Emma, it’s unreal. This really is another country, I fear.

  Several stacks of forms were presented on clipboards, and I was compelled to fill them out—though Wolf merely signed himself in. “I did all my paperwork yesterday,” he explained. “Now they have me on file.”

  I obliged St. Vincent’s with my new name (it was legal, after all, and therefore true), my address, and even filled in my phone number—since there was a place to put one, should the visitor have one to offer. I could’ve lied about any of it, but there was no point. I had nothing to hide, not really. Not anymore, and certainly not anything relevant to my visit.

  When all was sorted and accepted, I signed my name on a different sheet, and noted the time of my arrival.

  The nun gestured toward an orderly. He was an enormous man, half a head taller than the inspector and nearly as wide; but he wore a pleasant expression to go with his uniform, and I assumed that this was just one more form of security—something more subtle and versatile than a hidden firearm.

  “This is Jeremiah. He’ll bring you to Mr. Lorino’s room. Please stay with him at all times, and obey any instructions he may feel compelled to give you. Most of our patients are peaceful and content, but a few are prone to outbursts. Should you see such an outburst, please resist any urge to intervene. Our staff is comprised of trained professionals. Please leave matters in our hands.”

  We agreed to these terms, and followed silently behind the big man.

  Down one long corridor we tagged along, past rows of rooms with doors closed, their small windows lit from within (though we couldn’t see what was inside). On the other side of the hall were larger rooms, common areas where patients gathered to play checkers or read pulp magazines drawn from well-thumbed stacks. I saw a piano in one such area, with sheet music open and ready—though no one was playing it at that time. The floors scrolled by in checkered linoleum, a modern amenity that kept the place quieter than tiles or stone, so that all the voices, the ringing phone at the desk, the squeaky wheeled carts, and even our own footsteps were too muffled to echo very m
uch.

  Finally we reached our destination, a door with a small square window crisscrossed with tiny bars threaded through the glass.

  Jeremiah said, “Mr. Lorino is usually a calm man, and happy for company—but he doesn’t always understand as much as he pretends to. The blow to his head, the blade . . .” He hesitated, as if uncertain how much he should say. He settled for, “There was bleeding in his brain. He sometimes gets confused, and there are subjects that agitate him.”

  “Is he ever violent?” Wolf asked.

  “Not deliberately. His coordination isn’t what it used to be, and there are times he struggles to control his limbs. I don’t think he would harm you on purpose, but be aware—patients like him may prove full of surprises.”

  He knocked gently upon the door before opening it; I noticed that it wasn’t locked, or else it only locked from the outside. “Mr. Lorino? You have visitors.” He looked back at us, and said, “His sister was called away on a personal errand, but she will return shortly. Her name is Camille, and she knows that she might find you here when she’s finished.”

  With that, he opened the door to reveal a man seated in a corner rocking chair, beneath a large window set well out of his reach. Sunlight streamed down on his head, making his very dark hair appear as if streaked with rust, and giving his pale blue hospital uniform an almost translucent appearance at the sleeve cuffs and the loosened collar.

  In his hand he held a Bible, opened to what passage I could not tell.

  He closed the book and left it lying across his knees.

  He wore glasses, thin-framed ones, like the inspector’s—but with lenses that were markedly thicker. They looked to be roughly the density of a good serving platter, so I shuddered to consider how poor his vision must be without them. They left an indentation across his nose and the top of his cheeks.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Lorino,” I told him with a smile.

  He smiled back, but said nothing.

  Simon Wolf stepped forward to introduce himself. “I’m Inspector Wolf, from Boston—and this is Miss Andrew. Your sister told you we were coming, did she not?”